Baker's Woman

by Tess Enroth

  At dawn as Koorshid’s boat slipped past their boats and sailed away, their dahabiah seemed to rise, and soon they could feel it riding on deeper water. Within another hour, their sails caught wind enough to buoy their spirits. They were again on their way against the sluggish currents of the river, the sun broiling them all day and humidity suffocating them at night. But sunsets brought sights of egrets and blue-gray shoebills diving for lungfish, and darkness brought clear skies that Sam needed to verify their position with his sextant.

  “I’ve opened a bottle of whisky,” Sam said as he sat down next to Florence. “Have one with me, Florrie.”

  “Don’t waste it on me.”

  “You might like it, it’s good for your gizzard.”

  “I feel fine, thanks.”

  “The days exhaust the workers, but time goes faster than it may for you. Do you feel a bit low? Is it boredom?”

  “I’m never bored! Actually, it’s Johann. Sorry. I don’t mean to be snappish. His death changed things.”

  “Come now! You and I are together under a starry sky, afloat on the Nile. Of course, you miss Johann; I do, too. But you and I are all right. Nothing has changed.”

  “I miss his conversation, our long talks.”

  “You can talk to me- any time, more or less.”

  “Not like that. We don’t discuss feelings. Not easily.” She paused and didn’t look at him. “I’ve never explained why I was angry in Khartoum.”

  “I hoped you would. If you recall, I asked you to tell me when you’re ready. You know how I feel.”

  “No, I don’t know. I think you love me. Usually I do.”

  “You don’t know! Florence, I’ve wanted you from the moment I saw you. I didn’t believe it was right, but I did. And I do want you, love you. I thought you understood that.”

  “Perhaps we should not talk of love, not even question it. But we are still strangers in some ways.”

  “Perhaps, but—”

  “If I begin to tell you what bothers me, you must let me finish. Then I will listen.”

  “All right, Florence, your terms are clear.” Sam frowned as he poured another drink.

  “Then I think I will have a glass of whiskey,” she said, drawing a deep breath, “or at least a sherry.”

  In talking to Johann, Florence had distilled her concerns. He had held threads of her tangled feelings while she undid the knots and found the words. She rehearsed them in her mind and now hoped to make Sam understand.

  “In Widdin, I was afraid at first, but soon I trusted you. I knew you were kind. You reminded me of my father.”

  “It was reasonable to be afraid, of me or any man.”

  “Nevertheless,” she waved away his interruption. “I saw that I made you uneasy. I didn’t know why.”

  “Oh, my dear, you have never understood how deeply you affect me.”

  Sam took her in his arms with a fervor he hadn’t shown for some time. She returned his kiss, then pulled away.

  “Sam, we do have strong feelings, but let me go on. I must get this out.”

  “Yes, but it was good to pause for a moment. I needed to touch you.”

  It was not easy to say, but Florence told him she had felt she wasn’t good enough, not acceptable.

  “I was sure you wouldn’t marry me. I knew I wasn’t like Adrianna. Not strong nor wise. And I needed security so much I was afraid to speak.”

  “You were feeling all this back then, when we were still in Constanta?”

  “Yes. So I told myself if I went with you to Africa, we would be far from people you knew, and I would be so brave and good to you that nothing could part us.”

  “About that you were right, my dear. And then?”

  “Well, it seemed to be working that way until Khartoum. Suddenly I saw myself as Ferasha. I was furious when you spoke critically of her. But I knew, when Louis offered to take me back to Europe, that I couldn’t change my mind.”

  She had come to the hardest part and hesitated. Sam again reached for her, and she shook her head and saw his rueful smile as he poured himself another whiskey.

  “I knew in my heart that if you really loved me, you’d marry me, and I couldn’t bear that you never said so. And then I put off thinking about it and just hoped one day you would love me enough to marry me, and none of this would matter.”

  “Oh, God, Florrie, the errors I’ve made! Never would I choose to cause you pain.”

