Table of Contents
Indian Ocean, off the Coast of Zanzibar
Episode 3, Made Perfect in Weakness
By Lynnette Bonner
The
SONNETS OF THE SPICE ISLE SERIES
is a serialized historical Christian romance novel
by Lynnette Bonner
Episode order:
— Find All the Episodes Here —
On the Wings of a Whisper, Episode 1
Lay Down Your Heart, Episode 2
Made Perfect in Weakness, Episode 3
A Walk Through the Waters, Episode 4
…and More Coming Soon!
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Other books by Lynnette Bonner
PACIFIC SHORES SERIES
— Contemporary Christian Romance —
Beyond the Waves, Book 1 — Also available in audio
Caught in the Current, Book 2 — Also available in audio
Song of the Surf, Book 3 — Also available in audio
Written in the Sand, Book 4 — Also available in audio
ISLANDS OF INTRIGUE: SAN JUANS
— Christian Romantic Suspense —
The Unrelenting Tide — Lynnette Bonner — Also available in audio
Tide Will Tell — Lesley Ann McDaniel
Deceptive Tide — Janalyn Voigt
THE SHEPHERD’S HEART SERIES
— Christian Historical Romance —
Rocky Mountain Oasis — Also available in audio
High Desert Haven — Also available in audio
Fair Valley Refuge — Also available in audio
Spring Meadow Sanctuary — Also available in audio
HEART’S OF HOLLYWOOD SERIES
— Contemporary Christian Romance Novellas —
My Blue Havyn
Mistletoe & Mochas
Find out more at LynnetteBonner.com
Lay Down Your Heart
SONNETS OF THE SPICE ISLE, Episode 2
Published by, Serene Lake Publishing
Copyright © 2016 by Lynnette Bonner. All rights reserved.
Editing by Dori Harrell of - Breakout Editing
Cover design by Lynnette Bonner of Indie Cover Design - www.indiecoverdesign.com
Images ©
www.periodimages.com, File: #2013-01-30_22.31.30-2
www.bigstock.com, File: #18392096, Ships
www.bigstock.com, File: #26740817, Old Map of Equatorial Africa
Scripture taken from the New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
Lay Down Your Heart is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. All other characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination.
Published in the U.S.A.
John 15:13
Greater love has no one than this,
than to lay down one’s life for his friends.
Indian Ocean, off the Coast of Zanzibar
Midday
Early April 1866
Aboard his ship The Wasp, Captain Trent Dawson leaned over a map in his cabin, studying the route Ryan Hunter had wanted to take to the Interior. Taking that route, they would have landed at Bagamoyo and traveled southwestward from there toward Lake Nyasa. It would have been a grueling trek—they would have had to make a hundred miles a week to reach the lake in five weeks’ time.
The doctor was so sick that Trent tried to convince him to start his mission closer to the coast. He’d figured he could then continue his own operation to discover if Ali Khalifa, commodore of Harcourt Shipping, really was using his position to smuggle slaves. After he got the doctor settled, he’d planned to trek further inland to see what Khalifa was doing on the shores of the lake. But the doctor would have nothing to do with starting his mission closer to the coast. Trent had tried every means of persuasion at his disposal, but Hunter had been insistent.
“The good Lord has called me to the shores of that lake, Captain Dawson. And so to its shores I will make haste.”
Trent rubbed the back of his neck and glanced out the porthole to the line of the horizon beyond. He didn’t know whether to admire the man or curse him for a fool. Trekking so far into the interior of the Continent in his condition was naught but a death march.
One thing he did know…he wished they were traveling at any other time of year. It would be nearing the end of April by the time they arrived at the coast and made all their preparations for the inland trek, and the weather would likely be damp and sickly, although thankfully this week had been unseasonably warm and the winds were cooperating.
