Baker's Woman

by Tess Enroth

As they were talking over coffee, six spear-carrying Unyoro arrived and presented an invitation that sounded like a summons. The invitation was directed to Sam but said he might bring his wife. After some negotiation, the Unyoro allowed one servant to come along. Sam thanked Ibrahim and asked Hammad to join him.

  Before leaving, Sam and Florence gathered more gifts, left instructions with Richarn to keep the men in line, and gave Saat and Achmed a list of gifts to have ready for their return, in case they would be buying their way out.

  “You don’t trust Kamrasi,” Florence said. “Do you think he’ll keep us there, like prisoners?”

  “It is not wise to trust anyone we have never seen. What I have confidence in is his greed. We’ll have the ransom ready.” Walking single-file through grass and dense thickets, Sam, Florence, and Hammad followed two silent warriors, and the other Unyoros walked behind them. They arrived at a stockade of bitter brush surrounding some twenty shelters made of hides stretched on wooden frames. They were led into the largest dwelling where a man in bark cloth and leather lounged on a bank of buffalo hides. Oil burned in bowls, illuminating small copper tables where dried fish and fruits lay on wooden trays.

  Without moving, the man announced ln Arabic that he was Kamrasi, Chief of the Unyoro. He welcomed Sam as the “brother to first bearded white friend” and his wife, and he called for the medicine chest Speke had left with him. The Chief presented it to Sam, who pried open the rusted lid. The uncorked bottles lay corroded and grimy, their contents congealed or gone. Florence’s gasp was audible, but Sam merely held up an empty vial and cast a sad glance at Kamrasi. The Chief lifted his chin and turned an impassive face toward the servant who was pouring plantain beer into clay cups.

  Sam accepted a cup and took a deep draught. Then he asked the distance to Luta N’zige.

  “The Shooa lie to you and desert you,” Kamrasi sneered. “No honor in commerce or war.”

  Kamrasi boasted that his own guides would behave honorably. His men would inspect the Englishman’s possessions, and Kamrasi would decide what he wanted in exchange for their passage to the lake with his guides.

  “Until then, you are my guests, you and your wife. The Arab will go back with my inspectors.”

  Sam considered the Chief’s certainty about the route to the lake encouraging, but the inventory of their baggage annoyed him.

  He recognized Kamrasi’s invitation as an order, and as two men led them through a grove of shrubs and scrubby trees to a small hut, Sam kept his arm around Florence. He could feel the tension in her body, a slight trembling as if her legs were shaky.

  In the hut’s dank interior lay a pile of straw. It was partly covered by hides and on the bare dirt floor, where rodents had left their droppings. With the two men stationed outside the door, Sam sat down on the pile of hides and drew Florence down beside him and held her close as they waited. After an hour a silent woman brought trenchers of fish and a peppery paste. The guards let them outside to eat, and they sat on the ground among fat white ants that attacked every crumb.

  When it grew dark, one of the men handed Sam a bowl in which an oily wick burned. The smell was pungent, but less unpleasant than the moldy reek of the hut. It gave a bit of light, and its fumes might keep away a few insects.

  “We’re prisoners,” Florence whispered, “and you aren’t surprised, are you?”

  “As I said, I trusted only his greed. However, I did expect we’d be treated with some semblance of civility, as guests, that is.”

  “He’s a monster!”

  * * *

  Three days dragged by broken only by the arrival of a woman bringing two meals each day.

  “They’ve had more than enough time to go through all we have; why is he keeping us?”

  “It’s too early to worry, Florrie. He’s flaunting his power.” Sam took her in his arms.

  “Achmed must have been distressed,” Florence said in a voice that didn’t sound like her own, “to see them opening everything and you not there.” She tried to focus on someone, something, somewhere else to turn away her fear. Neither of them had thought to bring anything to read or to write on, and she watched Sam as he sat like a captive in a cave and marked the days with lines in the dirt. They had to stand to eat their meals outside. Other than that, they were allowed out of the hut only to squat in the grass to relieve their bowels behind the bushes while a guard stood near.

  “He does turn his back,” Florence whispered, “but it’s still nerve wracking.”

