One. Two. Three.
Edward’s voice: “Do you really suppose I’m built for standing, nurse? Find me a confounded chair. At once! You there—what’s your name?”
“I’m Detective Inspector Trounce.”
“What happened?”
“I’m afraid I cannot divulge police business to a—”
“No nonsense! You’ve seen my authorisation—I represent the prime minister. Speak or I’ll have you clapped in irons, damn it!”
“Humph! Well—I—um—Sir Richard and I are investigating—”
“Yes! Yes! I know all about that. The accident, man! What caused it?”
“It was Burke and Hare, sir. They took Darwin and made off with him in steam spheres. I think Sir Richard tried to stop them by landing a rotorchair in their path. There was a collision. He didn’t get clear in time and was thrown into a tree by the explosion.”
“And Burke and Hare?”
“I don’t know. There was no sign of them. Whichever was driving the lead vehicle was either blown to smithereens or his corpse was taken away by the other, along with Mr. Darwin.”
For how long are you going to lie there? Wake up. There’s work to do. The clock is ticking.
Four. Five. Six. Seven.
Doctor John Steinhaueser: “We’ll move him this afternoon.”
Good old Styggins.
Edward: “Is he strong enough?”
“He has the constitution of an ox. The bones are already knitting. As for the concussion—hmmm—has he spoken to you?”
“Yesterday morning. I’m not sure he was aware of it. His pupils were as big as saucers.”
“What did he say?”
“He told me he’d had a heart attack.”
“He said the same to me. Damned peculiar, hmmm? There’s no sign of one at all. His heart is as healthy as they come.”
“We can be thankful for that, at least. I need him compos mentis, Doctor. Get him back on his feet. Pour some Saltzmann’s into him. He swears by the bloody stuff.”
“I’ll not resort to quackery, no matter that it’s you who orders it.”
“Pah! Principles!”
Eight. Ten. Nine hundred. One thousand.
Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.
John Steinhaueser: “Restless, hmmm? It’s all right, old fellow. You’re at home.”
He heard the clink and clank of camel bells. The most precious moment of his life—waking in a tent in the desert, knowing he would step out and see the oasis, a tiny island amid a vast desolate nothingness, and far, far away, already shimmering in the heat of early morning, the horizon, beyond which there could be—anything.
He opened his eyes.
Orange light flickering on a canvas roof.
Gunshots.
This again?
El Balyuz, the chief abban, burst into the tent, yelling, “They are attacking!” He handed a Colt to Burton. “Your gun, Effendi!”
The explorer pushed back his bedsheets and stood; laid the weapon on the map table; pulled on his trousers; snapped his braces over his shoulders; picked up the gun.
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.”