In Spite of Lions

by Pike Scarlette

  “Did you care for Marianne in her illness?”

  He looked pained again and became rigid. Nevertheless, he answered. “I did. I could not be sure she was not contagious, and I was the only one left that had been exposed to her.”

  “The only one left?” I wanted clarification, but I dreaded where this conversation was going.

  He nodded.

  “My parents could not tolerate the illness in their age.”

  My heart sunk. His parents had died because of Marianne’s infection. They had all passed away at the same time, leaving the captain an orphan and widower in the same instance.

  I suddenly felt I was a modern day Narcissus. So obsessed had I been with my own story, my own sorrows, my own path that I had never learned to comfort others in their grief. If I had any hope of becoming like Mary, I had to learn. I allowed myself to feel the desire to comfort him and allowed my instincts to take control. With all the uncertainty in the world, I reached out and clasped his arm with my good hand.

  When first I touched him, we both tensed and were still. I regretted my hastiness and thought of retreat. My grasp twitched. Soon, however, we became calm and his expression turned gentle and sorrowful.

  So slow I wasn’t sure what he was doing until it was done, his other hand raised and came down on top of mine. I felt comforted, enclosed in his touch.

  I smiled meekly at him. He smiled back, though it looked like it took some great effort.

  I felt extremely grateful for his help and told him so.

  “I have only done what was necessary,” he retorted.

  “Thank you,” I repeated, persistent.

  He looked up at my face with a most peculiar expression.

  “I am only glad to see you yourself again,” he said in a gruff voice. “I was sure you had been killed.”

  I was amazed that he cared this much. My hand began to feel hot in his grasp.

  All I could say was “thank you” again. He nodded and released me, turning his back to me.

  David, Mebalwe, Sechele, and Selemeng gathered in my room that night to discuss the peace attempts. Before we could begin, however, a knock came at the door. Mary opened the door to a man and a woman whose skin was as fair as her own. She recognized the couple instantly and beckoned them inside. The man put his weathered hand on the small of his wife’s back and ushered her inside. I wondered at their situation while David perceived my questions.

  “Family,” he addressed us all, “this is Johannes and Roosa Pretorius. They have been our friends for some time. They accompanied us from the Boer encampment.”

  This told me one thing for certain: they were Boers themselves. I tensed at the implications and my eyes flew to David. To my astonishment, he was already looking at me, guessing my reaction. He shook his head and gave me a disparaging glance before he continued.

  “They have much to add to our report,” he said, defending them. I noticed sheepishly that no one else in the room had tensed in fear as I had done. Sechele and Selemeng seemed as comfortable in their presence as if they had been in their own home. I was suddenly acutely aware of my prejudice against an entire race of people. Was I judging all Boers based on a select few? This would explain the disparaging look David had just given me. He had already suspected me. I cringed and resolved to do better in the same moment.

  “And so, Ngaka,” Sechele asked, “what have they said?”

  David paused. He had a difficult time revealing the news to his chief. His friend, Johannes, interjected for him.

  “They are determined to attack,” he spoke as if he had no connection with them, although his thick Dutch accent betrayed him. “This group of men are a dangerous breed. They believe themselves to be peacemakers, and yet we have watched as they destroyed their enemies and made slaves of their friends. There were no words to persuade them to forgo their strike, not even from the revered David Livingstone.”

  “So what is their reasoning for attack?” I asked, baffled and confused. “Have they been attacked by any of our people?”

  The captain answered my question.

  “They have never been attacked by us. It is like Johannes said,” he echoed, “they believe themselves to be peacemakers. The Bakwena people pose a threat to peace because Abraham believes Sechele to be like Dingane, the chief who killed his friends. Wide knowledge of Sechele’s armory does not help his case.”

  I remembered Sechele’s exceptionally large rifle the night of our unfortunate dinner. I suppose I should have guessed there was more.

  “What’s more is they find David and any other man in Sechele’s village a threat because they are all rumored to have been supplying Sechele with weapons.”

  I could not handle the mystery any longer.

  “How do you know all of this?” I asked.

  The captain looked on me candidly.

  “Because I have heard the rumors,” he answered simply. There was a long pause after his short explanation and I noticed Selemeng had one eyebrow cocked. Pressured by the silence, he added with a smirk, “And also, I have been the one supplying the Bakwena with guns.”

  Sechele returned the grin tenfold, adding excitedly, “I have a cannon!”

  The simple Boer couple were taken aback. Obviously they had not heard of this. I hoped this changed the outlook of the battle.

  “Perhaps if the other Boers knew of the extent of your weaponry, Sechele, they would not be so aggressive,” I suggested hopefully.

  “The Boers have weapons of their own,” David countered. “No amount of bullets would keep them from protecting a land they claim to be theirs.”

  Sechele scoffed in an odd agreement that I didn’t understand. Luckily, David expounded, possibly for my benefit alone.

  “The European way of staking a claim to a piece of land is to obtain a preliminary certificate of ownership. The land is then inspected by a commission, and if no one protests, the land becomes the property of the applicant. The farm boundary would be half an hour’s walk in each direction from the homestead.

