He nodded, but his lips were pressed together grimly.
She shooed him toward the house. “Quickly then, please. The captain and I will bring her momentarily.” They would need a stretcher. She glanced around. The cloth the baby had been tied with floated in the brown river a few paces out, snagged on the branches of a bush.
Trent stooped by her side with the pot the injured woman had brought down to the river with her.
“Good, I need you to pour it slowly here at her knee.” She glanced up the embankment and pointed to two young men clad in nothing more than what the woman was wearing. “You two bring me the cloth there. We need to make a stretcher.”
Both men folded their arms and shook their heads at her, neither moving from their spot.
“Oh, you are all a sorry lot!” She threw her hands in the air and dashed into the shoals to retrieve the cloth herself.
“RyAnne!” Trent barked. Two loud reverberations split the air as bullets slashed into the water to her right.
She jolted to a stop, cupping her ears in her hands.
“Get out of there! If the crocs don’t kill you, I’ll kill you myself!”
There was a splash of white water less than a cane’s length away. Heaven’s mercy! She snatched the cloth and leapt for the shore.
Trent fired again. But her feet were on solid ground now, and she tumbled to her knees next to the woman, panting more from the jolt of fear than from the short distance.
Trent had washed enough of the blood away for her to see that the tourniquet seemed to be doing its job. Good. “Captain, help me! We must get her to the house, and please make one of them go for Papa. I’m going to need his help. And he must bring his amputation kit.”
Trent barked an order at a man on the embankment, even as he took one end of the cloth from her. He snapped something else at the two men she’d spoken to earlier. And they both came forward.
“I see they listen to you just fine,” she groused.
Trent tossed aside a couple stones and spread his end of the cloth on the ground. “I’m not asking them to risk life and limb by wading into crocodile infested waters. And they”—he pinned her with a glare—“are not half-witted enough to do so.”
RyAnne ignored his barbed tone as she gently slipped her hands under the injured leg. Trent took the good one, and each of the men took an arm, and they all lifted the woman over onto the makeshift stretcher.
RyAnne started to lift the material on her corner, but Trent brushed her aside. “I’ll get this. You lead the way.” Twisting the corners around his palms to form handholds, Trent spoke orders to the two men, who followed his lead and did the same.
RyAnne scrambled up the low little hill and rushed toward the house, hoping upon hope that Papa had received word and would be there to help her.
Papa stumbled from his room, clutching his doctor’s bag and amputation kit in one hand but rubbing sleep from his eyes with the other. She barreled down the veranda toward him, Trent and the men following close behind.
“Papa, we need to do surgery, now! The leg has to come off, but I think the knee is salvageable.”
Papa extended a trembling hand for her perusal. “I can’t, RyAnne. My strength…it’s not what it used to be.”
She gripped his hand in both of hers. “Just come with me then. You can tell me what to do, and Captain Dawson will help us.”
Papa cursorily assessed the woman, then nodded. “Fine. Yes. We must try.”
Kako appeared and motioned them to a table set out on the grass just down the way.
RyAnne was relieved to find it clean and sturdy, and all the items she’d requested laid out on a tray beside it. “Bandages! I forgot I will need some strips of clean cloth. You’ve been most helpful, Kako. Thank you. But could you please get me cloth—preferably cotton or linen—and cut it into strips about three inches wide?”
The man nodded and rushed off as RyAnne directed the woman to be laid out on the table.
She glanced over at Trent and indicated the water. “Please, Captain, rinse as much of the blood from her leg as possible.”
Trent held the chloroform-soaked cloth gently over the slave’s face and watched RyAnne carefully examine her injured leg.
Had anyone offered him a wager, he’d have laid down money that the spoiled little heiress would faint dead away upon one glimpse of an injury such as this. But here she was about to perform surgery.
On top of that, she’d waded into a muddy river and fought off a croc to save the woman’s life. And with only an umbrella!
When this was over, he was going to give her a solid piece of his mind about that. And maybe a gun and some shooting lessons—with her father’s permission, of course.
Dr. Hunter drew an imaginary line on the injured leg just below the woman’s knee with his finger. “Here, I think.”
At that moment the woman stirred, crying out as though in pain.
RyAnne glanced over. “You can remove the cloth now, Captain. She’s not awake. The excitement is an effect of the chloroform. She will be restless but will remember nothing when she wakes. You’ll need to hold her still.”
Trent set to rolling up his sleeves, ready to do as she asked.
RyAnne’s hand trembled as she picked up the saw. She held it in a pleading gesture toward her father. “Papa, surely you can—”
A fit of coughing seized the man, and RyAnne’s gaze flew to Trent’s. He read increasing doubt there. Father God, give her the strength to see this through. And please help us to save this woman lying here. He glanced down at the blade quavering in RyAnne’s hand.
He didn’t know anything about amputations, but he did know that if she doubted herself, she might make a mistake. He offered a nod of encouragement. “Chin up, Miss Hunter. It was no mistake that the good Lord placed you where you were at just the right time. I’ve no doubt, with the help of God, you will bring her through this surgery to the other side.”
