The Sands Shall Witness

Chapter 1

April 1903

Georg was late. Very late. Conrad reached into his coat pocket for his watch and suppressed another groan. He’d expected his cousin to be late; he was used to it by now. But today, Georg was exceptionally late.

Quarter ‘til one. Not good at all.

Conrad re-pocketed his watch and unfolded his newspaper for the sixth time. Reading usually helped to steady his nerves, but if Georg did not arrive soon, Conrad doubted that leafing through the choppy write-ups of the Hamburg Fußball club’s latest disasters would calm his frayed nerves.

Today was the start of a grand adventure for Conrad, and he’d be damned if his carefree cousin was going to cause him to miss it.

The Calypso, currently preparing to depart without him, was a magnificent ocean liner heading for Walvis Bay, a small English colonial port city in the midst of Southwest Africa, the German Empire’s newest colony.

Deutsch-Südwestafrika, affectionately known in the Colonial Office’s diplomatic corps as the DSWA, was currently a subject of great personal interest to Kaiser Wilhelm II. An area roughly one and half times the size of Germany, the colony was home to the Deutsche Kolonialgesellschaft, whose massive mining operations sent fat shipping convoys of copper, gold, and platinum home to Germany month after month.

Although only a few thousand Germans lived in the colony at present, Conrad had seen hundreds of advertisements in the papers back home in Aschaffenburg extolling the vast extent of free farmland available for every colonist, the clean and orderly streets of the colony’s new capital city, and the exotic landscapes of bright sand beaches and jungles teeming with elephants and hippopotamuses.

The colony was the latest crown jewel of the Empire, and it would be the saving grace for Conrad and his mother.

The Huber family tree had always more or less drifted between humble circumstances and minimal prosperity, but that had all changed when Conrad’s uncle, Johannes Huber, took over his father’s single grocery store.

A born businessman and investor, in twenty years, Johannes Huber had turned his father’s small village store into a well-connected commercial fiefdom. Johannes now owned seven more grocery stores throughout Hamburg, two steel mills in Frankfurt, and was an invested partner of a new munitions factory near Berlin.

Conrad’s father, Ekkehardt Huber, however, had been called to a very different sort of life. A Lutheran minister in Aschaffenburg, Ekkehardt was what Georg called a methodical man or, when he’d had a few pints of beer in him, a tough old bastard.

Ekkehardt Huber saw the world in black and white. What was good with the Lord was written in the Bible. Anything else, well, there was scant room in his household for it.

Conrad had spent his entire life in a quiet, three-room village home whose peeling paint had always reminded him of a snake trying to shed its skin. He’d received a decent enough education. The Lord expected young men to be scholars after all. Yet when Father had suddenly caught pneumonia last year and died, the nineteen-year-old Conrad had been left alone to support his mother.

There was little work to be found on the surrounding farmsteads for a young man with a sharp mind but a weak back. Tall and gangly, Conrad was a good worker but an awkward laborer. Without his round-framed glasses, he could scarcely see ten feet in front of him. His long arms gave him a wide reach when he worked a scythe in autumn wheat fields, but he lacked the disciplined muscle of the other farm boys, and he would soon fall behind. He was nervous around animals, and none of the horses, oxen, or donkeys in the surrounding farms would let him harness them to a plough.

Worst of all, he suffered from painful asthma attacks that often left him panting heavily by mid-morning. Twice in his first week as a farm hand, he’d had to be carried home by two other men and laid out on his bed like an ailing child. He was undoubtably the worst farmer there had ever been.

Yet, for several months, he had managed to hold on and keep himself and his mother afloat. But when the harvest was in at last, and the winter planting finished, Conrad found himself unemployed once again. As the days had grown shorter and the first frosts hardened the soft country roads, he had feared that he and his mother would starve.

Until he’d received a telegram from Uncle Johannes.

In Berlin to inspect his investment in the munitions factory, his uncle had stopped on his way home to have lunch with an old friend of his, Herr Karl Kleinschmidt. And, as the telegram said, their conversation had shifted to the recent growth of Germany’s African colonies. Herr Kleinschmidt mentioned an opening for an aide to the Commissioner of the DSWA, and Uncle Johannes had recommended Conrad for the post.

It was more than a bit fantastical. Conrad knew nothing about the German Colonial Office or Southwest Africa, but the last of the harvest money was nearly gone, and no one had offered him any work in weeks. So, with a train ticket purchased by Uncle Johannes and wearing his father’s old, worn church suit, Conrad had journeyed to Berlin and arrived promptly at the Colonial Office on the appointed day.

Uncle Johannes had seemed relaxed and confident when he’d met Conrad at the train station.

Not to worry, my boy, Johannes said as he treated Conrad to breakfast at a nearby café. Why, it’s all practically been arranged. You’ll do marvelously!

