Текст книги "The Secret of Abdu El Yezdi"

Автор книги: Mark Hodder

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

“I doubt a rotorchair would survive these winds, anyway,” Burton said. He contemplated the metal globe and thought he heard something thudding at its rear. “But why make the journey? Has there been another abduction?”

“No, there’s been a shipwreck.”

Monckton Milnes, who’d walked to the back of the vehicle, said, “What have you brought with you, Detective Inspector?”

“Nothing. Not even a change of blessed clothes. Burton, the tempest grounded a ship off Anglesey at one-thirty last night. It’s called the Royal Charter!”

Burton’s hands curled into fists.

“There’s something moving in here,” Monckton Milnes said. He reached down to the latch, clicked it open, and lifted the door of the sphere’s storage compartment.

“Great heavens!”

Burton crossed to him, looked into the vehicle, and saw Abraham Stoker curled up in the confined space.

“Would ye be good enough to help me out?” the youngster moaned. “I can’t move a bloomin’ muscle.”

Trounce joined them and exclaimed, “A stowaway? What the dickens are you playing at, lad? Don’t tell me you’ve been in there all the way from London?”

Burton and Monckton Milnes lifted the boy out and held him while he tried to straighten his limbs.

“Aye, that I have, Mr. Fogg. I’m sorry, but if you’re off on one of your adventures, then you’ll need an assistant, an’ I’m just the boy for the job, so I am!”

Monckton Milnes gave the Scotland Yard man a quizzical look. “Fogg?”

Trounce groaned.

Burton told Monckton Milnes, “When he began investigating me, Trounce tried to throw me off the track by using the name Macallister Fogg, which he took from this boy’s favourite penny blood.”

“Spur of the moment,” Trounce muttered. “And damned foolish. So now I know who’s been following me. What the blazes are we going to do with the little ragamuffin?”

“We’ll have him tag along with us to Anglesey,” the explorer responded. “He might prove useful. He’s a Whisperer.”

Bram started to rub his arms and shake his legs as the blood returned to them. “Ouch! Ouch! I won’t be any trouble, Mr. Fogg. I promise. And—aye!—you’ll have the whole Whispering Web at your disposal, so you will!”

Trounce said, “Humph!”

“And Anglesey, did I hear ye say? Ain’t that in Wales, now? It’s a barren part o’ the country, so it is. There are more Whisperers there than telegraph offices, to be sure.”

The detective held up his hands in surrender and grumbled, “All right, all right!”

Burton surveyed the devastated grounds and the fast-moving clouds. “How the blazes are we going to travel? There are no trains, you say, Trounce?”

“All services cancelled.”

“The Orpheus,” Monckton Milnes offered. “You have the authority to commandeer it, Richard, and the airfield isn’t far from here. I daresay a machine of that size can manage this wind.”

A shrill voice suddenly proclaimed:

Orpheus, the night is full of tears and cries,

And hardly for the storm and ruin shed

Can even thine eyes be certain of her head

Who never passed out of thy spirit’s eyes,

But stood and shone before them in such wise

As when with love her lips and hands were fed,

And with mute mouth out of the dusty dead

Strove to make answer when thou bad’st her rise.

Abraham Stoker gave a yelp of alarm. “Oy! What’s that thing?”

“That thing,” Burton answered, “is Algernon Swinburne.”

The poet—who’d descended the front doorsteps gesticulating wildly as he recited—approached them. His hair flew about his head like a tumultuous conflagration.

“Hallo, hallo, and thrice hallo!” he cried out. “And one for the nipper, too—hallo! The Orpheus? Your African airship, Richard? Surely you’re not leaving us already?”

“We have to fly to Anglesey, Algy. There’s been a shipwreck. It has some bearing on the matters we spoke of last night.”

“On El Yezdi, you mean? Then I’m coming, too!”

“There’s no need for—”

Swinburne stamped his foot and screeched, “Nonsense! Balderdash! Tosh and piffle! Rot and poppycock! A shipwreck? A shipwreck? By my Aunt Betty’s beastly blue bonnet! It’s the very stuff of poetry!”

