The White Hunter

by Gilbert, Morris

  Jeanine allowed herself to be persuaded, saying only, “One week, Barney, and then we’re going, guide or no guide!”

  ****

  Three days passed after the conversation with Barney and Andrew, and Annie threw herself into the work of the mission station. She helped organize their supplies, but she stayed up late every night studying the Masai language. She had a good teacher, an old woman named Mali, who giggled at Annie’s awkward attempts to speak the language. Mali herself spoke English in an interesting fashion, sometimes hard to fathom, but the two got along very well.

  Annie also spent a great deal of time with her aunt Ruth and uncle David Burns. She discovered that her aunt had a great insight into the way of life in Africa. She told her, for example, “Annie, there are many Africas. They’re all on this continent, but they’re very diverse. Doctor Livingston’s Africa, for example, was a pretty dark one. There are some brighter Africas that you’ll encounter as time goes on, but one thing you’ll never do is solve this mystery. It’s wild, it’s a sweltering inferno, it’s a utopia, so some believe. It’s whatever you wish.” Ruth ended finally by saying, “But it’s never dull.”

  The two had been walking along the streets of Mombasa as she spoke of this, and she finally said, “Do you know what black water fever is?”

  “No. What is it?”

  “About the worst thing you can have around here,” Ruth said.

  “Is it worse than malaria?”

  “Oh yes! People that get malaria die. We don’t know exactly what it is, but when the kidneys start producing what the natives call ‘black water’ it’s all up with you.”

  “Is it very common?”

  “More common than I’d like,” Ruth said with a grimace. “We have a young man here who’s got it and he’s all alone. No friends. David and I stop by and see him as often as we can, but I wonder if you’d mind going by and visiting him.”

  “Of course, Aunt Ruth, if you think it would do any good.”

  “He always likes to talk to anyone, but it may be hard. It’s pretty rough.”

  “I’ll do whatever I can.”

  Ruth led her down one of the crooked, twisting streets that ran like a maze through the city to a door that she shoved open without knocking. Annie followed her, and inside she saw a man on a camp bed under a thick, sticky blanket.

  “Davie, this is Miss Annie,” Ruth said. “She’s my niece and a new missionary. I thought you might like to talk to her.”

  Annie moved forward and was shocked at what she saw. What the Egyptians had done in fashioning mummies of dead bodies, the black water fever had done the same to this man. His face was a skull, the skin drawn over the bones, and he was all eyes, it seemed. They moved in their sockets independent of anything else. Annie’s heart filled with compassion, and she moved over and sat down beside his bed.

  “I’ve got some other patients to see. You two can visit for a while,” Ruth said.

  Annie nodded, then turned back toward Davie. The smell was awful! It was of death, and sickness, and of disease, but she tried not to notice. It was a struggle for her, for all her life she had been troubled to be with people who were extremely ill, even terminally so. She feared that more than she feared lions or hyenas in Africa, but she knew that death was a part of Africa, and this was her first encounter with it. She could not think of anything to say for the moment, and the man called Davie spoke first.

  “Not very pleasant for you in here, Annie.”

  “Oh, it’s all right. I’m sorry to see you feeling so poorly.”

  A silence hung in the room for a moment. The flies buzzed, as always, and Davie licked his parched lips and shrugged his emaciated shoulders. “I get lonely sometimes. Nothing to do but lie here and stare at the ceiling.”

  “Would you like for me to read to you?” Annie offered.

  “No. Just talk. Tell me what you’ve been doing.”

  Annie discovered soon that Davie simply wanted to hear the sound of a human voice every day. When she paused during her rambling attempts at conversation, he whispered, “Lying here like this, you remember the strangest things. I remember people I hated once, but I don’t hate them anymore.”

  Annie watched the sweat bead on his forehead and knew that he was feverish. “It’s hard to be sick and alone. Do you have nobody here?”

  “Doctor David and Miss Ruth come by every day when they’re not out in the field. I have an old woman who comes by and brings me something to eat—when she thinks of it.”

