He was carrying her through the entryway at home.
“Put me down!” she demanded in a furious whisper.
The captain made no move to comply. He only looked into her face with the arch of one brow. “If I don’t put you down, are you going to bite me?” The note of amusement in his voice reminded her of the incident in the bathhouse.
Not finding this situation at all funny, she glared up at him. “I will not bite you if you put me down this instant!”
“Is that a threat?” he asked with a grin, but in the span of a heartbeat all amusement left his face. He looked at her seriously. “I am sorry to disappoint. But right now I am under orders to carry you to your room, and that is what I intend to do. You need to rest.”
Maybe he would know if anything had been said about delaying the trip. “Are you still sailing with the tide?”
He looked down, and if she didn’t know the man better, she would have sworn there was a look of tenderness on his face. It must be the fever morphing her perception.
“As far as I know, the trip is to continue as planned. I do hope you’ll have a care and take heed for your safety while I’m away?”
RyAnne couldn’t help rolling her eyes. How many times had he expressed that same sentiment this evening? “You’re quite used to having your way, aren’t you, Captain Dawson?”
They had reached her room, and the captain entered, with Sarah bustling on his heels, and laid her on the bed. Mother stepped inside but remained by the door.
Bending over her for just a moment, he smiled, bringing a glint to his gray-green eyes. “I’m a captain. On my ship if someone does not obey my orders, I simply have him whipped.”
With that he stood, lifted his jacket off her, slung it over one shoulder, nodded to her mother, and strode from the room. RyAnne sighed, closed her eyes, and ignored the feeling that the room had somehow grown colder with his departure. It was only because he’d robbed her of the warmth of his coat.
She gritted her teeth. For all he knew, he wouldn’t see her again for months, and he hadn’t even found it within himself to offer a farewell? She flipped over onto her side, ignoring Sarah’s gentle ministrations with a damp cloth against her face and neck.
What did she care if he bid her farewell or not? The man had been nothing but a royal nuisance since he’d arrived in port two weeks ago. Besides, if she had her way, he would be confronting her with his imperial attitude once again only a few days hence.
But Sarah was going to be a problem now. Drat the troublesome timing of this bout with the fever. Sarah would be in and out of her room all night, fussing, and fluffing, and offering her water and cool cloths. Well, she would just have to think of a plan of escape. For no matter what, she must be on board The Wasp before it sailed at dawn.
At least she needn’t worry about allowing herself to sleep a few hours. Sarah would wake her multiple times in the night to make her drink some of that vile quinine water Papa swore helped with the fevers.
She slept, woke, and drank the bitter tonic three times before she finally begged Sarah to give her some hours of uninterrupted slumber. “I’ll drink the water every time I wake. My fever is much improved with the rest and your ministrations. Just leave me a bottle and the tin of quinine, but let me sleep.”
Sarah grumbled and fluffed her pillow once more, but agreed, as RyAnne had hoped she would. She brushed aside her guilt at the deception. Not even Sarah would want Papa running off to the Continent to die all alone. And this was the only way to get Papa to see reason.
As soon as Sarah left the room, RyAnne rose, dressed in her practical green walking ensemble, and pulled her small satchel from the bureau. She couldn’t take much with her, but she would need at least a few changes of clothes and a second pair of boots.
She studied her wardrobe. There was no sense in taking anything too fancy aboard ship. Pulling three walking skirts from the closet, she folded them and added the matching shirtwaists, petticoats, and underthings she would need. An extra pair of sturdy boots and a shift for sleeping in. To the top she added the tin of quinine, bottle of already-mixed tonic water, a packet of tooth powder, and a brush.
She studied the contents and ticked off the list on her fingers again, then gave a satisfied nod. That ought to do her for the week. She would have to wear at least one outfit more than once, but it couldn’t be helped. She couldn’t very well pack a full-size trunk aboard, and her little satchel was near to bursting as it was.