Trounce whispered to Burton, “Who—?”

“Later,” the explorer replied. He made a snap decision. “We’re wasting time. Trounce, Bram, Algy, we’ll borrow the stagecoach and set off for the airfield at once.” He turned to Monckton Milnes. “Fryston is on the way, I believe? We’ll drop you and Monsieur Levi there. I’m afraid we’ll have to abandon our plan to travel together to New Wardour Castle.”

“I’ll go there by train. I daresay the tracks will be cleared by next week.”

“Un moment, s’il vous plaît,” Levi interrupted. “Is it an inconvenience if I accompany you, Sir Richard? If you are to fly on the Orpheus, I have the opportunity to examine the room where Oliphant make his ritual. I wish to see it, though the glass and floor are clean now, I think. Aussi, this Royal Charter affair is connected, non?”

Burton gave his consent, and an hour later, having packed and bade an apologetic farewell to Lady Pauline and her remaining guests, Burton and his companions were rattling northwestward in the stage. The driver made the best speed he could but the roads were hazardous, being littered with debris, and it took them two hours to reach Fryston—where they bid Monckton Milnes adieu—and another to get to the airfield.

Upon reaching the Orpheus, Burton hurried aboard and was greeted by a surprised Doctor Quaint, who escorted him to Captain Nathaniel Lawless’s cabin.

“By James!” the airman exclaimed, gripping Burton’s hand. “I wasn’t expecting to see you until the engagement party. Are you recovered? You look somewhat battered, if you’ll pardon the observation.”

“I’m done with the malaria, Captain, but I was involved in an unfortunate accident. No permanent damage. What’s the state of the ship? Can you get her into the air right away?”

“She’s being fitted with armaments in preparation for the signing of the British–German Alliance—we’ll be providing security at the ceremony—but I could afford to take her on a short excursion. We have no supplies aboard, though, and I’m not keen on flying in this wind. Where do you want to go?”

“Anglesey, on the west coast.”

Lawless squinted. “Hmm. About a hundred and seventy miles southwest. That’s straight into the gale, which’ll make it simpler but slower.”

“I’ll need top speed, and you can forego the paperwork.”

“I’m not sure you have—”

Burton thrust forward the card issued by the Home Secretary.

“—the authority,” Lawless finished lamely. “Oh, you do. No paperwork, then. Good! I can’t abide all the damned bureaucracy. I’ll need half an hour to get the engines warmed up then we’ll be off.”

“Thank you, Lawless.”

It was a bumpy flight, but Captain Lawless and his crew, whose loyalty to Burton was absolute, squeezed every ounce of power from the airship’s mighty engines, bullying the dirigible into the headwind and exhausting themselves as they battled to keep the ship stable. At six o’clock, having made excellent time, they landed half a mile west of Moelfre Village, in Dulas Bay, Anglesey Island, on the northwest coast of Wales.

“We can’t tether her here,” Lawless told Burton. “The gale will tear her to ribbons. I’ll take her down, you jump off, and I’ll find a more sheltered spot inland.”

“I can’t ask any more of you, old chap. Get back to Yorkshire. I’m going to be here for a day or two, I suspect.”

Lawless saluted. “Very well. As always, glad to have been of service.”

Burton, Trounce, Levi, Swinburne, and Bram left the Orpheus, watched as it rose up and shrank rapidly eastward, then walked toward the coast. They breasted a shallow hill and were suddenly confronted by a scene of such turmoil that their hearts missed a beat.

“God in heaven!” Trounce cried out.

Below them, half a mile away, the people of Moelfre were milling about on a flat shelf of limestone, against the seaward edge of which waves of enormous size were crashing, sending white spray high into the air. Behind the crowd, a great many corpses had been laid out—Burton estimated at least three hundred—and, heedless of the risk to their own lives, the villagers were pulling more from the violent waters. Screams and shouts carried up to the onlookers.

