“The natives use them to bind wounds,” Felicity informed him. “They are as strong as silk yet are elastic and, as you’ve discovered, quite sticky. Amazing stuff, really. I wish I could find a way to sell it. I’m sure it would have its application in medicine.”
At last they came to the plantation’s drying shed, which was the altar for which the temple of palms had been ereated. It seemed unworthy for such an edifice, being nothing more than a small tin structure with a flat roof. Inside, Felicity proudly showed off the drying oven, consisting of a big iron grate over a wood fire with an opening in the roof to vent the smoke. Three men were busily prying coconut meat out of hacked-open nuts, then chopping the meat into wedges and tossing them onto the grate. Gogoomey used a rake to move the coconut meat around until the sections turned into yellowish, greasy lumps, then dragged them off onto a plaited palm mat to cool. The smell of the drying copra was sweet and lush. When the lumps began to pile up, one of the cutting boys would put aside his blade to load them into cloth sacks and then haul them to the end of the building used for storage. A pile of sacks, neatly stacked, was evidence of the morning’s work.
“At the end of the day, the copra is carried to the warehouse down by the dock,” Felicity explained. “Part of my astonishment upon arrival was to discover it all but full. Gogoomey has been most industrious. Another several days’ work and it will be completely filled. After that, I either charter the construction of another warehouse or we will have to stop.”
Gogoomey said, with a shy smile, “Missus, she is happy?”
“Yes, very happy, Gogoomey. You have accomplished a miracle. I am going to give you a case of tobacco to share with your boys.”
The three helpers instantly broke into grins, apparently understanding and appreciating the compliment the missus had given the overseer, not to mention the tobacco that might soon come their way. Gogoomey said with majestic dignity, “Missus savvy these good fellas. Gogoomey happy.”
“They are very good fellas, indeed,” Felicity answered, although then she frowned. “Gogoomey, are you certain these fellas belong Lahana?”
“Yes, missus. Belong Lahana altogether.”
Felicity led Kennedy out into the fresh air. “Why did you ask Gogoomey if his boys were from Lahana?” Kennedy asked. “It sounded as if you didn’t believe him.”
“I’m not sure I do. In all the years I’ve been here, I have never been able to recruit labor from Lahana. Yet these boys seem happy, even eager, to work.” She shook her head. “Perhaps this afternoon I will ride up there. Something’s afoot, but I have no idea what it might be.”
“I’d like to go with you,” Kennedy said.
“After lunch, then,” she said, distractedly looking over her shoulder. Gogoomey was standing in the doorway of the drying shed watching her. When her eyes landed on him, he made a little bow to his missus, then turned back to his work. The three boys within had also been watching her, and now they waved. Surprised, she waved back. Felicity could not recall any copra boy ever waving to her before.
44
Safe harbor for the Rosemary was the edge of a dank mangrove swamp. Josh had aimed for shore in the dense fog, hoping for refuge from the pursuing I-boat. When he saw the swamp, he didn’t hesitate to run at it, then throw the rudder hard over, sliding into the mush beneath an overhanging jungle canopy. He immediately killed the engines, and the boys jumped overboard and splattered the hull with mud for camouflage. As the sun rose and the mist swirled away, a plume of smoke to the south told them that the destroyer they’d hit by mistake was still burning. There was no sign of the I-boat. Either they had made good their escape or the Japanese submarine had stopped searching. “That Dave’s a miracle worker,” Stobs said, coming up on deck. “He got us out of this jam.”
“Dave’s not even on board,” Ready reminded him as Josh looked on.
“I got one of his feathers,” Stobs replied, withdrawing same from his shirt to show the bosun. He also had something to report. “I contacted Mister Phimble,” he said. “He made it to Henderson Field, and Fisheye’s already found them a new engine.”
Josh was relieved to hear his old friend was safely on Guadalcanal. “Tell Eureka to stay where he is,” he told Stobs. “No use him coming up here. Did you get through to Colonel Burr?”
