by Helen Wells
“Now about the photographer and Long Jack. Smith had just learned from us that Jack was a professional hunter, and he was more than likely sounding him out for a story possibility. Nothing unusual about that. And as for Smith himself, he’s probably a freelancer, hoping to sell some African stories to the magazine. So he was putting up a big front with us, pretending to be on friendly terms with editors that he actually doesn’t even know.”
Bob leaned back in the seat and gave Cherry a brotherly smile. “So—poof!—there goes your mystery floating away in a cloud of romance.”
Cherry still wasn’t satisfied. “But how about the diamonds in the antelope’s head?”
“Look!” Bob said. “If I had a dollar for every diamond plot ever hatched in Africa I’d be richer than my dad. And besides, what could all this skulduggery you’re dreaming up possibly have to do with us?”
Cherry couldn’t answer the question.
“O.K.,” Bob said. “Let’s get on down this trail and see what our future home looks like.” He stepped on the starter and the Land Rover jounced ahead over the ruts in the dry dirt road.
When they were well outside the suburbs of Nairobi, they began passing by isolated farms. For the most part, these farms consisted of patches of banana trees, fields of stunted corn, and broad expanses of golden flowers that looked something like the Queen Anne’s lace that grew wild back in Illinois. A few men, wearing faded khaki pants and nothing from the waist up, were working among the rows of corn.
“You asked me about pyrethrum the other night,” Bob said, indicating the flowers that were blowing slightly in the faint breeze. “There it is. When it’s ripe, the native farmers cut it, hang it up in bunches to dry, and then sell it to traders like that man we saw in Cairo.”
“But I don’t see any houses,” Cherry said. “Where do the farmers live?”
“They all live together in little villages like the one we’re going to.” He glanced at the mileage indicator on the dashboard. “In fact, I’d say that we’re only about half a mile or so from Ngogo right now, and that’s probably where these people live. They walk back and forth every day.”
“I would think they’d have farms closer to their homes,” Cherry said.
“Well, they don’t actually own the land,” Bob went on. “The soil here is rich, but it wears out quickly. And when it does, the farmers simply move to another location. Of course it’s different up north where the white settlers made big plantations. There they employ modern farming methods—crop rotation, and the like. But the Kikuyus have been farming like this for centuries, and it seems to supply their needs.” He pointed to a cluster of huts that had come into view up ahead. “Unless I miss my guess, we’re coming to Ngogo now.”
The village of Ngogo was just about the way Bob had pictured it—a circular clearing in the midst of the bush. Native huts, made of dried mud plastered over stick frameworks, ringed the outer edges of the clearing. The clearing itself was hard-packed earth, and in the center was a large fireplace, which was no more than a ring of smoke-blackened stones on the ground. A narrow, crystal-clear stream wound past the settlement; and in the river’s bend, sheltered by a grove of acacia trees, a new large wooden building was almost completed.
At the approach of the Land Rover, several half-naked children who had been playing in the clearing streaked for the shelter of the huts. And a dozen or so scrawny chickens flapped screeching into the surrounding bush. A few women stood in the narrow doorways.
Bob drove across the compound toward the new building, where a number of native workmen were putting the finishing touches on a roof. Working with them was a tall, slender, deeply tanned young white man.
“Hi, there!” The young man sang out in a distinctly American accent, and he climbed down from the ladder on which he had been working.
Striding up to the car, he took off a floppy canvas hat, wiped the sweaty palm of his hand on his khaki shorts, and extended it in welcome.
“I’m Jeff Jordan,” he said, a grin splitting his face. “I guess you’re the new doctor.”
“Right. Bob Barton. And this is my nurse, Cherry Ames.”
“Well, welcome to Ngogo,” Jeff said. “My partner and I—he’s Chuck Warner, and he drove in to town this morning for supplies—came here ten days ago to build your new hospital.” He gestured toward the building with a wave of his hand. “It’s almost finished. How does it look to you?”
The clinic was a one-story affair, elevated on heavy six-by-six stilts about three feet off the ground. It had boarded sides up to a height of some five feet, and from there to the roof its sides were of very fine wire screen. Broad wooden steps led up to the screen-door entrance.
