The Winter Rose

by Jennifer Donnelly

  "Look over there. It's Fort Jesus, and it's pink!" Willa cried. "Just like the book said."

  She had brought along a dozen books on East Africa from which she read aloud every night at supper. Last night they'd learned that Portuguese conquerors had taken the city from Arab slavers in the 1500s, building a massive fort to protect it. Two hundred years later it had fallen again, to the Sultan of Oman. In 1840, the wily Sultan of Zanzibar had taken it and had later asked the British to protect it. His crimson flag still fiew over the fort, reminding the British that they might currently hold the city, but only on his sufferance.

  The Goorka had only just slipped through the mlango, an opening in the enormous coral reef that protected the harbor, and was now anchoring about forty yards offshore. Boatmen in slender wooden dhows were already rowing out to take passengers ashore.

  "I can't believe it! We're here, Seamie! We made it! Africa!" Willa said. She grabbed his forearm and squeezed it. It hurt. He didn't care. "What should we do first? See the fort? The village?"

  "I think we should send our gear ahead to the hotel and try to find our man from the outfitters."

  "Yes, you're right. Good idea. God, but I can't wait to get off this boat!"

  "That makes two," Seamie said.

  The journey had taken six long weeks on a clanking steamer that had stopped at Malta, Cyprus, and Port Said, poked its way through the Suez Canal, then stopped again at Aden. For Seamie, who'd made a journey to Antarctica on a well-provisioned ship whose crew was determined to reach their destination speedily, the Goorka seemed to move at a snail's pace. At every port, fresh water had to be taken on board, as well as live-stock, which was put belowdecks to be slaughtered as needed. Willa, impatient for new sights and tired of being confined to the ship for days on end, always insisted on exploring the ports. At Cyprus, and again at Aden, she'd tarried so long that they'd had to run like hell to avoid being left behind.

  He looked at her now, as she pulled out her notebook, her beautiful eyes wide with excitement, and his heart ached with longing.

  "You've been scribbling in that thing ever since we left Blighty," he said. "What are you doing?"

  "Writing it all down. Every bit of it."

  "Why?"

  "For my paper. The one I intend to give at the Royal Geo when we get back to London. After I've given it, I'm going to make it into a book--a travelogue--and sell thousands of copies so I can finance my next trip. Did that when I climbed McKinley and made a bundle. How shall I describe you, Seamie? Would you rather be an accomplished explorer or a brilliant explorer?"

  Seamie thought, I would rather be your lover, Willa. Neither accomplished nor brilliant, but yours. He said, "How about brilliant and accomplished?"

  "And let's not forget modest."

  He turned away from her and squinted into the sun, worried his emotion might show. This was a mistake, he thought. I should never have come to Africa with her. He should never have taken her up on her dare. Back in Cambridge, he had thought himself in love with her. Now he knew he was.

  Every day spent with her was an adventure. Everything they did was exciting. The meal of red grapes and salty cheese they'd eaten with their fingers in Cyprus. The veiled women they'd seen on the balconies of Aden. The merchants and their camels. The spice markets and cloth markets, the voices of the muezzins calling the faithful to prayer. No woman he'd ever met was as curious and fearless--as passionately alive--as Willa. And he had never felt himself to be as alive as when she grabbed his hand and went whooping down piers, pounding down docks, hollering for the crew to hold the boat, they were coming, damn it! They were coming!

  What would his life be after this trip? Ruined, that's what. He would never be able to forget her or the time they'd spent together. He'd never be able to fall in love, because loving anyone else would only ever be second best and wrong.

  He'd almost told her how he felt a dozen times or more. He'd been close, so close, the words had been on the tip of his tongue, but then he'd remembered that she belonged to someone else. And he would imagine the embarrassment he'd cause her, the pity in her eyes for him as he made his unwanted confession, and he would stop himself.

  "We're off, then!" a voice bellowed from behind him, startling him out of his sadness. It was Eamon Edmonds and his wife, Vera. They were a newlywed couple, aiming to plant coffee in the Ngong Hills. Seamie and Willa had become friendly with them, and with other settler couples, during the long journey.

  "Oh, Vera, I'll miss you!" Willa said, hugging her tightly.

  "I'll miss you, too, Wills. Wave to us from the top of Kili, won't you?"

  The two women hugged again. Eamon and Seamie shook hands and then one of the porters was handing Vera over the side of the ship to a ladder, which she used to climb down to a waiting dhow.

  Seamie and Willa weren't far behind. They had to lower their rucksacks into the boat first, followed by their climbing gear and tent. They would have to procure everything else they needed--and the porters needed to carry it--in town with the help of Newland & Tarlton, a firm of safari outfitters. They'd estimated they'd need four or five days to arrange it all.

  Seamie was glad to get off the boat, glad to be on land again. But more than that, he was eager to start the trek to Kilimanjaro. Eager to distract himself with the planning and provisioning and the hard work of mountaineering. Eager to forget how much he wanted Willa.