“No, sir,” Stobs reported. “And I wasn’t able to talk to Mister Phimble for very long. I think Vella’s mountain is blocking our signals.”
“Keep trying, and also get out the word on this damned I-boat if you can,” Josh told the radioman. Stobs nodded, then went back to his set.
In the early afternoon, when a horde of mosquitoes and biting flies descended on them, Josh was forced to move the Rosemary. With lookouts keeping a sharp eye, he set their course northward, working up the eastern side of the island. They were heading for the village of Karaka, where Penelope said her father presently lived. According to intelligence reports Josh had seen, Vella Lavella was at least partially occupied by Japanese troops, though only along the southern shore, and Karaka was well north. But he also knew intelligence reports were often wrong, or wrong-headed.
Vella Lavella was a lovely island, its beaches sugar white and framed by towering coconut palms. An inviting grassy savannah stretched back from the sand to a steep blue-green volcano that climbed into the clouds. The sea seemed unusually, luxuriously rich. Flocks of seabirds followed the gunboat, dolphins rode her bow wave, and flying fish scurried out of her way. It was all lovely, and peaceful, and wonderful, and therefore very dangerous according to Josh’s way of thinking. The Jackson twins requested permission to fish, but he wouldn’t allow it. He feared a curious Rufe or Zero might descend on them at any moment, not to mention that unhappy submarine, probably still on the scout for the little boat that had torpedoed its destroyer escort. But despite Josh’s concern, the seas and skies and land stayed empty of Jap. It was early afternoon when Penelope walked up to the bow and began to point at the next cove. She did not turn to look at Josh, just pointed the way.
With the Jackson twins calling out directions, Josh steered the Rosemary between two sharp coral outcrops and into a wide lagoon where the peaks of a number of thatched-roof houses could be seen poking above a fringe of palms and other trees. A group of people came through the village gate and began to wave. Penelope excitedly waved back. Suddenly the people on the beach burst into song, the grand singsong of the South Pacific islander, the lower male notes insistent and harsh, yet somehow merging perfectly with the higher, sweeter notes of the Maries. The songs rose and fell, and the people swayed together, their arms linked. Penelope clasped her arms around herself and twirled on the bow in her excitement, all but dancing on her toes. Josh called down to her, “Why are they singing?”
“They know I’m here,” she answered, and turned away from him.
“Do you, by chance, see your father?”
Penelope spoke over her shoulder. “No, I do not see him, mastah, but that is not unusual. He is, I’m certain, resting for all that he must do.”
Although Josh suspected the reply would not likely be informative, he couldn’t resist asking, “And what must he do?”
Penelope didn’t disappoint. “What there is to be done,” she answered. “Is mastah displeased by my answer?”
“Don’t call me mastah,” Josh muttered.
“But why not?” Penelope asked. “You think I am your slave.”
“You are not my slave!” he roared. When he saw the Jackson twins grin, he yelled, “Wipe them grins off your faces, you two, and keep your eyes forward!”
Penelope shrugged and said to the Jacksons, “I think Mastah Josh missed his calling. He would have been a very content slave master.”
The twins wisely refused comment and kept their eyes locked straight ahead.
Josh, fuming over Penelope’s attitude but glad to have reached what he hoped was the final destination of his mission, gently nosed the gunboat’s bow into the sand, then called Ready over. “You see a
ny aircraft or that damn destroyer or anything else, maneuver out of this lagoon and get the boys cracking on the guns. Don’t worry about me, just protect yourself.”