But the rains would come. And the rains caused more problems than just sickness. Rains always stirred up the rivers and made the crocs more dangerous due to hunger. Not to mention the sicknesses brought on by the combination of the damp, severe heat, and flash floods that contaminated drinking water.
He hoped the condenser he’d purchased on his last trip to England would hold up. He’d learned about the machine from Dr. Livingstone. The man had said during his last expedition, for over a month his crew had consumed only distilled water, and in that time not one day of sickness had plagued them.
Trent hoped distilled water would prevent Dr. Hunter from falling even more ill, and keep his crew healthy as well.
He ran his finger down the East African coast to Kilwa and then beyond to Cape Delgado. Thankfully, he’d been able to talk the doctor into taking that route. The Rovuma River wound west to its headwaters just east of Lake Nyasa. That would cut their overland route by hundreds of miles and shorten their trip by half, but it might also increase their run-ins with the dreaded crocodiles. Still, if they were careful, the river would be the faster and safer route to travel—especially for a man as sick as the doctor.
A movement at the door lifted his focus from the map.
John Knight, ship’s bosun, stood at the door, his hat crumpled in his hand, looking most unsure of himself.
“What is it, John?”
“Well, Cap’n…” He gave the cap two twists. “It’s really Garrett, sir…he’s found…a stowaway.”
Trent waved a hand of dismissal and turned his attention back to the map. “You know my rule when we find a stowaway and are less than a day’s sail from a shore. Put him in a canoe with one canteen of water, an oar, and two rations of food.”
“Aye, I told Garrett that. But he insists you’ll want to see this one for yourself.”
Trent sighed. Keeping order on his ship had often forced him to do things he hadn’t enjoyed. Certainly it was harsh to turn a man loose on the sea with only one canteen and two rations, but he’d taken his life into his hands by sneaking aboard. Many a captain would make a stowaway walk the plank and give him nary another thought. “John, when was the last time you knew me to break one of my rules?”
John scratched his beard. “Never, Cap’n.”
Trent gave a firm nod. “And I don’t intend to start now.”
John sighed.
Before he could turn away, Trent asked, “Oh, and who was on guard at the gangway this morning?”
John glanced down with a sheepish scuff of his boot against the deck. “That would’a been me, Cap’n.”
Trent straightened and folded his arms. John had never been suspect of doing a half job before. “How do you suppose the reprobate got a
board?”
John couldn’t seem to meet his gaze. “There was this monkey, you see, and ’fore I knew what it was about, it had snatched me cap and dashed off with it.”
“A monkey?”
“Aye.” John offered no more of an explanation than that.
“So while you were…retrieving your cap…you think this stowaway had time to come aboard?”
John’s hat resembled a wrung-out rag. “Aye.”
Trent suppressed the twitch that begged to lift the corner of his mouth. He’d have given every man aboard an extra week’s pay just to see the well-padded bosun chasing that monkey. “Well, you’ve never been known to dally at your post, so I can believe nothing but that you were doing the best you could.”
A sigh puffed out the man’s cheeks. “Thank you, Cap’n.”
“You may thank me, but the man who snuck aboard likely won’t. Send him on his way. Dismissed.” Trent resumed his study of the charts. It took him a moment to notice that John hadn’t moved from his position at the cabin entry. He peered up at the man. “Is there something else?”
“Cap’n, beggin’ your pardon, but First Mate Holloman told me not to return lest I brought you with me to administer the punishment yourself.”
Trent’s eyebrows went up at that. Garrett may be his cousin, but he was a first-rate second, and he’d never questioned Trent’s orders before. Grabbing his hat, he thrust it on his head and gestured that John should lead the way.
Up on the quarterdeck, Garrett, hands clasped behind his back, paced before the longboat as though intent on producing a trench. Upon seeing their approach, he stilled and raised a hand to stop Trent before he could peer into the bottom of the longboat, where the man had obviously hidden himself.
Garret spoke, but in a voice so low, Trent could barely hear him above the wind. “Trent, I feel compelled to remind you of something Aunt Sally, God rest her soul, would say about now.”