When, at last, the hour of the interview came, Uncle Johannes had taken Conrad by tram to the Reichskolonialamt, the Imperial Foreign Office palace that sat next to the Brandenburg Gate and overlooked the Tiergarten. Conrad had never seen anything half as grand.

Uncle Johannes walked Conrad up the stone steps to the huge wooden doors of the palace, flanked on either side by two Gardes du Corps, the German royal guardsmen. His uncle had shaken his hand, opened the door, and given him a gentle push with a wink.

But as Conrad walked across the palace’s marble-tiled floor, he felt out of place with every click-clack of his father’s dress shoes that seemed to echo above the general chatter and humdrum of the bustling officials. He gave his name to a prim receptionist at the base of the main stairwell, who scrutinized him with a frosty gaze before she rose from her seat with a curt, This way, please.

As he followed the receptionist up the stairs, a few well-dressed men bid him good morning and tipped their hats. But Conrad could see in their eyes that they were surprised to see someone dressed so unfashionably within the confines of the Colonial Office. In his father’s tired, provincial suit, no one would’ve confused him with a footman or a butler, much less someone who was interviewing for an important foreign posting.

All this did nothing to calm Conrad’s nerves as the receptionist whisked him into a large corner office overlooking Pariser Platz and motioned for him to sit across from one of the fattest men Conrad had ever seen.

"Your 10:00 interview, Botschafter," the receptionist said to the seated man.

"Danke, Hilda," the large man wheezed.

The receptionist gave the man a short bow and left the room, closing the door behind her. Conrad barely had time to glimpse the gilded nameplate on the big man’s desk: Herr Karl Kleinschmidt, before the ambassador turned his full attention on him.

So, Herr Kleinschmidt began at once without any formalities. You’re interested in going to Africa, are you?

That was ridiculous. Two weeks ago, Conrad had been turned away for a job as the village train depot’s groundskeeper on account of his weak chest. He wasn’t sure he could even pinpoint Germany’s colonies on a map, let alone help the Colonial Office administer them.

After a moment, Conrad seemed to realize that he’d been asked a question and hastily responded.

Y-yes sir, he sputtered out hastily. I believe I am.

Gott, Conrad thought to himself. I believe I am? What a foolish thing to say.

Herr Kleinschmidt gave Conrad a long, appraising look, as though inspecting a horse with minimal prospects that he was hesitant to buy.

Conrad tried to avoid the intensity of the diplomat’s scrutiny by studying the decor of his office. Herr Kleinschmidt’s walls boasted pictures of himself elaborately dressed, shaking hands with a colorful assortment of characters against every variety of far-off landscapes imaginable.

In one, the bemedaled diplomat was shaking hands with a huge man covered in furs and mounted on horseback. Its caption read: Mongolia, 1897. Another showed Herr Kleinschmidt as a front-row member of a German delegation at what looked like an international conference, seated next to the late Chancellor Otto Von Bismarck himself.

On his desk, Herr Kleinschmidt had a variety of exotic trinkets: an ornate letter opener with a gold handle, a photograph of himself receiving his first Imperial commission from Kaiser Wilhelm II, and most intriguing of all, a large ivory horn decorated with an etching of the Prussian victory over the French at Sedan.

I see no reason to waste words with you, Herr Huber, Kleinschmidt said after a moment. We’ve had very few applicants for this posting. Your uncle speaks quite highly of your intelligence and your work ethic.

Conrad nodded along dumbly. Kleinschmidt was a heavyset man with a great white mustache, which, Conrad could not help but think, made him look like an elaborately dressed walrus. His voice was deep yet raspy as though speaking was an effortful task, but one that he thoroughly intended to undertake.

Herr Kleinschmidt pressed on, with a slight wave of his enormous hand.

The post is yours if you’d like it. It’s a two-year assignment, and you’ll receive a sizable bonus at the start of your second year. Just be warned, Herr Huber. Africa is not for everyone.

Conrad was stunned. He’d been fretting all night on the train, and all the way to the Colonial Office, that he’d have to endure a lengthy, rigorous interview that he was laughably unprepared for. Yet now he’d been offered the job after answering only one question and being given a once-over by a man who looked as though he could barely stand. What had Uncle Johannes said?

Why, it’s all practically been arranged!

Th-thank you, Herr Kleinschmidt, Conrad managed to say.

Don’t thank me, Kleinschmidt said with another dismissive wave. "Commissioner Leutwein’s got a real mess on his hands down there, and I need someone there as soon as possible. Someone who is not afraid of a little hard work and a few bad-tempered natives.

"I’ll make the arrangements to secure the necessary paperwork. Our next supply ship leaves in three weeks. Hilda will book you a cabin aboard the Calypso. I’ll have all the preparations finalized and delivered to your uncle’s residence in Hamburg in a few weeks’ time. I’m sure you’ll do the Kaiser proud."

