“Message for Isabel Arundell,” Burton said. “My gratitude, but don't take risks. Disengage as soon as you can. Message ends.”
The parakeet squawked its acknowledgement and launched itself into the air.
With Burton navigating, Trounce steered the harvestman up the hill on the western side of the clearing. They travelled over sandy soil, thick with thorn bushes, and, after a succession of rolling hills, descended into rich parkland dotted with mangoes and other tall trees. The sun was climbing behind them. The morning steam evaporated and the air began to heat up.
A little later, Pox rejoined them.
They came to a swamp and waded the harvestman through it, scattering hippopotami from their path.
“This would have sent Speke into a frenzy,” Burton noted.
“What do you mean?”
“He's a huntsman through and through. He'll shoot at anything that moves and delights in killing. When we were out here in '57, he slaughtered more hippos than I could count.”
The giant mechanised arachnid pitched and swayed as it struggled through the stinking sludge, then it finally emerged onto more solid ground and began to move with greater speed.
A few beehive huts came into view, and the inhabitants, upon seeing the gigantic spider approaching, bolted.
Burton and Trounce crossed cultivated land, passed the village of Kuingani, which emptied rapidly, and proceeded onto broad grasslands flecked with small forests and freestanding baobab trees possessed of bulbous trunks and wind-flattened branches. It was here that Trounce saw his first truly wide African vista and he was astonished at the apparent purity of the land. Giraffes were moving in the distance to his right; two herds of antelope were grazing far off to his left; eagles hung almost motionless high in the sky; and on the horizon, a long, low chain of mountains stretched from north to south. This Eden should, perhaps, have been caressed by the freshest of breezes, but the atmosphere was heavy and stagnant and filled with aggressive insects. The backs of Trounce's hands, his forearms, and his neck were covered with bumps from their bites.
After a further two hours of travel, Burton pointed and exclaimed: “Look! I see them!”
There was a village ahead, and around it many people were gathered. Burton could tell by the loads he saw on the ground that it was his expedition.
“That little collection of huts is Bomani,” he told Trounce.
As the harvestman drew closer, the natives reacted as those before them had done and fled en masse.
“Well met!” Maneesh Krishnamurthy cried out as the harvestman came to a halt and squatted down with a blast of steam and a loud hiss. “They wanted all our tobacco in return for safe passage through their territory. You soon saw them off!”
“You've made good time,” Burton noted, jumping to the ground.
“Said had us packed and moving well before sunup,” Krishnamurthy revealed. “The man's a demon of efficiency.”
Burton turned to the Arab: “Hail to thee, Said bin Salim el Lamki, el Hinawi, and the blessings of Allah the Almighty upon thee. Thou hast fulfilled thy duties well.”
“Peace be upon thee, Captain Burton. By Allah's grace, our first steps have been favoured with good fortune. May it continue! Thou hast caught up with us earlier than anticipated.”
“Our mission did not take the time I expected. The Daughters of Al-Manat were ferocious and the Prussians barely looked in our direction. We were able to recover our supplies quickly. Are we fit to continue?”
“Aye.”
“Very well. Have the porters take up their loads.”
The
Burton spoke to Miss Mayson. “Swap places with William, Isabella. We'll take shifts in the harvester. It's more agreeable than a mule.”
The young woman smiled and shook her head. “To be honest, I'd rather stay with my flea-bitten animal. I'm better with beasts than with machines.”
“You're not uncomfortable?”
“Not at all. I feel positively liberated!”
It was Thomas Honesty who took over from Trounce in the end, for Sister Raghavendra also refused to give up her mount, preferring to ride alongside Swinburne's litter. The poet was awake but weak.
“My hat, Richard!” he said, faintly. “Was that really Christopher Rigby? What in blue blazes happened to him?”
“Count Zeppelin. I think he carries some sort of venom in his claws. Either he didn't pump much of it into Peter Pimlico or his talons were less well grown when he strangled him. Rigby, by contrast, received the full treatment.”
“And it turned him into a prickly bush?”
“Yes. It was a close call, Algy. What devils the Eugenicists have become!”
“Not just them,” Swinburne said, glancing at the harvestman. “If you ask me, all the sciences are out of control. I think my Libertine friends were right all along. We need to give more attention to the development of the human spirit before we tamper with the natural world.”
Herbert Spencer limped over to them. “Mr. Said says we're all set for the off.”
“Tell him to get us moving then, please, Herbert.”
“Rightio. Pardon me, Boss, but would you mind windin' me up first? Me spring is a little slack.”
“Certainly. Fetch me your key.”
The clockwork man shuffled off.
“How are you feeling, Algy?” Burton asked his friend.
“Tip-top, Richard,” Swinburne replied. “Do you think I might have a swig of gin, you know, to ward off malaria?”
“Ha! You're obviously on the mend! And no.”
When Spencer returned, he stood with his back to Burton, and the king's agent, after first checking that the porters couldn't see what he was doing, felt around for the holes that had been cut in the back of the philosopher's many robes, and in the polymethylene suit beneath them. He pushed a large metal key through and into the opening in the brass man's back, then turned it until the clockwork philosopher was fully wound.
Spencer thanked him and went to help get the safari back under way.
It took half an hour for the crowd of men and animals to open out into a long line, like a gigantic serpent, which then slowly made its way westward.
What a sight that column was! At its head, Burton and Trounce rode along on mules, the explorer noting everything in his journal, assessing the geography and geology as Palmerston had ordered, while the Scotland Yard man scanned the route before them with the field glasses. A few yards to the left, Honesty drove the harvestman, while behind, Isabella Mayson and Sister Raghavendra, with dainty parasols held over their heads, rode their mounts sidesaddle. Swinburne, in his stretcher, was carried by four of the Wasawahili, and behind him, the rest of the porters and pack mules followed, all heavily laden. Most of the men carried a single load balanced on their shoulder or head, while others shared heavier baggage tied to a pole and carried palanquin fashion. Each man also bore his private belongings upon his back-an earthen cooking pot, a water gourd, a sleeping mat, a three-legged stool, and other necessities.
The Wasawahili wore little, just rough cloth wound about their loins, and, when the rains came or the sun had set, a goatskin slung over their backs. Some had a strip of zebra's mane bound around their head; others preferred a stiffened oxtail, which rose above their forehead like a unicorn's horn; while many decorated their craniums with bunches of ostrich, crane, and jay feathers. Bulky ivory bracelets and bangles of brass and copper encircled their arms and ankles, and there were beads and circlets around their necks. At least half of them had small bells strapped just below their knees, and the incessant tinkling blended with the heavier clang of the bells attached to the mules' collars. This, along with ceaseless chanting and singing and hooting and shouting and squabbling and drumming, made the procession a very noisy affair, though not unpleasantly so.
At the rear of the long line, Krishnamurthy and Spencer rode their mules and kept their eyes peeled for deserters, but it was Said bin Salim and his eight Askari bully boys who were, by far, the most industrious members
