Baker's Woman

by Tess Enroth

  If fate deemed otherwise, they would be in the middle of the continent for another year. He reworked his calculations, going over the dog-eared calendar while slapping moths that circled the lamp. He swore softly and looked up at Florence.

  “It is the only way to be sure of what we have found.”

  “So that’s what we must do, Sam. There is no other answer.”

  “We might very well miss the boats to Khartoum this year. Do you know what that means, Florrie?”

  “I know. We’ve come so far, Sam, so far and for so long. We have no choice but to finish what we began.”

  This was again a brave and kind speech. She had said what he needed to hear, and Sam wanted to believe she felt as determined as she sounded. Surely she realized they might fail, might never get back to Gondokoro. With no medicine and other supplies dwindling, and nobody to aid them in any way, they would not last long. But he saw no point in saying such things.

  They paddled up the river with little opposition from the sluggish current but plagued by swarming insects. Hippos lay in the dark waters, blending with the muddy banks and invisible until the boats were almost on top of them. Then they rose up in fright or anger. With seeming malice, crocodiles eyed them from the mud or from floating logs and then slipped into the water to snap at the oars.

  From the high banks and verdant ledges on each side of the river, unseen hunters launched flights of arrows that apparently were not intended to hit them, since none ever did and not a native ever showed himself. Sam hoped that meant that the arrows were assertions of territorial rights, merely warnings.

  Darkness came early in the depths of the deep canyon, and they anchored in a backwater and ate smoked fish they’d brought with them. They devoured it quickly, drank their tea, and retreated beneath netting to try to sleep while every snort and splash around echoed through the narrow gorge. At the first sign of light sliding down the canyon wall, Sam and Florence rolled back the netting, and Sam bellowed to wake the men. Mosquitoes, gnats, and sand flies assaulted them as the men propelled their canoes into midstream, where Achmed lit the burners and made breakfast.

  “It’s so still and peaceful, Sam, an Eden with bugs.”

  “It is, but we, not the insects, are the intruders in this paradise.”

  “Why do you think that? We don’t do harm.”

  “If we belonged here, we would be vigorous and well, and in harmony with our surroundings. As it is, we battle fevers and insects and dream of home.”

  “I have no home but this,” Florence said, “no place to dream of. My health and a few amenities are all I need.”

  “But you know, Florrie, this is the one land that has proven me wrong. Our planning hasn’t left us very comfortable, has it, my dear?”

  “Please, Sam, we can’t blame ourselves, must not give way to bitterness. It isn’t like you to talk so.”

  “I’m sorry, Florrie, but I should have listened more to the people who warned us, people right here on this continent, and less to my fatuous confidence in my own experience. We’re living wretchedly because we outlasted our supplies, and because this is no unspoiled wilderness but a savage land. We must leave it as quickly as we can.”

  “But if we can’t?”

  Sam put down his cup and took her hand in both of his.

  “No, we cannot allow ourselves to consider defeat. We will get out alive, Florrie. We are both weak from fever, but we will endure. We’ll prevail and enjoy our victory.”

  In mid-morning they heard a cataract’s roar, and soon the boats were tossed by foaming currents in the twenty-foot-wide channel. They poled the crafts around a bend and secured them on a spit of sand protected by outcropping rocks where they stood for some time, mesmerized by the magnificent falls. Then Sam set up instruments and calculated that the water exploded over a cliff more than 130 feet above them. He was now nearly certain that this was the Somerset Nile and said he would name the falls for Murchison, the head of the Royal Geographic Society.

  “But, Sam, isn’t that the man who refused to support you ln this venture?”

  “Triumph, Florence, leaves no room for pettiness or bitter feelings.”

  “None, Sam, none at all?”

  “None, Florrie. We have won the game, I believe, but we’ll be absolutely certain if we can trace this river all the way to the falls we saw on our way here.”

  “If? Another if?”

  “Not a very big one.”

