Ruffian Dick

by Kennedy, Joseph; Enright, John;

  With distant thoughts in mind

  I am,

  RF

  12 Burton meets Gelele just three years after writing this. Here he encountered the Amazon army and received a human bone necklace as a gift from the king. —Ed.

  13 The woman for whom the Ouija Board was named. She was the bestselling author of Under Two Flags and was a regular consort of Burton during his salon days. —Ed.

  III

  A PROPOSITION, SEVERAL LETTERS, AND MR. O’FLOYN “ONE PUNCH” POWERS

  March 15, 1860

  11 Foubert’s Place

  London

  Who is it in the press that calls on me?

  I hear a tongue shriller than all the music

  Cry “Caesar!” Speak, Caesar is turned to hear.

  Beware the ides of March.

  What man is that?

  A soothsayer bids you beware the ides of March.

  Drunk, and drunk again on the ides, but better binged than dead I suppose. I have been at it heavily since my return from Africa and now lie in bed deathly ill from last evening’s alcohol poisoning. The legendary twin vixens that Hankey sent over are gone, thank god. They turned out to be Swiss, if you can believe it, totally unrelated though both pure mountaineers and cold as frogs. I was ready to give them a bash but soon learned that Hankey’s claims for them are myth. They were nothing more than ordinary bints, and the only really nasty thing about them was their vulgar chocolate habit. I cannot recall much of what took place past midnight but I find my flat a mess with books strewn about the floor and several large chairs overturned. I do have a fuzzy recollection of chasing them around the flat with that ridiculously out-sized, tribal dildo I traded one of Speke’s guns for back in Ujiji. It had them wide-eyed, on the run, and as animated as they were all evening, so at least there was some magic in that frightful thing. But today the sick smell of old cigars and spilled brandy is everywhere. Depression surrounds me.

  This whole Speke thing has me going through a bad patch. The fool has been funded (£5000) and is off to the lakes again, this time in the company of the puppy dog James Grant—a man who would be a fit coMr.ade only in the eyes of someone like Speke’s precious mum.14 Even the missionary Livingstone has been given a purse and is away to Nyassa, and I lay in Soho reduced to a fugitive, constantly on the run from and only one step ahead of the excitable Miss Isabel Arundell. This woman is fast becoming more of a problem than the entire African mess. I am certain she followed me to Boulogne and it has been a bit of a chore to conceal my whereabouts here in London.

  Amidst the clutter on the floor were two envelopes delivered by messenger last evening. I had forgotten that. I have just opened the first and discovered a poem from Isabel.

  Oh God, how did she ever find me here? I felt my stomach turn as I read this rat rhyme:

  My brave soldier’s heart

  beats in far distant lands

  a fortnight away from my sheltering hands.

  His darling is HERE in old London’s fold

  awaiting his arrival

  to give heat from the cold.

  I am HERE my lord, come into my arms

  I shall find you, I shall hug you

  and keep you from harm.

  A postscript was added:

  Loved one. I have obtained this address from the most charming two women. They are book publishers from Zurich and said they were sent by a Mr. Hankey in order to get a first hand exposure of the author. You! I shall let you take care of business with them, and good luck! I will arrive on the morrow so we can cuddle together as soon as possible.

  Isabel

  I think I shall be sick. But there is no time, for “the morrow” is now and she knows where I am. All thoughts turn to escape, all energy directed towards the next move. I suppose something was needed to break this cycle of depressed rage and drink and if it is another move, then I will owe something to my darling Isabel. The wandering heart needs no further motivation than that supplied by a closing, clutching woman, but even in the most urgent circumstances I’m afraid a destination is required. So the pressing question becomes, “Where shall I go?”

  My question was answered magnificently as I began gathering things for my departure and in the process, and almost by accident, found that second envelope that was delivered in the haze of last evening. I was overjoyed to see it was a letter from old Steinhaeuser15. I opened it at once and realized that it was an invitation to join him on a trip to America.

