Lay Down Your Heart: A serialized historical Christian romance. (Sonnets of the Spice Isle Book 2)

by Lynnette Bonner

  She accepted his offer. “Thank you, Commodore.”

  As Commodore Cornwall pulled out her chair to seat her, he looked across the table to where Captain Dawson was taking his own seat. “Dawson, Kako tells me you took an interest in the violin in the hallway? It was my wife’s. Do you play? Perhaps we could talk you into playing for us after dinner?”

  Captain Dawson paused halfway into his seat, his gaze snapping to RyAnne’s.

  Her brows rose of their own volition. And a trill of anticipation washed through her. A violin? Here? Her hand tingled with an itch to hold a bow. She rubbed her thumb across her fisted fingers.

  The captain’s gaze flicked to where her hand rested on the table.

  She tucked it quickly into her lap.

  He sank the rest of the way into his seat and cleared his throat softly, glancing down the table to where Commodore Cornwall was just taking his own seat. “I did look at the violin, Lew. But I’m sorry to say, I don’t play.”

  Beside the captain, Garrett Holloman grinned and fiddled with the fork by his plate.

  RyAnne’s eyes narrowed. What was that all about? She brushed the question aside, only thankful the captain hadn’t volunteered her ability, like Mother would have.

  Commodore Cornwall seemed oblivious to the undertones at his table. “Too bad. It’s been quite some time since I heard real music.”

  Papa scooped a mound of potatoes onto his plate. “Oh, but RyAnne plays beautifully. I’m sure she’d be happy to entertain us after dinner.”

  The commodore gasped in delight. “Would you, Miss Hunter?”

  RyAnne glanced at the faces around the table. The familiar quaver of fear gripped her stomach.

  Captain Dawson shifted in his seat. “I’m not so sure the lady will be up to—”

  “Of course RyAnne would love to play for us.” Papa cut him off. “Splendid idea, Commodore! It’s been far too long since I heard her beautiful playing.”

  Captain Dawson offered her the sympathetic quirk of one brow.

  And a wave of warmth toward the man washed from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. She appreciated him wanting to prevent her discomfort, but the thought of having a violin in her hands after so many weeks eclipsed the trepidation. Dinner couldn’t get over fast enough, and when finally Commodore Cornwall placed the beat-up case into her hands, a peace settled over her so profound it was as if the world had gone silent.

  She opened the latch and traced her finger over the curve of one edge, surprised when emotion clogged her throat.

  It took several minutes to tune the piece, but when she let the bow slide over the strings in one long sustained note, her eyes dropped closed. For one splendid moment, all was right with the world. The instrument’s tone proved it had been crafted by someone with a great talent. Deep. Vibrant. Full.

  Once again, she availed herself of the captain’s advice and took herself elsewhere as she played, but this time it wasn’t to a pleasant place.

  A tune had been building inside her from the moment she’d taken the gangplank up to The Wasp and seen the carnage in the harbor. She closed her eyes and let it flow from her mind, down through her arm, and onto the strings. She played sadness for those who had been treated so ill as to be thrown overboard in their last hours—hours when they were in most need. She played anger for the wailing women who had been prodded up the gangplank of the ship at Bagamoyo. She played terror for Nyanja fighting for her life, first from a crocodile and then from a man so callous as to throw her back to the beasts a second time. Finally, she played sorrow for a world gone so terribly, terribly mad. And with a sigh of release, she let the last note linger long as she slowly pulled the bow along the final refrain.

  And then she dropped the bow into her lap and eased out a long sigh. The song had been a prayer. A cry to the God of heaven to take notice. Did He even see this little piece of the world and know what was going on here? Did He know there was a town called Lay Down Your Heart on the coast not far from here? Did He care that all she wanted was to take her papa back home so he could spend his last days on this earth in relative peace?

  After a long moment, she opened her eyes and realized that she’d closed them on the first note and hadn’t opened them since.

