Ruffian Dick

by Kennedy, Joseph; Enright, John;

  “Beyond these things, Lt. Burton, the dazed look on your face tells me that you are full of hemp smoke once again. Judging from past performances, I’d say you have a black wench procuring it for you, and no doubt performing other filthy duties as well.”

  “Jack,” I said in an overly tender and calm voice, “Did you say something about finding a boat?”

  Speke hung his head down for a moment and then rallied it up straight until his chin was pointed at my eyes. “Thank the good Lord we were able to launch the only available boat and make our escape by sea; and do not think for a moment that they weren’t swimming after us or calling out the lewdest epithets: never in my life have I heard such…”

  “Jack, does this mean that there is another great body of water in that vicinity?”

  “Well, yes,” he said in a startled voice that broke at the end of the final word. He cleared his throat and said, “Yes … yes. I suppose there is.”

  I could see the realization of what had happened slowly washing across his dull-witted good looks. He drifted off for a moment and then continued his stern harangue with a new confidence. “I plan on filing a full report of your actions and will not be at a loss for reasons why you failed to accompany me on my journey”—he cleared his throat and raised the octave—“to the … the true source of the Great Nile.”

  The bamboozled but now emboldened Speke stood up from the table in righteous triumph and with such rapidity that he knocked his stool off its feet. “I shall name the mighty sea Victoria after our Queen and mount another quest to this font so I may plant the flag of England.”

  This is the true story of John Hanning Speke’s fumbling and accidental discovery of Lake Nyanza, which is also called Ukewere by the natives.7 I dare not tell the tale for fear of the reproach which would be brought on me and the certain-to-be-fatal embarrassment to Speke. Not that I care so much of the latter, but one must always hope for the best in a hopeless world. History will likely administer reproach for being trapped by my own doings.

  Speke and I have barely said a word to each other since that meeting at Tabora. There is no telling what papers he has been preparing in his cabin but I suspect the worst. He has been passing by my deck hammock and snickering for the past two days. Bastard! I know he is brewing some sanctimonious lie.

  My brandy and cigar stores have been exhausted, new light promises a different day, and from here on the deck I can see the silhouette of island Zanzibar in the distance.

  Tanganyika is a curiously bad memory.

  Burton’s letter to his friend Monckton Milnes, also known as Lord Houghton, dated January 14th, 1860, 14 Blvd. Haussmann, Paris.

  My Dear Lord Houghton:8

  Nothing can describe the present state of affairs. I am in voluntary exile in the land of the Frank, for life in England has become unbearable. As I’m sure you are aware, Speke has blundered into the limelight by accidentally discovering the legendary Lake Nyanza. It is a shameful and undeserved glory as it was I who suggested that he lose himself in that part of the continent. The details of his adventure with the Kowouli were received with great relish by our friend Hankey9 and I must say that, to date, this small reward is the only one I have been able to enjoy. Everything else has gone Speke’s way. Murchison and the rest have been completely gulled by the man’s agent, Mr. Oliphant, and Speke is already preparing to return to Africa with a large purse.

  Concerning himself, there is barely a scrap of truth in all that he has released to the newspapers. I am pleased to report, however, that all his veiled innuendo concerning my own actions are absolutely true; I can tell you, for example, that African hemp is plentiful and its powers formidable. While in Tabora a Twa from the kingdom of Rwanda brought me some of his native product. He called the cannabis injaga and pleaded with me to partake of it with him from a gourd water pipe.

  You should know that the Twa are pygmoid types that are hated by their Hutu and Tutsi neighbors and are treated like quasi-domesticated pets by the ruling members of the Kinyarwanda-speaking people. This particular chap was exceptionally small but robust nonetheless. They have a peculiar method of packing the gourd pipe prior to smoking. The Twa packed the tube or stem of his pipe with ingaga and powdered charcoal and then filled the bowl with glowing hot pebbles from the fire. This act horrified an on-looking Arab who was accustomed to crumbling his narcotic in the bowl and then bringing over fire as needed. The Arab made some teeth-sucking sounds and shook his head. I could see that the Twa was nonplussed. The Twa paused to take an exasperated look at the objecting Arab but quickly returned to his task. He then proceeded to suck heat through the stem until the cannabis was ignited and great clouds of blue smoke were expelled from his mouth and nose. After a moment of rapid puffing he suddenly captured a quantity of the stuff in his mouth, held it in for a moment and then exhaled allowing his enormous pink tongue to fall out of one side of his mouth. He then composed his face into a neat smile and said, “Now you! The pipe is ready for you.” I began trying to draw the smoke and after dizzying hyperventilation, I was able to succeed. I tried to recreate my partner’s ritual and knew I was ready to begin when I saw excess smoke running out of my nose. I pulled the smoke into my chest but was forced to send it out almost immediately. I began feeling the effects at once and reeled back against a tree for support.