  I suddenly became as clear-headed as ever before in my life. My god, this is “the packet,” isn’t it? The big new land filled with different people, a place I have never been before (back in Zanzibar I imagined Cornwall), the arrival of the envelope by messenger, from a friend while I was in my own land, its direction for movement when I needed to move badly but didn’t know where to go. It is all unbelievably flawless in its complete perfection and as true as I am sitting on this bed.

  The delivery of Laibon Mbatiany’s predicted and miraculous packet in but a few short months between augury and arrival gives one pause to contemplate the extraordinary, but surpassing that is the magic itself which forces the mind to accept what reason tells us we cannot. By god, the old man may be right that I can’t hunt as before, but in my new cycle of adventure I can pursue these sorts of psychic mysteries until I die.

  With Steinhaeuser’s letter still in my hand, I heard the old man’s voice in my head: “but this time it will be an expedition to find yourself,” and I could almost feel his hands on me as they were in that mud hut back in Zanzibar. It struck me pure that through the observation of others, my goal is to define humanity and therefore myself as part of it.

  When the darkest moment suddenly turns to light it is the greatest exhilaration of all, but when the unknown and unbelievable becomes truth before your eyes then you know that you have been touched by God.

  This pursuit of Man is a frightful task in some ways. To see close-up the most dangerous animal on the planet and the sometimes horrific ways in which it goes about its business is strong stuff. But horror and beauty are curiously intertwined in the human experience, as are laughter and tears—opposites joined to each other through an inexplicable process—and in no other animal but man can these inter-doppelgangers be studied better.

  The wisdom of the laibon also knew it would be America where the hunt for self and humanity must take place. It is nothing less than a call from man’s oldest land to his newest—an ancient voice directing a modern mind to enter the future.

  All of these things kept me thinking while still seated on the side of my bed; it was two hours that seemed like two moments. I still had Steinhaeuser’s letter in my hand and returned to it for completion. One part in particular left me in a merry pin. He said, “I’ll drink mint-juleps, brandy smashes, whisky-skies, gin-sling, cock-tail sherry, cobblers, rum salads, streaks of lightning, and morning glory, and it will be a most interesting experiment. I want to see whether after a life of three or four months, I can drink and eat myself to the level of the aborigine, like you.” There was also the mention of a Mormon Holy City where polygamy is practiced. Good stuff!

  I must begin making preparations. Books must be sent to storage, notebooks to be gathered, other odds and ends. Above all, a correct wardrobe must be assembled for this trip, something fit and dapper for the United States, something rough and wild for the Territories of the Red Indian West. I really should stay to check the proofs of my Lake Regions of Central Africa, but I will not. This would be just one more reminder of the unctuous Jack Speke and all the rest that came about as a result of my bit of fun gone bad. Although, a second thought on the matter suggests that it may have been worth the cost after all. Knowing the Kowouli, I’ll wager they gave Speke a sound and proper rogering back there. It was a full week before he could sit down without wincing. The loss of his priceless weapons, the ruination of his silly hunting outfit, the thought that he actually believed me and performed the fraudulent Unrecognized Male Greeting Ceremony
before a bunch like the Kowouli—for God’s sake, the price of high humour like this should be dear.

  I would still like to know the other details of Jack’s rough ride to Nyanza. Of the two natives that went off with Speke, one found his heart’s content and stayed, and the poor devil that came back with Speke won’t talk. Aside from the obvious, something very strange happened on that trip and someday I will find out what it is.

  Before I leave for America, there is one piece of unfinished business I should like to take care of, and that is to deal with Mr. Laurence Oliphant. This weedy and exceptionally pale creature is reminiscent of so many other over-educated, sodding little Cambridge brats I have been forced to tolerate over the years. That time is over and now for a fitting bon voyage gift to myself.

