Page 12 of Lizzie’s Spirit

I told the servant that canvas was required to screen the cabin, that none were to enter, not even her husband should he come.

Our privacy assured, I washed my hands with strong soap and, hesitantly, placed my fingers onto the opening of Harshita’s sheaf (the Latin is ‘vagina’ but the German translates as ‘sheaf’).

She shivered, but ‘twas only from the chill of my cold flesh against her warmth.

I withdrew and rubbed my hands together to warm them.

She nodded to me, that strange Indian way of shaking the head from side to side.

She took my hand and placed it against her.

How I feared I would cause her pain by such meddling or, even worse, cause injury to the child by forcing its natural birth.

Through her sheaf, my fingers sought the inward mouth of her womb.

I recalled the pulling of a lamb—this is the same, my rational mind cried!

But my juvenile heart beat violently; ‘twas an invasion of Harshita’s body.

I almost withdrew: too headstrong, too foolish, too young for such an incursion.

My dear Aunt, did your midwife violate you so?

I cannot contemplate it? I found the inward mouth right away; I could induce two fingers.

Inside I could feel the hard roundness of the babe’s head, encased in the sac of the womb.

Oh, the wonder of creation! During this time, Harshita felt a strong pain.

In accordance with my book, I kept my fingers in the mouth but not touching the sac containing the waters.

The waters became hard and were forcibly pushed against the mouth. The throes subsided; my hand withdrew.

I swung my arms about Harshita; my relief was exuberant. “Harshita!” cried I, “you are in proper travail; the babe lies right!” We sat together, clutching each other tightly. Can there be a greater bond between two women?

Another strong pain, and Harshita fell to her knees, rocking forward on her hands and arms. Just outside the cabin, I spied a small empty barrel.

This I wrapped in the mattress from the cot, and now Harshita could crouch over it, rocking gently backwards and forwards.

She seemed greatly relieved; the pains much lessened.

To distract her between throes, I spoke to her of her native tongue.

She smiled; clearly, the memories of speaking such were pleasant to recall.

I found she spoke Marathi, or a dialect thereof, from western India.

Haltingly, we progressed, as her English was limited to what she had learned from other Indian women and her husband.

My natural ear for language held me in good stead: I learned ‘kutumba’, meaning ‘family’ or ‘household’.

This word evoked wistful tears when I said she may soon have her own family once the babe is delivered.

She whispered ‘Aai’, which I inferred was the word for ‘mother’—her mother would unlikely ever meet her grandchild.

I much enjoyed our discourse. At seven bells I arose as dinner was served at four pm.

Sgt. Monogan returned, and I instructed him to wait on Harshita, comfort her, and massage her. That I would return.

Following dinner, before dessert was served, I asked to be excused, saying I wished to visit with a woman currently in the dispensary.

“Oh, I trust there’s no contagion; we must be careful of Henry and Beth.” Mrs. Bent glanced anxiously towards Mr. Arnold, who had been invited to join our table for the evening meal.

“No, ma’am,” replied he, and, looking towards Captain Pasco, muttered, “’tis unlike her ailment is catching.

” Both gentlemen smirked, though none but I understood their humour.

Blushing prettily, I arose and departed the cuddy.

On the way to the dispensary, I visited the captain’s cook and requested he make up a bowl of caudle, of which I’m sure you, Aunt, are aware of the ingredients.

Not long after, the cook’s boy delivered the caudle.

The mixture of herbs, thin gruel, ale, and honey was most fragrant.

Harshita eagerly supped from the bowl; the sustenance restored her spirits, it being now some nine hours since the onset of her pains.

Six bells—now seven o’clock. For Harshita, I could tell the intensity of her pains had increased.

There was no comfortable position. Often, she stood and paced the small cabin—muttering, groaning, grumbling.

Could I, a young, impeccant woman of a different race, so far above her in rank and society, yet so young of age, provide solace?

Beyond this, there was nothing I could do; I was committed.

I was in the middle before I knew I had begun.

Harshita began to strain, but I wished her not to push hard.

For I had read that if the mouth was not opened wide, the head of the babe would push against it; the skull would widen, and the babe become stuck.

Her pains were now continuous. We moved her from the floor to the cot and then back to the floor.

Her breathing was heavy, laboured. The throes came back-to-back, incessantly.

Harshita just wished to sleep, but her pains were so strong all she could do was take some little rest between them.

She gripped my hands; her nails, though worn short, cut into my palms.

Eight bells sounded the end of the First Watch, from eight o’clock to midnight.

Time slipped by. I realised that, off and on, both Harshita and I had dozed fitfully.

With Harshita lying on the barrel, rocking herself, there came a sudden flush of water; the sac had broken!

I almost panicked; the babe was soon to come.

But first, I sought to reassure myself (and Harshita) that the mouth of the womb was sufficiently enlarged to allow the babe passage.

Harshita was moaning almost continuously.

Washing my hands again, I sought the mouth of the womb through Harshita’s sheaf.

Now I could easily insert four fingers; then, a strong pain and the babe’s head filled the space.

The mouth of the womb cleared; the babe could enter the birth canal.

Harshita still crouched on her knees, her arms draped over the mattress and barrel.

She was too tired to stand—this is how the infant would enter our world!

“Aai!” Harshita cried; she was calling for her mother.

I rubbed her back and leant against her to give her my small measure of comfort.

Sgt. Monogan looked through the canvas curtain, drawn by her anguished cries.

“Take her hands!” I cried, “Now is the time for succour and support. She births your child.” Harshita cried out, but her cry was not the sound of terror but of release.

Abruptly, the pains seemed to fade away.

Harshita pushed, but the infant was ejecting itself.

Between her bent legs, I saw its down-covered head appear, purple, wrinkled, moist with residual waters from Harshita’s womb.

Harshita turned. With the mattress unrolled from the barrel, she lay back as I placed the babe, a boy, on her chest. Oh, to see her smile and laugh as the babe cried its affront at its being cast from the warmth of its mother’s body.

We wrapped it in blankets, and, taking some strong sisal twine, bound the umbilical cord and cut it with my small knife, separating mother and child for the first time since the infant formed in the womb.

Dear Aunt! I stayed with Harshita for the next two hours.

She delivered herself of the sponge, or afterbirth, which I had the surgeon’s servant throw overboard.

Sgt. Monogan all this while stayed with her, helped her place the infant to her breast, and suckle the rich milk of the newborn.

My role was done. Now four bells: two o’clock in the morning.

For several days thereafter I lived in fear that Harshita would succumb to childbed fever, but my fears were unfounded; both she and the babe thrived.

We’re now nearing Madeira, where the convoy intends to anchor for a week.

I shall seal this letter and trust the British Consul to forward it on the next packet.

Once we come ashore on Madeira, I shall write to Mama and Mary.

If you write to them before this time, please say I’m very well and that I miss them greatly.

Of course, I greatly miss you and Uncle Gardiner, as well as my little cousins—tuck them snugly beneath their bed covers and smother them in kisses from me.

Your affectionate niece, Elizabeth.