  On the fifth day, a servant appeared and led them to Chief Kamrasi, who greeted them as jovially as any friendly host. When Sam said a coldly civil, “Good morning,” Kamrasi strutted back and forth, clicking his tongue in disapproval before he faced them.

  “Your cargo,” he sneered, “holds nothing of interest, nothing of value. I should send you away. But I am a kind man. I ask only one small price, and then you get guides to take you to the lake.”

  Kamrasi had been speaking only to Sam, but now he turned to Florence. She felt his gaze working its way over her entire body, as if estimating her weight or wondering about what was beneath her clothing, and she felt a hot flush creep up her neck and cheeks.

  “I will take your wife. That is my only offer.”

  Florence took a step back and saw Sam reach for the knife he carried in his boot. But the guards were on him in an instant, pinning his arms to his sides, and Florence threw herself at this knot of struggling men. She clawed at the guards’ hands and, in a mix of Arabic, German, and English, screamed at them to untie Sam. They didn’t even bother to look at her, and she turned to snarl at Kamrasi in Arabic, saying he would never, never touch her, that he was a tyrant. The guard who had attacked and tied Sam’s arms, now gripped Florence’s shoulder, and a silence fell.

  Kamrasi looked annoyed but unshaken.

  “You dare to attack me?”

  “I have not done so. You are well protected. But if you lay a hand on my wife, I will find means to free her. I will find a way to attack you and any person who would harm her.”

  “Your wife is in no danger. She will be comfortable. And I will give you a young virgin for your comfort.”

  Florence started to speak, and the chief frowned and shook his head as he might at an erring child. Then he gestured to the guards, who both let go of Florence, and he glared at Sam.

  “Think about it. She is only a woman, and not one of good temper. I give you one young, beautiful, obedient. And guides to take you to find the lake.”

  “We came expecting to be your guests, certainly not to be held prisoners. Now you make a request that insults us, showing no respect for my wife or for me. Have you no honor?”

  “Go think. I will call for you tomorrow.”

  Sam gripped Florence’s hand as the guards hurried them back to the hut. Inside, she stumbled to the bed and curled into a fetal position, trying to control her trembling. Sam cursed and paced back and forth.

  “He’ll kill you and take me,” Florence whispered.

  “Never,” Sam said. He came to sit on the bed beside her and pulled her into his arms, rubbed her back and shoulders and kissed her face, but she couldn’t stop shaking.

  “I won’t sleep here again, but if I do fall asleep, please wake me. I know you won’t let him have me, Sam. But promise you won’t leave me alone. Promise to wake me if they come.”

  “Hush, hush, my dearest. I promise I will not leave you alone. They would have to kill us both.”

  * * *

  Sam seated himself with his back against the doorway and waited.

  He could hear Florence’s breathing become regular and knew her fear and nerves had exhausted her. He could not have slept if he had walked thirty miles uphill, would not drift off no matter how calm the night. Alert and edgy, he watched the guards standing straight and tall, blinking their eyes to keep awake. His own eyes were fixed on them as he felt for his knife; if he had to use it, he would, though it might not save them. If they made an attempt to take Florenc
e by force, they would have to kill him. And he would try to kill her first; he couldn’t think about it but knew he must do it.

  He thought about how often he’d exposed Florence to dangers, but this was the ultimate one, the sort he’d been warned about. She now faced slavery even more hideous than the one from which he’d saved her. If necessary, he would kill them both. During the last few days of inaction, he had thought about how he might trick the sleepy and vulnerable guards. Even if he managed some way to overcome them both, he had no plan to free them from the multitude of guards any unexpected sounds would bring.

  As the sky paled and birds awoke, Sam heard people walking through the underbrush, but they were only two women bringing food and drink. Sam didn’t wake Florence. When the women left, one of the guards followed them, and Sam knew this might be his only chance. He woke Florence, cautioning her against making a sound, and told her to be ready to run. She rose from the bed and looked beyond Sam. Two guards were in the doorway.

  “Sam, they’ve come for me.”

