The British soldiers were manning their guns, others were on horseback.
Katie screamed, and Junia came running toward her, her features pale but her expression unafraid. “The baby, Jendaya,” she ordered quickly, “perhaps you can save her. If God makes a way, bring her to Pietermaritzburg to Lady Brewster. Tell her to send Evy to my sister and her husband in England. Understand? Vicar Edmund Havering! Go now! Take her!” Katie let the woman take Evy from her arms and hand her over to Jendaya.
The Zulu woman hesitated, looking from Junia to Katie, as though trying to think of a way to save them as well.
“If God wills, we will live.” Junia pushed Jendaya toward the back of the hut. “Now hide the baby’s white skin. Hurry, hurry.”
Jendaya took the baby and pushed her down between her breasts, then wrapped herself in the Zulu cloth. She looked at Junia. “Thank you for Jesus, Daktari.” With that, she turned and was gone.
Junia threw her arms around Katie, then pulled her down to the hut floor where they knelt. “Pray. Pray to Jesus, our Savior.”
Jendaya knew what to do. In the diabolical mayhem, she crawled beneath the black and white cowhide shield of a dead Impi and lay there, hidden, the tiny baby still concealed inside her bosom and covered by her wrap. As death stalked all around her, Jendaya spoke to the God of all gods in the name of His Son Jesus. She spoke for the poor white skins, who had brought knowledge of the Great One to Africa. She asked for safety for the babe and knew that amid the noise its crying was not heard.
The sound of humming stopped. Katie’s heart pounded as a terror-filled silence encircled them, and then the clacking of assegais against Zulu shields started up, along with a death drum of pounding feet. Faster, faster came the crashing crescendo. Closer, closer … as many thousands of feet swarmed across Rorke’s Drift.
Outdoors, the soldiers fired the guns. The Impi advanced.
Dr. Varley rushed into the hut and knelt beside his wife and Katie, encircling them both with his arms. His surprisingly calm prayer came in a steady voice and filled Katie’s ears with amazing words of God’s grace, power, and purpose. “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore will not we fear, though the earth be removed, and—”
Katie squeezed her eyes shut and clung to Junia and Dr. Varley. She felt the firm, steady, comforting pressure of their fingers on her cold sweating palms.
“Jesus, forgive my sins,” Katie kept repeating. “Forgive me, forgive me. Take care of Evy—”
“Into thy hands I commend my spirit.” Junia’s whispered prayer was calm, steady. “If you will, please save our baby—”
Katie could no longer hear Junia. The Zulu were all around now. She could smell smoke and hear the fire crackling … hear the dying shouts of the last brave soldiers making a stand outside the hut. The whinny of horses died away. And then …
The Zulus were in the hut.
Tall, chocolate brown Zulu Impi, with bright, fire-hot eyes. Their assegais were no longer silver, but crimson. The young warriors needed a battle before they were allowed to marry. At last, they had their first washing of the spears.
Katie heard Dr. Varley’s last shout. Amazingly it was, “Jesus Lord, forgive them—!”
Katie slumped over at the first whack!
Strange that she felt such peace, like loving arms embracing her, strange that she was no longer afraid … no longer …
All was quiet in the darkness when Jendaya lifted the shield and crawled away over the bloodied ground toward the river. The mission station was a smoking ruin. Bodies were everywhere. The Impi had performed their ritual of cutting open the bellies of their defeated enemy, arid as she crawled toward the riverbank she slipped on human remains. She crawled onward, down the embankment, down toward the Buffalo River, toward clean water. She moved through the water, swimming with floating debris, keeping the baby’s head above water.
The stars glimmered in the sky now. Jendaya could see what the daktari had once told her was the Southern Cross. It looked down upon Rorke’s Drift, upon Isandlwana, and she thought it looked down at her and the baby with a pure white glow that led the way through the deep, dark night to safety.
