by Morris West
It was as clear as water. Our small force would be broken up—Johnny on the Wahine, Nino keeping his solitary vigil behind the rocks, Pat and I penned in our hole in the hill waiting for the chance to slip through the bush like hunted beasts, and make our way down to the water. There was nothing to add, nothing to subtract, the tally was made. It was time to go. I stretched out my hand, Nino took it.
“Good luck, Nino!”
“Good luck, my friend—and to the little lady!”
Pat took his small lean face in her hands and kissed him.
“Thanks, Nino. God keep you.”
I slung the field-glasses round my neck and hooked a small torch to my belt. We picked up the rifle and the ammunition and the water-bag and a small package of food and walked off into the bush. Nino stood a moment looking out across the water, then he turned away and went into the tent.
Half-way up the hill we stopped and looked back. A break in the trees gave us a clear view of the lagoon and the outer reef.
The black lugger was coming through the channel now. We saw her buck a little in the troubled water, then slide forward into the calm. They cut the engines and she moved slowly forward towards the anchorage of the Wahine. She was about three cable-lengths away when they dropped the hook. I swore softly. The boys knew their business. They were moored slap across the channel. The Wahine could not get out without a wide detour through which the machine-gun could rake every inch of her decks. We saw a boat lowered and half a dozen men climb into her. There were four at the oars and one in the stern with a rifle on his knees. There was another in the bows.
We looked at the Wahine. Johnny Akimoto was standing amidships, a little back from the rail, the rifle trailing easily below his hip. The rowers rowed the boat with long, easy strokes across the intervening water, until they were almost under the counter of the Wahine. Then they backed water and held her, rocking a little against the wash. Johnny Akimoto did not move.
I glanced back at the black lugger. Manny Mannix and the rest of the crew lined the deck. There was a man behind the machine-gun in the bows. He was squatting and sighting it across the decks of the Wahine.
When I shifted the glasses back to her I saw that Johnny was still standing in the same position while the fellow in the bows of the row-boat was talking and waving his hands. He wanted to come aboard. Johnny shook his head. The fellow talked again, his gestures were jerky, like those of an angry puppet. I saw Johnny raise the rifle slowly, ever so slowly. I caught the movement of his hand as he shoved the bolt home and threw off the safety-catch.
Then a burst from the machine-gun cut him down.
Chapter 17
THE sea-birds rose in screaming horror from the rocks and from the reefs. The echoes of the shots rang shatteringly along the ridge between the peaks. In one suspended moment of shock and terror we saw the body of Johnny Akimoto flung backwards into the air, fall, twitching and perking against the cabin-hatch, and then lie still.
Pat buried her face in her hands. Her body was shaken by deep, shuddering sobs. The echoes died. The sea-birds settled again; and the silence of death hung in the bright air between the island and the sea.
Then my belly knotted and I vomited on the dead leaves. When I looked up again I saw that the men from the dinghy were scurrying over the ship like rats—diving down the companionway, ripping off the hatch-covers, defiling every comer of the boat which had been Johnny Akimoto’s woman. Then anger rose in me, deep, soul-wrenching agony, that set me gibbering obscenities and leaping and shouting like a madman at the men who had killed my brother. Then the anger died to blank wretchedness and we turned away, climbing slowly up the hill and along the saddle to the dark cleft in the rocks.
A stale animal smell hung heavily about the entrance. When I shone the torch inside, an aged goat bleated and shot out between our feet. His hair was long and matted and he stank foully. The floor inside was deep in his droppings. I shone the torch on the rear wall and saw that it was broken by another narrower cleft beyond which was blackness. When I flashed the beam on a roof a small colony of bats stirred and squeaked and made a small panic, then settled again as I shone the light round the walls.
Pat shivered and drew close to me. The torch-light pried out a small angle in the rock-walls. I scraped the filth away with the sole of my shoe and set down the food and the water-bottle and the clips of ammunition. I turned to Pat and pointed.
