by Mark Hodder
And they saw slaves.
Swinburne was the first to witness the island's most notorious industry. As he and his friends were escorted through the crowded and chaotic Salt Bazaar-thick with musky, spicy scents, and where Said's men swung their staffs with even less restraint-the little poet let out a terrific yell of indignation. Burton, following his assistant's shocked stare, saw a chain gang of slaves being driven forward by the whip, approaching them through the crowd to the right.
Swinburne hollered, “This is atrocious, Richard! Why has our Navy not stopped it?”
“They can't be everywhere at once,” the king's agent replied. “For all our successes on the west coast of Africa, here in the east the miserable trade continues.”
The poet, gesticulating wildly in his frustration, made a move toward the slaves but was held back by his friend, who said, “Don't be a fool, Algy. More than forty thousand slaves pass through Zanzibar every year-you'll not change anything by causing trouble for us now.”
Swinburne watched miserably as the captive men and women were herded past like animals, and he was uncharacteristically silent for a considerable time afterward.
Said led them into the main street leading up to the palace.
As they neared the blocky, high-windowed edifice, Thomas Honesty remarked on the tall purple clouds that had suddenly boiled up in the southeastern sky.
“It's the Msika,” Burton told him. “The greater rain. This is the worst season to commence an expedition, but it lasts for two months and we can't delay.”
“We're English,” Honesty said, in his usual jerky manner. “Conditioned to rain.”
“Not such as Africa has to offer, old thing. You'll see.”
The palace, when they came to it, looked little better than a barracks. Roofed with mouldering red tiles, it was double-storied, square, and unencumbered by adornment.
They were ushered through the big entrance doors into a pleasant vestibule, then up a staircase and into a parlour. Said left them for a few moments before returning to announce that the prince was ready to receive them. The four men were then escorted into a long and narrow room, furnished with silk hangings, divans, tables, lamps, a plethora of cushions, and with colourful birds singing in its rafters.
Prince Sayyid Majid greeted them in the European manner, with a hearty handshake for each. He was a young man, thin, and possessed of a pleasant though terribly pockmarked countenance.
They sat with him on the floor, around a low table, and waited while two slaves served sweetmeats, biscuits, and glasses of sherbet.
“It pleases me to see thee again, Captain Burton,” the prince intoned, in high-spoken Arabic.
Burton bowed his head, and employing the same language replied, “Much time has passed, O Prince. Thou wert little more than a child when I last visited the island. It pained me to hear of thy father's death.”
“He taught me much and I think of him every day. May Allah grant that I never disgrace his name. I intend to continue his efforts to improve the island. Already I have cleared more land for shambas-plantations.”
“And of thy father's intention to end the slave trade, O Prince-hast thou made progress in this?”
Sayyid Majid took a sip of his sherbet, then frowned. “There is one who opposes me-a man named el Murgebi, though most know him as Tippu Tip. His caravans penetrate far into the interior and he brings back many slaves. This man has become rich and powerful, and I can do little against him, for his supporters outnumber my own. Nevertheless-” The prince sighed and touched his nose with his right forefinger-a gesture Burton knew meant It is my obligation.
They talked a little more of the island's politics, until, after a few minutes, the prince revealed: “A very large force of Europeans has made its base on the mainland, Captain, in the village of Mzizima, directly south of here. Thy friend, Lieutenant Speke, was among them.”
“He's no longer a friend of mine,” Burton declared.
“Ah. Friendship is like a glass ornament; once it is broken, it can rarely be put back together the same way. I believe the men are of the Almaniya race.”
“Germanic? Yes, I think that likely. Thou sayest Speke was with them? Is he no longer?”
“He and a number of men left Mzizima and are currently moving toward the central territories.”
“Then I must follow them at the earliest opportunity.”
The prince sighed. “The rains will make that difficult, and it pains me to tell thee, Captain, but also, thou hast been betrayed by Consul Rigby.”
Burton's hands curled into fists.