The sun rose over the distant hills of Zululand, its dawning rays turning the Rock of the Crouching Lion golden. Henry Chantry sat astride a brown horse looking off toward Rorke’s Drift at the smoking ruins. He felt the grim line of his lips, and his fingers tightened on the trigger of his rifle. He was sure no one remained alive. He knew about the Impi rituals. Zulus would make sure everyone was dead before returning inland.
He had not arrived in time to save Katie. If only his gelding had not gone lame … If he had not had to stop at Ladysmith to get another horse …
His heart knew an unexpected pang as he thought of Katie van Buren. There were times in the past when he could have loved her as tenderly as any man could love a woman.
Never again, Katie love. May you rest in peace.
He rode the horse back along the Buffalo River toward Natal, where the stream was wide and low and tumbling over rocks. He saw something near the rocks on the other side of the bank and lifted his rifle.
“I see you, Master Henry. It is Jendaya! I have Miss Katie’s child!”
Jendaya stood from behind the rock, holding the baby in front of her so that Henry could see she told the truth.
“I see you as well, Jendaya.”
She carried the child close against her while wading across the water, coming toward his horse. She stopped and looked up at him, unsmiling, her great dark eyes shiny pools of sorrow. “They are all dead, Master Chantry. I could not save Miss Katie or Daktari and his wife. Impis surrounded Rorke’s Drift, thousands of them.”
Henry gave a slight nod. “You did well to save the child.”
“I cannot keep child. I go to Ulundi.”
Ulundi was the great beehive kraal of King Cetshwayo, where he ruled.
Again, Henry nodded. He accepted her decision, though he didn’t fully understand it. To return might mean her death. “Why go there?”
“Because Dumaka will go there. I saw him. He was with the Impi.”
Dumaka. Her brother. Then he had run away from Sir Julien’s estate. Had he done so knowing of this attack on the British? “You know they may kill you.”
“Yes.” Her face was firm. “I go to turn him to the bright way.”
She came up to the side of the saddle and handed him the infant. Henry took the baby as best he could and held it close to his thigh. The baby was crying, both fists and feet moving. Your little girl is as spirited as you were, Katie. Let us hope she has the same strong will.
Jendaya handed him a leather glove connected to a canteen.
“Cow’s milk. That is how Daktari’s wife feed the baby. I have words from Miss Junia. She says bring the baby to Natal. To Lady Brewster at Pietermaritzburg. Lady Brewster is to send the baby to England. To Vicar Edmund Havering.”
Henry’s brows lowered … and in that moment he decided. He would do it. He would do it for Katie. He would hire a nanny to make the voyage with him to care for the baby. Lady Brewster could help him locate one. Pietermaritzburg was not too far away. If he started out at once he could be there by noon.
Without a word more, Jendaya walked away, in the direction of Zululand, her head high, her shoulders straight. She was humming—but the sound was not like the humming of the Zulu Impi. Jendaya was humming a hymn that Henry had heard before in the vicarage of Grimston Way, as a boy: “Savior like a shepherd lead us, much we need Thy tender care …”
He frowned again, then looked down at the baby. With a final glance after Jendaya, he studied the track of land ahead of him—the track that led back toward Natal.
Katie was dead. The Black Diamond was missing. He still had no idea who had stolen it from him. Katie? Anthony? Julien himself? Maybe even Dumaka before he had run away to come here to join the Impi? If that was so, the Kimberly Black Diamond would be brought to King Cetshwayo!
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Henry turned in the saddle and studied the smoking ruins of the mission station. But if Katie had taken the jewel from him in the stables, it was likely buried beneath all that smoking ruin, ashes, and body parts. His mouth thinned. Not even he would sort through gutted soldiers and women to find a diamond. Let it remain buried at the destroyed mission hut. Perhaps that was a fitting tribute.
He looked down at the baby. “I still have three pouches of whites and the map to the gold deposit in Mashonaland, little one. Maybe someday I’ll leave it all to you. In memory of pretty Katie. But for now, you and I are going home to England.”
He that troubleth his own house
shall inherit the wind.