With that, Herr Kleinschmidt leaned back in his leather chair, which squeaked under his immense weight, and produced a finely carved pipe from his desk drawer that was probably worth more than Conrad made in a year.

As Kleinschmidt sprinkled several generous pinches of tobacco into the pipe’s chamber, Conrad stood to leave, his head still spinning from how fast he’d apparently climbed the social ladder. He was sure he must’ve set a world record for transformation from laborer to Imperial diplomat in the span of fifteen minutes! As he began to walk out of the office, he tried to steady himself, somewhat dizzy from the vertigo of his newfound luck.

It was an honor to meet you, Herr Kleinschmidt, Conrad said graciously as he left. You won’t regret this, Your Excellency!

I’m sure I won’t, Kleinschmidt said with a smile that was courteous and also indicated he wished to be left alone with his pipe.

As Conrad bowed and turned around to leave this ornate office, Kleinschmidt spoke up between puffs.

Oh, Herr Huber, he added with an air of detached amusement. I’d invest in some khaki if I were you. It’s damn hot down there.

And thus, Conrad’s life was changed in an instant. And it seemed to continue to change every day. His mother was finally persuaded to leave the tiny house on the outskirts of Aschaffenburg. She moved in with Uncle Johannes’ family at the Huber’s summer house in Frankfurt. Although she piously protested the whole time as her few personal effects were transferred to her new home, Conrad thought Georgina seemed happier in the large home than she’d been in ages.

Uncle Johannes’s generosity seemed to know no bounds. He’d taken real joy in his nephew’s appointment to his new post while modestly insisting that he’d had nothing at all to do with it.

He’d purchased Conrad a new steamer trunk for the journey and also, at no small expense, several crisp, new khaki shirts and trousers that a British associate of his claimed were the finest of their kind available for tramping around the African bush. Among his uncle’s various other gifts were a brand-new, tailored black suit and a silver pocket watch that had belonged to Conrad’s grandfather.

Johannes’s eagerness was touching, but Conrad felt more than a little uncomfortable. He was unaccustomed to sleeping in a large feather bed and wearing starched, white shirts that made his neck chafe. And with each new trinket or present that Johannes and Aunt Clara pressed into his hands, he began to feel more and more like an imposter realizing someone else’s fairytale.

When the day of his departure finally arrived, Conrad was both excited for the adventure that awaited and relieved to escape his aunt and uncle’s home. He kissed his mother goodbye, and then headed north by train to the port city of Hamburg to meet up with Uncle Johannes’ eldest son, his cousin Georg, who would escort him to the Calypso and see him safely aboard.

At least, that had been the plan.

But now it was a quarter till one, and the Calypso was due to sail with the tide.

Damn him, Conrad swore to himself.

His cousin Georg was perhaps the most amiable person Conrad knew, but his joviality made him constantly tardy and, even at the best of times, hardly reliable. A handsome, albeit slightly pudgy young man, Georg was a womanizing socialite who smoked and drank more than anyone Conrad had ever met.

It was only when the call to muster sounded at his barracks each morning that Georg became the model German soldier: strong, efficient, and cool under fire, to hear his military friends boast of him. Through his new involvement in the munitions industry, Johannes had purchased his carefree son a commission in the German army, and, much to everyone’s surprise, Georg had prospered there. Rising quickly through the ranks, he was now a captain in the Imperial artillery regiments in charge of his own battery of six field guns.

But as he was off duty for the week to see Conrad off, he was typical, lovable, aggravating Georg, who at this moment might keep Conrad from catching his ship.

Conrad refolded his newspapers and checked his pocket watch again.

Ten till one.

Conrad glanced quickly down at his heavy steamer trunk and several other suitcases piled beside him on the street outside the quaint hotel where he and Georg had spent the night.

Georg had insisted that he and Conrad rent a room for their final night in Hamburg. They’d spent the better part of it slipping in and out of bars where Georg seemed to know everyone. Georg and his small army of friends had bought Conrad drinks, and a pretty redhead named Sofia, urged on by Georg and the others, had even danced with him and sat in his lap at the table. It had been by far the best night of Conrad’s life.

But when Conrad had rolled out of bed late this morning, his head pounding like a thunderstorm, Georg was nowhere to be found. Conrad had changed quickly, eaten a quick meal at the hotel restaurant, and asked the hotel bellhop to bring his luggage to the street curb.

Conrad checked his watch again and swore under his breath. He was regretting turning down the night clerk’s offer to arrange a carriage for him in the morning.

As the seconds began ticking away loudly in his mind, Conrad folded his hands together and began to count to one hundred. His mother had taught him this trick after the first time she’d found him behind the house, collapsed in a heap and struggling to breathe. The doctor had arrived to diagnose Conrad with asthma and had mentioned that if Conrad were a continually nervous child, his asthma would only get worse and might perhaps kill him.