“We’re making wooden shutters that we can put up over the screens when it rains,” Jeff explained.
“It looks great,” Bob said. “I hadn’t thought that you’d be this far along.”
“Well, it was lucky timing,” Jeff said. “Chuck and I had just finished supervising a barracks job at East-leigh Field in Nairobi and were ready to hightail it home to the States. Then Mr. Gikingu—your Abercrombie Foundation official in Nairobi—got in touch with us and offered us this contract. So we got right on it.”
“Good.” Bob nodded. “I tried to reach Tom Gikingu by telephone yesterday, but he’s out of town. Some sort of emergency or other. So I’ll have to wait and see him the next time I’m in Nairobi. Meanwhile, I thought Miss Ames and I had better come on out here and see what things were like.”
“What are things like, Mr. Jordan?” Cherry asked anxiously. “Among the town people, I mean.”
“First off, my name is Jeff. But to answer your question, Miss Ames…”
“And my name,” Cherry said, smiling, “is Cherry.”
“O.K., Cherry,” Jeff continued, “from what I can see, things aren’t any too good. Half the people in the village are down with this sleeping-sickness thing. But Chuck and I figured the most useful thing we could do about it was to get this hospital up as fast as we could—and hope for you and the doctor to get here quick.”
“Well, we’re here now,” Bob said as he helped Cherry out of the car. “And we’re ready to go to work. But before we look at any of the cases, I think we had better go over your installation, Jeff, and see what we’ve got to work with.”
“In the first place, when we were at the Abercrombie Foundation in Nairobi, Tom Gikingu didn’t give us any plans to go on, Doc,” Jeff Jordan explained. “If you don’t mind my saying so, things aren’t very well organized here in Kenya yet—what with the new government taking over and all. So Chuck and I just started from scratch and played it by ear.” He stopped and thought a moment. “But Tom Gikingu seems like a nice guy.”
“Well,” Bob said, “I haven’t met Gikingu, but I understand that he is a very capable person. Educated at Oxford University. And the Foundation likes to work with local people whenever it’s possible.”
Jeff nodded. “I’ll say this for Gikingu,” he said. “He gave us everything we asked for. We told him what we needed in the way of lumber and machinery, and it was here in the next couple of days. But let’s go and look the place over.”
The main part of the hospital was one big room, floored with pine boards.
“There ought to be space here,” Bob said, “for about fifty beds.”
“That’s what Chuck and I figured,” Jeff Jordan said. “But instead of beds, the best Gikingu could do was send us canvas army cots. We have fifty of ’em under a tarp out in the back. He also sent bed linen, blankets, and towels.”
“Good,” Bob said. “We’ll start setting things up this evening.”
“And back here,” Jeff said, leading the way, “are four small rooms that we sort of figured you might need for living quarters.”
“You guys must have had a crystal ball.” Bob beamed. “We’ll turn one into a lab. And the other three will be rooms for Cherry, the student nurses, and me. But what are you and your partner doing for living space?”
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br /> “Oh, we’ve got a pair of safari tents down by the river that do us just fine,” Jeff said. “Now let’s take a look at the rest of the installation and see if you want any changes.”
In the rear of the hospital, Jeff showed them a big generator, run by a gasoline motor.
“We’ve put in a temporary pumping and lighting system,” the engineer explained, looking a little proud of himself. “Most of the piping and wiring has already been installed, and by this time tomorrow we’ll have running water and electric lights. We ran a line to the river just above this bend, and our tests indicate that the water is good and pure. But just to be on the safe side, we ordered a filter system that Chuck should be bringing from town this afternoon.”
“Well, I must say,” Bob said, “that you fellows have done a bang-up job, and it’s going to make my work—and Cherry’s—a whole lot easier.” He glanced over at the Kikuyu workmen who were nailing on the roof. “How soon will that roof be finished?”
“Another hour or so,” Jeff replied.
“O.K.,” Bob said. “When they are through, have your people start scrubbing up the place. Then they can set up the cots. Meanwhile, Miss Ames and I will begin looking in on some of the sleeping-sickness cases.”
