‘Then what are you going to do?’
‘I'm still thinking about it.’
Ahead of them one of the carriers gave a cry of alarm. He had lost his footing in the mud, and fallen on to his back. There was a hundred-foot drop on one side; he let go of the poles to keep himself from falling over the edge. His fellows were thrown off the balance; the load spilled into the mud.
‘The batteries,’ Corrigan said.
‘Christ, no!’ Manning shouted. He scrambled up the path, Corrigan behind him.
But they were too late. They could only watch on helplessly as the carrier slid over the edge of the trail, the bamboo stretcher and its load of batteries following him over the edge. Manning slipped in the mud and Corrigan vaulted over him, making a desperate attempt to save the young islander, lunging for the boy's outstretched arm as he fell. He grabbed his wrist, but his skin was greasy-wet with sweat and rain and he couldn’t hold him; the boy screamed once and then cart-wheeled down into the swirling muddy torrent of the river. Within seconds he had disappeared, carried away downstream and out of sight, the wreckage of the stretcher bobbing in his wake.
Nobody spoke. The only sound was the roar of the waters below. The other carriers stared at the river, eyes wide.
Manning lay on his belly, tried to think about the poor boy who had just died, but he couldn't. All he could think of was the batteries. Without them the radio was useless.
It had all been for nothing. They might just as well have let the Japanese shoot them anyway.
*****
It was dark when they reached the camp. It seemed as if it was going to rain forever. They huddled together under a rocky overhang, exhausted, soaked through and dispirited. Unable to start a fire they ate a gloomy meal of tinned corned beef and cold beans by the light of a kerosene lamp.
There were leeches by their hundreds on the mossy trails, and after they had eaten Corrigan went around with a lighted cigarette, burning them off their feet and legs. The only sound was Father Goode's muttered incantations, as he struggled and twitched in his delirium. Rachel knelt beside him, trying to force a few drops of water between his lips.
‘How is he?’ Corrigan asked her.
‘He’s very weak. He is having another attack of the malaria.’
‘Manning's got some atabrine.’
‘It's too late for that now. He just needs rest.’
‘Don't we all.’
Rachel lowered her voice. ‘Mister Manning says the radio is useless without the batteries.’
Corrigan nodded. ‘Totally buggered. Pardon my French.’
‘So all your efforts were for nothing?’
‘I don't know about for nothing. You're still alive, aren't you?’
Rachel smiled at him. ‘Yes. Thank you. You're a good man, Mister Corrigan.’
‘No, I’m not. I’d have saved my own skin if I could, but I didn’t have any choice.’
‘Come now, Mister Corrigan. When you saw the Japanese at Marakon, you could easily have waited till they were gone, and doubled back behind them. Why didn't you?’
Corrigan didn’t answer her straight away. ‘Well, I suppose I could have done,’ he said finally. ‘But every man's allowed a little foolishness once in his life.’ He reached into his pack and took out the half bottle of whisky. He offered it to her. ‘This will help keep the cold out.’
Rachel hesitated, then guiltily, she took it from him. She took a sip and handed it back. She made a valiant effort not to cough.
‘You're getting better at this. We'll made a degenerate of you yet.’
‘Thank you for the drink, Mister Corrigan.’
‘My pleasure, Miss Goode.’
*****
On the other side of the cave Sanei watched them, her eyes glittering. Iris was looking at that white missus in a way she had never seen him look at any woman before. She knew Corrigan went with other native girls, sometimes he did it right under her nose, but she knew that didn’t mean anything. It was only sex and he was a white man after all.
She had always supposed that one day Iris would marry her. Other planters had married native girls. She could never be the same as a white missus, but it didn't matter, among her own it would give her respect.
He was the same as her, inside they were both one-talk. She knew his violent tempers and his lumbering gentleness. She had seen him at his worst, when he fell into his dark moods and she had seen him at his best when he roared with laughter and made everyone around him laugh with him.
She loved Iris; loved his craziness and his crooked grin. She loved him more than he had ever guessed. If he ever left her, she supposed she would hate him just as much.