  “In a system so haphazard as this, native rights were often overlooked. When the whites presented the chiefs with an agreement on paper, and the chiefs made their mark on it, the two parties to the agreement were starting from quite different premises. The whites thought they had obtained the land, free and clear, whereas the chiefs, to whom individual tenure of land was a thing unknown, believed that they had merely granted a tenancy. The gift from the white man that usually sealed the bargain was almost a token of vassalage in their eyes.

  “Thus, many of these European squatters, having occupied some attractive looking piece of land, would refuse to move, and the Native would find himself declared a trespasser on a farm that his family had used for generations. It is easy to see how bitter misunderstandings might arise, the white man accusing the chief of bad faith, while to the chief the white tenant, by asserting proprietary rights, seemed to be a landgrabber subverting the ancient laws.”

  “By that reasoning then, whose land are they occupying now?” I asked, trying to understand.

  “Mine,” Sechele responded, suddenly forlorn after listening to David’s explanation.

  “What is your assessment then, David,” Mary spoke up, directing us back to the point, “of how the Bakwena would fare in a battle against these men?”

  It was the one question I had been too afraid to ask.

  The silence was deafening.

  After an immeasurable amount of time, David finally answered with the truth. “I don’t know. There are too many factors that are not yet decided. We know not how many guns and ammunition they possess, when they will attack, if others will come to our aid, or if we will receive more rain before that,” he trailed off, almost listless.

  “Are there other tribes that would help us?” I asked, my eyes widening.

  “I feel certain of some of my friends,” Sechele replied. “The Bangwaketse, Bakgatla bagaMmanaana and Bakaa,” he named off, which I supposed was a few other tribes nea
rby.

  “Although a good number of them may be coming to you for protection instead of support,” the captain clarified.

  “Nevertheless,” Sechele said, “they shall be protected.”

  “Is there any guess, then, of when the attack will happen?” Mary asked.

  “Boers fight on horseback,” Johannes answered. “To avoid the dreaded horse-sickness, they send their horses during the rains into a district that is free from the disease. We can also be sure they won’t attack on Sunday. They are devout Sabbath worshipers.” He paused in some obvious chagrin. “The month of May is when we may expect them.”

  Two months away.

  David and Mary exchanged a glance that could have been spoken aloud, so easily it was understood by all the occupants of the room. That was the very month Mary would deliver her child.

  “If taken by surprise, my men and I will rush with our guns and assegais to this mission house to protect David and his family,” Sechele spoke bravely. “The old loyalty between the doctor and his people will be rekindled.”

  It is a peculiar life awaiting and preparing for an imminent fight. For days it was all we could discuss. We speculated on their motives, their methods, and their madness. Preparation was well thought out, especially focused around Mary’s baby. It was finally decided that Mary and the children should accompany David to Kuruman to stay with Mary’s parents who ran the mission there. The drought was not so severe there, and Mary and the children would be well taken care of.

  In their preparation for departure, Mary appeared to either be much improved or becoming a better actress. She bustled around the home as if nothing ailed her. Especially when she was around me, she appeared completely serene, and yet I would have been curious to see how she acted when she was alone.

  David visibly dreaded the upcoming fight, and it affected him physically in the form of more serious headaches. Not only was there a violent threat to a people he held so dear, but in the many years of his missionary work, Sechele was his only convert. He was leaving his home unhappy with the results of his labor. In addition, no man is pleased when forced to run to his father-in-law for assistance—at least I knew David was not.

  There was one obstacle, however, that kept them from departing immediately: me. Despite my vehement protests, they were convinced if they left my bedside with the much needed medicines, I could become infected again and have no hope of recovery. They could leave medicines for me, but could not know how much would be needed and did not want to waste any. All were adamant that I not be moved, and despite my horror at my frail state, I could not help but agree. The smallest movements threatened to reopen the giant circular wounds left by the claws of the lion. Even the smallest obligations left me so weak I could sometimes not even lift a spoon to feed myself. Traveling in any capacity would have been incredibly difficult.

  The decision was made. The Livingstones would stay with me for another month so that David could closely watch my progress and administer medicines when needed without being wasteful. Mary insisted it did not make much difference if she traveled now or in one month. She would still be just as sick and just as uncomfortable as she was now. It was sound reason that they would trust Mary’s strength, and word of strength, more than mine. She had—and would continue to—survived much more than I had ever seen.

  Then there was the unavoidable fact that I would be in the house as the battle commenced, unable to fight. Not only would I be of no use to the people who I had come to love so dearly, but I would also be a burden. I would be protected by Bakwena men who should be standing on the lines with Sechele facing their enemy instead of protecting a young wounded girl. And yet, once again, nothing I could say would convince them that this was folly. And so I attempted to live amiably in my containment. If I were to be a burden, I would not be a bitter and irritating burden.