“When the shooting starts, sweetheart, that’s where you’ll be—head down and tucked well behind the angle of the rock. It’s not much help, when they start shooting into the cave and the slugs start whipping off the walls, but at least you’ll be able to pass the spare clips to me.”
She nodded, as if she could not trust herself to speak. I took her hand and drew her out into the sunlight. In the bushes near the cave we found two large rocks, covered with moss. These we carried and set across the entrance so that they made a small crenellation that would give me some small protection when the shooting started and leave me a reasonable traverse of the path below.
We scouted the bush on either side of the cleft, noting with desperate precision every bush and rock and fallen log that might shield us when we made our desperate dash down to the beach. I clutched at the small consolation when I saw how steeply the goat-track fell away in front of the cleft, and how a man approaching it from below must walk straight into my sights.
Then, our survey made, our small fortress prepared as much as it could ever be against the coming siege, we stood together in front of the dark hole in the rock and looked down to the camp and the beach and the sea.
The rats had left the Wahine now. They had nosed and scampered and pried and then gone overside, their appetites unsatisfied. The dark, crumpled figure still lay against the cabin-hatch, and the Wahine rocked in the water, like a woman nursing her lonely grief.
Now they were coming ashore—two boatloads of them this time—four men to a boat, with Manny Mannix sitting in the stern of the leading craft. The sunlight glistened on their sweating backs as they bent to the oars and I saw their lips move in talk and laughter, though I could not hear a sound. They were armed—two with automatic rifles, the rest with pistols and standard .303s. They drove hard inshore and beached the boats high up on the sand. Then they spread out and advanced up the slope towards the camp, with Manny Mannix bringing up the rear, like the cautious fellow he was.
The noise of their shouting drifted up faintly, as we watched them scrambling about the camp, up-ending crates and boxes, ripping the tops off them, kicking them aside with angry disappointment. Then, when they found nothing, they stopped. They gathered round Manny and stood dejectedly while he harangued them. We could guess what he was telling them. The treasure must be on the island somewhere. If they found us they would find it, too. We saw him point upwards to the ridge, making a long sweep with his arm in the direction of the upper slopes. We saw him bend down and trace lines in the sand while the others bowed their heads to look at him. Then he straightened up. The men strung themselves out in a long line on the tussocky fringe of the sand. Manny took his place in the centre of the line. I saw him put his hand into the breast of his white coat and withdraw it, holding a long-barrelled black pistol. Then he waved and shouted something which I could not hear and the whole line moved slowly forward into the bush.
They were coming after us. It was time to retire to our fortress in the rock.
When we were inside I made Pat lie down on her stomach on the floor, so that her head was protected by the skirt of the rock. I was worried about what might happen when Manny and his boys began shooting into the cave-mouth. The bullets would go buzzing like angry bees, ricocheting between the walls. A sudden thought occurred to me.
I handed her the torch, warning her to shield the light with her hand, and sent her back to explore the narrow opening in the rear wall. She started to protest. I silenced her with a gesture. I heard her move gingerly into the darkness. I saw the small reddish glow of the torch shinin
g through her fingers. Then she called softly.
“It’s quite large, Renn. I can’t see all of it. But there’s quite a big wall to the left of the entrance. The floor’s clean, too.”
“Good! Lie down behind it. Switch off the torch. And don’t come out whatever happens. If anything happens to me, stay there. There’s just a chance that they’ll think I’m alone and leave you there.”
I heard her give a small cry and I half turned to comfort her. Then, quite near, I heard voices and the crashing of clumsy men through the bush.
I called softly, warning her. She did not answer.
I took a long swig from the water-bottle, drew the clips of ammunition close to my hand and sprawled in the firing position between the two stones.
I worked the bolt of the rifle and then shot it home, shoving a shell into the breech. Then I thrust the barrel out between the rocks, enough to give me a traverse of the approach, laid the butt of it hard against my shoulder and sighted down the sloping path.
