Baker's Woman

by Tess Enroth

“That is not discipline.”

  Sam’s look told Florence his mind was made up, and later, she knew he wasn’t sleeping well. Before dawn he was out of bed and strapping on his gun belt. He left the cabin, and she lay still until she heard his steps on the gangway. She got up, with no idea what she could do other than that she must be with Sam.

  She was climbing the bank when she heard Sam’s bugle call, and within minutes crewmen were running past her. At the parade grounds, the men shuffled themselves into crooked rows. Two of them raised the Union Jack, and it fluttered above Sam as he paced back and forth near the pole’s base. Florence leaned against a tree and watched the sleepy crew standing with their heads down, hands at their sides, and clothes disheveled from being thrown on in a hurry or perhaps not removed before they slept, yet all responded to the roll.

  Florence tried to decide which were the culprits while Sam spoke to them of obligations, reminding them they had sworn an oath of loyalty. Then he commanded the mutineers to step forward. Only one did so; it was Ballaal, a muscular black who claimed no tribal ties. He was as tall as Sam and had a broad back and thick neck. He swaggered up to Sam, spit in the dirt, and turned to smirk at the crew, but Sam clamped a hand on his shoulder and commanded Ballaal’s attention. Florence saw the man thrust his jaw forward and clench his hands, and she held her breath. She could not hear the words they exchanged.

  Suddenly, Ballaal’s arm slammed Sam’s away, and he ducked out of reach, crouched and then hurtled forward, making a grab for Sam’s holster. Sam struck him a chopping blow to the side of the neck. It stopped Ballaal for a moment before he regained his balance and again advanced on Sam. The men stood gaping in astonishment, but Florence could not stand still.

  She rushed forward shouting so loudly that both crew and combatants stared at her. In her moment’s advantage, she got close to Sam, pulled his pistol from his holster, and backed away a few steps, shouting for order. Ballaal froze, his eyes on the gun she was gripping with both hands.

  “Come to order. Be silent!”

  Her voice was shrill and, although nobody made a sound, she repeated her words. Her hands trembled while she decided whether a shot in the air would serve a purpose. Instead she swung the pistol toward Ballaal’s feet, not certain what to do next, but sure she would not give up this power while this man menaced Sam.

  “Stand where you are, Ballaal,” Sam said and took a deep breath. “Your thievery and plotting have earned you forty lashes. You deserve another forty for trying to lay hands on me, but I shall withhold that sentence so long as you behave.” Ballaal stood straight, head lowered, hands at his sides.

  Sam called on Saat to fetch the coorbatch, and while they waited, summoned the other mutineers to come forward and bind Ballaal’s arms to a post. By the time Sam held the whip, the sun was up, and traders and villagers had gathered to watch. Sam ordered Richarn to beat the drum.

  Florence turned and, as Sam raised the long hippo-hide whip for the first stroke, pushed her way through the crowd. When the count began she was running toward the landing and onto the gang plank. In their cabin, she caught her breath and laid the pistol carefully on Sam’s clothes cupboard. Dropping to the edge of the bed, she took off her shoes and then began to tremble, and her tears fell as she stretched out on the bed. She wasn’t crying for Ballaal but for Sam, for his anger and his turning to violence. Sheer exhaustion took over. She awoke when Sam laid his hand on her shoulder.

  “It was necessary, Florence. Your interference was timely. It worked, and to say I appreciate it seems a trifle lame, for you may have saved my life. But you put yourself in great danger had your plan failed. Remember, we are among savages; the men’s training is shallow and short-lived. Unless we are firm, they can be ferocious animals. The whip reinforces the word.”

  She reached her hand out to him, and he held it to his lips. “I’m sorry for this episode, my dearest, for the trouble and your distress. But I am grateful for your support.”

  “I cannot bear cruelty, Sam. It isn’t necessary.”

  “We differ, my dear, and I must rely on my experience. But what did you have in mind when you took my pistol?”

  “I don’t know, but I thought Ballaal was going to get his hands on it. He might have killed you.”

  “Yes, possibly. Now, I think we should have breakfast.”

