Raoul had wheeled his horse around and was engaged in deep conversation with Narinda. As they parted she saw his strong hand close over the delicately boned one. She fought an onrush of tears and said stiffly,
‘My mind is made up, Sebastian,’ and then she set her hat on her hair, adjusting the veiling, and rode after Wilfred and Mark Lane.
Raoul was at their head, Narinda at his side. Sebastian at the rear, the porters behind him. As they moved off into land from which no white man had ever returned, the porters began to chant rhythmically. It was a sound Harriet was to associate with Africa for the rest of her life.
Several times Raoul turned in his saddle, his eyes seeking Harriet’s, but she always averted her head, staring steadfastly in any direction but his.
In the days that followed the terrain grew more treacherous. The ground was too rocky for the mules to traverse with their heavy baggage and time and time again it had to be manually unloaded and carried, the mules coerced down the sides of steep ravines and up again.
On every hilltop Harriet searched vainly for flat ground and found none. The ravine-filled country was relieved only by sharp spiked bushes and thorns.
It was Sebastian who first saw the village. It was dark and the sun was losing its heat.
‘Over there!’ he shouted excitedly, galloping past Harriet and on to Raoul. ‘A village! Can you see?’
Raoul reined in, his eyes narrowing.
‘With a bit of luck they’ll be able to tell us more about the Great Nyanzas!’ Sebastian said, his fatigue momentarily forgotten.
‘And with bad luck they’ll prove to be Nyam-Nyams,’ Raoul replied drily.
‘What are Nyam-Nyams?’ Harriet heard Wilfred Frome asking nervously.
Raoul gave one of his rare smiles. ‘Cannibals,’ he said and urged his horse forward once more.
The village was a collection of conical-shaped cane-woven huts and as they neared it Raoul halted again. ‘ I think it best if only two of us enter it until we are certain of our welcome.’
‘I endorse that decision,’ Wilfred Frome said overeagerly.
Raoul’s eyes flickered across to him and their expression was contemptuous.
‘So do I,’ Mark Lane said, cantering to Raoul’s side. ‘The porters are most uneasy. I think it would be bad policy to enter with them. If they desert our expedition will be at an end.’
Raoul slipped from the saddle. ‘ Tomorrow will be soon enough for hospitality. I want to have my wits about me when I do enter.’
‘Who will be your companion?’ Mark Lane asked, wiping a rivulet of sweat away from his clerical collar.
Raoul grinned. ‘Frome. He’s the Royal Geographical Society’s official representative. Detailed descriptions of a cannibal tribe should be just what they are after.’
Wilfred Frome paled and stuttered but Raoul ignored him.
‘Let’s make camp quickly before we are seen. We don’t want unexpected visitors during the night.’
Harriet dismounted and leaned weakly against her horse, closing her eyes. The heat and the flies had been almost unbearable, the rough terrain a constant hazard.
‘Are you all right?’
Her eyes flew open. He had not approached her since she had so pointedly turned her back on him at Gondokoro.
‘Perfectly,’ she snapped and summoning all her strength strode away from him, her skirts swishing around her ankles.
The muscles of his jaw flexed and tightened and then he swore and marched in the direction of the porters, issuing orders tersely.
At first light Raoul and a reluctant Wilfred Frome set off on horseback for the village. Sebastian paced the camp nervously.
‘Whatever else the man is, he certainly isn’t a coward.’
‘Nor kind,’ Harriet said, trying to stifle her own anxiety. ‘He knew Wilfred had no desire to journey with him.’
‘What one risks, we should all be prepared to risk,’ Mark Lane said quietly.
Harriet clenched her hands tightly at her side, the nails digging in her palms. What he was risking was his life. She curbed the overriding desire to saddle her horse and ride after him. To do so might only endanger him more. Her lovely face was pale and drawn as she stood tensely, watching the two mounted figures disappear into the distance.
Mark Lane surveyed her with a worried frown and suddenly knew the answer to the question that had been bothering him for so long. It was not hostility that Harriet Latimer felt for Raoul Beauvais. It was love. He smiled to himself. He had seen the expression in Raoul’s eyes when they had rested on Harriet and he had thought no one was observing him. The torture in the dark depths was that of a man yearning after what he could not have. When Raoul returned from his expedition, he would speak to him. Whatever the barrier between himself and Harriet, it was not insurmountable. Not when both loved the other with such intensity.