She penned a hasty note and propped it on the dressing table where she felt sure Sarah would see it come morning.
That done, she checked the time. Too soon to leave. The ship likely wouldn’t even have the gangway down yet. She would just rest a bit longer. She sipped some bitter tonic and then sank down onto her bed. Intending only to close her eyes, she lay back against the pillows.
Seemingly only a minute later, she jolted awake. She rubbed her eyes and criticized herself for falling asleep at such a critical moment. If she overslept, she might miss the ship entirely.
That’s when she noted the pale morning light seeping through her window!
No! She leapt to her feet. How could she have been so careless?! Had she missed her last opportunity?
Snatching up her satchel, she rushed to her door, but as she opened it and made for the stairs, she heard the sounds of the servants already stirring below! She would never escape unseen!
She hurried back into her room. What now?
Her heart thudded in her chest, and tears threatened to overflow. Papa…
Her gaze swept past her window. The trellis! She rushed across the room. Pushing open the window, she leaned out to double-check if all was clear. At least something was going her way, because no one lingered in the street below. She dropped her bag down. It landed with a thud, and she winced, sure a servant would come to investigate the noise. But after a moment when no one had emerged, she leaned past the sill, took hold of the trellis, and clambered out. A wave of dizziness crashed over her, and she gasped, clutching the trellis for dear life and pressing her forehead hard against one slat as she scrunched her eyes tight. After a moment, her equilibrium oriented itself, and she took a deep breath, forcing every muscle to relax. Trepidation trembling through her, she shut the window so a breeze wouldn’t alert anyone too early to her absence, and then RyAnne scrambled down to her bag.
When she got to the docks, the smell almost overcame her. She literally wanted to gag from the stench but pressed the sleeve of her gown to her nose and forced herself to hurry on toward the slip where she knew The Wasp should be if she wasn’t too late.
Please, God…
A larger ship currently blocked her view. She almost ran in her haste to get past it so she could see.
Rounding the end of the ship, she glanced across the harbor. She stumbled to a stop with a groan of defeat. For sailing out of the harbor at that very moment, its sails stark black against the golden dawn was—wait!
The captain’s ship was a brig, not a dhow. Relief nearly took her to her knees. The Wasp still floated placidly at anchor just across the marina.
By the time she got to the pier next to the ship, the ammonia in the air stung her eyes to the point of tears. She eyed the ship. It was a sleek-looking vessel with two masts, sails furled, outlined against the ever-lightening sky.
She was so thankful to have arrived on time! She started to step from the shadows to hurry aboard, but just then noticed the sailor standing at the base of the gangplank checking the papers of anyone who attempted to board.
Her heart sank. To come so close only to be foiled by this! She narrowed her eyes. She gritted her teeth and calculated her options. She had not come this far to be turned away now. Her hastily hatched plan had involved stowing away, not purchasing passage—at least not until she revealed herself to Papa and the captain. She pulled back into the cloak of darkness.
Think!
She cast a glance about nervously. This wasn’t the best part of town for a
lone woman to linger. Thankfully the morning was still dark enough to offer some concealment in shadows.
Not too far away a young boy already offered his services to the stevedores for spare coins. One brushed him aside gruffly. “Outta my way, lad. I’ve no pieces small enough for the likes o’ ye t’ carry.”
RyAnne stepped just far enough into the light to get the boy’s attention when she snapped her fingers. “Mtumishi! Kuja hapa!” She called him toward her, then once more eased behind the barrel she was using for cover.
He scampered on willing feet, big dark eyes skimming her expectantly. But when he saw it was a woman who’d summoned him, disappointment drooped his features, and he skidded to a halt.
RyAnne held up a silver shilling. “So you’ve no desire to help a woman, have you?” she asked in his native Swahili.
At the sight of the coin, a huge white smile broke the dark plane of his face. He reached to snatch it, but RyAnne was quicker and lifted it out of his reach.
“First I need you to do something for me. Then you will come back and find this shilling sitting here atop this piling.”