“Truly?”
“Truly.” Maybe distracting her would help. He glanced at the chloroform cloth. “Will I need to give her more of that?”
RyAnne brushed a lock of dark hair away from her face with a trembling hand. “No…not if I can quickly—” She swallowed visibly. “It’s just…I’ve never done this part before. A surgeon’s hands have to be strong and quick, to make the cut. And while I’ve helped with”—she swept a gesture toward the injured leg—“I’ve never before…” The blade in her hand lifted slightly. She pressed her lips together and took in the woman’s still features. “It might already be too late for her.”
Trent nodded. “But it might not.” He pushed aside the fleeting thought of what the consequences might be if the woman didn’t make it through the surgery. Her arm was banded with a bronze cuff. She was obviously someone’s slave. Her owner would demand recompense, surely—and if she was the mother of the owner’s child…
Hunter was still bent double, coughing.
RyAnne glanced from her father back to him, insecurity in her eyes. “Captain…”
He held up a hand and spoke softly, willing her to believe him. “We can do this. Together. You and I. But you must move quickly. We are losing light.”
She still looked uncertain.
“If we don’t try, will she even have a chance?”
The question was rhetorical. They both knew the answer, and he saw the moment she conquered her doubts. Determination tipped up her chin, and immediately she took control again.
“Papa, I need you to go rest. I can’t worry about you while I’m trying to do this. Can you make it back to your room?”
The man wheezed an acknowledgement and tottered toward the veranda.
She set the saw within easy reach and lifted a thin, sharp blade in a steady hand. “Very well. Captain, say a prayer for me, if you would. I’d hate to have this woman’s death on my conscience.”
“Were it not for you, she wouldn’t have even made it this far. And I’ve already said my prayers. Make the cut, Miss
Hunter.”
“Remember, keep her still as best you can.”
He nodded and leaned over the woman, prepared.
Blessedly, although the woman cried out and thrashed a bit, once RyAnne started, she made quick work of it. She used a tool shaped like a hook from the doctor’s kit, and the needle and thread to sew the vessels in the wound, checking carefully after snipping each thread to make sure she had stopped all bleeding. Lastly, she pulled a flap of skin over the whole stub and sewed it with fine stitches all the way around except for about half an inch, which she left free.
At his questioning look, she said, “For drainage.”
Finally, she dropped the needle back onto the tray and set about rinsing her hands. She dried them swiftly and snatched up a roll of bandages, but then froze, biting her lower lip as she squeezed her eyes shut.
Trent watched her carefully, for her face had suddenly washed as white as the roll of cotton nestled in her palm.
Stepping around the table, he gently took the roll of cloth from her.
“If you will excuse me, Captain…I’ll return momentarily.” She spun, one hand going to her mouth as she rushed away.
He let her go, turning to wrap the stub of the leg with the bandage.
RyAnne Hunter was a barrelful of contradictions, and that was the truth of it.
RyAnne dashed toward her room, but the upheaval in her stomach made it clear she wasn’t going to make it. She ran into the garden and leaned behind a leafy bush instead. When it was apparent she had nothing more to cast up, she wiped her mouth with a trembling hand and leaned her head back, pulling in a long full inhale.
Never again in her life did she want to be called upon to perform such a vile task. The horror of what had just happened refused to be held at the recesses of her mind any longer, and stepping back onto the path, she turned to look out toward the vast stretch of rippled water, now reflecting the last vestiges of evening light.
One moment the woman had been healthy and whole. The next moment, she and her child would have been gone if RyAnne hadn’t happened to follow them. Taking the leg had been necessary. Yet, would the woman thank her for saving her life?
She brushed a trembling hand across her skirt and was surprised to note that it was already nearly dry and she felt no chill from the soft evening breeze, despite her little swim earlier. Her hands fluttered to her hair. It too was nearly dry, but likely her curls were quite the sight after taking a soaking and experiencing no brush. She shivered away the memory of the incident, wondering how the little girl was faring.
She straightened. Who was taking care of the child? She must check before dinner. But first she needed to bandage the leg. She glanced back the way she had come and pulled in a fortifying breath.
She hurriedly returned along the garden path. But when she arrived, it was to find that Captain Dawson had done a fine job on the wrap already. “Thank you, Captain. If you could see that she is settled in a room, I would like to go out and check on her child. I’m afraid in my desire to save her mother, I tossed her rather harshly toward the shore, and I’d like to make sure she is all right.”
She lifted her skirts and started away, but he captured her arm, pulling her to a stop. His thumb stroked the hollow of her elbow, jolting her gaze to meet his.
He arched his brows. “If you are going anywhere, it will be with me and my pistol fast by your side. Wait here. I’ll have Kako settle the woman into a room, but first he will have to secure permission from her owner.”
“Secure permission? Whatever for? The woman needs rest and a comfortable bed.”
A muscle pulsed in Trent’s jaw. “You’ll get no argument from me on that count, Miss Hunter. Wait here, please.”