But even such human drama and tragedy could not long distract from the spectacle being enacted a quarter of a mile out to sea where, against a bank of upthrusting stone fangs, a large steam clipper was being relentlessly smashed to pieces. Mastless and broken almost in two, it was pitching and rolling, falling apart as the sea pounded savagely against it. Even from this distance, Burton and his companions could hear the loud booms and cracks of the vessel’s destruction.

“The Royal Charter,” the explorer whispered.

Swinburne suddenly sprang forward, pulling his jacket off and flinging it aside as he bounded down the slope. “There’s someone still aboard!” he shrieked.

Burton and Trounce set off after him, with Levi and Bram at their heels.

The poet yanked off his shirt.

“Collect his clothes, Bram,” Burton shouted, then, “Algy! Don’t be a bloody fool! You’ll be killed!”

Swinburne ignored the warning, leaped onto the shelf, kicked off his shoes, ducked through the crowd, and before anyone could stop him, plunged into the sea.

“Bismillah!” Burton gasped as the raging waters engulfed the little poet. He dropped onto the wide ledge and joined the villagers, who were yelling, “Dere nôl! Dere nôl!” which he correctly supposed was Welsh for, “Come back!”

“There! Regardez!” Levi hollered, levelling a finger toward the pilothouse near the stern of the clipper’s splintering deck. The structure had been almost entirely torn away and a figure was plainly visible within, propped upright against the ship’s wheel.

One of the villagers, a churchman, shouted something to Burton, who—Welsh being one of the few languages he didn’t speak—snapped, “In English, Father?”

The rector called to a young constable, who came over, listened to him, then said to Burton, “That man on the wreck, sir. It’s the captain. Determined to go down with his ship, he is. As if we don’t have sufficient deaths on our hands.”

Burton anxiously scanned the turbulent waters. He saw a flash of red. He could barely believe it. Algernon Swinburne, who looked so weak and delicate, was swimming like a seal and was already halfway to the Royal Charter.

“How many survivors?” Burton asked, distractedly.

“Just one, may the devil take him.”

Seeing Burton’s shocked reaction, the policeman went on, “A member of the crew managed to swim ashore. Another followed him—a regular giant of a man, he was—and the moment he set foot on land, he took hold of his crewmate’s head, broke his neck, and ran off.”

Trounce said, “Constable, I’m Detective Inspector Trounce of Scotland Yard. When was this?”

“About two in the morning, sir. Half an hour after the ship ran aground. The lads from all the stations on Anglesey are searching the area. I hope they’re travelling in pairs. That fellow could snap a person in half.”

A cheer went up. Incredibly, Swinburne had reached the jagged rocks and was clambering up them in an astounding display of agility.

“Is he really a poet, Mr. Fogg?” Bram Stoker asked. Trounce nodded.

Burton was unable to tear his eyes from the scene. He had a lump in his throat. The red-headed figure sprang across a gap and caught at the shattered planks of the clipper’s hull just as the vessel floundered laterally until its side was almost horizontal. Swinburne rose to his feet, ran forward, then dropped and clung on tightly as the ship sank down again. A horrible grinding sounded as wood fragmented.

“He’s made it,” Trounce gasped as Swinburne vaulted over a brass rail onto the sloping deck. “By Jove! I’ve never seen anything like it!”

The crowd yelled their encouragement as the poet raced toward the stern, then screamed in alarm as he was swamped by a monumental hump of water. The wave buried the ship and exploded onto the rocks, sending spray so high the wind caused it to rain over the onlookers, drenching them. For a terrible moment, the Royal Charter was completely lost from view, but then it reared up again and, with a shattering crash, broke completely in half. The prow swung skyward before ploughing into the ragged stone teeth. Its entire mass crumpled and flew into pieces.

At Burton’s side, the village rector wailed and began to sob.

Trounce clutched Burton’s arm, his fingers digging in, and the scarcely healed bone flared with pain. The explorer didn’t register the shock of it at all, but his vision suddenly clarified, and every tiny detail of the destruction he was witnessing took on equal weight and significance. His knees gave way and Trounce caught him and held him upright, but the explorer was oblivious. All he knew was that, in the sternmost remains of the clipper, which was now swivelling its broken end to face shoreward, there was a figure slumped loosely against the wheel, and beside it, Algernon Swinburne.