Penelope cast off her chambray shirt, dived off the bow, and swam to the beach. As she scampered up to the crowd of people, their singing swelled. Men, women, and children crowded around her. Josh dropped into the surf and sloshed onto the beach, stopping to listen as the people continued to sing. On board, Marvin suddenly bristled and began to growl. His jowls curled back, displaying every sharp tooth in his mouth, and before the twins could stop him, he launched himself overboard, flashed through the crowd, and raced through the village gate. Josh ran after him, but the little dog was too fast. He darted inside a hut. There was much snarling and growling, and also some screams. Josh was astonished when two Japanese sailors, wearing ragged white uniforms, suddenly burst out of the hut and went scurrying past him to the nearest tree, a huge banyan in the center of the village. They climbed it like monkeys, there to sit on its massive limbs, while Marvin leapt at them, his jaws snapping. Josh pondered the treed men, who pondered him back with wide, scared eyes. “Ease up, Marvin,” Josh said, although the dog clearly wasn’t about to follow orders. Once and Again soon arrived and calmed the little terrier as best they could, although Marvin forgot himself and, in his excitement, nipped Once on the arm.
Josh gave the Jackson twins orders to get Marvin back to the gunboat, one way or the other, and to lock him below if that’s what it took. He also ordered the Japanese down from the tree, and to his surprise, they obeyed. They bowed to him, then wordlessly went back inside their hut. Josh scratched up under his cap in wonder. Then another surprise occurred. Two skinny Americans climbed out of another hut. They were dressed in Navy denims, cut off at the knees, and ragged shirts. They were barefoot. “Hidy, sir,” one of them said while the other one executed a sloppy salute. “We’re American sailors. My name’s Seaman Billy Dove, and this here’s Seaman Davey Gray.”
“What’s your story?” Josh demanded, standing with his big arms folded across his chest to hear it.
They were shipwreck victims. The sailor named Billy, who wore a golden earring, did the talking and related how their destroyer had been sunk during a battle off Vella three months before. “Those Japanese boys,” Billy said, “also got themselfs washed ashore, the result of the same fight. We all got taken in by this here village. Joe Gimmee—he’s the local priest or some such—said we could stay as long as we were all peaceful-like together. Davey and I didn’t see no need to cause trouble with these Jap boys. We ain’t soldiers, we’re sailors, and now we’re on dry land, so we got no beef with nobody much. We figured to stay until someone came after us. Guess someone finally did.”
“Where is Joe Gimmee?” Josh asked.
“Don’t know. He left yesterday. I think he’s due back tomonow, though I wouldn’t swear to it. He comes and he goes.”
“How about a marine lieutenant? Tall guy, kind of a long face?”
Billy and Davey looked at each other. “Well, yes, sir,” Billy finally allowed, “He was wounded when he came here, stuck in the side by somethin’, but Joe Gimmee fixed him up.” Billy sheepishly hung his head. “He asked us not to ever talk about him to nobody, and here I’ve gone and done it. See, sir, he’s got a plan. He says he’s going to end the war.”
Josh knew he should have been surprised, but he wasn’t. Nothing about this mission so far had been straightforward, so why should David Armistead’s plans be any different? “And how is he going to end the war?” Josh asked, as if it were a perfectly natural question.
“We don’t know, sir,” Davey said, finally speaking up. “I asked him a couple of times, and all he said was me and Billy and Norio and Kamejiro, that’s them two Jap sailors, sir, that we was a good example of what could be done.”
Josh shook his head, then went back to the beach. The villagers had finished their singing and were returning to the village, still surrounding Penelope. She was smiling until she saw him, and then her smile vanished. “Is there news of your father?” he asked.
“He isn’t here, but I did learn Armistead is not only alive but healthy.”
Although Josh already knew that Armistead had survived, the information was still pleasing in that Penelope had cared enough to ask. “Wonderful news. Where is he?”
“He’s with my father.”
“And where is your father?”
“I’m not certain. He has gone to prepare the way but will return to transport the people.”
Josh didn’t even bother to ask what any of that meant. “We’ll wait,” he said with a sigh. “And then maybe, just maybe, find out what’s what, though I seriously doubt it.”
“Whatever you think is best, mastah,” Penelope said, then walked away like a queen, her worshipful retinue following.