The prince continued, “The British government shipped supplies here some weeks ago and instructed him to hire Wanyamwezi porters to transport them to the Dut'humi Hills, where they were to await thy arrival. The supplies consisted of trading goods-bales of cotton, rolls of brass wire, beads, the usual things-plus food, instruments, weapons and ammunition, and two of the spider machines-they are called harvestmen?”
“Yes.”
“The men were never hired, and the goods never transported. A month ago, when the Almaniyas arrived, the consul handed the supplies over to them.”
“Bismillah! The traitorous hound! Ever has Rigby sought to stand in my way, but I tell thee, Prince Sayyid, this time he hath defied those to whom he owes his position. This will ruin him.”
“Aye, Captain, mayhap. But that is for the future. For now, we must put our energy into overcoming the obstacles this man hath set in thy path. To that end, I offer my resources. Tell me what I can do.”
Over the next hour, Burton and the prince made plans, with the king's agent occasionally breaking off to translate for his companions.
By mid-afternoon, they all had tasks assigned to them. Honesty and Krishnamurthy headed back to the Elphinstone to join Herbert Spencer, Isabella Mayson, and Sadhvi Raghavendra in overseeing the transfer of the expedition's supplies and equipment to a corvette named Artemis. William Trounce, Isabel Arundell, and her followers were taken by Said bin Salim to the prince's country ranch, there to select horses from his extensive stud, which, in the morning, they'd ship over to the mainland aboard a cargo carrier, the Ann Lacey.
Sir Richard Francis Burton and Algernon Swinburne, meanwhile, paid a visit to the British Consulate.
It was nine o'clock in the evening by the time they left the prince's palace. The rain had just ceased and the town was dripping. The filth, rather than being washed away, had merely been rearranged.
The king's agent and his assistant picked their way cautiously through foul alleyways until they arrived at their destination. Its gates, to their surprise, were open and unguarded. They passed through, crossed the small courtyard, and pushed open the entrance doors. The building was unlit and silent.
“This isn't right,” Burton whispered.
“Does Rigby live here?” Swinburne asked.
“Yes, in the upstairs apartments, but let's check his office first.”
The ground floor consisted of the entrance hall, a waiting room, a sparsely furnished parlour, a records office and a clerks' office, a library, and the main consulting room. All were empty and dark.
In the library, Burton, upon detecting a faint rustling, drew out his clockwork lantern, shook it open, wound it, and cast its light around.
The bookshelves were teeming with ants and termites.
“My hat!” Swinburne exclaimed. “What an infestation! What on earth has attracted them, Richard?”
“I don't know, but this is certainly excessive, even for Africa.”
They moved back into the entrance hall and started up the stairs. Halfway up there was a small landing, where the steps made a turn to the right. The body of a man lay at an awkward angle upon it. Burton held his lantern over the face. He could see from the man's physiognomy that his skin would have been black in life; in death, it was a horrible ashen grey and had shrunk against the bones beneath. The lips had pulled back, exposing all the teeth, and the eyes had withdrawn to the back of the
sockets.
The king's agent reached down and pressed a finger against the face.
“It feels like wood,” he said. “Like all the blood and moisture have been sucked out of it.”
“And that's how.” Swinburne pointed to the dead man's left arm. Burton moved the light to better illuminate it. He saw that a leafy vine of a purplish hue was coiled around the wrist, and that the end of it, which was splayed flat and covered in three-inch-long thorns of wicked appearance, was pressed against the forearm and had pierced the skin many times over.
Talking a dagger from his belt, he carefully probed at the plant. Its leaves were dry and fell away at his touch. The vine itself was hard and desiccated. Raising the lantern, he followed its course and saw that it coiled away up the stairs and disappeared around a corner.
“Be careful, Algy,” he said, and started toward the upper floor.
Swinburne followed, noting that the steps were swarming with beetles and cockroaches.