  “Don’t tell me now, let me finish. I don’t think about it all the time. I’m usually quite happy. After Ferasha, I saw myself as someone you might love, really love, yet never marry. Then I thought, well, maybe it won’t come to that, maybe we would not return from Africa, and you’d never leave me to marry an English woman.”

  Sam started to speak, but she held up a hand. She stood and went to the rail and looked at the stars, blinking back the tears. She drew a deep breath and went on.

  “I know this offends you, Sam, and I’m sorry. I did see myself as Ferasha and was angry with Petherick and you! And with myself, for my stupidity. I saw Louis was attracted to me, and I thought I could be, should be, acceptable as a gentleman’s wife. I was no longer the poor orphan you found, but a grown up woman.”

  “By God, Florence, I’ve heard all I can stand. I must have a chance to speak.”

  “What right have you now to be angry?”

  “Not angry, appalled! And not with you, but with myself. How have we managed to be together so long and not understand one another better?”

  “All right. If you aren’t angry “I’m disturbed by what you say. How could I not be? I have been sorting it out. I may seem dull-witted, but I was not aware you needed explanations or more assurances.”

  She saw his sadness and said, “I will listen.”

  “Listen with your heart, Florence. I love you. I can’t imagine life without you. We will marry when we can. I will never leave you, nor will I ever let you go unless you tell me you do not love me.”

  Through her tears, Florence saw the tears in Sam’s eyes. They clung together wordlessly for a long time, then went below to lie together.

  The next day to busy herself, to keep from reviewing all she had said to Sam, Florence picked out a book called Tales From Shakespeare by two English writers named Lamb. It was nice to know somebody had made the plays easier to read by telling exactly what is happening in them.

  But by mid-day the emotions of the night before and the need for further resolution began to assert themselves. She laid the book aside and went below and directed Achmed and Osman in tidying up the galley and reorganizing it.

  * * *

  That evening after dinner, Sam picked up two glasses and the whiskey bottle.

  “I believe we have a rendezvous on the veranda,” and because she looked astonished, he added, “I am not making light of it, Florrie. Just a bit self-conscious.”

  Seated on the upper deck, they looked into each other’s eyes, and Sam began a speech of a sort he had never made. He had apologized and now would explain himself to tell Florence.

  “I still don’t know what prompted me to bid for you at the auction. A bitter mood; the trip and revisiting my youth left me jaded, weary. I had no plan for the future. Then I saw your innocent and frightened face. I knew with certainty what awaited you and acted on impulse. I was sad that you feared me, yet your composure amazed me. I knew my impulse had been right, but what was I to do with you? In Bucharest, I sought a solution.”

  “To rid yourself of me?”

  “Yes. Obviously, I had no business having you in my charge, other than that I had assumed responsibility.”

  “I knew that, but you were so calm.”

  “I thought the plan I tried to work out was feasible. You learned quickly and could have been a governess. But I grew attached to you, seeing you blossom. Before I knew it, you were no longer a helpless child but a beautiful young woman, vibrant and joyful. And I wanted you.

  “I told myself I must be honorable, that it wou
ld be despicable to make any advances. Nevertheless, I made them. Once I held you in my arms, I wanted to continue. You seemed to like me, even my touch. That was it. I chose to flee with you, anything to delay giving you up. I took you to a place where we could be alone. I couldn’t justify what I did, but you made it easier when you shared my dreams of Africa.”

  “I lost interest in all the world but you and Africa. I think this is where we were in total harmony, Florrie: we set out to make our own world on a new continent.”

  Tears were coursing down Florence’s cheeks, but she never took her eyes from Sam’s face. He drew a breath and reached for her hands.

  “You understand, don’t you?”

  “Yes, yes. It doesn’t seem complicated, after all.”

  And that was it, however, he was uneasy for having withheld two parts, held back out of shame. He was ashamed to tell her he dreaded exposing her to his family, believed they’d say he’d disgraced them and ruined his daughters’ chances, and therefore, they could not accept Florence. Their rejection would destroy her self-esteem. The second barrier to his marrying her was his own pride. He could not bear that she marry him out of gratitude or because she knew no better, knew no other man, and like Amanda in “The Tempest,” loved the first man she saw.

