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"Right you are," said Herne, and pushed through the canvas atthe rear of the Rowtie.
Burton checked his gun.
"For Pete's sake, Balyuz, why have you handed me an unloadedpistol? Get me my sabre!"
He shoved the Colt into the waistband of his trousers andsnatched his sword from the Arab.
"Speke!" he bellowed. "Stroyan!"
Almost immediately, the tent flap was pushed aside and Spekestumbled in. He was a tall, thin, pale man, with watery eyes, lightbrown hair, and a long bushy beard. He usually wore a mild andslightly self-conscious expression, but now his eyes were wild.
"They knocked my tent down around my ears! I almost took abeating! Is there shooting to be done?"
"I rather suppose there is," said Burton, finally realising thatthe situation might be more serious than he'd initially thought."Be sharp, and arm to defend the camp!"
They waited a few moments, checking their gear and listening tothe rush of men outside.
A voice came from behind them: "There's a lot of the blightersand our confounded guards have taken to their heels!" It was Herne,returning from his recce. "I took a couple of potshots at the mobbut then got tangled in the tent ropes. A big Somali took a swipeat me with a bloody great club. I put a bullet into the bastard.Stroyan's either out cold or done for; I couldn't get nearhim."
Something thumped against the side of the tent. Then again.Suddenly a veritable barrage of blows pounded the canvas while warcries were raised all around. The attackers were swarming likehornets. Javelins were thrust through the opening. Daggers rippedat the material.
"Bismillah!" cursed Burton. "We're going to have to fight ourway to the supplies and get ourselves more guns! Herne, there arespears tied to the tent pole at the back get 'em!"
"Yes, sir!" responded Herne, returning to the rear of theRowtie. Almost immediately, he ran back, crying, "They're breakingthrough the canvas!"
Burton swore vociferously. "If this blasted thing comes down onus we'll be caught up good and proper. Get out! Come on! Now!"
He plunged through the tent flaps and into the night, where hefound himself facing twenty or so Somali natives. Others wereru
Was that Lieutenant Stroyan lying over in the shadows? It washard to tell. Burton slashed his way toward the prone figure,grimacing as clubs and spear shafts thudded against his flesh,bruising and cutting him, drawing blood.
He momentarily glanced back to see how the others were doing andsaw Speke stepping backward into the tent entrance, his mouthhanging open, eyes panicked.
"Don't step back!" he roared. "They'll think that we'reretiring!"
Speke looked at him with an expression of utter dismay and,right there, in the midst of battle, their friendship ended, forJohn Ha
A club struck Burton on the shoulder and, tearing his eyes awayfrom the other Englishman, he spun and swiped his blade at itsowner. He was jostled back and forth. One set of hands kept pushingat his back, and he wheeled impatiently, raising his sword, onlyrecognising El Balyuz at the very last moment.
His arm froze in midswing.
His head exploded with pain.
A weight pulled him sideways and he collapsed onto the stonyearth.
Dazed, he reached up. A barbed javelin had transfixed his face,entering the left cheek and exiting the right, knocking out someback teeth, cutting his tongue, and cracking his palate.
He fought to stay conscious.
Someone started dragging him away from the conflict.
He passed out.
In front of the Rowtie, Speke, driven to a fury by the exposureof the shameful flaw in his character, strode into the melee,raised his Dean and Adams revolver, pressed its muzzle against thechest of the man who'd downed Burton, and pulled the trigger.
The gun jammed.
"Blast it!" said Speke.
The tribesman, a massive warrior, looked down at him, smiled,and punched him over the heart.
Speke fell to his knees, gasping for air.
The Somali bent, took him by the hair, pulled him backward, and,with his other hand, groped between Speke's legs. For an instant,the Englishman had the terrifying conviction that he was going tobe unma
Speke was thrust onto his back and his hands were quickly tiedtogether, the cords pulled cruelly tight. Yanked upright, he wasmarched away from the camp, which was now being looted anddestroyed.
Lieutenant Burton regained his wits and found that he was beingpulled toward the beach by El Balyuz. He recovered himselfsufficiently to stop his rescuer and to order the man, via signlanguage and writing in a patch of sand, to go and fetch the smallboat that the expedition party had moored in the harbour, and tobring it to the mouth of a nearby creek.
El Balyuz nodded and ran off.
Burton lay on his back and gazed at the Milky Way.
I want to live! he thought.
A minute or so passed. He raised a hand to his face and felt thebarbed point of the javelin. The only way to remove it was bysliding the complete length of the shaft through his mouth andcheeks. He took a firm grip on it, pushed, and fainted.
As the night wore on, John Speke was taunted and spat upon byhis captors. With their sabres, they sliced the air inches from hisface. He stood and endured it, his eyes hooded, his jaw set,expecting to die, and he wondered what Richard Burton would sayabout him when reporting this incident.
Don't step back! They'll think that we're retiring!
The rebuke had stung, and if Burton put it on record, Spekewould be forever branded as less than a man. Damn the arrogantblackguard!
One of his captors casually thrust his spear through Speke'sside. The lieutenant cried out in pain, then fell backward as thepoint pierced him again, this time in the shoulder.
This is the end, he told himself.
He struggled back to his feet and, as the spear was stabbed athis heart, deflected it with his bound hands. The point tore theflesh behind his knuckles to the bone.
The Somali stepped back.
Speke straightened and looked at him.
"To hell with you," he said. "I won't die yellow."
The tribesman leaped in and prodded the spear into Speke's leftthigh. The explorer felt the blade scrape against bone.
"Shit!" he coughed in shock, and grabbed reflexively at theshaft. He and the African fought over it-one trying to gainpossession, the other struggling to retain it. The Somali let gowith his left hand and used it to pull a shillelagh from his belt.He swiped at Speke's right arm and the cudgel co
His attacker walked away, turned back, and ran at him, plungingthe spear completely through the Englishman's right thigh and intothe ground beyond.
Speke screamed.
Instinct took over.
With his awareness strangely separated from his body, he watchedas his hands gripped the weapon, pulled it free of the ground, outthrough his thigh, and threw it aside. Then he stumbled into hisattacker and his bound fists swept up, smashing into the man'sface.
The warrior rocked back, raising a hand to his face as bloodspurted from his nose.
Speke half walked, half hopped away, his disengaged mindwondering how he was staying upright with such terribleinjuries.
Where's the pain? he mused, entirely unaware that he was afirewith it.