  The men remained silent. Papa was smiling with one hand over his chest. Commodore Cornwall’s mouth was hanging open, and his gaze kept bouncing from her to the violin and back. Garrett was staring at a carved statue across the room without seeming to see it, a thoughtful furrow between both his brows.

  And Captain Dawson was looking right at her. His eyes shimmered, and he nodded approval. Had he heard the message of the song? Understood the cry of her heart?

  It didn’t matter, she supposed. There was only One who needed to hear her cry, and she was certain He had understood.

  She glanced at the commodore and lifted the instrument. “It is wonderful. Thank you.”

  He smiled softly as he nodded. “It is I who should thank you, dear girl. The song was splendid. Simply splendid!”

  RyAnne sighed in contentment as she tucked the instrument away in its case.

  Trent watched her put the violin away, rubbing one finger over his jaw. He hated to break the tranquility of the moment, but Khalifa had a good day’s start on him now, and they needed to head to the lake as soon as possible. Yet with the slave woman still recovering, he knew RyAnne wasn’t going to like what he had to say one bit.

  He sighed. There was nothing for it but to dive in and fight the battle head on. “The Bee is ready to sail. We’ll start our inland trek at dawn tomorrow.”

  The only indication that RyAnne had heard him was the fact that she froze for a moment before she finished latching the case.

  Trent pressed on as though he hadn’t noticed. “Garrett, I’ve told the doctor that you wouldn’t mind heading back to the island to watch over his family until we can all get back.” He winced inwardly and glanced toward Dr. Hunter. The lie had slipped off his tongue so glibly. There would be no coming back for the good doctor. “I’ll take John, but you’ll have the rest of the crew with you. I’ve taken the liberty of hiring some of the men from the village to carry our supplies. And Lew has generously offered his man Kako, who knows the language of the area, so we’ll have a good translator.”

  RyAnne clasped her hands in her lap. “Captain—”

  He held up one finger to silence her. “Dr. Hunter, are you certain, sir, that you want to press on with this mission?”

  It would make his life so much easier if the doctor would agree to take Miss Hunter and go back to Zanzibar.

  RyAnne seemed to hold her breath, hands clasped together in a hopeful pose.

  But the doctor only nodded. “I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life, Captain. I would be a fool to turn back when the good Lord has made such a clear way before me. For I cannot find it a coincidence that the commodore has people in his employ from the very tribe I feel called to reach. Nor that he has agreed to let them accompany us as a means of introduction to our good intentions. Why, even the very woman RyAnne rescued hails from the lakeside Chewa.”

  Trent sighed even as RyAnne jolted to her feet and paced from her chair to the fireplace mantel and back. He couldn’t blame her for her obvious distress over her father’s refusal to return to the island. The man would be lucky to make it two days inland, much less the weeks it was bound to take them to get to the lake.

  Still…he needed to catch up to Khalifa if he was going to accomplish what Lew wanted him to. He glanced at the man, only to find him glowering with an intensity that conveyed the urgency of his mission. He tipped the man a nod of acknowledgement. He hadn’t forgotten what he’d been hired to do.

  “Very well…then we leave at dawn.” He gritted his teeth, waiting for the protest he presumed was coming.

  She did not let him down. “Captain Dawson, I must object. The woman, Nyanja, is not strong enough to travel yet. And no provision has been made for someone to care for h
er child on the journey.”

  “Actually, I’ve spoken to Lew. It seems the woman we spoke to in the village the other day is from the same tribe as Nyanja. Lew has agreed to let her travel with us. Her name is…” The name escaped him, and he glanced to Lew for help.

  “June.”

  “Yes. June. She can care for the child, since she is already familiar with her, and help you with the woman’s care. And Nyanja can rest just as well on the boat as she can here in the house.”

  RyAnne pinched the bridge of her nose and then spun toward the door to the veranda, blinking hard and obviously trying to hold her dismay at bay. “Very well, then. If we leave at dawn, I’d best see to packing the supplies we’ll need for the patient.”

  Trent stood and reached past her to open the door. “Your father has already seen to that this afternoon. And Commodore Cornwall has a woman who will sit with Nyanja tonight. The trek inland will be grueling. Please get some rest while you can.”