When they reached the hallway at the top, they saw that the vine twisted through an open doorway into a faintly illuminated chamber just ahead. Only a small part of the room was visible-the bulk of it obviously lay to the left of the portal-but the end they could see was so seething with insects that every surface seemed alive. Vines were clinging to the walls and floor and ceiling, too. Loops of vegetation hung down like jungle creepers, and through and around it, glowing softly, hundreds of fireflies were flitting.
Muttering an imprecation, Burton moved forward with Swinburne at his heels. They traversed the corridor then passed through the doorway, and, with insects crunching underfoot, turned and tried to interpret what they saw. It was difficult. No item of furniture could be properly discerned, for everything was crawling with life and half-concealed behind a tangle of thorny but dead-looking foliage. Furthermore, Burton's lantern caused the great many shadows to deepen, while the myriad fireflies made them wriggle and writhe, so that the entire space squirmed disconcertingly around the two men.
There was a shuttered window in the far wall. In front of it, what looked to be the squat and bulky main trunk of a plant humped up from the floor. Burton, ducking under a dangling creeper, stepped closer to it. He saw that it had corners and realised that what he was looking at was actually a desk, though it was hardly recognisable as such, distorted as it was by all the knotted limbs of the growth that covered it.
His lantern picked out a gnarl of woody protrusions that caught and held his attention. A few moments passed before he realised why.
It was because they resembled a hand.
The hairs at the nape of his neck stood on end.
He slowly raised the lantern and leaned closer. The protuberances grew from the end of a thick, vine-tangled branch which, a little way along its length, bent elbow-like upward before joining a hideously warped trunk-positioned just behind the desk-over which centipedes, spiders, ants, beetles, and termites scuttled in profusion. The insects were flooding in a downward direction. Burton followed their course upward, to where the trunk suddenly narrowed before then widening into a large nodule which angled backward slightly. There was a hole in it, and from this the creatures were vomiting.
Burton knew what he was going to see next, and with every fibre of his being he didn't want to set eyes on it, but the compulsion to lift the lantern higher couldn't be resisted, and its light crept upward from the hole, over the deformed nose and cheekbones, and illuminated Christopher Rigby's living eyes, which burned with hatred in his transfigured and paralysed face.
Burton's shock rendered him voiceless; he could only crouch and stare, his whole body trembling, his senses blasted by the appalling thing before him.
Rigby had been sitting at his desk when the metamorphosis came upon him. It had turned his flesh into plant tissue. Roots and creepers and vines and lianas had grown from him. Repulsive thorny leaves had sprouted. And, to judge from the corpse on the stairs, the thing he'd become was carnivorous, for it had sucked the blood from that unfortunate individual.
Now, though, with the exception of those demonic eyes, Rigby appeared to be dead, for he was withered and dried out, the majority of his leaves had fallen, and his body was riddled with termite holes.
Burton straightened. The eyes followed him. He noted that Rigby's neck had been crushed, then saw the same claw marks he'd noted on the corpse of Peter Pimlico, but they were deeper, more savage.
“The devil take him, Algy,” he muttered. “This is Zeppelin's doing.”
Swinburne didn't reply.
Burton turned, and for a second he thought his assistant had left the room. Then a flash of red drew his attention to the ceiling. To his horror, he saw the poet up there, flat against it, entwined by creepers.
“Algy!” he yelled, but his friend was limp, unconscious, and the explorer spotted a thorny extension pressed against the side of the small man's neck.
Spinning back to face Rigby, he yelled, “Let him go, damn you!”
A thick fountain of insects suddenly erupted from the consul's mouth, spraying into the air and landing on the desk, on the floor, and on Burton. The head creaked slowly into an upright position.
“You!” Rigby whispered. His voice sounded like dry leaves being disturbed by a breeze. “I have waited for so long.”
“Release him!” Burton demanded. “Maybe I can help you, Rigby!”
“I don't want your help, Burton. I only want your blood!”
A liana dropped from above and encircled the explorer's neck. Burton, realising that he still held his dagger, brought it up, sliced through the creeper, and pulled it away from his skin.