A truck rumbled into the clearing, driven by the second American engineer, Chuck Warner. In the seat beside him were two dark-skinned Kikuyu girls—in their early twenties, Cherry guessed.
“Here’s my partner now,” Jeff said. “And it looks like he’s got a truckload.”
Chuck Warner was several inches shorter than either Jeff or Bob, chunky and heavy in the shoulders like a college fullback—and with a head of flaming red hair. When Jeff introduced him, he said, in a soft Southern drawl, “We sure are mighty glad to see you folks. A hospital’s no good without doctors and nurses. And speaking of nurses”—he motioned the two native girls to get down out of the truck—“I’ve got a couple of them here to help you, Miss Cherry. Mr. Gikingu, at the Abercrombie Foundation office in Nairobi, sent ’em to us.”
Cherry smiled and said hello.
The girls approached the group timidly. Both wore white coveralls, with red scarves tied over their hair and canvas sneakers on their feet. The taller of the two spoke first, in an accent that seemed to Cherry sort of mission-school English.
“I am Kavarondi. And this is my friend Sara. We have had a year’s training at Nairobi General Hospital. Do you think we know enough nursing to help you?”
Sara said shyly, “We volunteered to come here because we know about the epidemic and—and we want to learn from American registered nurse.”
Cherry shook hands with Kavarondi, then with Sara. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to have your help! A year’s training is a good deal, and I’ll try to teach you. You’ll have to teach me, too, as we work, since I am new to the ways of your country.”
Kavarondi, Cherry thought to herself, was an exceptionally handsome young woman. Her skin was a rich, deep color; her features were chiseled. Her lips were well defined, her cheekbones high, and her hair glistening black, fine, and wavy. Cherry remembered the old story of the little band of Crusaders that had gotten lost, hundreds of years ago, wandered south from the Holy Land and intermarried with native tribes. She wondered if one of Kavarondi’s long-ago grandfathers might have carried a sword and shield in the English Army of Richard the Lion-Hearted. The girl stood tall and straight in her white coveralls. Cherry decided that she would suggest that the girls wear khaki uniforms similar to her own.
Sara, Cherry noted, was quite opposite, unmistakably African; although, unlike most Kikuyu women, she was short and inclined toward stoutness. The lobes of her ears had been pierced in the Kikuyu fashion—when she was a child, Cherry assumed—then had been distended by wooden plugs. Her English, though, was as good as Kavarondi’s.
Both the Kikuyu girls looked at Cherry with their hearts in their eyes, and she understood how deeply they wanted to serve their people. She was touched. Cherry could remember how the same strong motive had drawn her into nursing—and kept her at it, brought her to the jungle, here, now.
“I’m awfully lucky to have you to help me,” she said. “I want you to call me Cherry.”
“We are glad you have come here, Cherry,” Kavarondi said. “Sister Cherry.”
“Cherry. That is a nice name,” said Sara, grinning broadly.
Bob Barton smiled at the girls, and picked up the medical bag that he had carried from the Land Rover. “We might as well get to work,” he said. “Let’s see just what we’re up against.”
He led the way toward the nearest hut. Cherry and the two native girls followed the young doctor.
What they were up against, Cherry soon discovered, was pretty grim indeed.
The first hut they entered was dark and gloomy inside, with a strong smell of human bodies in the fetid air. The floor was nothing but tamped-down earth, and there was no furniture except a low, crude table and three or four wooden stools. At one side of the hut three people lay on crude pallets of woven grass that were covered by animal skins. Their bodies glistened with oily sweat. One was a man, one a woman, and the third figure was that of a child. A slim, gangly girl of about twelve was kneeling beside the little boy, mopping his face with a damp cloth that she dipped from time to time in a gourd of water. When she saw her visitors, she jumped to her feet, her eyes gleaming with fear.
Kavarondi spoke with her in Swahili. Then she translated.
“She says,” Kavarondi reported, “that her father and mother have been sick like this for two weeks, lying as though they were in the long sleep. Her little brother became ill only a few days ago. But now he too is in the long sleep.”
