Wordsworth Pryce reached up to the underbelly of one of them and opened a hatch, which hinged down, steps unfolding on its inside surface. One by one, Captain Lawless, Charles Henderson, and Frederick Butler were borne up on stretchers by Doctor Quaint and Cyril Goodenough.
“I'm not at all happy about this, Captain,” Pryce said to Burton. “Could you not wait it out here? Myself and one of my men could drive back to you and ferry you south.”
“That would mean us tarrying for two days,” Burton replied, “and in that time, we could be well on our way. The Al Atif oasis is about five hours' walk from here. The chances are good that we'll be able to join a caravan to Al Basah from there. And you must bear in mind that, in travelling westward, you'll soon find yourself on firmer terrain, easy for the crabs to traverse. Southward lies only sand. It would quickly infiltrate the machinery and the vehicles would be rendered inoperable in short order. No, Mr. Pryce, this is the best way.”
Pryce shook the explorer's hand. “Very well, Captain Burton. I wish you luck, and rest assured that the Beetle's privacy will be protected and he'll be escorted all the way back to his chimney in Limehouse.”
With that, Pryce boarded the vehicle and pulled up the hatch.
Burton paced across to the second crab, into which Bolling and Bloodmann had just carried the Beetle's section of pipe. The stoker, Thomas Beadle, joined them.
Willy Cornish and Oscar Wilde lingered a moment to say goodbye.
“Quips, I'm sorry I dragged you into this,” Burton said. “I thought I was doing you a favour.”
Wilde smiled. “Don't you be worrying yourself, Captain. Experience is one thing you can't get for nothing, and if this is the price, I'm happy to pay it, for I'm having the experience of a lifetime, so I am!”
The boys entered the crab.
Burton turned to Isabella Mayson.
“Are you sure you want to remain behind and join our expedition, Miss Mayson? I warn you that we have many months of severe hardship ahead of us.”
“There is barely room for another aboard the vehicles, Sir Richard,” she replied. “And your group will need to be fed—a responsibility I'm happy to make my own. Besides, it will be better for Sadhvi to have another woman present. We must, at very least, tip our heads at propriety, do you not think?”
Burton pushed up the hatch and clicked it shut, then stood back as the two crabs shuddered into life with coughs and growls. Steam plumed from their funnels, and Wilde and Cornish and Doctor Barnaby Quaint waved from the windows as the two outlandish machines stalked away.
The sun sank.
Beside the Orpheus, eight people remained, standing in the gathering twilight watching their friends recede into the distance.
Pox the parakeet sang, “Crapulous knobble-thwacker!” and Burton muttered: “I couldn't have put it better myself.”
One foot in front of the other.
Step. Step. Step. Step.
Eyes on the ground.
Ignore the cold.
“How far?” Krishnamurthy mumbled.
“Soon. By sunrise,” Burton replied.
They were dragging a travois over the sand. It was loaded with food and water, cooking pots and lanterns, rifles and ammunition, tents, clothing, instruments, and other equipment. Krishnamurthy was certain it was getting heavier.
The Milky Way was splattered overhead, dazzling, deep, and endless. The full moon had risen and was riding low in the sky. The dunes swelled in the silvery light.
Step. Step. Step. Step.
A second travois was pulled by Trounce and Honesty.
The two women trudged along beside it.
Herbert Spencer, in his protective suit, limped a little way behind.
“Tired,” Honesty said. “Four hours walking.”
Trounce gave a guttural response.
Ahead, Algernon Swinburne reached the peak of the next dune and stood with his rifle resting over his shoulder. He looked back at his companions, waited for them to catch up a little, then disappeared over the sandy peak. Before the others had reached the base of the upward slope, the eastern sky suddenly brightened.
To Burton, the quickness of dawn in this part of the world came as no surprise; to the others, it was breathtaking. One minute they were enveloped by the frigid luminescence of the night, and the next the sky paled, the stars faded, and brilliant rays of sunshine transformed the landscape. The desert metamorphosed from cold naked bone to hot dry flesh.