Trent cocked his head. It wasn’t like Garret to break protocol by addressing him so personally while aboard ship. And his mother had passed from this plane when he and Garrett were ten and twelve, respectively. Not to mention, why was Garrett whispering? Had all of his crew gone mad?
Garrett cleared his throat and pressed on. “When we were lads, she used to tell us, ‘There is no one in all the world so respected, admired, and revered as a gentleman.’ Do you remember?”
Trent eyed him for a long moment before slowly saying, “Aye, I remember.”
Garrett nodded and stepped out of his way. “Very well, then.” He swept a hand toward the tarpaulin-covered longboat. “Please, take a look.”
Trent jutted his jaw to one side, suddenly very leery of pulling back the canvas, for, heaven help him, he now had a very strong suspicion of who their stowaway might be, and if he was right, acting the gentleman was going to be the furthest thing from his mind.
In two swift strides he stood at the end of the boat, grabbed the tarpaulin, and heaved it back.
There curled among the nets on the bottom of the boat lay Miss RyAnne Hunter. Other than flinching at the first burst of light, she didn’t even wake at the intrusion. Her long, dark curls had come loose of their pins and splayed in wild abandon around her head and across her shoulders. And an empty bottle that had been clutched in her hand rolled from her limp fingers.
He clenched his jaw and spun away to look out over the sea. Of all the spoiled… He didn’t let himself finish the thought, but pivoted to look at her once more.
Her face was flushed, whether from heat or fever he did not know, but no moisture dotted her neck or brow. Her breaths were coming rapid and shallow.
Alarm shot through him, and he lunged forward to feel her pulse. Strong—but beating much too fast! He snapped his fingers at the young lad he’d taken on at the last minute this morning. “Dabu, kuleta ndoo ya maji! Haraka!”
The lad scampered off to fetch the bucket of water as Trent bent and unceremoniously lifted Miss Hunter into his arms. “Garrett, fetch Dr. Hunter. John, furl the sails, and make sure George is manning the helm, then bring her bag and get me some quinine and water from the condenser!”
Hurrying down the quarterdeck steps, he almost ran to the shade next to his cabin. Laying her out next to the wall, he scooped her mass of hair away from her face and neck, then rushed to remove her boots. They must cool her quickly!
“You’ve gone and done it now, Miss Hunter. I ought to keelhaul you. That would cool you down, and right quick.” His head lifted, and he stilled. Of course! That would be better!
Dabu approached with the bucket, but Trent waved for him to put it down. “Kamba! Kuleta kamba!” Trent motioned toward the rope coiled near the mainmast.
Dabu ran to fetch it and returned just as Trent pulled off her second boot and John returned with a flask of drinking water.
They needed to cool her first! He motioned to the rope as he tugged off his own boots, hat, and jacket. “Tie me a stirrup, John.”
“Sir!”
But Trent knew he needn’t repeat his order, and John even fashioned a sling of sorts from a second short rope that would drape over Trent’s shoulders and make it easier to hang on to her in the water. By the time he had stripped down to his breeches, his men had caught on to his plan and had everything at the ready.
John and Dabu helped lift her upright, and John slipped the sling under Miss Hunter’s backside, and Trent draped the other end of the loop behind his neck and settled it along his shoulders. Then, his foot in the stirrup and clutching the rope with one hand and Miss Hunter with the other, his men hoisted him up and over the side of the ship and lowered them both into the bracing waters of the Indian Ocean as far as their shoulders.
“Come on, Miss Hunter. Put some of that stubbornness to good use and come back to us. Preferably before the sharks discover that we’re here.” He had no desire to risk an encounter with a shark in these waters. Many of them had developed a taste for human flesh because of the slave ships that tossed the sick and dying overboard between the mainland and Zanzibar.