Bob bent down over the three of them in turn, and touched his fingers to their foreheads.
“No fever,” he said gravely. “Well, I’m not surprised. In these cases it comes and goes intermittently, and never gets very high. There isn’t a thing we can do until we get these people into the clinic where we can give them a good washing and proper medication. Then we’ll see. Now let’s go on and look at the others.”
Bob, Cherry, Kavarondi, and Sara visited all of the native houses in turn. As Jeff had said, about half the population was afflicted with the disease. The other half, including the workmen Jeff and Chuck had enlisted, appeared to be normally healthy and happy.
“That’s the way this thing strikes,” Bob explained. “Like lightning. It hits some people and misses others. All of these Ngogo folks must surely have been fly-bitten at one time or another, I guess the ones that didn’t come down must have had their own built-in immunity.”
It was growing dark by the time they completed their rounds. “First thing tomorrow,” Bob said, “we’ll start moving these cases into the hospital. Then we’ll begin their treatments.”
Cherry said, “I wish we could begin tonight. But of course tonight we have to get the hospital ready. How slow! I could explode!”
Bob gave her an indulgent smile. “There was once a great Greek doctor, named Hippocrates, who said that the science of medicine is compounded largely of the art of patience. If there were any emergency treatments we could give this evening, we’d do it. I don’t like waiting overnight, either, Cherry. But the boys say that by tomorrow morning we will have lights and water. We can’t give treatments without proper tools.”
When they got back to the hospital building, Cherry found that all fifty cots had been installed in orderly rows.
“And we fixed up rough quarters for you and Miss Cherry,” Chuck said to Bob. “Tomi—he’s our cook—has some antelope steaks broiling over the fire. How many of us for supper?”
Kavarondi had an uncle in the village—fortunately his family had escaped the sickness—and she and Sara were having supper and spending the night in their hut. So, an hour later, the four young Americans were resting in canvas chairs in front of the hospital steps. The antelope steaks had been tasty. A fresh breeze was blowing down from the distant mountains, and the fragr
ance of jungle flowers filled the air with a sweet perfume. A bright moon shone in the sky.
“I took your radio out of the Land Rover,” Jeff said, “and set it up. It’s just about time for the safari news—and that’s something nobody ought to miss.”
He turned a knob, and a young man’s voice came out of the loudspeaker.
“This is KBC, Kenya Broadcasting Company, Nairobi, with the news of the day. The weather tomorrow will, as usual, be fine. Clear, with no clouds, but with a light wind from the north. There are reports that game poachers have been operating in the vicinity of Thomson’s Falls. The commissioner is investigating, and hunters and guides in that area are requested to be on the alert.” The announcer’s voice droned on as he gave the highlights of the news. “Now,” he said at last, “for messages to parties on safari.”
“This is fun,” Chuck Warner said to Cherry. “Real crazy. Listen.”
“Message to Mr. Potter on safari with Mr. Malcolm. Check the setting on your camera carefully, as Keeler’s reports that most of your pictures are out of focus. They also caution you not to put your finger in front of the lens.”
“Keeler’s is the big camera shop in Nairobi,” Jeff explained as Cherry giggled.
“Message to Mr. Carter on safari with Mr. Roberts. Your wife has arrived from London and will join your party by midweek.
“Message to Mr. Hayward on safari with Mr. Coe. As per your request for the immediate information, Yale defeated Dartmouth 14 to 6.”
Cherry laughed. “This is the funniest radio program I’ve ever heard.”
“Well,” Bob said, “it’s a link with civilization. And it makes these people, who feel that they are a thousand miles from nowhere, seem close to home.”
The messages went on. Then—“Message to Dr. Robert Barton, at Ngogo. Mr. Gikingu has returned to Nairobi this afternoon, a week earlier than expected. He will be in his office whenever it is convenient for you to call.”
“Good!” Bob said. “Now we can be getting things going full speed.” He flipped the switch of the radio set to “send” and picked up the microphone. “Dr. Barton in Ngogo calling KBC, Nairobi. Dr. Barton in Ngogo calling KBC, Nairobi.”