They slogged across it.
Step. Step. Step. Step.
“Cover your eyes,” Burton called.
On his recommendation, they were each wearing a keffiyeh—a square headscarf of brightly striped material, secured on the crown with a circlet, or agal—which they now pulled down across their faces. The light glared through the material but didn't blind them, and, as they came to the top of the dune, they could clearly see through the weave that the redheaded poet had reached its base and was starting up the next one.
“I can feel heat!” Krishnamurthy exclaimed. “Already!”
“It will become unbearable within the next two hours,” Burton predicted. “But by that time we'll be encamped at Al Atif.”
A few yards away, Honesty glanced toward the huge molten globe of the sun and whispered, “Gladiolus gandavensis.”
“What?” Trounce asked.
“A plant. Not a hardy one. Dislikes winter. Roots best kept in sand until mid-March. Then potted individually. You have to nurture them, William. Start them off in a greenhouse.”
It was the first time, in all the years they'd worked together, that Thomas Honesty had used Detective Inspector Trounce's first name.
“I say, Honesty—are you all right, old fellow?”
The small, dapper man smiled. “Thinking about my garden. What I'll do when we get back. Do you like gardening?”
“My wife takes care of it. We only have a small patch, and it's given over to cabbages and potatoes.”
“Ah. Practical.”
Step. Step. Step. Step.
“William.”
“Yes?”
“I was wrong.”
“Wrong?”
“About Spring Heeled Jack. Didn't believe you.”
“Nor did anybody else.”
“But you were right. He was at Victoria's assassination.”
“Yes, he was.”
“Will you forgive me? Misjudged you.”
“Already done, old fellow. Some considerable time ago.”
“When we get back, there's something I'd like.”
“What?”
“You and Mrs. Trounce. Come over. Have tea with Vera and me. In the garden.”
“We'd be honoured.”
“Maybe the gladioli will be out.”
“That'll be nice.”
“Ahoy there!” Swinburne shouted. “I see palms!”
“The oasis,” Burton said.
“Praise be!” Krishnamurthy gasped.
“Arse!” Pox squawked.
They climbed up to the poet and stopped beside him. He pointed at a distant strip of blinding light. They squinted and saw through their lashes and keffiyehs that it was dotted with wavering palm trees.
“Please, Captain Burton, don't tell us that's a mirage!” Sister Raghavendra said.
“No,” Burton responded. “That's real enough. It's just where it ought to be. Let's push on.”
They each took a gulp of water from their flasks, then returned to the hard work of placing one foot in front of the other, on and on and on, not daring to look up in case the oasis was farther away than they hoped.
Step. Step. Step. Step.
Another hour passed and the temperature soared, sucking away what little strength remained in them.
Then, suddenly, they were in shade, green vegetation closed around them, and when they finally raised their eyes, they saw a long, narrow lake just a few yards ahead.
“Thank goodness!” Isabella Mayson exclaimed, sinking to the ground. “Let
me catch my breath, then I'll prepare some food while you gentlemen put up an awning.”
Forty minutes later, they were tucking into a meal of preserved sausages and bread and pickles, which they washed down with fresh water and a glass each of red wine—an indulgence Swinburne had insisted on bringing, despite Burton's directive that they keep their loads as light as possible.
They sighed and lay down.
“My feet have never ached so much,” Trounce observed. “Not even when I was a bobby on the beat.”
Herbert Spencer, sitting with his back against the bole of a palm tree, watched Pox flutter up into its leaves. The colourful bird hunkered down and went to sleep. The clockwork philosopher made a tooting sound that might have been a sigh. “For all your complaints, Mr. Trounce,” he said, “at least you can enjoy the satisfaction of a good meal. All I ever get these days is a touch of oil applied to me cogs 'n' springs, an' that always gives me indigestion.”
Trounce replied with a long, drawn-out snore, then rolled onto his side and fell silent.
