There never was, nor ever shall be again, a father’s love greater than that of David Livingstone.
David stood and brought Thomas to the captain and me in polite introduction. He offered Thomas to me, but I felt obligated to refuse, since I was not confident in my shoulder’s ability to hold even this six-pound infant. My qualms were dismissed in this instance, however, and the sweet bundle was set upon my right arm. What a wise forehead he had! And what a knowledgeable chin. I had never held a child so small before, but even if I had, I felt certain little Thomas would still be my favorite.
The captain then took a moment to hold the boy. He spoke not a word but the corners of his mouth slanted up in admiration. Robert and Agnes surrounded him to get a closer look while the child was down on their level.
It was in this precious moment that Motsatsi came barreling through the door, shouting in Sechuana. His words put David and the captain in an instant state of alarm and readiness. And for this I did not need a translator.
The Boers were coming.
David bounded to Mary’s bedside, leaving Thomas with the captain. I heard him speaking quickly, comforting his dear wife and answering her questions. He then took two giant steps and was back in the room with us, retrieving Thomas from the captain.
“She is not well enough to move. The delivery was too harsh on her body,” he spoke quickly and articulately. “We are staying.”
“No,” I moaned in the same instant the captain spoke.
“Let me take the children and ride as far away as I can,” he offered.
“It seems counterproductive at this point,” David said. “The Boers may not even come here, but if they do, I want as many men surrounding this house as possible. If you take the children, you would be an island surrounded by many. Here we can create a fortress.”
“Motsatsi,” I addressed him. “Did you come by way of your father?”
“Yes Miss Anna. He is sending some men to surround this house.”
Despite the assurance of a small army to stand guard in front of Mary and the children, I still felt a sudden surge of panic and fear. David noticed.
“You need not worry,” David said comforting me. “The Bakwena have been fending for themselves for centuries. If many are hurt, it will be in the protection of their families and loved ones. You cannot take responsibility for a land dispute. It will pass, and we shall escape unharmed.”
I nodded, unable to speak further for the knot in my throat, the cannon on my chest, and the pressure on my lungs.
Sechele arrived with ten strong men who were to be our bodyguards. Sechele came only to assign the men and give them specific instructions as to my protection. He only spoke a few words in passing, and I admit I was too stunned for further conversation. Not only because I was so terrified of the coming events, but because he wore his traditional dress, and it was absolutely impeccable. A gray cat-skin caross was draped around his one shoulder, dropping all the way to the floor. Brass rings covered his arms and legs and four red feathers adorned his hair. His chest was bare and puffed out in defiance of attack. The glint in his eye told me there was no possibility of failure.
The men were positioned in several locations around the house. It was a comfort to see tribesmen willingly working to aid my family. The missionaries and the people of Sechele, so at odds over the baptism, were now bound together by a common peril. Sechele departed to lead his small army. According to Motsatsi and other scouts of the tribe, the Boers would attack by nightfall.
The men worked to prepare us. I was well aware they sought to prepare us for the worst. Reason demanded it. However, their preparations did nothing to belay my worries. They rearranged the room for optimal protection. We, the children and I, moved to Mary’s bedroom. I held Robert and Agnes’s tiny hands as we moved to the back wall of the home and sat on the floor next to the bed where Mary and Thomas lay. I watched silently as the men gathered all the food, medicine, and water we would need to spend the night in this small temporary fortification. They scavenged several long boards from around the house and used them to bar the one window in Mary’s chamber, nails keeping it secure to the inside walls. The men would protect the front door.
Having gathered all the provision we would need and conversing quickly with all the men standing guard outside, we settled down in our cramped corner to spend the hot afternoon.
I watched the captain, as was my habit as of late. He was serious, but not frantic or afraid. As for me, I couldn’t help but think about the danger coming to my people. Given the opportunity, I would have happily stood at the front lines and battled to protect them. I would give much to protect these people, especially the children. However, with the added stress and strain from Thomas’s birth and the coming fight, my wounds were becoming sore, several cracking and sloughing infection with the fidgeting of my nervous body. The captain looked at the broken wounds with disapproval. He reapplied my bandages and then encouraged me to sleep, as the babes now did on my lap. I shook my head fervently. How could I possibly relax in the face of bloodshed?
He stared at me thoughtfully, his face strained with sincere concern. Without warning, he reached his hand up and stroked my face from temple to chin.
“No one is going to hurt you,” he told me. His broad, rough hand moved to my hair, which had grown substantially since our time together on the Madras—almost to my shoulders. “Your only concern and worry should be to heal.”
I looked on him tenderly. “Thank you.”
He nodded gruffly, then moved to the front of the house with the other men.
I sighed, content to have some resolution between us before the chaos began. Suddenly, I felt myself watched and I turned to see Mary was awake and had seen the entire spectacle. She was laying on her side, her face toward me, while tiny Thomas was curled up next to her.
She smiled at me.
“I have always liked the captain,” she told me.
“I haven’t,” I responded.
We both laughed. I feel the stress of the moment made us laugh much more than the comment demanded, but it was nice to see Mary smile.