  Sam swung around to face the men, ready to fight, but they bowed and stood aside. He saw they bore no arms, and one, Sam saw, was the spokesman who brought them to Kamrasi, and he beckoned them to follow him. When they came to the end of a path, they saw Hammad waiting, and in silence they all retraced the way to the caravan. Sam dreaded what they would find there, but before they reached camp, Ibrahim walked out to meet them and assured them all was well at the camp. Only then did the Unyoro speak, saying Kamrasi ordered him to take care of the Englishman and his wife and to guide them to the lake they called Luta N’zige.

  Richarn described to Florence and Sam how Kamrasi’s men had come there and gone through their supplies, taking rifles and a carpet as well as beads and copper. He said he didn’t know how to discourage them, for they were hostile and armed with spears and knives. They had wasted no time and spoke to no one until they had all their loot; then they asked Ibrahim to accompany them in carrying the gifts to Kamrasi. Ibrahim had gone along, and Kamrasi had greeted him in a most friendly way, assuring him that Sam and his wife were comfortable.

  Sam and Florence thanked Ibrahim; they parted on the best of terms, relieved by this end to any animosity they had shared in the past. Ibrahim’s trading caravan headed north and would carry news of the Englishman to Koorshid Aga. Hammad, however, had found a good friend in Sam’s crew he wanted to stay. Sam could use Hammad’s skill in languages and asked Ibrahim to allow it.

  The next day their Unyoro guide returned and made friends with the men, who did not hold Kamrasi’s greed against him.

  “Sam, what was it all for?” Florence asked. “Was Kamrasi enjoying our fear and misery?”

  “Who can tell? Perhaps he had a change of mind, knowing he would have to kill me. Or maybe it was all a game. But I believe Kamrasi knows he went too far.”

  “I hope we never meet him again.”

  “I can’t say how sorry I am that I took you with me. I was misled by Speke’s reports of the man.”

  “Don’t blame yourself, Sam. I would have made a fuss if you’d tried to go there without me.”

  Sam believed her but could not excuse himself. It grieved him to see how deeply frightened she’d been and thought it would be nearly impossible for her forget that terror. She looked weary, her face pale, eyes sunken. He must watch her carefully, and he resolved to learn from what happened and know how better to keep her safe.

  Chapter 25

  The Lake

  The Unyoro guide promised to take them directly to Luta N’zige, big lake. Heading to the southeast, they slogged over marshy ground and through dense undergrowth where the air hummed with insects. Clouds of gnats drifted over the caravan, flew in their eyes, and stuck to their sweaty faces. Florence’s tunic clung to her back and arms, and her pelvis ached from straddling the broad ox. Her loins were sticky with menstrual blood and it oozed through every cloth she wore. Her ox swayed and, as its hooves sank in muck, Florence turned sideways and swung a leg over its back, gripped the harness with both hands, and let herself down to the ground. With one hand still holding the harness, she trudged along at the animal’s side, yearning to give in, to lie down under a tree, to weep.

  Ashamed of her weakness, Florence told herself there was no call for self-pity. Long ago, fleeing from fire, she had told Marie to just put one foot in front of the other and think of something else. Her advice could not have consoled a child, yet it was the only way she knew to outlast misery. She knew it and now prayed Marie had learned it and had survived whatever her captors inflicted.

  Her canteen bounced against her hip, and with a free hand she fumbled to unscrew the cap at the same instant her ox lurched to a halt. Her canteen swung in an arc, spraying precious water into the air, and she lost her grip on the harness. Her feet sank into the mud, and it oozed over the tops of her boots. She threw her arms wide to keep her balance while both feet mired in the swamp and her body swayed like a sapling. She cried out to Sam as her knees buckled and the glaring sun bobbled across her vision and was gone.

  * * *

  Sam heard Florence’s strangled cry and turned to see her arms flailing helplessly. He reached her side, circled her waist to pull her from the mud and, as he lifted her onto the ox, he saw her eyes roll upward and her face turn glossy white. Feeling himself sinking, too, he shouted to Achmed and Hammad. Together they pulled Florence out of her boots and laid her limp body across the ox’s back. With shaking hands, Sam loosened her scarf and tucked it between her face and the saddle blanket; then he opened her collar and washed her face with water from his canteen. She stirred and tried to lift her head.