PROVERBS 11:29
CHAPTER FIVE
Grimston Way, England
Fall 1890
The earthy blush of the autumn afternoon unexpectedly darkened under a sky heavy with the threat of impending rain. Evy Varley was out gathering lush red and gold leaves for Aunt Grace to use for the fall decorations in the rectory chapel when she realized she had been out too long. It was getting toward five o’clock. She had better find Derwent Brown, the curate’s twelve-year-old son, and return to the vicarage before they both got a soaking.
Aunt Grace would be worried about her. Recently her aunt, who had raised her from infancy, seemed more anxious and protective than usual, insisting Evy come straight home from school. She knew Aunt Grace hadn’t expected her to enter Grimston Wood today to gather leaves in her pinafore.
With a sigh, Evy started back in the direction of the dirt road. The air she breathed was moist and pungent with the odor of earth, roots, and leaves. Here and there, spicy evergreen scents reminded her of Christmas celebrations in the vicarage.
As she hurried through the woods, lightning suddenly struck above the tall fir trees, and Evy felt a shock of alarm jolt through her. Illuminated in the flash of light was a darkened figure, shrouded amid the trunks. Her skin prickled, for her sensibilities told her whoever it was might have been watching her since she had left the dirt road and entered Grimston Wood.
Thunder rumbled, echoing around Rookswood’s gothic towers, with their hideous stone gargoyles. Was this cloaked stranger a visitor who had come to see the squire, Sir Lyle Chantry?
Apprehension tingling through her, Evy stood staring toward the trees. She did not run, as that would only bring her deeper into Grimston Wood. If only she had stayed closer to the road where Derwent was getting wood for the rectory stove! Derwent was the assistant to Evy’s Uncle Edmund, the vicar. She had been friends with Derwent for as far back as she could remember, and she wished he would suddenly appear with his bag of wood on his back.
The wind picked up and sang in low, mournful tones through the tops of the fir trees. The first large drops of rain plopped against Evy’s bare head, where her tawny hair was braided, pinned, and looped. Her dismay led her to release her pinafore, and the bright leaves she had been gathering fell into a pile at her feet. A mocking wind swept down, threatening to scatter them, seeming to laugh at her fears.
The figure stepped from behind the trees and moved toward her. Her heart leaped. She was sure he meant her harm.
“Don’t be afraid, I only want to speak to you.”
“Wh-who are you, sir?”
He did not answer, but came closer. She took a step backward, then spun to flee. She heard his footsteps behind, muffled on the thick bed of decaying leaves. She began to run, but a hand reached out and caught her, turning her around to face him. She nearly screamed until she noticed he was looking intently at her face, studying her.
Maybe he didn’t mean to harm her after all. “I—I must go now. I’m late. My aunt will be worried.”
“Your aunt? Is her name Grace Havering?”
Evy nodded, thinking he was not ugly like the gargoyles guarding the gates of Rookswood estate. He was handsome, with light blue eyes and golden hair. His skin was browned by the sun, and his voice sounded strangely different. Accented, somehow. His clothes spoke of wealth, there was something like a diamond pin in his lapel, and a ring on his tanned hand sparkled with white stones.
“Do you like living with the vicar and his wife?”
She nodded. He looked rather sad, she thought. She felt self-conscious at the way he studied her hair and face … the way he frowned at her scuffed shoes and mended school clothes.
“I must go, sir. It gets dark early in the autumn. I promised Mrs. Croft I’d help with the bread.”
“Mrs. Croft?”
“She’s the cook and housekeeper. She works at the vicarage.”
He nodded, and a little smile lifted his lips. “Do you like helping bake bread?”
“Sometimes—if it’s sweet bread. Then I can lick the bowl and spoon.”
He laughed, and Evy smiled. There was something strong about him and he seemed to like her, even if he did not appear to like her clothes and shoes.
“I will let you go in a minute, then I will walk you back to the road. Tell me, Evy, do you ever visit Rookswood?”
“Rookswood? Oh no, sir.” How did he know her name?
“Would you like to?”
She started. Why would he ask such a question?
“Right now—with you?”
