“Why not?” Pogo said, which gave all the boys a chuckle, the last they’d manage on that particular day.
Pogo went forward, a machete in his hand, his M-1 given over to Lieutenant Kennedy. The path ran through a slimy, rotten-smelling jungle, then onto rising ground, slippery with wet saw grass. They slipped and fell as they climbed, and gasped to find the least bit of oxygen in the hot, stagnant air. Gigantic, impossibly huge leaves of the most amazing corrugated design crowded in on them. Thick-rooted trees, with huge hairy vines hanging from their limbs like dead snakes, blocked their vision. Thousands of sleeping flying foxes hung head down on high branches like squadrons of tiny vampires. Every person in the party felt as if eyes were watching them from the deep recesses of the bush. Pogo did not just feel it. He knew it, for these were the eyes of the evil spirits who occupied this land.
Pogo was caught in his reverie of spirits and failed to see the phantom hiding among the many limbs of a giant tree. He jumped back from the thrown spear as it flashed past his nose and buried into the soft, moist earth between his big flat feet. The trajectory of the spear led Pogo’s eyes to the shadowy figure in the tree. Pogo returned the spear with a mighty heave. The shadow, now revealed to be a man, fell from the tree, rolled, pulled the spear from his rib cage, and ran for the bush. Just a glimpse of him had revealed a fierce countenance, a face like the devil, a bone stuck through his nose, and more bones through his earlobes. Other than his hideous tattoos, he was as naked as a reptile. Before he got far, Pogo was on him, grabbing him by his towering puff of hair and jerking him to the ground and kicking his hand away from the wound, which coursed blood like a small river into the greedy black earth.
Pogo, asking rapid questions in the local dialect, pulled the man’s head back. The man made low moaning sounds, and his mouth pulsed open and shut between thick, pursed lips. Pinkish foam began to form at the corners of his mouth. Pogo spoke to the man again, this time in a more soothing tone, then let him go. The man made choking noises deep in his throat. In a second, no more, he fell away, dead. “Poison,” Felicity said, coming up during the last second of the man’s life. “Just a scratch is all it takes.”
Pogo looked over his shoulder and saw that Once had picked up the spear and was looking it over. “That fella spear alia same devil. It finish you altogether, Once!”
“Put the spear down, Once,” Kennedy said. “Easy now. Don’t touch the tip. That’s a good lad.”
Pogo was back to studying the dead man, especially the tattoos on his chest and back and arms. “Him this place fella boy. Him not fella we look-see.”
Felicity translated. “This man had no part in the business on the beach.”
Pogo nodded toward an all but invisible path. “This fella live there short way little bit.”
“Maybe he was defending his village,” Ready said.
“Then why didn’t he defend it against those buggers we’re following?” Felicity asked.
“Those buggers in village,” Pogo explained. “Those buggers, they say fella boy you go here, watch’m, come quick you see’m other fellas.”
“That makes sense,” Felicity said. “This man was sent to be a lookout.”
They all froze at the deep, hollow beat of a distant drum. “What does it mean?” Kennedy asked Pogo after the little bushman had kept silent for too many uncomfortable seconds.
“Drums say all ready soon kai-kai.” Pogo put his fingers to his mouth.
“They’re having lunch?” Ready asked.
Pogo nodded, though he kept a stubborn silence.
“They’re having lunch,” Ready said again, this time in a whisper as he realized the import of the word in these awful woods.
Once was sent racing back to the Rosemary to bring the mortar and at least a dozen shells. Pogo was sent ahead to scout the village. He soon returned with a report. “Mastah Josh belong this place.”
“Tell me exactly what you saw,” Felicity said.
Pogo covered the situation. He had worked his way to the ridge that overlooked the village. At least twenty men armed with rifles could be seen. Mastah Josh was tied to a post, his hands roped over his head, and a black Marie was similarly strung up beside him.
“Do you think we can get on that ridge without being seen?” Ready asked.
“Look-see boy there but Pogo cut throat.” He held up his machete to show the blood on it.