45
They rode into Lahana in the grand manner of mastah and missus of all they surveyed. Along the way, Felicity had given Kennedy fair warning not to expect a lovely tropical village by the sea. “You’ll start smelling their pigpens a mile away. Then, as we get closer, you’ll start to smell the village itself. The bones of fish and chickens and all manner of foul garbage will litter the path. The only thing that keeps the place habitable is that every so often it catches on fire. That’s the only time you’ll see them expend much energy, as new huts have to be built. But within a few months, the place is filled with garbage again.”
But Kennedy did not smell the pigpens a mile away, or even as they passed them. To Felicity’s astonishment, the pens were extraordinarily clean, the grounds raked and the troughs neatly filled with slices of coconut meat. The pigs were plump and grunted complacently at the horses, who, in turn, nickered their haughty response. The path that led into the village was also swept clean. Children walked along the path in clean lap-laps, waving cheerfully. Some of them carried books. The village itself consisted of what appeared to be all new huts constructed of bamboo and held together with vines plaited into artistic designs. Felicity was astonished, and her astonishment continued when she beheld a new bamboo house on stilts in the village center with a very steep thatched roof. “Missionaries,” Felicity said, as if cursing. “And they’ve built a church. I should have known.”
She reined in Blackie and dismounted while Kennedy climbed off Delight. “What name preacher man?” she demanded of a child passing by, pointing at the church. The child, a girl, stopped and stared at her with wide eyes, then went scampering off. “What name preacher man?” Felicity shouted to the village. Men and women peeked from the huts, but none came out.
“I’m going to get to the bottom of this,” Felicity promised, and led Blackie to the largest of the huts. “Chief Big-Belly! I know you’re in there. Come out this instant, you old reprobate!”
In a time that indicated no rush, a big face poked through the doorway. It was a wide face, with a large flat nose and thick lips and two placid black eyes. The face came slowly into the sunlight followed by what Kennedy considered a fine-looking chap, unadorned with either necklace or earrings, though there were two huge unfilled holes in his lobes. His lap-lap was made of calico and was clean. “Missus Markham,” he said with a smile. “Long time you no stop along.”
Felicity cocked an eye. “Big-Belly, what name you all these fine new huts? And the big house just there. What name new preacher man build’m church?”
Big-Belly peered at the building as if it were the first time he’d ever seen it. “Meeting place,” he said, at last. “Not church.”
“Meeting place? For what puipose? What name you meet?”
Big-Belly shrugged and sheepishly turned his toes into the dirt. “Meeting place,” he said stubbornly, and no matter how much Felicity tried to gain more information, the chief refused to say anything more about it.
46
Eureka Phimble stood in the shadow of Dosie’s wing and watched the whirlwind of dust rising from the jeep speeding in his direction. His hand was clamped around a wrenc
h, and he felt like using it on the man who was the passenger in the jeep, Colonel Montague Burr. That very morning, Burr had spent ten minutes screaming at Phimble over the radio about Kennedy taking off in a PT boat when he was supposed to be court-martialed, and about Josh Thurlow, who apparently was not keeping him properly informed. Finally Phimble got a word in sideways, enough to tell the irate colonel he didn’t know much but what he knew he surely couldn’t say over the radio. And no, he wasn’t coming to Burr’s headquarters to report. He had a sick Catalina, and he was going to see her fixed. Burr had complained for ten more minutes before saying he’d come down to the beach that afternoon.
Now here he was. His clerk, his sleeve empty of stripes, jammed on the brakes and slid the jeep in beside Phimble, stopping within a foot of his boots. Phimble didn’t move nor bat an eye. Fisheye looked over the edge of the wing where an engine should have been but wasn’t. That engine, recently removed from a junked Catalina on Guadalcanal, was on a stand nearby, waiting to be jacked into place. Seeing who it was, Fisheye ducked out of sight. Phimble wished he could do the same.
“Let’s hear it, Ensign,” Burr snarled from beneath his helmet, “and it better be good.”
Phimble lowered the salute he knew the colonel expected and said, “I don’t know whether it’s good or not, sir, but I’ll tell you what I know. I got a call from Stobs, he’s our radioman, and he told me the situation.”