William Trounce interjected: “But why, Isabel? If we're going to bypass the town, why risk yourselves in battle at all?”
Isabel stepped back and pulled the
“Because despite these robes, I'm British, William. If what we saw at Mzizima, and what we are witnessing here at Kazeh, are the first skirmishes in a clash of empires, then it's my duty to defend that to which I belong- besides which, if we don't keep the Prussians occupied here, they'll be able to rapidly establish outposts all the way to the Mountains of the Moon, making it almost impossible for you to get there.”
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Isabella Mayson cleared her throat. “Richard,” she said, “if you don't mind, I think I would like to stay and join the Daughters of Al-Manat.”
“And I,” added Sister Raghavendra. “Besides, you'll probably travel more quickly as a smaller group.”
The explorer looked from one woman to the other, then his gaze went past Isabel and his eyes locked with Swinburne's, and even in the dim light, the poet could see in them a great depth of despair.
“I'm afraid Isabel is right,” the poet said quietly. “We can't allow Speke to reach the Eye of Naga before us. Equally, we can't let Kazeh fall to the Prussians. The only option is to split the expedition.”
Burton leaned his head back and considered the stars. Then he closed his eyes and said, “And you, William?”
Trounce stepped forward and spoke in a low, gruff voice: “Am I supposed to run off and leave women to fight?”
Isabella Mayson whirled around to face him. “Sir! The fact that I wrote a book about cookery and household management doesn't mean I'm incapable of putting a bullet through a man's head! Have you forgotten this-” She pulled back her hair to reveal the notch in her right ear. “I fought by your side at Dut'humi. Was I any less effective than you? Did I scream? Did I faint? Did I start knitting a shawl?”
“No, of course not! You're as brave as they come. But-”
“No buts! No medieval nonsense about honour and chivalry! There isn't time for such indulgence! We have a job to do! Yours is to accompany Sir Richard and to retrieve that diamond!”
“Well said!” Isabel Arundell put in.
They all looked at Burton, who was standing stock-still.
Gunfire rattled from the town.
The cough of a lion sounded from afar.
Pox, on Herbert Spencer's head, muttered something unintelligible, and Malady responded with a click of his beak.
“All right! Enough!” Burton snapped, opening his eyes. “Sadhvi, will you prepare for us a pack of remedies and treatments?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“Take Algy with you and instruct him in their use. Maneesh-”
Krishnamurthy moved closer. “Yes?”
“I'm sorry, but I have to give you a very difficult mission. Sidi Bombay says an aggressive tribe called the Chwezi live among the Mountains of the Moon, so there's every chance that we won't make it out. It's imperative that the government learns what is happening here. For that reason, I'm going to entrust you with my journals and reports. I want you and Said and his men to trek all the way back to Zanzibar. I'm going to pay our remaining porters to accompany you as far as Ugogi. There, you can hire more. Once you reach the island, catch the first ship home and report to Palmerston.”
Krishnamurthy straightened his back and squared his shoulders. “You can rely on me, sir.”
“I don't doubt it, my friend.”
Burton next addressed Trounce and Bombay: “You two, Algy, Herbert, and I will depart at sun-up. Work with Isabella to get everything prepared. I'll join you presently. First though-” he took Isabel Arundell by the arm and steered her away, “-you and I need to talk.”
They walked a short distance, then stopped and stood, listening to the battle and watching dark shapes moving across the plain near the horizon.
“Elephants,” Isabel murmured.
“Yes.”
“You don't have to say anything, Dick. I'm familiar with your hopelessness when it comes to goodbyes.”
He took her hand. “Did you know that, had history never changed, this is the year we'd be celebrating our honeymoon?”
“How do you know that?”
“Countess Sabina. Palmerston's medium.”
“I ought to slap your face for reminding me that you broke our engagement.”
“I'm sorry.”
“I know. Do you think we'd have been happily married?”
“Yes.”
He was silent a moment, then: “Isabel, I–I-”
She waited patiently while he struggled to express himself.
“I'm filled with such regret I can barely stand it,” he said, his voice breaking. “I've done everything wrong. Everything! I should never have accepted the king's commission. I panicked. Speke had ruined my career and reputation. Then he put a bullet into his head and people said it was my fault!”
“Which is when Palmerston threw you a lifeline.”
“He did, but even with the situation as it was, I'm not certain I'd have accepted his offer had Spring Heeled Jack not assaulted me the night before.”
“There you have it, Dick. You regret a decision you made, but how much can you blame yourself when you were under the influence of such extraordinary circumstances? We all like to fool ourselves that we are independent and that our minds are our own, but the truth is we're always swayed by events.”
Burton smacked his right fist into his left palm. “Yes! That's exactly it! My decisions were made according to context. But have I ever properly understood it? Since the advent of Spring Heeled Jack, I feel like I've not had a firm grip on events at all. It's all slipped away from me. It feels to me as though things that should have occurred over a long stretch of history are all piling up at once-and it's too much! It's too confusing! Bismillah! I can sense time swirling through and around me like some sort of discordant noise. But-”
Burton paused and raised his hands to his head, pushing his fingertips into his scalp and massaging it through the hair, as if to somehow loosen blocked thoughts.
“What is it?”
“I have this feeling that time is-is-like a language! Damn it, Isabel! I have mastered more than thirty tongues. Why does this one elude me? Why can't I make any sense of it?”
Burton's eyes momentarily reflected the moonlight and Isabel saw in them the same torment Swinburne had spotted minutes ago.
He continued: “Tom Bendyshe, Shyamji Bhatti, Thomas Honesty-all dead; and we-we have pushed through pain and fever and discomfort to the point of utter exhaustion. That is the context in which I have to now judge my decisions, but I don't comprehend the significance of it! Surely there has to be one! Why can't I translate the language of these events?”
“I have never before known a man with your depth of intellect, Dick, but you're demanding too much of yourself. You haven't slept. You're overwrought. You're trying to do what no man-or woman-can do. The workings of time are obscure to us all. Your Countess Sabina, who has insight into so much more than the rest of us-does she understand it?”
“No. If anything, the more of it she observes, the more confused she gets.”
“Perhaps, then, it cannot be deciphered by the living, which is why meaning is assigned retrospectively, by those who inhabit the future. By historians.”
“Who weren't even a part of the events! Are future historians better placed to interpret the life of Al-Manat than you are? Of course not! But will their reading of your life make more sense than anything you can tell me now-or at any other point while you're alive? Yes, almost certainly.”