He was gone only momentarily and soon returned with Kako. “It seems Ali Khalifa owns her. He has not returned from his duties yet today.”
Her eyes dropped closed. It figured that a man like that would be this poor woman’s owner, and the child’s eyes bore a striking resemblance to his, now that she thought about it.
Trent was still speaking. “Kako has a room where she can rest.” He gestured for her to follow him, leaving Kako and two other house servants to move the woman.
Relieved that the woman would at least be well taken care of for the time being, RyAnne followed the captain.
As they walked the path toward the small village on the outskirts of Commodore Cornwall’s estate, RyAnne kept her gaze glued to the ground. He must think her quite muddle headed—fixing the woman’s leg and then rushing off the way she had. Perhaps she should try and explain…
“Trent—” Trent? She flinched. Captain Dawson. She must not think of him in such familiar terms.
He cleared his throat and ignored her slip as he plucked a blade of the hip-high grass growing beside the path and looked over at her. “I did not realize you knew aught of surgery?”
“Back home on the plantation, Papa often needed help with surgeries or procedures of various kinds. Births. Accidents with hoes and the like.” She swallowed. “But I’d never—” She blinked hard to keep tears at bay.
There she went again… Why was it she always seemed to be in some emotional state or another when the man was around?
He took her arm to guide her around a rock in the path. “This is a harsh country, Miss Hunter. It often requires brutal decisions and actions for the sake of survival. You did what the moment required for that woman.”
“I cannot help but think she won’t thank me for it.”
He released her arm and tucked his hands behind his back. “Maybe not at first. But given time, we can pray she will come to see life can be joyous even without two legs.”
“Joyous? Do you think a woman like her has had even a moment of joy in her entire life, Captain?”
They walked several steps before he responded. “We all have our trials to face in this life, Miss Hunter. Some more than others, to be sure. But I believe it a boon from the Creator that He offers the respite of joy to anyone who chooses to avail themselves of it. It is the choosing of it that comes so laboriously, at times.”
RyAnne’s gaze traveled involuntarily to meet his.
He looked back at her frankly.
She tucked her lower lip between her teeth. How could someone interested in nothing more than getting rich trading for ivory have such thought-provoking concepts bumbling about in his head? One of his brows winged its way upward. He was waiting for her to reply.
“That may be true, Captain, but I’ve no doubt it is much easier for people of our…privilege to realize it.” She halted for a moment to study the golden sky along the horizon and only then realized how dark it had gotten. “Did you ever stop to wonder what your life might have been like if you were raised by a different family? How much of who we are is a result of those who surround us?” She looked toward the fires of the village just ahead. “I could so easily have—” She broke off, gritting her teeth lest she spill the whole dark truth.
He touched the small of her back, starting her down the path once more. Thankfully, whether he’d simply missed her near slip or whether he was being polite, he did not press for more details on what she’d almost said. “Admittedly, I have. But…” He smirked. “Sadly, I’ve not come up with a satisfactory answer other than we must put our faith in the fact that God loves us and placed us where He did, knowing what was best for us.”
“What was best? How can a loving God be defended in the face of such misery as what I saw in the Zanzibar harbor just before the ship left port? Or after hearing the sound of broken hearts at the wharf in Bagamoyo? Why would a God who loves all equally place me in a home where I’ve been fed and cared for, but would allow another to be sold into slavery and then wouldn’t step in to save that same poor sick soul from being tossed overboard like so much refuse? Is that what was best, Captain?”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I fear your questions rise beyond the bounds of my meager theology, Miss Hunter. We tend to see any pain or misery as an
evil, and thus it grinds against our concept of an all-loving God. But what if there are misfortunes that are mercies? Unless a seed becomes desiccated, for instance, it cannot be planted to produce new life.”
RyAnne contemplated that as they walked the last few steps into the village. Was it God’s mercy that her mother had died and thus she’d been raised by Papa and Anne? What good plan could God have had in that? And that poor woman lying back there, even now probably still unaware that she’d never again enjoy the simple pleasure of a walk such as this… What mercy was there in God allowing her to be used ill as a slave and then, on top of that, lose her leg?
She shook away her ponderings as they stepped past the first hut. She’d likely never get a satisfactory answer to the plaguing questions anyhow.
Several men squatted around a fire at the village’s center, their feet planted flat on the ground and arms wrapped around their legs. Many times RyAnne had tried to imitate this position as a child, and she’d always ended up tumbling over in an unladylike sprawl. How they balanced in such a way was a mystery she’d never been able to ferret out.
Captain Dawson said a few words to them, and then one man rose and trotted across the way to a thatch-roofed hut. He stood outside the doorway and spoke to someone inside. After a moment, the wooden door opened, and the woman she’d seen holding the child after the attack at the river stepped out. She followed the man back to where they were standing, dipping her head and bending her knees in a show of respectful greeting.
The man sat back down at the fire without offering an introduction, and the woman only studied the ground near their feet, apparently waiting for whatever questions they might have.
Lay Down Your Heart: A serialized historical Christian romance. (Sonnets of the Spice Isle Book 2) Page 5