Peace settled over the camp, and into it, Swinburne said softly:
“Here life has death for neighbour,
And far from eye or ear
Wan waves and wet winds labour,
Weak ships and spirits steer;
They drive adrift, and whither
They wot not who make thither;
But no such winds blow hither,
And no such things grow here.”
“That's beautiful, Mr. Swinburne,” Sister Raghavendra whispered.
The sun climbed and the heat intensified.
Three hours passed.
They were too tired to dream.
Herbert Spencer's polymethylene-wrapped canister-shaped head slowly turned until the three vertical circles of his face were directed at the king's agent. He watched the sleeping man for many minutes. Very quietly, the pipes on his head wheezed, “Time, Boss, is that which a man is always trying to kill, but which ends in killing him.” Then he looked away and sibilated, “But for us, only equivalence can lead to destruction—or transcendence.”
He sat, motionless.
“Wake up! Wake up! We're attacked!”
Herbert Spencer's trumpeting shocked them all out of their sleep.
“We're attacked! We're attacked!”
“What the devil—?” Trounce gasped, staggering to his feet.
“Grab your rifle,” Burton snapped. “Be sharp and arm to defend the camp!”
He winced, realising that he'd uttered the very same words back in '55 at Berbera; the day a spear had transfixed his face; the day his friend William Stroyan had been killed; the day John Speke had begun to hate him.
There was a thud, and Trounce went down.
A wild-looking man stepped over him and jabbed the butt of a matchlock at Burton's head. The king's agent deflected it with his forearm, lunged in, and buried his fist in his assailant's stomach.
From behind, an arm closed around the explorer's neck and the point of a dagger touched his face just below the right eye.
“Remain very still,” a voice snarled in his ear. Burton recognised the language as Balochi—a mix of Persian and Kurdish.
He froze, tense in the man's grip, and watched as brigands rounded up his companions. They were big men with intimidating beards and flowing robes, wide blue pantaloons, and colourful sashes around their waists. They were armed with matchlocks, daggers, swords, and shields.
Herbert Spencer—who they obviously regarded as some sort of exotic animal—was surrounded and roped. With his enormous strength, he yanked his captors this way and that, throwing them off their feet, until one of the bandits raised a gun and fired a shot at him, at which point Burton, afraid that his friend would be damaged, called, “Stop struggling, Herbert!”
The brass man became still, and his attackers wound him around and around with the ropes then bound him to a tree trunk.
“Goat ticklers!” Pox screeched from somewhere overhead.
Burton was dragged over to the others. The two women were pulled aside, and, with their arms held tightly behind their backs, were forced to watch as the men were lined up and pushed to their knees.
“I say!” Swinburne screeched. “What the dickens do you think you're playing at? Unhand me at once, you scoundrels!”
A heavily built warrior strode over. He sneered down at the diminutive poet and spat: “Kafir!”
“Bless you!” the poet replied. “Do you not have a handkerchief?”
The big man cast his eyes from Swinburne to Honesty, then to Trounce, Burton, and Krishnamurthy.
“Who leads?” he demanded.
“I do,” said Burton, in Balochi.
The man moved to stand in front of him.
“Thou has knowledge of my language?”
“Aye, and I say to thee that there be no majesty and there be no might save in Allah, the Glorious, the Great, and in his name we ask for thy mercy and thy assistance, for we have suffered severe misfortune and have a long journey before us.”
The Baloch threw his head back and loosed a roar of laughter. He squatted and looked into Burton's eyes.
“Thou speakest very prettily, Scar Face. I am Jemadar Darwaas. I lead the Disciples of Ramman. Who art thou?”
“Some call me Abdullah the Dervish.”
“Is that so?” Darwaas pointed at Herbert Spencer. “And what is that?”
“It is a man of brass. A machine in which a human spirit is housed.”
“So! A whole man in a whole mechanism this time! Like Aladdin's djan?”
“Like that, aye. He is concealed within material that protects him from the sand, for if grains of it got into him, he would die.”
While he spoke, Burton took stock of the men into whose clutches his expedition had fallen. He judged there to be about sixty of them—all hardened desert warriors—marauders from Belochistan a thousand miles to the northeast.