  Sam called Achmed, who came, carrying a pot of tea in trembling hands.

  “I have not gone mad, Achmed. I feared for my husband.”

  Achmed smiled and bowed, “Oh yes, Madame, I know. Should I now serve breakfast?”

  Ballaal followed orders but remained surly and caused unrest among the crew. His friends, after being confined to quarters for two days, went ashore with him and again they all got drunk. The rest of the crew heeded Sam’s warning, avoiding the rebels and expressing their loyalty to Osman, Saat, and Richarn, all mission boys whom they knew would report it to Sam.

  Sam wanted extra men familiar with the region and asked the Bari chief to find men he could trust as guides and interpreters. The chief agreed and swore his men would never defect or cause trouble. To seal the contract, Sam had bolts of cotton and bags of seed delivered to Bari families before he introduced the men to their duties and to daily drills with the crew.

  Day after steamy day they prepared for departure, all the while hoping for Petherick to arrive with news of Speke and Grant. The heat and humidity persisted, and insects attacked animals in their pens and swarmed across the water at dusk to plague everyone on the boats. One of the horses sickened but survived after treatment by one of Koorshid’s men, and a donkey, maimed by a stray bullet, had to be killed.

  Other stray shots struck the trees and sometimes struck a boat. One evening as Florence waited for a servant to bring buckets of bath water to the cabin, the sound of a rifle shot pierced the air. Florence heard wood splinter and metal pails hit the deck. She threw on her robe and opened the door to find a servant sprawled on the steps, blood running down the side of his face and his shirt soaking up the spilled water. She screamed for Sam.

  “Get inside,” Sam’s voice boomed, and she retreated to the cabin where she heard feet pounding on the deck. When it was again quiet, another of the Nubians brought more warm water for her bath. His hands trembled and his eyes looked stricken. She asked if the other boy was all right, and he nodded and hurried away.

  Florence sat in the warm water but was not soothed or relaxed by it. She wept into her shaking hands until Sam came and assured her the boy’s wounds were superficial.

  “Head wounds bleed alarmingly, but he was only grazed. I know you’re shaken, and so am I. I haven’t yet thought of an effective action. We’ve doused the lights, in case the boats are actually a target, but I doubt that’s the case.”

  “I’m relieved, but a little frightened.”

  “I know, I know. Here, let me have the sponge, I’ll wash your back.”

  The undeserved enmity of traders and now the revolt of the crew worried her. But a fear she could not articulate lay beyond Gondokoro, an unimaginable darkness that would devour them.

  Chapter 20

  Despite their isolating themselves from the filth and rabble of Gondokoro, every day a member of the crew became too ill to work. They suffered from various combinations of fever, chills, and dysentery. Sam, though easing up on working the crew, would not alter his own work schedule even if he felt less than well. Florence said his stubbornness would endanger his constitution, yet when she had similar symptoms, she behaved much the same way.

  She declined even the usual purge and waited out the fever.

  Without any pressing duties, she said, nothing kept her from spending all day in the hammock if she chose. She was certain no illness was a match for the misery she’d suffered from sunstroke.

  I don’t feel bad, she told herself, not bad, not that bad.

  On a mid-February afternoon, free of pain yet still weak, she laid down her book and was just drowsing off when a volley of shots brought he
r to her feet. Sam stood on the embankment watching two ragged men approach. As they neared the wharf, she could see they were white men, dirty and sunburned, with knees sticking out of ragged pants and boot soles flapping. Wild red hair and a grizzled beard obscured the tall one’s face, and the other was also gaunt and bearded and had lank brown hair. As Sam greeted them and led them across the gangway, she waited at the rail, automatically patting her hair and smoothing her gown with her palms, a ludicrous concern, she thought, for neatness.

  She was partway down the stairs to the main deck when the red-haired one stared up at her with sunken blue eyes.

  “I thought your wife was dead!”

  Sam stepped forward and put his hand on the man’s shoulder, but he spoke to Florence.

  “Florence, the long lost explorers have arrived. This man is John Speke, and here is Richard Grant.”

  He didn’t wait for her reply, which she was too astounded to make anyway. She watched Sam guide them down the companionway and heard him tell them, “My Cher Arnie has been rather ill.”