That was the way they would come. There was no other approach. They might strike down from the ridge, they might move upwards along the flank of the hill; but at the end, they must come out on the goat-track and I would see them.
I tried to think, what I would do if I were planning Manny’s tactics for him. I told myself that I would set two men with automatic rifles in the bushes on either side of the track. These two would begin pouring crossfire into the cave, enfilading me, pinning me down, while the others crept up along the bush fringe to jump me at point-blank range. One man, with a single-action rifle, could not long survive a manoeuvre like that. I took small courage from the thought that Manny had fought his war from King’s Cross and might well have forgotten what they had taught him as a rookie.
My body was cramped; my arms ached. My elbows were frayed by the rough floor. The sweat was pouring down my face, the small nodule of the foresight wavered and trembled. I shifted and eased myself a little as the noise came closer.
They had lost formation now. Their voices were scattered. They stumbled and cursed and shouted to one another when they lost contact among the tree-trunks and the thick bushes and the trailing vines. I pictured them, sweating and angry, their flesh tom by brambles and twigs, tormented by flies and buzzing gnats, and I smiled sourly to myself.
Then they seemed to come together. The footsteps converged on a spot near the bottom of the track. The shouting ceased. There was a babble of voices, then a murmur, over which I heard a single, harsh voice crackling in a spate of unintelligible words. Then the murmuring began again—sullen, protesting.
Three seconds later Manny Mannix stepped out on the track. His white duck suit was crumpled and stained. He had lost his hat. His face was streaked with sweat and grime. He looked angry and unhappy. His mouth was working; I heard the nasal, snarling sound of his voice but I could not distinguish the words. He waved his pistol dangerously and pointed first at the ground, then, with a wide sweep, at the surrounding bush. Then he raised his head and stared straight into the mouth of the cave.
Then I shot him between the eyes.
The impact carried him backward down the path, spinning. He crumpled and lay still.
I heard the shot echo along the ridge. I heard the sudden riot of the sea-birds. I ejected the spent shell and shoved another up the spout. Now, I thought, they would come.
But they didn’t come. They broke and ran. I heard a voice scream.
“Manny’s had it!”
Then the whole sorry crew ran, stumbling and plunging and yelling down the slope. Then I was standing in the mouth of the cave firing wildly into the bush. I heard a yelp of pain and the crash of a falling body and I shouted and fired again and again, laughing crazily as I heard the high whine of the bullets through the trees . . .
I wondered, irrelevantly, what had happened to Nino Ferrari.
Then Pat was beside me and we stood together watching the wild stampede break through the fringe of the bush and stumble drunkenly down to the waiting boats. I flung the hot rifle on the ground and propped myself against the rock-face, sobbing and retching and trembling like a man in fever.
When the spasm had passed Pat handed me the water-bottle and I drank, gagging at first, then gulping down the cool, flat liquid as if there were a fire in my belly. Then I up-ended it and poured the water over my face and neck and breast as if to wash away the slime of a nightmare that had clung to me even after waking. Then her control broke, too, and she sobbed and clung to me, her face against my breast, kissed me, clinging to me, weeping and laughing at once, pressing my body to hers as if to assure herself that it was still living and whole . . . not lying as Manny’s lay, a bloodied wreck on the goat-path, with the flies buzzing round its ravaged face.
Then she took me by the hand and led me back into the cave.
I was too weary to question her, too spent to puzzle on small mysteries. Meekly I let myself be led across the filthy floor of the first chamber to the dark opening in the wall. Pat switched on the torch.
I saw a large vaulted chamber, three times as large as the first, with a sandy floor and walls of ironstone down which the water seeped slowly over a coating of green fungoid growths.
She swung the beam of the torch until it came to rest in the far corner. She said softly, “Look, Renn !”
I started back in momentary terror. Stretched on the sandy floor were the bleached bones of a skeleton. Two paces away was another, face downwards . . . its fleshless fingers clutched the sand. Its knees were drawn up under its ribs in a foetal attitude.
