Mark Hodder - Expedition to the Mountains of the Moon

One of the men pointed to a nearby tent. Burton turned to Isabel's Amazons and said, “Take these men and make a chain gang of them. Then get to work liberating the slaves.”

The women looked for confirmation from Isabel. She gave them a nod, then she and Burton strode over to the tent, pushed aside its flap, and stepped in.

By the light of three oil lamps, they saw colourful rugs on the ground, a low table holding platters of food, and piles of cushions upon which sat a small half-African, half-Arabian individual. His teeth were gold, and though he appeared less than thirty years old, his beard was white. He raised his turbaned head and they noted that a milky film covered his eyes. He was blind.

“Who enters?” he asked in a reedy voice.

“Thy enemy,” Burton replied.

“Ah. Wilt thou take a sweet mint tea with me? I have been listening to the noise of battle. An exhausting business, is it not? Refreshment would be welcome, I expect.”

“No, Tippu Tip, I will not drink with thee. Stand up, please.”

“Am I to be executed?”

“No. There has been enough death this night.”

“Then what?”

“Come.”

Burton stepped forward, took the trader by the elbow, and marched him out of the tent and over to the chained-up slaves. Isabel followed and said nothing. Her women were busily releasing the four hundred captives, who, in a long line, were making their way toward the village.

As Burton had ordered, the five guards were now tethered together, with short chains running from iron collar to iron collar, and from ankle manacle to ankle manacle. Their hands were tied behind their backs. The king's agent positioned Tippu Tip at the front of the line and locked him in fetters, joining him to the chain gang but leaving his hands unbound. He then pulled the prisoners along, away from the crowd of slaves and out into the open field.

“What are you doing?” Isabel whispered.

“Administering justice,” he replied, and brought them to a halt. “Aim your matchlock at Tippu Tip, please, Isabel.”

“Am I to be a firing squad of one?”

“Only if he attempts to point this at us,” the king's agent responded, holding up a revolver. He placed it in the Arabian's hand and stepped away. The slaver's face bore an expression of bafflement.

“Listen carefully,” Burton said, addressing the prisoners. “You are facing east, toward Zanzibar. However, if you walk straight ahead, you will find yourselves among the villagers and slaves we have just liberated and they will surely tear you limb from limb. You should therefore turn to your left and walk some miles north before then turning again eastward. In the morning, the sun will guide you, but now it is night, a dangerous time to travel, for the lions hunt and the terrain is treacherous in the dark. I can do nothing to make the ground even, but I can at least give you some protection against predators. Thus, your leader holds a pistol loaded with six bullets. Unfortunately, he is blind, so you must advise him where to point it and when to pull the trigger to ward off anything that might threaten you, but be cautious, for those six bullets are the only ones you have. Perhaps if walking all the way to Zanzibar is too challenging a prospect for you-well, there are six bullets and there are six of you. Need I say more?”

“Surely thou cannot expect us to walk all the way to the coast in chains?” Tippu Tip protested.

“Didst thou not expect just that of thy captives?” Burton asked.

“But they are slaves!”

“They are men and women and children. Now, begin your journey, you have far to go.”

“Allah have mercy!” one of the men cried.

“Perhaps he will,” Burton said. “But I won't.”

The man at the back of the line wailed, “What shall we do, el Murgebi?”

“Walk, fool!” the slave trader barked.

The chain gang stumbled into motion and slowly moved away.

“Tippu Tip!” Burton called after it. “Beware of Abdullah the Dervish, for if I set mine eyes on thee again, I shall surely kill thee!”

No one slept that night.

The liberated slaves carried the dead Arabs and Prussians along the path and into the fields, leaving them in a distant corner, intending to dig a mass grave when daylight returned. A number of Isabel's women stood guard over the corpses to prevent scavengers getting to them. The Africans were too afraid to do the job, believing that vengeful spirits would rise up and attack them.

Of the four hundred slaves, most had been taken from villages much farther to the west. This turned out to be a blessing, for Burton's porters had been so terrified by the sounds of battle and proximity of slavers that they'd overpowered Said and his men and had melted away into the night. No doubt they were fleeing back the way the expedition had come. Fortunately, their fear had outweighed their avariciousness and they'd departed without stealing supplies. The released slaves agreed to replace the porters on the understanding that each man, as he neared his native village, would abandon the safari in order to return home. Burton calculated that this would at least cover the marches from Dut'humi to distant Ugogi.

The Arab camp was stripped of its supplies, which were added to Burton's own and stored in the village's bandani. Tippu Tip's mules were also appropriated.

A large fire was built and the plant vehicles were chopped up and thrown into the flames.

The Daughters of Al-Manat corralled their hundred and eight horses.

“We're starting to lose them to tsetse bites,” Isabel informed Burton. “Twelve, so far. These animals were bred in dry desert air. This climate is not good for them-it drains their resistance. Soon we'll be fighting on foot.”

“Fighting whom?”

“The Prussians won't give up, Dick. And remember, John Speke almost certainly has a detachment of them travelling with him.”

“Hmm. Led by Count Zeppelin, no doubt,” Burton muttered.

“He may be taking a different trail from us,” Isabel observed, “but at some point we're bound to clash.”

Swinburne bounded over, still overexcited, and moving as if he'd come down with a chronic case of St. Vitus's dance.

“My hat, Richard! I can't stop marvelling at it! We were outnumbered on both sides yet came out of it without a scratch, unless you count the five thousand three hundred and twenty-six that were inflicted by thorns and hungry insects!”

“You've counted them?” Isabel asked.

“My dear Al-Manat, it's a well-educated guess. I say, Richard, where the devil has Tom Honesty got to?”

Burton frowned. “He's not been seen?”

“Not by me, at least.”

“Algy, unpack some oil lamps, gather a few villagers, and search the vegetation over there-” He pointed to where he'd last seen the Scotland Yard man. “I hope I'm wrong, but he may have been hit.”

Swinburne raced off to organise the search party. Burton left Isabel and joined Trounce at the bandani. The detective was rummaging in a crate and pulling from it items of food, such as beef jerky and corn biscuits.

“I'm trying to find something decent for us to chow on,” he said. “I don't think the villagers will manage to feed everybody. I put Herbert over there. He still needs winding.”

Burton looked to where Trounce indicated and saw the clockwork man lying stiffly in the shadow of the woodpile. The king's agent suddenly reached out and gripped his friend's arm. “William! Who found him?”

“I did. He was in a hollow under a tree.”

“Like that?”

“Yes. What do you mean?”

“Look at him, man! He had Arabian robes covering his polymethylene suit. Where are they?”

“Perhaps they hindered his movement, so he took them off. Why is it important?”