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Sir James Alexander, Arthur Findlay, and the other geographerstook their seats on the stage.
The crowd hooted and jeered.
"About time! Did you get lost?" someone shouted waggishly. Aroar of approval greeted the gibe.
Murchison muttered something into the colonel's ear. Sykesnodded and retreated to join the others.
The president stepped forward, tapped his knuckles against thepodium, and looked stonily at the expectant faces. The audiencequieted until, aside from occasional coughs, it became silent.
Sir Roderick Murchison spoke: "Proceedings have been delayed andfor that I have to apologise-but when I explain to you the cause,you will pardon me. We have been in our Committee so profoundlyaffected by a dreadful calamity that has-"
He paused; cleared his throat; gathered himself.
11 -that has befallen Lieutenant Speke. A calamity by which, itpains me to report, he must surely lose his life."
Shouts of dismay and consternation erupted.
Murchison held out his hands and called, "Please! Please!"
Slowly, the noise subsided.
"We do not at present have a great deal of information," hecontinued, "but for a letter from Lieutenant Speke's brother, whichwas delivered by a ru
"Did he shoot himself, sir?" cried a voice from the back of thehall.
"Purposefully, you mean? There is nothing to suggest such athing!"
"Captain Burton!" yelled another. "Did you pull thetrigger?"
"How dare you, sir!" thundered Murchison. "That is entirelyunwarranted! I will not have it!"
A barrage of questions flew from the audience, a great many ofthem directed at Burton.
The famous explorer tore a page from his notebook, handed it toClement Markham, and, leaning close, muttered into his ear. Markhamglanced at the paper, stood, stepped to Murchison's side, and saidsomething in a low voice.
Murchison gave a nod.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he a
Murchison moved away from the podium and Markham took hisplace.
In a quiet and steady tone, he read from Burton's note: "The manI once called brother today lies gravely wounded. The differencesof opinion that are known to have lain between us since his returnfrom Africa make it more incumbent on me to publicly express mysincere feeling of admiration for his character and enterprise, andmy deep sense of shock that this fate has befallen him. Whateverfaith you may adhere to, I beg of you to pray for him."
Markham returned to his chair.
There was not a sound in the auditorium.
"There will be a thirty-minute recess," declared Murchison,"then Sir Richard will present a paper concerning the valley of theIndus. In the meantime, may I respectfully request your continuedpatience whilst we rearrange this afternoon's schedule? Thankyou."
He led the small group of explorers and geographers out of theauditorium and, after brief and subdued words with Burton, theyheaded back to the robing room.
Sir Richard Francis Burton, his mind paralysed, his heartbrimming, walked in the opposite direction until he came to one ofthe reading rooms. Mercifully, it was unoccupied. He entered,closed the door, and leaned against it.
He wept.
"I'm sorry. I can't continue."
It was the faintest of whispers.
He'd spoken for twenty minutes, hardly knowing what he wassaying, reading mechanically from his journals, his voice faint andquavering. His words had slowed then trailed off altogether.
When he looked up, he saw hundreds of pairs of eyes locked on tohim; and in them there was pity.
He drew in a deep breath.
"I'm sorry," he said more loudly. "There will be no debatetoday."
He turned away from the crowd and, closing his ears to theshouted questions and polite applause, left the stage, pushed pastFindlay and Livingstone, and practically ran to the lobby. He askedthe cloakroom attendant for his overcoat, top hat, and cane, and,upon receiving them, hurried out through the main doors anddescended the steps to the street.
It was just past midday. Dark clouds drifted across the sky; therecent spell of fine weather was dissipating, the temperaturefalling.
He waved down a hansom.
"Where to, sir?" asked the driver.
"The Royal Hotel."
"Right you are. Jump aboard."
Burton clambered into the cabin and sat on the wooden seat.There were cigar butts all over the floor. He felt numb andregistered nothing of his surroundings as the vehicle began torumble over the cobbles.
He tried to summon up visions of Speke; the Speke of the past,when the young lieutenant had been a valued companion rather than abitter enemy. His memory refused to cooperate and instead took himback to the event that lay at the root of their feud: the attack inBerbera, six years ago.
Berbera, the easternmost tip of Africa, April 19, 1855.Thunderstorms had been flickering on the horizon for the past fewdays. The air was heavy and damp.
Lieutenant Burton's party had set up camp on a rocky ridge,about threequarters of a mile outside the town, near to the beach.Lieutenant Stroyan's tent was twelve yards off to the right of the"Rowtie" that Burton shared with Lieutenant Herne. LieutenantSpeke's was a similar distance to the left, separated from theothers by the expedition's supplies and equipment, which had beensecured beneath a tarpaulin.
Not far away, fifty-six camels, five horses, and two mules weretethered. In addition to the four Englishmen, there werethirty-eight other men- abbans, guards, servants, andcamel-drivers, all armed.
With the monsoon season imminent, Berbera had been virtuallyabandoned during the course of the past week. An Arab caravan hadlingered, but after Burton refused to offer it an escort out of thetown-preferring to wait instead for a supply ship that was due anytime from Aden-it had finally departed.
Now, Berbera was silent.
The expedition had retired for the night. Burton had postedthree extra guards, for Somali tribes from up and down the coasthad been threatening an attack for some days. They believed theBritish were here either to stop the lucrative slave trade or tolay claim to the small trading post.
At two thirty in the morning, Burton was jolted from his sleepby shouts and gunfire.
He opened his eyes and stared at the roof of his tent. Orangelight quivered on the canvas.
He sat up.
El Balyuz, the chief abban, burst in.
"They are attacking!" the man yelled, and a look of confusionpassed over his dark face, as if he couldn't believe his own words."Your gun, Effendi!" He handed Burton a revolver.
The explorer pushed back his bedsheets and stood; laid thepistol on the map table and pulled on his trousers; snapped hisbraces over his shoulders; picked up the gun.
"More bloody posturing!" He gri