  The falls were surrounded by steep cliffs that made portage impractical. They turned back downstream and reached Magungo in a day and a half. There, Sam paid his boatmen, and with Rabonga he rounded up supplies and bearers. They were ready by the first week in April to go back to Murchison Falls and take the caravan around the steepest cliffs and get back to the river.

 

  Chapter 27

  The Way Back

  They made a wide sweep around Murchison Falls and, once above them, followed the river to Karuma Falls and to the place they had crossed the river on their way south. Then, at last, they were ready to turn northward toward Kamrasi’s land.

  Sam asked Rabonga whether his Parkani people were on good terms with the Unyoros. Rabonga said he knew nothing of tribal trouble, nor did he know the lands to the north. He would be of little use to them, he said, and he wanted to go home.

  “We shall miss you, but I can’t ask you to stay. We’re very grateful for all you have done.”

  Rabonga told the bearers they must stay until Sam released them from service. He then bid them all farewell, tied the gifts Sam had given him to a log, and plunged across the river. From the far side, he turned to wave and then was gone.

  “I had great faith in him, and I’ll miss him, but we’ll be all right. We’re not strangers to this land.”

  “I know and I trust you, Sam, always. Yet I dread being in Kamrasi’s domain.”

  “I think he has finished with us, and we’ll do all we can to avoid a chance meeting. It’s your health that concerns me.”

  “I am stronger every day. Don’t worry.”

  * * *

  Sam decided to ease his mind by rigging a sedan chair for her. It would be more comfortable than the angarep and would be infinitely better than riding an ox. He would keep to himself his other concerns: vagaries of bearers, duplicity of chiefs, and health of the entire crew. He had not a single one of the basic medicines for the illnesses that afflicted them at random. His own recurrent fever was depleting his energy, and he would scarcely admit to himself how exhausted he felt. There were forces he couldn’t dominate, the very worst of which was time. The days passed swiftly, battering their hopes of reaching civilization.

  However, the steady pace of their daily trek kept him from dwelling on what could not be made right. They covered twenty miles a day, enjoying sights of gazelles, bushbucks, herons and egrets, and even the ibis, so precious in Egypt. He hunted small game, like guinea fowl, so that they had a steady supply of meat for Achmed to cook excellent meals. If only time, but not their pace, would slow.

  * * *

  Riding in her chair, Florence tried to show her gratitude to the men who carried her, but she felt so glum it was hard to do. Her clothes felt clammy from brief sprinkles of warm rain and the relentless heat, and her fatigue was relentless no matter how much she slept. She tried not to reveal her misery and increase Sam’s worries about her.

  At night, whether in tent or hut, she and Sam reached out to hold hands across the space between their cots. They seldom made love with the intensity of earlier times, yet their conversations were more tender than ever. They spoke sadly of Johann and his death and the loss of Osman’s easy laughter, and at other times they discussed their good fortune in finding Achmed and recalled the comforts of Katchiba’s village. They recalled books they loved, places they’d enjoyed together, regrets that no longer mattered.

  Florence thought about Sam’s trust in Providence. They had known that an insect’s sting or a rhino’s rampage could mean death, ye
t they had escaped all such dangers and had rallied from every illness. They could have been tortured or killed by hostile tribes, yet had been endangered by only one man and been aided by many. She didn’t understand Sam’s Providence, his faith in an almighty God, but she trusted in experience; and however painful her experiences, they had given her strength to endure, change, and survive. Still, she knew it was possible that such good fortune might not hold good in future.

  * * *

  As to their future, Sam remained confident they could endure all that came their way. Many nights as they lay on a rug under a dome of stars, they fantasized about the pleasures they’d find on their return.

  “What we may need first is a dose of paregoric,” Sam said, “but beyond that, I could certainly like to tip back a cool tankard of Allsopp’s pale ale. It has no match for slaking the thirst or setting the world to rights.”

  “Tea, wonderful rolled and dried tea from China.”

  “Or from Ceylon,” he added in obeisance to the Bakers’ tea plantation. “For me, a fine claret or port after a meal.”

