Expedition to the Mountains of the Moon (Burton & Swinburne) (35 page)

The stars to the east were already being obscured by cloud. The downpours were coming later and later, and were far shorter in duration. Soon the rainy season would end.

“Herbert,” Swinburne whispered. “I'll go and have a little chinwag with old tin-head.”

He staggered away, stopped when his trousers slipped to his ankles, hauled them up, fastened his belt, and continued on until he came to the philosopher's tent.

He pushed through the flap.

“I say, Herbert, I'm not in the slightest bit sleepy. Shall we—”

He stumbled to a halt. The clockwork philosopher was sitting at a makeshift table and was completely motionless. Wrapped in robes, he looked somewhat akin to a bundle of laundry.

“Herbert?”

There was no response.

Swinburne stepped over to his friend, put a hand on his shoulder, and gave him a shove.

Herbert didn't budge.

He'd wound down.

The poet sighed and turned to leave, but as he did so, a book on the table caught his eye. It was a large notepad, on the cover of which was written the legend:
First Principles of Philosophy
.

Curious to see how far along Herbert had got with his project, Swinburne reached for the book, slid it toward himself, and opened the first page. He read:

Only equivalence can lead to destruction or a final transcendence.
Only equivalence can lead to destruction or a final transcendence.
Only equivalence can lead to destruction or a final transcendence.
Only equivalence can lead to destruction or a final transcendence.

The poet frowned and flipped the pages to the middle of the book.

Only equivalence can lead to destruction or a final transcendence.
Only equivalence can lead to destruction or a final transcendence.

He kept turning until he came to the last page upon which anything was written.

Only equivalence can lead to destruction or a final transcendence.
Only equivalence can lead to destruction or a final transcendence.
Only equivalence can lead to destruction or a final transcendence.

“My Aunt Agatha's blue feather hat!” he exclaimed.

The next day, William Trounce complained of a thumping headache, Maneesh Krishnamurthy collapsed with malarial fever, and a messenger arrived in Ugogi. The latter had run all the way from Mzizima with a dispatch for Isabel from those Daughters of Al-Manat who'd remained behind at the fast-expanding Prussian settlement. His first words to her, in Kiswahili, and translated by Burton, were: “You will pay me very well, I should think, for I have run far and far and far!”

Burton assured him that he'd be generously rewarded.

The man closed his eyes and recounted the message in a singsong voice. He spoke in Arabic, though he obviously didn't understand the language and was merely recounting what he'd been told, parrot fashion. He said: “O Al-Manat, peace and mercy and blessings of Allah upon thee, and upon those who follow thy lead, and upon those who travel with thee. May he grant safety, speed, and good fortune to this messenger, who, regrettably, must deliver to thee bad tidings, for a great many Prussians continue to arrive in Mzizima and they are now too strong for us to fight without thy wise counsel. A force of perhaps a thousand has departed the camp and is travelling westward. We follow and are striking them at intervals, in the manner thou taught us, though we are far fewer in number. May Allah protect us and you and give us all strength to endure.”

Burton instructed Saíd to issue the man with a
doti
of richly patterned cloth, a box of
sami-sami
beads, and three coils of brass wire. The messenger, much pleased, joined the villagers to rest, drink beer, swap news, and boast of his newfound wealth.

“It sounds like an invasion force,” Isabel said to Burton. “What is Bismarck up to, sending so many troops to Africa?”

“Palmerston thinks he's trying to establish a German empire, and that he intends to use Africa's vast natural—and human—resources to fuel it.”

“So the Prussians are here to stake a claim?”

“It would appear so.”

“Then we must stop them.”

“I don't see how we can. Besides which, that's not what we're here for.”

“But surely this is a challenge to the British Empire, Richard? Is it not our duty to do something about it?”

“What do you suggest?”

“We fight!”

Burton held his hands out wide in a gesture of disbelief. “Look at us, Isabel! We're nothing but a ragtag expedition! Our clothes are half-rotted off us! We look positively skeletal! We're exhausted and ill!”

“Will Palmerston send troops?”

“I consider that highly probable.”

