Journey of Hope. Debbie Kaufman
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rains let up, the temperature drop had him jamming his hands into his pockets and hunching his shoulders against the chill.
He couldn’t have come all the way to Africa only to lose his best hope of securing his and his ailing mother’s future. With little more than a day before his ship departed, the outlook was bleak. Exploring for minable geological deposits in a little-mapped jungle area was difficult enough, but add in cannibals and subtract a guide and the task became downright impossible.
His dead father’s drunken rants echoed in his memory. Maybe the son of a dockworker would never be more than a scholarship boy trying to shake off the stench of the slums. With no family name to propel him to success, failure was always a strong possibility. This time it wasn’t an option he could allow.
He had to persist. His mother’s heart doctor was right. Even without the results from that newfangled electrocardiograph machine, the signs were all there, no matter how she tried to hide them. She reached for her digitalis more frequently, became short of breath working in her garden. Spending her days scrubbing the floors of the rich was a ticket to an early grave. She needed the rest and diet the doctor prescribed. Stewart had promised her a better life the day they buried his father. Now that she was ill, he couldn’t fail in that promise.
He had to find a guide and meet his deadline. His hard-won degree from Harvard would mean nothing to his financial future if chaperoned by a reputation for failure.
He crossed Broad Street. Moonlight mocked the darkened light poles lining the avenue. Another confirmation of the government’s financial crisis, one his employer hoped would drive down prices for the Putu Mountains area mining concession they planned to make an offer on.
Clouds rolled across the moon, forcing him to temper his stride or risk a misstep. A figure came toward him in the dark. His hand reflexively moved to the knife at his side and then relaxed as the figure grew closer. A lone Liberian woman with a sleeping baby strapped to her back, hurrying along the otherwise deserted streets. A tiny prick hit his heart as he watched the child’s head gently bobbing with the mother’s swaying pace until the pair was out of sight. He’d always wanted a large family, but without a wife, that would never happen. Even if he was ever deluded enough to believe in love again, what woman would have him once she’d seen the scars the Great War had left?
A piercing high-pitched scream rent the night and then abruptly cut off.
The woman with the baby? Wrong direction. Every instinct the military had honed in him rushed to the forefront.
There. The sound came from the cross street just ahead. Near his boardinghouse. He moved quickly, keeping to the deepest shadows as he assessed the situation.
Two native men with a woman struggling between them. She held a thick book, clutching the volume as if it was written in gold.
Robbery? Why won’t the woman give it up? It’s only a book. Hardly worth her life.
These two miscreants left him no choice but to intervene. Attacking a woman, no less. His frustration boiled to the top. The man he was to interview might not wait, but Stewart couldn’t walk away.
He looked for any others hiding in the wings as he pulled the blade from its leather scabbard. Only the two. He banished fleeting thoughts of the consequences for pulling a knife on Liberian citizens. No one attacked a helpless woman in front of him without repercussion, not since the first time he was big enough to stand up to his father.
Stewart closed in without signaling his presence. She dropped her book and... Oh, that had to hurt. Bet they hadn’t expected her to fight back. He stifled a laugh when one assailant grabbed his foot, hopping and howling. An umbrella tip made an effective weapon. Silently he applauded her while continuing to move forward. The little lady was a feisty one, he’d give her that.
The other native pressed something white up to her face. Moonlight blazed out as the clouds retreated. A handkerchief fluttered to the ground when the attacker loosed his grip on her face and each man grabbed an arm. The woman sagged and Stewart’s anger rose. What had they done to her?
One of her attackers looked up before Stewart got close enough to disable him. The man froze, his eyes glued to the cold steel in Stewart’s hand.
Stewart dropped his voice to a chilling softness. “Let the woman go, and I’ll allow you to live.” Whether they spoke Liberian English or a local dialect, his tone said the same thing in any language.
The two men exchanged a quick glance, not loosening their hold on the woman. Not smart. At six foot three, Stewart had them each by a good nine inches of height. More when you added in the six inches of steel in his hand.
The one on his right tensed. Always a mistake to telegraph your intentions. Stewart stepped in and punched him with his free hand. The man flew backward, releasing the woman’s arm as he fell. The other attacker grabbed her closer and pulled his own knife. His cohort picked himself up off the ground.
These two weren’t giving up. He’d hoped the sight of an armed man would have put them to flight. His options dwindled. He couldn’t risk the woman’s safety in a knife fight.
He watched for any signal of their next move. Both assailants stood wide-eyed, uncertainty growing in their eyes. Ha! Probably hadn’t expected any interference.
A door squeaked to his left. The attacking duo glanced toward the sound and froze. Stewart risked a quick look. A tiny female figure walked out the front door of the boardinghouse where he’d rented a room. Momma Elliott shook her finger at the two, loudly threatening them in another language.
Stewart braced himself. How to protect two women?
But no attack came. Both men took one look at the wizened little black woman with her head wrapped in blue country cloth and a righteous fervor of scolding on her tongue and they promptly dropped their victim and ran.
Stewart lunged for the falling woman, grabbing an arm and hoisting her up. He barely managed to keep her head from hitting the ground where her book had fallen. Momma Elliott marched out after the fleeing men with a warrior’s air about her. If he’d had a platoon of women that brave at the front, they’d have routed the Germans much sooner.
Once the miscreants were out of sight, she turned her attention to Stewart, schooling him with her impatient tone. “Well, what are you standing there for, Mr. Hastings? Are you going to bring her inside or not?” She picked up the book and umbrella, turned and walked back through the doorway.
With the unconscious woman in his arms, he followed the warrior grandma. The young woman he carried was a feather’s worth of weight. Her hat bobbed precariously, a casualty of the confrontation. Her hair had escaped its confines. Silken strands brushed his left hand.
She smelled like cinnamon, but with every gentle exhale came a sickly sweet odor.
Chloroform?
His stomach roiled at the buried memory. The last time he’d inhaled that odor, his own life hung in the balance. Chloroform explained everything he’d seen: the white cloth and her loss of consciousness when clearly she was more a fighter than a fainter. Where would two natives in a primitive country get such a dangerous chemical? Chloroform was too elaborate for a simple robbery. Something else, then. Kidnapping?
He stepped into the entryway. His boots sounded thunderous on the polished floors. No Momma Elliott. From deep in the house he heard her sharp, urgent tones. A young native boy dressed as if he’d come from a Sunday meeting blurred right past him and out the door before Stewart could speak.
The parlor to his left appeared unoccupied, and it came equipped with the answer to the problem in his arms—a davenport.
He gently placed his slight burden on the rosy velvet-covered couch. He felt for the hat pin where he’d seen his mother reach a thousand times and removed the young woman’s dangling straw creation. He found a small pillow for her comfort and then turned up the oil lamp on the table beside her. The light revealed the mahogany color of her errant hair and its cascading waves. Her pale skin seemed almost translucent, her dark lashes a smudge on the porcelain complexion.