Trent rubbed the back of his neck. “He’ll have a good week’s jump on me then. There’s no way we can get The Bee assembled before then.”
Lew nodded. “You’ll have one thing on your side. He and his men are taking canoes. So perhaps your steamer will allow you to make up some time once you are underway.”
“Canoes?” Trent cupped his chin and considered that. “That means he’ll likely be taking any captives overland on the Trail of Chains to Bagamoyo, then. Using them to haul…ivory, maybe?”
Lew nodded. “Likely. I’ve seen at least two of his men with four bore rolling block rifles. And another three with the old sepoy Brown Bess.”
Elephant guns. So Khalifa wasn’t just here to take slaves but would likely use them to carry a haul of tusks to the coast also.
Trent gritted his teeth.
Despite the fact that he’d told Miss Hunter he was only here to score a ship’s load of ivory himself, he had no stomach for destroying an animal for such a small portion of its parts. He’d seen more than his fair share of decimated herds cut down merely for their tusks.
But that wasn’t the worst of it. Many times if women were captured with their children, they were forced to carry both ivory and babe. When they became too weak to carry both, the slavers often ended the life of the child, since they were of less immediate value than the ivory.
And he was supposed to follow Khalifa until he met up with the man he was working for? Trent’s stomach pitched at the mere thought. He pierced Lew with a look. “I’ll not stand by while innocents are killed just so you can discover who the head of this operation is.”
Lew sighed. “Let us hope it won’t come to that. If you can befriend him, perhaps you will gain his trust and can get the information we need before he can wreak too much havoc across the Continent. Just remember we don’t get paid unless we put a stop to the whole ring.”
Befriending such a man was the furthest thing from his mind. Trent stood. “No amount of money on earth is worth selling your soul.” He started across the room.
“And yet—”
The tone of Lew’s voice stopped him, and he turned back to look at the man.
Lew arched a brow. “I can’t blame you for that sentiment. Do what you have to. However, how many more lives will be lost in the future if we don’t find the ringleader and cut off the head of the snake?”
Trent clenched his jaw and headed for his room without replying. What had he gotten himself into?
For two days RyAnne kept to her room, only leaving for meals and to check on Papa. She never lost an opportunity to cajole him to give up his mission. But no matter her pleas, he remained insistent that he would not return to Zanzibar.
Torrential rains had started late in the night of their first day on land and hadn’t stopped. But it was more the fact that Khalifa was out there somewhere that kept her in her room.
By early afternoon of the third day, the sun finally emerged, and she paced her room like a caged animal. She must take a walk or go stark-raving mad. And she couldn’t cower in her room forever.
She opened her door and leaned out to peer both ways down the veranda. No one was in sight.
Off to her left, far down at the mouth of the Rovuma where it dumped into the ocean, she could see the men had made good progress, for Captain Dawson’s little steamship, The Bee, now floated, mostly assembled, on the waves next to The Wasp. And small ant-like crewmen carted crates and barrels across a gangway from the bigger ship to the littler one.
It looked like, unless she somehow miraculously changed Papa’s mind, they would be on their way inland soon, and she hadn’t even taken time to explore the beautiful grounds yet.
Kako stepped from the main wing of the house and set to sweeping the veranda with a thatch broom. If he was anything like Sarah, he would be able to tell her exactly where everyone staying at the house currently was.
“Good afternoon, Kako,” she called.
He paused and bowed in her direction with a touch to his forehead.
“Where is everyone?”
Straightening, he glanced down toward The Wasp. Was that a hint of a smile he tucked away before glancing at the spot just in front of his feet? “Commodore Cornwall rests, madam. As does your father. Captain Dawson works with this crew to make small boat.” He offered nothing more.
“And Commodore Khalifa?”
“He works at his ship, madam. Continuing to load supplies.”
Relief edged out her concern. A little walk was all, and Captain Dawson would never be the wiser. Except, she hadn’t brought a parasol with her, and if she got too much sun, the captain would certainly notice come dinner.
