Mark Hodder - Expedition to the Mountains of the Moon

Swinburne hollered, “This is atrocious, Richard! Why has our Navy not stopped it?”

“They can't be everywhere at once,” the king's agent replied. “For all our successes on the west coast of Africa, here in the east the miserable trade continues.”

The poet, gesticulating wildly in his frustration, made a move toward the slaves but was held back by his friend, who said, “Don't be a fool, Algy. More than forty thousand slaves pass through Zanzibar every year-you'll not change anything by causing trouble for us now.”

Swinburne watched miserably as the captive men and women were herded past like animals, and he was uncharacteristically silent for a considerable time afterward.

Said led them into the main street leading up to the palace.

As they neared the blocky, high-windowed edifice, Thomas Honesty remarked on the tall purple clouds that had suddenly boiled up in the southeastern sky.

“It's the Msika,” Burton told him. “The greater rain. This is the worst season to commence an expedition, but it lasts for two months and we can't delay.”

“We're English,” Honesty said, in his usual jerky manner. “Conditioned to rain.”

“Not such as Africa has to offer, old thing. You'll see.”

The palace, when they came to it, looked little better than a barracks. Roofed with mouldering red tiles, it was double-storied, square, and unencumbered by adornment.

They were ushered through the big entrance doors into a pleasant vestibule, then up a staircase and into a parlour. Said left them for a few moments before returning to announce that the prince was ready to receive them. The four men were then escorted into a long and narrow room, furnished with silk hangings, divans, tables, lamps, a plethora of cushions, and with colourful birds singing in its rafters.

Prince Sayyid Majid greeted them in the European manner, with a hearty handshake for each. He was a young man, thin, and possessed of a pleasant though terribly pockmarked countenance.

They sat with him on the floor, around a low table, and waited while two slaves served sweetmeats, biscuits, and glasses of sherbet.

“It pleases me to see thee again, Captain Burton,” the prince intoned, in high-spoken Arabic.

Burton bowed his head, and employing the same language replied, “Much time has passed, O Prince. Thou wert little more than a child when I last visited the island. It pained me to hear of thy father's death.”

“He taught me much and I think of him every day. May Allah grant that I never disgrace his name. I intend to continue his efforts to improve the island. Already I have cleared more land for shambas -plantations.”

“And of thy father's intention to end the slave trade, O Prince-hast thou made progress in this?”

Sayyid Majid took a sip of his sherbet, then frowned. “There is one who opposes me-a man named el Murgebi, though most know him as Tippu Tip. His caravans penetrate far into the interior and he brings back many slaves. This man has become rich and powerful, and I can do little against him, for his supporters outnumber my own. Nevertheless-” The prince sighed and touched his nose with his right forefinger-a gesture Burton knew meant It is my obligation.

They talked a little more of the island's politics, until, after a few minutes, the prince revealed: “A very large force of Europeans has made its base on the mainland, Captain, in the village of Mzizima, directly south of here. Thy friend, Lieutenant Speke, was among them.”

“He's no longer a friend of mine,” Burton declared.

“Ah. Friendship is like a glass ornament; once it is broken, it can rarely be put back together the same way. I believe the men are of the Almaniya race.”

“Germanic? Yes, I think that likely. Thou sayest Speke was with them? Is he no longer?”

“He and a number of men left Mzizima and are currently moving toward the central territories.”

“Then I must follow them at the earliest opportunity.”

The prince sighed. “The rains will make that difficult, and it pains me to tell thee, Captain, but also, thou hast been betrayed by Consul Rigby.”

Burton's hands curled into fists.

The prince continued, “The British government shipped supplies here some weeks ago and instructed him to hire Wanyamwezi porters to transport them to the Dut'humi Hills, where they were to await thy arrival. The supplies consisted of trading goods-bales of cotton, rolls of brass wire, beads, the usual things-plus food, instruments, weapons and ammunition, and two of the spider machines-they are called harvestmen?”

“Yes.”

“The men were never hired, and the goods never transported. A month ago, when the Almaniyas arrived, the consul handed the supplies over to them.”

“Bismillah! The traitorous hound! Ever has Rigby sought to stand in my way, but I tell thee, Prince Sayyid, this time he hath defied those to whom he owes his position. This will ruin him.”

“Aye, Captain, mayhap. But that is for the future. For now, we must put our energy into overcoming the obstacles this man hath set in thy path. To that end, I offer my resources. Tell me what I can do.”

Over the next hour, Burton and the prince made plans, with the king's agent occasionally breaking off to translate for his companions.

By mid-afternoon, they all had tasks assigned to them. Honesty and Krishnamurthy headed back to the Elphinstone to join Herbert Spencer, Isabella Mayson, and Sadhvi Raghavendra in overseeing the transfer of the expedition's supplies and equipment to a corvette named Artemis. William Trounce, Isabel Arundell, and her followers were taken by Said bin Salim to the prince's country ranch, there to select horses from his extensive stud, which, in the morning, they'd ship over to the mainland aboard a cargo carrier, the Ann Lacey.

Sir Richard Francis Burton and Algernon Swinburne, meanwhile, paid a visit to the British Consulate.

It was nine o'clock in the evening by the time they left the prince's palace. The rain had just ceased and the town was dripping. The filth, rather than being washed away, had merely been rearranged.

The king's agent and his assistant picked their way cautiously through foul alleyways until they arrived at their destination. Its gates, to their surprise, were open and unguarded. They passed through, crossed the small courtyard, and pushed open the entrance doors. The building was unlit and silent.

“This isn't right,” Burton whispered.

“Does Rigby live here?” Swinburne asked.

“Yes, in the upstairs apartments, but let's check his office first.”

The ground floor consisted of the entrance hall, a waiting room, a sparsely furnished parlour, a records office and a clerks' office, a library, and the main consulting room. All were empty and dark.

In the library, Burton, upon detecting a faint rustling, drew out his clockwork lantern, shook it open, wound it, and cast its light around.

The bookshelves were teeming with ants and termites.

“My hat!” Swinburne exclaimed. “What an infestation! What on earth has attracted them, Richard?”

“I don't know, but this is certainly excessive, even for Africa.”

They moved back into the entrance hall and started up the stairs. Halfway up there was a small landing, where the steps made a turn to the right. The body of a man lay at an awkward angle upon it. Burton held his lantern over the face. He could see from the man's physiognomy that his skin would have been black in life; in death, it was a horrible ashen grey and had shrunk against the bones beneath. The lips had pulled back, exposing all the teeth, and the eyes had withdrawn to the back of the sockets.

The king's agent reached down and pressed a finger against the face.