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 pinkishtinge. 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,