  “A huge bath with lovely soap and great, soft towels.”

  “And an enormous bed, clean sheets.”

  “Amazing how comfortable we were in Khartoum.”

  “At first it looked uncivilized, a hell-hole.”

  “Ah, yes, we hadn’t yet seen Gondokoro!”

  * * *

  Traveling almost due north, they took shelter under trees when brief squalls swept in, and at night stayed in deserted huts or took advantage of clear weather to sleep under the stars. Sam took sightings to make sure they held to the route he’d mapped. With leafy boughs the drivers whapped the oxen and maintained their pace from first light until dusk.

  They reached the Attiba river and found it high. They would have to ford it and ferry Florence and the equipment. Gathering wood and reeds and building two rafts took all of one day and half of another. The crossing itself left men shivering, and Sam decided they would set up camp while he and Richarn scouted the region. Walking the river’s bank, Sam confirmed what he had first observed: the Nile had passed flood stage and was dropping. In this third week of April, the rains were already diminishing. It was not a good sign.

  They carried the rafts with them and, after a day, crossed the Assua into Obbo country, where they knew they were no longer in danger of meeting Kamrasi. Within three days, the features of the land looked familiar to Sam and Richarn, who had scouted it, and they looked forward to their arrival at Katchiba’s village. Florence recognized the garden she had sown and tended nearly a year before and cried out with joy. It had been well maintained, and again squashes and melons lay ripe on the vines and beans ran rampant on their poles.

  “Oh, Sam, look! A harvest. They’ve take such good care!”

  “Nature is bountiful,” Sam said, “and whimsical.”

  Several Obbos saw them and after a short greeting ran off to announce their coming to the village. Soon they were met by many whose faces were familiar and a few whose names they couldn’t recall. Waiting at the dwelling they used during their previous visit stood Chief Katchiba, wearing his wide and wonderful grin.

  “What a glorious welcome!” Sam shouted, and he and the Obbo chief embraced.

  Florence’s eyes filled with tears when the children of the herb woman came to stand so close she couldn’t take a step, and she took their hands in hers. Then while Sam and Katchiba talked and the Obbo men helped to unload luggage, Florence went into the hut and found everything they’d left behind. There, within her reach, were her two cases of books. She yearned to take one in hand and curl up on a rug with it.

  While Florence and Achmed settled their goods into the huts, Sam went to talk with Katchiba. They sat in his throne room facing one another across a table, and Katchiba told Sam the tribal wars had not ended but had moved to the north.

  When he returned to their hut, Achmed was tending the camp stove, warming a meal the women had delivered. Florence waited to hear what the chief had to say, but Sam was loathe to tell her what the news portended. He chose, as he so often did, to reveal it a little at a time.

  “The food smells good. We should eat it while it’s fresh,” he said as he washed his hands.

  “Hammad has gone to see how the men are doing, and Achmed will wait for him before serving the meal. So tell me what you’ve learned.”

  “Well, about the route we followed to the lake,” Sam began, “I am reasonably certain it would have led us past the lake had the Shooas not altered our course. But when I told Katchiba we found a more direct route, he would not believe me.”

  “His pride, perhaps? He doesn’t like to admit error.”

  “Right, Florence. That’s the likely explanation. It would have been hard to admit either error or ignorance. But I wonder if, perhaps, I should tell him.”

  “To what end? Who else might need to know? Let him keep his pride.”

  “Yes, that is kind. He also talked about wars. Apparently Kamrasi drove some other tribes back from his borders and then withdrew. Then the Koshi drove the Maadis back to their own region, which is near Obbo country.”

  “And so how does this affect us?”

  “Katchiba has men at their western border, and there have been some raids north of here. Where we plan to go.”

  “Where we must not go,” Sam replied. “We cannot take that chance. We’ll have to wait here a while, and map a new route, if we must.”

  “And that means we will not get to Gondokoro in time to take a boat.”