  Oliphant’s penultimate desire (liaisons with homosexual men being the foremost on his aspiration list) is keeping the company of young girls between the ages of fourteen and sixteen. These he seeks out and cajoles in the most sycophantic way in order to gain their attention. I do not believe he has the sand to actually have sex with them, yet there is nevertheless something wrongly sensual that marks his behaviour whenever they are near. He presses close and lowers his voice to whisper pet names like “little boo” or “Elskins” (?) in their ears and will often greet them with tender kisses upon the lips. His fare-thee-wells are equally theatrical; a tragic expression crosses his face and he softly bids, “Well then, take care, little one.” Then almost immediately, the sorrowful look transforms to a leer. I suspect Oliphant holds abeyant desires for these girls due in part to a cowardly fear of more mature women. Whatever the reason, his public displays are always repulsive and deserving of some bad turn. Now it seems to me that there was a small article in the back pages of the Times recently concerning a Mr. O’Floyn (One Punch) Powers, the Bare Knuckle Champion of England and Ireland. Powers has said that he fights solely for the memory of his sainted wife, who died in childbirth, and his daughter, little Maureen. Responding to the report that “little Maureen” would be attending the first social of her young life this Saturday in fashionable Mayfair, O’Floyn has been quoted as saying, “I’ll be there alright, but will stand away and give the little dear space enough to think I’m not. Be sure that I’ll be ready to tear the arms off any man who lays a queer hand on her, no matter how high fly’n a Mayfair gentleman he may be.”

  Mayfair? I say, isn’t this Larry Oliphant’s neck of the woods? And wouldn’t it be wonderful if the great man had an invitation to meet “little Maureen” at a lovely social event? I do believe I have his address somewhere here and would be most happy to match-make this little assignation. As I write the following note to Mr. O, I imagine it being read over and over by an adoring, female adolescent before she drops it in the post.

  Dear Mr. Oliphant:

  Although I am only fourteen, I am a great admirer of your wonderful articles. While I know Blackwood’s Magazine is usually unacceptable reading for a young girl, I will admit to you that I have obtained copies that I sneak into bed with me and read secretly at night. You are my hero and inspire me to bring forth all my confidence. With you in my mind, I have worked very hard to express some of my deepest thoughts. So then, may I present the poem I have written for you…Larry?

  My brave writer’s pen

  speaks of far distant lands

  he just minutes away

  from my sheltering hands.

  Next Saturday his darling will in Mayfair be

  awaiting a man

  her hero to see.

  I will be there my Lord

  come into my arms

  find me, HUG me

  and keep me from harm.

  P.S. Dearest, I shall be at Willow Fork Hall, Saturday at seven o’clock: sweep me away from the dreary dance floor so we may cuddle together as soon as possible. You will recognize me by my red satin dress. In the meantime, I am

  Awaiting you,

  Maureen Powers

  March 17th, 1860

  Bloomsbury

  Mon Cher Steinhaeuser:

  Of course I shall be delighted to accompany you to America. A drinking tour it shall be. The details we shall have to work through quick post as I am wild about quitting this place posthaste. I must report another act of purposeful opprobrium when I was forced to sit through the stale opera La Somnambula w/ Miss IA two days ago. I’m afraid some bored young lieutenant who had spent too much time in Africa and India discharged a deafening fart at the precise moment Jenny Lind and Gardoni appeared for their stage bows after the final act.

  An old hag seated next to this overseas Lt. almost fainted—although I cannot tell if it was the depraved act or its results which did the trick. In other news Sir R. and Shaw have turned their Royal Geographic backs on me, and even Livingston has rejected my offer of service. I am certain Speke will be killed this time around and the Man of God will need more than his King James to survive the test of East Africa.

  Do you recall the famous “twins” Hankey wrote about? Well, he put them on to me here, to cheer me up, I suppose. A disaster at any rate; but after too many brandies I did end up chasing them about my flat trying for the hat trick.

  I’m on the run from Miss Arundell but no matter how much she may deflate the limbic system, your mention of polygamy in the Mormon Holy City does excite the Captain back up on deck.

