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Authors: Mark Hodder
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responded. He turned, then cried: “They’re breaking through the canvas!”
Burton spat expletives. “If this blasted thing comes down on us we’ll be caught up good and proper. Get out! Come on! Now!”
He hurled himself through the tent flaps and into a crowd of twenty 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 and cutting him, drawing blood. He glanced to the rear, toward the tent, and saw a thrown stone crack against Speke’s knee. The lieutenant stumbled backward.
“Don’t step back!” Burton shouted. “They’ll think that we’re retiring!”
Speke looked at him with an expression of utter dismay.
A club struck Burton on the shoulder. He twisted and swiped his blade at its owner. The crush of men jostled him back and forth. Someone shoved him from behind and he turned angrily, raising his sword, only recognising El Balyuz, the expedition’s guide, at the very 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 out the 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, not bloody.
“Water,” he croaked.
Swinburne reached to the bedside table. “Here you are.”
Burton pushed himself into a sitting position, took the proffered 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 own bedroom at 14 Montagu Place.
“It was a bad attack,” Swinburne advised. “I refer to the malaria, 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 had a spear shoved through his ugly mug would probably have nightmares about it.”
“How long?”
“The spear?”
“Was I unconscious for, you blessed clown.”
“You were in a high fever for five days then slept almost solidly for three more. Doctor Steinhaueser has been popping in every few hours to keep you dosed up with quinine. We forced chicken broth into you twice daily, though I doubt you remember any of that.”
“I don’t. The last thing I recollect is talking with Brunel in the priory. Eight days! What happened? Last time I saw you, you’d just taken a tumble through some trees.”
“Yes, that confounded swan was an unmanageable blighter! I rounded up a little squadron of constables and we drove the pantechnicon to Scotland Yard. Of course, it was an utter waste of time; there were neither fingerprints nor any other admissible evidence to connect it either with the Brundleweed robbery or with Brunel and his clockwork men.
“Anyway, while I was having my cuts and bruises attended to by the Yard physician, William Trounce, Herbert Spencer, and Constable Bhatti all came limping in for the same treatment. We knew you’d get word to us, so after we’d been bandaged, soothed, patted on our heads, and sent on our merry way, we regrouped in Trounce’s office, sat steaming by the fire, and waited. When the parakeet arrived and delivered your message, we gathered a force together and raced to Crouch End on velocipedes. You were unconscious inside the priory with the diamonds at your side. There was no sign of Isambard Kingdom Brunel.”
“Did you find one of Babbage’s devices? On a plinth?”
“Yes. Trounce took it in as evidence. The diamonds were returned to Brundleweed. He’s not happy, though. It turns out that Brunel made
Burton spat expletives. “If this blasted thing comes down on us we’ll be caught up good and proper. Get out! Come on! Now!”
He hurled himself through the tent flaps and into a crowd of twenty 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 and cutting him, drawing blood. He glanced to the rear, toward the tent, and saw a thrown stone crack against Speke’s knee. The lieutenant stumbled backward.
“Don’t step back!” Burton shouted. “They’ll think that we’re retiring!”
Speke looked at him with an expression of utter dismay.
A club struck Burton on the shoulder. He twisted and swiped his blade at its owner. The crush of men jostled him back and forth. Someone shoved him from behind and he turned angrily, raising his sword, only recognising El Balyuz, the expedition’s guide, at the very 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 out the 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, not bloody.
“Water,” he croaked.
Swinburne reached to the bedside table. “Here you are.”
Burton pushed himself into a sitting position, took the proffered 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 own bedroom at 14 Montagu Place.
“It was a bad attack,” Swinburne advised. “I refer to the malaria, 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 had a spear shoved through his ugly mug would probably have nightmares about it.”
“How long?”
“The spear?”
“Was I unconscious for, you blessed clown.”
“You were in a high fever for five days then slept almost solidly for three more. Doctor Steinhaueser has been popping in every few hours to keep you dosed up with quinine. We forced chicken broth into you twice daily, though I doubt you remember any of that.”
“I don’t. The last thing I recollect is talking with Brunel in the priory. Eight days! What happened? Last time I saw you, you’d just taken a tumble through some trees.”
“Yes, that confounded swan was an unmanageable blighter! I rounded up a little squadron of constables and we drove the pantechnicon to Scotland Yard. Of course, it was an utter waste of time; there were neither fingerprints nor any other admissible evidence to connect it either with the Brundleweed robbery or with Brunel and his clockwork men.
“Anyway, while I was having my cuts and bruises attended to by the Yard physician, William Trounce, Herbert Spencer, and Constable Bhatti all came limping in for the same treatment. We knew you’d get word to us, so after we’d been bandaged, soothed, patted on our heads, and sent on our merry way, we regrouped in Trounce’s office, sat steaming by the fire, and waited. When the parakeet arrived and delivered your message, we gathered a force together and raced to Crouch End on velocipedes. You were unconscious inside the priory with the diamonds at your side. There was no sign of Isambard Kingdom Brunel.”
“Did you find one of Babbage’s devices? On a plinth?”
“Yes. Trounce took it in as evidence. The diamonds were returned to Brundleweed. He’s not happy, though. It turns out that Brunel made
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