Kennedy considered his options, which were three: Sit tight and wait for Once to return with the mortar, then attack the village; go up on the ridge and be prepared to attack at a moment’s notice; or simply go at it straight away. “We’ll go up on the ridge and have a look around,” he said, taking the middle choice.
Pogo led the way through the dense bush. A few chickens gave irritated clucks, but their approach was otherwise undetected. The forest grew right up to the edge of the ridge that overlooked the village. They crawled the last few yards. The lookout Pogo had killed lay a few feet away, his throat busy with flies. Felicity, lying beside Kennedy, studied the village. “Jack, when they get ready to kill Commander Thurlow, they will do so very quickly, without ceremony, and when their victim least expects it. Less trouble for them that way.”
Two men came out of one of the larger huts. One of them was a white man in khakis and an Aussie campaign hat, the other an obese native, covered only by a filthy lap-lap over which his stomach hung like a huge brown bag. The fat man waddled in front of Thurlow and apparently said something, as Thurlow replied, although what he said was too far away to hear. The Marie tied up beside him said something, too, and the fat man held his gelatinous stomach and laughed, apparently amused by the comment.
“The white man is Todd Whitman,” Felicity whispered to Kennedy. “He’s the guerrilla leader Thurlow came up here to interrogate. The fat rascal is the chief around these parts, a nasty brute named Kwaque. He’s stirred up trouble in New Georgia for years. He’s long been suspected of headhunting and cannibalism.”
A shriek jerked their heads around. Kennedy feared it was Thurlow or the girl, but it proved to be one of the villagers, pointing toward the ridge with a long, trembling finger. They’d been spotted. Kwaque and Whitman looked in their direction but didn’t move. “Ready,” Kennedy said, “shoot the chief.”
Ready fired his Browning, and Kwaque staggered back, his hand thrown to a bloody hole in his chest. He flopped against Thurlow, who kicked him away. Then Kwaque staggered some more, most theatrically, yodeling imprecations while his fellows looked at him in dumb wonder. Whitman was unmoved and kept frowning at the ridge, where a little puff of smoke rose from Ready’s rifle.
“Come on!” Kennedy cried, then got to his feet and raced out of the bush and down the incline into the village. Ready, Pogo, and Felicity followed. Kennedy fired his rifle from his hip, missing his target, which was Whitman, then ducking a storm of arrows that suddenly filled the air. He dodged a man lunging at him with a spear, then shot the man in the chest. Felicity pushed Kennedy to the ground and shot another warrior in the stomach. Kennedy was astonished at the power of her pistol. A hole big enough to put his arm through appeared in the man’s belly, and he flopped on the ground like a caught fish. Felicity stood over Kennedy, firing until she ran out of bullets. Then there was a series of pounding explosions, and one of the huts disintegrated.
“I do believe Once is back!” Felicity remarked cheerfully while reloading. Kennedy struggled to his feet. He looked at her and saw that her eyes were wild with excitement, her sweat-soaked hair hanging in tendrils along her cheek, her nostrils flared. She whooped and took two quick steps and fired at a black Marie trying to sneak by, her arms cradling a baby. The woman fell, and the baby, squalling in terror, rolled onto the ground. Felicity aimed at it, but her arm was caught by Kennedy. “Felicity, for God’s sake!”
She looked at him, then pulled her arm away. “Don’t ever stop me from my duty again, Jack. Just as I would not stop you from yours.” She went charging off, firing her pistol at any villager
she could see. The villagers were running hysterically in every direction. Kennedy picked up the baby. Another Marie suddenly appeared and tore it from his grasp and ran away. Kennedy watched after her and was relieved when she and the child made it safely into the bush.
Then Thurlow was there, along with the woman who’d been tied up beside him. “Stay here, keep the boys safe,” Thurlow ordered, which irritated Kennedy more than a little. After all, he’d just engineered the man’s rescue, and here he was barking orders to do the obvious! Before Kennedy could remark on such abuse, Thurlow and the woman left on the run. Felicity returned, her smoking Webley in her hand. The excitement drained from her face. “I’m sorry, Jack,” she said. “It was the heat of battle.”
“I know,” Kennedy answered. “But to shoot a baby . . . ”
“I don’t know what came over me. All of a sudden, I just wanted to put that child out of its misery. I thought to spare it from a horrible life.”