Pat’s hand was trembling. The torch-light wavered on the weird lattice-work of naked bones. I took the torch from her and gripped it firmly. We moved closer.
The first skeleton was lying on its back. The bones were slightly displaced by the nuzzling of the goats who had stripped it of every shred of clothing that had not rotted and crumbled with the passing of the centuries. Just beyond the reach of its fingers was an ancient pistol. Its wooden stock was mouldy and worm-eaten and the metal was rusted beyond repair.
Round the little finger of the skeleton was a loose gold band in which a large cabochon ruby glowed dully under the dust of centuries. But this was not all.
Through the naked trellis of the ribs a long thin knife had been driven, so that its rusted blade still stuck deep in the sand. The steel was pitted and corroded but the hilt was crusted with jewels that winked and glowed under the beam of the torch.
“He was murdered,” said Pat quietly.
I nodded and turned the torch on the other skeleton. The fingers were buried deep in the sand into which they had clawed in their last struggle for life. The face of the skull was buried too, but the back of it was exposed—a smooth, yellow spheroid of bone, pierced by a large round hole.
“He stabbed the other fellow,” I said. “Then he was shot as he turned away.”
“Yes. But there’s something else, Renn. Look!”
I focused the torch and bent closer to the sand.
Clearly visible through the bleached ribs of the skeleton, clutched against his breast-bone, as he must have clutched them in the last brief agony, was a pile of gold coins.
We had found the treasure of the Dona Lucia.
Pat caught at my arm. She was trembling violently, but she forced herself to speak.
“They escaped, Renn. Don’t you see? They escaped the wreck in which all their shipmates died. They struggled ashore with these small remnants of a fortune—the jewelled dagger and the bag of gold coins.” Her voice rose higher with the first onset of hysteria. “They were fortunate. They had been granted a mercy. But they didn’t value it. All they valued was this. . . .”
“Steady, sweetheart! Steady!” I put my arm about her shoulders to comfort her. “It was all a long, long time ago. It was done and finished two hundred years ago.”
She pushed herself free and hammered at my chest with small fists. Her voice was an anguished cry.
“It didn’t finish! It never finishes!
It happens all the time. Men fighting and killing each other for this—this yellow refuse that even the goats reject. It happened today, Renn. It happened to you and me and Nino, and Johnny Akimoto.”
Then it was as if she had been struck in the face. The wild light was quenched in her eyes. Her mouth dropped slackly. She stared at me in blank misery.
“Johnny’s dead, Renn . . . Johnny Akimoto’s dead.”
She crumpled and I caught her in my arms and carried her like a sick child into the sun.
Chapter 18
I LAID her down on a bed of leaves in the shade of a big pisonia-tree. I ripped off my shirt and folded it under her head. I bathed her face and forced a little of the water between her lips. After a few moments she opened her eyes and stared at me blankly; then her head lolled slackly to one side and she lapsed into the deep sleep of utter exhaustion.
I stood for a moment looking down at her, touched with weary desire for this small perfect body, and with pity and love and gratitude for the bright, brave spirit which it covered. Then I left her sleeping and walked the few paces back to the mouth of the cave.
Soon we would have a long walk and a long swim ahead of us and my tired dark girl was in no condition to face them yet. I looked down at the lagoon and saw that the boats had come alongside the black lugger and their crew were being hauled aboard by the deck-watch. The Wahine was still riding at anchor. The body of Johnny Akimoto still lay untended on the sweltering deck. There was no sign of Nino Ferrari.
I sat down on a slab of brown rock, lit a cigarette and considered the situation.
Manny’s small army of scallawags had broken and run at the first shot; but there was no guarantee that they might not regret their cowardice and come again, better led, to make another search for us and for the treasure. Even so, we could not leave the island until they came ashore again. We would have to make a surface swim to the Wahine, right under the muzzle of the machine-gun.