“No, not with me. With the squire’s children, Arcilla and Rogan.”
Such a thing was impossible! And yet … something about this man convinced Evy he could manage the impossible. She shook her head. “Miss Arcilla does not approve of me, and Squire’s two sons, Master Parnell and Master Rogan, think girls are a nuisance. They call me the rectory girl.”
His mouth curved again. “I see.”
She thought he did. “I’d rather visit there with you,” she said impulsively, surprising even herself.
“Would you?” There was a look on his face that she took for sadness. “That might be nice. But you see, I am going away today.”
“To London?”
“No, not to London.” He looked up toward a riding trail, and Evy looked there too as she heard the beat of hooves.
“I must go.”
Disappointment flooded her, though she could not imagine why. “Good-bye … Will I see you again?”
“Good-bye, Evy.”
He walked away into the darkened trees as the hoofbeats drew nearer. Soon he had disappeared altogether, and Evy stood looking after him.
In the distance she saw a horse coming closer on the riding trail. Its rider was low in the saddle, and the sound of hooves reverberated among the thick trees. The rider must have noticed her from the corner of his eye as he swept past, for he slowed down a short distance later. The majestic black horse, rippling with muscle, reared up on its hind legs. The rider, seemingly unaffected by such a display, managed the reins and turned the animal around. He rode back to where Evy stood, then calmed the horse by patting its sweating neck and talking to it as though it understood everything he said.
Evy recognized the rider as the squire’s younger son, Rogan Chantry. Though she had never spoken with him, she had often seen him riding around the village, his Austrian trainer at his side. She also saw him attending Sunday morning services at the vicarage church with the rest of the squire’s family and with a new aunt who had recently come to Rookswood from South Africa.
Rogan looked to be around Derwent’s age, but he seemed more mature than the curates son. Evy thought this was due to Rogan’s exposure to a wide range of experiences that Derwent, coming from a poor family, did not have. Rogan had the best tutors. His private tutor at. Rookswood came with recommendations fit for royalty. Of course, Rogan had little interaction with the village boys, though he did have friends—the sons and daughters of lords and earls, who came from London to visit him.
Evy stood in the knee-high vines and grasses growing beside the riding trail, eying the splendid horse, remembering how Derwent said Rogan Chantry’s first love was racing and jumping.
“Are you all right?”
She swallowed at his low
question. “Y-yes.”
He wore a dark blue riding jacket and breeches of expensive design. He was quite a handsome boy, with glossy black hair below a cocky cap, and his eyes were a rich chocolate brown with eyelashes as long as a girls. Those eyes seemed as electric as the coming storm, full of boundless, challenging energy. He was conceited and arrogant too—or so Evy had been warned by Mrs. Croft.
“You might have caused me to crash into those bushes.” he stated, his words and tone proving Mrs. Croft right. “I could have been thrown or worse—my horse injured. Never walk on a riding trail, little girl!”
What a lordly young buck! Stung, Evy momentarily ignored the manners so meticulously taught her by her aunt and uncle. “I was not even close to the trail, but you were riding too fast!”
He chose to ignore her jibe. “Are you with that silly red-haired boy you play with?” He glanced around, as though searching the wood.
“Derwent is not silly.”
“Yes, he is. As silly as a Billy goat nibbling happy weed. You had better leave my woods. There is a thrashing storm overhead about to break.”
“You do not own Grimston Wood. So I shall come here as often as I like.”
Rogan gave her a rather surprised second glance. “The Chantrys own most everything around here … including the woods.”
She should be afraid of him. Certainly she should think twice about challenging him. And yet … all Evy felt at the moment was exhilaration. She might not be a squire’s daughter, but she had as much right to be in these woods as anyone of noble birth. “You do not own everything. You do not own the rectory, nor my cat, nor me.”
“I’m sure I do not want your old cat.”
“It is not old.”
“I’m sure you are not worth much either.”
She jutted her chin out at that. “Oh yes I am. My parents were very important.”
He considered that boastful challenge for a moment. “Pray tell, then, who were they?”
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