“Apparently,” Stanley continued, “she considers you an ideal candidate for the consulship of Damascus, and is of the opinion that only an idiot would pass you up for the job.”
“She—she said that?”
“It was implied. Do I look like an idiot to you?”
“No, sir. Not at all.”
“Good. I’m relieved. I can trust my own judgement, then?”
“I’m sorry. I had no idea—”
Stanley’s stern countenance softened somewhat. “No, of course not. You were in Africa. But it has to stop. I’ll not be browbeaten by a woman.” The corners of his mouth twitched upward. “Excepting my own wife, of course; may God bless her and have mercy on my soul.”
“I’ll have words with Miss Arundell.”
“See that you do.”
“On another matter, sir—”
“Yes?”
“I have a great deal of information for you regarding the disposition and resources of the Lake Regions.”
“Good man. In reports? Properly written up?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent. Have them delivered to my cabin. I’ll pass them directly to the prime minister when we reach London. Africa is one of those matters about which he prefers to form his own opinions before consulting with me. Your intended, I’m sorry to say, isn’t the only one who doubts my ability to make the right choices.”
Burton said, “Very well.”
“And enjoy the ceremony, Burton.”
“Ceremony?”
“At the palace. By George, don’t you know?”
“Know what, sir?”
“On Monday, Burton. You’re due at the palace. You are to receive a knighthood!”
At four-thirty that afternoon—it was Thursday the 1st of September, 1859—Captain Richard Burton, with his top hat in one hand and Oliphant’s cane in the other, stood beside Nathaniel Lawless on the bridge of HMA Orpheus and watched through a side window as the vessel’s rotors gouged a deep furrow through the top of a sickly yellow cloud. Ahead, four copper towers poked out of the pall, and beyond them, in the distance, the tips of factory chimneys and the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral were visible.
The sunlight, streaming from a clear blue sky, reflected glaringly from the four metal columns as the airship drew alongside them.
“Cut the engines, Mr. Wenham,” Lawless said to the helmsman. He turned to his chief engineer. “Out they go, Mr. Keen.”
“Aye, sir,” Keen replied. He lifted a speaking tube to his mouth and said, “All out!”
“Take us down, Mr. Wenham. As slow as you like.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Lawless said to Burton, “Just like they did in Africa, our riggers and engineers are now dangling at the end of chains outside the ship, and Mr. Wenham is venting gas from the dirigible, so we’ll sink very gradually. This time, though, the men outside won’t have to peg us down themselves—the station’s ground crew will be on hand to assist with trolley-mounted windlasses. The chains will be attached and wound in, hauling us down until we’re secured, and you’ll then be able to set foot on British soil again.”
The bridge suddenly turned gloomy as the fog swallowed the Orpheus.
Ten minutes later, the airship settled in the Royal Navy Air Service Station beside Battersea Power Station, the latter being the well-guarded headquarters of the Department of Guided Science.
The pride of the British fleet was home.
Lawless accompanied Burton down to the main doors, where Sister Raghavendra and Doctor Quaint joined them. They stood and watched as crew unbolted the big hatches and slid them aside before lowering the ship’s ramp. Fog rolled in. Lawless coughed.
Outside, two steam-horses—like miniature tall-funnelled versions of the famous Stephenson’s Rocket—emerged from the murk, pulling a large armour-plated six-wheeled carriage behind them. They drew up to the base of the ramp.
Lawless nodded at Quaint, who turned on his heel and hurried away, only to return moments later with Prince Albert, Lord Stanley, and Lord Elgin.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” the prince said. Stanley and Elgin nodded their gratitude. The three descended the ramp and climbed into the vehicle. The steam-horses belched smoke from their funnels, jerked into motion, and dragged the carriage back into the cloud.
Burton squinted into the pea-souper.
“Well,” he said, pushing his top hat onto his head and leaning on the panther-headed cane. “It’s nice to see London again.”
“I can’t remember it ever being this bad,” Raghavendra remarked.
