Mark Hodder - Expedition to the Mountains of the Moon

Burton looked up at her just as a bullet tore through a fold in her Bedouin robes, missing her flesh by less than an inch. She turned in her saddle, levelled her revolver, and fired six shots back into the camp.

“Move, damn it!” she yelled.

Burton snapped back into action. Three paces took him beneath the harvestman. He jumped up, gripped the net, and clambered onto it.

“Go, William!” Isabel shouted. “As fast as possible! Don't stop and don't look back! We'll keep the Prussians occupied for as long as we can.”

“Isabel-” Burton began, but she cut him off: “We'll catch up with your expedition later. Get going!”

She reared her horse around, and, as she sent it plunging down the slope, she pulled a spear from over her shoulder and jabbed its point into one of the plant vehicles.

Trounce pulled back on a lever, his harvestman coughed and sent out a plume of steam, then went striding into the night with Burton swinging underneath.

“Bloody hell!” the explorer muttered to himself. “That woman has the strength of an ox and the courage of a lion!”

William Trounce didn't stop the harvestman until he'd travelled half the distance back to the expedition's campsite. There'd been no pursuit. Distant gunshots peppered the night.

He manoeuvred one of the spider's long legs inward until it was within Burton's reach. The king's agent climbed up it to the one-man cabin and sat on the edge of it with his legs inside and feet hooked under the seat.

“All right,” he said, and Trounce got the vehicle moving again.

It was slow going. The harvestman was far heavier than a horse, and the pointed ends of its legs frequently sank deep into the sodden earth. By the time they reached the sand spit, the sun had risen, the vegetation was dripping with dew, and the land was steaming.

The sandy clearing where they'd camped was empty.

“Good,” Burton said. “They're on their way. Maybe we can catch up with them before they reach Nzasa.”

Pox glided down and landed on Trounce's head.

“Hey there! Get off!” the Scotland Yard man protested. The bird ignored him.

“Message from Isabel Arundell. We're going to withdraw and recoup. Eleven of my women killed, three injured. We shall wage an idle-headed guerrilla campaign over the next few days to prevent them following you. We'll catch up presently. Travel safely, wobble-paunch! Message ends.”

“An idle-headed guerrilla campaign?” Trounce asked, in a puzzled tone.

“I think there's a parakeet insertion there,” Burton said.

“Oh. Can you get the bloody parrot off my head, please?”

“Message for Isabel Arundell,” Burton said. “My gratitude, but don't take risks. Disengage as soon as you can. Message ends.”

The parakeet squawked its acknowledgement and launched itself into the air.

With Burton navigating, Trounce steered the harvestman up the hill on the western side of the clearing. They travelled over sandy soil, thick with thorn bushes, and, after a succession of rolling hills, descended into rich parkland dotted with mangoes and other tall trees. The sun was climbing behind them. The morning steam evaporated and the air began to heat up.

A little later, Pox rejoined them.

They came to a swamp and waded the harvestman through it, scattering hippopotami from their path.

“This would have sent Speke into a frenzy,” Burton noted.

“What do you mean?”

“He's a huntsman through and through. He'll shoot at anything that moves and delights in killing. When we were out here in '57, he slaughtered more hippos than I could count.”

The giant mechanised arachnid pitched and swayed as it struggled through the stinking sludge, then it finally emerged onto more solid ground and began to move with greater speed.

A few beehive huts came into view, and the inhabitants, upon seeing the gigantic spider approaching, bolted.

Burton and Trounce crossed cultivated land, passed the village of Kuingani, which emptied rapidly, and proceeded onto broad grasslands flecked with small forests and freestanding baobab trees possessed of bulbous trunks and wind-flattened branches. It was here that Trounce saw his first truly wide African vista and he was astonished at the apparent purity of the land. Giraffes were moving in the distance to his right; two herds of antelope were grazing far off to his left; eagles hung almost motionless high in the sky; and on the horizon, a long, low chain of mountains stretched from north to south. This Eden should, perhaps, have been caressed by the freshest of breezes, but the atmosphere was heavy and stagnant and filled with aggressive insects. The backs of Trounce's hands, his forearms, and his neck were covered with bumps from their bites.

After a further two hours of travel, Burton pointed and exclaimed: “Look! I see them!”

There was a village ahead, and around it many people were gathered. Burton could tell by the loads he saw on the ground that it was his expedition.

“That little collection of huts is Bomani,” he told Trounce.

As the harvestman drew closer, the natives reacted as those before them had done and fled en masse.

“Well met!” Maneesh Krishnamurthy cried out as the harvestman came to a halt and squatted down with a blast of steam and a loud hiss. “They wanted all our tobacco in return for safe passage through their territory. You soon saw them off!”

“You've made good time,” Burton noted, jumping to the ground.

“Said had us packed and moving well before sunup,” Krishnamurthy revealed. “The man's a demon of efficiency.”

Burton turned to the Arab: “Hail to thee, Said bin Salim el Lamki, el Hinawi, and the blessings of Allah the Almighty upon thee. Thou hast fulfilled thy duties well.”

“Peace be upon thee, Captain Burton. By Allah's grace, our first steps have been favoured with good fortune. May it continue! Thou hast caught up with us earlier than anticipated.”

“Our mission did not take the time I expected. The Daughters of Al-Manat were ferocious and the Prussians barely looked in our direction. We were able to recover our supplies quickly. Are we fit to continue?”

“Aye.”

“Very well. Have the porters take up their loads.”

The ras kafilah bowed and moved away to prepare the safari for the next stage of the journey.

Burton spoke to Miss Mayson. “Swap places with William, Isabella. We'll take shifts in the harvester. It's more agreeable than a mule.”

The young woman smiled and shook her head. “To be honest, I'd rather stay with my flea-bitten animal. I'm better with beasts than with machines.”

“You're not uncomfortable?”

“Not at all. I feel positively liberated!”

It was Thomas Honesty who took over from Trounce in the end, for Sister Raghavendra also refused to give up her mount, preferring to ride alongside Swinburne's litter. The poet was awake but weak.

“My hat, Richard!” he said, faintly. “Was that really Christopher Rigby? What in blue blazes happened to him?”

“Count Zeppelin. I think he carries some sort of venom in his claws. Either he didn't pump much of it into Peter Pimlico or his talons were less well grown when he strangled him. Rigby, by contrast, received the full treatment.”

“And it turned him into a prickly bush?”

“Yes. It was a close call, Algy. What devils the Eugenicists have become!”

“Not just them,” Swinburne said, glancing at the harvestman. “If you ask me, all the sciences are out of control. I think my Libertine friends were right all along. We need to give more attention to the development of the human spirit before we tamper with the natural world.”

Herbert Spencer limped over to them. “Mr. Said says we're all set for the off.”