Mark Hodder - Expedition to the Mountains of the Moon

It had been the only pleasant stage of the trek. All too soon, the ascents and descents became so steep that the mules had to be relieved of their loads before attempting them, and the watercourses in the valleys grew deeper and stronger and more perilous to cross.

The climate changed, too. As they gained altitude, the temperature swung from one extreme to the other. The nights were raw, the days bright and hot. But it was the damp mornings that had the most impact, for thick mist bubbled out of the mountains and drowned the valleys around them in a milky sea, out of which peaks rose like islands. Visually, it was stunning, but it chilled them to the bone.

While passing through this region, Trounce developed severe ulcerations on his legs; so painful that he couldn't walk or sit on a mule without suffering. So they carried him on a litter and Sister Raghavendra collected wild herbs and experimented with them until she found a combination that, when applied as a poultice, eased the pain and hastened the healing process.

There were other troubles.

The people of the region, the Wasagara, were recalcitrant and, on one occasion, hostile. Fortunately, despite shouting loudly and shooting arrows, they lacked courage and were bad marksmen. Rifle fire, aimed over their heads, was enough to discourage them.

As always, the terrain did far more harm than its inhabitants. Four mules and five horses died, one porter broke his leg, and another fell to his death.

Equipment was damaged by mildew and rust. Food and clothes rotted.

And, of course, there were insects: biting, stinging, scratching, wriggling, tickling, burrowing, and bloodsucking insects. The travellers felt they were being eaten alive.

They struggled through it, crossed the mountains, and arrived at Ugogi on the other side.

The village, being the first port of call after the Usagara Range and the last before the dry lands, was a favourite stopping point for caravans, and had thus developed into a prosperous trading centre, which the slavers left untouched. Because it was 2,750 feet above sea level, it enjoyed a comfortable heat and refreshing breezes, and its surrounding hills were rich in cattle, and its plains in grain.

Ugogi's people welcomed the expedition. Partridge and guinea fowl were pushed into cooking pots and a feast was prepared. There was drumming and dancing and laughter. There was pombe.

Burton announced that they would rest in the village for three days before embarking on the four-day march across the western wilderness.

That first evening, with distended bellies and befuddled senses, everyone stumbled to their beds apart from Swinburne and Trounce, who decided to lie beneath the calabash, share a couple more jars of pombe , and gaze at the Milky Way-and Herbert Spencer, whose belly couldn't distend, much to his evident disappointment, and whose senses were powered by clockwork.

The brass man returned to his tent to work on the final chapters of his First Principles of Philosophy . His parting words were: “I'm feeling a little bilious, anyway, gents.”

An oil lamp hung from a branch above Swinburne and Trounce. Mosquitoes danced around the light and big ugly moths regularly threw themselves violently into the glass.

“I bloody hate Africa!” Trounce proclaimed, with the trace of a slur. “Except for Ugogi. I bloody love Ugogi. What's your opinion, Algernon?”

“My opinion, my dear Detective Inspector William Ernest Pouncer Trounce, is that you are drinking far more than your fair share. Pass that jar back at once or I shall report to the witch doctor that you covet his wife!”

“Has he got a wife?”

“I don't know.”

“Is there even a witch doctor?”

“Confound your deductive abilities! Give me the beer!”

Trounce handed over the jar.

Swinburne drank deeply, gave a satisfied sigh, and looked up at the branches.

“How did so many stars get tangled up in the tree, I wonder?”

“They're not stars, you ass. They're glowworms.”

“I absolutely refuse to believe your perfectly logical explanation. Mine is far more poetical and therefore speaks of a greater truth.”

Trounce grunted. “The greater truth being that you're three sheets to the wind, lad.”

Swinburne blew a raspberry.

They lapsed into silence for a few minutes. A mongoose chirruped somewhere in the near distance. Farther away, something hooted mournfully. Swinburne hooted back at it.

“Seventeen,” Trounce said.

“Seventeen what?”

“Mosquito bites on my right forearm.”

“Ah, but look at this,” Swinburne replied. He stuck his left leg into the air and pulled back the trouser leg. His ankle was swollen and the skin was dark and puckered around two small puncture marks. “Snake,” he said. “Poisonous, too. That had Sadhvi going, I can tell you! She flapped about like a goose down a chimney before settling on the appropriate miracle cure!”

“Humph!” Trounce responded. He sat up, shifted until his back was to the poet, then yanked up his shirt. There was what appeared to be a bullet hole just above the small of his back.

“How about that, then? Hornet sting. Got infected. Worse than being stabbed with a stiletto.”

Swinburne unbuttoned his own shirt and displayed his left armpit. Just below it, a cluster of nasty-looking swellings decorated his ribs.

“Boils,” he revealed. “I shan't elaborate.”

Trounce winced, then said, “You'll not beat this.” He reached up, pressed his right nostril closed, and blew a hard breath out through the left. One of his ears emitted a startlingly loud whistle.

The unidentified animal hooted a reply from the darkness.

“My hat!” Swinburne exclaimed. “What's caused that?”

“I haven't a notion. It first did it when I blew my nose a few days ago, and it's been doing it ever since!”

The poet lifted the jar and gulped more beer. “Very well,” he said, and wobbled to his feet. He stood swaying for a moment, then undid his belt, dropped his trousers, and showed the Scotland Yard man his pale white buttocks, which shone in the lamplight like the full moon. They appeared to be zebra-striped.

“Ye gods!” Trounce gasped.

“Three days ago,” Swinburne slurred. “My mule was getting obstinate in one of the swamps. Said took a mighty swipe at it with that bakur of his, but, just as he lashed out, the blessed animal's hind legs suddenly sank about three feet down. I was sent sliding backward and received the cat myself!”

“Ouch! Did it hurt?”

“Deliciously!”

“You,” said Trounce, reaching for the pombe , “are a very curious young man, Algernon.”

“Thank you.”

A few more minutes of quiet were suddenly broken by a loud gurgling rumble, which echoed across the village.

“Elephant,” Trounce murmured.

“Thank goodness,” Swinburne replied. “I thought it was you.”

Trounce responded with a snore, which, as it happened, was a fair challenge to the nearby pachyderm.

Swinburne lay back down and considered the heavens. He reached into his jacket and pulled out Apollo's gold-tipped arrow of Eros, which he'd carried with him ever since the death of Thomas Bendyshe. He pointed it at the stars.

“I'm coming for you, Count Zeppelin,” he whispered.

About half an hour later, he clambered to his feet and stretched. He looked down at his sleeping companion and decided to leave him there beneath the tree. Pouncer would be fine. Even a predator brave enough to enter the village would shy away from such volcanic rumblings and snorts. Besides, the Yard man would receive a rude awakening soon enough, when the nightly rain arrived.

The stars to the east were already being obscured by cloud. The downpours were coming later and later, and were far shorter in duration. Soon the rainy season would end.