  These matters he found almost unbearable to think about, let alone to speak of to anyone, least of all Florence.

  Chapter 19

  Gondokoro

  The influx of water from small tributaries lifted the boats, floating them free of the Sudd, and a light wind barely moved the boats upstream. The Nile flowed wide and clear now, and Richarn often took the dahabiah’s helm, leaving Sam free to join Florence on the upper deck. Early in the morning, families of elephants came to the water to drink, and when they raised their trunks to bathe themselves, egrets fluttered up from their backs, their white wings flashing in the light. Black cattle came, driven to the banks by men whose bodies were smeared gray with mud and ashes to keep away the mosquitoes.

  Mud huts scattered in the barren fields, where huge ant hills pullulated. A pall of smoke hovered over the land, and women as thin as the men and as ashen, too, tended small fires.

  “What a grim place to live! Why do they stay here?”

  “They don’t; they’re nomads, I believe. Land here is soggy, not to be depended on for sustenance. Their only wealth is the cattle. They survive by milking the cows or trading them for other food. They eat their meat only when an animal dies.”

  “Everyone looks starved! How can cattle be too valuable to be fed to their children?”

  “Cattle aren’t merely property, they’re sacred.”

  Florence shuddered, appalled by that idea. She had no wish to go ashore when Sam took Richarn and Saat to hunt small game. For Sam, these occasions were opportunities to observe native life so he could record details of clothes and dwellings and whatever else he could see of their customs. When he talked about things that fascinated him, she felt revolted and ashamed of her feeling. As he compared his notes on Dinka, Shilluk, and Nuer tribes, she tried to feel some of his enthusiasm. But she felt miserable for the people, especially the women and children, and was disturbed by her inability to feel a common bond with them. Sam was observing people objectively, people he considered innately inferior in many ways.

  But it’s their lives, not the people that are inferior, she told him. She suddenly realized why she avoided knowing more about them: being objective required a detachment that she could not attain in the face of suffering. Sam truly believed that they did not suffer as he or she would in their circumstances.

  After the marshlands gave way to firmer ground, mimosa and thorn trees flourished, and groves of palm and fruit trees appeared. One day they saw broken remains of a landing and reed fencing around collapsed buildings. Grave markers had sunk into mounds amid rows of straggly citrus trees.

  “How forlorn. Who lived here? And where are they?”

  “It could be the ruins of a Christian mission. There was one built somewhere near Gondokoro.”

  “Really? How near are we?”

  “I’m not sure, but if that peak there, to the southwest, is Mount Lardo, we have about twelve miles to go.”

  They stopped to take on fodder while sturdy natives gawked at their camels and donkeys. Oxen were the load-bearing animals in this latitude. In the next hour, they passed newly cultivated fields, and soon there were pole and straw houses surrounded by Euphorbia hedges. Within the compound of swept dirt, feathers on poles marked each family’s graves.

  Fields of coarse yellow grass and thorny bushes lay between the settlement and the landing and market, and beyond the market a traders’ camp could be glimpsed. The dahabiah edged against the pilings of a battered, sagging wharf, and the crew lashed the three boats side by side. On the bank two sturdy warehouses bore Koorshid’s name in fresh black paint, but not far away from them, piles of broken rudders, masts, tattered canvas, and tools surrounded ramshackle storage sheds.

  Florence chose to go ashore with Sam, and they took Achmed and Osman along, leaving Saat and Richarn to manage a crew of men wild to go ashore. Climbing ten or twelve feet up a dusty bank, they confronted the nearly deserted market. Soiled canvas lay over the displays, and shop-keepers dozed or sipped tea beneath awnings or behind counters. The heat of the sun at the zenith bore down on the crowns of their canvas hats and lay heavy on their shoulders.