Go with that white woman, she thought, staring into the embers of the fire, and I’ll kill you.
*****
Patrick Corrigan was in a benevolent mood. He had a little whisky in him asnd the world somehow seemed a better place. At first light Manning had set Lavella and his men to work building a new hut for the radio, and constructing a new lookout in the trees. The camp had been finished before sundown; three huts had been fashioned from bamboo, palm and thatch under the steep walls of the gully; one for Manning and the radio; one for Lavella and his men; and one for Corrigan, Rachel and her uncle.
The storm had eased during the day but as twilight fell another squall had moved in from the south; Corrigan huddled further into the corner of the hut while the rain cascaded from the eaves. A smoked-glass hurricane lamp swung from one of the rough-hewn bamboo rafters.
Rachel was trying to feed her uncle some tinned soup. Somehow, he had rallied; the fever had broken and he was fully conscious again. Worse luck, Corrigan thought sourly.
Corrigan opened the second bottle of whisky, took a swallow, and ignored them. Despite what he had said to Rachel, the truth was that he was now regretting saving Manning from the Japs. What the hell got into me? he wondered.
Now he was trapped in the jungle with a martyr and a priest. Oh, well. At least he had the whisky.
Manning came in, his hair plastered in thin strands across his forehead.
‘Still busy organizing the war?’ Corrigan said.
Manning picked up the empty Johnny Walker bottle lying at his feet. ‘My God, Patrick, old chap. You've drunk the whole bottle.’
‘A nice drop too, old son,’ Corrigan said, raising the new bottle to his lips.
‘I think you'd better go easy on that stuff.’
‘I don't see why. I've got nothing better to do.’
Manning squatted down, wiping rain off his face. ‘Got a bit of a problem, old boy.’
‘I know. The radio’s stuffed. Still, that's none of my business.’
Manning lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘I have to get back on the air, Patrick old boy. There must be somewhere on the island I can get some more batteries.’
‘Why don't you go and get some off Heydrich?’
‘Heydrich?’
‘He's got four new batteries in the boatshed. Saw them myself. Suppose he keeps them as spares for his yacht motor.’
‘Just what we need!’ He looked eagerly at Corrigan. ‘Well - will you help us?’
Corrigan stared at him. ‘Help you do what?’
‘I'll send Sergeant Lavella and his men to get those batteries. Will you go with them and help out? You know your way round the place now.’
‘You’re out of your fucking mind, Manning. The place is swarming with Nips. If you want to play tin soldiers, that's up to you. But this isn't my war. Remember?’
Manning patted him gently on the shoulder. ‘All right, old boy. I understand. You've helped us enough as it is.’
‘Too right I have.’ Corrigan shook his head in disgust. The man was obsessed with that damned radio. He was going to get himself killed.
It was only a matter of time before the Japanese caught up with him. If it wasn't for me, he thought, he’d be dead already. He could see how it would all end up, him hunched over the radio, there would
be shouts and a sudden volley of gunfire as the Japanese burst out of the jungle. Lavella and his men would put up a brief, bitter fight and then it would be all over. The best Manning could hope for was a quick death by a bullet.
He looked at Rachel crouched by her uncle's stretcher. She saw him looking at her and looked up and smiled.
Corrigan scowled and looked away. ‘I'm sorry Manning. I'd like to help, but that's the way it is.’
‘No need to apologize old boy,’ Manning said cheerfully and turned to go back outside. Then almost as an afterthought he said: ‘Pity though. Because it's probably your only way to get out of this damned mess.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, as soon as the radio is working again I can arrange for Father Goode and his niece to be evacuated.’
‘How the hell will you do that?’
That innocent look on his face, Corrigan thought. He regretted having felt sorry for him now. Manning was a cunning bastard. ‘Submarine. The Americans have promised to evacuate me at any time. Of course I'll stay here as long as I'm useful. But Father Goode needs urgent medical attention and I have to try and save the girl.’
‘Get to it, Manning. What's the deal?’