The wreck lurched. The poet fell. He slithered across the deck and shot into the sea.

The last part of the vessel rolled over, was driven into the rocks, and fragmented.

“Je ne peux pas le voir!” Levi said. “I can’t see him!”

“For the love of God, Trounce,” Burton croaked, “let go of my arm!”

He straightened and cradled his forearm against his body.

The village constable looked around as a man approached and addressed him. He answered and, after the other had departed, said to Burton, “That was Bob Anwyl of the coastguard station. He says the tide is on the turn. There’ll likely be no more bodies washed ashore. We’re going to take these—” he gestured toward the many dead, “—up to Moelfre Church’s hall. The county coroner is on his way. I’m sorry about your friend. He was very brave.”

“And very alive!” Trounce yelled. “By God, will you look at that!”

Sure enough, Swinburne, bedraggled, exhausted, and with a package held tightly under his right arm, was climbing back onto the limestone shelf. Villagers hurried forward to help him, while others enthusiastically cheered his bravery. Burton and Trounce pushed through them. The explorer took off his coat and threw it across the poet’s shoulders.

“He was dead,” Swinburne panted, “and tied to the ship’s wheel. Let me sit down. I’m fagged!” He collapsed to the ground. “This was in his pocket.” He passed the packet up to Burton.

“I should take that, gents,” the constable objected.

“I outrank you, young man,” Trounce said. He indicated Burton. “And he outranks me.”

The parcel was about the size of a book and was very tightly wrapped in sealskin and secured with waxed twine. Burton handed it to Trounce. “We’ll examine it later. Let’s get Algy dry first.”

The constable whistled to a portly gentleman, who waddled over and was introduced as Bevan Llewelyn, proprietor of the Rhoslligwyspite Inn. The name might have been unpronounceable, but the prospect of ale, warmth, and comfort was enough to propel Swinburne back to his feet with a cry of, “Lead on, dear fellow! A tipple will do me a world of good!”

“You didn’t swallow enough of the Irish Sea?” Trounce enquired.

Bram passed over the poet’s clothes and a minute later Swinburne was hastening toward Moelfre with the rest of them trying to keep up.

“Is this him fagged?” Trounce wondered. “By Jove, Burton, but you keep some strange company!”

Bram piped up, “He’s like one of ’em froons what captured ye in Greece, is that not the case, Mr. Fogg?”

“You probably mean fauns,” Burton put in. “And whatever you’re referring to was just a story, lad.”

“To be sure, sir! The Baker Street Detective, issue nine hundred and eight, if I be rememberin’ rightly. The Case of the Greek Interloper.”

“I’m not Macallister Fogg,” Trounce protested.

Bram grinned and gave him an exaggerated wink. “Don’t you be a-worrying, sir. Me lips are sealed, so they are.”

When they reached the outskirts of the village, Burton looked back and saw a long line of people, all in pairs, slowly carrying the drowned toward the little settlement. He shook his head sadly. He was no stranger to death, but had never witnessed such a terrible toll.

The Rhoslligwyspite Inn—or “Rosie with Spite,” as Swinburne rechristened it, before then mutating it into “The Spiteful Rosie”—was a small but comfortable pub. It had two upstairs rooms available for guests, both of which Burton paid for. He, Levi, and Swinburne changed into dry clothes. Neither Trounce nor Stoker had brought any, so they requested that the fire be lit in one of the chambers, then stood in front of it and steamed.

They all rested. Llewelyn delivered well-filled bowls of beef stew and bottles of ale, all “on the house” due to Swinburne being regarded as a hero. Slowly, the bar downstairs filled, though its conversations were subdued. The villagers had been up all the previous night and through the day, so didn’t remain for long. By eleven o’clock, silence reigned, and even the wind had worn itself out and could only manage a few pitiful whimpers.

Burton and his colleagues—minus Bram, who’d fallen asleep—gathered in the downstairs lounge, pulling armchairs around a coffee table by the fireplace. Llewelyn told them they could help themselves to beer, then locked up and went to bed.

