Page 70 of Lizzie’s Spirit

“Eleanor, we must change our clothing; we should wear the aprons left for us. While not as seemly as our chemises, we shan’t offend those living here—we’re their guests and under their protection.”

“But… but Mrs. Darcy, surely knowing you’re the wife of a lieutenant governor—they may have a gown or a morning dress?”

How to explain to a very proper Miss that they were cast so far from English society?

“Eleanor, we’re hundreds of miles from Bombay, possibly the same to Cape Town. For days, possibly weeks to come, we will share only our own company.”

The girl looked to her in confusion; having lived all her life in Bombay, hundreds of miles was incomprehensible.

Let’ s try another approach—“May I call you Ellie ? Eleanor or Miss Needham is too formal. You must call me Lizzie —we are family here on the African coast, and that is what my family in England call me.”

Eleanor looked to her; she screwed up her face, thinking furiously. “But I must introduce you to Lord Needham, my father, as Mrs. Darcy; otherwise it would be most improper.”

“Of course. But now, we are to dress as guests of the Africans. A very noble people—perchance, we will meet a king or a queen.”

No kings or queens—in fact, no one came near.

It was as though they were as alone as Robinson Crusoe on his island.

Not even a Friday to welcome them; or even a Monday , for the ship had struck on Sunday, the 12th of May, so the day following was Monday.

Just footprints in the sand; and, in the distance, the lowing of cattle—not wild, but belonging to the mysterious Africans who eluded them, staying out of sight.

She was loath to move from their grassy haven, but ennui and curiosity called.

The low tide exposed the rocky promontory bounding the small stream.

She took Ellie’s hand, experienced a moment’s anxiety at leaving their belongings now stowed again in the keg, and then walked determinedly towards the rocks.

They were covered with dark blue mussels.

Taking a loose stone, she pounded against the brittle shells.

Several broke off—inside was the flesh of shellfish, familiar, having seen similar at the Portsmouth fish market, next to the wharf where they had boarded the barge taking them to the Hindostan .

Nostalgia threatened. No! Wistful thinking would undo all her equanimity—but it was a close-run thing.

That evening, they took off the beadwork aprons and donned their muslin chemises. But the night was cool, and it was only the crackling fire that kept them warm. Shellfish were boiled in the fire pot, mixed with a little millet, followed by sweet tea. Enough to take them through to Tuesday.

Was the Grosvenor saved? Would it come back to find them or send a search party?

But she had seen the ship’s boat, the cutter, smashed by falling rigging; there would be no rescue by that small boat.

Most likely, after the wind had changed, Captain Coxon would hold far out to sea away from this treacherous coast. She could scarcely blame him.

They would stay a full week, in the slight hope a ship would come. On Saturday, she must decide: stay with the village, if there were one, or walk southwards, down the coast to the Cape, and thence to William. Of course, there was but one course of action—she would go south.

***

The evening before, they had placed a handful of glass beads and two brass rings in the wooden bowls—payment for the gift of food.

Tuesday. To Elizabeth’s relief, they were replenished with milk, bread, and, a welcome surprise, fresh meat. But where were they, these mysterious Africans? Why not show themselves? There was no hostility; the keg remained untouched, even though left unattended.

She determined to stay on the beach, with occasional expeditions onto the rocks.

To venture inland made the chance of missing a rescue boat, or any ship, too great to take.

So they stayed, exploring the beach, sifting through the debris strewn along the shore by the storm that had swept them overboard.

Disappointed, they found pieces of rotted rope and rigging, but nothing useful.

At the entrance to the lagoon, the small stream had deposited a myriad of small stones, some highly polished quartz, but mostly hard, dark sandstone.

She picked out a few of the rounded quartz pebbles, each with a lovely pinkish tinge.

Citrine, a yellow quartz, brought good luck—perhaps a rosy pink would do the same.

By Thursday, boredom, anxiety and the fear of being abandoned overtook Elizabeth’s resolve. Ellie became petulant, tearful, irascible. Saturday was too far away—they must begin the journey down the coast.

That evening, she opened the guitar case, fearful that her musical friend of the past four years, her sole link to Longbourn and her beloved family, would have been ruined.