Darkness came too quickly. Motsatsi ran back and forth from the site of the battle to us, to give us updated news. The Boers had indeed arrived on horseback, but not alone. David warned us that fraud was as natural to the Boers as paying one’s own way was natural for everyone else. Now I saw what he meant. The Boers had abducted natives from other tribes. They used the natives to stand in the front line of the battle, then they would simply shoot over them and allow the captives to die first. I was horrified by the news, whereas the captain did not seem surprised. After this, Motsatsi stayed with us in our corner. The battle had begun in the distance.
I did try to appear calm and confident in the face of such carnage, not for myself but for Motsatsi, Robert, and Agnes. They was still so young, so unaccustomed with so many horrors the world held. I knew that Motsatsi acted prideful and confident in his abilities, and in truth, his skills were many! Enough to put to shame any young girl or lad or London. And still, watching his thin frame sitting silently on the hard floor holding a large assegai, I felt all his confidence was a simple act to mirror his father. In that moment, he was just a small, inexperienced child holding a very large spear.
Nothing could have possibly prepared me for the events to come. We all sat silently, waiting for any correspondence from the others, when we heard the unmistakable sound of hooves approaching on the dry African ground.
All our heads perked and turned at the sound. The captain ducked his head inside to report.
“A small group of Boers, maybe thirty, are on their way from the east.” he spoke quickly.
Mary needed not even a second after his announcement.
“Robert. Agnes. To me,” she spoke calmly but direct, as was her way.
They both climbed into the bed of their mother, ever watching to make sure they did not tread on Thomas, who was next to Mary on the bed. Mary moved the children so their hea
ds were just under her blanket. It was a small effort in safety, but perhaps if the Boers did break through the door, the simple fact that the children could not be seen would make the difference.
Motsatsi and I took our positions in front of Mary’s bed. The Boers would have to make it through the group of thirteen men outside and then through us to get to the children.
This small faction of Boers must be using the battle as a distraction so they could come to attack the missionary’s home. And there could only be one true reason they would expend so much effort to do so. They still desired to take me hostage. They still wanted the reward my mother had posted.
My heart began to beat at triple its usual speed. The enemy was coming to capture me, and so many that I cared about stood between me and them.
“Please,” I begged Motsatsi. “Please can’t we just let them take me? I feel certain they would leave all of you safe if they could just have me. Please.”
“Stop it!” Motsatsi barked. “Even if we were all heartless cowards, willing to give a young girl up as ransom, you would not survive any type of travel.” He looked at me directly, angry. “If you try to take any type of trip, even on a nice horse, it will kill you.”
“I could not possibly care less, if it would save you!” I yelled.
“You will make this considerably harder for us if you are determined to make a ninny of yourself,” he growled. “Think of how Mary would act and behave accordingly.”
I wailed, completely miserable at the prospect of what was about to happen.
The captain, as if able to hear our entire conversation, stepped inside the door again, making my heart leap up into my throat.
“Do not let her sacrifice herself,” he said to Motsatsi, then returned to the front steps.
The two small stairs I had jumped up so many hundreds of times had now become the site of war.
A struggle began almost as soon as the captain stepped outside. It was incredible the decibels a fight could reach by simple hitting of swords, the throwing of spears, and the occasional firing of pistols. Several blows hit their mark as I heard the last cries of men I did not know. What was more, I could not be sure if the cries of pain came from our men or theirs. There was no torture as acutely painful as this, waiting to see who came through the door. My brave protector stood in readiness beside me with his large assegai in his hands. His eyebrows came down in serious concentration, making him look more like his father than I had ever seen him.
Suddenly, a man burst through the window, breaking the boards quickly with a small hatchet. He must have thought us defenseless, and had climbed into the room without a look for defenders. But Motsatsi met him head on. The man raised his hatchet, but it was quickly batted away by Motsatsi’s weapon. The man did not hesitate for a moment without his weapon and grabbed at the end of Motsatsi’s stick. He pulled my boy closer to him and hit him hard across the face.
“Motsatsi! No!” I cried.
Motsatsi did not hesitate either, coming back at the man with kicks, while keeping a firm grasp on his assegai. At least one of the kicks met its mark, and the man was obligated to hunch over in pain as Motsatsi tore the spear from his hands, slashing the man’s hand deeply. The nine-year-old took one step back before running to the man and ramming the spear into the man’s chest. Mary did not cry out, but hid the faces of the children.
I was reminded of my first day in Kolobeng, when the men of the town had stabbed the unfortunate ox. This man bellowed and moaned in like manner, swatting at the boy without a hope of reaching him. I have never been so grateful for a man’s death, a fact that I would feel guilt for later. For the moment, though, my Motsatsi had defeated our foe and stood triumphant and safe.
Too quickly, however, two more men climbed through the window. Seeing their companion lying in his own blood on our hard floor did nothing to soften their features. They attacked Motsatsi viciously, and this time there was nothing he could do to protect himself. I bolted to one of the men in an effort to at least distract them. But the man instantly took hold of my bad shoulder and dug his fingers into my wounds before throwing me to the ground. The instant, overwhelming pain amazed me. The room spun and the floor tilted as I tried to keep my eyes on Motsatsi. One man took away Motsatsi’s assegai and the other took hold of Motsatsi himself, tearing the two apart. The boy kicked and screamed and attempted to tear at their faces and arms, but the men took this little boy, raised him higher into the air, and threw him to the ground as if he were a ball.