That night as she tucked him into bed, Georgina had told Conrad to fold his hands together over his chest and count to one hundred. She had called it a game, though Conrad had never thought it much fun.

By the time you reach one hundred, your worries will all be gone, his mother had assured him.

He’d fallen asleep that night before he’d made it halfway, but he still sometimes found himself counting in his head whenever he felt his heart racing and his breath turning shallow.

Eins…zwei…drei…

By the time he’d counted to seventy-two, he was about to abandon his luggage and make a run for the docks when an open-aired carriage made a wild, fast-paced turn around the corner up the street. Conrad shouted in surprise as Georg yanked back on the reins and brought a magnificent two-horse team to a stop in front of the hotel.

Conrad! Georg’s little sister Frieda shouted in greeting from the back.

A small blonde head popped up from the carriage next to Frieda. It was their four-year-old brother.

Connie! Justus shouted happily, waving his tiny hands rapidly.

Conrad smiled in surprise to see his cousins and waved back as Georg leapt down from the driver’s bench and grabbed Conrad in a strong embrace. Although nearly a foot shorter than his cousin, Georg’s every movement radiated energy. Conrad’s thin frame appeared smaller when the two stood side by side.

Good morning, Connie! Georg said with a big smile. Are you ready for this grand adventure of yours?

Yes, Conrad replied with a hurried politeness as he looked down at his watch yet again. If I haven’t already missed it.

Ahk! Georg called as he handed the bellhop a few marks and started to lift Conrad’s luggage into the carriage. You worry too much, cousin! I’ve rented us the fastest horses in Hamburg. We’ll be at the docks in plenty of time! I just needed to pick up my sister and baby brother at the train station. They couldn’t let you leave without seeing you off properly!

This is so exciting, Connie! Frieda said as Conrad and Georg hoisted the heavy steamer trunk into the carriage. Do you suppose you’ll see elephants out of your bedroom window? Oh, Ara Egger just returned from her father’s embassy in Togoland. Is that near Southwest Africa? She’s been going on and on about these bright pink feathers she showed me that belonged to some funny-looking bird called a flamingo. You’ll be sure to bring me back a present, won’t you, Connie?

What about the lions? little Justus piped in his limited speech, pronouncing the German word, löwe, with a few extra e’s. Don’t get eaten, Connie!

Hush now, you two, Georg said as he and Conrad climbed up onto the driver’s bench of the carriage. Your poor cousin’s already nervous enough without you badgering him.

Georg slapped Conrad on the back and shot him an impish smile.

Onward, then? Georg asked.

Please, Conrad replied, resisting the urge to check his pocket watch again.

Georg cracked the reins, and the two horses leapt at his command and rattled down the cobblestone streets of Hamburg. Conrad clung to the small driver’s bench, his slim frame shaking with the vibrations. Georg chatted as he tore past slower carriages and responded amiably each time someone on the streets cursed his reckless driving.

Frieda and Justus took turns pouring questions into Conrad’s ear over the clatter of the hooves. Conrad tried to answer them pleasantly, still clutching the small bench and trying not to think about the time.

After a few stressful minutes and several attempts at checking his watch, Conrad let out an anxious sigh as Hamburg’s grand dockyard came into view with row after row of dreadnaughts, steamers, and luxury liners lazily bobbing up and down in port.

Each moment after that passed painfully. Each ticking second felt to Conrad as if an ant was burrowing and crawling beneath his skin. The elderly customs official dropped Conrad’s papers before he could stamp them, and the dockside porters Georg hired seemed to take a lifetime to locate the right ship for his luggage.

But at last, Conrad found himself at the correct dock, the Calypso’s proud steel hull pulling at her moorings in the swelling tide. She seemed as eager as Conrad to set sail for the wilds of Africa. Two small tugboats pulled up alongside the Calypso, their captains impatient to begin pulling the great ship out to sea.

Good thing you got here when you did, the Port Master told Conrad as he walked the last few feet down the long gangplanks. I’ve just finished my inspection. She’d have left without you if you’d been another minute late. Up you go.

The Port Master beckoned up to the Calypso’s main deck and Conrad nodded, turning around to give his cousins one last goodbye.

Yet as he hugged little Justus and gave Frieda a kiss goodbye, the reality of what he was about to do suddenly sunk in. The past three weeks had flown by in such a blur that Conrad had never really considered that he was actually being shipped out to Africa!

The Calypso was going to take him out of poverty, but it was also going to take him over seven thousand miles away to a world he knew absolutely nothing about.

I can’t go to Africa! Conrad suddenly wanted to scream. God, I could die out there!

But then Georg clasped his shoulder and whispered in Conrad’s ear too low for Frieda and Justus to hear.

Courage, he said. You’ll be all right.