‘That's such a crass word, Patrick old boy. It's not a deal, only a suggestion. I could go after the batteries myself, but then I'm not as fit as you and there's a good chance I might not come back. In which case you’ll have no choice but to skulk away up here and rot with Father Goode and his niece. So really, getting those batteries has nothing to do with the war. It’s more like - well, it’s like your only hope, really. So - what's it to be, old chap?’
Corrigan screwed the cap back on the whisky bottle. ‘When do we leave?’
Chapter 31
Manning’s plan had been for Corrigan, Sergeant Lavella and the six native constables to head back to Heydrich's plantation, while the Japanese were still searching for them, and take the batteries before they got back to Marakon. But the next evening, when Corrigan and Lavella crept on their hands and knees through the coconut palms two hundred yards from Heydrich's bungalow, they realized it would not be quite that simple.
Heydrich and the Japanese were already there.
Corrigan wondered how long the Japanese soldiers planned to stay at Marakon. Christ, they might even decide to set up a camp there. He could smell them on the evening breeze, whatever it was they were cooking. There were only about half a dozen of them outside, the rest must be inside the bungalow having dinner.
Knowing the Japs, they've bivouacked in Heydrich's bedroom, Corrigan thought with dark satisfaction.
‘Bugger it,’ Corrigan said aloud.
‘We kill Japoni soldier?’ Sergeant Lavella whispered.
‘Sure, if we had a regiment of paratroopers behind us, instead of this sorry lot.’ Corrigan looked round at Lavella's men, lying on their bellies a few yards behind them. They were armed with an odd assortment of ancient bolt-action rifles, which would be of little use against the Japanese Arisakas in a firefight. Corrigan's Mannlicher was the only modern weapon they had. It was Corrigan's intention to avoid shooting at all costs, despite Sergeant Lavella's evident disappointment.
‘We go house b'long battery?’ Sergeant Lavella said.
‘You're an eager little bugger, aren't you?’ Corrigan said and the six men started crawling towards the boatshed.
There were two guards. They slouched on the jetty, rifles cradled between their knees, smoking cigarettes. Their voices carried to Corrigan on the faint breeze. It was a token detail. After all, they were the hunters, the last thing the Japanese expected was to be attacked themselves.
It would be a simple matter to take care of them, Corrigan decided. Sergeant Lavella drew his knife and made an elaborate pantomime of drawing the blade across his throat.
Corrigan nodded. ‘Yes, okay. But we'll wait till dark. Then I'll let you loose.’
Corrigan shook his head. He was glad the bloodthirsty bugger was on his side.
*****
As luck would have it, there was a full moon. It hung over the ocean like a huge silver coin, bathing the boathouse and the rows of coconut trees in silver. The Japanese might as well have lit up the promontory with searchlights.
Corrigan zigzagged through the trees, a long gutting knife clasped in his right hand. From the other side of the grove he heard a monkey chattering in the trees. It was actually Lavella, signaling that he was in position.
The two guards were laughing; their enemy was miles away somewhere up in the mountains. After an hour one of them wandered away into the trees to relieve himself. It was the moment Corrigan had been waiting for; Lavella was waiting among the palms, ready for him.
His companion sat on the end of the jetty with his rifle cradled across his legs, and lit yet another cigarette. Corrigan crept towards him, hidden by the lee of the jetty. The sentry had his back to him.
Corrigan hesitated. Killing wasn't his line. The thought of cold-bloodedly cutting another man's throat with a knife didn't appeal. Instead he upturned the knife in his hand to expose the hard ivory handle with its blunt steel tip. That ought to do the job just as well.
Corrigan rose to his feet and was just two feet away when he heard the other Japanese gasp as Lavella dispatched him. The other sentry heard it too and jumped to his feet. Corrigan slapped his hand over the sentry's mouth to stop him shouting an alarm, and brought his knife down in a shallow arc from his shoulder.
But the lad was too quick for him. He brought the rifle up from his lap with both hands in a reflex action and threw it up over his head. Corrigan's wrist came down across the barrel, knocking the knife out of his grasp. It landed silently in the carpet of vines under the palms.
