Tomorrow they would ascend the hills, away from the beach and the gifts of milk and bread. She finished stitching the straps from the keg onto sandals cut from one of the woven mats. She would take the mat with them in exchange for leaving the keg, its contents transferred to the knapsack. Elliewould carry the waterskin and fire pot—which, tomorrow, would contain hot coals, saving their precious tinder and flint.
They followed a path through the brush and up a steep declivity on the southern side of the beach, climbing some one hundred feet, gaining their first view of the country. Much was clear of scrub but split by tree-lined ravines where creeks flowed to the sea. Looking back, she could see the white-walled, round huts of the local homestead. In front stood all of the family: men holding spears and skin shields, and women, wearing their beadwork aprons, some with skin cloaks thrown over a shoulder.
She waved to them, and a great cry and chattering arose from the group. None came closer, but a lone voice began singing, and the accompanying rhythmic beats of drums grew in volume; one by one, they joined in the chorus, until all were singing and clapping. Should she have tears in her eyes? But the emotion of their song was so great it tore at her heart. They were singing a song of farewell. Oh,Lizzie Darcy, you greatwatering pot.
The track traversed the ridge behind the steep cliffs that bordered the sea. Progress was haltingly slow, sometimes surrounded by head-high grass, other times by thorny bushes, often descending into steep gullies that were cold and damp, shaded by acacia, ferns, and milkwood trees. The straps of the knapsack cut into her shoulders.
They came to a small, pebbly beach where Ellie tearfully threw down her burdens.
“Lizzie, we have gone so far. Surely, Cape Town must be very near?”
Just two miles—it had taken them all morning. Time to rest and eat some of the bread so carefully hoarded. Maybe, once rested, she could cajole Ellie to carry on. They brewed tea,sweet and warming.
Perhaps an hour later, she persuaded Ellie to take up the fire pot. Now, she carried her guitar, the knapsack,andthe waterskin; and, always present, the increasingly restless babe growing in her womb. William’s—her gift to him, when they were reunited. Oh, to see his face when he first held their child—so wonderful.
A small river to cross. Only fifty yards wide, shallow where the surf rolled into the river mouth. No mishaps. Another steep hill to climb, but the trail was easy to find. Then, two more tedious miles until they could go no further, stumbling down the ridge to a rocky inlet, a hundred yards across, a long, thin lake disappearing into the steep gorge cut by the river.
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 asandy 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’mso 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.