She remembered seeing a bumbershoot hanging on a hook in the entry. “Might I borrow the bumbershoot hanging by the front door, in case of more rain?”
Kako assured her it would be fine.
She hurried to the entry, lifted it down, and headed outdoors. The metal handle and stout ribbing made the thing three times as heavy as her favorite parasol, but it would allow her to walk and still keep Captain Dawson happily ignorant.
She headed first to the garden, reveling in the beauty created by bird-of-paradise against a backdrop of palm bushes and acacia trees not quite in bloom. One stone pathway led around a circular bed full of red and pink roses in full glory. And another led past a trickling creek that spilled into a stone pond full of colorful blue and yellow fish that were flat and thin like little swimming saucers.
She bent to sniff the waxy white blossom on a gardenia bush, reveling in the warmth of the sun all around her.
Lugging a cask of flooring nails from the ship to the steamer, Trent glanced up toward the house. A glint of yellow movement in the garden snagged his attention. He stilled and looked closer. Something black hovered above the yellow. Is that an umbrella? He took in the cloudless blue sky, and then his eyes narrowed. Sure enough, only a moment later Miss Hunter stood to full height, she and her makeshift parasol clearly outlined against the white plaster of the house.
He sighed. Well, she’d made it a full two days. Much longer than he’d anticipated, probably thanks only to the constant downpour they’d been having.
He scanned the gardens around her. For the moment it looked like she was alone, but he hadn’t liked the way Khalifa had stared at her during the evening meal the day before. The man had been kept busy loading his own ship, but he would likely be knocking off for the evening soon.
Trent carted the nails to where John Knight worked near the front of the steamer, and then used a rag to wipe the sweat from the back of his neck. Garrett trundled by, loaded down with a stack of decking boards, and Trent clapped him on the shoulder. “I’m going to head up to the house. I think we’ll call it a night. Just set those up near the bow, and we’ll get started on the deck tomorrow first thing.”
Garrett offered a knowing grin with a tip of his chin toward the garden. “Go on then.”
“I’m only doing my duty by the lass for the sake of her father, and I’ll thank you to remember that.”
“Mmmm… Would that every duty were as pleasant, aye?” He dropped the boards onto the small section of the deck they’d already assembled.
Trent glowered at him. “When I do take a wife, she will be complacent and domestic, not a prowling kitten always looking for mischief.”
Garrett exchanged a glance with John Knight. “A woman such as that for the likes of you? You’d be bored and full of remorse after only a fortnight. Besides…marriage? Who said anything about marriage?”
Trent leveled him with a look that should have reminded him of his place, but his cousin and John only took great amusement from it.
Giving up, he leapt from the boat to the dock and trudged up the hill to see what Miss Hunter could be up to now.
The steady rush of the Rovuma grew louder the closer RyAnne got to the edge of the garden, and just ahead she could see the first of the huts that began the servants’ quarters.
A breeze picked up, a
nd RyAnne tilted her head back, enjoying the soft cooling caress. She hadn’t realized how warm she’d become on her stroll.
Water would be just the thing. She pulled her handkerchief from her skirt pocket. She could wet it and cool her face and neck with it. She took two steps toward the river but then froze and glanced down the hill toward the bay. The crew still worked, passing back and forth from the larger ship to the smaller. And the river lay just ahead—only a few paces away.
She would just dampen her kerchief and then return to her room before dinner. Besides, she’d like to get a closer look at the river that would be home for the next several weeks.
She started forward but then noticed a young baby, not more than eighteen months, peering at her around one of the huts.
The combination of black hair twisted into tiny braids that poked from her head in all manner of directions, round pinchable cheeks, and sparkling eyes drew RyAnne a step nearer. Upon closer inspection, RyAnne tensed with a start. The child was totally and completely naked. But her skin was quite light despite her wooly woven hair. She was of mixed blood.
Just like me.
Her heart went out to the child, and she bent down. “Hello there!” She waggled her hand, offering a friendly smile.
