Expedition to the Mountains of the Moon

and Burton, Said, Trounce, Honesty, Krishnamurthy, Spencer, Sister Raghavendra, and Miss Mayson-who'd all gathered in the biggest of the Rowties-had to raise their voices, first against the sound of the deluge pummelling the canvas, then against the cacophonous thunder, which grumbled without a pause.

“Excuse my language, ladies,” Trounce shouted, “but bloody hell!”

“Can the tent stand it?” asked Krishnamurthy. “I think the ocean is being emptied on top of us!”

Honesty pulled the entrance flap aside and peered out. “Can't see a thing!” he called. “Solid water.”

“There'll be two hours of this,” Burton announced, “so if Sadhvi and Isabella don't mind, I propose a brandy and a smoke.”

“I don't mind at all,” Isabella said.

“Nor I,” added Sadhvi. “In fact, I'll take a tipple myself.”

A reedy sigh of frustration came from within Herbert Spencer's many robes and scarves.

Pox, perched as usual on the clockwork philosopher's head, gave a loud musical whistle, then squawked, “Flubberty jibbets!”

“Hurrah!” Krishnamurthy cheered. “That's a new one!”

“The nonsensical insults are definitely the most entertaining,” Isabella agreed.

“By Jove!” Trounce blurted. “That reminds me. I say, Richard, those horrible plant things we saw at Mzizima-”

“What about them?” Burton asked.

“I was wondering, what with Eugenicist creations, such as Pox, here-”

“Pig-snuggler!” Pox sang.

“-always displaying a disadvantage in proportion to whatever talent the scientists have bred into them-”

“Yes?”

“Well, what might be the drawback to those vegetable vehicles, do you think?”

“That's a good question, William, and one I can't answer!”

Burton served brandies to them all, including the women, and the men lit their various cigars and pipes, with many a nervous glance at the tent roof, which was billowing violently under the onslaught of rain.

Sister Raghavendra distributed small vials of a clear liquid that she insisted they all add to their drinks. “It's a special recipe we use in the Sisterhood of Noble Benevolence to deal with fevers,” she said. “Don't worry, it's quite tasteless.”

“What's in it?” Honesty asked.

“A mix of quinine and various herbs,” she answered. “It won't make you immune, but it will, at least, make the attacks shorter and less damaging.”

The tent flap suddenly flew open and a drenched imp hopped in.

“Bounders!” it shrieked. “Cads! Fiends! Traitorous hounds! Taking a drink without me! Without me! Aaaiiii!”

The thing bounded to the table and, with wildly rolling eyes, snatched up the brandy bottle and took an extravagant swig from it. Banging the bottle back down, it wiped its mouth on its sleeve, uttered a satisfied sigh, belched, then keeled over like a toppled tree and landed flat on its back.

“Great heavens! Is that Algernon?” Herbert Spencer tooted.

Sister Raghavendra bent beside the sodden and bedraggled figure and put a hand to its forehead. “It is,” she said. “And despite that display, he doesn't appear to be feverish at all.”

Burton stepped over, lifted his assistant up, and carried him to a cot at the side of the tent. “Algy tends to operate, as a matter of course, at a level that most people would consider feverish,” he said. “I think, on this occasion, he has simply overestimated his own strength.”

“Indeed so,” the nurse agreed. “Any man would require a week to recover from blood loss like Algernon experienced.”

“In which case, Algy will probably need just a couple more days, for he is most certainly not any man!”

They dried their friend as best they could, made him comfortable, and let him sleep.

The rain eventually stopped as quickly as it had started, and the silence of another African night settled over them. They sat quietly, comfortable in each others' company, too exhausted for conversation.

A hyena cackled in the distance.

A shout came from the village.

One drumbeat sounded.

Then another.

All of a sudden, a deep, loud, rhythmic pulsation filled the air as many drums were pounded. A boy's voice hailed them from outside. Burton stepped out of the tent and a child, about ten years old, grinned up at him.

“O Murungwana Sana,” he said, “the fire is lit and the meat is cooking and the women are restless and want to dance. The men desire news of the far off lands of the Muzungu-the white man. Wouldst thou attend us?”

Burton gave a bow. “We shall come with thee now.”

So it was that the expedition's first day ended with a feast and a party, attended by all but the philosopher Herbert Spencer and the poet Algernon Swinburne.

In the tent, the brass man placed a stool beside the cot, sat on it, and leaned forward, bracing himself with his staff. Deep in the shadow of his keffiyeh, his metal face seemed to gaze unwaveringly at Burton's assistant.

And Swinburne dreamt of war.

CHAPTER 7

Battle at Dut'Humi

“To plunder, to slaughter, to steal, these things they misname empire; and where they make a wilderness, they call it peace.”

— Tacitus

Warm rain hammered against Burton's tin helmet and poured from its brim down the back of his greatcoat. An explosion momentarily deafened him, knocked him to his hands and knees, and showered him with clods of mud and lumps of bloody flesh. The black water at the bottom of the flooded trench immediately sucked at his limbs, as if the earth were greedy for yet another corpse. A head floated to the surface. Half of its face was missing. He recoiled in shock, splashing back to his feet, and ducked as another pea burst just yards away. Men and women shrieked in agony, cried out for their mothers, spat the same profanity over and over and over.

A seed thudded into a soldier's face. Blood sprayed. His helmet went spinning. He slumped as if his bones had suddenly vanished, and slid into the mire.

Burton stumbled on, sloshing forward, peering at the troops who were lining the right side of the trench and firing their rifles over its lip. He eventually saw the man he was searching for-a big Askari with a patch covering his right eye. He climbed up beside him and shouted into his ear: “Are you Private Usaama?”

“What?”

“I'm looking for Private Usaama. I was told he knows Wells.”

“I'm him. What wells?”

“Herbert Wells. The correspondent. I think he's with your company.”

The man's answer was lost as a squadron of hornets swept overhead, flying low, buzzing furiously, their oval bodies painted with the Union Jack, their guns crackling.

“What did you say?” Burton hollered.

“I said if he hasn't bought it he'll be in the forward listening post. Keep on down the trench until you come to