“Damned calamity,” Trounce muttered. “Worst wreck in living memory. I shall never get the image of all those corpses out of my head.”

“Il était terrible,” Levi agreed.

Burton adjusted the wick of the nearest lamp and, by its increased light, started to unwrap the package Swinburne had recovered.

“I meant to ask, Trounce—how did you know?”

“About the ship? The lifeguard station here telegraphed the Admiralty as soon as the clipper was grounded. In such cases, because a police presence is often required shoreside, the Force is always alerted. I was just finishing my shift when I happened to overhear a conversation about it. You’d already shown me the telegraph message received on the Orpheus during the aurora phenomenon,” he tapped his head, “and things clicked, so I jumped into a steam sphere and drove all night through the storm. Thus the bags under my eyes.”

“Good man,” Burton said. “By James, this package is tightly swaddled!”

He unfolded the sealskin only to find a second layer beneath. This, too, was removed.

Swinburne leaned forward. “What is it?”

“The ship’s log.” Burton opened the book. “Somewhat damp and some of the ink has run, but the wrapping did a good job. It’s readable.” He spent a few minutes examining it page by page. “The captain was Thomas Taylor.”

“Lashed himself to the wheel,” Swinburne murmured.

“He do it himself?” Levi exclaimed.

“Yes. I could tell by the manner in which he was bound.”

Burton read from the log. “Departed Melbourne on the first of August, bound for Liverpool. Three hundred and seventy-five passengers. A hundred and twelve crew. Carrying a large consignment of gold.”

He turned one page after the other. “She was making good headway.” He moved a few pages on, stopped, frowned, and flicked backward to an earlier point. “Strange. Algy, would you mind reading to us? Are you up to it?”

Trounce moved to object—surely the poet was exhausted!—but before he could utter a sound, Burton’s eyes flashed a warning. The detective froze, then leaned back in his chair and said nothing.

“I most certainly am,” Swinburne cried out. “Hand it over.”

Burton passed the logbook to Swinburne, open at the page he’d selected. The poet curled his left foot up onto the chair and began to read. His voice took on the unique quality Burton had noticed at Wallington Hall, and within moments the explorer, occultist, and Scotland Yard man were entirely immersed in the account.

LIVERPOOL & AUSTRALIAN NAVIGATION COMPANY

STEAM FROM AUSTRALIA TO LIVERPOOL

UNDER 60 DAYS

THE MAGNIFICENT STEAM CLIPPER

“ROYAL CHARTER”

Thursday. 1st day of September 1859.

8.00 a.m.

In Doldrums off West Africa. Unable to establish exact position. Compass spinning. At midnight, the Northern Lights appeared (this far south? I’ve never heard of such a thing). As bright as day. No stars visible for the remainder of the night. No breath of wind. A curious atmospheric effect: all flames have died, and no match will strike. We can’t fire-up the engines. I’ve traversed the tropics hundreds of times and have never before seen combustion suppressed this way. The men are mad with the loss of their pipes and cigars.

3.00 p.m.

A slight current has got up. Drifting eastward, albeit slowly. Crew short-tempered. How we all depend on our tobacco!

10.00 p.m.

Another night with light from horizon to horizon. The sea is like glass and so reflective we appear to be floating through clouds of shifting colours. A marvellous but very unnerving effect.

Friday. 2nd day of September 1859.

8.00 a.m.

Still becalmed. No wind. No fire. Compass useless. Humidity tremendous, making sleep almost impossible. Second Officer Cowie reports the passengers are increasingly restless and quarrelsome. He broke up two disputes last night.

Noon

Indications that we’re still moved by a current in a generally easterly (perhaps NE) direction.

11.00 p.m.

No change. Again, the Northern Lights. Passengers rowdy. More fighting. A man named Samuel Grenfell (gold miner) stabbed another, William James Ferris (storekeeper) in the arm. Has been locked in his cabin.

Saturday. 3rd day of September 1859.

2.00 a.m.

Seaman William Draper reports he can “smell land.”

11.00 a.m.

