Savages

  Patty checked the engine. She pulled the starter, and to her surprise, the motor turned over. Carey cheered. She was less jubilant when she held up the fuel tank and shook it. “Damn things’s nearly empty.”

  Annie and Silvana had each picked up a warm black ankle and dragged the naked body of the third soldier to the back of the beach. They thought of disposing of it in the quicksand, but they dared not walk into that area. As they buried the body, both women were so depressed by their act that it affected their movements, which visibly slowed down.

  “We must stop thinking of him as a person,” Annie said. “It’d be asking for trouble to leave a corpse on the beach.” She looked down at the lacerated, inverted edges of the shoulder wound, then at the ragged, bloody chest wound, and shuddered. “Let’s not waste time. Let’s make the grave as shallow as possible and get rid of him fast. We’ll heap coconut-palm debris on top.”

  After they buried the soldier, Annie went back and kicked sand over the blood stains. She felt better when no sign of the soldier remained.

  Except for Suzy, who was in the lookout tree, all the women staggered down the waterfall path laden with food, water and equipment, including the jammed M-16. “I’ll clean it later, then try a couple of rounds when we’re out at sea,” Carey said.

  Instead of their ragged clothes, the women now had four heavy-duty uniforms. They decided to share the clothes out and put them on as soon as they had finished loading the boat in spite of the blasting heat. Also, each woman would carry a rifle slung on her back.

  They put the bamboo containers of food and water in the forward locker, which was the safest place on the boat, and kept the compass, the rocket flares and the machete there too. They didn’t want that dangerously sharp blade slithering around in the confined quarters of the boat. They stowed the fishing tackle, the rifles, the two spear guns and the snorkeling gear in the center of the boat and dumped the yellow life jackets in the stern together with the three buckets, the toolbox, rattan string, a coil of rattan rope and the anchor.

  By twelve twenty they had finished.

  Carey looked dubiously at the laden dinghy. “You don’t think we’re taking too much, Patty? I mean, this tub is full!”

  “We can always throw something overboard. Better than leaving Jonathan’s instruments behind.”

  “What’s the point of taking a sextant and a chronometer, when we’ve no idea how to use them?” Carey asked.

  Patty said, “I only wish we still had the canvas awning—we’re going to fry out there.”

  The canvas awning had long since been cut into strips for belts and bags, when Jonathan realized that it wouldn’t be long enough to wrap around the second, larger raft.

  “We could tow a couple of our bamboo stretcher beds behind us and use them as rafts,” Carey suggested. “Maybe we could offload some of this stuff onto them once we see how things go. Use ’em as trailers.”

  “The main thing is to go. Thank God we’ve got the outboard.” Patty patted the gleaming black engine, then wished she hadn’t, because the metal was burning hot. “Okay, we’re off.”

  To the surprise of all the women, the ones who were to remain behind grabbed Patty and Carey and hugged them goodbye.

  “Take care now,” Annie admonished through tears. “And get back as fast as you can.”

  The loaded boat lurched sideways as Patty put a brown, lean leg over the side. Carefully, she climbed in and sat on the aft thwart. In the aquamarine transparency of the lagoon she watched, possibly for the last time, fish of every color flashing past the dinghy like brilliantly colored toy submarines.

  Carey took her place on the center thwart, facing Patty in the stern. She fitted the rubber grips of the wooden oars into the oarlocks and gently started to row. As her confidence increased, so did her pulling strength. “Oars okay,” she reported.

  Excitement showing on her sweaty face, Patty yanked at the cord, and the outboard started right away. The two women felt exhilarated as the dinghy hummed straight for the gap between those two curved lines of white-tipped emerald. Twice every twenty-four hours, the wind and the tide spewed water through that narrow channel into the lagoon, then sucked it back again with the swirling strength of a mill race. Should the dinghy be capsized by those churning waters, both women knew that they would be torn to shreds on the submerged coral.

  “Hold on to your hat,” Patty warned. “Be prepared to stave the boat off with an oar if we get thrown against the reef.”

