It’s God, she thought. So it chooses now to speak while it lets its wog creatures eat us. “You will curry no favors with me, you filthy great wog!” she shouted toward heaven. But then, to her astonishment, John-Bull raised his hands and floated aloft. The last she saw of him was his boots disappearing into the darkness above. The wog god had caused a miracle, but now, to Felicity’s confusion, it chose a most peculiar thing to say. “Once, climb down and give the missus a hand. She looks like she could use one!”
31
Slipping through the open water between the northwest corner of Guadalcanal and Savo Island, the gunboat Rosemary pushed ahead into the darkness, her three big engines sending messages of their splendid power through the deck to Kennedy’s feet. Kennedy had always nursed the engines of his PT-109. Rough treatment almost guaranteed they would sputter and die. His boys often sang the anthem that frustrated PT crews had made up about them:
Oh, some PTs do seventy-five,
And some do sixty-nine.
When we get ours to run at all,
We think we’re doing fine.
Of course, no PT boat went seventy-five knots, or even sixty-nine, but they were designed to go over forty, although only a few had ever done it consistently. The Rosemary, however, could go that fast and probably faster. Not only was she much lighter with the heavy torpedo tubes dumped, but her engines, modified by Thurlow’s boys and the Seabees, were amazingly responsive. Kennedy gloried in their raw, reliable strength, although a glance over his shoulder showed that the perfectly spinning props were leaving a huge V-shaped trail that pointed at them like an arrow. Any hotshot, sharp-eyed Rufe pilot looking to make a name for himself could follow that bright phosphorescent blue-white wake, even on the darkest night. Rufes were the reason Kennedy had decided to avoid the Slot, where they patrolled, and maneuver south of the Russells before turning north toward New Georgia. Still, he occasionally turned the wheel and carved question marks on the sea, just in case a Rufe might be sniffing along his trail.
Despite his concern over the night-flying float planes, Kennedy felt free, as free as he had ever felt in the entire history of his life. He commanded a good boat and a competent, cheerful crew, and he was taking her and them into the teeth of trial and tribulation. Was there ever a better thing that could happen to a naval officer? He couldn’t imagine there was. “Something out there, Mister Kennedy,” Once called from his lookout position on the bow.
The something proved to be a lifeboat, nearly awash. Kennedy steered toward it. “Take the wheel,” he told Ready, after he put the gunboat alongside. Millie was kneeling on the deck, apparently handling something from the lifeboat. To Kennedy’s astonishment, the crewman straightened up with a boy in a green poncho hanging from his clasped hands. He swung the boy onto the deck. Kennedy leaned over the torpedo rack and saw that there was a woman in the stern of the little boat. She was breathing heavily, and her eyes were staring skyward as if in a trance. “Once, climb down and give the missus a hand,” he said. “She looks like she could use one.”
Once climbed down to help the woman, although he first had to kick a small shark in the face when it pushed through the hole in the bow. “I know who this is,” he said. “It’s Missus Markham, from Melagi. What are you doing way out here, ma’am? She feels real hot, Mister Kennedy. I think she’s got fever.”
Millie and Kennedy helped Once lift her aboard, and together they gently laid her on the deck.
Millie took away the pistol that John-Bull was clutching. “It was for the sharks,” the boy explained.
“How many did you shoot, John-Bull?” Millie asked, since he recognized the child.
“Four. Then the others ate them because of the blood. Emmett and Rusty are dead, murdered by the wogs. They also tried to kill Mother and me, but she killed them with her pistol and the knife she keeps in her boot.”
“What’s wrong with her now?”
“Fever. She gets it now and again.”
The woman’s eyes flickered, then opened. Kennedy knelt beside her. “Oh,” she said, staring up at him, “what a pretty man . . .”
“She’s got fever, all right,” Millie said.
“Get her and the boy below,” Kennedy ordered. “Do what you can.”
“Not much to be done,” Millie said. “Except wait it out and hope her temperature drops.”
“Oh, Mother will be fine,” John-Bull said nonchalantly. “But please don’t send me below. This is a PT boat, isn’t it?”