“And it stinks to high heaven,” Lawless observed. “I fear we must re-adjust ourselves after being spoilt by the beauty and purity of Africa.”
Burton snorted. “So says the man who enjoyed the luxurious facilities of his ship while Sadhvi, William, George, and I were struggling through methane-bubbling swamps with crocodiles trying to eat us and mosquitoes sucking our blood.”
“Point taken. Is that someone approaching?” Lawless jerked his chin toward a shadowy figure that, as they watched, detached itself from the fog and started up toward them.
“Ahoy there, Orpheus!” a voice called. “Welcome back to the civilised world!”
“Sir Roderick!” Burton exclaimed and strode forward to meet the man, clasping hands with him halfway along the ramp.
Sir Roderick Murchison, president of the Royal Geographical Society, was a tall and slender individual whose rigid demeanour belied the warmth of his personality. “Well done, Burton!” he effused. “Well done! You’ve placed a jewel in the crown of the RGS! The Nile is cracked at last!” He slapped Burton’s shoulder. “We lost track of you last night—apparently that extraordinary aurora borealis has disabled telegraph systems the world over—but I knew the ship was due this afternoon, so braved the funk to meet you. The rest of our fellows are waiting at the Society. No doubt you’re looking forward to the comforts of home, but you’ll attend a little reception first, yes?”
“Of course, Sir Roderick, I’d be delighted.”
“Good show, old boy! I say, though, you look perfectly rotten. Are you ill?”
“A touch of fever. Nothing I can’t cope with.”
Murchison peered past Burton, uttered a cry of pleasure, then hurried up to the airship’s door—the explorer followed behind—and took Sister Raghavendra’s hand. “My dear, dear young lady! May I be the first to congratulate you? You are absolutely the talk of the town. And I’m delighted to tell you that, as a mark of respect for your astounding contribution to Captain Burton’s expedition, the Society has seen fit to lift its ban on women. You are a member, Sister! What! What! A member! The vote was unanimous!”
“Thank you, Sir Roderick,” she answered, with a slight bob. “That’s splendid news. Simply splendid! A woman member! My goodness! I am honoured!”
“Captain!” Murchison said, turning his attention to Lawless. “You and your gallant crew will be granted honorary membership, of course. You are heroes to a man. The RGS holds you all in the highest regard. There will be medals issued by the palace, I guarantee it.”
Lawless smiled and gave an appreciative nod.
“Where is Lieutenant Stroyan?” Murchison asked.
Burton responded, “I’m sorry to have to tell you, sir, that he was killed last night.”
Murchison slumped. “No! By God! No! An accident?”
“Murder. Lord Elgin’s private secretary, Oliphant, went insane and cut his throat.”
Murchison slapped a hand to his forehead. “Oh my! Oh my! Insane, you say? Oh, poor William! He was a splendid fellow. I shall have to talk to him. I’ll give him a chance to settle, obviously, but I must offer my condolences, ask whether he has any messages for those he’s left behind.”
Burton couldn’t help himself. His lip curled in disdain. “If you wish it, sir.”
“It’s my duty, old chap. The dead must be eased into the Afterlife, and as a murder victim Stroyan is no doubt confused and disoriented. A fa
miliar voice will soothe him during his difficult transition.”
Burton shrugged non-committally.
Murchison pondered for a moment, then perked up, clapped his hands, and announced, “Shall we be off? Captain Lawless, will you and your crew join us? Should I summon more carriages?”
Lawless shook his head. “Thank you, but we must pass up the invitation, Sir Roderick. I have to summon the police to fetch Mr. Oliphant, and there is much to do aboard ship. We’ll be flying up to the RNA Service Station in Yorkshire next week for a refit and will begin preparations immediately.” He turned to the others. “Captain Burton, Sister Raghavendra, your luggage will be delivered to your homes within the next couple of days.”
Murchison said, “Very well. I shall see you on Monday, then. Medals, Captain! Medals! And well earned!”