  Mary and David had readied their belongings to depart in an instant if need be. All preparations had been made to be ready for the attack. Despite Mary becoming more active and capable, she also had more to do, so the captain continued to be my primary caregiver. Mary took care of my personal, and sometimes quite embarrassing, needs. Occasionally, women from the tribe would come to sit with me while the captain ran his mysterious errands. But the majority of my time was spent alone with this man.

  At first, when I was permitted to be conscious throughout most of the day, having him so close and alone was supremely uncomfortable. There was very little I could do to ease my discomfort. Every motion disturbed a wound or a healing broken bone, of which there were many.

  The only thing I had control over was my eyes, and I came to know the details of my ceiling well. In my mind, I repeatedly commended David on his fine craftsmanship. The captain must have sensed my uneasiness, but he dismissed it forcefully when it got in the way of his nursing responsibilities. I could keep my eyes focused on anywhere but his person for hours, but when it was time for a meal, medicine, or changing my bandages, he would brusquely proceed despite my chagrin.

  The Captain did not urge me to speak or make polite conversation. He took special attention to my needs, mixing medication, giving me water, and even baking bread without any assistance from Mary. In those times when all my needs were met, he would write letters or read David’s books quietly. Never once did he question me about anything unrelated to my condition.

  Gradually, I will admit, I began to watch the captain more than the ceiling. He was often close enough for me to take in several details about him at once. I had thought his hair an unkempt raven black, graying at the temples, but it was actually a dark brown. He was neat, precise, and in an odd way, graceful. He made no movement without a purpose. He was not one of these men to fidget about unnecessarily. He did not tap his feet, nor shift uncomfortably. He was always perfectly at rest and ease, knowing his duty and performing it admirably. And he was admirable.

  It was while contemplating these features that I was caught looking at his face. He had lifted my shoulders gently off the hard bed with one arm to carefully feed me a thin soup Mary had prepared. In the days since his arrival, this had become a daily occurrence for us, and yet something about this encounter was different. He checked my face, as he often did to check for signs of pain. Finding none he returned his gaze to the soup for a fraction of a second before slowly moving his striking eyes back to mine.

  And how shall I describe the moment when I realized the magnitude of my foolishness? How shall I tell you that in that moment, I realized I had loved him since the days I saw him standing resolutely in the corners of those warm ballrooms? Yet, oh, I was still so acutely humiliated by my past treatment at his hands. My thoughts warred within me, and I wished I could walk away from here, that I could leap from this bed and shove my way through the door. But I could not, and still the thoughts came.

  In those days, in my mind, I had begged him to come out from the shadows and save me from my life of empty echoes. When he had not I had shut him out as harshly as I had everyone else excepting my dear father. Since his marriage, I had looked for faults in him to lessen the pain I had felt at having my hopes thwarted.

  And yet, on the other hand, how could I have trusted him? I was taught nothing of love. My mother beat and abused behind doors and became a sweet actress in public. The only feeling I had in that life past was survival. There had been no room for passion, no room for tenderness. I had not known my own mind. Like so many things, Mother had taken that away from me.

  And now, finally, I understood the ballads, the poems, the stories. All tales of love and devotion had been opaque, so incapable was I of understanding that side of human emotion. Now I understood. Love between man and woman is crowned with loving service. The relationships devoid of money or gain could be the most tender and genuine. I had not understood, even though it had been told to me hundreds of times. But in that moment, my mind caught hold of that fact, and knew it now.

  I had little experience with these matters, but I looked into his eyes unashamed,
searching for requited feelings.

  At first I could not understand what I saw in his hard, dark eyes, but the longer we sat there unmoving, the more the feelings magnified and became more apparent. Eventually I could tell what the emotion was that encompassed his features.

  Hope.

  But hope of what? The tender feelings that had welled inside me were suddenly beaten back by dread. I wanted to stay in that moment with him, staring into his eyes, but I could not deny that he had been married. What fault had he found with her, with Marianne? She was in every way superior to myself. Tall, handsome, articulate, excellent in the handling of people’s feelings. He’d had a reputation of denying advance after advance of scores of young females, but he had been swept off his feet by her, and picked her instantly out of the crowd of now crushed hopefuls.

  A crowd that had held me.

  He had passed me by, a girl the same age as his future wife, and had pursued Marianne openly. If he cared for me now, what was it that had changed his mind? He had come to know me better, but in the meantime had scolded me, corrected me.

  Was he grooming me to be like his lost Marianne?

  I turned from his gaze and presence so forcefully that the soup fell from his hands and made a mess on the floor.

  I pretended to sleep while he cleaned it up.

  Chapter 21

  I took time every day to sit up in my bed, attempting to be careful and delicate with my one mangled shoulder, while avoiding eye contact with the captain. This allowed me a view outside the one small window, and the prospect was still incredibly dry and empty. Although I was told some rain had fallen while I slept, you would not know it from looking at the sparse trees in the distance. I was sure Motsatsi could push them over if given the inclination.

  I suddenly craved conversation.

  “Has there ever been a drought like this one?” I asked the captain.

  His head snapped up from a letter he had been engrossed in. Seeing me look in his direction and speaking to him directly shocked him for a few seconds.