  They reached the noisy, bustling docks, paid their boatman, then engaged a man with a donkey cart to take their gear to the Mombasa Club. There was a sprawl of narrow pathways leading from the port into the town, but only one thoroughfare that could properly be called a street. It was named after the Portuguese explorer Vasco da Gama. Their contact, Peter Boedeker, had premises there.

  "Vasco da Gama Street," Willa said longingly. "Think there'll be a Seamus Finnegan Street one day?" she asked. "Or a Willa Alden Avenue?" She was walking with her head back, the better to take in the minarets and domes of the Arabian town, and the pretty whitewashed houses, their shutters closed against the shimmering heat. She stumbled once and nearly fell, but Seamie caught her.

  After a ten-minute walk they arrived at number 46, a white stone building with a small brass plaque advertising the services of Newland & Tarlton, Safari Outfitters.

  "Remember, Wills, we're here for a safari. Sightseers, that's what we are."

  Willa nodded. They climbed a flight of stairs and found the office on the first floor. The door was open.

  "Mr. Boedeker?" Seamie called, walking in. Willa followed him. It was a small room containing a desk, a few chairs, and a filing cabinet. Maps of Africa were hung on the walls.

  A man, blond and muscular, was seated at the desk. Seamie thought he might be in his thirties, but his face was so weathered and lined from the sun that he looked more like fifty.

  At the sound of Seamie's voice, he looked up. "Mr. Finnegan, Miss Alden. I've been expecting you. Heard the Goorka was due in today. Sit down, won't you? How was your trip?"

  As Seamie and Willa sat and began to tell him about their sea voyage, Boedeker said a few words in Swahili to a boy seated cross-legged in a corner. The boy dashed out. Before they had finished, he was back again with three tall, slender glasses of hot minty tea, heavily sugared. Boedeker sipped his, then he opened a folder and took out the telegram Willa had sent him before they'd left London.

  "Says here you're interested in a safari. West to Kilimanjaro." He gave them each a long look, then said, "What do you want with Kili, then, eh?"

  "We want to see it," Seamie said.

  Peter nodded thoughtfully. "And you want to see it from this side of the border, correct?"

  "Correct," Willa replied.

  "You weren't thinking of trying to climb it, by any chance, were you?"

  "Climb it?" Willa echoed innocently. "Oh, no."

  Boedeker nodded. "Good. Because, as I'm sure you both know, the mountain lies within German East Africa. If you were to cross into GEA at any of the border to
wns, the Germans would want your documents. They'd inspect your gear and they'd want to know why you're there. If they thought you--an American and a Briton--were there to climb their mountain, they might deny you entry. If you decided to sneak in anyway and got caught, you might be jailed."

  Seamie knew Kili belonged to the Germans. Willa did, too. They hoped to get around them by trekking to the mountain under cover of its surrounding jungle. If they made it up, they'd hightail it back to Mombasa and not make their feat public until they were back home. They were taking chances, they knew they were, but they didn't care. They both strongly felt that a mountain--any mountain--belonged not to nations or peoples, but to those who climbed it.

  "We just want to get to the border," Seamie said. "Take a few photographs."

  "Right, then. I'm going to set you up for a lovely little camping trip to Taveta, just east of the border, so you can have a good old hike through the bush and then take a nice gander at Kili, all right?"

  Seamie and Willa nodded. Seamie felt relieved that Boedeker had bought their story and was not going to be troublesome. The three spent some time discussing the quantity and weight of the gear, the food and drink that would be required, and the trip's duration. Both Seamie and Willa had legacies from relatives that funded their trips, but neither legacy was unlimited, and they were both careful with their money. They were both willing to carry gear to economize on the amount of men needed. With that in mind, Boedeker eventually decided that nine porters plus a headman would be sufficient.

  "Ten men for two people," Seamie said. "Seems like an army."

  "That's nothing," Boedeker said. "Last safari I did, for a party of twenty wealthy Americans--now that was a headache. Fifty crates of champagne, twenty more of whisky, Waterford glasses, Wedgwood china, sterling cutlery, linen for the tables, eight-course dinners ...I needed a hundred porters on that one. Line stretched out from Nairobi for a mile."

  Boedeker told them that he'd have their arrangements made in five days' time at the most. They would provision here, then take the train to Voi--a small town in Kenya Province about sixty miles northwest of Mombasa. They'd be met there by their headman, a Masai tribesman named Tepili. He and the nine porters under his command would get them to Taveta.

  Seamie and Willa paid Boedeker and thanked him. He said he would send word to the Mombasa Club as soon as their plans were in place.

  They shook hands and Boedeker saw them to the door. As they were about to leave, he said, "Miss Alden, Mr. Finnegan... may I give you a few words of advice?"

  "Certainly," Seamie said.

  Boedeker's genial smile was gone. The look in his eyes was deadly serious as he said, "Beware of the Chagga. Use them if you must, but do not turn your backs on them. When you near the border--and I suggest you cross it well north of Taveta--you'll be in Chagga territory. They're the best guides--no one knows the land around Kili like they do--but they are highly unpredictable. They've killed both Germans and British. Make sure you bring gifts. They are partial to knives and mirrors."

