Engineer: Harold Bloodmann
Engineer: Charles Henderson
Engineer: Cyril Goodenough
Engineer: James Bolling
Chief Rigger: Gordon Champion
Rigger: Alexander Priestley
Rigger: Winford Doe
Fireman: Walter Gerrard
Fireman: Peter Etheridge
Stoker: Thomas Beadle
Stoker: Gwyn Reece-Jones
Funnel Scrubber:
Funnel Scrubber:
Steward/Surgeon: Doctor Barnaby Quaint
Assistant Steward/Surgeon: Sister Sadhvi Raghavendra
Quartermaster: Frederick Butler
Assistant Quartermaster: Isabella Mayson
Cabin Boy: Oscar Wilde
“I trust Quips is living up to my recommendation?” Burton asked the captain.
“Quips?”
“Young Master Wilde.”
“Ah. An appropriate nickname—he's a very witty young man. How old is he? Twelve-ish?”
“He celebrated his ninth birthday a couple of months ago.”
“Good Lord! That young? And an orphan?”
“Yes. He lost his entire family to the Irish famine. He stowed away aboard a ship to Liverpool, made his way to London, and has been working there as a paperboy ever since.”
“Well, I must say, I'm impressed by his industry. There's an unpleasant amount of bureaucracy associated with the captaincy of a rotorship and the youngster picked up the paperwork in a flash and keeps it better organised and up to date than I could ever hope to. Furthermore, I find that whenever I say ‘hop to it,’ he's already hopped. I wouldn't be at all surprised if Oscar Wilde captains his own ship one day.” Lawless ran his fingers over his beard. “Sir Richard, what about these young ladies? Having women serving as crew isn't entirely without precedent, but are you sure it's wise to take the Sister with you on your expedition? Africa is harsh enough on a man, isn't it? And what about all that dashed cannibalism? Won't she be considered too dainty a morsel to resist?”
“It is indeed a cruel environment, as I know to my cost,” Burton answered. “However, Sister Raghavendra is from India and possesses a natural immunity to many of the ills that assail a European in Africa. Furthermore, her medical skills are exceptional. I wish she'd been with me on my previous excursions. I assure you she'll be well looked after all the way to Kazeh, where she'll remain with our Arabian hosts while the rest of us hike north to the supposed position of the Mountains of the Moon.”
“And the cannibals?”
The corners of Burton's mouth twitched slightly. “Those few tribes that feast on human flesh do so in a ritualistic fashion to mark their victory in battle. It's not as common a phenomenon as the storybooks would have you believe. For a daily meal of arm or leg, you'll have to go to the other side of the world, to Koluwai, a small island to the southeast of Papua New Guinea. There they will very happily have European visitors for dinner—and I don't mean as guests. Apparently, we taste like pork.”
“Oof! I'm rather more in favour of lamb chops!” Lawless responded.
Cornewall Lewis interrupted: “You'll leave her with Arabians? Can they be trusted with the fair sex?”
Burton clicked his tongue impatiently. “Sir, if you choose to believe the lies propagated by your own government, that is up to you, but despite the calumnies that are circulated in the corridors of parliament, I have never found the Arabian race to be anything less than extraordinarily benevolent, courteous, and entirely honourable.”
“I meant only to suggest that there might be a risk in leaving a woman of the Empire in non-Christian hands, Sir Richard.”
“Christian? Do you then stand in opposition to Darwin's findings? Do you also believe that your God favours some races over others?”
“I use the word merely out of habit, as a synonym for civilised,” Cornewall Lewis protested.
“Then I'm to take it you don't consider the Arabians civilised, despite that they invented modern mathematics, surgical instruments, soap and perfume, the windmill, the crankshaft, and a great many other things; despite that they realised the Earth is a sphere that circles the sun five hundred years before Galileo was tortured by your Christian church for supporting the same notion?”
The secretary for war pursed his lips uneasily.
“That reminds me,” said Monckton Milnes. “Richard, I have the manuscript we discussed—the Persian treatise.”
“The what?”
“The translation you were looking for.” He stepped forward and hooked his arm through Burton's. “It's in the library. Come, I'll show you. Excuse us please, gentlemen, we shan't be long.”
Before Burton could object he was pulled from the group and propelled through the guests toward the door.
“What blessed treatise?” he spluttered.
“A necessary fiction to remove you from the battlefield,” Monckton Milnes hissed. “What the blazes has got into you? Why are you snapping like a rabid dog at Cornewall Lewis?”
They left the room, steered across a parlour, past a small gathering in the reception hall, entered a corridor, and stopped at a carved oak door. Monckton Milnes drew a key from a pocket in his costume, turned it in the lock, and, after they had entered into the room beyond, secured the door behind them.
They were in his famous and somewhat notorious library.
He pointed to big studded leather armchairs near the fireplace and snapped: “Go. Sit.”
Burton obeyed.
Monckton Milnes went to a cabinet, retrieved a bottle and glasses from it, and poured two drinks. He joined Burton and handed one to him.
“Vintage Touriga Nacional, 1822, one of the finest ports ever produced,” he murmured. “It cost me a bloody fortune. Don't gulp it down. Savour it.”
Burton put the glass to his nose and inhaled the aroma. He took a taste, smacked his lips, then leaned back in his chair and considered his friend.
“My apologies, dear fellow.”
“Spare me. I don't want 'em. I want an explanation. By God, Richard, I've seen you angry, I've seen you defeated, I've seen you wild with enthusiasm, and I've seen you drunk as a fiddler's bitch, but I've never before seen you jittery. What's the matter?”
Burton gazed into his drink and remained silent for a moment, then looked up and met his friend's eyes.
“They are making a puppet of me.”
“Who are? How?”
“The bloody politicians. Sending me to Africa.”
Monckton Milnes's face registered his surprise. “But it's what you've wanted!”
“Not under these circumstances.”
“What circumstances? Stone me, man, if you haven't been handed a rare opportunity! The Royal Geographical Society was dead set against you going, but Palmerston—the prime minister himself!—forced their hand. You have another chance at the Nile, and no expedition has ever been so well funded and supported, not even Henry Stanley's! Why do you grumble so and flash those moody eyes of yours? Explain!”
Burton looked away, glanced around at the book-lined walls, and at the erotic statuettes that stood on plinths in various niches, pulled at his jacket and brushed lint from his sleeve, took another sip from his glass, and, reluctantly, returned his attention to Monckton Milnes.
“It's true, I have long wanted to return to Africa to finish what I began back in fifty-seven,” he said. “To locate, once and for all, the source of the River Nile. Instead, I'm being dispatched to find and bring back a damned weapon!”
“A weapon?”
“A black diamond. An Eye of Nāga.”
“What is that? How is a diamond a weapon? I don't understand.”
Burton suddenly leaned forward and gripped his friend's wrist. A flame ignited in his dark eyes.
“You and I have known each other for a long time,” he said, a slight hoarseness creeping into his voice. “I can trust you to keep a confidence, yes?”
“Of course you can. You have my word.”