  Annie knew that Ruth and David had witnessed to the man, but she was determined never to miss an opportunity. “The Lord is all we have at times like this, isn’t He?”

  “Yes, He is. Doctor David led me to the Lord when I first got down. You know, this black water fever is about the worst thing you can have. I had malaria for years. Chills, fevers, nightmares, but when I saw the first black water from the kidneys, I knew I was dying. That I’d never leave this place.”

  “Don’t say that. God’s able to heal.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “I don’t understand it,” Davie whispered. He was actually delirious now and said things that made no sense. He was all mixed up with when he was a young man, but he also said, “Doctor David did pray for me, but I didn’t get well.”

  Annie hardly knew what to say. She was convinced the man was dying and did not want to offer any false hopes. She stayed with him for over an hour until Ruth returned. When she got up, she saw that Davie had drifted off into a fitful sleep. She followed her aunt outside and said, “Isn’t there any hope?”

  “I don’t think so. He’ll never get off that bed. It’s sad, isn’t it?”

  “Why doesn’t God heal him?” Annie asked passionately. And for one instant a violent mood shook her. “Why doesn’t God heal him, Aunt Ruth? The Bible says if you pray, God will answer.”

  “I know. I’ve asked myself that same question a thousand times.” She was wearing a plain white blouse with a brown skirt and half boots. Her red hair was pulled back and held firmly in place by pins. “I don’t know. But I do know that God is love, and that if He doesn’t choose to do something we want, it’s because it’s best for us. Who knows but what something terrible is waiting down the road for Davie, and God is going to take him out of it.”

  It was a thought Annie herself pondered many times. As a matter of fact, she found many of her thoughts much like those of this strong woman who walked beside her. Her eyes were warm and at the same time sad over the fate of her friend.

  “Where’s Jeanine?” Ruth asked.

  “She went out shooting with some government official.”

  “She’d be better off spending time here learning how to minister to people. You’ll have to watch her when you get on the field. The Masai are proud people and very sensitive. Jeanine’s going to have to be careful of her ways.”

  “Well, you know Jeanine,” Annie replied.

  “Yes, I do,” Ruth said grimly. “She reminds me somewhat of how my cousin Priscilla used to be. But I still say you’re going to have to watch her. I know it won’t be easy, but I’ve seen many a missionary come to grief because they offended one of the Masai.”

  Annie did not answer, for she knew how hopeless it was to curb Jeanine Quintana’s impulsiveness. As they continued on down the street, she said, “I’ll come back to see Davie every chance I get.”

  “That’s kind of you, Annie, and it’s like you.”

  ****

  The limit imposed by Jeanine came to an end on Thursday, and as Annie and the others expected, she rose, determined to leave that day. “I gave them a chance, didn’t I, Annie? He hasn’t been able to find anybody.”

  “Just give it another day or two. Barney said that he’s sure he’ll have a guide by then.”

  But Jeanine would not listen. The two were arguing about it, and Annie saw it was hopeless when a knock at the door interrupted them. When Annie opened it, Barney Winslow was st
anding there.

  “Well, I see I came right on time.”

  “You mean you found a guide?” Annie said eagerly.

  “Sure have, and you couldn’t find a better one. You’ll be a little bit surprised.” He stepped aside and said, “Come on in, sir.”

  Barney turned to Annie then and said, “Here’s your guide. I understand you two are old friends.”

  The sun was in Annie’s eyes and she could not see the man, and then when he stepped into the shadows of the room, she could not speak for a moment.

  “Hello, Annie. It’s been a long time.”

  John Winslow stood before Annie smiling at her! He was just as she remembered him, tall, his auburn hair longer than before. He had the same wedge-shaped face and light blue eyes, and his skin was very tanned, of course, from the sun. He was thirty-one now, and there were fine lines around the edges of his eyes and at the corners of his mouth that had not been there when she had first met him years before on her trip west. She took the hand that he put out and found her hands enclosed tightly.

