After a lovely, if somewhat quiet breakfast, we separated to pursue our individual activities. Walter had retreated to the drawing room, which had been taken over with various books, paperwork, and artifacts, to finish his summary of the season's activities. Evelyn and I were sitting in on the top deck: I watching the panoramic scene that the Nile created as we drifted lazily by, and Evelyn putting the finishing touches on her copy of the carvings from El Armana. Emerson had been lecturing (I had giving up trying to argue after he interrupted me for the fifth time) us on the complexities of slave trade in 16th dynasty Egypt and had departed to the drawing room in order to find an illustration that proved his point. I sighed. Simultaneously, a crack spit the peaceful air. The dahabeya tilted and grounded to stop.
"Oh dear," Evelyn said, "I have smeared my painting again."
Hitting sand bars is an inescapable and inevitable part of Nile life. As any experienced traveler soon learned, nothing could be done to prevent the disaster or speed the process of getting off of one. We learned quickly to make do with the inconveniences.
Emerson strode out of the cabin below us.
"Hullo there, Abu" he said addressing one of the men "What has happened?"
"We have hit another sandbar, Emerson" I called. "Do be patient. The men will get us out soon enough."
"And make the poor devils do all the work? I think not, Peabody." Emerson demanded. He marched over to the side rail and began unbuttoning his working shirt.
"Really, Emerson. What in heaven's name are you doing?" I called, watching as he continued to remove his clothing, bearing to my (and, I hardly need add, everyone else's eyes) the impressive muscular frame of his upper body.
"Just what I said, Peabody" He bellowed back. "Giving the poor devils a hand!"
I must pause here to explain to you, dear reader. The normal course of action after hitting a sandbar is for the crew to jump down with ropes and pull the dahabeya until it comes free. Evelyn and I had been present for numerous of these occasion; and while neither of us enjoyed watching the exertions of the poor ragged crew, we understood that we more likely to hinder their efforts than help them.
"Do be careful, Radcliff." Call Evelyn, not taking her eyes from her painting. I subsided knowing logical reasoning, careful persuasion, and passionate argument were all futile. I did vow to keep a close eye on him, however, in the event that he decided to do something even more foolhardy. He had jumped over the side of the boat, and I could only see the top of his hatless head, until he strode away from the side of the boat with a little less than his customary cat like grace, due to the ankle deep water he was forced to slosh through.
His hair gleamed with titian highlights. His muscles rippled and gleamed in the bright noonday sun. I became aware of a penetrating thrill of excitement emanating from what seemed to be the recesses of my abdomen. I continued to watch, memorized as Emerson worked as one with the crew, pulling and heaving, his chest straining. The sun seemed too hot and I was conscious of the fabric of my frock clinging to my skin. Suddenly the boat jerked free. The men cheered and Emerson turned to face me. He winked and I could feel the color rising in my cheeks. To be caught staring, like a silly, love struck school girl…! I shook my head primly and turned to speak with Evelyn.
We dined late then was our habit that evening, as another run in with a sand bar and a group of unruly Americans had caused the soup Cook was making to jump from the stove to the floor, much to the chagrin of the hungry sentry who was supposed to be keeping a look out for the tell tail light aqua water (not to mention the unruly Americans). I however had no objections to dinning under the heavens, for the moon was slim but the stars were bright, and the candlelight caught my companions' faces in a most charming manner.
We talked late into the night. Conversation was not the idle chatter that accompanies a typical English dinner. Walter and Emerson regaled Evelyn and I with stories of their first season working together in Egypt.
"I had just finished at Cambridge, when Radcliffe came back and dragged me off to Egypt." Walter said with a smile, nodding at Emerson. Emerson scoffed.
"It was for your own good, Walter. You were dying to come out. If it weren't for your damned, er excuse me, Evelyn, English morals, you would have dropped out and joined me the season before."
"Where did you excavate that year, Emerson?" I asked.
"Deir el-Bahari." Emerson grinned fondly at the memory.
"The one Queen Hatshepsut added on to in the eighteenth dynasty? How fascinating!" I exclaimed, nearly knocking over my wineglass. Walter caught it.
"An intriguing woman." Add Walter cheerfully.
"Professor Breasted wrote in his latest journal that she ought to be known as 'the first great woman in history of whom we are informed.' I quite agree." I said, as Walter refilled my wine glass. "If all of her male counterparts governed as effectively as she, the Pharaohnic system would have lasted longer." Evelyn laughed.
"I think you would have made an excellent Pharaoh, Amelia." She said, patting my hand.
"Only if she was content to marry one of her brothers." Walter said merrily.
"Oh, I think I am quite content with my current Fiancée" I glanced at Emerson, who was watching me heatedly over his wineglass. As Walter and Evelyn laughed, I felt a warm caress, just below my knee.