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“I would rather make a request of you.”
“A request? What-what is it?”
“My fiancee, nurse Florence Nightingale, is missing. She has notbeen seen or heard of for slightly over a month. Find her forme.”
“You want me to-”
“Find her. Will you try?”
Burton managed to nod. The room tumbled.
Distant bells: “I shall take Sir Charles and locate a quietgraveyard for him. He so abhorred noise. We will meet again, SirRichard.”
Oblivion.
Shouts.
Gunshots.
War cries.
Orange light flickered across the canvas roof.
John Speke stumbled in. His eyes were wild.
“They knocked my tent down around my ears!” he gasped. “I almosttook a beating! Is there shooting to be done?”
“I rather suppose there is,” Burton replied. “Be sharp, and armto defend the camp!”
A voice came from behind: “There's a lot of the blighters andour confounded guards have taken to their heels!” It was LieutenantHerne, returning from a scouting mission. “I took a couple ofpotshots at the mob but then got tangled in the tent ropes. A bigSomali took a swipe at me with a bloody great club. I put a bulletinto the bastard. Stroyan's either out cold or done for. I couldn'tget near him.”
Have they killed William Stroyan? God! I'm sorry, William. It'smy fault! I'm so sorry!
A barrage of blows pounded against the canvas. Ululating warcries sounded. Javelins were thrust through the opening. Daggersripped at the material.
“Bismillah!” Burton cursed. “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!” Herne responded. He turned, then cried: “They'rebreaking through the canvas!”
Burton spat expletives. “If this blasted thing comes down on uswe'll be caught up good and proper. Get out! Come on! Now!”
He hurled himself through the tent flaps and into a crowd oftwenty or so Somali natives, setting about them with his sabre,slicing right and left, yelling fiercely.
Clubs and spear shafts thudded against his flesh, bruising andcutting him, drawing blood. He glanced to the rear, toward thetent, and saw a thrown stone crack against Speke's knee. Thelieutenant stumbled backward.
“Don't step back!” Burton shouted. “They'll think that we'reretiring!”
Speke looked at him with an expression of utter dismay.
A club struck Burton on the shoulder. He twisted and swiped hisblade at its owner. The crush of men jostled him back and forth.Someone shoved him from behind and he turned angrily, raising hissword, only recognising El Balyuz, the expedition's guide, at thevery last moment.
His arm froze in midswing.
White-hot pain tore through his head.
He stumbled and fell onto the sandy earth.
A weight pulled him sideways.
He reached up.
A javelin had pierced his face, in one side of his mouth and outthe other, dislodging teeth and cracking his palate.
He fought to stay conscious.
The pain!
Damn it, Speke-help me! Help me!
A damp cloth on his brow.
Dry sheets beneath him.
He opened his eyes.
Algernon Swinburne smiled down at him.
“You were having a nightmare, Richard. The nightmare.”
Burton moved his tongue about in his mouth. It was dry, notbloody.
“Water,” he croaked.
Swinburne reached to the bedside table. “Here you are.”
Burton pushed himself into a sitting position, took theproffered glass, and drank greedily.
His friend plumped the pillows behind him and he leaned back,feeling comfortable, warm, and unbelievably weak. He was in his ownbedroom at 14 Montagu Place.
“It was a bad attack,” Swinburne advised. “I refer to themalaria, not to the Berbera incident,” he added, with a grin.
“Always the same bloody dream!” Burton grumbled.
“It's not surprising, really,” the poet noted. “Any man who hada spear shoved through his ugly mug would probably have nightmaresabout it.”
“How long?”
“The spear?”
“Was I unconscious for, you blessed clown.”
“You were in a high fever for five days then slept almostsolidly for three more. Doctor Steinhaueser has been popping inevery few hours to keep you dosed up with quinine. We forcedchicken broth into you twice daily, though I doubt you remember anyof that.”
“I don't. The last thing I recollect is talking with Brunel inthe priory. Eight days! What happened? Last time I saw you, you'djust taken a tumble through some trees.”
“Yes, that confounded swan was an unmanageable blighter! Irounded up a little squadron of constables and we drove thepantechnicon to Scotland Yard. Of course, it was an utter waste oftime; there were neither fingerprints nor any other admissibleevidence to co
“Anyway, while I was having my cuts and bruises attended to bythe Yard physician, William Trounce, Herbert Spencer, and ConstableBhatti all came limping in for the same treatment. We knew you'dget word to us, so after we'd been bandaged, soothed, patted on ourheads, and sent on our merry way, we regrouped in Trounce's office,sat steaming by the fire, and waited. When the parakeet arrived anddelivered your message, we gathered a force together and raced toCrouch End on velocipedes. You were unconscious inside the priorywith the diamonds at your side. There was no sign of IsambardKingdom Brunel.”
“Did you find one of Babbage's devices? On a plinth?”
“Yes. Trounce took it in as evidence. The diamonds were returnedto Brundleweed. He's not happy, though. It turns out that Brunelmade off with a select few and left fakes in their place.”
“The black ones? Francois Garnier's Choir Stones?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“I'll tell you later, Algy. But you're wrong. It wasn't Brunelwho took the originals. I need to sleep now. I'll write up a fullreport when my strength is back. Oh, by the way, what became ofHerbert Spencer?”
“He got a little reward from Scotland Yard for helping us out.Miss Mayson has given him an occasional job, too. He cleans out theparakeet cages at the automated animal academy.”
“He must have a thick skin!”
“He doesn't need one. Apparently the birds have taken a shine tohim and barrage him with compliments!” Swinburne stood. “I'mstaying in the spare bedroom. Just ring if you need anything.”
“Thank you,” Burton replied sleepily as his friend departed.
He lay back with his hands behind his head and stared at theceiling.
Two weeks passed.
Burton worked on an expanded edition of his book The LakeRegions of Central Africa.
He slowly regained his strength. His long-suffering housekeeper,Mrs. Iris Angell, cooked him magnificent meals and despaired whenhe sent them back barely touched. His appetite had always beenslight, but now-as she told him every single morning and everysingle evening-he needed sustenance.
She underestimated his iron constitution.
Little by little, the gaunt hollows beneath his scarredcheekbones filled out; the dark shadows around his eyes faded; hishands steadied.
Algernon Swinburne, now living back in his own apartment onGrafton Street, Fitzroy Square, was a frequent visitor and observedwith satisfaction the normal swarthiness returning to his friend'sjaundiced countenance.
Burton eventually got around to writing a report detailing hisconfrontation with Sir Charles Babbage. He held nothing back.
Rolling the document, he placed it in a canister, which heslotted into an odd-looking copper and glass contraption on hisdesk. He dialed the number 222 and pressed a button. There came agasp, a plume of steam, a rattle, and the canister shot away down atube, en route to the prime minister's office.
He was just settling in his armchair and reaching for a cigarwhen there came a knock and Mrs. Angell entered.