Page 77 of Lizzie’s Spirit

She burst out crying. Elizabeth cradled the girl in her arms. “Oh, you poor dear. Of course, they’ve never heard of a viscount. Today, stay with me, for I’m collecting firewood, and I’ll need help carrying it.”

“Is that a proper task for a lieutenant governor’s wife? Surely, they should bring the firewood to you?”

How to explain to a young girl, brought up with rank and consequence, with servants to always do her bidding, that she could not expect such here among the Xhosa.

On the trail, with just the two of them, Ellie was always helpful.

But life in the village was too different.

Her independent spirit, which Elizabeth had come to love, was being crushed.

The past week of good food and welcome sleep had restored Elizabeth’s spirits, regaining her health. She still had aches and pains, and cramps as her womb shrank. But, it was time to resume their journey down the coast.

***

With much signing and a little language, Elizabeth was able to communicate her intent to resume their journey.

She learnt that, were she to delay her departure for two days, people from the village would accompany her.

The night before they left, a bullock was killed, and with much singing, dancing, and feasting, the village celebrated her journey to the south.

She was surprised when, the next morning, a great crowd had gathered.

Not only were the chief and his wife travelling, but much of the village was to accompany them.

The women stacked many items on their heads, including mats, blankets, earthenware pots, and the chief’s iron cooking pot.

The men carried very little, apart from their spears and shields.

Elizabeth wrapped Ben in her blanket and carried him close to her chest. With the guitar and knapsack on her back, she was almost as laden as the village women.

In addition to the waterskin, Ellie carried a basket containing bags of mealie-meal and hulled millet—enough, Elizabeth hoped, to get them to a European settlement.

The entourage moved on, ever so slowly. She was tempted to stride ahead but resisted, as they were surely following the most direct route southwards. Their progress was so slow that travelling five miles took them into the early afternoon, when they came to another village.

Again, a bullock was killed, followed by more singing, dancing, and feasting. The women came to gaze at her, some even touching her long, braided hair falling down her back, twisting like a serpent. Likewise, Ellie’s golden hair was viewed with amazement.

“Lizzie, all this feasting—please, no more! Can we leave in the morning? Dear Papa, he must surely be worried for us.”

They lay down for the night, Ellie close to Elizabeth, who had found she could feed little Ben with him lying on her chest.

“I too, dearest, but it may be difficult, as they wish to accompany us further. The chief of this village owes allegiance to our chief, for the stream nearby is but a tributary of the other. Perhaps, when we come to the next large river, where another chief of the same rank lives, they will stop, and we can travel faster.”

There was nothing she could do. She feared they had moved further inland, but the mountains that loomed in that direction seemed no closer, so she assumed they were still paralleling the coast—from village to village, feast to feast. After five days, Elizabeth saw that the tributary streams now flowed to the south, away from the river of their chief.

The demeanour of the villagers changed; while they showed respect, it was of a different nature.

They owed their allegiance to another great chief whose territory extended over the catchment of a different river.

Two days later, they came to a wide, brown river, which they crossed at a ford, arriving at a large village where all of the villagers were turned out to greet them.

There was significant tension between the two groups, but also much anticipation.

It was clear that the meeting of two great chiefs was an unusual occurrence.

Elizabeth and Ellie were shown into a rondavel adjacent to that of the chief’s wife—an honoured place. A young woman entered; she knelt on the floor. Hesitantly, she welcomed them, but it was not Xhosa.

“You speak Dutch? What a wonder, here so far from the Cape.” Elizabeth could have wept with joy. At last, someone to tell them where they were. How far to a farm? How long must they endure before they could find rescue from this isolated shore?

“The farmer called me Bettie. I lived there until he sold me. For two cows—a good price, for I was still very young.

“The farmer sold you? Oh, how terrible. But why?”

“Oh, they had no food. But I didn’t like them; life is much better here.

The chief of the Bhisho River is very strong.

” Bettie looked shyly at Elizabeth. “And soon, I shall be married, because the bride price, lobola , is already paid. But not as high as you, the Right Hand of the chief. Such I could never be, but belonging to your house is a great privilege.”