The hot silence was broken by the sudden sound of drums. Sebastian whirled round, snatching up his rifle. Mark Lane restrained him.
‘They are not war drums. They are drums of welcome.’
Sebastian relaxed slightly. A tight band circled Harriet’s chest so that she could scarcely breathe. What if Mark Lane were wrong? What if even now Raoul was facing death? She moved away from the two men and bowed her head, praying silently.
The drums were still pounding when the two men finally emerged in the shimmering heat of the midday sun, galloping hard back to camp. Harriet sank weakly on to a packing case. He was not dead. He was alive. He was returning. Even as she watched Narinda ran fleet-footedly to meet him. Desolation swept Harriet’s heart. He was returning, but to Narinda, not to her.
Unsteadily she rose to her feet and struggled for composure. Raoul’s eyes were exultant. He was out of the saddle before the horse had scarcely halted. ‘We’re in luck,’ he said buoyantly to Mark Lane. ‘ Chief Latika was both friendly and helpful.’ He pulled a canvas chair towards a portable table and spread the map for them all to see. ‘One of the great Nyanzas is obviously the Lake Speke discovered last year and named after the Queen. The other, the unknown lake, is known to Latika as the Luta N’zige, Dead Locust Lake, and is in this direction.’ His finger moved decisively over the uncharted map.
‘But that’s over two hundred miles,’ Sebastian exclaimed.
Raoul grinned. ‘If it were nearer, it would have been discovered long ago.’
‘Is that where you believe the Nile springs from?’ Mark Lane asked, studying the map with rapt attention.
‘I’m almost sure of it.’
‘It’s almost on the line of the Equator,’ Harriet said, bending her head low to see clearly.
Raoul lifted his head and their eyes met. This time Harriet did not turn away. She could not. It was as if, for a split second, they were once again in complete empathy.
‘Latika says there are great mountains to the south of the lake.’
‘The Mountains of the Moon,’ Harriet whispered incredulously.
He nodded and then Sebastian was regaling him with questions and Narinda, seeing the brief exchange between her master and the English girl, slid determinedly between Raoul and Mark Lane, kneeling once more at Raoul’s feet.
Harriet’s elation died. Incredibly, for an instant of time, she had forgotten Narinda’s existence.
‘Chief Latika wishes to extend his hospitality to all our party,’ Raoul was saying to Mark Lane. ‘Tomorrow you and Sebastian will accompany me and Frome will stay in camp with Miss Latimer and Narinda.’
His head was once more bent over the map. His hair had begun to grow low in the nape of his neck. Whereas Sebastian’s good looks had wilted with the heat and hazards of the journey, Raoul’s had flourished. It was as if he thrived on hardship and danger.
Harriet tore her eyes from the down-bent head of dark springy curls and moved away, busying herself with stitching a skirt that had been rent with thorns. She had no intention of remaining in camp with Wilfred Frome and Narinda. If Sebastian and Mark Lane were to be given
the privilege of meeting Chief Latika, then she was going to accompany them.
For the rest of the day Sebastian monopolised her attention, speculating endlessly on the distances involved, the fame such a discovery would bring them, the honours that would follow in its wake.
Raoul, wishing to speak to Harriet alone, curbed his impatience and spoke in private to Mark Lane of other things Latika had told him: of the hostility of the tribes that lay between them and their destination; of the inter-tribal warfare that raged; of the rains that would come and flood the tributaries of the Nile, making their way impassable.
‘When will you tell Frome and Crale?’ Mark Lane asked, his face sombre.
‘When the obstacles become obvious. If I tell them now they will not believe me and think that I am only trying to rob them of the glory they both so much want. Time alone will show if they are worthy to be recorded as the first men to stand at the source of the Nile.’
Mark Lane nodded unhappily. Like Raoul he doubted if Sebastian Crale would be able to withstand prolonged hardship and like Raoul, he had no very great respect for Wilfred Frome’s talents as a geographer.