“Did you see where Thurlow went?”
“He and the girl are after Whitman, I think,” she said.
“We should follow and see if he needs help,” Kennedy said, which was the last thing he said for a good bit, as Kwaque, the chief he thought was dead, came up behind and struck him on the head with a stone. Felicity had a bullet in Kwaque’s brain in an instant, but it was too late for Kennedy. He was down, and he was out.
39
Josh and Penelope raced down the path after Whitman and his men. The path was well worn and went past several pigpens, the occupants grunting nervously as they ran by. It continued through small garden plots and into a grove of Norfolk pines. Josh and Penelope loped along like tigers, looking neither left nor right but dead ahead. Josh had retrieved his Alaskan ax from Kwaque’s hut, and Penelope had recovered her machete from a lately deceased warrior. The blades were their only armament, and given their fury, all they needed.
Swiftly, swiftly. Josh felt as if he were floating, borne by the wings of vengeful angels. Nothing slowed him, no root tripped him. He was astonished at the swiftness of his own feet, propelled by a blood-red anger.
The path turned at a gigantic monkeypod tree, and there, in a clearing not more than twenty paces ahead, was Whitman, walking fast with his head down, followed by three of his men. Josh and Penelope came on, silent as eagles. Josh ran past the two hindmost men, startling them so much they froze—a mistake, as Penelope was upon them in an instant with her awful blade. The man behind Whitman turned and caught Josh’s ax along his ear. He fell without a sound. Whitman dropped, rolled away, and came up with his pistol, well aimed. Josh dodged, his ax thrumming through the air, knocking the pistol away.
Whitman sat on the ground, looking at his pistol hand in astonishment. Josh’s swipe had also happened to carry away Whitman’s thumb. He pressed the bloody stump to his shirt, a scarlet stain spreading into the khaki, while with his other hand he calmly picked up his hat, swiped the mud off it against his legs, and put it back aboard. He looked at Penelope. “Will I ever stop loving you, I wonder?”
“Yes, very soon, husband,” Penelope answered, her lips rolled back to reveal an avaricious grin.
“Why did you kill our soldiers?” Josh demanded. “And why did you turn us over to Kwaque?”
“My dear commander,” Whitman said, “your soldiers were killed because my boys simply had their blood up. I can’t always control them. My apologies. As for Kwaque, he has been my ally against the Japanese. Most of my boys come from his tribe. I could hardly resist turning you over to him for a good kai-kai. Americans are known to be extremely tasty blokes. As for my dear but disloyal wife, I gave her to Kwaque to disfigure, not eat. You recall I remarked on the curse of being married to a beautiful woman? I sought to fix that. Now, please bind my hand.”
Horrified by Whitman’s calm explanation, Josh pulled a red bandana out of his hip pocket and tossed it over. “Bind it yourself.”
Penelope said, “Josh, you must kill Whitman. Quickly, please.”
Josh stared at Penelope and wondered where the dear, sweet girl who’d made love to him that first night beneath the bright moon had gone. He didn’t know this Penelope at all.
Whitman withdrew his bloody hand from his shirt, then pushed it into the bandana in his lap, using his other hand and his teeth to wrap it tightly. “Ah, that’s better. I shall miss that thumb.” He eyed Josh. “Have you and my wife, by any chance . . .? Yes, you have! I can see it in your eyes. Well, don’t feel privileged, Thurlow. It ain’t love, no matter what she says. She ain’t capable of it.”
“How would you know, Whitman?” Penelope snapped. “To you, love and pain are the same thing. My father did not know your filthy mind, or he would have never given me to you.” Penelope turned to Josh. “Please understand. A Marie is loyal to her husband, even when he is cruel. But when Whitman began to kai-kai long pig, it was then I decided to run away.”
“Armistead agreed to help you,” Josh said.
“No. I wish for your sake it was that simple. My father, you see, finally sent my brother to see how I was doing. I had prayed for so very long for him to know my plight, and he answered my prayers, though he took long enough. Of course, Whitman thought my brother was just another warrior come to fight the Japoni.”