The crack of his small body against the unforgivable ground is forever burned into my mind. The harsh sound woke Thomas and his newborn cries filled the air. These two grown men then used massive fists to hit Motsatsi’s face and stomach again and again.
“Stop it! No! Halt!” I screamed from the ground. “Can’t you see he is a child? He’s not a man! He’s a child!”
They did not hear my cries, so busy were they in the beating, their anger swelling in revenge for their fellow soldier. Motsatsi had given up his struggle and took the abuse, his face becoming bloody and mangled in the process.
I jumped up, despite the pain I felt and barreled toward the same man I had tried to attack before, his back to me, still assaulting Motsatsi. I dug into his back with what strength my fingers and fingernails could conjure. I pounded on his arms as hard as I had ever hit any closed door or solid wall in my childhood. But my strength was not sufficient to affect him at all. I felt as if I were in a nightmare, unable to run, unable to hurt, only able to watch and scream in aggravating paralysis.
Seeing now my attempts at violence were going unheeded, I threw my useless body on top of Motsatsi, my mangled shoulder covering his bruised face, protecting him. A moment later, I heard the unmistakable roar of a gunshot. I looked up to see a bloodied hole in the chest of Motsatsi’s attacker, the revolver resting in Mary’s hands.
Despite the death of his comrade, I was being lifted off of my precious child and thrown over the shoulder of the second man. I did not struggle. From this height, I could see Motsatsi’s broken features on the ground, his face almost unrecognizable, but I felt relief in being taken. Now this man would carry the danger away and this small room of tender people would be safe.
He carried me toward the window in which he had entered, but he did not reach it. Motsatsi had managed to get up off the ground and had speared the man in the leg. The man bellowed and dropped me to the ground, I landed on my back, and pain shot up my spine. The man then turned and took hold of Motsatsi’s arm.
Our men burst through the front door in this moment. Seeing real danger coming toward him, the Boer ran for his only escape, the window, still holding onto Motsatsi.
The boy started suddenly, realizing now that he was being taken captive. His eyes desperately searched the room looking for help, but all his eyes beheld was me, on my back on the hard floor.
His expression changed. His countenance altered. Now perceiving that he was unable to protect himself, the faux confidence he always wore vanished. His face turned as innocent and afraid as a babe. His mouth opened and he let out a sob of terror and heartache as the Boer man pulled him toward the window.
“No!” I screamed furiously. “They’re taking Motsatsi! Captain! David! Mebalwe! Go!”
My soldiers raced up the stairs to retrieve Motsatsi. But they were too late. The man had taken Motsatsi and shoved him through the window. The captain tried to climb through the window and Mebalwe ran out the front door to capture him from the other direction, but the man had a horse ready. He threw Motsatsi’s sobbing body over the neck of the animal, kicked the beast into a full out gallop, and sped away from his pursuers.
We had no horses of our own. There was no catching them.
Motsatsi could not be saved.
Chapter 24
There was no reason to rush now. Mebalwe and the other men went to reorganize with the rest of the tribe, suspecting they would not send a second attempt for the broken English girl.
The tribes
men were right. The Boers did not try again. They had been too confident in their first attempt. The captain stayed with me, however. After ensuring that Mary and the children were safe, he helped me dress my injuries in my own room, and as he finished my shoulder, I clasped his hand and would not let him go. I looked into his face, bewildering misery threatening to overtake me. His eyes echoed my sadness.
There was nothing left to do for Motsatsi. We sat silently, unable to run to him, unable to rescue him. So helpless we felt! So desperately weak.
I could not remember moving over to lay my head against his chest, but somehow I ended up in his arms. I had simply been drawn to him naturally. There was no thought of wanting his arms around me as I wept. They simply were.
Long moments passed as I cried and sniffled softly. Finally he surprised me by speaking.
“Why would you subject yourself to this place?” he asked slowly. “And once you got here, why would you continue to live here?”
I had mistrusted him in the beginning as I mistrusted every other soul associated with the polite society I had left. Now as I felt his heart beat beneath my ear, my feelings somehow changed.
My story broke from my lips before I had consciously chosen to speak it out loud.
“My first memory is of my mother separating my twin brother and me. My days as a young child were wholesome and good, until one day she would not let me see my brother, or her. We had never been separated before, not even in the womb. As a child, I thought the world had suddenly been taken away from me. I cried myself to sleep until I thought that was a natural thing to do. I had no other soul around me. Not even my twin or my mother. I was convinced this had happened because I was bad.”
I knew he had been waiting for me to trust him. Now he even slowed his breath in case it was too loud to hear a word.
“My father seemed to enter my life like a beacon. I remember seeing him like I had never seen him before. He entered my room and walked toward me slowly with hands in front of him, a physical sign of peace. I remember he said ‘Catherine, I’m your father.’ He brought food. He would play games with me. We became friends in an instant and were inseparable soon thereafter.
In Spite of Lions Page 26
