The Secret of Abdu El Yezdi (23 page)

He looked across to George Herne, who was also dressing hastily. “More bloody posturing! It's all for show, but we shouldn't let them get too cocky. Go out the back of the tent, away from the campfire, and ascertain their strength. Let off a few rounds over their heads. They'll soon bugger off.”

“Right you are,” Herne responded. Taking up his rifle, he ran to the back of the Rowtie and pushed through the canvas.

No. No. No. Stop it, you fool. There is pain enough. Why must you always return to this?

Burton checked his revolver.

“For Pete's sake, Balyuz, why have you handed me an unloaded gun? Get me my sabre!”

He shoved the Colt into the waistband of his trousers and snatched his sword from the Arab.

“Stroyan!” he bellowed. “Speke!”

Almost immediately, the tent flap was pushed aside and William Stroyan stumbled in.

He didn't. That is not what happened.

His eyes were wild.

“They knocked the tent down around my ears! I almost took a beating! Is there shooting to be done?”

“I rather suppose there is,” Burton said, finally realising the 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 to the rush of men outside.

Herne returned from his recce. “There's a lot of the blighters, and our confounded guards have taken to their heels. I took a couple of pot-shots at the mob but then got tangled in the tent ropes. A big Somali swiped at me with a bloody great club. I put a bullet into the bastard. I couldn't see Speke anywhere.”

Something thumped against the side of the tent. Suddenly a barrage of blows pounded the canvas while war cries were raised all around. The attackers were swarming like hornets. Javelins were thrust through the opening. Daggers ripped at the material.

“Bismillah!” Burton cursed. “We're going to have to fight our way to the supplies and get ourselves more guns. Herne, there are spears tied to the tent pole at the back. Get 'em.”

“Yes, sir.” Herne returned to the rear of the Rowtie. Almost immediately, he ran back, crying out, “They're breaking through!”

Burton swore vociferously. “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.

“Speke!” he bellowed. “Where are you?”

“Here!”

He glanced back and saw Speke stepping into the firelight from the shadows to the right of the tent. The lieutenant was splashed with blood and his left sleeve hung in tatters.

Stroyan emerged from the Rowtie and straightened, loading his rifle.

“Watch out!” Speke yelled, and threw himself in front of the other man.

A spear thudded into the middle of his chest.

No! Wrong! Wrong! This is all wrong!

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 from behind and he turned angrily, raising his sword, only recognising El Balyuz at the very last moment.

His arm froze in mid-swing.

Agonising pain exploded in 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 cheek and out the other, dislodging teeth and cracking his palate.

He screamed and sat up.

John Steinhaueser—handsome, blond-haired, and blue-eyed, with an imperial adorning his chin—rose from a chair beside the bed.

“Hello, old chap. Another nightmare?”

Burton, disoriented, looked around and saw his own bedroom. The after-image of flames faded. The chamber was illuminated by daylight.

“God!” he said, hoarsely. “Will they never cease?”

Steinhaueser felt the explorer's pulse. “As the pain eases up. Is it still bad?”

“Just the head.”

“Let me see.”

He leaned over Burton and examined the long line of stitches that snaked around his patient's shaved cranium. “Hmmm. It's remarkable. Truly remarkable.”

“What is?”

“Ten days ago your scalp was hanging half-off, but it's healed just as fast as your spear wound did back in 'fifty-five. I can take the stitches out tomorrow.”

“I was dreaming about it. The attack at Berbera. Speke's death.” Burton realised he had no idea how long he'd been here, in his own bed. He vaguely recalled a hospital room. “What time is it? Midday?”

“No, it's ten in the morning. Lie back. Rest.”

Gingerly and very slowly, Burton eased himself down.

“I could have sworn I heard Big Ben chime twelve.”

“Let me look at your ribs,” Steinhaueser said. “Big Ben? Not possible. The bell cracked four days ago. Hasn't made a sound since. Hmmm, good—the bones are healing nicely and the bruising is changing colour. You'll be sore and stiff for a while but it'll pass. As for the arm, you won't require the splint for much longer. Time and rest are doing their job. I'll wager you'll be able to use it in a week or so. How's your memory, hmmm?”

Burton was silent for a moment then answered, “I can't recall anything since the collision. What's the date?”

Steinhaueser pursed his lips and stroked the point of his little beard. “Friday the twenty-third of September. You've been in and out of consciousness. What about the letters to Isabel?”

“Letters?”

Steinhaueser chuckled. “You first regained some measure of wits four days after the accident. The first thing you did was demand a pen and paper. Then you composed an astonishingly lucid letter to your fiancée in which you claimed to have fallen sick with a recurrence of malaria. You wrote that you were fine and she should remain in Wiltshire.”

“I did? I recall nothing of it.”

“You've written twice since. You also threatened to throttle me if I told her the truth.”

Burton shook his head bemusedly.

“As a matter of fact, it's not so unusual,” Steinhaueser said. “I've witnessed such things before with concussion. You took a mighty blow to the head, Richard, but your eyes are far less dilated this morning, so I'll venture you're through the worst of it.”

Burton wondered how much his friend knew. He tested the waters. “Remind me. What happened?”

“You were over Kent in a rotorchair and set it down in the middle of a road. Mechanical failure, perhaps?”

Burton shrugged, and winced as a pang sliced through him.

