They hoisted Burton to his feet.
“Wait! Wait!” he urged.
Lettow-Vorbeck looked at him and asked, “Haben Sie eine Frage?”
“Yes,” Burton replied. “Yes, I have a question. The memories imprinted in the African stones-whose are they?”
“Ah,” Lettow-Vorbeck said. “Ja. Ja.This you should know! They belonged to a man named William Trounce.”
“I'm dead!” Trounce announced. He waved a large earthenware jar in the air. “Not a drop left!”
“All is not lost!” Swinburne declared. He held up a second container, and the pombein it sloshed invitingly. “I must say, though, Pouncer: while there may be life left in my jar, the invincible languor and oppression of this climate have sucked the very last drop of it from yours truly.”
“But not the poetry,” Trounce growled. “Invincible languor, my foot! Why can't you just say, the weather in Africa is as hot as hell, like any normal person would? Pass the beer.”
After taking an immoderate swig from it, Swinburne handed the container to Trounce, who poured an extravagant amount of its contents into his mouth, swallowed, hiccupped, then said, “We've been on the blasted continent for so long that I'm even beginning to enjoy this foul brew.”
He received a belched response.
The two men, dressed in light khaki suits, were relaxing beneath a calabash tree in the centre of Ugogi, a village that lay slightly more than halfway along their route to Kazeh. It had taken two weeks to reach here from Dut'humi, passing first through cultivated lands, then following the marshy bank of the Mgazi River, before chopping their way through thick dripping jungle of the most obstinately difficult kind, and crossing a quagmire, two miles wide, where a mule had sunk completely out of sight in the stinking, sulphurous mud.
Arriving at Zungomero, in the head of the Khutu Valley, they'd at last begun the climb onto higher terrain, escaping the dreadful and diseased swamps that had made the first stage of their safari so miserable. The foothills of the Usagara Mountains, which now rose all around, were densely forested and resplendent with jungle flowers and fruits; the air was laden with the scent of jasmine, sage, and mimosa blossoms; and fresh springs jumped and tinkled across the sloping land.
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!”