But the tight leather case and the oilskin were intact.

Tentatively she withdrew the guitar, tightened, and tuned the strings.

There was only one song to sing, William Blake’s poem, The Little Girl Found —

All the night in woe Lyca’s parents go Over valleys deep, While the deserts weep.

Tired and woe-begone, Hoarse with making moan, Arm in arm, seven days They traced the desert ways.

“She is lost, just like us. Do they find her, Lizzie? For then, we will be found, as well.”

Seven nights they sleep Among shadows deep, And dream they see their child Starved in desert wild .

Pale through pathless ways The fancied image strays, Famished, weeping, weak, With hollow piteous shriek.

Rising from unrest, The trembling woman pressed With feet of weary woe; She could no further go.

In his arms he bore Her, armed with sorrow sore; Till before their way A couching lion lay.

“Oh, no!” cried Eleanor, “they will be eaten.” She flung herself to the ground, covering her eyes with her hands. Elizabeth sang on,

Turning back was vain: Soon his heavy mane Bore them to the ground, Then he stalked around,

Smelling to his prey; But their fears allay When he licks their hands, And silent by them stands.

They look upon his eyes, Filled with deep surprise; And wondering behold A spirit armed in gold.

On his head a crown, On his shoulders down Flowed his golden hair. Gone was all their care.

“‘Tis a king. Oh, Lizzie, you said we will meet kings and queens!”

‘Follow me,’ he said; ‘Weep not for the maid; In my palace deep, Lyca lies asleep.’

Then they followed Where the vision led, And saw their sleeping child Among tigers wild.

To this day they dwell In a lonely dell, Nor fear the wolvish howl Nor the lion’s growl.

Finally, the fear of lions and tigers was put to rest.

Tomorrow they would ascend the hills, away from the beach and the gifts of milk and bread.

She finished stitching the straps from the keg onto sandals cut from one of the woven mats.

She would take the mat with them in exchange for leaving the keg, its contents transferred to the knapsack.

Ellie would carry the waterskin and fire pot—which, tomorrow, would contain hot coals, saving their precious tinder and flint.

They followed a path through the brush and up a steep declivity on the southern side of the beach, climbing some one hundred feet, gaining their first view of the country.

Much was clear of scrub but split by tree-lined ravines where creeks flowed to the sea.

Looking back, she could see the white-walled, round huts of the local homestead.

In front stood all of the family: men holding spears and skin shields, and women, wearing their beadwork aprons, some with skin cloaks thrown over a shoulder.

She waved to them, and a great cry and chattering arose from the group.

None came closer, but a lone voice began singing, and the accompanying rhythmic beats of drums grew in volume; one by one, they joined in the chorus, until all were singing and clapping.

Should she have tears in her eyes? But the emotion of their song was so great it tore at her heart.

They were singing a song of farewell. Oh, Lizzie Darcy , you great watering pot .

The track traversed the ridge behind the steep cliffs that bordered the sea.

Progress was haltingly slow, sometimes surrounded by head-high grass, other times by thorny bushes, often descending into steep gullies that were cold and damp, shaded by acacia, ferns, and milkwood trees.

The straps of the knapsack cut into her shoulders.

They came to a small, pebbly beach where Ellie tearfully threw down her burdens.

“Lizzie, we have gone so far. Surely, Cape Town must be very near?”

Just two miles—it had taken them all morning. Time to rest and eat some of the bread so carefully hoarded. Maybe, once rested, she could cajole Ellie to carry on. They brewed tea, sweet and warming.

Perhaps an hour later, she persuaded Ellie to take up the fire pot.

Now, she carried her guitar, the knapsack, and the waterskin; and, always present, the increasingly restless babe growing in her womb.

William’s—her gift to him, when they were reunited.

Oh, to see his face when he first held their child—so wonderful.

A small river to cross. Only fifty yards wide, shallow where the surf rolled into the river mouth.

No mishaps. Another steep hill to climb, but the trail was easy to find.

Then, two more tedious miles until they could go no further, stumbling down the ridge to a rocky inlet, a hundred yards across, a long, thin lake disappearing into the steep gorge cut by the river.