  Cicadas and crickets serenaded the night as he followed her down to her room. He forced himself to keep his distance, even though he would have liked to offer her some consolation in the face of the emotions she was battling to keep bottled.

  A thought occurred to him though. “Miss Hunter?”

  She paused on the threshold of her room. “Yes, Captain?”

  “Sick as he is, he’s going to pass no matter what you try to do for him. Rest might prolong his days for a short time. But at least this way he gets the joy of following his last wish.”

  She pressed her lips together and nodded. “Yes. Thank you, Captain.”

  And with that, she eased the door shut, and he was left on the veranda with only the night sounds surrounding him.

  RyAnne’s feet dragged as she crossed the room. She flopped back onto her bed and stared at the ceiling, arms wide in defeat. Her last vestige of hope that Papa would return had just slipped from her grasp. She’d been so certain she could convince him to change his mind! She ought to have known his obstinate pride wouldn’t budge. After all, she came by her own determined will quite honestly.

  And yet…there seemed to be more to Papa’s stubbornness this time than sheer determination. He’d mentioned several times that the Lord was calling him to go.

  Father, do you see my papa? Do you see how weak he is? This trip will kill him even sooner.

  Indeed, she feared he wouldn’t make it a few days, much less the several weeks the grueling trek was likely to take. Would God really ask something so costly of a man?

  Guilt immediately pricked her. Hadn’t Jesus himself given everything, even his life, so that mankind might have a relationship with Him?

  Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.

  Papa had quoted that passage to her more than once when she was a child. He was but following in the steps of the One who’d set the example before him. And Papa seemed content enough in his decision.

  She thought of Garrett Holloman returning to the island with tomorrow’s tide. Papa wouldn’t keep her from going with him. And yet…

  Lay down your heart…

  The words whispered through her, and she gripped a double handful of her hair, clenching her teeth tight.

  She wouldn’t be able to help Papa. He was dying, and she’d be forced to watch without recourse. There would be nothing she could do, just as there hadn’t been anything she could do to save Nyanja’s leg. And still might be nothing she could do to save the woman’s life if infection set in.

  Where was God’s love in all of that?

  The area they were headed to lay in the very heart of rampant slave-raid territory. Perhaps some of the people she’d seen being so mistreated on the docks at Bagamoyo had once lived carefree lives on the shores of the very lake Papa was so determined to reach.

  Lay down your heart…

  The natives at Bagamoyo were forced to lay down their hearts at the shoreline of their homeland due to the evil of people who were apathetic toward them. They had no choice.

  But she could choose. It was either support a man she loved with all her heart or walk away and never see him again. And in the end, that really wasn’t much of a choice, was it?

  Yet if she joined him on this journey, she must go with her heart in the right place. Could she truly leave behind her desires and go inland with Papa? Help him accomplish his last yearning on this earth? Could she serve him with genuine love? Forfeit her own wants selflessly?

  And when Papa did pass on? Her heart broke at the certainty of it. Papa’s time was not a matter of if, but of how soon. And it must be faced.

  She would be alone in the heart of the Continent. Her thoughts flitted to Captain Dawson. Could she count on the man to help her get back home? Or would he be gallivanting about in search of more ivory to make himself rich?

  Her stomach clenched so tight that she turned on her side and curled herself into a compact ball, wrapping her arms around her knees. Please, God, don’t ask this of me. But she knew He already had—or at the very least, her own impulsive decision to stow away on the captain’s ship had brought her to this point. Even in that, perhaps God had sent Dabu and his monkey to help her? She supposed it didn’t matter exactly what had brought her to this place, only that now she had a decision to make and wanted to make the right one. Perhaps she hadn’t made the wisest choices in the past. Perhaps she should have stayed on Zanzibar, as Papa had intended in the first place. But once Papa had seen her, he couldn’t let her go again. He needed her.

