Page 73 of Lizzie’s Spirit

They climbed, always climbing, to the ridge above the beach.

Bumper enthusiastically ran ahead, chasing animals through the surrounding scrubby bush.

For Elizabeth, his company was a delight, and seeing his boundless energy lightened her burdens.

But the going was slow and hard, for the trail was indistinct and often disappeared completely, sometimes forcing her to backtrack when they came to a gully too steep, or the scrub was impassable.

Perhaps they should walk further inland, away from the rocky coast?

But the aggression of the boys the day before and her fear of meeting more decided her against seeking the more open land beyond the escarpment.

Thus the day became a monotony of traipsing across small beaches, climbing steep ridges, traversing rocky headlands, and then descending once again, losing all the height they had so painstakingly gained.

On the beaches, she encouraged Ellie to remove her sandals, for their feet were soft.

If toughened by the sand, she hoped their journey would become easier.

They spent the night next to another lagoon, which disappeared into a steep-sided gully.

The outlet cut close to the headland, and they were forced to slide down a steep slope, landing in water some three feet deep, almost to Ellie’s neck.

She kept her grip on the fire pot, but it was submerged, the coals spluttering and steaming.

Her eyes red from her tears, Ellie removed the lid of the pot—just sodden charcoal. “I’m so sorry, Lizzie, the fire’s gone out.”

“Oh, my sweetling, ‘tis not your fault. We’ve a flint and tinder safe in the knapsack.” She pulled Ellie close, holding her tight. “Under those trees there’s soft grass where we’ll make our camp. Perhaps I could take the guitar, and we can sing some lovely songs. Do you know Baby Bunting ?”

A half hour later, Bumper came bounding up. Ellie shrieked. “What’s that in his mouth? Oh, the poor thing—a rabbit, just like Baby Bunting’s.”

He dropped the hare in front of Elizabeth. “Bumper, you clever dog. Ellie, we’ll have rabbit stew for dinner, and tomorrow, you’ll have soft, furry boots for your feet.”

After the meal, sitting quietly by the fire, she watched the distant clouds above the horizon turn first pink, then grey, and finally fade from sight.

There was a chill that the warm tea failed to dispel.

How she wished to curl up, fall asleep, and have William find her, a great Indiaman coming to anchor just offshore.

He would gently carry her to the captain’s barge; the crew chanting as they rowed out to the vessel; swung aboard, carried to an impossibly wide cot; falling asleep in his arms; waking with the sun pouring through the windows of their villa in Sydney…

or their house at St. Andrews… or the master’s suite at Pemberley…

Or reflected off the cold, damp sand of the African shore.

That morning, avoiding a steep gully, they were forced to march further inland.

Cresting a hill, they saw men, women, and children standing outside a homestead, silently waiting for them to pass.

The women, adorned with beaded necklaces, aprons, and red blankets, waved as they came in sight, then giggled when she and Ellie waved back.

She relaxed, letting go of the tension that had plagued her since the assault by spear-boy .

A small girl, perhaps five or six years old, ran down the slope towards them.

Hesitantly, she removed her necklace and placed it over Ellie’s head.

Then, as quickly as she had come, the child ran back to the village.

As before, a lone voice began chanting; the accompanying rhythmic beat of drums grew in volume until all of the homestead were clapping and singing.

What beautiful people. Elizabeth could not help but smile.

Then, turning to follow the trail that led back towards the broken cliffs and gullies, the singing and drums slowly faded until she was left with only the rustle of the wind, the roar of the waves breaking against the shore, and Bumper’s excited bark as he sprung yet another hare from cover.

The day was hard—as always—yet she was determined to push on as far as they could. Still, truth be told, it was a relief when they came to a broad river, three hundred yards across, flowing ever so strongly with brown, silt-laden water, and too deep to wade. A challenge for yet another day.

***

“We could build a boat; then crossing the river would be easy.” Ellie looked hopefully at Elizabeth.

“We’ve only two knives. Building a boat requires chisels, mallets, saws—we’ve none of those. But there’s plenty of wood. So your suggestion is excellent. We’ll build not a boat, but a raft.”

“Did Robinson Crusoe build a raft? Was there a picture?” Ellie burst into tears. The book was left in their cabin on the Grosvenor .

“At Longbourn, as a child, we built a raft to float on the pond. Come, let’s gather the wood and look for reeds to tie the sticks together.

” A memory of a proudly constructed raft falling apart the first time it was launched— then, they had rope and twine, but they were no older than Ellie.

That was her excuse. If she couldn’t do better, they would either be swept away or forced to walk miles inland to find a shallow ford.

She decided to make a pontoon, with the guitar case at the centre and bundles of rough staves tied together, attached by the straps to either side.

Whilst Ellie collected driftwood from along the beach, she walked the riverbank, finding tall reeds strong enough, she hoped, to lash the contraption together.

What she had thought would take but an hour was not completed until the sun had moved beyond noon. But it was done.

The current was sluggish adjacent to the sand spit where they built the raft.

Carefully, she pushed the raft into the water.

Both she and Ellie were fastened to it with straps.

Across the top, they placed longer branches, upon which she secured the irreplaceable knapsack.

The fire pot was emptied and placed inside the sack—safe, but more precious tinder would be needed to relight the fire.

They were ready. Ellie clung to the guitar case, her fingers white, clenching the straps just like when she was washed off the Grosvenor .

Elizabeth hauled the raft into the stream; immediately, it was caught by the increasingly fast-moving current.

Elizabeth kicked strongly, attempting to steer the raft across the river towards the far bank.

It was impossible—the flow of water far too powerful.

They were swept by the turbulence of the river towards the roiling waves of the ocean. A great mix of churning surf, foam, and silt—a maelstrom. Ellie’s face was scrunched tighter than she’d ever seen. Such fear.