  “Well, cousin, you’ve grown up to be a most attractive young woman. So I’ll claim a cousin’s privilege.” He leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek, then grinned at her. “Kissing cousins!” He winked at Barney and said, “All we Winslows are handsome people, aren’t we, Barney?”

  Annie could not speak, her heart was beating so fast. The years seemed to fade away, and she was back again to the first time she looked upon John Winslow when he had saved her from the attack of a ruffian. Now the years had passed and she was not a fifteen-year-old girl any longer, but still in her heart something unique stirred at the sight of John Winslow. Something she had never felt before, and she whispered, “Hello, John. It’s good to see you again. . . .”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  On to Masai Country

  Annie Rogers had always considered herself a stable person not given to flights of fancy or excessive emotions. True enough, in her girlhood she had been caught up with reading fairy stories and romances of all sorts, including The Knights of the Round Table, in which she would fantasize seeing herself as Elaine rescued by the knight in shining armor, Sir Galahad. She had also delved deep into the romances of the day when any came into her possession—but never without a sense of shame and guilt. Somehow it seemed to her these romances were wrong, as mild as they were. Still it troubled her that she had this strain in her as she had passed from girlhood into adolescence and then finally to young womanhood. She had managed to at least partially subdue this strain of romanticism, and it had given her satisfaction to know that she had overcome such childish things.

  One look at John Winslow, however, had brought her ideas concerning her own romanticism down like a house of cards. Just that brief encounter, and it was as if she were fifteen again! She had been almost speechless, managing merely to mutter a few words of greeting before excusing herself. She fled from her room at the first excuse and found herself aimlessly wandering the streets of Mombasa, struggling with the emotions that had erupted unexpectedly. She shook her head in confusion and turned down the land toward the market where vendors on both sides called out to her, begging her to stop and buy their wares. She ignored them all until a small Arab wearing a dirty white turban and a disreputable robe darted forth and grabbed her by the arm, pulling her toward his small shop that consisted of an awning spread out over the sidewalk.

  “See, English miss,” he said, using the English language atrociously. “Fine pets for fine English lady! Look, a fine cat.” He held up a rumpled ball of white fur and extolled the virtues of the kitten that looked half-starved.

  “No. No cat,” Annie said. She tried to pull away, but his fingers closed on her arm, and he pleaded excitedly, “Fine monkey. See!” Without loosing his grip he pulled her forward slightly and picked up a small gray monkey with large, soulful eyes. He clung to the Arab’s shoulder and stared at Annie woefully.

  He was the saddest-looking monkey Annie had ever seen, and she said, “No. I don’t have any way to take care of a monkey.”

  “Oh, he would be delicious. Very good to eat,” he said grinning.

  Revolted by the words and by the thought of the fate of the melancholy beast, Annie pulled her arm loose and half ran down the street. She paid no heed to the cries that followed her from various vendors and finally made her way down to the coast. The harbor was dotted with small crafts, most of them with their sails furled. The beach was lined with fishermen who were cleaning their nets or repairing their boats. As she walked along, the air was filled with a multitude of voices that rose and fell, making a chorus to the waves that crashed upon the shore. The wind was brisk and Annie drew her thin coat closer around her. It was March and she thought about how at her home the spring would be pushing back winter’s icy fingers from the frozen plains. As she walked along noting the starfish and sand crabs that scurried at her approach, thoughts of home suddenly made her feel a wave of nostalgia. She did not exactly think, I wish I were home, but the longing for home was there.

  For over two hours she walked the beach, unconscious of her surroundings and not speaking to anyone. Finally she returned to her room, where she found Jeanine waiting for her impatiently.

  “Where have you been?” she demanded. “I’ve looked everywhere for you.”

  “Oh, just walking around.”

  “Well, you picked a fine time to run off by yourself! We needed to talk about our plans and you weren’t here.”

  “I’m sorry, Jeanine.” Annie did not want to discuss plans with Jeanine, but it was obvious that she would have to. “What did you decide about leaving?”

