seemed to find such opportunity for witness in the wild interior of Africa more than sufficient payment for all of their sweat. But in a moment, preaching had to be put off, for a violent storm came up, shaking the territory with thunder.
“My things!” Emma called.
The gullies on either side of the road were soon converted to creeks as Emma sat atop a crate holding her writing box. She was frightened near to death, the huge treetops pitching, branches creaking, the deluge turning everything gray.
“I’ve seen worse,” Henry said.
“Well I haven’t,” she said.
· 7 ·
Visitors
B Y LATE M AY, Emma was settled in Ijaye in the house that Henry had built on a gentle incline of land. By Georgia standards, it was a fine cabin. Here it seemed a castle. Though constructed of mud and plaster, the work was finely done, the walls deep and smooth. There were six rooms in the rectangular home, three across the front for their use, one opening on the side yard for guests, and two across the back for servants, though, at present, they had only one servant, a man, their cook, named Duro. After days of sleeping in dark huts, Emma gloried in the windows, which looked out on a fair-sized yard before one’s eyes came to rest on a town lane. A veranda, called by Henry “the piazza,” ran the entire perimeter of the house and the rooms opened onto it, though Henry’s and Emma’s rooms could also be passed through from one to the other on the interior. The thatched roof jutted far out over the piazza, providing deep shade. In the back were the kitchen and garden area where Henry had established a lemon tree, a batch of mint, a stand of banana trees, and a row of tobacco.
Clever man
, Emma thought. The privy occupied one corner at the very back of the property. At present the stable stood empty, as they had not, after all, purchased a horse. Catercorner to the house in the front stood Henry’s chapel. Their compound was enclosed by a low wall on one side and a hedgerow on the other, the space close to an acre and a half. They were located near a good-sized stream. Half a mile in the other direction was the center of town and the king’s compound. The lane in front of their house was always busy, especially in early morning and at dusk with farmers going out, market women coming in, children doing as they wished, and even cattle, goats, and pigs—some attended and some not.
Emma set about at once to create a home. She did not believe that a mud floor could be clean and asked Henry if they might purchase native matting to act as rugs.
“It will mean more work,” he said, “taking mats out to air and sweeping beneath.”
“I prefer it,” she said.
Henry agreed, and Emma was pleased with her first decorative touch. Later she would add a tapestry or picture to the walls. Henry had shown her that by boiling nails, he could hammer them into the plaster easy as butter. But at present she had no artwork. Some sort of curtain she would have. She asked Henry to put a bamboo rod over the front window. “I’ll simply drape one of my shawls across the upper beam,” she said, “until I have time for sewing.” Henry seemed to find her efforts surprising, and she thought he must long have desired a feminine touch. There was little furniture except a wardrobe Henry had purchased from a British missionary, wooden packing boxes now turned to side tables, a dining table and chairs, some locally made benches, their long trunk fashioned with a wooden pocket for stowing the rifle, one stuffed chair, a bed, and an extra mattress. Emma gave her writing box pride of place on a bench next to the good chair in the sitting room. Here she would make her devotional, compose letters home, and keep her journal. Whole books might spiral out of her.
The neighbors’ goats tended to cluster on the piazza, liking the nice shade. She shooed them off, but they always came back. Shooing off the large brown lizards that congregated on the outer walls
“My things!” Emma called.
The gullies on either side of the road were soon converted to creeks as Emma sat atop a crate holding her writing box. She was frightened near to death, the huge treetops pitching, branches creaking, the deluge turning everything gray.
“I’ve seen worse,” Henry said.
“Well I haven’t,” she said.
· 7 ·
Visitors
B Y LATE M AY, Emma was settled in Ijaye in the house that Henry had built on a gentle incline of land. By Georgia standards, it was a fine cabin. Here it seemed a castle. Though constructed of mud and plaster, the work was finely done, the walls deep and smooth. There were six rooms in the rectangular home, three across the front for their use, one opening on the side yard for guests, and two across the back for servants, though, at present, they had only one servant, a man, their cook, named Duro. After days of sleeping in dark huts, Emma gloried in the windows, which looked out on a fair-sized yard before one’s eyes came to rest on a town lane. A veranda, called by Henry “the piazza,” ran the entire perimeter of the house and the rooms opened onto it, though Henry’s and Emma’s rooms could also be passed through from one to the other on the interior. The thatched roof jutted far out over the piazza, providing deep shade. In the back were the kitchen and garden area where Henry had established a lemon tree, a batch of mint, a stand of banana trees, and a row of tobacco.
Clever man
, Emma thought. The privy occupied one corner at the very back of the property. At present the stable stood empty, as they had not, after all, purchased a horse. Catercorner to the house in the front stood Henry’s chapel. Their compound was enclosed by a low wall on one side and a hedgerow on the other, the space close to an acre and a half. They were located near a good-sized stream. Half a mile in the other direction was the center of town and the king’s compound. The lane in front of their house was always busy, especially in early morning and at dusk with farmers going out, market women coming in, children doing as they wished, and even cattle, goats, and pigs—some attended and some not.
Emma set about at once to create a home. She did not believe that a mud floor could be clean and asked Henry if they might purchase native matting to act as rugs.
“It will mean more work,” he said, “taking mats out to air and sweeping beneath.”
“I prefer it,” she said.
Henry agreed, and Emma was pleased with her first decorative touch. Later she would add a tapestry or picture to the walls. Henry had shown her that by boiling nails, he could hammer them into the plaster easy as butter. But at present she had no artwork. Some sort of curtain she would have. She asked Henry to put a bamboo rod over the front window. “I’ll simply drape one of my shawls across the upper beam,” she said, “until I have time for sewing.” Henry seemed to find her efforts surprising, and she thought he must long have desired a feminine touch. There was little furniture except a wardrobe Henry had purchased from a British missionary, wooden packing boxes now turned to side tables, a dining table and chairs, some locally made benches, their long trunk fashioned with a wooden pocket for stowing the rifle, one stuffed chair, a bed, and an extra mattress. Emma gave her writing box pride of place on a bench next to the good chair in the sitting room. Here she would make her devotional, compose letters home, and keep her journal. Whole books might spiral out of her.
The neighbors’ goats tended to cluster on the piazza, liking the nice shade. She shooed them off, but they always came back. Shooing off the large brown lizards that congregated on the outer walls
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