Georg then broke off with a smile.

Go on now, Conrad! he teased. Those horses cost me far too much for you not to get yourself aboard that ship!

Conrad laughed, his tensions and fears mercifully dulled for a moment. He nodded to Georg, who grinned broadly. Then he raced up the gangplank before his brief courage failed him.

The Calypso’s deep whistle sounded as Conrad stepped onto the ship’s main deck, the sailors not even waiting for his last step as they began to rapidly pull in the gangplank.

No turning back now, Conrad thought.

The whistle blew out another long note, and the mooring lines were tossed off. Conrad stuck his hands in his jacket pockets to calm their shaking. His right hand struck something heavy. From inside his coat pocket, Conrad pulled a small bottle of Obstwasser. He uncorked the stopper and took a quick sniff. The sharp tang of sweet fruit was so overpowering it nearly knocked him over the railings.

Pear schnapps, Conrad recognized instantly. Good lord, this stuff’s rare!

A third whistle blew as the two tugboats began to slowly shepherd the Calypso out of the port.

Conrad turned back and looked over the Calypso’s railing down at the wharves now fading quickly behind the ocean liner. Georg stood waving at him with his siblings and laughed when Conrad waved back and pointed at the small, glass bottle in his hand.

A gift from me! Georg called up from the docks. Don’t drink it all at once! And try not to get eaten in Africa!

Conrad laughed back, and he waved at the disappearing docks until his arm was sore and they faded from sight. The other passengers and crew bustled around the deck in all directions, but out on the open, gray water with Germany growing smaller and smaller in the distance, Conrad felt suddenly, truly, alone.

Once again, he found himself counting.

Eins...zwei...drei…

Well, he said aloud after a moment. Here I go.

Taking a long pull from the bottle Georg had adroitly slipped him, and his throat burning with the taste of pear, he went to find his cabin.

Chapter 2

May 1903

T hey’re right whales, Erik said over the wind. Southern right whales to be exact.

The Calypso cut effortlessly through the mild morning surf as Conrad watched the pod of whales roll playfully over the water’s surface. Erik had said they might spot a whale or two on the final morning of their voyage as they approached the shore, but the ocean liner’s passengers had great luck: an entire family of the creatures began trailing the Calypso just after sunrise.

They’re quite odd fish, really, Erik said to the small crowd of spectators gathered around him. "Sometimes they’ll trail after us for hours, thinking the Calypso’s one of them! Only give up when one of the bigger ones gets wise enough and gives us a bump."

Conrad watched a particularly large whale blow a high stream of water in the air before tearing himself from the railing.

You’ll remember our arrangement, Erik? Conrad called as he began to move away from the small, cheering crowd and toward the ship’s aft deck.

Aye-aye, Herr Huber! Erik shouted back in mock salute before returning to his collection of awed passengers.

Conrad shook his head fondly as Erik continued his impromptu lecture on the habits of southern right whales. Most anything that came out of Erik’s mouth was complete fantasy, but Conrad had to admit the young, sunburned sailor had a flair for showmanship. He also knew more about Walvis Bay than Conrad, despite being about three or four years younger. Erik had experience, real or imagined, and either was more than Conrad had, so he procured Erik’s services as a guide and porter for a few of Uncle Johannes’ marks.

The Calypso’s aft deck was relatively deserted, as many of the passengers were either still bemused by the whales or scurrying below deck to gather their possessions before the ship reached port. When Conrad had first stepped out onto the upper deck this morning, Walvis Bay had only been a small brown and gold line in the distance. Now, as he made his way towards the bow of the ship, the English settlement was fully in view.

Nestled in a vast expanse of bright orange sand dunes, Walvis Bay seemed almost like a child’s creation perched precariously close to the sea’s edge. The dunes rose and fell before the Calypso, dwarfing the wooden steeple of the Anglican church in the town’s main square, and casting an imposing shadow over the small brick-and-mortar homes and shops.

Looks as though the dunes might push it right into the water, doesn’t it?

Conrad had not seen the man next to him on the aft deck at first, but he immediately recognized the friendly tone of Eugen Fischer. A tall, slim man, Fischer had studied medicine and history in Berlin and received a doctorate in experimental medicine and anthropology from the University of Freiburg three years prior.

Nearly thirty, Fischer had sharp features with an aristocratic nose and a well-trimmed, pointed beard. Yet despite his fine wardrobe and congenial smile, the faint, musky smell of old paper and ink always seemed to hover around Fischer, as though his research stayed draped over him like an undershirt.

Finding himself seated next to Eugen Fischer at dinner during their first night aboard the Calypso had been a stroke of luck for Conrad. Although a highly regarded medical prodigy, Fischer too knew next to nothing about their mutual destination.

