Page 74 of Lizzie’s Spirit

Her body was cramping. Another throe began—high under her ribs, then rippling down her abdomen; she had no control. The pain crested, eased, bringing some sweet relief.

“Dearest, bring the knapsack and blanket. You must be my hands, for there’s little I can do but deliver the child.”

“What do you need? Shall I light a fire?”

“Yes, a fire. Let’s make some tea, for we both feel the chill of the river.”

“Oh, Lizzie. I’m so frightened. I’ve never seen a baby born.”

She took Ellie’s hands. “But we’re very lucky. I was a midwife in New South Wales and have birthed many infants. It will be ever so easy. Here, feel the baby inside my womb. It’s most strange—they enter this world upside-down.”

Ellie placed her hands on Elizabeth’s swollen belly; pressing gently, she felt the child within. “Oh, I can feel his shoulders and back, but where are his head, arms, and legs?”

“They’re folded up. Perhaps, you could pretend you are a babe about to be born. Lie on the grass, pull your knees up to your chest. Try to make yourself as small as possible.”

As Ellie curled up on the ground, Elizabeth felt the babe through the wall of the womb.

It was indeed fully descended; her practised hands felt its shoulders, the head facing backwards, bent forward.

Most likely, the chin was tucked into its chest, the curve of its back following the curve of her belly.

She squatted, the tree supporting her back.

Yet another throe, rippling like a wave down her body.

She arched, pushing against the tree. Ellie sprang up and clutched her hand.

Poor child, Elizabeth saw Ellie’s face contort with hurt and discomfort, but she never let go even as her hand was painfully squeezed.

Gritting her teeth, slow breaths, panting, clenching, waiting for the pain to subside. No screaming—no screaming.

Ellie has the fire alight—such a clever child with flint and tinder. Water heating in the fire pot. Where’s Bumper? Off exploring his new territory. What do we need?

“Ellie, fetch my chemise, for we’ll wrap the babe in it once delivered. Also the blanket.”

Her toe throbbed. The muscles of her legs were stiff and sore from swimming across the river.

She stood, laying half the blanket on the ground, the other between the tree and her shoulders as she squatted once more, feeling her muscles protest. Oh, to lie on the ground, but she knew, from her experiences, such was good for neither mother nor child.

Then the real pain began. The most intense cramping she had ever known, her abdomen pushing the baby down.

Her muscles were aching from ribs to tailbone.

The throes increased, now almost continuous.

Ellie came with a bowl of sweet tea—she could scarcely hold the bowl, let alone drink the tea inside, however much she wished it.

Her mouth dry, wet tears running down her cheeks.

Then, burning, the ring of fire— the babe’s head pushing out the mouth of the womb. The pain in her back, the heat—she would explode.

“Oh, Lizzie, you’ve wet yourself!”

The waters breaking. An all-encompassing, inescapable wave of pressure.

Overwhelming loneliness—oh, William, hold me, hold me more tightly than you’ve ever done before!

She was alone—no, her body would deliver the child; she must trust it.

There was nowhere for the babe to go but out.

For how long did this inescapable pressure last?

An hour, twelve hours, a day? She knew not; time lost all meaning.

Abruptly, relief from the burning. She felt it—the babe dropping into the birth canal. Oh, what a wonderful feeling; the pain irrelevant, she was so immensely powerful.

“I can see dark hair. Lizzie, there’s a baby!”

“Quickly. Take the chemise, hold the babe as it is delivered—hold it as you would your most precious porcelain doll.”

Ellie, kneeling on the blanket, grasped the child as it slid into her waiting hands. Elizabeth leant forward, gently taking it from her, holding it closely to her chest. A snuffle, breathing for the very first time.

“My, oh my, you’re a handsome fellow; dark hair, just like your father.” She felt a euphoria so strong, so intense, that tears of joy, and hope, and wonder rolled unrestrained down her cheeks.

Her smile was enough to banish all their cares and tribulations. So bright that William, on the other side of the world, would surely know his son, his heir, was born.

Carefully, she wiped the babe with the chemise.

Then, taking twine, she bound the cord, cutting it with her knife.

Soon, the afterbirth would be delivered.

Here, under the birthing tree, she would bury it, her legacy to this African shore—no longer desolate, but full of hope and—ever so welcome—life.