Left on Paradise

by Kirk Adams

  Several scouts ordered to locate the enemy returned after two hours and reported that the motorized launch was anchored near New Plymouth—though no attack preparations were observed. Consequently, it was decided to convene a General Will of the People at midmorning to exploit the lull. Two men were sent downhill with flare guns and three women were posted along the hillcrest with binoculars while everyone else assembled in the ravine.

  Ryan stood on a mountain swell as he addressed the assembly after passing around the remaining rations in a small bucket—several loaves of stale bread and a couple tins of imported herring—that did little more than stir hunger.

  “While certainly it’s peacemakers who are most blessed,” Ryan declared, “some of us held a war council and drew up defensive plans. We need your ratification.”

  No one stirred.

  “Our intent,” Ryan announced, “is to protect our people atop this hill while we send raiding parties to hit the enemy and gather supplies. We’ll set up traps on the trails and strike the northerners when they sleep. We’ll burn their tents and supplies and set their captives free. There’s unpicked food and uncut trees on this hill, so we can survive a month or two if necessary. They have guns but it won’t do much good shooting uphill as long as we’re over the ridge, so we can exploit the terrain. And if we can find some gasoline and oil, we can even the odds with incendiaries and explosives. Once their ammunition is used up, we’ll have the upper hand. All we need to do is make them shoot and miss.”

  “Just how many guns and bullets,” a man’s voice called from the crowd, “do they have?”

  “Maybe one or two guns. Maybe a hundred bullets. It’s hard to say.”

  “Isn’t that worth finding out?” the man pressed his point.

  Ryan shrugged.

  “And exactly when is help coming?” a woman asked.

  “We don’t know,” Ryan said. “Our best hope is that the yacht will be missed and a search party sent.”

  “That could take weeks,” someone grumbled. “We can’t wait that long.”

  “We’re pretty sure Captain Strong was in contact with American military forces. We hope they’ll come looking soon.”

  “That’s not much of a hope.”

  “What do you propose?” Ryan said. “I suppose we could load the LCVP and sail for Roanoke Island—and end up cannibals eating ourselves if no one finds us. Or maybe we could head for the westerly currents and a slow death by starvation if we miss Pitcairn Island. Or maybe just let the northsmen butcher us one at a time.”

  The man didn’t reply.

  “Steve Lovejoy,” Ryan said, “will help build bunkers on the hill. This isn’t his first war. We’ll use trees and dirt to make a fortress. Then we can stock it with arrows and rocks, clear a field of fire, and set up traps—hidden holes with sharp spikes. Everyone builds and everyone fights. Anyone who refuses to work or fight leaves right now. Later tonight, we’ll send a raiding party to the north and supply details east and south. We plan to save the western reserves for future needs.”

  A southern woman stood.

  “We southerners,” the woman said, “have suffered enough. I lost both of my boyfriends and my friends lost their husbands. Why should we give up our food first? Why not the west camp?”

  “Because,” Ryan replied with a scowl, “yours is safer to bring back to camp until we’re better prepared to fight.”

  “But why don’t ...”

  “I’m sorry,” Ryan said, “but we don’t have time to debate. All of us who plan to fight have agreed to this plan, including those on guard duty. We only need authorization to begin.”

  A black-haired man from the east village stood.

  “I’m a pacifist,” the black-haired man said, “and it’s against my principles to fight or support your war effort.”

  “Then you can help collect supplies.”

  “Not if they’ll be used by soldiers.”

  “What do you propose?” Ryan said. “That the water you draw be shared only with non-combatants?”

  “That’s not a bad idea.”

  “What about the soldiers who stand guard while you gather food? Don’t they deserve a fair share?”

  “My conscience won’t allow me to give food to armed men.”

  “Will your conscience defend you?” Ryan asked.

  The black-haired man looked down.