That night Sebastian and Wilfred slept deeply, dreaming of great financial rewards for their endeavours. Raoul slept soundly, encouraged by Chief Latika’s verification of the existence of a great lake giving birth to the Nile. Mark Lane prayed and slept with a clear conscience and Harriet slept the sleep of exhaustion. Only Narinda remained awake.
Stealthily she crept into Harriet’s tent and snipped off a lock of unbraided golden hair. Then she ran silently across to her mule, leading it some distance from the camp before mounting. Her master had confirmed that the tribe in the village were friendly. She would come to no harm. She knew the English girl better than her master did. She would not stay behind while the others visited Chief Latika. She would accompany them and by so doing would make Narinda’s task easier. She smiled to herself in the darkness. Tomorrow would be the last day the English girl disturbed her master’s peace of mind. Tomorrow Chief Latika would take the English girl as a slave and she would have her master to herself. She urged her mule onwards, confident that her plan could not fail.
Chapter Nine
At first light the following morning Sebastian and Mark Lane checked their pistols and saddled their horses. Raoul strode to meet them, his body taut, his face grim. Even since the brief moment when his eyes had met Harriet’s above the makeshift map he had determined to speak to her alone. Sebastian Crale’s presence at her side had made that impossible. He rammed a rifle down his saddlebag bad-temperedly. Mon Dieu, but what was the matter with her? She blew hot and cold with the variability of her country’s climate. He swung himself up into his saddle. Wouldn’t it be better if she remained cold? If he did not speak to her? Surely, in time, his passion would become controllable? Would stultify and die? He had never before desired marriage. He had desired only his freedom. Why should a golden-haired English girl make that freedom meaningless?
She emerged from her tent looking as neat and trim as if she were about to pay an afternoon visit with her aunts. Her hair was brushed to a gleaming sheen and coiled in thick plaits in the nape of her neck. Her blouse was demurely high-necked, the full sleeves fastening tightly at the wrists with small, pearl buttons. Her skirts fell in soft falls from a hand-span waist. Her boots, dust-covered from the endless treks up ravines too steep for her horse to carry her, had been scrupulously polished. An emotion he had never encountered before surged through him, holding him rigid. If he married Harriet Latimer he had no need to forsake Africa or his dreams of exploration. She would accompany him, be at his side, revelling in the adventure of charting an unknown continent.
With perfect composure she set her broad-brimmed hat firmly on her head and, without assistance, mounted her horse.
Raoul’s frown deepened. ‘Where,’ he asked, a dangerous note in his voice betraying some of the feelings he had suffered for the past weeks, ‘do you think you are going?’
‘With the expedition to the village,’ Harriet replied with a confidence she did not feel.
A slight tic appeared at his jaw line. ‘You will remain here. An initial overture of friendship indicates very little. Our reception may be very different today.’
‘Then I will ride with you and see for myself,’ Harriet replied with infuriating politeness.
The temper Raoul had kept on a tight leash for so long finally exploded. ‘ You will do no such thing!’ he blazed. ‘You will do as you are told as the rest of the expedition do! You will remain here!’
‘I will go!’ she flared, forgetting the good manners she had determined to display. ‘I am not a member of your expedition, Mr Beauvais. I will do as I please!’
Mark Lane flinched as Raoul blasphemed viciously in French. Harriet, with no knowledge of the language, remained steadfastly on her mount, glaring at him defiantly.
Raoul steeled himself from leaping to the ground, seizing hold of her and shaking her until she begged for mercy. Only the presence of Mark Lane restrained him. With enormous self-control he said through clenched teeth,
‘Chief Latika could be a head hunter for all I know.’
‘He is an Obbo,’ Harriet snapped. ‘Wilfred told me so yesterday evening.’
Raoul slammed the fist of one hand into the palm of the other. ‘Obbos, head hunters, angels from heaven. Whatever they are, you are not leaving the safety of this camp!’
‘I doubt if this camp is any safer than the dahabiah,’ Harriet retorted, looking pointedly to where Narinda stood, hands clasped and her head bent so that no one could see the secret smile that hovered at the corners of her mouth. ‘I am going to the village. If my sketches are to have any value they must depict the lives of the natives we meet on our journeys.’
