Yesterday's Promise (26 page)

Evy wondered about her childhood friend. She knew Arcilla well, and Arcilla would have loathed the hardship of trekking into Africa to start a colony. Her marriage to Peter Bartley had been arranged against her will by her family, with Sir Julien pressuring Lyle to choose Peter. The marriage needed much prayer, and Evy worried about their future together. Sometimes it helped that the dignified Peter was ten years Arcilla's senior, but in other ways it proved harmful. Peter was not the sort of man who enjoyed being married to an immature girl. Would the wilds of Africa eventually tear them apart?

“And what of you, Evy? How are you adjusting to changes?”

The vicar's logical question, asked calmly, without clerical pressure, helped her to relax and express her genuine feelings. She was not doing well. The struggles were continual, almost unbearable some days.

“Sometimes I feel angry,” she confessed. “Angry that God took both Uncle Edmund and Aunt Grace, leaving me alone just when the real trials in my life started. Grace Havering was a relatively young woman… Why did she need to become ill with her lungs and die so early? And now
this
. “She glared at the crutches leaning against the tree. She wanted to add,
And now I've lost Rogan, too
.

Vicar Osgood didn't answer, and for a moment she felt the heat of shame steal into her cheeks, thinking she had shown herself a faithless creature, and that her honesty had offended him and Martha. But Martha looked calm, sipping her tea as the vicar munched thoughtfully on his crumpet, in no apparent hurry to counter her thoughts.

Evy hastened, “I know God is good and all-wise, and He doesn't make mistakes…only…well, I just don't like what He allowed to happen to me.”

Vicar Osgood finished his crumpet and wiped his fingers on the snowy napkin, then drank his cup of tea. He cleared his throat and, as though he hadn't heard a word she'd said, pointed toward a small garden tree that had blown down, its roots clearly displayed.

“What happened to it?” he asked indifferently.

“What? Oh, that.” Evy felt nettled. She had bared her heart while
he seemed only to have gone off in another direction, more interested in botany.

“The wind blew it down in the last winter storm,” Evy stated. “I understand it wasn't doing well, anyway. The gardener hadn't planted it correctly. You can see the roots never went deeply into the soil, so its growth was stilted.”

The vicar nodded in hearty agreement. “Exactly so. A root problem. That's why it blew down. We noticed many trees that survived the winter storms coming up on the train. Didn't we, Martha?”

“Oh yes, dear, many, standing tall and strong. Now the storms have passed, and spring brings out new leaves. It's marvelous.”

“An object lesson, Evy. Those with deep roots survived the winter gales, but the shallow-rooted trees blew down. The survivors remain tall and grow still stronger.”

“Yes, indeed,” Martha said, nodding emphatically.

“So it is with us when the winds of adversity buffet our lives,” the vicar said, pouring more tea into his cup. “How we respond to trouble often decides the direction our lives will take. If we surrender to bitterness, it can harm us far more than the trial. But if adversity causes us to run to our heavenly Father, we can profit spiritually from a far deeper relationship with Him.” He reached over and laid a hand atop his wife's. They looked at each other lovingly, as though Evy were not there. Despite their silver hair and the lines of time in their faces, it was clear that they cared as much for each other now in the sunset of life as they had when the glow of youth shone in their faces.

“Adversity knocks on all our doors at different times in our lives.”

Martha nodded. “Like when Billy died. I watched him fall into a lake and drown before I could reach him… He was our one and only baby, just three years old.”

“That was thirty years ago,” her husband said and glanced from the small dead tree to the blue sky. A calm, confident smile touched his mouth. “Thirty years since our baby first saw Jesus.”

Martha nodded. “The winds of disappointment and loss can blow
very strongly. For a time after Billy's drowning, I could find no words to describe my pain and disillusionment. My heart was like a grave. But God has power over the grave. Adversity is a challenge, but with it, God gives us opportunity.”

Vicar Osgood looked across the table at Evy. His eyes were sober, but she saw some of God's compassion in the depths.

“Don't listen, Evy, to false expectations promising that His children are to be exempt from suffering. Search the Scriptures and see what God did in the lives of the saints in the Bible. Some of His greatest servants advanced spiritually not through good health and prosperity, but through adversity. Why should we be any different?”

Mrs. Osgood nodded her gray head. “At first I looked for someone else to blame for my loss. Then I went into denial. But my faith has now grown deeper and stronger all these years.”

“The same as that tree, Evy,” the vicar said quietly, “and those dead, dry, shriveled roots. Some of us, sadly, when trouble knocks us down, are not deeply rooted in Scripture, so it's easy for doubt, depression, and hopelessness to defeat us.”

Quite casually he reached over and took Evy's hand into his. Martha laid her wrinkled hand on his, so that the three of them were holding hands.

“Surrender your will to Him, Evy dear. He can build strong roots in your life. Yield all your dreams and tomorrows, pray for understanding, and then rest in His trustworthiness to see you through your valley.”

Yes, she must accept loss and disappointment or grow lukewarm and shrivel, bearing no eternal fruit.

Martha reached down into a large straw handbag and handed her husband his Bible.

He patted his frock coat, looking for something. Martha handed him his spectacles. He placed them on his nose and opened the Book.

“Habakkuk chapter three, verses seventeen through nineteen: ‘Though the fig tree may not blossom, nor fruit be on the vines; though the labor of the olive may fail, and the fields yield no food; though the
flock may be cut off from the fold, and there be no herd in the stalls—yet I will rejoice in the L
ORD
, I will joy in the God of my salvation. The L
ORD
God is my strength; He will make my feet like deer's feet, and He will make me walk on my high hills.'”

He closed the Bible and bowed his head and prayed for Evy.