“Then once your mission is done, Richard, I shall lead my women against the Prussians until the British Army arrives.”

The king's agent blew out a breath and shook his head. “I can't stop you, of course. You're the most obstinate woman I've ever met. You infuriate me—and it's why I fell in love with you. Just don't take unnecessary risks, please.”

“We shall do what we do best: hit them and run. Then wait, and, when they least expect it, we'll hit them again, and then we'll run again.”

The expedition spent the remainder of the day resting, writing journal entries, checking equipment, and socialising with their generous hosts.

Before sun-up the following morning, much recovered, the travellers set forth across the Marenga M'khali, a stretch of desert that would take four days to traverse. The ground was hard and cracked, the scrub thorny, and the horizon lumpy with low, quivering, and blurring hills.

Close up, the terrain was a rusty-brown shade, strewn over with rocks and rubble and tufts of brittle white grass. As it receded into the distance, it grew paler, bleaching to a soft yellow that eventually blended hazily into the washed-out-blue sky, which deepened in colour overhead.

The sun was like fire upon their necks in the mornings, and blinded them in the afternoons.

Burton, Swinburne, and Trounce were mounted on mules. Sister Raghavendra and Miss Mayson were riding with the Daughters of Al-Manat. Krishnamurthy was being borne along on a litter.

Saíd bin Sálim and his eight Askaris kept the liberated slaves moving despite their inclination to laze until sundown. Burton by now considered his
ras kafilah
a marvel of efficiency and industriousness. Between Saíd and Sister Raghavendra, the expedition had progressed with a minimum of annoyances and illnesses.

Herbert Spencer limped along at the back of the column of men.

Algernon Swinburne had said nothing to anyone about what he'd seen in the clockwork man's book. He didn't know why he kept it quiet—he simply felt no need to raise the subject. At one point, on the third day, when they were climbing onto higher ground and passing huge blocks of weathered granite, he had a sudden urge to speak to Herbert about the
First Principles of Philosophy
, but when he'd approached him, he heard Pox—on the philosopher's head—mutter, “Sweet cheeks,” and changed his mind. Herbert was the only individual the parakeet ever complimented, and for some reason, hearing the messenger bird was enough to make the poet change his mind. Swinburne dropped the subject. He knew it was wrong to do so; he knew it made no sense; but he dropped it anyway.

The expedition did not cross the desert alone. Antelope and buffalo, giraffe and rhinoceros, elephants and zebra, in herds and alone, they all plodded along wearily, making their way toward the nearest watering holes. Burton watched and envied them their uncomplicated instincts. He wished his own possessed such clarity, and wondered whether he'd made the right choice in accepting the king's commission.

Marry the bitch, Burton. Settle down. Become consul in Fernando Po, Brazil, Damascus, and wherever the fuck else they send you. Write your damned books!

Those had been the words of Spring Heeled Jack, the man from the future. The “bitch” referred to was Isabel Arundell, and the speech had been a clue to the life he would have led had history not changed—perhaps the life he was
meant
to lead. In rejecting it, it now appeared that he'd inadvertently placed himself at the centre of a maelstrom that would shape the future of the world.

Why must it rest on my shoulders?

He watched the animals moving through the heat.

A horrible sense of inevitability settled over him.

The long slog continued.

Eventually, the desert became a featureless grassy plain, which disappeared into a tough, tightly packed jungle, and beyond it they reached the village of Ziwa, where they were received with war cries and a shower of poison-tipped arrows.

Five porters were killed and three mules went down before Saíd managed, through much shouting, to communicate the fact that the long line of men was not an invading army but a peaceful safari.

The headman argued that all
muzungo mbáyá
came to kill and steal. “Go!” he hollered. “Turn around and go all the way back to your own lands and remain in them! This place is our home and if you try to cross it we shall kill you with our arrows and then we shall take our spears and use them to kill you a second time!”

One of the lead porters laid down the bundle of cloth he'd been carrying on his head and stepped forward. “Goha!” he cried. “Do you not recognise me? It is Kidogo, who was stolen from this village by slavers some days and days and days ago!”