  “If it weren’t for the litter and the smell, one would think the place uninhabited,” Florence said.

  “It’s high noon, time for rest. Only fools reared in cold climates go out in mid-day.”

  “Yes, I remember the shops in Cairo with their blinds down. None of us should be here.” Florence glanced at Achmed and Osman. “You two know we all ought to be resting on the boat, don’t you?”

  At the end of the market place, they faced a sprawl of traders’ tents pitched between animal pens and slaughter yard. In the shade of tarps stretched over poles, traders ate, drank, and argued. One or two looked up at the strangers.

  “They’ve seen to it that whichever way the wind blows, their air will be foul,” Sam said.

  Florence held a handkerchief to her nose and mouth as they walked past a pile of bloody bones alive with maggots. Human skulls and scrota hung from poles at the edge of the camp to warn any rebellious blacks their lives meant no more than that of an animal. They exchanged pained glances but no words as they turned and made their way as directly as possible back to the landing. Florence now understood why Louis warned them against coming here. This settlement was a blot on a scrubby land.

  “So we’ve had our first close view of Gondokoro. I’ll arrange to use that open field near the warehouses as a parade ground. We need a place where we can give our animals some space as well as a place I can drill the guards and all the men can exercise. It’s near enough to be useful when we assemble our caravan, too.”

  “You’re splendid, Sam! You always make the best of the least promising situation. While I sniff around feeling disgust and revulsion, you are making plans.”

  “Conditions here revolt my senses, too, Florrie, but we won’t be here long. We must keep in mind our plan, thinking out our next step.”

  Sam left Florence at their boat and walked upriver to Koorshid’s and she went to the cabin to undress and lie on her bed. When Sam came back he said they would herd the animals ashore in the morning.

  “But tonight I’ll give the crew leave to go ashore on their own. You and I will stay aboard, and Achmed will serve a quiet meal before we talk about our next move.”

  “This time, leaving the dahabiah doesn’t seem as perilous as it did when we faced the desert.”

  “You astonish me. We’re starting into uncharted regions.”

  “It’s odd, I know. Maybe the Sudd taught me that the river has nasty surprises, too.”

  “Nevertheless, you are brave, Florrie. Adaptable, too, and resilient. We’re going to have a fine adventure.”

  She had c
ome to enjoy Sam’s praises rather than to protest as she did in the past. Yet she couldn’t believe all he said of her. She often wondered just how adaptable she could be and how courageous in the face of danger.

  * * *

  Koorshid again agreed to store the equipment they wouldn’t need, and because he had the trust of the Bari tribe, Sam asked his help in choosing guides and bearers from among them. Sam had no need to talk with other traders, but he had seen that they didn’t get along with one another. They heard rifle fire from the camp, and Sam surmised that the men fought because they were bored or drunk, perhaps both. He posted a twenty-four watch on the boats and warned his men against mingling with them when they went ashore. He was relieved when most returned after a short time and reported they went nowhere near the traders’ camp.

  Florence didn’t go ashore except to accompany Sam on a morning ride to exercise the horses or for an evening walk along the river. Once they paddled the pinnace downstream to explore the deserted mission on the east bank. They found no remnants of the kind of lives people had there other than the ruins they’d seen from the boat, but from a slight rise they had a good view of the thriving Bari village surrounded by thorn bush hedges.

  Late one night Saat tapped on the frame of the open door to the main room to tell Sam of a theft. Some of the crew had taken goods to trade for pombe, the local plantain beer, and now, he gathered, were drunk and planning to defect to an ivory train leaving the next morning. Florence watched as Sam’s face flushed and thought she had not seen him look so fierce. He joined Saat in surveying their supplies and returned to say the losses had not been great.

  “Nevertheless, dishonesty must be punished. Any intended infraction must have consequences. The men, all of them, must witness the punishment.”

  “But the thieves have not returned. What can you do?”

  “They will come for their things. And I will make an example of them.”

  “Why not refuse to take them back?”