“She’s a gunboat now,” Once said. “We converted her.”
“It’s too dangerous for you to stay on deck,” Kennedy told the boy.
“I will stay out of the way, Captain,” John-Bull promised, and stuck out his hand. “My name is John Markham, but I’m called John-Bull.”
Kennedy shook the boy’s hand. “Well, John-Bull, it is good to meet you. I am Lieutenant Kennedy. I shall personally give you a tour of my boat when I have a moment, but for now, I would appreciate it if you would go below with Millie and assist him in taking care of your mother.”
“But I already told you it is just fever. Please, Mister Kennedy. Might I join your crew? You’ll find me handy.”
Kennedy said, “All right, you can join. Raise your right hand. Do you swear to uphold all the rules and regulations of the United States Navy and follow the legitimate orders of all its officers, both commissioned and noncommissioned, to the letter, bar none?”
John-Bull knew he was being tricked by the skinny naval officer, but he was in too far to turn back. “I will, sir,” he promised, though dubiously.
“Very well. You can put your hand down. My first order is for you to go below with your mother and stay there with her until you receive orders to the contrary.”
“But, sir—”
“No buts, Seaman Markham.”
John-Bull’s face clouded, but he said, “Yes, sir.”
“Pretty slick,” Ready said, as Millie and Once picked up the woman and carried her below. The boy followed, just as ordered, although his lip was out.
“I have two younger brothers, Ready,” Kennedy said, grinning. “One thing I know is how to handle boys.” He looked around to see who was on deck. Once was looking out on the bow; Pogo was doing the same on the stern. Nobody else was in evidence. “Where’s the rest of the crew?” he asked.
“It’s night, sir. They’re asleep.”
“Maybe you ought to draw up a duty bill.”
“They don’t need one, sir. They’ve worked it all out between themselves.”
“That doesn’t sound very navy.”
“Guess that’s why we’re in the Coast Guard. Hark!” Ready cupped a hand to his ear and leaned to starboard. Kennedy listened, too, and heard a low beat, as if someone were thumping on a bass drum. “That’s a Japanese barge, sir,” Ready whispered.
“How do you know?”
“Because that’s what they sound like.”
“But how do you know?”
“I been out here for over a year. And I pay attention. The better question is Why? Do you know why that barge is out there?”
“How would I possibly know?”
“There you go again. If you don’t know, sir, you really ought to at least hazard a guess.”
“All right. Here’s my guess. I guess they’re out there to win the war for the Japanese Empire in their own small way.”
“In that case, shouldn’t we try to stop them?”
Kennedy stared at the bosun. “Dammit, Ready. I’m finally starting to understand you. You have a profound sense of duty.”
Ready appeared startled and then confused. “Well, I guess so, Mister Kennedy,” he answered. “Don’t you?”
Kennedy didn’t answer mainly because he didn’t have an answer to give. Instead, he listened. “It appears to be a single vessel,” Kennedy said. Then added, “Of some kind.”
“I’m telling you it’s a Jap barge, sir. Let’s go mess them up.”
“It would be crazy to tackle
one of those things. Even you must see that.”
Ready shrugged. “This is the Solomons, Mister Kennedy. Crazy kind of goes with the place.”
Kennedy could see Ready’s point, at least to a degree. It was very definitely the Solomons, where craziness tended to be epidemic. For confirmation, he only had to consider that there was a woman below who had recently killed three men, and a boy who had killed four sharks. It was part and parcel of the insanity of the place. “We’ll sneak up on it and see what it is,” Kennedy relented. “If it’s a Japanese vessel, and I think we have a reasonable chance of stopping it without damage to ourselves, then that’s what we’ll do.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Ready said. “Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“What?”
“Making that decision.”
“You should remember your place, Ready,” Kennedy warned.
“Yes, sir. I’m really sorry, sir.”
