The girl glanced inside of the canvas and then back at Andries. “It’s my ma—”
“And where’s your pa?”
The tail flaps of the canvas cover of the wagon had been pulled closed; a heavily bearded worried-looking face now parted them a bit farther to peer over the girl’s shoulder. It viewed Andries with suspicion for a moment; then the man seemed to realize he was in no position to refuse whatever help this stranger might be able to offer. “It’s my missus,” he said helplessly, his voice wavering slightly. “I don’t know what—”
Andries wasted no time. He hoisted himself inside the wagon, the man and the girl moving back to permit his entrance. The air inside the closed canvas was stifling, the smell of whatever medicine they had been using was overwhelming, sickening. Andries grimaced and threw open the tail flaps, tying them back, letting both fresh air and greater light enter. Bees made a tentative motion as if to prevent this intrusion of air with all its germs and dangers, but his daughter’s hand restrained him. Andries knelt at the pallet that had been stretched along the rear of the wagon. The woman there, he could see, had once been very beautiful, but now her face was lined with the years of toil, weary with the stress and pain of her illness, and with the seeming knowledge that the suffering of the years and the discomfort and distress of the long trip had been wasted. He touched her forehead; she was burning with fever. Suddenly she coughed, a deep raling cough, and turned her head to spit rust-colored sputum into a rag in her thin hand.
Andries looked up at the girl inquiringly, as if realizing she was the strong one in the family.
“She took sick a little over a week ago,” she said helplessly. “It started out what we thought was just a cold, you know, from the rain. We were all soaking, inspanning the oxen, but we had to get moving. We’ve been more than three months, so far… We gave her all the medicine we had. If you have any—?”
Andries sighed and looked down at the sick woman again. He was looking at pneumonia and he knew it. He had seen it before, several times on the trail and once in Bloemfontein Hospital, and unfortunately, each time a friend. One man had recovered, two had died. The doctor in Bloemfontein had said that maybe rest and good food might help, although he hadn’t sounded too sure of himself. God alone knew where this poor woman was going to get either rest or good food on this forlorn wagon! Some got better from the disease and nobody knew why. Others didn’t, and nobody knew why. It was the toss of a coin.
Andries came to his feet, considering options. They could, of course, outspan the oxen and give the poor woman some surcease from the jouncing of the wagon. On the other hand… He looked at Bees.
“The river’s only a few days ahead. There’s shade there and water for the oxen. And there are diggers near there, in the wet diggings. Some of them are bound to have horses. One of them could ride ahead to the dry mines for a doctor.”
“The river?”
Good God! Didn’t the poor fool even know where he was? Still, after three months on the trail it was quite possible he had no idea. “The Orange River. We’ll go with you if you need help.” Unspoken was the thought that little help could be offered a victim of the dread disease, other than a prayer and a sharp shovel to dig a deep grave.
“It’s just a simple cold,” Bees said, trying to draw comfort from a statement he didn’t believe himself. “A cold, you know? It’ll be better in a few days—” He stared at Andries hopefully, willing him to give him the answer he wanted, had to have. “A simple cold—”
Andries didn’t bother to contradict the man. “Better get started,” he said, and climbed down, walking to his own wagon. Barney looked at him questioningly.
“Sick woman,” Andries said succinctly. “Probably dying. We’ll stay with them, at least to the river.” He waited until he had seen Bees climb to the wagon seat and crack his whip inexpertly over his team, striking an ox and causing the wagon to jerk as the beast twisted in its traces from the sting of the whip; then the team brought itself together and started off, ragged at first but eventually pulling more evenly. Barney cracked his sjambok and started their team after the other, proud of how evenly the team worked. In the open space of the tied-back tail flaps of the wagon ahead he could see the girl bent over her mother’s pallet, tending the patient. God, she’s beautiful! Barney thought. Sixteen or seventeen at the most, with a lovely figure. And that face! Silky hair framing a complexion tanned by the days on the trek; pert nose, eyes set wide apart. He could not see the color of her eyes but he was sure they were as lovely as the rest of her. He walked along, beside the oxen, daydreaming.
They outspanned the oxen at dusk, Andries keeping his team on the trail for an extra several hours, thinking of the woman in the wagon ahead and the need to reach the river as soon as possible. With the two wagons angled for the night, Barney built a campfire in the space between, setting water on to boil for tea. They all ate in silence, and then the girl disappeared into her wagon to care for her mother. The men sat to one side, their pipes going, speaking in Afrikaans, although both the man and the girl had spoken English before. Barney felt out of things; he was about to doss down under the wagon when the girl climbed down and came to sit beside him. Her eyes, he could now see, were deep hazel, her mouth wide. Lovely! he thought.
“How’s your ma?” he asked.
“I don’t know. She’s burning with fever; she seems worse. She won’t eat a thing.” The girl swept her skirts beneath her unselfconsciously, changing her position, looking at Barney. “You’re very kind to come along with us.”
“The wagon belongs to Andries. It’s his decision.” Barney grinned. “I’m just along for the walk.”
Her eyes widened. “You walked? All the way?”
“Every foot. All the way from Cape Town.” He tried not to sound as if he were bragging; this girl didn’t look as if bragging would impress her. “We got a heavy load there, probably the heaviest load ever come over the mountains—” There went the bragging again. “We both been walkin’; we didn’t have no choice.” He looked at her, trying to sound as if he were merely making conversation. “You goin’ to Kimberley?”
“Bultfontein,” she said, “but that’s a part of Kimberley, isn’t it?”
“I guess it must be pretty close, anyways. Maybe we can see each other there—”
“Maybe.” She frowned and changed the subject. “They say the diamonds are all gone, run out. Some wagons we met going back told us.”
“Naw!” Barney tried to sound convincing. “Me brother’s hit it big in Kimberley and I’m goin’ to hit it big, too.” There he was, bragging again! He looked away and then back at her, trying to hide the open admiration in his eyes. “What — what’s yer name?”
“Fay. Fay Bees. What’s yours?”
“Barney Isaacs.”
Fay stared at him. “You’re a Jew?”
Despite himself a little belligerence crept into his voice. “That’s right. Why?”
“Nothing. I never met a Jew before. But I know they have names like Isaac, after the Bible. We use the biblical names for first names, not last.” Her answer was given so ingenuously, so innocently, that all belligerence disappeared; Barney was back to pure admiration. Fay was staring into the fire; then she looked up from it to study Barney. “What did you do before you came on the trek?”
Barney hesitated. Bragging was one thing, but telling the God’s honest truth was something else. “Me brother and me, we was entertainers, like. In the music halls, in the East End. That’s in London,” he added, and suddenly hoped that Fay Bees had no idea of what the East End of London was like. He went on hurriedly. “Songs and dances, see? Clownin’, acrobat stuff, tumblin’…” She was looking at him with the faintest frown, not as though she doubted him, but rather as if she didn’t understand what he was talking about. “Acrobats, don’t y’know?” he asked. “Tumblin’ and such?”