  As the dinghy reached the reef, the little craft surged through the gap in the coral.

  The two women found themselves at sea.

  As the dinghy bobbed on choppy little waves, they listened, dazed, to the thunder of the surf dashing against the coral. They were hearing it from the other side—the side of freedom!

  Patty, who had been holding her breath, puffed her cheeks and blew out, like the little cupid winds, drawn on antique maps. The sea, pale and blue, stretched endless, waiting to carry them wherever they wished, away from that beach of death and terror.

  Carey stood up.

  Patty warned, “You should never stand straight up in a small boat, you might overbalance.”

  Obediently, Carey sat down again. She grinned. “Don’t turn around, but they’re waving.” She waved back at two tiny figures on the beach.

  Patty pushed the tiller, and over the bobbing waves they sped south toward the headland.

  Carey warned, “You’ll shake those rafts to bits if you don’t slow down.” The two bamboo-bed rafts jerked in their wake.

  “I’m going to cut the engine just before we round the headland because of the noise, so get ready to row,” Patty said.

  As they approached the headland, Patty knew she must keep the dinghy as close to the jagged cliff as she dared. She nosed the boat around it and once again, she exhaled in relief. Katanga village was not visible. It was probably hidden behind the series of cliffs, overhung with vines and creepers, that slowly dwindled in the distance down to beach level.

  Apart from the waves that beat against the cliffs, the scene was silent—almost sleepily so—beneath the harsh burn of the midday sun.

  Carey looked up at the cliffs. “We’ll never be able to climb those monsters.”

  “We’ll just have to do the best we can,” Patty said. “I’m going into the first inlet that looks likely. We want to keep as far as possible from Katanga.”

  The first inlet had no beach, being only a slit in the black cliffs. The second looked more promising, but when Patty steered toward it she saw the dark teeth of rocks rearing up just below the water. She quickly steered out again.

  Pulling on the oars, Carey gasped, “If we don’t go into the next inlet it’s your turn to row.”

  A little farther on there was a sudden break in the cliffs. At the back of this inlet the forest dipped down toward the sea.

  Patty said, “That looks better. What do you think?”

  Wearily, Carey shipped the oars, then turned to look over her shoulder. Under the khaki cap, her face dripped sweat. “It looks fairly easy to climb,” she said. “But there’s nowhere to hide the boat unless we unload, take the outboard off and sink her.”

  “We haven’t time for that, and we’ve never tried doing it. It’s too big a risk,” Patty decided. “Okay, I’ll take the oars now.”

  As Patty rowed around the next cliff, Carey’s eyes narrowed. Beyond them was a small, grim inlet. At the back a dark green slope fell bumpily down to the sea, and scrawny vegetation trailed just above the water that slapped against the rocks.

  Patty said doubtfully, “There doesn’t appear to be a beach.”

  “So much the better,” Carey said.

  Patty pulled on the oars with renewed vigor. As the dinghy rode into the V-shaped fissure, the sun caught brilliant flashes from within the green vegetation that covered the steep incline.

  “There’s a stream,” Carey said. “Maybe we’ll be able to climb up the sides.”

  When the
dinghy was close enough, Carey reached out and grabbed one of the vines hanging over the water.

  As she dropped the anchor, then tugged on the line, Carey said, “It doesn’t feel as if it’s touching bottom.”

  “It’s only a short beach anchor line,” Patty said. “This is deep water. We’ll tie the painter to a tree trunk.” In answer to Carey’s questioning look, she explained, “Those ropes at the back and the front are called painters.”

  Patty shipped the oars. The two women pulled the dinghy under the dangling, tough undergrowth that sloped into the sea. Pulling leaves from her hair and ducking to avoid branches, Carey said, “We could cut some of this stuff and drape it all around the dinghy so that you can’t see the white paint. Camouflage.”

  “First, let’s tether this beast.” Patty threw the painter in a half-hitch around a thick, twisted, overhanging branch. “God knows whether that will hold,” she said. “Let’s tie the oars and oarlocks to the seats.”