“My house, whatever do you mean?” There was an unsettling nuance here, for the word house clearly did not mean a rondavel or even a homestead.

“But, of course, his wife will be the Great House, and you the Right Hand House. And your son will start his own house.”

“Little Ben? But he’s just born.” Elizabeth was perplexed. Whatever was Bettie talking about? It set her nerves on edge—she was truly missing some vital information.

“You call him little Ben —what a strange name! No, he will become a healer, igqirha , for none but the son of a chief can found a House.”

The pieces fell into place. The Right Hand son could make a House—she was to be the Right Hand of the chief. The procession, the celebrations, this rondavel to the right of the chief’s wife—all part of an elaborate wedding ceremony. How foolish of her not to see it.

“Bettie, when is the wedding to be held?” Please, please give me some time…

“There are two nights of feasting and agreeing on the bride price. The ceremony is on the third day.”

“And if I am already married?”

“You have never been married. You are the daughter of the chief of the Kei River, under his protection. The baby comes from the sea, from where you came, with your golden-haired sister. There is no marriage under the sea—only water people, uMamlambo, live there .”

“Am I not, then, one of the water people?”

“You were stolen and have escaped; that is a very great thing. What songs we shall sing of it. The chief of the Kei River shows great respect by taking you as his daughter and then giving you as a bride to the chief of the Bhisho River. He will receive many cattle, lobola , for the honour—perhaps six and twenty cows.”

Once again she was a chattel: in England, given away by the Court of Chancery merely for being a woman; in Sydney, importuned for her connections to trade and land; here, on the distant shores of Africa, for her coming from the sea. Only William loved her for who she was.

That night, she and Ellie sat alone in the rondavel, little Ben, well fed, asleep in her arms.

“Ellie, tomorrow we must flee this place. I did not know, but they intend I should marry the chief.”

“But you cannot, Lizzie. You’re Mrs. Darcy, a lieutenant governor’s wife. Should I tell them you’re already married?”

“Dearest, a very good idea, but they shan’t listen.

They believe we escaped from the sea peoples and that they do us great honour by my being Right Hand of the great chief of the Bhisho River.

No, tomorrow evening, there will be much celebration, much millet beer drunk. All will sleep, then we slip away.”

“Lizzie, will they follow us, force you to return?”

“I know not, Ellie, but we will run anyway. To the coast; perhaps we can hide near the sea. That is where they believe we came from, and there we shall return.

***

They gathered their belongings, placing them inconspicuously in the rondavel. Ellie put more bread and millet into her bag and found a bag of milk left unattended—it would be missed on the morrow, but they would be gone.

At midnight, Ellie and Elizabeth crept quietly from the chief’s homestead.

The dogs knew them, sniffed, but let them be.

There was a trail leading away from the village, following the main branch of the river.

The half-moon gave enough illumination for them to find their way.

They were so much stronger now; Elizabeth felt rejuvenated from the rest and the slow days walking between homesteads and villages. They made good time.

“Oh, Lizzie, where’s Bumper? Surely we won’t leave him behind.”

“Ellie, listen, I shall call him.” Elizabeth put two fingers to her mouth, and a piercing whistle rent the air. “He’ll come. But the sound is too far away for the men of the village to take notice.”

She turned back to the trail. “Can you go on? Bumper will soon find us, and we must get as far away as possible.”

Following the path, they came to a section of the river where its breadth was over one hundred yards. It was impossible to tell at night, but the depth seemed greater than Lizzie’s height.

“Look, Ellie, river cows. It’s lucky we didn’t attempt to wade across.”

“Oh, they are so huge. And that great mouth. Lizzie, let’s away from here as quickly as we can.”

They hurried along the edge of the water until it contracted to a narrow channel defined by fast-running water.

Beyond, it swelled, dividing into two channels, and they were able to cross without any hindrance.

On the bank they had just left, the trail had continued, running parallel to the stream.

Elizabeth, with scant optimism, hoped any pursuit would follow it, leaving them alone on the opposite bank.