“I do, Mr. Burke,” Hare answered. “Ah-ha.”
“You know something of this individual?” Burton asked.
“Yes,” Burke said. “I consider it highly likely that Otto Steinruck is not Otto Steinruck. It is almost certainly an alias. The man fits the description of a notorious Prussian spy named Count Ferdinand Graf von Zeppelin. You'll remember that last year he helped Richard Spruce and his Eugenicist colleagues to flee the country. A very dangerous man, Captain.”
Burton nodded. “And one bent on preventing me from going to Africa, it would appear. I'm certain he's still working with Spruce, too.”
“Why so?”
“The dead man had a foul-looking plant sprouting from the roof of his mouth.”
“Hmm. That's interesting.” Burke took a notebook from his pocket and scribbled something in it with a pencil.
Palmerston opened his snuffbox, took a pinch of brown powder, sprinkled it onto the back of his right hand, and raised it to his nose. He snorted it and his eyes momentarily widened.
It occurred to Burton that the prime minister's face had been stretched so taut by his Eugenicist treatments that those eyes appeared almost oriental.
“A complex situation,” Palmerston muttered. “There are great moves being made, Captain, moves that will reshape the world, and you are in the thick of it.”
“How so?”
“Tomorrow afternoon, I shall make an announcement to parliament. You'll be out of the country by then, so I came to give you the news personally. Excuse me-”
Palmerston turned his head to one side and let loose a prodigious sneeze. When he looked back, there were hundreds of deep wrinkles around his eyes and nose. Over the next few minutes, they slowly flattened out and disappeared.
“What news?” Burton asked.
“Lincoln has surrendered. America is ours.”
Burton's jaw dropped. He fell back into his seat, speechless.
“Some time ago,” Palmerston continued, “I told you that if this should occur I would demand of the Confederates the abolition of slavery as repayment for our role in their victory. I fully intend to do that. But not just yet.”
Finally, Burton found his voice and asked, “Why not?”
“Because of Blut und Eisen.”
“Blood and iron?”
“Three months ago, while you were clearing up the Tichborne business and our turncoat Eugenicists were defecting to Prussia, Chancellor Bismarck made a speech in which he declared his intentions to increase military spending and unify the Germanic territories. He said-and believe me, I can quote this from memory, for it is seared into my mind: ‘The position of Prussia in Germany will not be determined by its liberalism but by its power. Prussia must concentrate its strength and hold it for the favourable moment, which has already come and gone several times. Since the treaties of Vienna, our frontiers have been ill-designed for a healthy body politic. Not through speeches and majority decisions will the great questions of the day be decided-that was the great mistake of 1848 and 1849-but by blood and iron.’”
Burton said, “I read accounts of the speech in the newspapers. Is he warmongering?”
Palmerston clenched his fists. “Indisputably. It is the first blatant move toward the world war Countess Sabina has predicted. There is no doubt that Bismarck is seeking to establish a Germanic empire to rival our own. Empires require resources, Captain Burton, and there is one vast untapped resource remaining in the world. I refer to Africa.”
“So you suspect Bismarck will try to establish a foothold there?”
“I think he intends to carve it up and suck it dry.”
“But what has this to do with America's slaves?”
“If a united Germany can count Africa among its territories, and if war breaks out, it will find itself with an almost limitless source of expendable manpower.”
“Expendable?”
“I believe the term is ‘cannon fodder.’”
The king's agent felt ice in his veins. “You surely aren't suggesting-” he began.
Palmerston interrupted him. “If we are faced with such a situation, we will require our own disposable units.”
“You mean America's slave population?”
“Yes. A little over four million individuals, though I'm including women in that number.”
Burton's jaw flexed spasmodically. “Hellfire, man! You're talking about human beings! Families! You're not only suggesting support for state sanctioned slavery-you're talking about bloody genocide!”
“I mean to ensure the survival of the British Empire, whatever it takes.”
“No!” Burton shouted. “No! No! No!” He slapped his hand down on the leather arm of his chair. “I won't stand for it! It's despicable!”
“You'll do whatever you're damned well ordered to do, Captain Burton,” Palmerston said softly. “And what you are ordered to do is help me to ensure that no such circumstance ever arises.”
“Wha-what?”
“Your primary mission hasn't changed-you are to retrieve the Eye of Naga so that we might employ it to infiltrate and coerce the minds of our opponents. However, there is now a secondary purpose to your expedition. You are to employ your military and geographical experience to determine which are the most strategically advantageous African territories and how we might best secure them. I intend to claim that continent before Bismarck makes his move, and I'm relying on you to advise me how to do it.”
Burton's heart hammered in his chest. His mind raced.
He looked into Lord Palmerston's impenetrable eyes.
“And if I do, sir, and if we make Africa a part of the British Empire, then what of the inhabitants? What of the Africans?”
The prime minister-returning Burton's gaze steadily and without blinking-replied: “They will be accorded the rights granted to all British subjects.”
There was a moment of silence, broken only by Gregory Hare clearing his throat slightly, then Burton said, “You refer to the same rights enjoyed by those undernourished Britishers who toil in our factories and inhabit our slums? The same given to those who beg on our street corners and doorsteps? The same extended to servant girls abused and impregnated by their employers then thrown onto the streets where their only means of survival is prostitution? Is this the marvellous civilisation that you, the great imperialist, have to offer Africa?”
Palmerston shot to his feet and yelled, “Shut the hell up, Burton! Am I to endure your insolence every time we meet? I'll not tolerate it! You have your orders!” He stamped to the door, snapping his fingers at Burke and Hare. They rose and followed. He ushered them out first, then, with his hand on the doorknob, turned to face the explorer.
“Do your bloody job, Captain!” he snarled.
The prime minister stepped out of the room and slammed the door shut behind him.
“Illiterate baboon,” Pox squawked.
“In the maelstrom of making history,” Bertie Wells said, “very little of it is accurately recorded. When the time finally comes for an account of the events that have passed, human nature takes over.”
He and Burton were in an ambulance sharing that rarity of rarities, a scrounged cigar. The oxen-drawn vehicle was part of a convoy, a seemingly never-ending line of soldiers and vehicles moving up from the south toward the port of Tanga, some hundred miles north of Dar es Salaam.
It was early morning but already ferociously hot. The troops were dripping sweat. They were exhausted, ill, and miserable. Occasional bursts of chanting broke out-the usual sad native dirges-but these quickly tailed off, overwhelmed by the rhythmic tromp tromp trompof boots. At one point a company of Britishers broke into song, their mock cheerfulness shot through with resentful hatred. The tune was “What a Friend We Have in Jesus,” but the lyrics were rather more colourful than those of the original hymn:
When this lousy war is over, no more soldiering for me,
When I get my civvy clothes on, oh how happy I shall be.
No more church parades on Sunday, no more begging for a pass.
You can tell the sergeant major to stick his passes up his arse.