  “Aye, aye, skipper,” Carey jeered. She leaned over to haul the bamboo beds aboard.

  In a worried voice, Patty said, “It’s crazy to think of leaving this boat. It might come adrift. It might rain and need bailing out. Someone might steal it. I think I’d better stay and guard it while you go back for the others.”

  Carey nodded. “I was thinking the same thing. We should have thought of it before. Guarding the boat is the soft job, so let’s draw straws for it.”

  Carey lost.

  “I’ve got Suzy’s compass,” Carey said, “but I’ll also need a rifle and the machete.”

  “Let’s have something to eat before you start,” Patty suggested. “Leave the camouflage work to me. Hand over the machete and let me hack some greenery before you go.”

  Shortly afterward, Carey pulled herself up onto the branch of an overhanging tree. Carefully, she leaned down to take the rifle from Patty and slung it over her shoulder. Then she crawled back along the branch until she could prop the rifle safely against the tree trunk. She returned along the branch and leaned down for the machete. “So long, Patty,” she said. “I’ll be back as fast as I can.”

  “So long.”

  Suddenly, both women were near tears. It would be the first time since November 13 that either of them had been entirely alone.

  Carey climbed the cliff with care. Brambles and branches scratched at her face, but the incline was not steep and there were plenty of footholds. Nevertheless, she worried about dropping the rifle or machete, because the slope was steep enough for it to slither down and plunge into the sea below.

  At the summit, Carey paused to stuff some coarse grass into the sides of her newly acquired khaki cap, which was too big for her head. After that, she loped steadily through the soft green jungle twilight.

  Carefully using the compass, it took Carey an hour and a half to cross the headland. That was half an hour more than she had allowed, but she was only twelve minutes behind schedule, and smugly satisfied to find she had emerged at roughly the place she had been aiming for: the top of the dark cliffs on the southern end of Waterfall Bay. In the early morning these cliffs looked like a vast black wall, but toward afternoon, when the sun shone upon them and shadowed the vertical indentations, they looked like enormous sticks of chocolate.

  Carey set off along the clifftops at a fast pace, keeping under the cover of trees but always within sight of the transcendently blue sea and the rainbow flash of the spray upon the reef. A slight breeze started up. She moved around the huge, elephant-colored tree trunks and picked her way between green ferns and bracken. All was still except for the rumbling of the surf and the high, pure song of birds, flashing yellow and blue above her.

  Above the trill of birdsong, Carey suddenly heard another noise.

  Abruptly she stopped and checked her watch. Five minutes to four. Twenty minutes earlier than they had calculated. The noise of helicopter rotors was unmistakable.

  Her first impulse was to run back to the dinghy, as they had prearranged, but she realized that the women in the cave would not know where to find it. How could they have over-looked such an obvious flaw in their plan?

  She calculated quickly. The helicopter would take two minutes to land, and whoever was in it would take at least ten minutes to get to the camp. If she raced, she might just make it to the cave chimney in under twelve minutes.

  Moving as fast as she could, heedless of the noise she made, which raised a chorus of ugly protests from a flock of white cockatoos, Carey crashed through the undergrowth toward the camp.

  * * *

  The Huey-Cobra buzzed across Waterfall Bay and made straight for the waterfall. Although the tide had turned, there was plenty of beach.

  The American gunship, sent in to clear the area if necessary, was followed by the heavy bulk of a Sikorsky helicopter. Twenty men in olive combat fatigues and helmets jumped out. There was a burst of gunfire as they fanned along the beach, obviously intending to climb the cliff.

  The staccato rattle was chillingly audible to Carey, racing along, her face torn by twigs and branches, a stitch in her side and her heart pounding.

  The troops immediately found the camp, which had obviously been abandoned only shortly before.

  The sergeant reported to the officer in charge. He held out a moldy black patent-leather purse, which still contained Suzy’s rusty compact and melted lipstick.

  “How many people were here, Sergeant?”

