the crown. He observed what looked very well like the top of a shoulder. "Precious, go get a clean sharp knife and more towels."
Eyes wide as saucers, Precious paled. "You're going to take a knife to her. No, no cutting on her like she has no value."
Not sure of what the woman spoke, all he could do was make her believe all would be well. "I need you strong, Precious. Trust me. Now hurry."
She was back before he could blink. Her ashen, shaking hands held a shiny knife.
He took it from her before she dropped it. "Good, now go hold on to your friend. Mrs. Narvel, I'm going to cut a little of the membrane, to make his path easier. Then I'll see if I can pull the babe out. "
Mrs. Narvel closed her eyes, and nodded.
Putting on the bravest most confident expression he could muster, Gareth started. All the while, he prayed for this baby, Mrs. Narvel, and Precious who looked as if she would fall dead if things didn't go well.
Incisions made, blood pooled about his fingers. He wiped them on a towel, one taken from the pile that had been gathered in the corner next to a huge jug of water. Then he went to the head of the bed. "Precious, we are going to lift Mrs. Narvel up. We'll hold her upright and hope that gravity guides the baby out."
Precious's chestnut eyes expanded. "He could drop to the floor. Strangle with the cord."
He put a clean thumb to her lips. "Trust me. It's how the Xhosa women give birth."
She nodded. "That's how the enslaved in Charleston do it too."
He nodded. "Then it should work. Ready, Mrs. Narvel?"
The widow waved her hands. "No choice. Get this baby out of me."
He scooped her up, set her on her feet and positioned her to lean against Precious. He lifted Mrs. Narvel's arms and draped them about Precious's shoulder.
He dropped back into position to catch the babe. This all had to be well. These ladies were too entwined. Precious's giving heart would ache so if things went wrong. He lowered his head and prayed anew, trusting this was the right thing to do.
Precious held Clara tight, gripping her underarms.
Her friend shook. The tremors of birthing took more and more of her strength.
"Push, Mrs. Narvel." Gareth's voice sounded low and strong. "Help that baby come to me."
Clara's hold weakened. Precious bolstered her. "I'm with you, Clara. We've come too far, from London to Port Elizabeth."
Dull sherry eyes locked onto hers. "I can only do what…auggh… I can."
"The head is coming. A bit more."
Precious rubbed Clara's back, and bore her weight. It was all she could do. Well, there was one more thing. She swallowed and held Clara tighter. Sometimes God, please save my friend and this baby.
Gareth poked his head around. "Stop."
His face disappeared behind Clara's nightgown.
Precious could see his arms moving, though he said nothing. There were no baby noises. Her heart beat loudly. A dozen sentiments of things to say to Clara came to mind, but she kept quiet and hoped God was just a little late this time. That everything would still be well.
A sharp wail filled the silence of the room. A baby's strong cry finally started.
Hearing the baby scream at the top of its lungs was like church bells to Precious. Eliza had taken Precious to a yuletide service their first year in England. She had to sit on the last pew with the other servants, but the majesty of the hymns and the ringing of those brass chimes reached all the way to the back of the church.
For that hour, the beauty of the stain glass, the sound of the organ, it made her forget all - her station, her past. Those were the sounds of God. She even spread her fingers wide to measure the distance from the preacher man to herself. God didn't seem far away that day.
With the wide toothy grin on Clara's face, He didn't seem far away right now. Sometimes God showed up for her friend.
Gareth stood. He wrapped the tiniest little thing in one of her fresh towels. "The cord is cut, Mrs. Narvel. You have a beautiful
Eyes wide as saucers, Precious paled. "You're going to take a knife to her. No, no cutting on her like she has no value."
Not sure of what the woman spoke, all he could do was make her believe all would be well. "I need you strong, Precious. Trust me. Now hurry."
She was back before he could blink. Her ashen, shaking hands held a shiny knife.
He took it from her before she dropped it. "Good, now go hold on to your friend. Mrs. Narvel, I'm going to cut a little of the membrane, to make his path easier. Then I'll see if I can pull the babe out. "
Mrs. Narvel closed her eyes, and nodded.
Putting on the bravest most confident expression he could muster, Gareth started. All the while, he prayed for this baby, Mrs. Narvel, and Precious who looked as if she would fall dead if things didn't go well.
Incisions made, blood pooled about his fingers. He wiped them on a towel, one taken from the pile that had been gathered in the corner next to a huge jug of water. Then he went to the head of the bed. "Precious, we are going to lift Mrs. Narvel up. We'll hold her upright and hope that gravity guides the baby out."
Precious's chestnut eyes expanded. "He could drop to the floor. Strangle with the cord."
He put a clean thumb to her lips. "Trust me. It's how the Xhosa women give birth."
She nodded. "That's how the enslaved in Charleston do it too."
He nodded. "Then it should work. Ready, Mrs. Narvel?"
The widow waved her hands. "No choice. Get this baby out of me."
He scooped her up, set her on her feet and positioned her to lean against Precious. He lifted Mrs. Narvel's arms and draped them about Precious's shoulder.
He dropped back into position to catch the babe. This all had to be well. These ladies were too entwined. Precious's giving heart would ache so if things went wrong. He lowered his head and prayed anew, trusting this was the right thing to do.
Precious held Clara tight, gripping her underarms.
Her friend shook. The tremors of birthing took more and more of her strength.
"Push, Mrs. Narvel." Gareth's voice sounded low and strong. "Help that baby come to me."
Clara's hold weakened. Precious bolstered her. "I'm with you, Clara. We've come too far, from London to Port Elizabeth."
Dull sherry eyes locked onto hers. "I can only do what…auggh… I can."
"The head is coming. A bit more."
Precious rubbed Clara's back, and bore her weight. It was all she could do. Well, there was one more thing. She swallowed and held Clara tighter. Sometimes God, please save my friend and this baby.
Gareth poked his head around. "Stop."
His face disappeared behind Clara's nightgown.
Precious could see his arms moving, though he said nothing. There were no baby noises. Her heart beat loudly. A dozen sentiments of things to say to Clara came to mind, but she kept quiet and hoped God was just a little late this time. That everything would still be well.
A sharp wail filled the silence of the room. A baby's strong cry finally started.
Hearing the baby scream at the top of its lungs was like church bells to Precious. Eliza had taken Precious to a yuletide service their first year in England. She had to sit on the last pew with the other servants, but the majesty of the hymns and the ringing of those brass chimes reached all the way to the back of the church.
For that hour, the beauty of the stain glass, the sound of the organ, it made her forget all - her station, her past. Those were the sounds of God. She even spread her fingers wide to measure the distance from the preacher man to herself. God didn't seem far away that day.
With the wide toothy grin on Clara's face, He didn't seem far away right now. Sometimes God showed up for her friend.
Gareth stood. He wrapped the tiniest little thing in one of her fresh towels. "The cord is cut, Mrs. Narvel. You have a beautiful
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