Burton and Raghavendra said their farewells to Lawless then Murchison hustled them down the ramp, across the landing field, and into a waiting steam-horse-drawn growler.
“Back the way we came, please, driver!” Murchison called up to the massively built individual on the box seat.
“All the way to the Royal Geological Society, sir?”
“Geographical. Yes, all the way there. Fifteen Whitehall Place.”
“Right you are. Geographical, as what I said. Hall aboard? Hoff we bloomin’ well go! Gee-up!”
As the conveyance lurched into motion, Murchison said to Burton and Raghavendra, “Incidentally, I have good news. Last month, the RGS was officially sanctioned. The king, in recognition of your discovery, issued us with a royal charter. We are establishment now.”
Burton put his hand up to his beard and slowly dragged his fingers through it. “A royal charter, you say? You didn’t attempt to inform us of that by telegraph last night, did you?”
“No. Why would I when it was just a matter of hours before your arrival? Besides, as I mentioned, the whole telegraph system has been crippled since midnight.”
Burton grunted. “Hmm! Peculiar. Our own telegraph went off the rails and churned out a lot of gibberish. There were a few English words mixed in with it—‘royal charter’ being two of them. Quite a coincidence.”
“Stroyan,” Murchison said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Stroyan. He was trying to get through from the Other Side. They say all past and future knowledge is available in the Afterlife. William obviously saw that the king has endorsed our organisation and, through means of the dysfunctional telegraph, tried to tell you.”
“If I may,” Sister Raghavendra interrupted, “I don’t wish to diminish the significance of the royal charter, Sir Roderick, but surely where matters of life, death, and the Afterlife are concerned, it’s a comparatively trivial matter? Surely, if William’s spirit were to contact us, it would have something more substantial to communicate?”
Murchison crossed his arms. “It was merely conjecture. Should I assume, then, Sister, that you’ve adopted Captain Burton’s skepticism where the Afterlife is concerned?”
“I remain open-minded.”
Murchison acknowledged her statement with a hum then addressed Burton. “But you’ve returned from Africa with your objections intact, I suppose?”
“As before, I neither support nor denounce the idea,” Burton replied. “Whether there is an Afterlife or not, I simply do not know, and since I exist in the material world, nor do I need to know. What I oppose is the undue influence in our society of spiritualists who claim to convey messages to us from the departed. In the event that the mediums aren’t all charlatans and the communiques are real, I have to ask, what motivates the dead to make the effort? Why are their messages so frequently abstruse? What is their agenda? No, Sir Roderick, I’ll not have it. My life is my own and Death will come in due course, but until it does, I’ll avoid the Afterlife, will make my own decisions, and will brook no meddling from Beyond.”
The three of them grabbed at hand straps to steady themselves as the growler navigated a corner.
“As a non-believer, you are in the minority,” Murchison observed.
“Quite so. The majority succumb to blind hope and allow it to compromise their intellect.”
“You have no hope?”
“I am realistic. My mind dwells on the lessons of the past and the challenges of the present, not on the unknowable future.”
“Ah ha! So you dismiss prognosticators as well as mediums?”
“Of course. They are obviously fraudsters.”
Sister Raghavendra patted Burton’s arm and said to Murchison, “In expressing his views, Captain Burton is never backward in coming forward. We had many discussions of a philosophical nature during our safari. After each one, I felt as if I’d been savaged by a jungle cat.”
“I fear for Miss Arundell,” Murchison mused. “Has she any lion-taming skills, Burton?”
The explorer gave a slight smile. “Isabel believes she’ll eventually beat me into submission with her ferocious Catholicism.”
Murchison shook his head despairingly. “Of all the people to marry into the country’s most influential Catholic family, I’d never have predicted it to be you. How do her parents feel about welcoming a stubborn and outspoken atheist into their clan?”
“When she told them, her mother became hysterical and fainted and her father vowed to shoot me. She’s had a year to work on them. Perhaps they’ve calmed down.” Burton coughed and moved his tongue around in his mouth. “Really, can this awful stink possibly get any worse?” He fished a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to his nose.