“I don’t believe a word of it,” Kennedy replied, and then called the boys to their guns and pushed the throttles ahead, damn the wake. Within a few minutes, they had caught up with the craft, and sure enough, just as Ready had predicted, it was a Japanese barge, its heavy round stern and flat bow clearly visible in the pale light of the silvery crescent moon. What it was doing around Mary Island was a mystery, but it could only mean trouble.
Kennedy aimed the gunboat so as to pass the barge on its port side. Its crew was apparently intent on their navigation, as they took no note of the Rosemary. “As soon as you can bear, you boys on the guns let them have it,” Kennedy called across the deck.
“Shouldn’t we use our torpedoes?” Ready asked from his position behind the twin fifties in the starboard tub.
“I think we’ll save them for bigger game,” Kennedy replied. “Now get cracking!”
Ready shrugged, then pulled the trigger. The big bullets from the twin-barreled gun tore into the barge, sending up a shower of sparks as they punched through its steel side. The barge turned away abruptly, but Kennedy smoothly turned the gunboat with it. The Japanese were keeping their heads down, which was probably wise, as Ready’s twin fifties, and the single twenty millimeter on the stern, manned by Again, were rattling away.
“We got them on the run, sir!” Ready crowed while reloading his guns. But then the Japanese gunners suddenly started firing back, although their aim was wild. Tracers flew like sheet lightning overhead. Kennedy wore the Rosemary around to get away from the horde of bullets and came up on the barge’s starboard side; this time it was Millie on the port twin fifties slamming it with the heavy, high-velocity rounds. Kennedy was astonished to see the barge suddenly rear up, its slanted bow thrown high into the air.
Kennedy turned the Rosemary away while the barge settled in a spreading circle of foam. Then he realized what had happened. “They’ve hit a reef!” Kennedy called. “It’s damn lucky we didn’t hit it, too.” He drove the Rosemary back and forth to give all the guns some exercise. The barge, battered by the big rounds, began to burn. Men were seen jumping into the sea.
Kennedy felt duty-bound to attempt a rescue. He slowed and allowed the boys to shine their flashlights to see if any of the Japanese in the water would surrender. For their trouble, they dodged bullets from pistols some of the barge crew had taken into the drink with them. Kennedy tickled the throttles until the gunboat was out of pistol range, then eased off until the engines subsided in a low rumble. He listened carefully. Mary Island was near. He could hear the boom of her surf.
“Sir, I’ve been thinking,” Ready said, leaving the gun tub to stand by Kennedy in the cockpit.
“That always means trouble,” Kennedy replied. “But let’s hear it.”
“Well, sir, maybe we should wait around here until morning. Got to be something on Mary that Jap barge was after.”
“We’re searching for Captain Thurlow and Ensign Phimble,” Kennedy reminded the bosun. “Time is of the essence.”
“You’re right, sir. But I think both of them would see it as our duty to stick around, just to find out what’s up.”
Kennedy looked over his shoulder at the burning barge. Any Rufes in the area would be attracted to it. It was best they clear the area, but not too fast because of the damned phosphorescent wake. “All right, Ready,” Kennedy relented. “We’ll go out to deep water and just maintain our position. It’s probably better for the woman if we keep things quiet for a while, anyway. Then, come sunrise, we’ll take a quick peek at Mary and be on our way. Satisfied?”
“Good decision, sir,” Ready answered, and, though he was not certain why, it very much pleased Kennedy to hear him say it.
32
While Josh kept guard, Penelope built a hut of bamboo and banana leaves and palm fronds lashed together with braided hibiscus twine. “A little hut for two,” she sang as she worked. “Just for me and you.” When she was done, she led Josh to a small stream where they took a quiet bath, with their clothes dangling from an overhanging branch. The air was cool beneath a cover of stately she-oak trees. The stream gurgled, sounding like small crystal bells, while little yellow and brown lorikeets gently fussed in the branches, and gold and blue butterflies fluttered above bushy green ferns amongst the rocks. It was all so peaceful. Penelope sang while she scrubbed him and washed his hair. When the bathing was done, they lay on big flat rocks to let the sun dry their bodies. Josh wished they could lie there all day and that his mission no longer existed, but reality exerted itself. “Is Kimba Whitman a cannibal, too?” he asked.