Corrigan kept his left hand over the man's mouth, and tried to wrestle the rifle out of the man's grip with his injured hand. But the young soldier released his hold of the rifle, throwing Corrigan off balance; at the same time he brought both his elbows down and behind him, into Corrigan's ribs. Corrigan doubled over, winded. Two more blows caught him just below the heart and he fell sideways into the grass.
When he looked up he found himself looking down the barrel of the Arisaka. There was something hard under his left hand. His knife! In one movement he picked it up and threw it, rolling sideways away from the barrel. The soldier ducked away from the knife, the rifle firing wildly into the trees. Before he could aim a second time a dark hand clamped around his mouth and a silver blade flashed in the dark. He slumped forward, Sergeant Lavella kneeling over him.
Corrigan struggled to his knees, and picked up the rifle. His hands were shaking. That was nearly the end of you right there, Patrick my old son.
Lavella's men raced towards the boathouse, their boots drumming on the wooden jetty. ‘We'd better hurry,’ Corrigan said. The instruction was unnecessary.
They heard shouts from the main bungalow as the Japanese soldiers ran outside, alerted by the gunshot. Corrigan saw a large man in a white suit run out on to the veranda, pointing towards the boathouse.
Corrigan hoisted the rifle on to his shoulder. It was too late for subtlety. They would have to battle their way out. The Japanese were swarming along the pathway from the bungalow. Rifle fire splintered the wooden planking next to Corrigan's head and one of the native constables screamed and fell.
Corrigan dragged him inside the boatshed, blood smearing the wooden planking behind them. Lavella and the rest of his men were already crouched inside the doorway, returning fire into the grove.
Corrigan grabbed Lavella. ‘There's no way we're getting back out through the plantation.’
‘We bugger up properly orright,’ Lavella grunted. He checked on the wounded man. A crimson-stained froth bubbled between the man's lips. ‘Very bad,’ Lavella said. ‘Lung shot.’
The man's eyes flickered open. Lavella broke the news to him as gently as possible. ‘You for die,’ he told him.
The moon was framed by the open seaward doors. It cast an eerie glow around
the boatshed, made Corrigan think he was hallucinating, for there, side by side with the Deutschland, was the Shamrock.
‘The Jap reinforcements must have sailed up in her,’ Corrigan said.
‘We finis here,’ Sergeant Lavella shouted at him. ‘No good very mus!’
To emphasise Lavella's summation of the situation, one of his men fell sideways on the planking, blood streaming from his left shoulder. Another man took his place at the door as rifle fire smashed into the flimsy walls of the boathouse.
‘Get your men to load the batteries onto the Shamrock,’ Corrigan shouted at Lavella. ‘It’s our only way out now.’
Lavella shouted out a command. Two of his men jumped to their feet and dragged the batteries onto the stern of the Shamrock. When it was done, Corrigan ordered the rest of the men into the back of the launch.
Corrigan handed Lavella the Mannlicher. ‘Hold them off with this,’ he shouted.
He leaped into the Shamrock’s cockpit and started the engines while Lavella emptied the Mannlicher's magazine at the line of advancing soldiers, keeping them pinned down by the first line of coconut palms.
Corrigan unhitched the ropes on the bows and the stern and then ran back to get Sergeant Lavella. ‘What about him?’ he shouted, pointing to the man with the lung wound.
‘Corporal Bingiti volunteer for hero,’ Lavella said.
Bingiti lay on his back, his teeth and lips stained with his own blood. His eyes fluttered open and he raised his hand for the Mannlicher. Lavella reloaded the magazine and passed it to him. Lavella whispered something to him and then he and Corrigan vaulted into the boat. Corrigan pushed the motor to full throttle and pointed her nose out of the boatshed, straight for the moon.
Rifle fire whined around them. Corrigan ducked down as bullets smashed the glass windscreen and splintered the solid mahogany bulwark. He kept a hand on the wheel of the Shamrock, and peered back over the stern. Already the Japanese soldiers were running up the jetty towards the boathouse. There was no answering fire from Bingiti. Poor bastard’s dead, Corrigan thought.
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