  I do not know how long I had been staring down at my boots but when I looked up I saw the Twa’s watery red eyes fixed on the Arab. By this time the son of Al Islam had forgotten about his technical criticisms, was flashing an approving smile and showing interest over the obvious results. “Come over,” the Twa said. “Now it is ready for you.” The Arab touched his breast with the tips of his fingers and gave a surprised look.

  “Yes, you! Come over as it is now your turn with the pipe.” The grateful Arab quickly hitched-up his gown and joined our sitting. The Twa told him that he would begin the process again for he suspected his new guest “might not know how such things are done.” As he said this, he glanced over at me with a mischievous look in his eye and I could tell that the Twa’s offer to assist was paper thin. The tube was reloaded and new pebbles added to the bowl. The Twa now began puffing away with great enthusiasm and the glow from the bowl lit the Arabs anxious face. In between the puffs of smoke, he was showing all his teeth and nodding all around in appreciation. At this point the Twa motioned for the Arab to get a stick and stir the hot bowl to excite the fire. The obliging Arab responded immediately by leaning over the pipe and carefully poking at the coals. Just then the Twa gave a great blow into the tube and sent a volcanic shower of hot ash and cinder into the Arab’s face. The Arab covered his eyes with his hands and he screamed out, “Allah, Allah! By the Prophet, I have been blinded by a dwarf!” He stood and groped for the curved knife at his belt.

  With this, the drug-crazed Twa began circling the Arab and kicking at his shins and knees. All the while he was laughing and shouting, “Enemies of the Mwami—die, die, die!”

  Old friend, I suspect that the hemp lent some extra drama to this event, but on my word, I have never seen anyone so inclined towards violence when intoxicated with that drug nor a person so enraptured with the sight of suffering others. Such are the workings of the Decrepit Continent. Ah, but that was then in what seems a more sane climate than the one I live in now. Back in England it was absolutely brutal watching Speke pretending to be what he isn’t. Late one evening before I left, he arrived in a pub where I was drinking and was in the company of that simpering Lawrence Oliphant once again. They arrived to cheers, if you can believe it, and took up position at the best table in the house. What a pair the two of them made—Speke, tall, blond and breaking into his idiotic smile while attempting to field questions from the adoring patrons, and Oliphant behind him, nervously whispering in his ear like some smarmy solicitor on a bad day at the Old Bailey. I sat unnoticed in a darkened corner of the place and watched as long as I could bear it. Although I was aware of growing dangerous in my cups (and knowing like conditi
ons in the past have given over to acts of violence), I nevertheless rose from my seat and started for the two of them.

  Had not my adoring fiancée entered the pub at that moment, nothing could have prevented a dreadful catastrophe. Do not be misled into thinking that I was in any way restrained or calmed by my darling Isabel10 for this was simply not the case. According to the way most events come to pass when she is involved, her assistance arrived in a rather oblique fashion. I quickly realized that my desire to avoid her superseded my murderous intentions towards Jack Speke and Oliphant (thereby sparing both an on-the-spot and sound thrashing) and to this end I bolted for the nearest door to make good my escape. In retrospect all was not lost, for I suppose it best that I did not administer a public beating and in the bargain managed to escape the resolute Miss Arundell. My actions did not go unnoticed, however, and I enclose the following clipping from a recent issue of some London gossip rag.

