Mary retied the ribbon. It was true—she had the wrong complexion to be out in the sun without a bonnet.
After Cape Verde passed from view, the ship stayed too far out to sea to spot any more land. It was several hours later before the coast of Sierra Leone finally came into view. Mary was surprised to see that the hills were green, as green as the hills around Aberdeen, where she had spent her early childhood. She ran to get the Thomsons, and together they watched the coastline loom larger until Mary could make out rows of square, white cottages dotted on the hills, and below them, long white beaches fringed with swaying palm trees.
The lunch bell rang, but Mary would not leave the deck. She did not want to miss one minute of the coastline. She was enchanted by the scene, which looked to her like the setting for a fairy tale.
Several days later, on Saturday, September 11, as Mary peered down at the water, she noticed it had become a reddish brown color. The captain had told her to watch for silt, the first sign that they were approaching the mouth of the Cross River. Once again, Mary’s heart beat fast with excitement. This was going to be the day she set foot in Africa, the day when she would finally see the people she was determined to live and die for.
By now all the passengers were on deck, craning their necks to be the first to spot Parrot Island in the entrance to the Cross River channel. At last someone sighted it just as the Ethiopia adjusted course to stay in the main channel.
Thick rows of strange, low trees with twisted gray trunks and roots that reached out like claws into the water lined the western shore of the river. Mary could not see the eastern shore because at its mouth, the Cross River was twelve miles wide.
“Mangroves,” said Mr. Thomson, pointing to the strange trees. “Those trees are mangroves. They grow all the way up the river, and they’re nearly impossible to penetrate.”
Mrs. Thomson joined in. “Malaria comes from living too close to the mangrove swamps, doctors think. It has something to do with the dampness of the climate. That’s why it’s good the mission house is set up on a hill.”
The passengers stood silently for a while, the vibrating steam engine thumping away beneath their feet. Flocks of colorful parrots swept over their heads, and crocodiles slipped effortlessly into the water, leaving only their beady eyes visible as the ship glided by. Mary knew the names of many of the animals from drawings in the books she had borrowed from the church library in Dundee, but no black-and-white etching could have prepared her for the amazing, colorful array of strange creatures she saw that morning. She studied the unfolding scene with utter fascination.
“See over there,” Mr. Thomson interrupted her thoughts. “Those fences are what’s left of the barracoons, the enclosures where slaves were kept penned while they waited for shipment. More slaves were shipped out of Calabar than any other port in the whole of Africa.”
Mary winced. She imagined the slaves huddled together, men, women, and children, all chained like animals awaiting export. She was glad that the horrible practice had long since ended but sad that it had ever started in the first place.
Twenty miles up the Cross River, the Ethiopia swung to starboard and headed into a side river, the Calabar. The Calabar River was much narrower than the Cross, and Mary was able to stand on the aft deck and watch the wildlife on both sides of the river. About ten miles up the Calabar River, the ship steamed around a bend and Duke Town, tucked in a hollow beneath an enormous grove of cottonwood trees, came into sight. Small mud huts with palm thatched roofs stood beside sturdier, painted wooden houses. Along the edge of the river lay a ship’s graveyard, a row of old ships that had been sailed out from England and tied up permanently at the water’s edge. Traders used the old ships to store their palm oil and other cargo while awaiting a ship to carry it back to England. Some traders even used the old ships as homes now that many of them had taken to staying in Duke Town year-round instead of returning to England with each shipment.
Weaving in and out between the old hulks were canoes of every size and description. Some were laden with colorful cloth, others with tropical fruits and foods. On the hill above the town stood what Mary knew must be the mission house. It felt strange to Mary to finally see the house after having followed the mission’s progress for the past twenty years. Before the mission arrived, the site had been used to dispose of the bodies of dead slaves. Now a conglomeration of mission buildings stood proudly at the top of the hill. For a moment, Mary wished she could draw—she would have liked to have had this first image of Duke Town down on paper.
The captain was standing at the railing to say farewell to Mary and the Thomsons as they were lowered over the side of the ship into a long boat called a gig. Six native boys with glistening muscles and gleaming white teeth paddled the boat to the mission beach. A second canoe followed with the luggage. Mary was amazed at how dark the young African men were, especially compared to her pale complexion.
Soon Mary felt the canoe bottom scrape along the sand and then come to a stop. She stood up, hitched her dress over her ankles, and climbed out. She stood still, taking in the moment. Mary Slessor was finally standing on African soil. Behind her, the Ethiopia had already weighed anchor and was maneuvering to turn around and head back out to sea and on south to its next port of call. Before her was her new home—or the white man’s grave, as people back in Scotland had referred to it when trying to dissuade her from going. But now she was here, and Mary did not intend for it to be her grave.
Chapter 6
The Task Ahead of Her
Mary tried to push her hair into place under her sunbonnet as she followed the Thomsons up the flower-edged path to the mission house. She could feel the path swaying beneath her. After thirty-six days aboard ship, her body had become used to constant motion, and even though she was on land now, her brain was still telling her everything was swaying. The captain had told her that this was quite normal and in a few days she would regain her sense of balance and get her “land legs” back.
