“Very well.”
Máví ya Gnombe nodded to his companions, who turned and continued down the trail, then he pushed through a sticky-leafed bush and disappeared into the undergrowth. Burton followed, and Swinburne stepped after him, muttering about leeches and ticks and fleas and “assorted creepy-crawlies.”
They struggled on for five minutes, then the trees thinned, and the men ducked low and proceeded as quietly as possible. They came to a bush, pushed aside its leaves, and looked out over cultivated fields, upon which was camped a large slave caravan.
There were, Burton estimated, about four hundred slaves, men and women, mostly kneeling, huddled together and chained by the neck in groups of twelve. Arabian traders moved among and around them—about seventy, though there were undoubtedly more in the large tents that had been erected on the southern side of the camp.
A little to the north, a great many pack mules were corralled, along with a few ill-looking horses.
Swinburne started to twitch with fury. “This is diabolical, Richard!” he hissed. “There must be something we can do!”
“We're vastly outnumbered, Algy,” Burton said. “And we have the Prussians breathing down our necks. But—”
“But what?”
“Perhaps there's a way we can kill two birds with one stone. Let's get back to the others.”
They retraced their steps through the foliage until they emerged once again onto the path. Burton addressed the elderly African: “Máví ya Gnombe, go thou to thy village and bring all who remain there to the glade where we encountered thee. Do not allow a single one to remain behind.”
The old man looked puzzled, but turned and paced away to do as commanded.
Burton and Swinburne returned to the clearing, where they found the porters restless and unhappy. The king's agent walked over to the bundle of robes that hid Herbert Spencer and reached up to the parakeet that squatted atop it. Pox jumped onto his outstretched hand, and Burton took the bird away from his companions and quietly gave it a message to deliver to Isabel. He included a description of their location, outlined a plan of action, and finished: “Report the enemy's numbers and position. Message ends.”
Pox disappeared into the green canopy overhead.
As if turned on by a switch, the day's rainfall began. Everyone moved to the more sheltered edges of the glade.
Burton called his companions over and told them what he intended.
“You've got to be bloody joking!” Trounce exclaimed.
“Chancy!” Thomas Honesty snapped.
“Perilous!” Krishnamurthy grunted.
“Inspired!” Swinburne enthused.
“I see no other way,” Burton said.
They ate a hurried meal while awaiting the parakeet's return.
The villagers arrived, pitifully few in number, and all elderly. Burton described to them what was soon to happen, and drilled into them that their silence would be essential. They huddled together, wet, miserable, and scared.
The expedition members took rifles and pistols from the supplies and began to clean and load them.
“You'll remain with the porters,” Burton told the two women.
Isabella Mayson picked up a revolver, flicked open its chamber, and started to push bullets into it. “Absolutely not,” she said.
Sister Raghavendra hefted a rifle. “Do you consider us too frail, Richard?”
“On the contrary, you have proven yourselves—”
“Equal to any man?” the Sister interrupted. “Good. Then we shall do what needs to be done and fight at your side, and don't you dare attempt to persuade us otherwise.”
Burton gave a curt nod.
Forty minutes later, Pox returned.
“Message from Isabel Arundell. We are ready. Estimate a hundred and fifty thumb-sucking men fast approaching your position. You have an hour at most, chamber-pot lover. Be prepared.”
“You all understand what you must do?” he asked his friends.
They gave their grim assent, pushed pistols into their belts, slung rifles over their shoulders, and divided into two teams of four: Trounce, Swinburne, Krishnamurthy, and Mayson; and Burton, Honesty, Spencer, and Raghavendra. Pox huddled on the explorer's shoulder.
Burton addressed Saíd: “To thee falls responsibility for the porters and villagers. It is vital that they neither flee nor make a sound.”
“I understand.”
The king's agent and his companions moved out of the glade and along the path. The rain hammered against the leaves around them, hissing loudly, soaking through their clothing, making the ground squelch beneath their feet.
They followed the trail as it veered to the right, and traipsed on until they eventually reached the abandoned village, which was some considerable distance from the original clearing. The second glade was much bigger. There were twenty or so beehive huts in it, and a well-built palaver house. A massive fig tree spread over the central space.
“The first shot is yours,” Burton said to Trounce. “Judge it well. Don't be too eager.”
“Understood.”
Trounce led his team to the eastern edge of the village and they disappeared into the vegetation, following the path down the hill to the marshy ground where the rhinoceros carcass lay. Burton and the rest went in the opposite direction, cautiously proceeding along the trail toward the fields. Halfway along it, they left the path and pushed into the bushes and plants that crowded around the boles of the trees. Struggling through the roots and vines and thorns and branches, they made their way to the edge of the forest until, through the dripping verdure, they saw the cultivated land and the slave encampment.
The sun was low in the sky by now, and it turned the fringes of the passing clouds a radiant gold.
The rain stopped.
“It won't be long,” Burton said softly. “Spread out. Don't shoot until I do. And remember—keep moving.”
Honesty, Spencer, and Sadhvi Raghavendra slipped away.
Burton lay flat on his stomach and levelled his rifle, aiming at the slavers who were moving around their tents and captives.
He flicked a beetle from his cheek and crushed a leech that had attached to the back of his left hand.
Pox hopped from his shoulder to his head and mumbled, “Odious pig.”
The shadows lengthened.
A seemingly endless line of ants marched over the mulch just in front of him. They were carrying leaf fragments, dead wasps, and caterpillars.
He heard Honesty sneeze close by.
A rifle cracked in the near distance.
All of a sudden, gunfire erupted and echoed through the trees, the sound rising up from the base of the hill on the other side of the village. Burton knew what it meant: the Prussians were very close, and Trounce and his team had opened fire on them.
Sheltered behind the roots of trees, the police detective's team could take pot-shots at the hundred and fifty Prussians with impunity. Not only were they concealed but they were also on higher ground, while the pursuing party had to struggle through the marsh before ascending a slope that, while forested, was considerably more open than the uppermost part of the hill.
Trounce, Swinburne, Krishnamurthy, and Isabella Mayson would be silently and invisibly moving backward as they picked off the enemy, drawing the Prussians toward the village and away from the other clearing.
The noise of battle had reached the Arabs. Burton watched as they grabbed rifles and gestured at the forest. A large group of them started running toward where he and the others were hidden.
He took aim at a particularly large and ferocious-looking slaver and shot him through the heart.
Immediately, rifles banged loudly as Honesty, Spencer, and Raghavendra opened fire.
Burton downed two more of the slavers, then, as the other Arabs started shooting blindly into the undergrowth, he crawled backward and repositioned himself behind a tangle of mangrove roots from where he could see the beginning of the path to the village.