She shivered and turned back to face the ribbon of the Rovuma before her. How much longer did he have, her papa? And what was she going to do way out here on her own when he was gone? How would she get back home?
She’d written letters—one each to her siblings, Jasmine and Rory, and even one to Mother—telling them how Papa was faring, describing the journey thus far, and promising she’d be home just as soon as she could. Mr. Holloman, Captain Dawson’s first mate and cousin, was returning to the island and would deliver the letters on his arrival.
A headache pinched at her forehead, and she rubbed circles at her temples, wondering if she shouldn’t have been quite so forthright in her letters. But no. The family deserved to know that Papa probably wouldn’t be returning to them. Then they’d at least have some time to prepare themselves for the impending news.
She forced herself to thrust the worries aside. She would deal with all of them when the time came.
The light of dawn had begun to invade the shadows. Along the banks of the river, large mangroves stood above the water like sentinels with long legs. The tall, arching roots tangled together to form misty hiding places for animals and birds of all kinds. A long-legged grey heron pulled his head out from under one wing to blink sleepily at them as they steamed by. And from the shadows of another root system, yellow eyes that belonged to an unseen cat of some sort reflected the light of the lantern hung on the long pole stretched out in front of the boat.
From the village on Commodore Cornwall’s estate, firelight flickered orange and yellow against the backdrop of the new-gray sky. And somehow seeing the last of the estate solidified the immensity of what lay before her.
Ahead, a canoe paddled by four native men sluiced through the water before the steamer. A lantern on a pole rising from the center made them easy to spot as they led the way to the deepest sections of the river channel. The man at the rear of the canoe sang a long string of undulating notes, and then the other three responded with a singsong chant. The song was obviously a rowing song, because their paddles kept time to the beat, and when they needed to increase their speed, the rhythm of the song also increased.
The repetitive tune somehow soothed her. And, when all along the eastern horizon behind the boat a thin line of pink began to outline the land, she made her way past the pilothouse to the stern of the steamer to better see it. Soon shards of magenta, peach, saffron, and turquoise slashed across the canopy, creating one of the most fantastic sunrises RyAnne had ever seen. Were someone to put the colors into a painting, people would claim the artist much too fanciful. She smiled softly, letting the sheer beauty wash over her and remind her that God was still in heaven, still in control.
Movement beside her drew her attention to Captain Dawson settling his forearms against the rail next to her, his gaze fixed on God’s magnificent painting. “Amazing, isn’t it?”
She returned her own examination to the sky. “Breathtaking.”
He hunched there for a long moment, his focus bouncing first from the array of colors in the sky to one embankment and then the other. He stood erect, folded his arms, and craned to see around the cabin to the path of the river meandering ahead of them, then returned his gaze to the sunrise as he leaned his hands against the rail. His thumbs tapped out a rhythm, and he seemed to be waging a battle within himself.
She put her back to the rising sun and tried to gauge what he’d been looking at. Ahead, the river narrowed and the embankments were dark and thick with foliage. “What is it, Captain?”
He sighed. “Unfortunately”—he swept a gesture at the magenta sky behind them—“it means we might be facing trouble downriver a bit. You’ll need to keep out of sight in the common room for a couple days till we know if the trouble is past.”
She frowned. “Whatever do you mean? How can such a striking sunrise possibly mean there is trouble ahead?”
“Smoke.” He rubbed one hand across his cheek and down the back of his neck, giving her an apologetic look, as though he knew he was stripping her of a moment of peace. “Colors like that,” he tipped his head toward the sky, “mean there is smoke in the air. And smoke likely means there’s been a raid nearby. The river is narrow enough that anyone on the deck will not be safe from arrows should we come under attack.”
Her jaw tensed, and she flicked one last glance at the sunrise. Not even this one glorious moment remained untouched by evil.
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Lay Down Your Heart: A serialized historical Christian romance. (Sonnets of the Spice Isle Book 2) Page 9