Fischer was heading to Southwest Africa as part of a field research expedition he’d organized to test a new theory of human behavior with his partner, the famous Dr. Theodor Mollison. But given that the renowned anthropologist and financer of their expedition had been quickly confined to his berth due to frequent bouts of seasickness, Fischer found himself at loose ends on the long voyage, and he and Conrad had become daily companions.

I was just thinking the very same thing, Dr. Fischer, Conrad replied. I suppose I expected an English colony to be…grander. Walvis Bay looks more like a town of pebble sandcastles on a beach than a bustling port.

Fischer laughed as he reached into his coat to pull out a small photograph.

That’s Africa, I suppose, he said. Our captain showed me this photograph he took of the German port, Swakopmund, a few miles from here. It might be prettier than Walvis Bay, but the captain assured me their docks were too small for a steamer of our size. Far simpler to immigrate through the English port and then clear German customs on the other side, strange as that may sound.

Conrad looked at the photograph Fischer had handed him and nodded in agreement. Swakopmund, while charming with neat rows of German-styled cottages, looked more like a coastal resort village than a proper port city. No doubt a ship of the Calypso’s size would have overwhelmed its small dockyard.

What is making all that ungodly noise? Fisher suddenly asked as Conrad returned the photograph to him. The deep, bellowed breaths of the whales had been replaced by a steady cawing over the dunes. As Fischer asked the question, a large black bird landed right next to them on the ship’s railing, startling several nearby sailors, and nearly knocking a shocked Fischer overboard.

"Verdammt nochmal that nasty thing! Fischer swore as Conrad helped him to his feet. What the hell is that monster?"

The large bird cocked its head to the side and stared at Fischer as if in disbelief that the incident could’ve possibly been its fault. About the size of a sleek goose, the bird was completely black except for the outlining area of its mouth that announced its prominence in a vibrant shade of orange. Its feathers looked velvety, almost as though dipped in oil. But its most bizarre feature was a sack-like bulge at the top of its gullet that vibrated at a constant, rapid pace.

It’s a Cape cormorant, Erik said, dutifully drifting over to the aft deck now that the whale-watching crowd had been captivated by something else. They’re native to this part of Southwest Africa. They build their nests just on the other side of these dunes in perfect circles that stretch for miles in the sand. They flock to the coast this time of year to breed. There are so many of the creatures that they have to build their nests out of pecking range of one another. See here, this one is vibrating his neck, almost in the way a dog pants? It’s to keep himself cool in the heat.

The cormorant, as if insulted by this discussion of its anatomy, took off from the railing with a loud squawk and headed towards the sand dunes.

You’re going to want to shed those coats, gentlemen, Erik added once the cormorant had gone. The bird has the right of it. Cool enough out here on the bay, but on a bad day with people shoving and jostling about, the customs office can feel like an oven once we make port.

Most passengers heeded Erik’s advice and hurried back to their cabins to change into something more suitable for the city streets. But a few stubborn traditionalists remained on deck, determined to greet the savageness of Africa with the strict and proper coat and tie of the civilized world.

Fischer straightened a crease in his shirt where the cormorant had caused him to stumble.

I suppose I’d best rouse Theodor and see if I can’t manage to get him to keep something down before we disembark.

The young doctor offered his hand in a warm goodbye, which Conrad shook reluctantly. He had never met anyone as educated as Dr. Fischer before. Fischer had been fascinating to listen to as he recounted great moments in scientific history over dinner. He had been rather mum on the subject of his medical research in Southwest Africa, and Conrad had not wanted to be rude by pressing the matter. He had greatly enjoyed talking with Fischer and felt he would miss his company a great deal.

Listen, Conrad, Fischer said before they parted. If they ever give you a holiday away from the Commissioner’s Office in Windhoek, why not come visit Theodor and me in Lüderitz? It’s a fair trek, to be sure, but I’m to understand this colony has a passable railway system, and I’m sure I could acquire a bottle of two of something decent.

I’d love to! Conrad replied, hoping the fear of being left alone in a few moments was not too apparent in his voice.

Splendid! Fischer said. "I’ll send a telegram to the Commissioner’s Office once we’ve gotten ourselves settled. Viel Glück, Conrad!"

Fischer disappeared below deck to attempt to revive his infirm partner as Conrad turned to stare back at the fast-approaching shoreline.

He’d retire to his cabin in a moment to exchange his suit jacket for one of the crisp khaki shirts that Uncle Johannes had insisted on purchasing for him, but for some reason, he found himself wanting another few moments alone on deck.

The morning’s sun had nearly risen to its peak, lighting the sandy orange shore before him in a friendly sheen. The cormorant’s calls grew louder, and a soft, gentle breeze blew lightly over the ship. For the first time since leaving Hamburg, Conrad felt his worries and dread give way to excitement.

Best get ready, Herr Huber, Erik said beside him. Don’t want to keep the dockhands waiting!