‘That’s true,’ Wilfred Frome agreed nervously, offering unexpected assistance. ‘Miss Latimer’s drawings are remarkably good and the Geographical Society will be most grateful for them.’
‘Perhaps the Society will be most grateful for Miss Latimer as well, for I am not,’ Raoul said cruelly.
It took all of her courage to remain mounted and not to flee from his savage onslaught. ‘ I go with you,’ she repeated, her face white and an under-lying tremble replacing the anger in her voice.
‘You can go to the Deuce!’ he said explosively and, ignoring the shocked faces of his companions, he dug his heels in his horse’s flanks and began to gallop headlong through the knee-high grass in the direction of the village.
‘If we were anywhere else I’d call him out for such behaviour,’ Sebastian said, his eyes hot with rage.
‘Then remember where we are,’ Mark Lane said drily. ‘Quarrels between ourselves will only destroy our expedition.’
He urged his horse forward and, silently, Harriet riding between them, they cantered at a brisk pace after Raoul’s rapidly disappearing figure.
Tall, dry grass brushed their legs. Insects whirred and buzzed and there came the unmistakable roar of a lion. As they approached the compound of straw-thatched dwellings a horde of hungry dogs yapped at their heels and half-naked women and children appeared in curious groups. The drums that had struck fear into her heart the previous day began once more to beat; this time their nearness adding extra menace.
‘Do you think they are head hunters?’ she asked Sebastian nervously as from every direction unsmiling warriors closed in on them, their strong muscled bodies clad only in dusty loincloths, long spears in their hands.
‘We’ll soon find out,’ Sebastian said grimly as they were hemmed in on all sides. ‘Where the devil is Beauvais?’
The jostling warriors led them to the centre of the village where, on an enormous platform built of palm trunks and floored with reeds, Raoul and Chief Latika sat cross-legged on leopard-skins, facing each other.
Cautiously Sebastian and Mark dismounted and helped Harriet from her horse. The drums continued to beat as they were led up rough-hewn steps on to the platform, and seated on less pr
estigious ox skins.
The Chief’s eyes flicked over the men and rested on the woman between them. His visitor had been right in what she had said and shown him. The white woman would bring a high price as a slave. Many chiefs, perhaps even King Kamrasi himself, would want to own her. She would bring him many cattle. If the fire in his own loins had not died several years ago, he would have kept her for himself. As to what he had been shown, his fingers tightened around the lock of golden hair. Truly it shone like the sun. Chief Latika smiled, raised his hand to silence the drums and greeted his guest. Raoul spoke to him in a dialect that was-in-comprehensible to his companions but carried overtones of Arabic and was accompanied by much gesticulating. At last Raoul turned to them and said with a fiendish gleam in his eyes,
‘Chief Latika wishes us to eat with him.’
Sebastian blanched.
Raoul’s white teeth flashed in a grin of pure joy at his dismay. ‘Come on, Crale. Join in the hospitality.’
A huge cauldron was carried on the shoulders of several warriors and set in their midst. The smell coming from it was revolting. Mark Lane eased a finger around the inside of his clerical collar and mopped his brow. Sebastian looked decidedly ill. Only Harriet remained outwardly composed.
Clay dishes were filled with the contents of the pot. Raoul began to eat with his fingers, expressing relish for the benefit of his host. Harriet gazed at the mess in her pot and raised her head. A pair of narrow eyes in a lean, dark face watched her with malicious amusement. She scooped the unspeakable concoction into her fingers and ate, her eyes defiant.
‘Chief Latika welcomes us,’ Raoul said as Sebastian gagged on what appeared to be a chicken feather. ‘He offers us bananas and sugar cane and sweet potatoes.’
‘Jolly decent of him,’ Sebastian said manfully.
Drink, as revolting as the food, was passed around. The drums began to beat again and warrior after warrior spun on to the mud-beaten ground below them, dancing frenziedly. When bare-breasted women also began to dance with immodest vigour, Mark Lane said to Raoul in a hoarse voice,
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