“I think we've got everyone out now except the Beetle,” he said. “The boy is still in there somewhere.”
“What state are we in?” Burton asked, dreading the answer.
“Thirteen dead. First Officer Henson; Helmsman Wenham and his assistant D'Aubigny; Navigator Playfair; riggers Champion, Priestley, and Doe; the two firemen, Gerrard and Etheridge; Stoker Reece-Jones; and, of course, that cur Arthur Bingham. I'm afraid Daniel Gooch bought it, too.”
Burton groaned.
“I'm told Constable Bhatti died a hero's death, heaven bless him,” Trounce said.
“He did. There'd probably be no survivors at all but for his sacrifice. What of the wounded?”
“Tom Honesty is still unconscious. Captain Lawless was pierced through the left side. Engineer Henderson and the quartermaster, Butler, are both in critical condition with multiple broken bones and internal injuries. Miss Mayson has just had a dislocated arm snapped back into place. She'll be all right. Everyone else is battered, cut, and bruised in various degrees. Swinburne is fine. Mr. Spencer has a badly dented and twisted leg. Sister Raghavendra is unharmed, as are Masters Wilde and Cornish. Krishnamurthy was banged around pretty badly but has no serious injuries. He's devastated at the loss of his cousin, of course.” Trounce paused, then said quietly, “What a confounded mess.”
“And one that's fast heating up,” added Pryce. “We're slap bang in the middle of a desert.”
“I suppose the captain is out of action,” Burton said to him, “which makes you the commanding officer. I suggest you order the wreck stripped of everything useful. As a matter of urgency, we should employ whatever suitable material we can find to build a shaded area beside it. Please tell me the ship's water tanks are intact.”
“Half of them are. There'll be plenty enough water.”
“Well, that's something, at least. Have some of it put into containers.”
“I'll organise it at once.”
Pryce strode off.
Trounce cleared his throat. “Um. Captain, this heat-it's not-that is to say, how should we treat our-um-what should we do with the dead?”
The muscles to either side of Burton's jaw flexed. His closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and looked at his friend. “We can't bury them, William. These sands are permanently shifting. We can't leave them in the open-there are scavengers. Our only option is a pyre.”
Trounce considered this for a moment, gave a brusque nod, said, “I'll get it done,” and walked away.
Burton turned to Engineer Goodenough: “What of the cargo hold and the expedition's equipment?”
“It's intact, sir. The vehicles are relatively undamaged. Overturned, of course, but they just need to be righted. Your supplies look like they got caught up in a tornado but I daresay we can sort them out. I'll see to it.”
“Thank you. I'll round up some help for you.”
Burton walked over to where Doctor Quaint and Sister Raghavendra were treating the wounded. Thomas Honesty was sitting up now but obviously hadn't fully regained his wits; his eyes were glazed, his mouth hanging slackly open. There was blood all over his face.
The doctor looked up from Charles Henderson, who was semiconscious and moaning softly, and said, “Almost everyone on the bridge was killed. As for the rest, the extent of their injuries depended on where they were when the ship hit the ground.” He stood, drew Burton aside, and continued in a low voice, “If we don't get the wounded to a hospital, they won't make it.”
Burton examined the landscape. To the north, behind the fallen Orpheus, to the east, and to the south, pale sand undulated all the way to the horizon in a sequence of large dunes. To the west, a thin strip of green and brown terrain clung to the hilly horizon.
“If I can recover my instruments from the hold-and if they're undamaged-I will be able to establish our position, Doctor. Then we can work out how to get to the nearest settlement.”
“But, as I say,” Quaint replied, “these men need a hospital.”
“I assure you, Doctor, the Arabians are masters at the medical arts. They invented surgery.”
“Very well. I'll trust your judgement, sir.”
Burton looked at the Sister. She gave a slight jerk of her head to indicate that she was all right. He moved away, feeling oddly detached. The front of his skull was throbbing, and the dry heat of the Arabian Peninsula was beginning to suck the moisture out of him. He knew that within a couple of hours it would become a furnace. Shelter was the priority now. The inside of the Orpheuswouldn't do-the sun would soon make a giant oven of it.
Swinburne approached with Oscar Wilde and Willy Cornish in tow. The two youngsters were wide-eyed and pale-faced. Wilde was cradling his right arm.
“Are you hurt, Quips?”
“Just a sprain, Captain Burton. I'm thinking it's my wits that are more shaken than my body. I'd only just left the bridge when the ship went down. Escaped by the skin of my teeth, so I did.”
“And you, Master Cornish?”
“I bumped my head, Mr. Burton. Really hard.”
“Me too. How is it now?”
“Not so bad, sir.”
“Good boy. Algy, you appear to have escaped without a scratch.”
“Don't ask me how,” Swinburne replied, glancing across at the Sister's patients. “My hat! I was bounced around like a rubber ball. What infamy, Richard, that our enemies are prepared to kill innocent men, women, and children in order to stop our expedition.”
“All the more reason why we must succeed,” Burton growled. He regarded the stricken Orpheus.“Algy, when the engineers have made it safe, I want you and the boys to search the ship. Locate the Beetle.”
“Is he alive, Mr. Burton?” Cornish asked anxiously.
“I don't know. But if he is, we need to get him out of there before he's cooked. Good Lord! What on earth is that?”
Burton gaped at an approaching figure. It looked something like an upright brown bear, but baggy and shiny and possessed of a strange, narrow head, upon which Pox squatted. The thing moved with an ungainly lurching motion, swaying unevenly from side to side as it drew closer. The parakeet held out first one wing, then the other, to stay balanced.
“Cripes! A monster!” Cornish exclaimed, diving behind Burton and clinging to his legs.
“Pestilent stench-monkey!” Pox whistled.
“Hallo, Boss,” the creature beneath the bird hooted.
“Is that you, Herbert?”
“Aye. I've busted me arthritic leg. Got a whackin' great dent in it. Can't hardly walk straight! Otherwise I came through with just a scratch or two. I'm itchin' all over, though. It's these blinkin' polymethylene togs.”
Swinburne snorted. “You can't possibly itch, Herbert. You're made of brass!”
“I know. But I tells you, I itch!”
Herbert was completely enveloped by the suit. Gloves encased his three-fingered hands, and his flat-iron-shaped feet were booted. The voluminous material billowed around his limbs and torso but was wrapped tightly against his head and held in place by two elasticated belts. There were three openings in the suit, through which the circular features of his “face” could be seen.
“I can't say your outfit is worthy of Savile Row,” Burton noted, “but it looks functional and you're protected from wind-borne sand. Come on, let's give the crew a helping hand.”
They moved to the back of the steaming hulk, from which supplies were being unloaded, and started to sort through them. Thirty minutes later, Swinburne, Cornish, and Wilde were given the all clear to enter the ship. They began their search for the Beetle.
Burton, meanwhile, found his surveying equipment, climbed to the top of a nearby dune, and took readings. He returned and approached Wordsworth Pryce, announcing: “We're about a hundred miles to the northeast of Mecca. Unfortunately, that city is forbidden to us. However, I'm familiar with this area. If the expedition travels south for a hundred and eighty miles, we'll come to the town of Al Basah, where we should be able to join a fast caravan that'll take us all the way to Aden.”