Expedition to the Mountains of the Moon (Burton & Swinburne) (39 page)

“Wha—what?” Wells stuttered, then his voice rose to a squeal: “We just killed Lettow-Vorbeck? We killed him? Are you sure?”

“He was holding a pistol to my head when he took a bullet through the heart.”

Wells smacked a fist into his palm and let loose a whoop of triumph. “Bloody hell! This could change everything!”

“No, Bertie, it's too late.”

“Too late? What do you mean, it's too late?”

Very quietly, Burton said: “In forty-eight hours, a German flying ship is going to drop a bomb on Tabora.”

“That's nothing new. The plants fly over, we shoot 'em down.”

“This one will be at a high altitude, and it's carrying an A-Bomb.”

“A what?”

In a whisper, Burton explained, and as he did so, his friend's burn-scarred and sun-browned face turned white. Wells looked to the right and left, gestured to the three guards, indicating that they should wait, then pulled Burton back along the passage and into the gun room. He spoke quietly and urgently: “We have to tell Aitken, but don't give away too much about yourself. Keep your true identity under wraps, for starters. The situation is complicated, and there's no time to fill you in right now. Suffice to say, your impossible presence in Africa has been detected. Colonel Crowley himself sent us to rescue you—”

“Your so-called wizard of wizards?”

“Yes. Apparently he's been aware of an anomaly on the continent since 1914 and has been trying to identify it ever since. He finally traced it to the Ugogi Stalag, then homed in on you as you were being transported. He sent the
Britannia
to intercept the vehicle and retrieve you.”

“But he doesn't know who I am?”

One of the Tommies appeared in the doorway, cleared his throat, and jerked his head to suggest that they should move on. Wells gave a slight nod. He guided Burton back into the corridor and they followed a few steps behind the three soldiers. They came to a staircase and started up it.

“All Crowley knows is that you don't belong in 1918,” Wells whispered. “I think, through you, he's hoping to unlock the secrets of time travel.”

“Lettow-Vorbeck had the same idea.”

“Listen, this is important. My old editor, the man who used to run the
Tabora Times
before it folded, needs to see you. I don't know the full story, but there are moves being made, and we can't allow you to fall under the wizard's spell.”

“What does that mean?”

“Crowley is a tremendously powerful mesmerist. Once pierced by those fiendish eyes of his, you'll have no willpower of your own.”

“I'm no mean mesmerist myself,” Burton pointed out.

Wells grunted. “I remember reading that. You're no match for our chief medium, though. But my editor has connections. He pulled a few strings and arranged that these men—” he gestured toward the three soldiers, “—and myself be aboard the
Britannia.
We're going to kidnap you.”

“Kidnap?”

They reached the top of the stairs and started down a short passage.

“Just trust me, Richard.”

The Tommies stopped at a door. One of them opened it, and Wells led Burton through onto the bridge.

The explorer found himself in a chamber filled with consoles and levers, wheels, pipes, and gauges. There were twelve crewmembers at various stations, but Burton's attention immediately centred on a tall man standing before a wide curved window.

“Private Frank Baker, sir,” Wells announced.

The man turned. He was slim, with sad eyes, unevenly arranged features, and a clipped moustache, wearing a dark uniform with a double row of silver buttons and a peaked cap. He looked Burton up and down.

“You've attracted the attention of men in high places, Baker,” he said. His voice was sharp and precise, with a nasal twang. “Why?”

Burton saluted. He staggered.

“It's all right,” Aitken said. “Steady yourself. We're going over some hills.”

“I didn't realise we were moving,” Burton answered.

“The only time you'll feel it is on rough terrain, and even then not much. It's like being on an ocean liner. Answer the question.”

“I honestly haven't the vaguest idea why there's any interest in me at all, sir. I've been in a POW camp for two years.”

“And before that?”

“Civilian Observer Corps at Dar es Salaam and Tanga, then a guerrilla fighter until I was captured at Dut'humi.”

“Where were they taking you?”

“To the Lake Regions, but they didn't tell me why.”

“Sir,” Wells interjected. “Apparently one of the men we just shot dead was Lettow-Vorbeck.”

Burton watched as Aitken's Adam's apple bobbed reflexively. All the crew members turned and looked at the general. He cleared his throat, glared at them, and snapped, “Attend your stations!”

“There's something else, sir,” Wells added. “I think you might prefer to hear it in private.”

Aitken gazed at the little war correspondent for a moment, gave a brusque nod, then turned away and issued a sequence of orders to the bridge crew concerning the velocity and course of the ship. He returned his attention to Burton and Wells, jabbed a finger at them, and said, “You and you—follow me.”

They did so, trailing after him back out into the corridor and through a door into the captain's office. Aitken positioned himself behind a desk but remained standing with his hands held behind his back.

“What do you have to tell me, Wells?”

“I think it best that Baker explains, sir.”

“I don't give two bloody hoots who does the talking, just get on with it!”

Speaking slowly and clearly, Burton told him about Lettow-Vorbeck's A-Bomb.

Moments later, General Aitken collapsed into his chair.

Burton was confined to a cabin with Bertie Wells as his guard. He'd washed, thrown away his prison uniform, and dressed in clean, tick-free battle fatigues. A cup of tea and a plate of sandwiches had been provided.

“They've radioed ahead,” Wells told him. “And so have I.”

“And the city's being evacuated?”