  Her face burned as she returned to the hammock and lay listening to the rumble of their voices below. After a short time, Sam called up to her that he would help the men make camp. When they had gone, she went down to the cabin and lay on the bed and was still there when Sam came to wake her for dinner. She murmured that she would rather sleep.

  In the morning he brought her tea and sat on the edge of the bed, eager to tell her how Speke and Grant had found a huge lake and named it for the queen. Speke had named it Lake Victoria on his previous mission with Burton, and now he had affirmed his belief that it is the source of the Nile although Grant remained doubtful and refused to support the claim.

  “This time, Speke says, they had found a river flowing from the lake, but had not been able to follow it. So it looks as if he’s repeated his previous error.”

  “So he leaps to conclusions about everything.”

  “Exactly! You’ve certainly seen an example of that. His rude gaffe today caught me unaware, and my response was foolish and may have hurt your feelings. I hope you haven’t taken it to heart. I told him I had indeed lost my first wife; that it was many years ago. Nevertheless, he did not appear upset by his blunder.”

  “I was upset.”

  “Of course. It was crude, and I see now that it must have caught you by surprise. I’m sorry to say we’ll need to endure their company with as much kindness as we can muster, for it will give me a chance to see their maps and itinerary. They lost just about everything else, quinine and other supplies, struggling through rough country and hostile tribes.”

  “So now why are they stopping here?”

  “They are weary, out of supplies, and expected to meet John Petherick and return to Khartoum with him. Speke is peeved not to find the Consul here waiting. He gives no thought to where Petherick may be and blames him for not keeping his word.”

  “Do you believe the Pethericks will get back here?”

  “These two may easily have passed within a mile of their party. Certainly there’s no reason for anger or blame, but it is certainly cause for concern. I hope all is well.”

  “So we, too, shall wait?”

  “Yes. But on the bright side, Speke and Grant were grateful for clothes and food, and I hope what they have to share with me will be of use. We may avoid troubles and make connections that we might otherwise miss. I have some sympathy for Grant. I’ve always known Speke to be an odd one. He’s the only man I ever heard refer to a man’s underwear as ‘unmentionables.’ And he criticized Burton’s morals, and yet he took up with a black woman he said was ‘most aggressive’.”

  As if conjured by Sam’s faith, Petherick and his train of ivory-bearing blacks straggled into Gondokoro the next day. The commotion brought Sam to the market to meet him along with his wife Kate and Dr. James Murie, a physician and anthropologist. The party went directly to the Consul’s dahabiah, moored not far from their own and found it in good shape. Sam came back to his own boat and with Achmed’s help filled several baskets with fresh food to have servants take to them.

  The next morning a scrubbed and somewhat rested Petherick came to thank Sam and remained at their table telling Sam and Florence about his month of poor decisions and hostile ivory hunters who commandeered their food and medicines. Both he and Kate had been ill, but Murie had remained healthy and was able to keep their men in line.

  Sam suggested they go together to see Speke and Grant and on the way warned him of Speke’s anger. When Speke saw them coming he walked away only to sidle back later and sit near enough to hear them talk with Grant. Sam walked around and put a hand on Speke’s shoulder. “Nothing to blame here, John, the Consul has been ill and lost, too. No reason for a grudge.”

  So Speke hesitantly put a hand out to Petherick, and Sam, in hopes of a genuine reconciliation, invited them to have dinner on his boat the next evening. Then Sam hurried back to make it all right with Florence, to tell her this would be his opportunity to introduce her, properly this time, and put them all on amicable terms.

  “You’re a gracious hostess. And you’ll have a woman to talk with, which will surely please Kate Petherick, too.”

  “And exactly how do you plan to introduce me?”

  “As Mrs. Baker, of course, as my wife and companion, as my dependable and courageous partner. Your other qualities will be quite evident.”

  “Oh, Sam, stop that! You needn’t say more. Of course we’ll have a dinner. It’s the right thing to do.”

  “Thank you, my dear. And I know you like a party!”