“We’re next to the Thames,” Murchison said. “This time last year, the stench was so bad they had to abandon parliament. Thank heavens for Bazalgette!”
“Who is he?”
“Joseph Bazalgette—a freshly emerged luminary among the DOGS. His designs for an advanced sewer system were approved a few weeks after your departure and he got to work immediately. The city has been in upheaval, but there’s not a single citizen who isn’t happy to put up with the nuisance of it in the knowledge that, when the tunnels are completed, the air will be breathable and the roads clean. Actually, Burton, you timed your expedition well.”
“How so?”
“There’s a subterranean river—the Tyburn—that flows through your part of town, under Baker Street, Marylebone, and Mayfair, beneath Buckingham Palace, on through Pimlico, and into the Thames slightly to the west of Vauxhall Bridge. Bazalgette has incorporated it into his system. It was one of the first parts to be constructed, so for many weeks the district where you live was badly disrupted. You avoided much inconvenience.”
“It’s finished now?”
“That part of it, yes. The Tyburn now runs into one of the system’s main arteries—the Northern Low-Level Sewer—which, when complete, will extend all the way from Hackney in the west to Beckton in the east, running parallel to the northern shore of the Thames. By God! You should see it, Burton! Such an undertaking! It’s the Strand that’s suffering at the moment—and its theatres and hotels are vociferous in their complaints, as you’d expect—but Bazalgette works like a demon. It won’t be long before that part of the city returns to normal while he ploughs onward into the Cauldron.”
“Gracious!” Raghavendra exclaimed. “He’s going into the East End? Isn’t that awfully dangerous?”
Her concern was justified. London’s East End was the city’s poorest, meanest, and filthiest district. A labyrinth of narrow alleyways, bordered by decrepit and overcrowded tenements, overflowing with raw sewage and rubbish of every description, it bred disease and despair in equal measure. The destitute lived amid the squalor in vast numbers and were vicious to such a degree that the police wouldn’t go near them. Disraeli had famously referred to the area as “a country within our country, and a damned wicked one at that.” When asked how to best solve the problem, he’d replied, “With fire.”
Murchison nodded. “Of course, but even criminals and ne’er-do-wells can see the advantage of having their effluenc
e flushed away. The gangs that operate there have guaranteed that Bazalgette’s people will be protected and treated well.”
“Will wonders never cease?” Burton murmured. His eyes started to water. He took slow and shallow breaths.
Murchison smiled. “You’ll adjust, old boy. You’ll need to. To a lesser degree, this stench currently pervades all of London north of the Thames.”
“Why so?”
“Because until the principal west-to-east artery is finished, all the smaller tunnels running into it, flowing from north to south—the Tyburn included—have had their flow tightly restricted by a sequence of sluice gates. The muck is backing up, and it may well rise into the streets before it can be released into the completed system.”
“And south of the river?” Raghavendra asked.
“Tunnels are still being constructed to carry the effluence into the Thames. When they’re done, another big west-to-east intercepting tunnel will be constructed, parallel to the river’s south bank.”
“Incredible,” Burton said. “A monumental task!”
“Quite so. Bazalgette is a miracle worker.”
Sister Raghavendra, who appeared less affected by the stink, asked, “And what other progress has been made by the Department of Guided Science, Sir Roderick? Its inventors are so prolific, I fully expect London to be unrecognisable to me once this fog clears.”
“Steam spheres,” the geographer answered.
“And what are they?”
“Horseless carriages—large ball-shaped machines with a moving track running vertically from front to back across the circumference, giving motive power. They are two-man vehicles. Not much good for the city streets—which are too crowded—but excellent for a run in the country.”
The growler swayed and bumped. They heard the driver shout something insulting, probably to someone who’d blocked their path.
“And submarine boats,” Murchison continued.
“Vessels that travel beneath the surface of the sea?” Raghavendra guessed.
“Exactly so.”
“My goodness. Whatever for?”
“The DOGS have but a single bark, my dear: Because they can!”