  … for the heartfelt joy all about the

  table and surely in tribute to the verbal

  skills of Captain Speke. As we lifted a pint

  in honour and appreciation, a deranged

  madman rushed past our table at great

  speed, knocking it asunder and causing our

  toasts to the African hero to spill upon

  ourselves and the floor. That the proprietor

  of the Ram’s Head should permit the entry of

  such drunken riffraff is a disgrace that will not go

  unnoticed by the readers of this column.

  Let it be known that those such informed

  did not fail to note the arrival of Miss

  Isabel Arundell at this notorious juncture.

  While officially a maiden’s secret, this woman

  has ‘let it out’ and declared her marital

  allegiance to Lt. Richard Burton of the Bombay

  Army and recent companion11 of Jack Speke in

  Africa. Can it then be too far afield to credit the

  resemblance between the madman who upset

  our table and the aforementioned Burton?

  It was our lion, Speke, who first uttered the name

  and then, after a correct pause, said, “Quite! The

  man has often acted like an orang-outang.”

  This quip saved the day and we …

  Speke disgusts me and so does the society that accepts him. I hope the beer will extinguish the fire of his lies. My Lord, how I yearn for the freedom of the un-civilized world. I believe in that better place the collective attitude that is so much a part of traditional country life spares us from the artificial and solitary putrefaction of the city, a place where one feels terribly alone in a crowd. In our smelly metropolis we go about mindfully singular, falsely self-confident, and revoltingly self-serving. Our beacon has become a so-called complete man, at once puffed by and a slave to his corrupt society and too ‘important’ or ‘busy’ to care a fig for honour or truth. In short, a world tailored for the fatuous Jack Speke and his kind.

  1 The same village where Stanley met Livingstone twelve years later. —Ed.

  2 A ‘bubu’ or so-called “native wife” was not uncommon for Englishmen in the Bombay Army. These were usually temporary relationships that terminated when the soldier’s tour of duty ended. —Ed.

  3 In the archives of the Royal Geographic Society there is a letter from Speke to Dr. Norton Shaw dated July 2, 1858. “Burton has always been ill; he won’t sit out in the dew, and has a decided objection to the sun…This is a shocking country for sport…nothing but Elephants. There is nothing to write about in this uninteresting country. Nothing could surpass these tracts, jungles, plains for dull sameness, the people are the same everywhere in fact this country is one vast senseless map of sameness.” —Ed.

  4 Speke was such a prude he referred to his trousers as ‘unmentionables.’ —Ed.

  5 Bombay (real name Sidi Mubarak) was head bearer, guide, and translator for the expedition. —Ed.

  6 The Royal Geographic Society. —Ed.

  7 Lake Nyanza was later called Lake Victoria and proved to be the true source of the Nile. Speke is remembered by history as the man who made this great find. A commemorative plaque at the place of discovery does not mention Richard Burton’s name. —Ed.

  8 Lord Houghton, real name Richard Monckton Milnes, was a wealthy, life-long friend and supporter of Richard Burton. The week-long salon parties at his country estate, Fryston Hall, were legendary, and, along with Burton, the guest list included some of the most noted eccentrics and artists of the Victorian Age. —Ed.

  9 Fred Hankey was an Englishman resident in Paris and making his living as a pornographer. The novelist Jules de Goncourt once visited Hankey’s apartment and said it “contained every obscene object possible.” —Ed.

  10 Isabel Arundell was from a prominent English Catholic family and was smitten by Burton the first time she laid eyes on him. After a gypsy fortune teller advised her that he would be her husband she embarked on a long and determined pursuit of Burton that eventually ended in a most curious marriage. —Ed.

  11 Burton, using a different ink, underlined the word “companion” and wrote in the margin: “Companion? Words of an ignorant ass, I assure you. As if he were anything but on my coat-tails the entire time. R.B.” —Ed.

  II

  ZANZIBAR AND SHIHAB

  NEXT DAY: IN REVIEW, I realize it is my curse to be struck with contradictory thoughts as I write and perhaps even more so the next day. When I am given over to romantic ideas concerning traditional behaviour, I need only report on the deportment of Gelele, King of Dahomey (a heroic dose of the aboriginal ideal in vivo) and my previous night’s fancy is quickly brought to its knees. This Gelele’s behavior is far removed from any Rousseauesque innocence and my sanctimonious ramblings concerning relative civility in the traditional setting. His conduct is dramatic proof that the beast is in the species, Milnes, and not particular to geography, skin colour, or religion. It is a disease of our kind. While I suspect I have made my point, I cannot resist a Gelele story now that his name has been brought up. According to all accounts, this African sovereign is more monster than monarch and the “Kingdom of Blood” over which he presides is in, no small thanks to him, well named.