  "Cross the border? But we never said--" Willa began.

  "I know what you said. I also know who you are. You, Miss Alden, have set records in the Alps and on McKinley."

  "How did you know that?"

  "I follow the mountaineering news. I'm a bit of a climber myself, you see. I've heard of you, too, Mr. Finnegan. I followed the Discovery Expedition. As did most of the rest of the world, including the Germans. Be very careful. Africa is not the Alps. It is not Antarctica. It is a different creature entirely."

  Willa nodded. "Thank you for your advice, Mr. Boedeker. Especially regarding the border."

  Boedeker cocked his head. He smiled. "What advice, Miss Alden? I would never give such advice. Newland & Tarlton are not in the business of defying international borders or treaties or encouraging any such irresponsible behavior in our clients. Good day."

  "Well, that was strange," Willa said when they were back on the street.

  "He wanted to help us," Seamie said, "and to warn us. And to tell us that if we get our sorry arses arrested, we're on our own."

  "We won't," Willa said confidently. "We'll go in north as he suggested. We were thinking of doing that anyway, weren't we?"

  Seamie nodded.

  "And we'll take lots of gifts for the Chagga. Maybe we can find some things in town. But I want to go swimming first. Did you see the beaches? Five days, Boedeker said. We've got five whole days to lie on that white sand and swim in that blue water. Heaven!"

  Great, Seamie thought. Willa in her swimming costume. That would be just the thing to get his mind off how much he wanted her. He'd been thankful to sit in Boedeker's office. Happy to discuss logistics and obstacles, grateful for a distraction from his aching heart. Now he would have to endure five days together on the beach.

  "Seamie?" Willa said. "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing," he lied. "I was just thinking. About our gear. We should go to the hotel and make sure it got there. Check in and all that."

  "Good idea."

  Inside the darkened foyer of the Mombasa Club, a small boy stood in a corner, rhythmically pulling on a rope attached to a ceiling fan made of banana leaves. There were stuffed animal heads on the wall, a worn dhurrie on the floor, and a few chairs scattered about. A small bar graced one side of the room; there was a clerk at a desk on the other side--a tall Somali in a white tunic and red turban.

  Seamie and Willa presented themselves. Just as they'd done with Newland & Tarlton, they'd sent a telegram ahead to the hotel, telling the manager they'd be arriving on the Goorka.

  "We reserved two rooms," Seamie said now.

  "So very sorry, sir," the clerk said regretfully. "One."

  "But we reserved two rooms. There are two of us," Seamie said stupidly. "Two."

  "Very, very sorry, sir. Busy day. English come from London two days ago. Big Bwana and his Msabu. Many peoples with them. Hotel full. You are two men. One room."

  "He thinks I'm a man," Willa whispered. "He wants us to share."

  "Are there other hotels in town?" Seamie asked.

  "All full, sir."

  Seamie ran a hand through his hair. He glanced toward the stairs. Two porters were already carrying their things up.

  "Hold on--" he started to say.

  Willa stopped him. "It's all right. We'll manage. It sounds like some diplomat's come with an entourage. If we don't take this room, we might end up with nothing."

  Upstairs, Seamie tipped the porters and looked around the room. It was in the back of the hotel and overlooked a courtyard filled with acacia trees. It had whitewashed walls, a hand basin, and one double bed.

  "I'll take the floor," he said quickly.

  "Don't be stupid. We'll share the bed. Just don't snore. I'm off to the loo. When I get back, let's go to the beach."

  As she left the room, Seamie walked to the window and looked out at the town. Then he turned and stared at the bed. The beach was bad; but the bed was torture. It taunted him. He imagined taking Willa in his arms on it and making love to her. There was nothing he wanted more in the world. Nothing. He lay down on the bed, so he couldn't see it, thinking that might help. But it didn't. He knew that in only a few hours he'd be lying on it next to Willa. Listening to her breathe, aching for her.

  He wished they were setting off, wished they were dealing with bumptious porters, hiking in the killing heat, ice-climbing in thin air--anything, anything but this.

  "Bring on the Chagga," he muttered, then closed his eyes and fell asleep.

  Chapter 89

  "Horses?" Maggie Carr asked. She was sitting at the small table inside Sid's bungalow, watching him pack.

  "Two. One for me, one for him," Sid said. "Porters are taking Shanks's pony."

  "Porters always do. How many of them?"

  "Six."

  "Must be traveling light."

  "No rifles," Sid said. "No ammunition. No skins and heads to carry back. Only telescopes and compasses. A drafting table, paper, tents
, and food."

  Maggie nodded.

  "I'm off at dawn tomorrow. The bloke wrote that he'd be at Thika township waiting for me. I won't be gone long, Maggs. Two weeks at the outside. Be back way before harvest time. The women know what to do. I've put Wainaina in charge. She's got them hoeing the north field right now--"

  Maggie cut him off. "Sid, I don't mind that you're going. Not at all. I'm only worried about why you're going."