“That sounds like dashed hot and uncomfortable work!”
“Indeed. But not compared to cleaning chimneys.” Lawless addressed Swinburne: “As you obviously know from personal experience, sweeps lead a dreadful existence. Those that get work as funnel scrubbers are considered the fortunate few.”
“I hardly think that such a promotion completely justifies the word ‘fortunate,’” put in Burton. “Funnel scrubbers are still emotionally and physically scarred by their years of poverty and brutality. The Beetle does what he can to protect his lads but he can't change the social order. To improve the lives of sweeps, we'd need to instigate a fundamental shift in the way wealth is distributed. We'd have to raise the masses out of the sucking quagmire of poverty into which the Empire's foundations are sunk.”
He looked at Cornewall Lewis, who shrugged and stated, “I'm the secretary for war, Sir Richard. My job is to protect the Empire, not right its wrongs.”
“Protect it, or expand it, along with its iniquities, sir?”
Monckton Milnes cleared his throat. “Now, now, Richard,” he said, softly. “This isn't really the occasion, is it?”
Burton bit his lip and nodded. “My apologies, Sir George-I spoke out of turn. I've been rather sensitive to such matters since the Tichborne riots.”
Cornewall Lewis opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by Swinburne, who suddenly screeched: “What? What? Has the world gone giddy? How can I possibly be guzzling my drinks at this rate? I swear I've barely tasted a drop!”
Burton frowned down at his assistant. “Algy, please remember that you are Apollo, not Dionysus,” he advised. “Try to regulate your imbibing.”
“Regulate? Regulate? What in blue blazes are you jabbering about, Richard? Nobody drinks more regularly than me!”
The poet gazed at his empty glass with an expression of bemusement, then signalled to another waiter. Behind him, Bendyshe and Bradlaugh smothered their chuckles.
“Anyway,” said Gooch, “when the nippers arrive, the crew will be complete.” He produced a slip of paper from between the pages of his notebook. “I have the complete roster here, sir.”
Lawless took the note, read it through, and nodded his approval.
“May I see that, Captain?” Burton asked.
“Certainly.”
The king's agent took the list and scrutinised it. He read:
Commanding Officer: Captain Nathaniel Lawless
First Officer: William Samuel Henson
Second Officer: Wordsworth Pryce
Helmsman: Francis H. Wenham
Assistant Helmsman: Walter D'Aubigny
Navigator: Cedric Playfair
Meteorologist: Arthur Bingham
Chief Engineer: Daniel Gooch
Engineer: Harold Bloodmann
Engineer: Charles Henderson
Engineer: Cyril Goodenough
Engineer: James Bolling
Chief Rigger: Gordon Champion
Rigger: Alexander Priestley
Rigger: Winford Doe
Fireman: Walter Gerrard
Fireman: Peter Etheridge
Stoker: Thomas Beadle
Stoker: Gwyn Reece-Jones
Funnel Scrubber:
Funnel Scrubber:
Steward/Surgeon: Doctor Barnaby Quaint
Assistant Steward/Surgeon: Sister Sadhvi Raghavendra
Quartermaster: Frederick Butler
Assistant Quartermaster: Isabella Mayson
Cabin Boy: Oscar Wilde
“I trust Quips is living up to my recommendation?” Burton asked the captain.
“Quips?”
“Young Master Wilde.”
“Ah. An appropriate nickname-he's a very witty young man. How old is he? Twelve-ish?”
“He celebrated his ninth birthday a couple of months ago.”
“Good Lord! That young? And an orphan?”
“Yes. He lost his entire family to the Irish famine. He stowed away aboard a ship to Liverpool, made his way to London, and has been working there as a paperboy ever since.”
“Well, I must say, I'm impressed by his industry. There's an unpleasant amount of bureaucracy associated with the captaincy of a rotorship and the youngster picked up the paperwork in a flash and keeps it better organised and up to date than I could ever hope to. Furthermore, I find that whenever I say ‘hop to it,’ he's already hopped. I wouldn't be at all surprised if Oscar Wilde captains his own ship one day.” Lawless ran his fingers over his beard. “Sir Richard, what about these young ladies? Having women serving as crew isn't entirely without precedent, but are you sure it's wise to take the Sister with you on your expedition? Africa is harsh enough on a man, isn't it? And what about all that dashed cannibalism? Won't she be considered too dainty a morsel to resist?”
“It is indeed a cruel environment, as I know to my cost,” Burton answered. “However, Sister Raghavendra is from India and possesses a natural immunity to many of the ills that assail a European in Africa. Furthermore, her medical skills are exceptional. I wish she'd been with me on my previous excursions. I assure you she'll be well looked after all the way to Kazeh, where she'll remain with our Arabian hosts while the rest of us hike north to the supposed position of the Mountains of the Moon.”
“And the cannibals?”
The corners of Burton's mouth twitched slightly. “Those few tribes that feast on human flesh do so in a ritualistic fashion to mark their victory in battle. It's not as common a phenomenon as the storybooks would have you believe. For a daily meal of arm or leg, you'll have to go to the other side of the world, to Koluwai, a small island to the southeast of Papua New Guinea. There they will very happily have European visitors for dinner-and I don't mean as guests. Apparently, we taste like pork.”
“Oof! I'm rather more in favour of lamb chops!” Lawless responded.
Cornewall Lewis interrupted: “You'll leave her with Arabians? Can they be trusted with the fair sex?”
Burton clicked his tongue impatiently. “Sir, if you choose to believe the lies propagated by your own government, that is up to you, but despite the calumnies that are circulated in the corridors of parliament, I have never found the Arabian race to be anything less than extraordinarily benevolent, courteous, and entirely honourable.”
“I meant only to suggest that there might be a risk in leaving a woman of the Empire in non-Christian hands, Sir Richard.”
“Christian? Do you then stand in opposition to Darwin's findings? Do you also believe that your God favours some races over others?”
“I use the word merely out of habit, as a synonym for civilised,” Cornewall Lewis protested.
“Then I'm to take it you don't consider the Arabians civilised, despite that they invented modern mathematics, surgical instruments, soap and perfume, the windmill, the crankshaft, and a great many other things; despite that they realised the Earth is a sphere that circles the sun five hundred years before Galileo was tortured by your Christian church for supporting the same notion?”
The secretary for war pursed his lips uneasily.
“That reminds me,” said Monckton Milnes. “Richard, I have the manuscript we discussed-the Persian treatise.”
“The what?”
“The translation you were looking for.” He stepped forward and hooked his arm through Burton's. “It's in the library. Come, I'll show you. Excuse us please, gentlemen, we shan't be long.”
Before Burton could object he was pulled from the group and propelled through the guests toward the door.
“What blessed treatise?” he spluttered.
“A necessary fiction to remove you from the battlefield,” Monckton Milnes hissed. “What the blazes has got into you? Why are you snapping like a rabid dog at Cornewall Lewis?”