  The travel writer William Snelgrave tells of a lake of blood large enough to float a canoe and Archibald Dalzel reports the death of two thousand sacrificial victims at the hands of his Amazon army of she-monsters. It is my intention to travel to this place someday and actually meet Gelele.12 I may need your assistance in order to bring this about. And as long as we are speaking of the denizens of the Decrepit Continent, let us not forget the Wabembe, who prefer their men raw, and the Wadoe, who like them cooked.

  Ah, Africa. For now, dear Houghton, I can only lament being in gray, dreary England, with the silly bravado of Jack Speke and the determined efforts of my fiancée. I have considered a return to Zanzibar and my beautiful girl-negress, Shihab, but just the sound of her name and that island are enough to bring forth a rush of confusion. I do not recall ever being so drawn by a woman that I would entertain a return to such a ghastly place. Some examples: when I first approached the island we passed a dhow crammed with slaves. Even though the Sultan of Zanzibar had outlawed this practice in 1845, there was no stopping the trade in practice nor the ends to which the slavers would stoop to “preserve” their cargo. A cool trimmer’s mate on our ship told of how those who had contracted dysentery would be “sewn-up” by Spaniard slavers before being brought to the bazaar. We passed close enough to the dhow for eye contact with some of these unfortunate souls and I must report a collection of the most frightful and dispirited expressions can not be imagined.

  Closer to the island a hot offshore wind brought the delicious smell of clove plantations, which for a moment gave me pleasant reminders of India. All this was lost as we neared the harbor for there is nowhere in India that can match the squalor and rot of this blistering, awful place. My first observation as we neared
shore was that of a dog dragging a bloated corpse from the fetid coastal waters, and the hideous beginnings of a devouring. The situation only degenerated at landfall. We quickly learned that the Sultan had died seven weeks before our arrival and his two sons were engaged in a chaotic war to claim rights to this cesspool. The lawless, narrow streets are filled with human filth, and the thick well water is positively green and wholly undrinkable—the liquor, worse.

  Atkins Hamerton was the British resident there at the time. Surely you remember this jolly Irishman from our sojourn to County Tip a few years back. Poor Atkins had become the epitome of the white man ground down by the tropics, and I found him a mere shell of the chap we knew back then. Zanzibar had done it, Milnes, there is no question about that. I called on Hamerton at the garrison shortly after our arrival and found him behind an empty desk. There seemed to be nothing more for him but to sit and sweat in the early morning torpor.

  “Well, Burton,” he said, “sit down and let me tell you what you’ve gotten yourself into this time.” He opened a drawer, pulled out a bottle of Jameson’s, and poured me a drink. “It’s a bloody mess here, I’m afraid. Drought in the whole of the east has brought about famine, and the Sultan’s pimp of a son over in Muskat controls what little food reaches the island. What does trickle in is very dear and occasions much fighting. Malaria, yellow fever, and hepatitis are everywhere.” Hamerton managed a weak grin and added, “The good news, lad, is that the smallpox epidemic has just passed.”

  He was not quite done with his initial assessment of the situation, so he fortified himself with another drink in order to do so. Black flies were halfway down the inside of the glass before he could take the first sip.

  “It’s as dangerous a place as you’ve ever been and frightfully unforgiving. I can tell you a story by way of example.” Hamerton stared down into his whiskey. “A young Frenchman by the name of Maizan attempted passage through here. I suspect it must have been ten years ago. I can’t say exactly what took place between himself and the Mazungera, but they evidently didn’t like something about him for they tied him to a tree and slowly dismembered him. Finally cut the poor devil’s head off. Oh, naturally we raised a fuss about the whole thing but the results of our objections were scarcely less grizzly than the act itself. After some weeks the bastards delivered some poor chap from their tribe who they had designated as the scapegoat and fixed him up just as you see him today.”