He glanced around for any telltale fins and then dipped her back into the water until her head was submerged up to her ears. He shook her slightly. “Miss Hunter? Can you hear me?”
The first sensation RyAnne felt upon waking was the blessed coolness. The next was the realization that she was floating in water. With a gasp she jolted upright, only to encounter firm flesh and glinting gray-green eyes.
“Welcome back to the land of the living.”
They were in the ocean! She was plastered against him and— Her gaze skimmed downward past where her hands rested on his bare shoulders, growing wider and wider as she encountered only flesh. “Captain Dawson!” She tried to push away, but she was tied to the man! “Sir! This is most inappropriate! Unhand me at once!”
“Aye. Most inappropriate. You should be back on the island, and I should be happily sailing toward the coast, where I will fill the hull of my ship with ivory that will make me a rich man. Instead here we are, saving your life.”
“Saving…” If only she could remember what happened. The last thing she remembered was pulling back the tarpaulin slightly to get a breath of fresh air, and everything from that moment to this was a muddy mystery. She raised her chin. Then realizing how close that put her face to his, and the lift it gave to one corner of his mouth, she changed her tactic and looked at the side of the ship only a wave’s crest away. “I can assure you, Captain, I feel most well. Why are we in the ocean tied together like a brace of fish bound for market?” She attempted to wet her lips, but her tongue couldn’t seem to produce any moisture.
“Garrett, the fresh water!” The captain called toward the deck before looking at her and ordering, “Grab my neck.”
Her hands already rested on his shoulders, and there was no way she was going to hold him any more tightly than she already was. “Captain, I’m already holding your neck.”
“Have it your way.” He let go of her with the one arm he’d had behind he
r and reached to grab a canteen snaking down from above.
As he did so, the rope holding her up in the water slipped off the back of his shoulders, and she plunged downward! With a squawk she lurched toward him, clambering and scrabbling until her arms were wrapped so tightly about his neck that they hung, pressed together, ear to ear.
He chuckled. “I thought you might come around to seeing it my way, Miss Hunter.” He eased back and jiggled the canteen in the line of her vision. “Thirsty?”
Reluctantly, she had to concede that she was.
Something—could it be compassion?—glinted in his eyes. With his teeth he pulled the cork from the flask and then held it so she could grasp it with one hand.
She guzzled thirstily, taking such great gulps that some of the precious liquid spilled over to drizzle down her neck.
Thirst quenched, she thought to recork the canteen so they could return it aloft. However, the cork was still between the captain’s teeth.
With her one arm clinging to the captain’s neck and loathe to let go, despite the fact that he was now firmly holding her again, and her other hand holding the canteen, there was only one way— Her face blazed at the mere thought.
His lips took on a rakish tilt around the cork, and amusement furrowed up the skin at the corners of his eyes.
A passionate glare that ought to have put him in his place only raised a chuckle instead.
Well, she would rather face the sharks than give the captain the satisfaction of taking the cork from him with her teeth! Deliberately, she removed her arm from behind his neck.
He obliged the gesture by tightening his arm around her waist.
Careful to touch only the cork, she took it from his mouth and recapped the flagon, then hooked her arm around his neck again so that he could take the canteen from her once more.
He gave the rope tied about it a double tug, and someone from above pulled it upward out of her grasp.
For a long moment she stared at him, waiting for him to call that they too should be lifted, but he only stared back, a hint of ill humor tightening the skin around his mouth.
“Captain, why are we dangling in the ocean?”
He grinned, but somehow the light didn’t quite reach his eyes. “That question brings up several very good questions of my own, Miss Hunter. The first being, what are you doing aboard my ship? And the second being, what under all of heaven made you think hiding under a tarpaulin in the blazing sun out in the middle of the Indian Ocean might be a good idea?! Especially when you’re already sick with fever?”
Lay Down Your Heart: A serialized historical Christian romance. (Sonnets of the Spice Isle Book 2) Page 1