“Thou art a storyteller, Abdullah.”
“I speak the truth.”
“Then I would cut through the material and look upon this miraculous brass man of thine.”
“In doing so, thou shall kill him,” Burton advised, “and what would he then be worth?”
Jemadar Darwaas grinned through his beard. “Ah,” he said. “Now, O Abdullah, thou art truly speaking my language! He has value, eh?”
“The British government would pay a substantial ransom for him, and for these others, too,” Burton said, indicating his companions with a jerk of his head. “Especially for the women, if they are unharmed.”
Darwaas grunted. He drew his dagger and held it up, examining its sharp point. His eyes flicked from the blade to Burton's dark eyes. With a fluid motion, he stood, paced away, and began to speak in low tones with a group of his men.
William Trounce leaned close to Burton and whispered, “What was all that about?”
“I'm trying to talk him into holding us for ransom.”
“Why do that?”
“Because it'll buy us some time,” the king's agent replied.
Less than half an hour later, the brigands finished setting up their camp on the edge of the oasis, and the two women were taken to it and placed in a guarded tent.
Darwaas returned to the remaining captives, drew his scimitar, and levelled the point at Burton's face. “Thy people will be held until the British consul in Jeddah pays for their release,” he said. “But thee, Abdullah the Dervish, thee I shall fight.”
“Fight? For what purpose?”
“For no purpose other than I desire it.”
The Jemadar ordered his men to clear a circular area. The prisoners were dragged to its boundary and the bandits gathered around. Burton was yanked up and pushed forward. A warrior threw down a scimitar. It landed at the explorer's feet, and he bent, picked it up, and noted that it was a well-balanced blade.
Sir Richard Francis Burton was a master swordsman, but he much preferred fighting with a point than with an edge. The point deman
ded skill and finesse; the edge required mainly strength, speed, and brutality, though there were also a few techniques associated with it, in which, fortunately, he was well schooled.
He held the blade, narrowed his eyes at his opponent, and sighed.
Before leaving the wreck of the Orpheus, he'd attached to his belt a leather holster, and in that holster there was a very odd-looking pistol. It was green and organic—actually a eugenically altered cactus—and it fired venomous spines that could knock a man unconscious in an instant. His captives had not removed it, and he wished he could draw it now, for he would far prefer to render the leader of the Disciples of Ramman senseless than to hack at him with a blade. Sword cuts, unless they were to the head, neck, or stomach, very rarely killed quickly. Instead, they condemned the victim to hours—even days—of excruciating agony, often followed by infection and a lingering death. He knew, however, that the moment he went for his gun, matchlocks would be jerked up and fired at him.
Jemadar Darwaas stepped closer and brandished his scimitar. “How didst thou come by that scar on thy face, Abdullah?” he asked.
“A spear,” Burton responded. “Thrust by an Abyssinian.”
“Didst thou kill him?”
“No.”
“That was a mistake. My people say: ‘When thy enemies attack—’”
“'—bathe in their blood,'” Burton finished.
“Ha! Thy knowledge is impressive. Hast thou lived among Allah's children?”
“I am Hajji.”
“What? A pilgrim? A believer? I did not know. Now I shall honour thee doubly after I have spilled thy guts.”
Darwaas suddenly lunged forward and swung his sword at Burton's head. The king's agent deflected it with ease and slashed back at his opponent, slicing through the front of Darwaas's robe. The Baloch jumped back and exclaimed, “Thou art practised with the sword, then?”
“Aye,” said Burton, circling slowly. “And these are designed for fighting from horseback, not for face-to-face combat. Nevertheless, there are tactics that a man can employ with them when on foot. For example—” He paced forward, ducked, and, balancing on one heel, whipped around in a full circle, using his momentum to sweep his scimitar upward at a twenty-degree angle. Darwaas barely had time to react, only just managing to place his weapon between himself and Burton's blade, and when the two scimitars clanged together, his own was forced back hard against him, sending him staggering.