Building an empire which the sun never set-Chapter 75: Southern Expeditionary Fleet

Curious but cautious, and knowing the fleet’s water reserves were dangerously low, Cook decided to make contact. He boarded a longboat with ten marines and rowed toward the shore. The locals watched, unmoving. As they landed, the marines moved slowly, rifles slung but not raised. Their fingers rested near their triggers, thumbs quietly disengaging the safeties of their Lee-Enfield rifles.

Captain Cook reached into his coat and produced a brightly colored glass bead. He tossed it gently toward the nearest native and raised both hands in a peaceful gesture. The man picked up the bead and examined it with wide eyes. His face broke into a broad smile. Then, without hesitation, he removed a large golden bracelet from his own wrist and offered it to Cook.

It was the first exchange—simple, silent, but meaningful.

The natives welcomed the group and led them through the forest to a nearby village near the river’s edge. Cook observed the people carefully. Gold, it seemed, was plentiful here—some wore it on their arms, others as earrings, and even inserted rings into their lips. Women and men alike had stretched earlobes, in which large, circular ornaments glittered in the sun. Some wore necklaces of bone and colored stone. Cook was fascinated.

As they walked along the river, he noticed flecks of gold shimmering beneath the surface of the water. Some were no larger than grains of sand; others, astonishingly, the size of fingernails. Cook realized the villagers did not seem to treat the metal as a rare or sacred thing—it adorned their bodies but was traded freely and without reverence.

Back in the village, he was introduced—through gesture and tone—to an elder man who appeared to be the chief. Using cloth samples, beads, and carved wooden items, Cook communicated a desire for peaceful trade. The chief understood and nodded, smiling. Soon, members of the fleet came ashore with additional goods, and in return, received fruits, yams, water, and other supplies. The scientists began to set up a modest camp near the water’s edge, and for a time, the expedition settled into a rhythm of research, trade, and cautious optimism.

That night, as the jungle hummed and buzzed beyond the edge of the camp, Captain Cook gathered with a handful of scientists inside the main expedition tent. A large wooden table stood at the center, cluttered with maps, notebooks, and half-drawn sketches of local flora.

"Gentlemen," Cook began, brushing a mosquito off his sleeve, "I’m certain you noticed the flecks of gold lining the riverbed. What do your first geological observations tell us about this region?"

One of the geologists, a middle-aged man named Alex Ward, leaned forward and tapped a drawing on the table. "The particles appear to be alluvial in nature. Carried by the river from inland deposits. That would suggest large gold sources somewhere deeper in the interior—likely close to the surface. It could be significant, Captain. Very significant."

Cook nodded. "Yes, I’ve seen the villagers gathering gold by hand. It doesn’t seem to hold much value to them. I believe there’s potential here. When the time comes, a permanent trade station might be wise. For Pendralis, this could be a considerable opportunity."

He paused, then slapped a mosquito against his forearm, crushing it. "Though the real challenge," he muttered, "will be this damned heat and these blasted insects."

Outside the tent, the constant drone of buzzing wings grew louder with the falling night. The men had already begun to suspect that the proximity to the water, combined with the stagnant pools nearby, made the camp a haven for the biting pests.

Only a few days after the initial landing and the establishment of the riverside camp, the first signs of illness began to appear among the crew. What started as subtle fatigue and discomfort soon escalated into something far more alarming.

At first, it seemed like simple fatigue.

One or two of the marines began to sleep longer than usual. They complained of headaches, dry mouths, and sore muscles. Their skin glistened with sweat, even while sitting still in the shade. No one thought much of it—after all, the heat was oppressive, and their duties demanding.

But then the symptoms changed.

Corporal Brenn, one of the younger soldiers, collapsed while drawing water from the river. He convulsed on the ground, his eyes rolling back as his body trembled violently. He was carried to the infirmary tent, where his temperature was found to be dangerously high. His breathing came in short, irregular gasps. He thrashed and mumbled unintelligible words in his fever.

Soon after, another soldier reported strange stiffness in his limbs and an unrelenting pain behind his eyes. His skin turned pale, then yellow. He vomited twice, once containing blood. Others began to feel dizzy, struggling to walk in straight lines. One of the botanists developed a persistent tremor in his hands, followed by a sudden loss of consciousness. When he awoke, he did not speak. He simply stared at the ceiling of the medical tent, blinking slowly, unresponsive to questions.

Some drifted into deep sleep for days, unable to wake. Their chests rose and fell in slow, uneven rhythm, as if the body no longer obeyed the mind.

By the end of the first week following the onset of symptoms, nearly a dozen men were afflicted. More began to show symptoms daily—cold sweats, burning fevers, trembling hands, blackened vomit, bleeding gums, swollen eyes, yellow skin, and disturbing periods of hallucination. Some screamed in the night. Others murmured to themselves in voices no one could recognize. A few collapsed into unconsciousness and never rose again.

Captain Cook summoned the ship’s physician, Dr. Merrow, and the senior scientists. None could explain the afflictions. The insects, they guessed. The river water, perhaps. A venomous plant? A curse? The theories multiplied. Fear crept into every shadow.

The camp grew quiet. The nights were no longer filled with idle chatter but hushed whispers, restless footsteps, and the occasional moan of a fevered patient drifting from the infirmary tent. Men walked with wary eyes, clutching their rifles or medical satchels close, as if the jungle itself might reach out to snatch them away. Mosquitoes—unseen during the day—emerged in swarms at dusk, thick as smoke and just as suffocating. Their bites left angry, swollen welts that festered and itched until the skin broke from scratching. Some crew members resorted to wrapping themselves in layers of cloth, sweating profusely beneath the added heat but hoping to avoid the sting of the insects. Others burned damp leaves and resinous wood in makeshift braziers, producing acrid smoke to drive off the clouds of wings. The fires crackled through the night, casting eerie shadows across the canvas walls of tents and making the jungle beyond seem even darker. A strange tension settled over the expedition—a quiet, crawling fear that clung to every surface. Conversations turned superstitious. Some whispered that the jungle was cursed, that the river carried death in its waters. Others stared silently into the flames, their expressions blank, resigned. Captain Cook stood each evening at the edge of the village clearing, staring into the shifting green, feeling the weight of the sickness pressing in around them. The jungle had welcomed them, yes—but now it refused to let them go.