“Captain, Sir,” Martyn barks, breaking the silence. “The crew of the Joliba, reporting for duty as ordered.”
Of course. This is the morning of their departure, the morning they cast their fate to the wind — or rather the water. Yes, in the moment of waking it nearly slipped his mind, the air so heavy and oppressive, a touch of the fever creeping up on him again: yes, of course. The great adventure begins anew!
“All right, Leftenant,” Mungo croaks, tucking himself in and swinging round on his men. “Break down this tent, stow away my gear and prepare to shove off.” Woozy on his feet and bleary of eye, he scans the frightened, hopeful faces of the men and wants to tell them it’ll be all right, that the Niger doesn’t dry up in the middle of the desert or end in Lake Chad, that from here on in it’s smooth sailing. But he can’t. Because for all his hopes and prayers, suppositions and gut feelings, he can’t be sure that he isn’t leading them to a watery death in the godforsaken omphalos of a godforsaken continent. All he can add, by way of inspiration and comfort is a supererogatory order: “And be quick about it.”
♦ ♦ ♦
Unbeknownst to explorer, guide or crew, the hills outside Sansanding are at that very moment thundering with the sound of hoofbeats: the harmattan wind is not the only thing rumbling down out of the north. No: Dassoud, Scourge of the Sahel, is on his way into town with twelve hundred wild-eyed horsemen burning to engage the white men’s army. His intention is to hack the Nazarini to pieces — no matter how many they are or how well armed — and to impale Mungo Park’s head on the tip of his spear as an offering to his lady, Fatima of Jafnoo.
Dassoud, it will be observed, is some two and a half months behind schedule with his current campaign. He had planned to annihilate the explorer before the month of September was out, but during the long dilatory days of late September, October and early November, he came to discover that he was not quite the scourge he thought himself to be. The root of his troubles lay in internecine squabbling between the various tribes under his leadership. Though fanned to frenzy by the explorer’s letter and the intentions expressed in it, they were nonetheless reluctant to unite under Dassoud’s banner — or anyone’s for that matter. It was as simple as this: the timing was bad.
First, a blood feud had erupted between the Trasart and the Al-Mu’ta of Jafnoo. Mubarak of the Trasart had executed three of Boo Khaloom’s serfs for poaching at one of his wells; in retaliation, Boo Khaloom himself stole into the Trasart camp, pissed in Mubarak’s porridge and made off with his prize charger, which he held for ransom. After the ransom was paid in full, Boo Khaloom sent the horse back — in eight pieces, each neatly bundled in goat hide. Meanwhile, Mahmud Bari of the Il Braken had forgotten his chastising at the hands of Dassoud, and refused to participate in the jihad against the Nazarini unless he himself were to lead it. Exasperated, Dassoud was forced to waste two precious weeks in riding out to Gedumah, splitting Mahmud Bari open like a sausage and quelling the incipient rebellion. And then, as if this weren’t enough, the Foulahs chose that precise moment for a sneak attack on Jafnoo.
Dassoud had met each of these challenges in his own fierce and summary way, but in the process he had lost valuable time. Each distraction maddened him to the point of frenzy as it deflected him from his goal. Each annoyance — whether it was the obligation to turn aside and slaughter three hundred Foulah men, women and children or the fact that his goat was overcooked and his kouskous mushy — so enraged him he felt his skull would burst, and he chalked up another strike against the explorer. To eradicate the Nazarini became a seething obsession, an obsession that broiled his soul day and night with a fire that burned all the hotter for each obstacle thrown in his way. But now, after two and a half months of maddening delays, Dassoud was on his way, roaring through the streets of Sansanding like a demon possessed.
♦ ♦ ♦
There are coots on the water, and spur-winged plover. The surface heaves and boils with the last furious runoff from the monsoon, and a few attenuated native dugouts glide like the wind through lingering patches of morning fog. “Is everybody in?” Mungo shouts, feeling like a boy on the Yarrow, as he and Ned Rise wade into the current, their shoulders flush with the hull of the H.M.S. Joliba. And then, merry as a bridegroom proposing a toast, he breaks a calabash of fou over the prow and gives the order to shove off.
Martyn, looking twice his nineteen years with his beard and drink-debauched eyes, is at the tiller; the rest, including Amadi Fatoumi and his three retainers, are lounging about, their paddles in a casual heap. With the river in flood, propulsion should be no problem: heavily laden though it is, the Joliba bobs like a twig and maneuvers like a sailor’s dream.
Ned Rise hops nimbly aboard as the current catches the elongated craft and swings it round, but Mungo lingers a moment, officious, the water to his chest, steadying the boat after it is no longer necessary. It is at that moment that the first gunshot echoes over the water. Startled and confused, the explorer looks first at Martyn — the lieutenant’s mouth is hanging open, gaping as if to swallow an orange or an egg— and then over his shoulder at the dusty roadway leading down to the river’s edge. The sight rivets him like a nightmare come to life. Bearing down on him, weapons held aloft, jubbahs flapping, is a countless host of Moors, their sweat-slicked horses pounding over the earth in furious stampede.
None of this has been lost on the others. Whereas a moment previous they’d been lounging about like hemophiliac princes, they are suddenly up and working furiously at the paddles, as the explorer, feet streaming in the wake, clambers aboard. Inspired by the grim prospect of their own imminent demise, the men have burst into swift, concentrated action — even the whiskery M’Keal, slick Fatoumi and frail Frair stroking away as if they were trying out for the Oxford crew. Mungo has suddenly caught fire too. Unable to locate a paddle in the confusion, he crouches low to the water and begins churning at it with his cupped hands, as if he were trying to part the waves or dig a watery burrow. “Heave!” Ned shouts beside him, and the Joliba begins to pick up speed.
They are less than a hundred yards out when the first Moor hits the water, a big fellow in black, lashing at his charger’s muzzle and shrieking obscenities in Arabic. Within seconds the water is alive with Moors, hundreds of them, firing the odd musket, flinging spears and yabbering their war cry. Mungo, splashing wildly, risks a look over his shoulder at his arch enemies, their horses swimming like seals, their eyes on fire and nostrils dilated with the scent of blood, weapons flashing red in the rich meaty light of dawn. And then suddenly the strength goes out of his arms. The nearest Moor — sixty yards off, his horse nearly exploding with exertion — he knows him. He knows the blocky shoulders straining at the seams of the jubbah, he knows those eyes, that scar, that maniacal leering mask of hatred. .
Dassoud’s pistol is extended, his horse flailing, the Joliba drawing away. Desperately, the Moor sights down the gun barrel and fires, one more puff of smoke in the confusion of whirling jubbahs, clattering spears, shouts and billows of dust rising from the shore behind him. The smoke and dust are so thick and the noise so all-enveloping that the explorer can’t be sure whether the Moor has fired or not, until all at once there is something warm and wet on his arm and a weight forcing itself down on him. Whirling round, he looks up into the stricken face of Abraham Bolton, who had been making his way to him with the missing paddle. Now, his right eye shot away, the private lurches over him, wagging the paddle in mid-air and fighting for balance. Mungo’s reaction is instinctive: he ducks his shoulder, and Bolton, poor sot, tumbles past him and into the river like a sack of stones dropped from a bridge.