  Do let us roam the American miles in high-style to reach the Great Salt Lake and all it has to offer. When I tell you of the African origin of your letter you will faint.

  Believe me,

  Dick

  March 18, 1860

  Bloomsbury

  In favour of: Mr. Clive Tweed-Choat

  Proprietor, St. John House

  From: R.F. Burton

  Sir:

  I do not care if the condition of my now-vacated flat does not meet your final approval, and I will not pay a shilling of the proposed cleaning fee. Yours is a charnel house, unfit for the dead really, and a stinking mess when I first arrived. Your salacious reference to the visit of my two Swiss cousins is an insult to my moral self and was factor-less in the alleged damage or the reported screaming. For your information, the “spilled fluids” encountered by your filthy-minded cleaning woman were merely drops and drizzles from a clam soup which was prepared by my cousins and were certainly not seminal. I am disgusted by the thought!

  I also refuse to accept responsibility for the broken furniture. These pieces—and the bed especially—were obviously crafted by peasants in the last century and are not fit to bear the weight of a modern man. You may not charge my account, for I have none.

  I will be out of the country for some months; if you wish to pursue this matter further, please ask for me at the Athenaeum in the fall and I will consider settling matters with a rumble.

  The thought of ever hearing from you again depresses

  Your former tenant

  R. F. Burton

  PUGILIST HELD IN ASSAULT ON JOURNALIST16

  Mayfair. Popular boxing figure O’Floyn Powers is being held at police headquarters after an attack last Saturday on Mr. Lawrence Oliphant, a reporter for Blackwell’s Magazine. It is unclear why these two public figures came to blows over the weekend but scores of horrified young people witnessed the bloody affair which took place at a debutante social at Willow Fork Hall.

  A spokesman at St. Regis Hospital said Mr. Oliphant is recovering slowly from what was described as “a thrashing.” Several broken bones are being attended to as well as numerous cuts and a severely bruised derriere. Inspector Grub of the district constabulary has indicated that Mr. Powers did not receive any injuries as a result of the fray and that the gentleman is refusing to speak with authorities beyond saying that he’d “do it again in an ace.”

  April 16th, 1860

  Neston Park, Wiltshire

  To: Richard Burton

  From: John Hanning Speke

  Dear Burton:

  The Blackwell cousins have been kind enough to send along your horrib
ly bowdlerized manuscript Zanzibar; and two months in East Africa, and in spite of the recent attack and injuries upon his person, the resourceful Larry Oliphant has obtained for me a copy of your willfully scandalous, The Lake Regions of Central Africa from his friends at Longman, Green, Longman and Roberts.

  I have taken the time to read this slouch and feel I must write to let you know that at least one astute critic lives to smother your lies and omissions. While no Christian could argue that there are many episodes which should be left out of your books, I find your wanton refusal to assign proper credit to certain events simply unbearable. For example, my rightful discovery of Victoria Nyanza was an event that not only changed my life and way of thinking, but one that will also forever be remembered by the rest of the civilized world.

  Soon I shall be off to Africa again, and this time mercifully, without you. Through a route known only to me, I shall reunite with the great Kowouli and together we shall once and for all settle the matters of elevation and river discharge; these being the only remaining queries upon which you base your suppositions.

  You scoffed at my sportsmanship, yet it was a hunting trip that ultimately led to the wonderful event, wasn’t it Burton? You mocked me upon my return to Ujiji, not knowing the fullness of what had taken place in a manly land. Now you will rot in some Covent Garden brothel with filthy whores while I rejoin a valorous and plucky tribe on a righteous quest of rediscovery. Let God and history be the judge.

  I pity you.

  John Hanning Speke

  14 Speke wrote to Norton Shaw on April 15, 1860 and said, “Mother thinks no end of our friend Grant and is immensely pleased with the idea of me having such a good companion.” —Ed.