  “Yes. We are already too late. I had hopes we could enjoy our time here and move on at our leisure – no sense in being left in Gondokoro. Now it appears we have no such alternative. We are prisoners of circumstance.”

  “Well, then, we’ll make the best of it. I can think of a number of things I can do to make us comfortable.”

  Sam was grateful for her calm, even optimistic response and decided not to say more. She need not know yet that, should the war continue, the village could be attacked and burned, in which case they would be lucky to escape with their lives. But he believed Katchiba would avert that catastrophe. No battles had yet come near the village, and Katchiba had already apparently intimidated or outwitted his enemies.

  Hammad was back and Achmed served their dinner at a table under the trees. The good meal and some Obbo beer were welcome, and Sam took up another aspect of their situation.

  “The sly old fellow crowed with pleasure when I asked if he would be offended if we raised the British flag over our dwelling. Then he asked if he might carry it when he went out to the war zone. I refused him, of course.”

  “Of course you did, Sam. I don’t suppose it would be wise to get the Empire involved in a local war.”

  Florence reached across the table and put her hand on Sam’s, and he understood that she anticipated the grim possibilities of being caught here and accepted them with courage.

  “Our goal was hardly a reasonable one. With even the finest guides and a string of pack animals, we might not have reached Gondokoro in time. I’ve paid off our bearers and sent them back to their own people. We’ll be here a while and are fortunate to be among friends.”

  “Indeed! We’ll recover our health, refresh our wardrobes and lift our spirits. I’m going to mend our worn clothes and, I hope, be able to make new shirts. Can you make us some footwear?”

  “I can. And I have another idea I want to work on: I think I can build a still.”

  “A what? What is a still?”

  “A distillery, it boils fluids, reducing their essence by condensing the steam. If I get the materials I can distill alcohol, drinkable stuff. This beer is bitter, and I think I can do better.”

  The next day Sam gathered jugs the Obbos used for merissa which they brewed from sorghum. He bored holes in several jars and from reeds he made pipettes. Meanwhile, Achmed and his helpers gathered baskets of the plentiful yams, boiled them by the potful and mashed them. In the time it took for the mash t
o ferment, Sam perfected his still and borrowed yeast from an Obbo brewer.

  A little over a month later as their flag fluttered in the August breeze, Florence sat under a tree. The book she was reading was not the most interesting she’d read and, in fact, it puzzled her, and so she was easily distracted by distant shouts and thudding feet. Several people ran past in the direction of Katchiba’s home, but one boy stopped near her and asked where he could find Sam.

  “What do you need? What’s happening?”

  “Traders. They look for Sam.”

  Florence was not sure where Sam had gone or even how long he had been away, but she rose, left her book on a chair, and looked for Achmed, who also seemed to have gone somewhere.

  “What do you need Sam for?”

  “Here is Ibrahim,” the boy said, and pointed to a man coming toward them carrying a great leather pouch.

  Ibrahim hailed Florence, and just then Sam arrived with a pole and a string of fish.

  “Ibrahim! You’re in time for Florence’s birthday dinner.”

  “I am happy for that. I have an appetite that will do justice to your Nubian’s fine cooking.”

  Ibrahim explained that Kamrasi’s people knew only that you had gone to the lake. When Ibrahim had got back to Gondokoro with his ivory, Koorshid Aga also arrived from Khartoum, bringing Sam’s mail.

  “Petherick sent it along. He said there was always ‘the off-chance that Baker had made it back to Gondokoro.’ Koorshid told me to take it and find you. Then I heard that in Obbo, a white man flew the British colors over his tent.”

  “Damned good piece of work.”

  “Not at all. I knew if Sam Baker were dead, he’d have taken the flag to his grave and, who knows, maybe to Christian heaven!”

  The pouch Ibrahim laid at Sam’s feet held copies of The Illustrated London News and Punch and a few letters, though none from Sam’s family. He also brought packets of quinine, lengths of Egyptian cotton, and seven bottles of Spanish sherry. He left them to their mail and said he’d return at dinner time.