“Such treason,” Whitman sniffed. “Imagine, Thurlow! A man pretending to fight for freedom and democracy while planning on stealing a man’s wife.”
“Shut up, you,” Josh said. “Or I’ll cut off your other thumb.”
“My brother and I had a canoe, just waiting our chance,” Penelope explained.
“Whitman told me Joe Gimmee sent a tomako for you,” Josh said.
“Yet another lie,” Penelope replied. “But please, Josh. We must stop talking and kill Whitman to end his evil.”
“We can’t kill him. Colonel Burr needs to hear his story.”
“Whitman will only lie, and he is oh such a very good liar.”
“That makes two of us,” Whitman said, though his eyes rested on Penelope longingly.
Josh pointed his ax at Whitman. “Burr will get the truth out of you, Mister Whitman, one way or another. Now, be assured I will kill you if you don’t do exactly as I say from this moment on. Stand up and march back to the village.”
Stand up and march back to the village Whitman might have done, too, as it was certainly likely that Josh would do exactly as he threatened. But proof that Whitman was a survivor and lucky besides came very quickly. There was a sudden whoop of murderous screams and four of Kwaque’s men came rushing out of the bush. With Josh distracted, Penelope took the opportunity to swing her machete at Whitman’s neck, but Whitman had anticipated her attack, and her sharp blade missed by no more than a hair’s breadth. Then arrows rippled through the air, and Josh and Penelope had no choice but to run once more. And run they did.
40
Josh and Penelope finally slowed enough to look over their shoulders. When they saw no one following, they stopped and listened, and heard nothing but the sound of their own breathing and the usual twits and chatter of the forest. Penelope said, “I believe we are safe now.” She looked long and hard at Josh. “If only you would have killed Whitman.”
Josh nodded, acknowledging his error, then trudged up the path, stopping when he noticed she wasn’t following. “Are you coming?” he asked.
“Is that your wish, considering who I am?”
He studied her, as if seeing her for the first time. He saw the blood of the men she’d just killed speckled across her glistening ebony skin and recalled, with some nostalgia, when he thought she was but a simple, smiling, and gorgeous Marie who’d saved him from the Japanese and then made passionate love to him by the sea. Now he knew she was Whitman’s wife and had lied about nearly everything from the moment they’d met. But nothing mattered as his eyes roved across her. He was not willing to let her go. “Yes, it is my wish,” he said to her, and meant it. “But tell me what happened that night. And this time the truth.”
“You shame me,
” she replied.
“You’re forgiven. I’ve been known to tell less than the truth from time to time, too.”
“Such as when you told me you loved me?”
“That was not a lie.”
She looked into his eyes carefully, and he knew she was looking for the lie. Finally she said, “When Armistead went out to silence the mortars, he told me one of the Japoni officers was still alive, and that they sat for a little while and talked before the officer died. I am not certain what was said between them, but Armistead said it affected him. On his way back to our lines, he came across Whitman’s men eating Japanese long pig. This sickened him, of course, but he said it confirmed in his mind what he needed to do. By then, you see, all his men were dead. He asked me if I would help him go north. When I asked him why north, he wouldn’t tell me. I told him I would talk to my brother, and so I did. My brother said it was a good time for us to go, that Whitman was plotting to kill Armistead now that the lieutenant had discovered his boys were cannibals. We had a small boat hidden away by the beach. When there was a lull in the battle, we took our chance. Unfortunately, someone saw us.
“They were trying to capture us alive, I think, so they did not shoot us but came at us with spears. When Armistead was stabbed, we had to drag him to the canoe. I am much the better fighter, so I asked my brother to have my father pray for me and stayed behind to hold off Whitman’s killers. I expected to die, but then a cloud passed over the moon, and after seeing my brother and Armistead were well out on the water, I slipped away into the bush.”
“Then Armistead could be dead,” Josh realized, half hoping that it was true. But if he was dead, how would that square with Halsey’s reference to Hypo, unless . . . “Or is it possible the Japanese captured him?”
“Either or both is possible,” Penelope agreed. “I have no way of knowing, although my brother is strong, and smart, too. If anyone could have carried Armistead to safety, it would have been he.”