  Steve now raised his hand to speak. “I vote that everyone who won’t fight be expelled from camp,” he said with a grim face and a curt tone, “and I mean, this morning. This camp is at war and everyone shares in the risks and dangers and protection. If you can’t do the crime, you can’t have the time.”

  “You mean ... you mean,” the black-haired man protested, “you’d throw us at their mercy?”

  “As you would us,” Steve answered. “If you stay, you dig trenches and build earthworks or carry an ax. Or you can leave. It’s your choice.”

  “That’s a choice between killing and dying. You can’t force that decision on us. It’s obscene. It’s immoral. It’s ...”

  “It’s the essence of war,” Steve said, “and we have no choice.”

  “We need to vote now,” Ryan announced.

  No one objected.

  “Every wasted minute,” Ryan said, “may cost a man his life. Or a woman hers. Traps need to be dug before nightfall. I second this proposal and request a vote.”

  The crowd assented and a vote was taken—with a majority determining that every citizen must choose fight or flight. Among those in the political minority, only the black-haired man and his wife continued to announce themselves conscientious objectors and declare their intent to depart. Without further discussion, the majority authorized the couple’s request for a week’s rations and gave permission to take a sailboat to Roanoke Island until hostilities ceased. Farewells were brief and the pair of resolved pacifists broke camp without delay. Meanwhile, Ryan briefed everyone else on specific war plans before fielding a host of questions. While most islanders approved of self-defense plans, a slim majority disliked offensive operations, either from hatred of militarism or fear of casualties. After an hour of debate, a vote was taken and limited defensive operations were approved.

  Steve was utterly disgusted by the strategy while Ryan and John were merely dismayed. Viet nearly mutinied at its folly—insisting victory would be given to the army that chose its own field of fire and mobilized its entire citizenry as General Giap did against Americans forces in Vietnam. A majority of his fellow citizens didn’t agree and ignored the protests of what was thereafter deemed the War Party.

  After the votes were tallied, Steve took charge.

  “There’s one more thing,” Steve said as the people hushed. “The northsmen have a gun. Or guns. The fighting is going to be rough and both men and women likely will die. The northsmen have proven themselves pernicious from the assaulting of Lisa to the murder of the natives to yesterday’s treachery. We can’t afford to hold too many prisoners and we don’t have the means to exile or imprison them. Sad to say, it’s kill or be killed. No quarter. There’s no way around it. I don’t want illegal killings to occur, but they will if we lack the death penalty. Only if we have legalized capital punishment are we going to escape retribution for war crimes when this is over.”

  A man raised his hand.

  “We can’t murder prisoners,” the man said.

  “We can’t murder prisoners,” Steve agreed, “but we can declare martial law and make illegal possession of a gun a capital crime by constitutional amendment and send word any rebel caught with a gun will die. Maybe that’ll put a little fear into them.”

  No one made the proposal.

  “If we don’t do this,” Steve said, “they’ll take potshots till the last of us has dropped. It’s us versus them.”

  A voice from the crowd seconded the motion and after several silent seconds the second amendment to the constitution was enacted without further discussion—unauthorized ownership of a firearm was d
eclared a capital crime. The assembly further decided that unauthorized ownership of a firearm should include persons conspiring with or benefiting from illegal weapons.

  Ambushes were set on the slopes by nightfall. Sharpened foot-long stakes were embedded into two-foot-deep holes covered with branches, leaves, and dirt. A dozen such traps were set across the trail on the west side of Mount Zion and another three dozen placed along a perimeter defense on the north side of the camp. Laborers also stacked trees along the east edge of the summit and covered them with dirt as a redoubt capable of stopping pistol shots. Extra weapons were prepositioned throughout the camp in case of attack: stones, spears, axes, shovels, hoes, and even coconuts.

  Shortly after dusk, two details of armed settlers were deployed. Viet led two easterners to collect intelligence on northern preparations and intentions while Steve led foragers to find fruit on Mount Zion. Everyone else continued to work: digging ditches, felling trees, shoveling dirt, and posting guard. Only children were permitted the leisure of early bed. Not until the perimeter was secured did weary islanders fall into camp, leaving several men posted as guards and a few others sleeping at battle stations.

