Page 71 of Lizzie’s Spirit

Below the cliffs, the sun disappeared early.

The evening turned cold, and their thin muslin shifts lent scant protection against the chill.

A meal of boiled meat, wild sorrel, and millet was warming, but always too little.

Building up the fire, they curled together, spending a restless night dreaming of Bombay, warm and humid; of the sun streaming through slotted shutters, bathed in the golds and pinks of dawn.

She awoke, cold, clinging to Ellie for warmth, the pastel hues of dawn mocking her.

There were no bowls of warm, fresh milk.

Just a breakfast of thin gruel and sweetened tea.

Then they were climbing, once again, onto the ridge running parallel with the rocky shore.

The vegetation sparse, the trail littered with sharp pointed stones, and exposed to the easterly winds blowing from the sea.

After two miles, they came to a great cleft formed by a cascading waterfall, plummeting a hundred feet to the ocean below.

A grand spectacle—but beyond, the coastline curving away in a great arc, was a sight she had feared she would never see again.

Six miles, as the crow flies, the cliffs gave way to a sandy beach; there, hauled up out of the water, was a ship, its three masts standing proud in the morning sun.

Whether it was the Grosvenor or another, she couldn’t tell, but it meant salvation for her and Ellie.

***

“Ellie, can you see the ship?” Elizabeth pointed along the coast. The girl looked puzzled, for there were no ships on the water. Then, her eyes were drawn to the beach, the sun reflecting off the vessel.

“Oh, Mrs. Darcy… Lizzie. ‘Tis a long way away. Could they hear us if we shout very, very loud?”

“No, dearest, with the roaring of the surf, our voices will be lost. We will follow the trail as quickly as possible, but first we must cross this great ravine.”

There was no way down the cliffs; the path turned inland to go around the gully.

Reluctantly, she was forced to climb away from the shore, towards a scrub-covered eminence.

At first, the sighting of the ship energised them, but after perhaps a half mile, Ellie slipped further behind.

She slowed her pace; there was naught to do but stay with the girl, who was visibly flagging.

They continued on until, having ascended a very steep incline, the track turned to the south, descending to cross over the creek that fed the waterfall.

Sitting on the grass, they put down their burdens, passing the waterskin between them.

The view was very fine, and along the coast she could see the beached vessel.

But they were no closer; indeed, having traversed some two miles inland, they were now further away than at the waterfall.

But the descent would be easier, the scrub well grazed by the cattle.

How long for them to travel six miles? A day, perchance?

‘Twas noon, the sun at its zenith. There was little food remaining, apart from some hulled millet and their dwindling supply of tea and sugar. It was best to make the descent and find a place to collect mussels from the rocks before the sun disappeared over the escarpment.

“Ellie, we must go. Tonight we’ll camp on the shore, and tomorrow a short walk to the ship.

” She looked once again to the vessel, more difficult to see in the shadow of the high cliffs looming behind the beach on which it was grounded.

Her hand went to her mouth; the masts had moved, no longer aligned with the small promontory behind.

Was it being winched out to sea, the repairs already made?

The descent was initially rapid until Ellie slipped and tore the strap of her sandal. There was naught for it but to stop and to make a repair with needle and thread. The masts were no longer visible, being hidden behind a small hill; but, she felt a fear gnawing at her that they would be too late.

There was no moon; it was impossible to continue. Both she and Ellie were exhausted, their feet cut and sore, their legs and arms scratched from the thorn bushes and long grasses. The tide had gone out. Was the ship refloated? That was for tomorrow.

She gathered some shellfish and built a fire from the ever-present driftwood. The night was excessively dark, and, occasionally, she thought she heard sounds from the ship—a carpenter banging with his mallet, laughter, the clang of chains, the rustle of wind through the rigging.

In the morning, ‘twas just wishful thinking. Ascending the headland to the south of the beach where they had spent the night, she could see the full extent of the southern coast. Empty. As empty as her desolate heart.

“Lizzie, in which bay is the ship? I cannot see it.”

She took Ellie in her arms, hugged her tight. “I’m so sorry, my darling, but it sailed on the evening tide. We’re too late.”

There truly was a fickle god.

Ellie screamed, pointing back the way they had come.

Walking towards them was a group of young men holding spears.

They approached, speaking a language full of clicks and sounds she didn’t understand.