“No,” Penelope answered. “But I think it must be the reason she had to run. Kimba knew she no longer loved Mastah Whitman. She was also afraid he might someday kai-kai her.”
“How do you know this?”
“Kimba often came to Minister Clarence’s mission. We talked. She told me Mastah Whitman recruited his warriors from a tribe headed up by a chief named Kwaque. I know Kwaque very well, as do all the people of New Georgia. He keeps to himself in the high mountains, and he and his people are very rude. They sometimes hunt heads and eat long pig. Kimba told Minister Clarence that Whitman had become a cannibal, too, since he believed it was the only way he could get Kwaque’s boys to respect him. But she said they ate more than Japoni. Sometimes they ate pickaninny, too, and Americans when they could find them, such as a pilot shot down. Whitman also murdered Minister Clarence. These are the reasons why I think you must kill him.”
Josh gave it all some thought. If Penelope was telling the truth, then he supposed the man deserved killing. “Any suggestions on how I might kill him?” he asked her. “He seems to be pretty well guarded. And we have traveled far.”
“I will guide you, like Natty Bumppo. He is not so far away. We could be there in perhaps six hours hard walking. As to how, I think it should be at night. I am certain you are very adept at fighting in the dark.”
“But you said there were too many Japanese between us and the Truax plantation.”
“That was before you agreed to kill Whitman. No worry-worry. I can get us through. After you kill him, then we will go and find Joe Gimmee and your lieutenant.”
“You seem to have everything figured out,” Josh observed. “But I think maybe the best thing is for us to make contact with American troops. That way I could get the word out about Whitman, and we could let the authorities handle him.”
Penelope’s expression took on the aspect of a pout. “Whitman will only lie his way out of it. He is a very good liar. No, you must kill him, Josh darling. It is the only way.”
Josh considered this, then asked, “How do you know where Joe Gimmee is?”
“Kimba told me.”
“Why did she tell you?”
“She thought I would be a good follower for Joe Gimmee. She said I was very smart and that Joe Gimmee would give me all the answers I sought. She asked me to travel with her someday to hear her father’s teachings. Now that I think on it, I realize she may have been asking me to help her escape. I am sorry now that I was so silly as to not unde
rstand.”
“What does Joe Gimme teach?”
“That there is this war with the Japoni, which is very important, but there is also another war, one that we cannot see. It is the war for the gods who look after these islands.”
“I see,” Josh said, though he did not. He added, a bit plaintively, “I just want to find Lieutenant Armistead.”
Penelope smiled. “And I just want you to kill Mastah Whitman.”
At an impasse in their conversation, they finished drying in the sun, then went to their naturally camouflaged hut. Penelope brought out dried bully beef from her seemingly bottomless dilly bag and darted into the bush to pick several kinds of sweet fruit. Then she opened a ripe coconut with a sure swipe of her machete. All this she cooked in a small pan over a small fire that produced virtually no smoke. She was a natural guerrilla, Josh realized with admiration, and thought to himself that an army of Penelopes would be a formidable enemy. For that matter, one was a formidable enemy.
The meal was delicious and the company charming since they did not talk about Armistead or Whitman or Joe Gimmee. They talked of other things, of her life at the mission (she’d enjoyed it but thought Minister Clarence, God rest his soul, was a bit lazy and had worked her too hard as a child), Josh’s wife (murdered by renegades in Alaska, which was a long story, which Josh considerably condensed), the lighthouse where he’d been raised (a tall spire that had saved many a ship and sailor), and the people of the Solomons (whereby Penelope told the story of how the people and the animals came to be).
“Once upon a time,” she said, “which, according to Minister Clarence, is the favorite way for white people to have a story begin and therefore I hope is pleasing to you, Josh darling, there was an earthquake god named Maruni. He had a tail, which he took great pains to hide. One day, his wives returned unexpectedly to his hut and caught him with his tail showing. So, ashamed, he cut his tail off and divided it into many segments from which grew people and birds and snakes and pigs and even the fishes.”