  After being relieved of duty for a time, Ryan found Maria near a fire and sat beside her. The fire was little more than hot coals in a tarp-covered pit of ashes—though it remained warm enough to brew coffee.

  “There you are,” Ryan said to his pregnant bride when he saw her.

  “I want to go home” Maria said, her face stained with tears.

  “It’s not safe.”

  “It’s safer than here.”

  “No,” Ryan said, “the west village is too close to the northsmen. Too easy for them to raid.”

  “Home,” Maria said. “I want to go home. To the United States.”

  “Isn’t Paradise our home?”

  “This isn’t my home,” Maria said. “I was crazy to come—and now I’m pregnant and scared and hungry. There are madmen making war on us and cannibals want to eat what’s left over. I gave up grad school to become a side dish.”

  “You’re safe tonight with me.”

  “I’d feel a lot safer if you had a gun.”

  “It’s against the law.”

  “Power,” Maria said as she shook her head, “is politics from the barrel of a gun. Haven’t you learned that yet?”

  “I guess,” Ryan said with a shrug, “I’m a hopeless idealist.”

  “You’re right about that: idealism is hopeless. Even in Paradise.”

  Ryan placed a hand on Maria’s thigh.

  “You can’t live without hope,” Ryan said. “If we can’t dream of a better world, what will we become? That’s the sin of the right.”

  “Maybe it’s their realism,” Maria replied, “even their wisdom.”

  “I won’t give in to pessimism,” Ryan said. “I won’t accept the world as it is. I will uphold my faith in mankind and the promise of a better future. I will work to improve the world.”

  “You will become fat on the bones of barbarians,” Maria said with a weak smile, “and dung in their bowels—if you don’t clear your head of idiocy.”

  Ryan fell silent as Maria threw a few sticks into the fire and lay down on her side, belly toward the warm flames. Only after Maria slept did Ryan return to the perimeter to stand guard at a fortified position—where he looked into the dark until his eyes blurred and his head hurt, straining to see every shift in the shadows and listening for every snap of a stick. It was nearly midnight when he was relieved by a southerner and wrapped a wool blanket around himself as he closed his eyes to rest.

  Ursula’s shivering woke Sean. The dark was deep and he couldn’t see her face in the shadow of a beech tree—where she lay covered with a single wool blanket. When Sean touched Ursula’s cheek and found it wet, he sat up.

  “Ursula, what’s wrong?”

  “I’m cold.”

  “Our fire went out?”

  “Hours ago.”

  Sean slid from the warmth of his wool blanket and walked to a fire a few feet away and rolled a small log on it. The coals remained hot and it wasn’t long before the wood crackled and radiated its warmth outward.

  Meanwhile, Sean found a spare blanket in an unoccupied tent and spread both it and his own blanket over Ursula before lying down a couple feet from her. He folded his arms and crossed his legs to draw in his own warmth.

  Ursula turned toward Sean. “You’re cold too,” she said.

  “I’m okay.”

  “Come under the covers with me. It’ll keep us both warm.”

  Sean scooted toward the mother of his unborn child and pulled the blankets over himself.

  “That’s better,” he said as he pressed his hand to Ursula’s belly. “Can I touch the baby?”

  “That’s fine.”

  “Does it move much?”

  “He,” Ursula said, “or she, quivers once in a while, I think. Mostly at night. I felt something a few minutes ago.”

  “I feel like a god—a life maker.”

  “Then I’m a goddess?”

  “You always were.”

  “I’m still cold,” Ursula said after a time, “come closer.”

  Sean moved closer to the pregnant woman until her breasts flattened against his chest.

  “You are cold,” Sean said, “I can feel you against me.”

  “Has it been so long,” Ursula whispered, “that you can’t tell the difference between hot and cold?”