Afterward, Evy was silent. She had heard every word. Like seed falling upon the soil of her hurting heart, God's Word would take root. A little sunshine, a little rain, and the seed would germinate and grow.

Soon after leaving Lobengula, the Company entourage rode into their small camp about a mile away. The Bantu were waiting nervously under a mimosa tree, watching them ride in, no doubt curious about how the meeting with the feared king of the Ndebele had gone.

Thompson had the shakes the whole time they rode back. Rogan didn't blame him, considering how they'd brutally killed his father. When they reached camp, Thompson dismounted and removed a flask of liquor from the satchel near his bedroll. His hand trembled as he drank. Rogan, even with his .45 pistol belted in place, had felt like a skinned rabbit on a spit, walking into Lobengula's kraal.

Dr. Jameson had taken refuge from the sun under a makeshift awning that had been set up earlier. He was conferring with Peter, who at the moment stood looking down at him with a tense face while the doctor sorted through his satchel.

Rogan leaned against the mimosa tree, watching Jameson thoughtfully. The doctor was acting discreetly, talking in a low voice. Whatever he was planning, Rogan didn't want to be a part of it.

Peter filled his pipe as he walked over to where Rogan leaned against the tree, drinking from his canteen.

“Jameson and Thompson are sure they can reason with the king.
We need more time, is all. Lobengula will send for us again, probably tomorrow.” He looked toward the bright sun in the azure sky, wiping his forehead with a white handkerchief.

Rogan noticed it was monogrammed. It was like Peter to have such a handkerchief hundreds of miles from civilization.

“What's Jameson got planned?”

Peter looked at him, enjoying his pipe. “What do you mean?”

“I noticed you just now when he was fussing in his bag. You didn't look exactly pleased.”

Peter's brows pulled together, and his eyes sparked. “You think we're planning to poison him? Absurd, none of us would even make it out of here alive. They'd find us a week later hanging from a tree with our bellies slit wide open.”

“Don't pretend with me, Peter. I'm not talking poison, and I think you know it. We both know Jameson's up to something. How often does he come here to relieve Lobengula's gout pain?”

Peter looked at him hard for a moment. The silence grew between them, then Peter turned abruptly and strode away.

It was toward sunset. Rogan stood off by himself when he heard a soft shuffle of dried grass. Alert, he moved back for cover by the mimosa tree. His hand drifted toward his gunbelt.

From out of the long shadows, a dark form emerged wearing a leopard-skin tunic over muscled shoulders. The induna stood with several impis in an arc behind him, fully armed.

It was the same induna that Rogan had noticed watching him at the kraal. How to communicate?

Surprisingly, the induna spoke some English. “I see you. I am Jube.”

“And I see you, Jube. I am Chantry.”

“You are a lone spirit. You are not close with the other lying white men. You watch and listen. I will call you Hawk.”

Rogan nodded. “You are right. I am alone.”

“I remember another Chantry. His name was Henry.”

Stunned, Rogan couldn't speak for a moment.

“How did you meet my uncle?”

“Many years ago now. I was young. I saw him in Capetown.”

Rogan wanted to ask more questions, but Jube would not discuss more.

“Our king calls for the white doctor tonight, the one named Jameson. He is to come now. The king groans.”

“I will tell Dr. Jameson.”

“That one is like hyena. He laughs, his laughs fill the air with poison. No one else laugh before Lobengula. No one else stand in the presence of Lobengula.”

Now, what would give him so much confidence in the Ndebele king's presence?

“Lobengula is like serpent upon his blanket,” said Jube.

“I will call for the white doctor.”

The induna turned and walked back into the deepening twilight, disappearing as silently as he had come.

Other footsteps sounded. “Thought I heard you talking to someone, Mr. Rogan. The others are all accounted for, so thought I'd check.”

It was Derwent Brown, carrying a mug of coffee in one hand and his Winchester in the other. Rogan noticed he looked uneasy. Derwent handed Rogan the mug.

“Thanks, Derwent.”

“That was one of the Ndebele chiefs, wasn't it? The one we saw looking at you earlier.”

“Yes. His name is Jube. He had a message for Doc Jameson. The tribal king is sick and agitated upon his bed. He wants his treatment.”

Derwent looked surprised at the cynical tone in Rogan's voice, but he seemed to dismiss it. “At least the good doctor can do an act of Christian charity for the chieftain. Maybe it will make them look more kindly upon us.”

Rogan looked at him sharply. “If anything, it will cast disrepute upon the white man and his God.”

Derwent's rusty brows shot straight up. “Now, why would you be saying that?”

“Between you and me, I think Jameson is resorting to the last and lowest trick in his bag. The Company wants that road built from Bulawayo to the Zambezi. Lobengula refused again this afternoon. You heard. The mood in the king's kraal is growing more dangerous. His impis would like nothing more than to wet their assegais with our blood. I think Jameson plans to use morphine to get Lobengula to agree on building that road.”

“You mean get him addicted? Surely
we
wouldn't be doing that?”

It was clear by his use of “we” that Derwent was aligning himself with the English and Boers.

“I wonder how long Jameson has been treating Lobengula for gout,” Rogan mused.

“Mornay's likely to know. Why do you think Dr. Jameson's planning that?”

“I've no proof,” Rogan said wearily, “just a hunch. Get Mornay, will you?”

When Derwent returned with the Frenchman, Rogan put the question straight to him.

Mornay tweaked at his silver whiskers, his ebony eyes attentive. “I've heard the doctor has been treating him off and on all summer. But what should that mean?” He gestured expressively with open palms. “I can't say. One thing I know—this expedition will go forward one way or another. The BSA has too much at stake to let it fall apart now,
mon ami
.”