Read Expedition to the Mountains of the Moon (Burton & Swinburne) for Free Online Page B

loud high-pitched howl rose above the general hubbub.
    “Would you excuse me?” Burton said. “It sounds like Algy needs to be reined in.”
    He moved back toward the bay window. As he reached the group gathered there, a waiter pushed a glass of port into his hand. Absently, Burton placed it on the table, his attention on Swinburne, who was hopping up and down, waving his arms like a madman.
    “I'm not in the slightest bit tipsy!” the poet was protesting vociferously. “What an utter disaster! I've become immune to alcohol!”
    “Through overfamiliarity, perhaps?” Cornewall Lewis offered.
    “Nonsense! We meet frequently, I'll admit, but we're naught but nodding acquaintances!”
    Doctor James Hunt, a Cannibal Club member, joined the group just in time to hear this. He roared with laughter and declared: “Hah! I rather think there's a great deal more intimacy than that, Algy! You and alcohol are practically wedded!”
    “Tosh and piffle!” Swinburne objected. “Claptrap, balderdash, cobblers, and bunkum!”
    Someone spoke quietly at Burton's side: “I should have you arrested.”
    The explorer turned and found himself facing Sir Richard Mayne, the lean-faced chief commissioner of Scotland Yard.
    “Something to do with me whisking four of your men off to Africa?” he asked, with a raised eyebrow.
    “Yes,” Mayne answered, glancing disapprovingly at Swinburne's histrionics. “Trounce and Honesty are among my best detectives, Krishnamurthy commands my Flying Squad, and Constable Bhatti is in line for promotion. I can hardly afford to have them all gallivanting around the Dark Continent for a year. I can only conclude that you're in league with London's criminal underclasses. Am I right, Sir Richard? Are you getting my men out of the way prior to some villainous coup? Perhaps plotting to have them consumed by lions and tigers so you can break into the Tower of London and steal the Crown jewels?”
    Burton smiled. “Funny, I was just talking about the Tower. But no, and there are no tigers in Africa, sir. Did Lord Palmerston explain the situation?”
    “He delivered to me some vague waffle about it being a matter of national security.”
    “It is.”
    “And he ordered me in no uncertain terms to provide you with whatever you want. I shall do so, of course.”
    “Thank you. I ask only that the men receive extended leave and that their families are looked after.”
    “Have no worries on that account.” The commissioner took a sip of his wine. He sighed. “Keep them safe, won't you?”
    “I'll do my best.”
    They shook hands. Mayne wandered away. Burton reached for his drink and was surprised to find that his glass had mysteriously emptied itself. He pursed his lips and looked at his assistant, who was still stamping his feet and protesting his sobriety. He concluded that Swinburne was either in the midst of one of his infamous drinking sprees or he was the victim of mischief. Then he noticed the Grim Reaper hovering behind the little poet and, though he quickly recognised Thomas Bendyshe—which explained everything, for the anthropologist and atheist was Swinburne's most dedicated tormenter—he nevertheless felt a momentary chill needling at his spine.
    “Richard!” Swinburne screeched. “You've seen me in my cups more than most. Do I seem inebriated to you?”
    “Of all people, Algy, you are the one in whom it's hardest to tell the difference,” Burton answered.
    The poet gave a shriek of despair. He yelled for a waiter.
    Time passed, the party continued, and the king's agent moved from group to group, chatting with some, debating with others, joking with a few.
    At a quarter-past eleven, Monckton Milnes reappeared, with makeup restored, and herded his guests into the music room, where Florence Nightingale surprised Burton by demonstrating an unexpected proficiency on the piano as she accompanied Sister Raghavendra, whose singing voice proved equally impressive. They entertained the gathering