Published 2011 by Pyr®, an imprint of Prometheus Books
Expedition to the Mountains of the Moon. Copyright © 2011 by Mark Hodder. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Cover illustration copyright © Jon Sullivan
Cover design by Nicole Sommer-Lecht
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Hodder, Mark, 1962–
Expedition to the mountains of the moon / by Mark Hodder.
p. cm.
ISBN 978–1–61614–535–4 (pbk.)
ISBN 978–1–61614–536–1 (ebook)
1. Burton, Richard Francis, Sir, 1821–1890—Fiction. 2. Swinburne, Algernon Charles, 1837–1909—Fiction. 3. Time travel—Fiction. 4. Africa, Central—Discovery and exploration—Fiction. 5. Great Britain—History—19th century—Fiction. 6. Steampunk fiction. I≥ Title. II. Title: Burton & Swinburne in expedition to the Mountains of the Moon. III. Title: Burton and Swinburne in expedition to the Mountains of the Moon.
PR6108.O28E94 2012
823'.92—dc23
2011037544
Printed in the United States of America
When I began writing these tales of Burton & Swinburne, I couldn't help but worry that I might be insulting the memory of men and women who, by virtue of their hard work and astonishing talents, had made their mark on history.
My concerns were assuaged when enthusiastic readers told me that, while reading my novels, they repeatedly consulted Wikipedia and other sources to learn more about the real lives of the people I had “hijacked.”
This delights me. It means, for example, that PC53 William Trounce might now be recognised by a few more as the hero who stepped up to the mark when John Francis tried to assassinate Queen Victoria in 1842 (and yes, I meddled with that historical fact). It means a greater awareness of Richard Spruce, who, despite being treated as a villain in these works, was in truth a quiet and unassuming man possessed of sheer genius in the subject of botany. It means more people turning to Swinburne's astonishing poetry, more people marvelling at Lord Palmerston's political astuteness, more people wondering whether Samuel Gooch really existed, then finding out that he did, and that he was amazing.
This, I hope, will be considered by any descendants of the characters herein who might feel offended by my treatment of them. Please note that these novels are very obviously flights of utter fancy and very definitely not biography. My alternative histories are places where individuals have encountered different challenges and opportunities to those met in real life, and have thus developed into very, very different people. They should not be in any way regarded as accurate depictions of those who actually lived.
In this volume, my account of Africa circa 1863 follows closely the descriptions left to us by Sir Richard Francis Burton himself. His The Lake Regions of Central Africa (1860) is, in my opinion, by far the most fascinating journal of any of the Victorian explorers. Burton tended to adopt his own spelling for villages, towns, and regions, and throughout the African chapters I've retained his version of place-names.
Finally, my thanks and deepest appreciation to Lou Anders, Emma Barnes, and Jon Sullivan.
“One of the gladdest moments in human life, methinks, is the departure upon a distant journey to unknown lands. Shaking off with one mighty effort the fetters of Habit, the leaden weight of Routine, the cloak of many Cares and the Slavery of Home, man feels once more happy. The blood flows with the fast circulation of childhood…afresh dawns the morn of life….”
–SIR RICHARD FRANCIS BURTON'S JOURNAL, 2ND DECEMBER, 1856.
“The future influences the present just as much as the past.”
–FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE
Sir Richard Francis Burton wriggled beneath a bush at the edge of a thicket in the top western corner of Green Park, London, and cursed himself for a fool. He should have realised that he'd lose consciousness. He should have arrived earlier to compensate. Now the whole mission was in jeopardy.
He lay flat for a moment, until the pain in his side abated, then hefted his rifle and propped himself up on his elbows, aiming the weapon at the crowd below. He glanced at the inscription on its stock. It read: Lee—Enfield Mk III. Manufactured in Tabora, Africa, 1918.
Squinting through the telescopic sight, he examined the faces of the people gathering around the path at the bottom of the slope.
Where was his target?
His eyes blurred. He shook his head slightly, trying to dispel an odd sense of dislocation, the horrible feeling that he was divided into two separate identities. He'd first experienced this illusion during fevered bouts of malaria in Africa back in '57, then again four years later, when he was made the king's agent. He thought he'd conquered it. Perhaps he had. After all, this time there really were two of him.
It was the afternoon of the 10th of June, 1840, and a much younger Richard Burton was currently travelling from Italy through Europe, on his way to enrol at Trinity College, Oxford.
Recalling that wayward, opinionated, and ill-disciplined youngster, he whispered, “Time changed me, thank goodness. The question is, can I return the favour?”
He aimed from face to face, seeking the man he'd come to shoot.
It was a mild day. The gentlemen sported light coats and top hats, and carried canes. The ladies were adorned in bonnets and dainty gloves and held parasols. They were all waiting to see Queen Victoria ride past in her carriage.
He levelled the crosshairs at one person after another. Young Edward Oxford was somewhere among the crowd, an insane eighteen-year-old with two flintlock pistols under his frock coat and murder on his mind. But Burton was not here to gun down the queen's would-be assassin.
“Damnation!” His hands were shaking. Lying stretched out like this would have been uncomfortable for any man his age—he was forty-seven years old—but it was made far worse by the two ribs the prime minister's man, Gregory Hare, had broken. They felt like a knife in his side.
He shifted cautiously, trying not to disturb the bush. It was vital that he remain concealed.
A face caught his attention. It was round, decorated with a large moustache, and possessed a palpable air of arrogance. Burton had never seen the individual before—at least not with this appearance—but he knew him: Henry de La Poer Beresford, 3rd Marquess of Waterford, called by many the “Mad Marquess.” The man was the founder of the Libertines, a politically influential movement that preached freedom from social shackles and which passionately opposed technological progress. Three years from now, Beresford was going to lead a breakaway group of radicals, the Rakes, whose anarchic philosophy would challenge social propriety. The marquess believed that the human species was restricting its own evolution; that each individual had the potential to become a trans-natural man, a being entirely free of restraint, with no conscience or self-doubt, a thing that did whatever it wanted, whenever it wanted. It was a dangerous idea—the Great War had proved that to Burton—but not one that concerned him at this particular moment.