“Zeppelin did this to you, didn't he?”
“Yes.”
“A Prussian, Rigby! He's working against the Empire and I've been sent to stop him. You're British, man! Do your duty! Help me!”
“Were it anyone else, Burton, I would. But you, never! I'll die a traitor rather than aid you!”
Leafy tendrils wound around Burton's calves. He felt thorns cutting through his trouser legs, piercing his skin. He ducked as a spiny appendage whipped past his face.
There was no time for persuasion. No time for discussion. Swinburne was being bled to death and, at any moment, Burton himself would likely be overwhelmed.
He jabbed his dagger into his lantern, ripped the side of it open, then prodded the point of the weapon into the oil sack. Liquid spurted out and instantly ignited.
“Don't!” the consul rasped.
“I've suffered your jealousy and enmity for too many years, Rigby. It ends here.”
Burton slammed the burning lantern onto the desk. Immediately, the burning oil splashed outward and the tinder-dry plant burst into flames, sending the king's agent reeling backward. The vines around his legs tripped him but then slithered away, thrashing back and forth.
Swinburne dropped and thudded onto the floor. Burton crawled on hands and knees over to him, feeling the spreading inferno scorching the hairs on the back of his head. With Rigby's screams ringing in his ears, he tore vines away from the poet, grasped him by the collar, and dragged him through the scuttling insects and out of the room.
The fire was expanding with frightening speed. It tore along the walls and over the ceiling, raged past the two men, and filled the corridor with roiling black smoke.
Holding his breath and staying low, Burton reached the top of the stairs and practically fell down them. He rolled onto the cadaver on the landing, then Swinburne rolled onto him, then all three tumbled down the remaining steps. The corpse's limbs broke like snapping twigs as it fell.
A blazing roof beam crashed onto the landing they'd just vacated, showering sparks and fragments of flaming wood onto them.
Burton stood, hoisted Swinburne onto his shoulder, and staggered across the reception hall, out into the courtyard, and through the consulate's gate.
He turned and looked back. There would be no saving the building, that much was plain, and Christopher Rigby, who'd hated him implacably for two
decades, was being cremated inside it.
Burton felt no satisfaction at that.
He carried Swinburne back toward the Imam's palace.
Early the following day, on the East African coast below Zanzibar, two ships dropped anchor off a long, low, bush-covered sand spit some twenty miles south of the ivory-and copra-trading town of Bagamoyo.
The Artemis and Ann Lacey lowered their boats and began the long task of transporting men, mules, horses, and supplies to the mainland. In this, they were assisted by a hundred and twenty Wasawahili porters, who waited on the shore having been transported in a dhow from Bagamoyo by Said bin Salim and his eight staff-wielding Askaris.
This part of the coast was known as the Mrima, or “hill land.” Cut by deep bays, lagoons, and backwaters, its banks were thickly lined by forests of white and red mangroves, the tangled roots of which made passage through to the more open land beyond extremely difficult. There was, however, a humped shelf of black rock that cut through the trees and formed a path from the spit. Burton ordered that this be strewn with sand-and straw from the Ann Lacey's hold-so the horses might traverse it without slipping. One by one, eighty of the fine Arabian mounts were lowered by harness from the cargo vessel to the boat, then landed two at a time on the spit and led across the rock and through the mangroves to an encampment, an extensive patch of white sand bordered by a wall of verdure on three sides and by a low hill, held together by tough and bright-flowered creepers, to landward. Beyond this, more grass-covered hills swelled between mosquito-infested creeks, lagoons, and black fetid ooze.
The eighty horses were the first of four livestock shipments, and once they were ashore, the Ann Lacey steamed away to pick up the next consignment from Zanzibar.
Meanwhile, Artemis offloaded seventy bundles of trading specie, crates of food and books and equipment, Rowtie tents, weapons, ammunition, and all the other paraphernalia necessary for the safari.