If Walvis Bay had seemed like a small and lonely outpost from the Calypso’s decks, amidst its bustling docks and crowded streets the town seemed like a strange metropolis. No sooner had Conrad changed into his khaki shirt and trousers and double-checked that all his belongings were stowed and accounted for than the largest man Conrad had ever seen walked into his room on Erik’s heels.

We’ve docked, Herr Huber, the redheaded youth announced proudly. This is Christoph. He will take your things to the customs building.

Before Conrad could respond, the giant of a man swung Conrad’s heavy steamer trunk onto his shoulder with a deep, short grunt. Christoph’s head barely cleared the ceiling of Conrad’s small cabin. Yet despite his size and height, Christoph moved gracefully, scooping up another of Conrad’s bags in his free hand before heading for the ship’s gangplank and the customs office below.

As Conrad followed Erik down the gangplank, he was amazed at the dockhands they passed. Conrad had seen dark-skinned men before, albeit briefly around the docks of Hamburg in the few days before his departure, but he had never seen so many of such different shades. Most of the men in Hamburg had been light-skinned Turks and Arabs, but Christoph’s skin was the color of burnt coffee. They passed another dockhand scrambling up the gangplank to assist a different passenger with their luggage, and this man was short and thin, with a complexion that reminded Conrad of cinnamon.

They all come in from their villages when a large ocean liner arrives, Erik informed him as they both passed through customs. "Dozens of ‘em. Scores, really. Damara, Nama, Kavango, Tswana, Himba, Ovambo, and Herero. I couldn’t begin to tell them apart to tell the truth. I think Christoph here is a Kavango from one of the nearby fishing villages. I don’t know about the others. The big man is always standing around the docks every time the Calypso docks, and we’ve struck up a small partnership, you might say."

Conrad couldn’t see how Erik would have known anything about Christoph, much less struck up a business partnership with him. Christoph did not strike Conrad as the conversational type.

Is his name really Christoph? Conrad asked Erik discreetly as the big man ducked inside a small building at the end of the pier.

Erik shrugged.

I wouldn’t know, Erik said indifferently. He probably had some tribal name once that you and I couldn’t begin to pronounce. The missionaries have been slowly straightening all that out, though. More baptized Christophs and Wilhelms running around now than cow herders in loincloths, at any rate. Easier to tell the Christian darkies from the savage ones, that’s for sure.

Erik went inside after Christoph. Conrad followed close behind.

After a short stint in the stuffy and crowded customs office, a sweaty and curt secretary stamped Conrad’s passport and waved him through the exit. Conrad followed Erik and Christoph out into the tightly packed dirt roads.

The sounds of the city hit Conrad like a wave.

As Erik led them down the main square, Conrad turned his head in every direction, feebly trying to establish his bearings. All around him Africans shouted, cooked, cursed, bartered, and laughed, while small packs of white Englishmen in bowler hats and starched shirts smoked cigars and strode absently down the main streets. Conrad could not make any sense of the hubbub.

He’d envisioned arriving in Africa hundreds of times since leaving Hamburg. He’d imagined himself gutted and roasted by a pack of roving cannibals, worshipped by people who had never seen a white man, or left abandoned in the sheer wilderness, the sole survivor of a terrible shipwreck on an unforgiving coast.

But amidst the civil congestion, Conrad felt completely confused by his first glimpse of Africa. Everywhere the crowds were moving, teeming, never leaving the same scene in his view for longer than a moment. Conrad could not find a single African clad in the long raffia robes that dominated the advertisements for the Kamerun colony. Instead, on one side of the street clusters of old Black men in coats and trousers held court around their favorite market stands. The rival vendors shouted at and laughed with another as younger men stoked large, boiling vats of sweet-smelling fruit and small boys spooned a hot, red liquid into their customers’ bowls.

Several tall women dotted Conrad’s view as well, their dark skin bolded by the rich, vibrant hues of their long, Victorian dresses. Each sported a matching headboard as well, a pronged, cloth headpiece that mirrored the swirling patterns of their dresses. They reminded Conrad of bull’s horns.

Children were running everywhere, and the few white policemen Conrad saw watched the chaos in detached indifference.

He could never pick an individual out from the masses for long before they were swept away by someone even stranger.

Along one street, a group of men they passed might’ve been from another world. Most stood nearly naked, a thick loincloth their only attempt at clothing. Each loincloth had a small tail that covered the men’s backsides and Conrad stared open-mouthed as Erik led him past them. These men stood apart from the rest of the dockyard, several of them eyeing the new arrivals with undisguised contempt. One of them met Conrad’s eye and held his gaze challengingly.

Herero, Erik explained as he touched Conrad arm and hurried him along the street. They’re not the friendliest of natives.