  Sean smiled and moved his hand down the young woman’s belly.

  Ursula didn’t object.

  “I’m sorry for being a fool,” Sean said.

  “You were a jerk,” Ursula said, “but I guess I didn’t make it easy for you either.”

  “I wasn’t much of a man; at least not a good one. I’m so sorry.”

  “I can’t talk about it any more,” Ursula whispered as she pressed a finger to Sean’s lips. “Tend your business here.”

  “Can you do this?” Sean asked as he stopped his hands where they were. “I mean, being pregnant?”

  “I’m not ready to burst quite yet.”

  “I don’t want to hurt the baby.”

  “Tend your business.”

  Sean slipped one hand between Ursula’s legs as he pulled her close with the other drawn around her waist. After several seconds, he loosened his grip and fell away from the young woman.

  “I don’t want it,” Sean said. “Not like this.”

  “You don’t want me?”

  “I mean,” Sean said, “no more meaningless sex. Only what’s good for you and our baby.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Ursula, I want you more than I want to make love. I want it to be good between us. If I can’t have you, I don’t need the sex.”

  Ursula looked at Sean a long while through the dark of the night, then pulled him close and began to sob.

  “Now,” Ursula said with a quivering voice, “you’ve become the man I wanted. The man I need. The man my ... the man our baby needs.”

  “Our child,” Sean said, “needs a father, not just a boyfriend for his mom.”

  “I know.”

  “Should we marry?”

  “That’s your choice,” Ursula said. “All I want is a man.”

  “I choose you.”

  “Now?”

  “Ursula Gottlieb-Tate, will you marry me?” Sean whispered.

  “Yes.”

  “Then I pronounce us husband and wife.”

  A tear fell down Ursula’s cheek as she let herself be kissed as a bride for the first time. The fire burned hot for the next several minutes and so did love. When the couple was finished, they tossed blankets aside to cool themselves. Their bodies were so close that they had no need for more than a single blanket, even after the fire burned to ashes.

  Early in the morning, Sean rose to rekindle the fire and to prepare a plate of food for his wife.

  40

  Criminals and Guns

  Scouting part
ies deployed at dawn. Three pairs of soldiers—each including a strong fighter and a fast runner—patrolled along the north, west, and east slopes of Mount Zion while the south trail was secured by a single picket (with a conch shell) ready to insure northern raiders didn’t infiltrate the south slope undetected. Behind the scouts came foragers searching for food. Most stayed close to camp while they collected green bananas and unripe pecans and dared not deploy to more fertile orchards at the base of the hill for fear of a northern ambush. Meanwhile, sentries posted atop Mount Zion as lookouts trained their eyes and binoculars on a waft of smoke rising from the north and watched northsmen ferry supplies from New Plymouth to the northern village via the motorized launch. By noon, foragers had collected enough food for a couple meals, after which they returned to the refugee camp atop the mountain and recalled all pickets to camp.

  Afternoon was spent shoring defenses as traps were dug and earthworks built. Every man and several women took weapons training: practicing close quarters combat with spears and axes and knives. Dulled weapons were used for practice, though one girl managed to cut herself with a table knife and two men pulled muscles while sparring. Spears were hurled into a dirt mound and arrows shot into discarded crates. Most of the hastily organized militia showed marked improvement after their rudimentary training.

  Late in the afternoon, Viet returned from long-range patrol with disconcerting news: he had watched the northern camp for several hours and observed them preparing for battle. Spears were being sharpened, bows strung, and firebombs stockpiled. The northsmen had gathered provisions and were teaching lethal combat techniques even to their women. Viet claimed to have crept close enough to hear Father Donovan tell fighters the battle might require the liquidation of all opponents and natives; he also reported that two native women had been taken in chains to the northern camp—though he could only guess what they were needed for. In any case, Viet assessed that the northsmen intended to wage war and expected them to commence operations by day’s end.