The lad twisted his lips up, as though determining whether his payment would indeed be there on his return.
“I will leave it. I promise you.” She looked him right in the eye to ensure he’d understand she meant every word.
Finally he nodded. “What service may I offer the white lady today?”
RyAnne tilted her head in study of the sailor guarding the gangplank. “Well, lad,” she murmured in English, “I know what I need you to do. I’m just not sure how to go about accomplishing it.”
The boy cocked his head, obviously not understanding her words. But he followed her gaze and then gestured from her to the deck of the ship. “You need go? No ticket?”
She nodded. “Ndiyo.”
He chattered some words too quickly for her to grasp and ran off down the dock.
“No! Wait!” She stomped a foot. It looked like she was going to have to figure this out on her own. Maybe a fire in that canoe pushed toward The Wasp would buy her enough time to sneak aboard in the confusion? But she’d brought nothing to start a fire with. Perhaps she could pay two stevedores to start a fist fight? Yes, maybe—
Before she could even move a step in their direction, a little monkey scampered past her on the dock. He made a beeline for the sailor guarding the gangplank, jumped from the dock to his shoulder in one bound, snatched his hat from his head, and leapt away with a screech of triumph.
With a curse of surprise, the sailor was after him. “Come back here, ye little thief!”
RyAnne grinned. She set the shilling on the piling and scurried out of the shadows and up the gangplank.
But as she ascended the ramp, her smile quickly faded. She tried not to look at the foul, sewer-thickened water that lapped lazily against the hull, but her gaze was drawn to it like to a great disaster. She stifled a gasp as the unmistakable form of a bloated Negro corpse bobbed up not more than ten feet distant. Turning her eyes away in dismay, she forced herself to keep walking.
Yet, as though the horror cried out for her attention, her gaze returned to the desecrated waters. In all her wandering of the island, she’d never seen anything as appalling as this, not even in her ventures to the slave market. How could such an atrocity exist only minutes from their Stone Town residence, with her so naïvely unaware? Truth be told, the stench of the docks had kept her from venturing here before. And on any of their other trips to the mainland, her father had always insisted that RyAnne and Jasmine board the ship the night previous. He had not allowed them to come up on deck until they were three hours out to sea. She now thought she understood why. He had wanted to protect them from the awful scene that now stretched out before her.
As though in a trance, RyAnne moved to the stern of the ship, ascended to the quarter deck, and set her bag at her feet. She leaned her elbows on the taffrail. Her hand went to her mouth in silent horror as she eyed the dawn-washed harbor before her. Looking far out over the waves, she could see the frothy edge where the septic waste of the city ended and the murky waters of the Indian Ocean began. She had once heard Dr. Livingstone describe the stench of Zanzibar like a pie that could be sliced. Seeing these waters for the first time…it was no wonder.
And there amongst the filthy sewage of the city floated the remains of several bodies. When her eyes came to rest on the mangled body of a small child who could not have been more than six years old, tears came unbidden. “Oh, dear Jesus.” The words slipped free on the wings of a whisper, the anguished cry of her soul.
She had heard that slavers dumped the bodies of sick slaves over the side of their ships just before port so they wouldn’t have to pay duty for “goods” that would likely die. She’d heard. But she apparently hadn’t believed.
Her eyes dropped closed. She suddenly did not want to be here. She was worried about her father, yes. But she wanted nothing more than to turn and run down the gangplank. Back to the isolated protection of her plantation home on the other side of the island. Her indigo-hued hills with their clean-smelling air. Her beautiful aquamarine ocean, white-sanded beaches, and sweet naïveté.
Papa had purchased many slaves to work on their indigo plantation. But he’d always treated them well. They had a roof over their heads, food, clothing, and a doctor when they were sick. Many of the young girls on the plantation she had viewed as friends.
But this… Her mind and body revolted at staying here amid the stench, with the horrid scene floating before her. She closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against her arms to quell the nausea pressing the back of her throat. How could Papa even own one slave when this was happening practically on their doorstep?