With a giggle, the little face disappeared, only to reappear a moment later as though checking to see if RyAnne was still in the same place.
What a delightful child. She took another step, dipped her umbrella low enough to hide her face, and then quickly lifted it, making a silly cross-eyed grimace as she did so.
Gales of giggles erupted.
But an adult must have called, because the little one glanced over her shoulder, pulled back, and disappeared from sight.
A moment later, a woman balancing a pot atop her head stepped out from behind the other side of the hut and headed toward the river. One glimpse of her nearly naked body jolted RyAnne’s gaze to the ground. Of course she had seen women naked before when she’d helped Papa doctor slaves at the market on the island, but it never ceased to give her a bit of a start. And the woman looked so much like the poor souls who’d been forced onto that ship the other day!
Other than a thin leather strap about her hips with two leather flaps, one hanging down in front and one in back, the only other clothing the woman wore was the strip of dirty cloth that held a baby to her back—the very child RyAnne had just been playing with.
RyAnne covered her mouth with one hand. If her own mother had not died giving birth to her, would Papa have left her with the woman? Her heart stuttered and then rushed as if to catch up. Would she have grown up the bastard daughter of a slave instead of the youngest child of a doctor who owned a successful indigo plantation?
The tot twisted around and grinned at her, then tucked her little face under the wrap of cloth, hiding in embarrassment.
RyAnne’s heart squeezed. What would life be like for that girl growing up? Never fitting fully into one world or the other? Too white for the one and too black for the other.
The child peeked at her again, impish delight shimmering in her gorgeous eyes.
The helpless feeling that had consumed her as she watched the slaves being forced aboard that ship returned in full force. But this time things were different. Here were some people whose lives she could make a little bit better. It wouldn’t be much, but she had to help her! At least offer the woman some cloth to make clothing for herself and the baby!
She followed down the dusty path toward the river. How would she even communicate with the woman? Would she speak the same Kiswahili spoken on Zanzibar?
The path descended down a gentle rocky slope toward a sandy stretch of beach along the river. The water looked muddy and fast, and she could tell it was higher than normal, because several plants clung precariously to their soil, and even as she watched, one broke away and washed downstream.
Stopping under a tree at the edge of the rushing brown river, the woman lifted the pot down from her head, adjusted the baby more securely on her back, and then stepped into the sandy slush at the edge of the muddy river to dip her bucket in the deeper water further out.
The water frothed. There was a flash of a leathery spiked tail and beady bulging eyes! And then the woman’s feet jerked out from under her!
With an undulating wail that made every hair on RyAnne’s neck stand at attention, the woman lurched for the tree trunk. The cloth broke loose, and the baby fell from her mother’s back into the water at the edge of the raging river. With a shriek of shock, her little hands fisted and the toddler tried to stand, but the water sucked her feet out from under her.
The eddy was pulling the child deeper into the water! RyAnne rushed forward. And even as she ran, on the far embankment there was a splash, and she looked up just in time to see a spiky tail disappear into the mud-colored water. Dropping her umbrella, RyAnne plunged headlong into the river. Her fingers grazed the little one’s leg, but before she could grasp her, she was out of reach. Jesus! RyAnne surged ahead, water blurring her vision. The girl had disappeared! RyAnne thrust her arms blindly through the brown water. And then—blessed Savior!—her hand wrapped around one little leg just before the child was swept out into the main current and lost forever.
Beside them the crocodile still had firm hold of the girl’s mother. The woman thrashed and kicked, screeching at the top of her lungs and clinging to the mangrove tree for dear life! Red swirls mixed with the brown water where the crocodile’s teeth remained clamped about her leg.
RyAnne swiped water from her face. There was no time!
Heartless as it was, RyAnne tossed the toddler toward the shore. She bounced on her backside, then tumbled over onto her belly, shrieking in terror.
“Run!” RyAnne screamed at her, even as she jerked her umbrella toward her. “Kukimbia! Kukimbia!”
That command seemed to penetrate, because the little child tucked her feet under herself and lurched farther up the embankment.