  “Florrie, I’m sorry to load you like a sack of meal, but it’s the only way to take you out of this muck. We’ll soon come to a dry place, some shade where we can rig a litter for you.”

  “It’s all right. I rode to Widdin this way, rode across a horse— to Widdin.”

  “Dearest, don’t think of that. I’m here to take care of you. I’ll get more water and soon we’ll find a camping spot.”

  “I’m all right.”

  Sam walked beside her for the half hour it took to reach dry ground, and she was able to sit under a tree while they set up her cot and pitched the tent around it before the rain fell. Sam helped her out of her clothes, unpinned her hair, and then adjusted her pillow.

  “Achmed will bring you a cup of tea in another moment.”

  “You spoil me, Sam.”

  “Would that I could, Florrie. You deserve coddling and the time will come when I can do it well.”

  In the night the rain pattered on the canvas shelters as Sam waited and watched to be sure Florence was sleeping well. Then he slept lightly for a time. When the rain stopped, he woke and went outside for a look at the sky and then he crept back for his instruments. He took readings and was stowing the instruments away when he heard Florence breathe in harsh, dry gasps. He felt her forehead for fever and then bathed her temples with water and alcohol. She stirred and moaned but didn’t awake, and after a few minutes, Sam lay on his cot, listening until her breathing grew regular.

  In the first morning light, he found her still feverish and waited at her side until she woke. Achmed brought tea and fruit, which she refused, and Sam asked him to wait by the tent while he went to tell the men they were not going to move on for a day or two. When Sam returned he told Achmed the quinine was all gone.

  “She will have to fight this illness with her own strength. Thank you for your help; I rely on it. But try to enjoy some rest. Richarn will keep the men busy.”

  The hours crept by with little visible change in Florence’s condition. In the evening the guide returned from visiting a village and brought friends and pots of fermenting juice. Before long their voices and laughter grew loud, and Sam left Florence’s side to scold them. Like guilty children, they remained quiet until he returned to his vigil. Florence had not awakened, but when they again grew noisy, Sam went out and kicked over a jug of beer. He ordered hi
s crew to bed and the visitors to leave the camp, and then returned to the tent and flopped down on his cot.

  He fell asleep several times, awaking several times in panic and fearing Florence’s breathing had stopped. The sun was above the treetops before she moaned and opened her eyes. He rubbed her back, bathed her, and went to get some bark tea and insisted she swallow it. Some hours later, she swore she felt better in general, but still had a pounding headache. When she fell asleep again, Sam went out and looked for some work to do but ended by walking back and forth between the tent and the camp’s perimeter.

  When the next morning brought no significant change, Sam despaired. He could do nothing. Florence seemed unable to rally enough strength to defeat this malady. He told the men they must wait a bit longer, and Achmed wept while he prepared the meals. They had all heard hyenas barking in the night and could smell their stench on the wind. Fearing the hyenas’ sensed an imminent death, Sam paced outside of the tent and castigated himself for his pride, his certainty that he was able to make life bearable, even comfortable, in any place. He should never have let her come with him, no matter that she had insisted the decision was hers, for she could not have imagined the peril. He knew danger and yet had refused to consider how bad things might become, had dismissed all advice.

  At sun-up she seemed to be sleeping easily, and Sam left the tent. When he returned and spoke to her, she opened her eyes.

  “Mein Gott!” she moaned through parched lips.

  Sam dropped to his knees beside the cot as she babbled in a flood of Magyar and German, and, though he didn’t understand it all, he responded in German. She looked into his eyes then and said his name. Achmed heard her voice, and the cup he carried rattled and sloshed hot tea into the saucer. Sam took the cup and held it to Florence’s cracked lips while Achmed backed out of the tent. When Sam looked around to give him the cup, he saw Achmed on his knees, lowering his forehead to the ground.

  Sam went to Richarn and Saat to tell them to devise a bed, an angarep, with a sun-shade, to carry Florence when she was able, and they would resume their journey. Later he went out to look for small game and came back with four birds. Achmed cooked all day to make a fine broth for Florence, nourishment that she took slowly, regaining an appetite and eventually her strength. Nevertheless, she would have to be carried, Sam said.