Lack of sleep overtaking all. Thank God passengers too tired for troublemaking.

Midnight

The aurora has partially cleared, now being confined to a portion of sky to the east of us, and has taken on a most curious aspect, funnelling downward onto a mountainous island just visible on the horizon. We’re at 3°10′N 8°42′E. According to my charts, the island is Fernando Po. The current is pushing us toward it. Still no fire.

Sunday. 4th day of September 1859.

7.00 p.m.

No change in our circumstance. A deep lassitude creeping over all.

Monday. 5th day of September 1859.

Noon

Drawing close to Fernando Po. The island is dominated by a huge conical peak, clothed in tropical forest. We’re drifting toward a cove, Clarence Bay, by the charts. If we make land, we can at least lay up until the weather changes.

10.00 p.m.

Ashore. At 4.40 p.m., the Royal Charter touched ground just off a narrow beach, backed by steep banks of yellow clay. I led a landing party and a small crowd of people greeted us. We followed them up ladders and, beyond the top of the banks, discovered a row of buildings, newly erected by recently arrived Spanish colonists and christened Santa Isabel. Already, the dwellings are rotten and infested with vermin and their inhabitants are languid to the point of semi-consciousness, gripped by deadly ennui and disease.

After leaving the ship, we discovered that our matches were strike-able once more and we took to our tobacco with much enthusiasm, yet as soon as we stepped back aboard, no combustion was possible. Whatever the atmospheric disturbance is, it’s somehow clinging to the vessel, so other than a rotating watch of seven men, the crew and passengers have abandoned her and are all put up in filthy lodgings. I fear for the women and children. This is no kind of place for them.

Tuesday. 6th day of September 1859.

2.00 a.m.

Can’t sleep. There are drums thundering from somewhere inland. They’ve not let up for a single moment since the sun set.

11.30 a.m.

Humidity, sandflies, mosquitoes, prickly heat. This place is unbearable. The vegetation hangs limply beneath the blinding sky. Everything’s still, as in death.

Wednesday. 7th day of September 1859.

9.00 p.m.

The governor of Santa Isabel, a man named de Ruvigas, has advised us to move inland to a town called Santa Cecilia, which is some 1,300 feet above sea level and less dangerous to health. Tomorrow we’ll do so, remaining there until the weather improves, or until we can fire-up the ship’s engines.

Thursday. 8th day of September 1859.

2.00 a.m.

The drums. On and on. I feel I might lose my mind.

6.00 p.m.

Leaving the watch aboard ship, I today led the crew and passengers inland along a steeply ascending jungle trail until we arrived, exhausted, at Santa Cecilia. The village is little more than a huddle of shacks, all raised up on poles in the centre of a wide clearing, but the inhabitants willingly made room for us in return for gifts of alcohol, tobacco, pocket watches, rings, belts, and whatever else we could afford to give them. The female passengers have set about cleaning the place up.

Midnight

The air is fresher here. The mosquitoes less numerous. But the drums are just as insistent.

Saturday. 10th day of September 1859.

3.00 p.m.

I’m remiss in my log-keeping. The days are endless, the nights worse.

Monday. 12th day of September 1859.

8.00 p.m.

We feel we are being watched. The women grip each other, their faces taut with fear. The men have become strangely quiet. I find myself checking my pistol again and again.

Tuesday. 13th day of September 1859.

3.00 p.m.

Such torpor. Sleep evades us but we slip in and out of prolonged periods of dark reverie, almost a trance, wherein we are paralysed by a sense of being examined, like pinned insects.

5.30 p.m.

From 3.00 p.m. until 5.00 p.m. every day, clouds form with astonishing rapidity and rain falls in a solid sheet. The thunder is as violent as I’ve ever heard. Our huts leak, and after the downpour we crawl from them soaked to the skin to dry ourselves beneath the returned sun. It’s causing our clothes to rot from our backs. By all that’s Holy, I’ve never beheld such a ragged band of miserable souls.

Friday. 16th day of September 1859.

7.00 p.m.