  Apparently Jeanine did not hear the question or at least she chose not to answer. She went over and sat down on a couch, pulled her legs up under her, and half smiled as she said, “Why didn’t you tell me you had such a gorgeous cousin? He’s a dream.”

  Annie stared at Jeanine. It was something she would have said before her conversion. She was well aware that Jeanine had known many men, and now it suddenly came to her that all of this experience still lay in her. She was still attracted by a handsome face or a lean, muscular form, and certainly John Winslow possessed both of these. “I never thought about it,” she said. Instantly she felt like a hypocrite, for she knew that many times she had thought in exactly those terms. Disgusted with herself, she turned and went to the window and stared outside. She was aware that Jeanine was talking, and finally she was shocked when Jeanine suddenly appeared beside her.

  “Wait a minute,” she said, turning Annie around and staring into her face curiously. “I just remembered something—why, he’s the cowboy that rocked your boat when you were just a girl, isn’t he?” When Annie could not answer, Jeanine laughed with genuine amusement. “Why, you’ve told me all about that. How you went to Montana and he saved you from a fate worse than death, thrashed some bank robber or something and saved you and your friend Jeb. He’s the one, isn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  The brevity of Annie’s reply did not escape Jeanine. Her eyes narrowed and knowledge flickered in her violet eyes. “I remember now. You told me you had a real case of infatuation. Well, I don’t blame you. He’s one of the most masculine fellows I’ve ever seen. But I’m surprised you’re still stuck on him after all these years.”

  “I am not stuck on him!” Annie snapped angrily. “And I wish you wouldn’t talk like that!”

  Annie’s voice was sharp, which was unusual for her, and in the silence that followed, Jeanine studied her friend’s face. “Oh, it’s like that, is it?” she murmured. “Well, I’m glad to see you’re interested in some man. You sure haven’t shown any sign of it since I’ve known you.”

  “Jeanine, I’m not interested in John Winslow in that way!”

  “No? You could have fooled me.”

  “I wish you’d stop talking about this, Jeanine. It hurts me.”

  Shrugging her shoulders, Jeanine let a smile linger on her lips but said only, “Well, he’s probably
got a girl in every port—or I guess in every village, since he’s not a sailor.” She stroked her hair casually, then said almost inaudibly, “It’ll be fun to have him along. We’ll see what kind of a man he is.”

  ****

  Dorothy Hansen Winslow, Andrew’s wife, and Katie had gone to great trouble to fix a special meal, since they were both aware that it might be the last they would be able to offer the two fledgling missionaries. It consisted of nothing very exotic. Eland steak and fried bananas were two of the more interesting items, but they had also prepared a large roast with new potatoes and a large pot of green peas, the common variety that grew in the area.

  Annie liked both of the missionary wives. They were exactly the same age, thirty-eight, and very attractive women, although darkened by the sun more than would have been true in America. The kitchen and the dining area seemed full of children, although there were only five of them. Barney and Katie boasted of Patrick and Erin, while Dorothy did her best to sit on Amelia and Phillip, her own children. They were all between nine and eleven, which meant that they found it impossible to sit still and be quiet for more than five minutes at a time. David and Ruth’s only child, Eileen, was a quiet five-year-old who never strayed too far from her mother.

  “I suppose these children are a trial for you. You’re not accustomed to them, Jeanine,” Dorothy said after quieting her pair down for the tenth time.

  “No. I’m not used to children, but I like to see lively ones.” Jeanine’s eyes sparkled and she nodded. “You certainly have lively ones here.”

  “I’ll say amen to that,” Andrew said. He had dressed for dinner more carefully than the other three men, wearing a gray suit with a white shirt and a blue silk tie. His reddish hair shone in the lamplight, and he was, without a doubt, the finest-looking man at the table. Across from him Barney showed the signs of a rough life. Some of the scars of his boxing career remained with him, including one ear that was slightly swollen and tiny scars around his eyes. He had also had his encounters in the African jungle, one with a lion that had left a claw mark down his left cheek. He looked rough and ready, whereas Andrew was far more sleek and sophisticated.