“Hold tight, our plan is working. We’ll soon be across.”

But, of course, it wasn’t, and they wouldn’t. She kicked as hard as she could, so tired, her back aching, hands barely holding onto the raft, eyes half-closed, stinging with salt and grit. Oh, Mama, where’s your strength, for I’m in desperate need!

The river outlet widened, the flow slowing, but still they were tossed about by the confluence of river and sea.

Kicking furiously, she stubbed her toe against something hard, unyielding—excruciating pain shooting up her leg.

Could she stand? For she could scarcely continue swimming.

The water was full deep, her shoulders fully immersed.

Push towards the shore, forget the aching back, forget the throbbing toe. So difficult… Fight the swirling current; ignore the waves breaking over your head.

Foot by painful foot, she forced her way to the riverbank. Together, she and Ellie pulled the raft up the sandy spit. Sobbing, she fell down, her tears of relief mingling with the pain. Likely, a broken toe. But they were safe.

“Bumper! Where’s Bumper?”

The silly dog came running up—what great fun to swim across a wide, wide river.

He licked her face. Elizabeth cared not that he slobbered—for she could laugh, laugh at adversity now defeated.

Oh, there was so far to go, but each small step, each river crossed, would bring her closer to home—to William.

***

The next day, they rested. There was no milk, no mealie-meal porridge for breakfast. Of course, none of the family from the homestead could cross the river. A little millet left, some bread she had saved, and shellfish gathered from the rocks.

On the neck of her guitar, she carefully marked the days since being washed ashore. Today, the 24th of September—Georgiana’s birthday! Together, she and Ellie sang a birthday song.

The nature of the land changed. The gullies steeper, more frequent.

The sandy beaches few and far between. Ellie was stronger; she had walked further than she ever had done before and cheerfully carried the fire pot and waterskin.

Occasionally, she would look to Elizabeth with concern in her eyes, but then determinedly continue on.

For Elizabeth, progress was painful—her toe throbbed, swollen and red, but the skin wasn’t broken—there was little chance of infection.

Her back now ached incessantly. Pushing the raft against the flow of the river had been too much strain, her gravid body literally pushed beyond its limit.

But the babe was safe, moving and pressing against her.

Too frequently, she was forced to stop and relieve herself.

Each day became the same as the day before, indistinguishable.

It was only the cut marks on the guitar that told of time passing.

On the third day, the faint trail they were following turned inland, bypassing a broad, boulder-strewn headland.

The deep beat of drums, then singing and clapping, alerted them to the presence of another homestead.

Once again, a family was waiting, waving as she and Ellie rounded a small hill and came into view. There was much excited chatter and whistling. Their good cheer was infectious; both she and Ellie gladly waved in return.

The following morning, milk, bread, and mealie-meal porridge were placed near where they slept.

Bumper was already awake, gnawing a fresh bone.

He, too, was now an official member of their party—she laughed at the allusion that she and Ellie, for some mysterious reason, were purposely traversing the coast. They were so different from the peoples she saw—her long chestnut hair, braided but sweeping down her back, and Ellie’s golden locks.

The Africans’ hair—black, closely cropped.

Even Bumper was larger than their lightly-built, brown-haired dogs.

Often, he would be gone for several hours.

Elizabeth had learnt to trust that he would return.

Perhaps, puppies with black and white markings would be the only permanent reminder of their passing.

Three weeks passed. Sleeping near beaches, collecting shellfish, climbing steep hills, descending into gullies, skirting rocky promontories.

Each morning, a gift of milk, bread, and porridge.

Each day, they left brass rings and beads in exchange.

So fortunate that Ellie was assiduous in gathering them in Bombay—a hundred of the small rings and more glass beads remained.

They passed many homesteads—at each they were welcomed by songs, clapping and dancing.

Once, a young woman, her pregnancy showing as much as Elizabeth’s, came hesitantly up to her, placing another blue beaded necklace around her neck.

Gently, she took Elizabeth’s hand and placed it on her rounded belly.

Elizabeth smiled. Impulsively, she kissed the woman’s cheek, who, gleefully, ran back to the family.

Their song changed—so similar to the first they had heard.

Gifts had been exchanged, but what had she given the woman?

Three days later, they came to a great river, wider than the one they had crossed with the raft. Her back ached, her legs cramped. The false throes were more insistent. So often on the trail, they had begun so suddenly she had been compelled to stop until they subsided and she could go on.

If they didn’t cross, if the babe were born this side of the river, they would be forced to walk inland. For she dared not float a child across on a raft.

Together, she and Ellie built another. So difficult a task with her bulging belly; so often she wished for nothing more than to lie down, curl up, and hide away.

What if she were to die? Would Ellie be left alone on this desolate shore?

Would any homestead take her in? She surely hoped so.

What if the babe needed turning? A foot entering the mouth before the head?

There was nothing she could do—she, a midwife having birthed some fifty babes—unable to assist her own.

With a burst of energy, she dragged the raft further upstream beyond where the river narrowed, to where the current was weaker.

Slowly, with each painful kick, they floated to midstream; here, the river was shallower, where she could stand on a submerged sandbar.

The respite was welcome. But still so very weary.

Of necessity, she pushed back into the stream.

Her muscles strained, kicking against the current.

Finally, they reached the southern bank and pulled the raft up the sandy spit, then lay exhausted on a grassy verge.

The babe was so low, the apron now slung below her belly, barely modest. There was a stickiness between her legs, cleansed by her immersion in the water.

Suddenly, a sharp pain. Counting. Perhaps five minutes passed. Then another throe.

“Ellie, ‘tis time. Hurry, we must find a tree against which I can lean, for I’m too weary to stand, or even squat without assistance.”