The
p'hazi
moved his head left and right as he examined the man. “H'nn! Yes, you are the son of Maguru-Mafupi, who was the son of Kibuya, who had pain in his joints and was the son of a man whose name I cannot remember but he had big ears. So now you, who were taken from us, are the slave of these white devils?”

“No! It was the one named Tippu Tip who put me in chains, but these men came and set me free. They set all these others free, too. And now I have come home, and I see my mother!”

Before the
p'hazi
could react, a caterwauling arose from behind the gathered warriors and a woman shoved her way through them and ran to the porter, throwing herself upon him.

“It is Kidogo, my son!” she wailed, and gave forth a loud ululation, which was quickly taken up by all the women of the village.

Goha threw down his bow and jumped up and down on it in a fit of temper. He yelled at Kidogo: “See what noise you have caused by coming home after being stolen from us? Now the women will expect a feast and drumming and dancing and we will have to dress in our finest cottons! Is there no end to the troubles and inconveniences caused by the
muzungo mbáyá?”

Burton stepped forward and spoke in the man's language: “Perhaps, O
p'hazi
, if we provided the food?”

“And alcohol?”

“Yes. We have beer and gin and—”

Swinburne, who understood nothing except the words “beer” and “gin,” whispered urgently: “Don't give him the brandy!”

“—and gifts.”

“You will pay
hongo?”

“We will pay.”

Goha scratched his stomach and looked at Burton with interest. He shouted: “Kidogo! Tell your mother to be quiet! I can't think with all her clucking and twittering!”

The liberated slave nodded and guided his parent into the village. The ululations quietened. The headman huddled into a group with his warriors and they murmured and argued and complained, with many a glance at the white men. After a few minutes, Goha turned back to Burton. He bent and picked up his bow.

“See,” he said. “You have been here but a little time and already you have broken my bow, which I have treasured my entire life, and which I made just yesterday. You people have skin like ghosts and cause destruction and misery and problems wherever you put your feet.”

“We shall replace your weapon.”

“Whatever you give me will not be as good. Is it true that you eat your dead and use their bones to make the roofs on your huts?”

“No, that is not true.”

“Is it true that
Uzungu
—the White Land—is far across the water and in it bright beads grow underground and the men have more wives even than I?”

“How many wives do you have?”

“Eight.”

“No, that, also, is not true, though my land is far across the water.”

“I meant five.”

“It is still not true.”

“And the beads?”

“They do not grow underground.”

“Is it true that the flowers and plants obey your will?”

“They will not obey my people but there are white men from a different land who possess some such control. They are my enemy. Have you seen them?”

“Yes. They came at night and took our cattle for meat and killed two of our women for no reason except that they like killing. They were angry because their porters kept running away and they tried to take the men of this village to replace them but we prevented that from happening, for we are fierce warriors.”

“How did you prevent it?”

“By running fast and hiding in the jungle. Sit and eat and sing and dance with us and I will tell you more of them after you have given me some beer and a better bow than this excellent one, which you broke.”

In this long-winded manner, Burton was invited to set up camp at the village, and while his friends and the porters enjoyed what turned out to be fine hospitality, Burton sat in conference with Goha and the other elders and learned that the whole region was aware that two expeditions were travelling toward the interior, and that one of them did not respect the customs of the people, while the other one did.

Of Speke's expedition, he was informed that it was perhaps three times the size of his own and comprised mainly of Prussians, with just a few African guides and maybe seventy porters. There were eight of the plant vehicles with it, and these, just as Burton's harvestman had done on the first day of the safari, caused great fear wherever they were seen.

Despite this, Speke's people were in complete disarray.

Confident that he could forge ahead by brute force alone, Burton's former travelling companion had opted not to carry specie and was refusing to pay
hongo.
As a result, his path through East Africa, which had thus far followed a route parallel to and some fifty miles north of Burton's own, had been made extremely hazardous by villagers, who'd run ahead to warn of his approach. Traps and obstructions had been set: the thorns of bushes to either side of the trail were smeared with poison; sharp spines were pushed point-upward into the mud of countless
nullahs
; and arrows and spears were launched from the undergrowth.