Wet skirts impeding every movement, RyAnne jerked the bumbershoot closed and gripped the top end like a club as she waded closer to the woman and the beast. Her heart clambered for release from her chest, and her mouth held no moisture. Surely at any minute her legs would give out from under her, but she couldn’t leave the woman to such a fate without trying to help her!
Raising the umbrella high over her head, RyAnne brought the handle down on top of the beast’s head. The creature didn’t even budge. “Hold fast!” she yelled to the woman as she whacked the scaly thing again. And again. Still it did not release its grip but seemed to tug all the harder and loosed a low rumble from its throat.
Its eyes! She aimed her next swing at one of the bulging eyes, and with a hissing growl, the beast let go.
“Oh blessed Jesus!”
But with one rotation in the water, the creature righted itself and lurched right toward her! RyAnne scrambled backward, but not before the crocodile’s teeth sank into the hem of her skirt! It gave a mighty tug, and her feet went out from under her!
“RyAnne!”
She’d never been more relieved to hear the captain’s voice!
He tore into the water beside her with a feral yell. He aimed his pistol at the scaly head and fired.
The crocodile’s eyes slipped shut, and its whole body went limp, but its teeth were still clamped around her skirt. And the rushing water pushing it was dragging her out into the current!
“Captain!” She clutched at him, and he grabbed her by her arm and pulled her back onto the beach. Snatching a knife from his sheath, he sank it into the material of her skirt and cut a quick U shape to release the croc’s snout. Then planting his boot against it, he shoved it out into the raging water.
RyAnne scrambled toward the woman who had simply collapsed at the base of the mangrove. Her leg was still in the water and was bleeding profusely just below her knee. “Help me with her!” Then she remembered the second croc she’d seen slipping into the water. “There was a second one!” She pointed to the beach on the ot
her side. “I saw it splash into the water from there.”
But the captain wasn’t even looking at her. He was facing the river, and his pistol was already held at arm’s length. And something that could have passed, with a cursory glance, as a log slithered toward them through the water!
“I see it. Just get her up on the beach.” He fired off two shots.
RyAnne unclasped the woman’s fingers from around the trunk of the tree. Mercifully, it appeared she had passed out, whether from fear or blood loss, it didn’t matter. They would be able to help her better while she was unconscious.
Up on the embankment, the little girl still wailed, although not as hard now. RyAnne glanced up. Several from the village had gathered along the embankment, no doubt drawn by the shrieking and commotion, and a black woman clothed like a maid was shushing and comforting the child.
RyAnne snapped her fingers at Kako, who stood among them. “Bring me a belt or rope or something. Quickly!”
Without waiting to see if he complied, she turned her attention back to the woman’s leg. It was crushed severely below the knee. Splinters of bone protruded through several of the gashes of torn flesh. The foot canted off at an improbable angle. The leg would have to come off, but the knee looked normal, so they’d likely be able to save it, which was good. It increased her chances of survival. “I need that belt!” She glanced up, thankful to see the man standing beside her with a length of sash in his hands.
He handed it to her, but as she tied a tourniquet, using a small stout stick from the ground, he spoke. “She is gone, madam. You should let her travel to the other world in peace.”
Happy to see the tourniquet seemed to be tight enough, she brushed Kako aside and tugged the woman further from the water. “She is not gone—she is only passed out. She will live, but I have to help her.” Satisfied that she’d pulled the woman far enough from the river to prevent another unexpected attack, she knelt to examine the wound again. “Captain, I need water to make sure I’ve got the bleeding stopped! You,” she snapped at the head servant again, “I’m going to need a table—preferably outdoors.” She squinted at the rapidly descending sun. “But bring plenty of lanterns in case we’ll need them. I’ll need scissors, a basin of water, and a needle and thread—horsehair if you have it, but if not, the finer the thread is, the better.” She glanced up at him. “Do you have all that?”
Lay Down Your Heart: A serialized historical Christian romance. (Sonnets of the Spice Isle Book 2) Page 4