Steinhaueser continued, “A steam sphere rounded the bend at high speed and smacked into your machine. The explosion knocked you flying. Fortunately, a Scotland Yard man was on business nearby. He found you.”

“And the sphere's driver?”

“No trace. Burned to ashes, I should think.”

So, the truth had been covered up.

Trounce. I need to see Trounce.

“And I've been out of commission for ten days, you say? Gad! So soon after the malaria! This year is developing as many holes as a block of Swiss cheese. What have I missed, Styggins?”

“Not a great deal. You were brought home from hospital a couple of days ago. I've been living in your guest room. I had to turn a number of visitors away—Detective Inspector Trounce; Detective Inspector Slaughter; Sir Roderick Murchison; and a rather striking looking lady named Countess Sabina. She left her calling card. Strange. Look.”

The doctor took a small pasteboard from the bedside table and handed it to Burton. On one side, there was printed:

Countess Sabina Elisabeta Lacusta

7 Vere Street, London

Cheiromantist, Prognosticator

On the other, written somewhat shakily by hand:
Sir Richard. Beware. There is a storm approaching.

“Ominous, hmmm?” Steinhaueser said.

Burton sneered and shook his head despairingly. “Why do mediums always insist on the vaguest forms of innuendo? Utter rot!” He tossed the card aside. “And what of the wider world? Much happening?”

“The usual. Prussia's prince regent continues to cooperate with Albert, and has sidelined Bismarck by making him ambassador to the Russian Empire. Old Otto must be livid. In theory, it's a promotion, so he can hardly complain. In truth, it ousts him from the game.”

“Good show. What else?”

“Things are hotting up in China. The French have thrown their lot in with us. Even America is caught up in it. There's been fighting, but reports are sketchy. Elgin is on his way back there already and by all accounts he's mad as hell and in no mood for compromise. His battleship, the
Sagittarius
, is nearly complete and will fly out before the year is done. Other than that, nothing to report. Are you hungry?”

“Famished.”

“I'll ask your housekeeper to rustle something up, and will then leave you in her capable hands. A colleague has been looking after my practice. Now you're on the mend, I should get back to it. Don't worry, I'm not abandoning you, but I don't think you'll require my constant presence any more, hmmm?”

“Thank you, Styggins.”

“Don't mention it. Frankly, now that you're back in the land of the living, I'm happy to hightail it. You're a God-awful patient and I'd rather not be exposed to your complaining, stubbornness, disobedience, and bad temper.”

Burton chuckled. “Am I that disagreeable?”

“You are. Mrs. Angell will be up presently. No doubt you'll torture her horribly. I'll see you tonight. Rest, hmmm?”

Burton nodded. Steinhaueser departed.

Over the next few days, Sir Richard Francis Burton healed and grumbled and pondered and chafed and drifted in and out of sleep, Steinhaueser came and went, and Mrs. Angell fussed and cooked and cleaned and endured.

By Wednesday, the explorer had left his bed, relocated to the study, and taken root in his dilapidated old saddlebag armchair, from which he barely moved for the remainder of the week. He read, wrote letters to Isabel, and meditated. His hair started to grow back, covering the scars on his scalp. The dull ache in his arm faded. His bruises turned a dirty yellow. A seething fury developed slowly and implacably. He couldn't shake from his mind the picture of Darwin's children—some unconscious, the rest terrified.

Days passed.

On the morning of Friday the 7th of October, he received a visit from Detective Inspectors Trounce and Slaughter. Upon seeing him, Trounce, who had a cardboard file holder in his hand, exclaimed, “I say! You look almost human again.”

“You mean, as much as I ever did?” Burton quipped. He pushed himself to his feet to greet his guests.

“Brandy?” he asked Trounce.

“Thank you. That would go down a treat.”

“Milk?” he enquired of Slaughter.

“God, yes! Most considerate of you. Brandy would kill me.”

After Mrs. Angell had delivered the milk and the brandy had been poured, the men settled in chairs.

“Your health,” Slaughter toasted.

Burton laughed. “What little of it remains!”

“I've never seen anything like it,” Trounce said. “I found you hanging from a tree. I thought you were nothing but a bundle of bloody rags until you moved your head and whispered, ‘Get me down, there's a good chap.' It's a blessed miracle you lived.”

“I recall nothing of it. There was no sign of Burke and Hare?”

“None.”

“What happened after you regained your senses in Darwin's garden?”

“I calmed Mrs. Darwin and her brood, then took to the air and immediately saw the smoke rising from the road to the north. I landed and discovered you. Unfortunately, by then our birds had flown. Who was driving the lead sphere?”

“Hare. Burke was following with Darwin in his vehicle's luggage compartment.”

“By Jove, Burton, it was a damned brave thing you did.”

Burton waved the observation aside, and Trounce went on, “Confound it! I took a shine to old Darwin. Whoever's behind all this will pay, so help me, they will.”

Something occurred to the explorer. He reached for a cord hanging beside the fireplace and pulled it to summon back Mrs. Angell.

“Has there been any progress?” he asked the detectives.

Slaughter answered, “I've been sifting through missing-persons reports. Hundreds vanish without a trace every year, but I looked for any that involved DOGS or medical personnel. So far I've found just one of interest. A young surgeon named Joseph Lister, the first assistant to James Syme of the University of Edinburgh. Something of a prodigy, apparently, but he hasn't been seen since the nineteenth of August.”

Burton sipped his brandy. “Any suggestion he was abducted?”