After a period of weaving through the dusty streets, Erik sensed Conrad’s fading energy. He whispered something to Christoph, who nodded his understanding and continued on with Conrad’s luggage in what Conrad could only assume was the direction of the train depot. Despite the weight of Conrad’s trunk, Christoph lumbered on through the mass of people, his massive neck and arms slick with perspiration.

According to Herr Kleinschmidt’s assistant, who had sent Conrad a frustratingly terse telegram from before departing Hamburg, he was to meet a Mr. Beaunard Hertzog at the train station in Walvis Bay. Mr. Hertzog would accompany him by overnight train to Windhoek and then escort him to the Commissioner’s Residence, where Conrad would be living for the duration of his tour.

Of course, he thought, these instructions were all rather useless if he died of a stroke shortly after arriving.

Perhaps a short respite from all the excitement, Herr Huber? Erik asked with a veteran smile at Conrad’s reaction to the pulse of the city.

Conrad opened his mouth to respond, but both his nose and mouth seemed caked in dryness. His words caught in his throat.

Christoph will take your bags to the train, Erik continued, not waiting for a response before he began dragging Conrad down a nearby alley. He’ll find Mr. Hertzog and send him our way while we raise a drink to celebrate your safe arrival in Africa!

Conrad merely nodded. At that moment, the offer of a cold beer was too alluring to refuse.

Ducking and squeezing between the press of buildings, stalls, and foreign sailors seeking refuge from the chaos, Conrad followed Erik through the blessedly shaded alleyway, finally arriving at a small café tucked up between a leatherworker’s shop and a slightly hidden Lutheran church.

In other circumstances, Conrad might’ve protested the foul odor of tanned leather, but once he stepped into the shaded awning, he collapsed into a chair at the first open table. A tough-looking Black woman with broad shoulders and a stained apron walked up to Erik with a grimace as they sat down, saying nothing as Erik ordered two beers. Conrad suppressed a sudden groan. If the beverages were anything akin to the rest of his experiences in Africa so far, well, at least it would be wet.

The woman set down two generous glasses of golden lager overflowing with thick foam. Conrad gawked at his beer, and Erik laughed.

"You were expecting rhino piss, maybe? You are in German Africa, Herr Huber! Beer is one thing you shan’t have to settle for here. Oh, no—Windhoek alone has six beer halls!"

Conrad took a small, hesitant sip.

It was delicious. He began to gulp down the thick lager thirstily, but Erik reached out a hand to stop him.

Easy now, Herr Huber, he explained. Too much too quickly will make you miserable.

Conrad nodded, a little embarrassed at his own rudeness. Erik just shrugged knowingly.

The two sat and talked for an hour or so in the quaint alley café. Conrad sat mostly in silence while Erik regaled him with long, winding stories of all the ports he’d visited from Gabon to Singapore. Conrad felt himself begin to relax. Everyone in the packed café was speaking either English or German, and with a second lager in front of him and the Lutheran church bells ringing above, he might have been in some back alley of Hamburg.

Perhaps this won’t be so bad, Conrad thought. If there are such established towns here, then maybe I won’t be exposed to anything too wild or dangerous. After all, I am not a soldier, and the Commissioner could hardly expect me to….

I sink dis must be de place, ja?

Conrad turned in his chair to see Christoph’s enormous frame filling the alleyway and a small, blond man heading towards him.

Are you Herr Huber? the man asked as he approached their table.

I am, Conrad said, barely having time to stand before the man shook his hand with great enthusiasm.

"Willkommen to Africa, Herr Huber, he said in a singsong voice that echoed off the café’s brick walls. I am Beaunard Hertsog, de oferseer of de railway construction for dis colony. It is a great pleasure to be meeting you."

Beaunard was so energetic, Conrad nearly laughed with relief as he shook the small, white man’s hand. Erik had told him a few days ago that the man he was supposed to meet with in Walvis Bay was a Boer, a descendant of the first Dutch farmers to settle in Southern Africa and who had named the town Walvis or Whale Bay. One of the most prominent businessmen in the colony, Beaunard made up for his short stature with boundless energy and a love of all things commercial.

Conrad had been prepared for all of that, but he was forced to suppress a chuckle every time Beaunard began to speak. The usual fast-paced Dutch was hardly noticeable in the colloquial rise and fall of Beaunard’s Afrikaans. His voice sounded like a wood instrument playing a scale. Conrad could almost see each word bopping up and down a metered score as Beaunard’s octave rose and fell with certain words.

But as humorous as the man’s voice might be, Conrad was immensely glad to have found him and returned his eager handshake.

The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Hertzog.

Oh please, the small man said as he smiled warmly. Call me, Beaunard. But if you are ready, Herr Huber. I sink we had best be going if we are to catch de train.

I’ll leave you here then, Herr Huber, Erik said as he stood to leave. "Christoph will see you and Mr. Hertzog to the train. I wish you a very pleasant tour of