She clutched Ellie to her. These were unlike those in the village where they had first come ashore.

There was an aggressiveness, a careless swagger, which was truly most alarming.

But she was angry, ever so angry. More so than when she had met Wickham on the docks in Sydney.

So angry at a deceitful God who had given them hope of rescue, only to cruelly dash that hope.

Angry at their being cast on this forsaken shore.

Thus, when the Africans appeared, she took her anger out on them.

Just like the boys at the ball in Cape Town, so sure of their supremacy, so sure that women were subservient.

Around his head, the leader wore a band of coloured beads; also, a necklace comprised of beads and the white teeth or small bones of some animal; his beaded apron barely covered his modesty; bracelets adorned his wrists and ankles; a red cape or blanket lay across his free arm, and rings and other pieces of metal were woven into his hair.

None were particularly tall—William would dwarf them.

Tall for a woman, she stood taller than the man posturing before her.

Once he came closer, she saw his youth—ah, so like the young Boers at the ball.

Following behind, a cluster of women and children were whispering to each other in their impossible language.

“Ellie, stay close to me. We’ll see how they treat the wife of a lieutenant governor.”

Of course, none knew of her rank and consequence. For the boy, for that is how she saw him, came very close and began jabbing his spear at her. She laughed.

“Oh my, you’re a brave one to come up to a pregnant woman and small child, gesticulating, poking me with your lance.” Contempt and disdain were clearly universal concepts—for he became very angry, humiliated by a woman displaying such scorn.

He spat. Oh, whatever does he want? She was an unprotected woman, but surely, he would respect her as a mother?

But there was no man accompanying her—he may have thought her a widow, no longer married.

Perhaps he wished to abduct her as his wife; she had heard of the practice, ukuthwala , when at the Cape.

He became more agitated. She continued to stand firm, gazing at him with derision.

Should a woman stare so brazenly at a man?

He grabbed her arm. A great cry came up from the women and children; clearly, some line had been crossed.

Perhaps he was laying some claim to her—this could go very badly.

She beat his hand away, stepped forward, and crossed her arms across her chest. The bead necklace rattled, and another cry arose from the women, who pressed closer.

“You don’t understand, boy. I am no man’s woman save William’s—it was to him I gave my vows. I say, Begone!” She spat on the ground, just as he.

Mayhap, she’d gone too far. The boy’s complexion darkened further, the disturbance of his mind visible in every feature.

He raised his spear, thrust it at her, striking her rounded belly, perhaps by mischance.

She shuddered, placed her hand where the tip of the weapon had pierced the skin—it came away bloody.

It was hard to piece together the events that followed.

There was a terrifying growl, primeval, unrestrained.

The boy lay on the ground, a large black dog straddled him, its teeth bared, a white streak on its neck standing proud, the dog’s hackles raised.

His companions stepped back, then moved forward, spears raised.

“Bumper, to me!” Her command peremptory, he looked to her. She could see he wished to rip out the youth’s throat. But he backed off, growling at anyone who thought to come near. The spear had fallen to the ground, alongside the red blanket. She took them up.

The shaft of the spear was fire-hardened, polished, and smoothed.

Laying it over two stones, she stamped down hard; it snapped in two.

Contemptuously, she threw them at the boy still prone on the ground.

Holding Ellie’s hand, she turned and walked away, taking the blanket with her.

Behind, the women set up a loud keening.

Ellie looked at her in awe. “Lizzie, you’re so brave. He could have killed you.”

“Oh, I think any vice-regal lady would have done the same. But I have a secret that you must never tell—I was terrified, and it was Bumper who rescued us.”

The dog, upon hearing his name, jumped up and nuzzled her face. “Oh, Bumper, I’ve missed you so much. I thought you’d been swept off the Grosvenor . But you’re safe—quelle joie!”

The tears and shakes would come later, just as they had at the Cowpastures. But, for now, she and Ellie were safe. They walked the few miles to where the ship had beached. Perchance, there was something of use left behind.

That night, they slept wrapped in the blanket; occasionally, she heard Bumper growl, but he remained by her side. Exhausted, she slept until Bumper woke her, licking her face, the sun just clearing the horizon.

Nearby, on the ground, lay a mat of woven reeds, upon which were several covered wooden bowls. Breakfast—fresh milk, millet bread, and a bowl of soft mealie-meal porridge, together with two blue-beaded necklaces.