“Evacuated? To where? There's no place to go. Tabora has been under siege for half a century, and all the rest of Africa is under German control. My guess is they'll try to get as many people as possible into underground bunkers. Whether that'll save them or not remains to be seen. If the spore cloud is dense enough, I don't suppose there'll be anywhere safe.”

“Yet we're going back?”

“To rescue the top brass.”

“And take them to—?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. I suppose it's possible there's another British enclave somewhere, a place only the bigwigs know about. Or maybe we'll head into one of Africa's wildernesses and lay low while Crowley experiments on you.”

“I don't like the sound of that.” Burton took a bite out of a sandwich and frowned thoughtfully while he chewed and swallowed. “Who did you radio?”

“I sent a coded message to my editor, told him about the A-Bomb.”

“Will he be able to get to safety?”

“Probably not. As I say, the city is surrounded.”

“Then how do we get in? How does the
Britannia
come and go?”

“We manage to keep a passage—we call it Hell's Run—open through the besieging German forces to the east of the city. The most ghastly fighting occurs along its borders, but Crowley and our mediums focus their efforts there and have so far prevented the Germans from closing the route.”

A siren started to blare.

“That's the call to battle stations!”

The door opened and an Askari stepped in. “You're both ordered to the bridge,” he said. “Tabora just radioed a message that's put the wind up Aitken. We're approaching the city now.”

“What message?” Wells asked as they followed the African out of the room.

“I don't know the details, Lieutenant.”

They passed along corridors and up stairs, with men rushing around them and the siren howling continuously. The moment they entered the bridge, Aitken rounded on Burton and snapped: “Baker, did Lettow-Vorbeck tell you anything about lurchers? Have the Germans regained control of them?”

“He pointed out a crowd of the plants,” Burton replied, “and said they're most numerous up near the Blood Jungle, but control? No, quite the opposite.”

“Well, that's damned strange. Tabora reports that thousands of them are approaching the city from the north.”

Burton and Wells looked at each other. The explorer shook his head and shrugged, baffled.

“We're currently racing straight down the middle of Hell's Run, well away from German peashooters,” Aitken said. “When was the last time you were here, Baker?”

“I've never been to Tabora, sir.”

“You haven't? Well, take a peek out of the window. We're almost there.”

Burton and Wells stepped over to the glass and looked out across the African landscape. The
Britannia
was travelling at a tremendous speed over flat ground. To the north and south of her, black clouds humped up into the blue sky. Lightning flickered inside them. Puffs of smoke rose from the ground beneath. There were flashes. Tiny dots could be seen flying through the air.

“Those are the edges of Hell's Run,” Wells murmured. “As you can see, the Hun weathermen are at work. The storms are more or less constant, as is the fighting beneath them. Tabora is behind the hills you see ahead of us.”

As he examined the terrain, Burton was overcome by a sense of déjà vu. He struggled for breath and clutched at Wells's arm.

The
Britannia
shot up a slope, over the crest of a hill, sank into the valley beyond, navigated up the next slope, and reached the second summit. Burton saw a wide plain stretched out below. Much of it was obscured by a blanket of dirty steam, which was particularly dark and opaque straight ahead, where, from out of the pall, there rose a tall rock topped with green vegetation.

“Kazeh!” Burton croaked. “Tabora is Kazeh!”

“Kazeh is under siege!”

Sir Richard Francis Burton, Algernon Swinburne, and Isabel Arundell had ridden back through the night to where Trounce and the expedition were bivouacked. All three of them were coated with dust and thoroughly exhausted, but there was no time to rest.

Burton fired his rifle into the air to rouse the camp and yelled: “Hopa! Hopa! Pakia!”

Trounce responded to the announcement with: “By the Prussians? Are there that many of them?”

“There's enough! We have to get moving! If they take the town, we won't be able to resupply for the next leg of the safari.”

“But what the blazes are they up to?”

“It's the key to central East Africa, William. Whoever controls Kazeh controls the region all the way from Lake Tanganyika to Zanzibar, and up to the Mountains of the Moon. My guess is they mean to drive the Arabs out and make of it a Prussian base of operations.”

Burton ordered Saíd bin Sálim to have the porters take up their loads. Mirambo silently appeared beside him and asked, “Will the coming day be that in which we fight?”

“Yes. I bid thee prepare thy warriors, O Mirambo.”

“We are always prepared,
muzungo mbáyá.
It is wise to be so when devils such as thee walk the land.”

The African stalked away.

Krishnamurthy, Spencer, Isabella Mayson, Sister Raghavendra, and Sidi Bombay gathered around the king's agent. He described to them the scene he'd witnessed.

Krishnamurthy asked, “Can we get into the town from the west?”

“Yes,” Burton replied. “If we follow the hills south, remaining on this side of them, then cross when—”

“No. We can't enter the town at all,” Isabel Arundell interrupted.

They all looked at her, surprised.

“It would be suicidal. I have a hundred and twenty fighters and another ninety or so on the way. Mirambo has two hundred boys. The Prussians already greatly outnumber us and there are a thousand more fast approaching. If we're in the town when they arrive, we'll be pinned down and we'll likely never get out again.”

Burton nodded thoughtfully. “You're the expert in guerrilla tactics,” he said, “and I'll bow to your expertise. What do you recommend?”

Isabel positioned herself directly in front of him and placed her hands on his shoulders. “The king made you his agent, Dick, and you have your orders. What is the distance from here to the Mountains of the Moon?”