  Memories assailed her. The harbor at Zanzibar. The wails of the woman at Bagamoyo trying to free her bloody ankle from its chain. The blood swirling in the muddy river water as Nyanja clung to a tree for dear life. Papa, bent double and coughing up blood. Her whole body shuddered. If she went with Papa, she would be faced with worse. I can’t do it! But in reality she knew she could.

  Whom shall I send, child?

  Someone else, Father.

  But the plea lacked conviction. She already knew what her decision would be. Tomorrow she would board The Bee with Papa, and she would do everything in her power to make sure he arrived at his destination with enough health to speak of the God he now loved. The God who had called him to the tribespeople. The God who had brought her to this place of choices.

  Father, I lay down my heart…

  Slowly her arms relaxed, and it didn’t seem so hard to breathe anymore. Peace settled over her, and her eyes slipped shut.

  Dear Reader,

  Bagamoyo, the town called “Lay Down Your Heart,” was the most important trading entrepôt on the east coast of Africa during the last half of the nineteenth century. While it is not exactly certain why the town came to be called “Lay Down Your Heart,” it is speculated that one reason was due to the many slaves that passed through the town each year.

  If you found it hard to believe that a slave owner would be angry that someone saved his slave’s life when she was maimed, know that I did too. But Nyanja’s story is only partially fictionalized. Dr. David Livingstone documented such a case in his book Expedition to the Zambesi. While I changed the details of exactly what happened to fit this story line and my heroine, a real slave woman was attacked by a crocodile, and some of Dr. Livingstone’s fellow travelers rescued her. She lost her leg, however, and the next morning her owner had unbandaged her leg and left her to die. Livingstone wrote, “Her master was angry with us for saving her life, seeing as how she had lost her leg.”

  Still, in the midst of that dark time God was there, reaching through people to people, longing for relationship with them, just as He still does today.

  I hope you’ll persist in the journey with RyAnne as she continues to search for answers to her spiritual questions.

  Thanks for reading!

  Continue the story!

  Read an excerpt from the next episode…

  Episode 3, Made Perfect in Weakness

  Rovuma River, aboard The Bee, Headed Inland

  Dawn

>   RyAnne stood at the bow of The Bee and watched the dawn-gray water slip away beneath the hull of the steamer. She wrapped her arms about herself and added a long breath of her own to the breeze drifting past. All the effort she’d put into cajoling Papa to return home had been for naught. Now she must set her mind to a different course—that of helping Papa reach the village on the shores of Lake Nyasa, where he felt called to go. Last night she’d thought she’d come to peace with it. But this morning…

  She sighed. Papa ought not be so stubborn.

  RyAnne leaned over the side and glanced back the length of the boat to the disappearing ocean as steamer and its passengers pressed forward into the mouth of the Rovuma. Zanzibar was getting farther away by the minute. As they chuffed forward into the covering canopy of trees, shadow seemed to wrap itself around them like the claws of a fish hawk. Now she couldn’t see much more than a lighter shade of gray where the small steamship contrasted with the darker trees of the riverbanks streaming away behind them.

  She rubbed her upper arms as she leaned against the rail and tipped her face into the cool breeze. The wind cut like a machete through the thin material of the breeches Papa and Captain Dawson had insisted she wear for the inland journey. For now, she was missing the warmth of the many layers of her skirts, but she knew that within an hour of the sunrise she would be thankful for the cooler clothing.

  From somewhere along the southern bank she heard the distinct splash of a crocodile leaping into the river—probably startled by the steamer. The sound made her shiver. She’d never be able to see one of the creatures again without wanting to dispatch it forthwith. And her battle to save Nyanja’s life was not at an end. The woman had been hot and delusional when they’d loaded her onto the boat this morning.

  After a dose of opium, Nyanja was now resting on the bunk in the pilothouse, where June was also trying to get little Moyo, Nyanja’s daughter, back to sleep. The only other warm space on the entire little boat was a common room just behind the steersman’s cabin, where RyAnne presumed the rest of them would be sleeping on the floor come evening. Papa was already resting there on a pallet she’d made up for him. His breathing had been labored and thready this morning. Each inhalation rattling, each exhalation wheezing.