  Late that afternoon Sam said he needed to talk business with the Consul and, taking a packet of papers, walked up the river to Petherick’s moorage.

  “Welcome aboard, Samuel. Come up on the forward deck and tell me what’s on your mind.”

  “It is personal, confidential. I’m not comfortable discussing it, but I must, before we leave this place.”

  “Discretion is my habit as well as a consular rule, as you know.”

  “I confess I’ve abandoned some rules in the last few years. Perhaps rumors have reached you, as they have others who have sometimes been less than gracious.”

  “Ach, man,” Petherick lifted a bottle from beneath his chair and filled two glasses with whiskey. “I know that your bonnie companion is not your wife. Get on with it! Here!”

  He handed Sam a drink.

  “I have papers with me. I would like you to witness my signature and send the papers to my solicitor in London. I have put this off too long. Were I to die and Florence had to return alone, she would need funds to live on.”

  “Good. Best to prepare for the worst. Money may be cold comfort, but lack of it is unthinkable. Your papers will go in the pouch. But might I ask, even though ‘tis none of my business, why you don’t marry?”

  “Sad to say, I have missed all opportunities for a proper ceremony. Actually, my excuses are many and are lame. I even hoped that the old mission we passed might not be entirely abandoned. A clergyman would suit my purpose, but I am too late.”

  “Not at all, not at all.”

  Sam sat forward and stared at Petherick.

  “I represent the British government. To put it bluntly, I am Her majesty’s government south of Cairo, and that means I have the right to perform a civil marriage.”

  “You are willing? But, of course, you are or you wouldn’t have said. I know it will make a great difference to Florence.”

  “It’s settled then. With your permission I’ll share this with my Kate and our friend Murie, and they can witness. Come early to lunch tomorrow.”

  On their upper deck after dinner, Sam pulled his chair close to the hammock, swung Florence gently and hummed a tune.

  “I’m not asleep. I’ve been counting stars.”

  “How many so far?”

  “I assume from your satisfied smile that your business with Petherick went well. Anything I might know about?”

  “Marriage, Florence. Will
you marry me tomorrow?”

  “Of course. Yes. Any time.”

  Sam had not taken his eyes from her, and she touched his cheek and then tugged his beard gently and teased him.

  “What is it, dearest? You look so solemn. Are you worried I can’t face all those English at our table?”

  “I’m not at all worried, but I didn’t pose the question out of idle curiosity. Pay attention to this: Sir John Petherick, Her majesty’s Consul for Upper Egypt, pointed out that he is invested with the authority to perform a civil marriage. Either before or after lunch tomorrow, will you marry me?”

  “Oh, Sam, Sam, Samuel Baker, yes, I will.”

  * * *

  Early in the morning, Florence discussed the menu with Achmed and reminded him to use the linen table cloth. Then she bathed and washed her hair and shook out a pale blue linen gown she’d not worn since Alexandria. She hung it near a window while she patted powder on her face and neck, trying to blend suntan into pale skin that her dress’s neckline would reveal.

  They approached the Consul’s boat and saw Petherick and James Murie waiting at the gangway. Both had clipped their hair and whiskers and put on the best clothes they could find. Kate’s flowered lawn dress had been cut for her when her figure was fuller. Dark shadows of fatigue remained below her eyes, but she greeted them both with a warm smile.

  In their quarters a record book lay open on a table beside a vase of wild flowers. The Consul conducted a brief but solemn ceremony, witnessed by his wife and Murie. Sam’s hands trembled as he placed the ring he had chosen in Cairo on Florence’s left hand. Afterward they sat under a canopy on the deck to eat lunch and become acquainted. Florence liked Kate Petherick more than she expected to, though she found it difficult to banish thoughts of Ferasha. She didn’t think it likely that Kate knew Ferasha as anyone other than a servant and was certain Kate had not caused Ferasha’s heartache.

  Petherick admitted Speke’s testiness irritated him, and he did not look forward to having the two explorers on board his dahabiah going downriver to Khartoum. Sam came to his rescue.

  “I should think Grant and Speke might better go to Khartoum on my boats and their crew.”

  “But you owe me nothing, Sam. You needn’t turn your boats over to them.”