Speke, though, became fixated upon the idea and eventually persuaded Burton to allow the excursion. He departed on the 3rd of March and was gone almost a month, during which time Burton dosed himself morning, noon, and night with Saltzmann's Tincture and gave himself up to what he would later describe as “ dreaming of things past, visioning things present. ”
By the time the lieutenant returned, Burton was feeling a little better. His ophthalmia had cleared and he was able to totter around unassisted.
“The river?” he asked, eagerly.
“It's called the Rusizi. Hamed gave me an absolute assurance that it flows out of the lake. The tribes in the region are friendly and will guide us to it.”
Burton punched a fist into the air. “Allah be praised! Did you secure the dhow?”
“He'll loan it to us three months from now at a cost of five hundred dollars.”
“What? That's ridiculous! Didn't you barter?”
“I lack the language skills, Dick.”
Burton seethed. What a waste of time and resources! Damn Speke's incompetence!
The lieutenant should have been mortified by his failure to get the dhow, yet he wasn't. Instead, his manner became odd, distant-almost furtive.
A few days later, he approached Burton and said: “I say, old chap, would you mind helping me to put my diaries into order? You know how confounded amateurish I am when it comes to writing.”
“Certainly,” answered Burton, and the two men settled at a makeshift table with Speke's journals open before them.
They went through the notebooks, and Burton pointed out where a more extensive description would be beneficial, where cross references could be inserted, and, very frequently, where spelling mistakes and grammatical errors required correction.
Then he turned a page and found a map sketched out.
“What's this?”
“It's the northern shore of the lake.”
“You mean this lake? Tanganyika?”
“Yes.”
“But John-what's this horseshoe of mountains in the north?”
“In my opinion, they're the Mountains of the Moon.”
“That's not possible. All the natives say the Mountains of the Moon are far away to the northeast of here.”
“Sheik Hamed's people say otherwise. They've been to the northern shore, in the shadow of that range.”
“And the Rusizi? Do you mean to suggest that it flows out of Tanganyika and up into the mountains?”
Speke shifted in his seat. “I don't know,” he muttered.
“Besides, if they're as big as legend suggests, surely we'd be able to see the distant peaks from here?”
“Maybe the land slopes down beyond the northern shore, so the peaks are actually below the horizon?”
Burton could barely believe his ears. What on earth was his companion babbling about?
He turned the page and they continued to work, but Speke rapidly lost interest and said: “That's enough for now. I'm going for a walk.”
He left the hut and, some minutes later, Burton heard rifle shots-more animals falling to his companion's bloodlust.
The increasingly humid, sweaty days passed.
With his health continuing to improve, Burton decided to risk a foray onto the lake. He borrowed two large canoes from the Ujiji natives and instructed Sidi Bombay to have them loaded with supplies and crewed by the strongest oarsmen.
“Aren't you too sick for this?” Speke asked.
“I'm fine. And we must establish for certain which way the Rusizi flows. Hearsay is not enough. I have to see it with my own eyes.”
“I think we should wait until you're stronger.”
Burton ground his teeth in vexation. “Dash it all, John! Why are you suddenly so reluctant to see this expedition through?”
“I'm not!” Speke protested. His attitude, though, remained surly as the two canoes were launched, with Burton in the first and him in the second.
On choppy water, the crew paddled northward.
The weather broke. They were by turns soaked by torrential rain, baked by ferocious sun, and battered by downpours again.
They put ashore at a village named Uvira, where the oarsmen from Ujiji mutinied.
“They have much fear,” Sidi Bombay explained. “People in village say we be killed if we go more north. Tribes there very bad. Always make war.”
Then came a terrible blow: “Boss man here say Rusizi come in lake, not go out.”
“Sheikh Hamed claimed otherwise!” Burton cried.
Sidi Bombay shook his head. “No, no. Mr. Speke he no understand what Sheikh Hamed say.”
Despondency settled over Burton.
The lieutenant avoided him.
The explorers turned around and returned to Ujiji. From there, they trudged back inland to a village named Kawele.
Burton rallied. He felt sure that with the evidence he'd so far collected, he could raise sponsorship for a second, more fully equipped expedition-and, by God, he'd bring a better travelling companion!
“I'd like to circumnavigate Tanganyika,” he told Speke, “but we should save what's left of our supplies for the trek back to Zanzibar. If our furlough ends before we report to the RGS, we'll lose our commissions.”
“Agreed,” the lieutenant answered stiffly.
So, on the 26th of May, they began the long march eastward, reaching Unyanyembe in mid-June, where a mailbag awaited them. One of its letters revealed to Burton that his father had died ten months previously, and another that his brother, Edward, had been savagely beaten in India and had suffered severe head injuries.
His despondency deepened into depression.
They slogged on over the endless savannah until they reached the Arab trading town of Kazeh. Here they rested.
Speke encouraged Burton to take Saltzmann's Tincture to drive away the last vestiges of malarial fever. He even mixed the doses himself. No amount of medicine, though, could fully protect the Englishmen from Africa's insidious maladies, and in addition to all their other ailments, they now both suffered from constant, eye-watering headaches.
Death hung oppressively over this part of Africa-and it wanted them.
One day, Speke came to Burton and told him that the locals were hinting that there was a huge body of water fifteen or sixteen marches to the north.
“We should explore it,” he said.
“I'm not well enough,” came the reply. “I'm short of breath and can't think straight. My mind is all over the place. I don't even trust myself to take accurate readings. Besides, we don't have the supplies.”
“How about if I take a small party? I can travel fast and light, while you rest here and get your strength back.”
Burton, who was lying on a cot, tried to sit up and failed.
“Where's your medicine?” Speke asked. “I'll prepare you a dose.”
“Thank you, John. Do you really think you can get there and back without eating into our provisions too much?”
“I'm certain of it.”
“Very well. Organize it and go.”
Secretly, Burton was relieved at the prospect of time apart from his colleague. Speke had been a thorn in his side ever since the visit to Sheikh Hamed, and while they'd been in Kazeh, the lieutenant hadn't made a single