As though her earlier cry of anguish had flown to heaven and then back again, an otherworldly question resonated in her mind.
Whom shall I send, child?
From the main deck, she heard footsteps.
She jolted upright. She’d been so horrified by the sight of the bay, she’d forgotten to hide! The sun would peek over the horizon at any moment. She needed to get herself stowed away before then, but where?
Turning, she saw a tarpaulin-covered longboat strapped to the aft quarter of the deck. That would do! Hurrying to it, she lifted the canvas cover and pushed her bag inside the hull. Then with one last glance toward Zanzibar, she climbed in and pushed the tarpaulin closed behind her.
It was pitch black, but between two seats that stretched the entire width of the boat, she found a space large enough to curl up in. Resting her cheek against a mound of something she assumed to be netting, she closed her eyes. Her nose wrinkled at the distinct odor of fish mixed with the reek of the harbor.
Heaven’s mercy, Papa had better be cooperative, seeing as how she was going to all this trouble for him. She felt a chill grip her and realized a fever was coming on again. She scrabbled her hand across the bottom of the boat until she contacted her bag. Withdrawing the bottle of quinine water, she drank as best she could, capped the bottle, and then laid back and closed her eyes.
The scene from the harbor would not leave her.
Again the question came to her. Whom shall I send, child?
She felt her brows pinch together. What could she do? She had no power or clout to stop slavery. She pondered the situation for several long minutes until she felt a lurch as the ship apparently left the dock. The rocking movement combined with her measly few hours of rest the night before lulled her to sleep.
She had no idea how long she’d slept, but when she woke, she was drenched in sweat and realized the sun must be baking down on her hiding place. The air was so thick she could barely draw breath. She must lift a corner of the tarp to allow a breath of fresh air in!
She listened carefully to hear if anyone might be near, but hearing nothing decided to chance the discovery—it was either that or die in here. And wouldn’t that give Captain Dawson a start the next time he went to use his longboat? The thought brought an ironic sm
irk.
Tugging at the tarpaulin until it lifted enough to leave a three-inch gap where air could enter, she placed her mouth to the opening and sucked greedily at the fresh oxygen.
So thirsty! What she wouldn’t give for a nice cool drink from the stream back home, but all she’d brought with her was the bottle of tonic water. It was warm, but she guzzled great gulps and was grateful for it. Despite the fresh air and water, weariness still weighed heavily on her. The fevers always sapped her strength with amazing totality.
She had the presence of mind to be thankful that something had finally gone her way. Surely Papa would listen to her now. He would see just how desperately she needed him and return with her to Zanzibar so she could care for him. She could hardly wait to reveal herself.
Dear Reader,
Sometimes my research into history reveals things that break my heart. Sometimes it allows a glimpse into scenarios that are hardly believable.
The Zanzibar harbor was at one point in history exactly as I’ve depicted it. Dr. Livingstone described the stench as though it might be a pie that could be sliced. And slavers did indeed toss the sick and dying overboard simply to avoid paying duty on a product that wasn’t likely to bring them any money. Sharks also were noted to frequent the channels that ships most often took from the African continent to Zanzibar, because of the bodies so often thrown overboard.
This was a very dark time in history. But I hope that in my depictions of the horror and atrocities I’m also showing hope. Because no matter how dark the day, there is always hope for those who fix their attention on Jesus. He rarely calls us to live an easy life. But He always calls us to shine His light into the dark and hurting corners of this world.
I hope you’ll continue the journey with RyAnne as she learns what it truly means to be a disciple of Christ.
If you enjoyed this first episode in the series, will you help me spread the word by leaving a review on your favorite retailer, or on Goodreads? Also, you can find more information about the other parts of this serial here on my website.
Thanks for reading!
On the Wings of a Whisper: A serialized historical Christian romance. (Sonnets of the Spice Isle Book 1) Page 7