As Mary and the Thomsons approached the house, the large mahogany doors swung open and a group of chattering people poured out to greet the new arrivals. Mary felt suddenly shy, especially after the enthusiastic greeting. She hung back a little but was soon welcomed and drawn into the group. There were so many names and faces to remember, though she already knew many of the names from reading the Missionary Record back in Dundee. She especially recognized the name of the Reverend Alexander Ross, who was presently in charge of the mission, and Alexander Morton. An older woman introduced herself to Mary. “Welcome to Calabar, Mary. I’m Euphemia Sutherland. Let me show you your room, and then we’ll all have a cup of tea on the verandah.”
Mary smiled shyly and followed Mrs. Sutherland into the house.
The house interior was large and airy. The hardwood floors were highly polished, and there were large windows on every outside wall. Several pieces of solid mahogany furniture adorned the interior. The house had an air of efficiency about it, and Mary felt immediately at home. The two women climbed the stairs, and Mrs. Sutherland stopped outside a door in the hallway. “This is going to be your room,” she said. “I’ll leave you to get organized. Come on down whenever you are ready. I’ll be out on the verandah.”
“Thank you,” smiled Mary. “I won’t be long, I don’t have much to organize,” she said, pointing to the small carpetbag she was carrying. “Most of my things are in the trunk, which has still to be brought up to the house.”
Mary stepped into her new room. The room was small, perhaps twice the size of the iron framed bed that stood at one end, but big enough for a lone missionary. The only other furniture in the room was a desk and a chair. All four of the bed legs were sitting in small cans of liquid, as were the desk legs. Mary bent down and sniffed the liquid. It was kerosene. Then she remembered. One of the missionaries home on furlough in Scotland had talked about keeping ants at bay, and kerosene, it turned out, was one of the few things ants didn’t like. Cleverly, someone in the house had devised a way to isolate the furniture from ants with kerosene.
Mary put her carpetbag on the bed and walked to the window. She pushed the shutters open to reveal a panoramic view of a tropical paradise. She wished her mother and sisters could see it. Her room overlooked the mission garden. Large trees framed the garden’s edges. Mary recognized orange and lemon trees, banana palms, and bright red hibiscus. But she had no idea what some of the other trees were. One was huge with shiny green leaves and perfectly round green fruit as large as pumpkins. Another had smaller oval fruit. Among the trees was a profusion of smaller flowering shrubs, the likes of which Mary had never seen growing in Scotland. One particular shrub produced colorful star-shaped flowers. Mary wondered if they were what was producing the wonderful sweet smell that wafted up to her room.
On the verandah below, Mary could hear the voice of Mrs. Thomson. Even though she would have liked to have stayed longer and taken in the beauty of her new surroundings, good manners required she go downstairs and join the others. The sun was beginning to set over the tropical jungle as Mary stepped out onto the verandah.
“Come and sit down, Miss Slessor,” said Mr. Morton, standing to give her his seat.
One by one Mary was introduced to the missionaries who lived in the compound at Duke Town. There were four married couples, four single women, four single men, and Mrs. Sutherland, a widow. Mary learned that the Andersons, who normally oversaw the work of the mission, had just returned to Scotland for a brief furlough. Since Mrs. Anderson was not around, Mary was put under the care of Euphemia Sutherland.
Mary settled into her new life easily, and for the first week, being a missionary appeared to be a simple enough task. Mary had expected to get sick with some dreadful tropical disease right away, but from the day she stepped ashore, she felt fit and healthy. She had also expected the natives to be hostile and unwilling to listen to the missionaries, but instead she found the opposite. On her first Sunday in Calabar, she went to the morning service that was held in the mission chapel. The church overflowed with five or six hundred natives, and she was told another four hundred or so were gathered at churches in Old Town and Creek Town. The Reverend Ross conducted the service in the Efik language, and of course, Mary could not understand a word he said. She did recognize the tunes of several of the hymns they sung. The Africans seemed to enjoy the service greatly. Mary was impressed.
Mary was impressed with school on Monday morning, too. She was given a group of seven- to ten-year-old boys to teach. The boys all paid attention and tried hard to concentrate on the flash cards she held up. The boys were also polite and respectful, and Mary liked them from the start.
On Mary’s second Sunday afternoon in Calabar, Mrs. Sutherland invited her to walk to Duke Town with her to visit some of the women’s quarters, or “yards,” as they were called. Mary eagerly accepted the invitation. She had seen the African children in school and the adults in church, and now she was eager to see them in their homes.
Together the two women strolled down the steep path to town. Their first stop was three men squatting beside the path. One of the men had his arm wrapped around five bottles of rum. His eyes narrowed when he saw two white women approach. Mrs. Sutherland, who had lived in Duke Town for twenty-seven years and spoke the Efik language well, began talking to the men. Mary listened carefully, trying to remember some of the strange nasal sounds that made up the Efik language. The discussion went on for several minutes until the three men got up and walked away.