  “The tracker reports four bamboo beds, sir, and stakes to support two other beds. He also reports five sets of female footprints leading to the lagoon. The women have each made several recent journeys from this camp—we assume to load the stolen boat, sir. We’ve found a bamboo container of freshly smoked fish among the rocks on the cliff path, sir.”

  “When did the women embark, Sergeant?”

  “Can’t swear, sir, but the tracker says the footsteps were made around noon, and their campfire was extinguished with water at about the same time, sir.”

  The officer inspected the two huts, the lean-to, a small pile of coconut shells, two turtleshells and a heap of stones. He turned around and stared at the almost completed raft, the neatly piled bamboo lengths and the waiting coils of rattan. He looked at his watch, glanced seaward and said briskly, “We have two hours for a sea search, Sergeant. Fire this camp. Leave two sentries up here and a couple on the beach. We’ll collect them tomorrow.”

  As the sergeant saluted, he added: “And remind the men not to underestimate these women. They have at least three of our rifles.”

  * * *

  Carey crouched in the undergrowth, not daring to approach the cave chimney, which she could just see on her left when she put her eye close to the quarter-inch gap in the foliage. She heard men’s voices, twigs snapping, then louder cracks. She smelled smoke.

  Through the trees ahead, Carey saw a golden glow like an early sunset. The gold quickly changed to red and mingled with thick smoke. A shower of sparks flew upward and a tall tree started to flame. Then the hot, dry forest was alight and blazing.

  Carey jumped at the sound of a shot, but realized as a shadow blocked the ominous red glare ahead that the noise must have been made by a falling tree.

  She couldn’t decide what to do. If she retreated, could she run far enough or fast enough to outdistance the fire? Or should she try to reach the chimney? If the forest burned, the women might have to stay down in the cave for several days. If the foliage around the chimney exit got burned, it would reveal the hole and the rope down the chimney—which was obviously manmade. Swearing under her breath, Carey knew that she would have to cut the rope free and let it drop into the caves. Then she’d try to get back to Patty. That way, two of the group would be free to rescue the others if necessary.

  She was just about to crawl to the chimney, when a soldier sauntered into view. As he walked straight toward her, he almost stepped into the chimney shaft. He stopped abruptly. Carey held her breath. Had he seen anything?

  The soldier unzipped and reliev
ed himself. Then he pulled off his floppy jungle hat and wiped the sweat from the back of his thick neck and small, shaven head. As he was pulling on his hat, his head suddenly jerked sideways. His eye had been attracted by something.

  Cautiously, the man moved toward the camouflaged rattan rope that trailed on the floor of the forest. He squatted, lifted the rope, tested it with his hand, looked to the left and followed the rope to the tree it was tied around. Then he started to feel his way back along its length toward the cave chimney.

  Carey unslung the rifle from her shoulder—but no, she didn’t dare shoot because the noise would attract the rest of the men.

  Now with his back to Carey, the man squatted, parted the camouflage vines over the shaft and tested the weight of the rope with his hand, as if trying to guess how long it was.

  Ten feet away Carey held her rifle by the barrel and prepared to use the butt as a club. She crept forward.

  When she came up behind the soldier, she twisted her body and wound both arms back. Her blow would have more strength because of the velocity of the swing behind it. Inside her head, Carey could hear the reassuring voice of Jonathan. “The top of the skull is tough and heavy; the weakest spot is just under the ear, where the bone is thinnest. So never hit a feller over the head, because you’ll knock him down, but he’ll still be alive. Smash at him sideways, from behind. Aim at the top of his ear. This is a good blow, because you’ve got a double chance to do damage, both to the skull and to the neck. You can then, quite easily, garotte him with wire or rattan or strangle him by applying pressure to the throat on either side of his Adam’s apple. After that, he shouldn’t give you no trouble.”

  She swung. It was much easier and quicker than she had expected. One minute the guy was squatting in front of her, the next he was slumped on the ground. Trembling from reaction, but also feeling pride and relief surge through her, Carey dragged the limp man a few inches to the edge of the chimney. He wasn’t as heavy as she’d feared.