I dread nightfall and the commencement of the drumming. There’s been so little sleep, I’m in a state of living dream. More difficult than ever to maintain this log.

Monday. 19th day of September 1859.

9.00 a.m.

Last night, I was roused by Seaman Joseph Rodgers, who was near hysterical and swearing blind that, “The devil himself is among us.” It took nigh on an hour to calm him.

Tuesday. 20th day of September 1859.

8.00 p.m.

Another day has passed like an opium dream and now the drums have begun their nightly torment. A terrible sense of menace pervades the village.

Tuesday. 27th day of September 1859.

11.00 a.m.

A week has gone by in a haze, with no attention paid to this record. I remember nothing of what’s passed, if anything has, beyond the repetitive torture of heat, rain, and drums, heat, rain, and drums. We’ve had twenty-seven days now without the merest hint of a breeze; twenty-two days on this loathsome lump of rock. Writing exhausts me.

3.00 p.m.

Something brought us here. Something is holding us captive. None of this is natural. God help us.

Wednesday. 5th day of October 1859.

11.30 a.m.

Joseph Rodgers and a passenger, John Judge, have suggested we investigate the source of the drumming. By Christ, we do something or we remain here and die of languor, so I’ve agreed, and will lead the expedition myself. I pray I can raise strength enough for it.

4.00 p.m.

It’ll be just the three of us. The rest lie limp and vacant-eyed. A stiff climb faces us, for our hosts insist that the drummers are located in a crater, called the Pico Santa Isabel, at the top of the central mountain, which is obviously an ancient and dormant volcano. We’ll set out at dawn.

Thursday. 6th day of October 1859.

7.00 p.m.

The climb is steep but not impossibly so. There’s a trail with steps cut into the sheerest stretches. John Judge is a giant, Herculean in strength and endurance, but Rodgers and I are all too mortal. The heat sucks out what little energy we’ve been able to muster. Frequent stops necessary. No progress at all when the rains came. Nevertheless, we’ve covered a good distance. We’ll reach the peak tomorrow. For now, Rodgers has made a little fire, which we’ll huddle around while we endure the night and the damnable drums.

Friday. 7th day of October 1859.

6.30 a.m.

Not a wink of sleep. The feeling of looming menace is overpowering. We’re resuming our ascent.

Saturday. 8th day of October 1859.

8.00 p.m.

Be merciful to me, O God, be merciful to me! For my soul trusts in You; and in the shadow of Your wings I will make my refuge, until these calamities have passed by.

We achieved the summit yesterday at 4.00 p.m. and stood at the lip of the crater. On the opposite side, a village, from which the nocturnal drumming no doubt emanates, has been built around about a quarter of the depression’s outer edge. Its inhabitants soon spotted us, but rather than approach, they simply stared.

We paid them little attention; our eyes were pulled down to the incredible object lying amid the bubbling pools at the base of the bowl. It appeared to be the aurora borealis, somehow condensed into a globe, about two hundred feet in diameter, but with a large section missing, like a bite from an apple. As we descended toward it, details began to stand out. Though formed entirely from light, the apparition started to remind me of a steam sphere, though of gigantic proportions. There were rows of rivet-like protrusions, portholes, and the missing section was seemingly lined with broken spars and torn plating, as if exploded from within.

We climbed past pools of steaming water and sulphurous mud, stumbling constantly, unable to look away from the seething colours before us. Rodgers began to utter a prayer but was hushed by John Judge, who commanded us to listen, and in doing so confirmed what I had already noticed: that there were whisperings coming from the globe; voices, which as we drew closer gained clarity, becoming fragments of conversations, orders, pleas, and shouts. I clearly heard:

“. . . advancing west. Their forces stretch from . . .”

“. . . will do as I bloody well say, Private, or so help me I’ll put him before a firing squad. Now get down there and tell him to . . .”

“. . . isn’t seaworthy and is beyond repair, sir. The long and short of it is that the Britannia is wrecked. If we make a last stand, it has to be here. You have to tell General Aitken there’s no way out of . . .”

“. . . German units to the south and west of us. Unless he can do what he says, we’ll not live beyond . . .”