The Ambassador's Son Page 33

  They sat on the wicker chairs on the veranda, and the women fell silent, though attentive, while Kennedy and Armistead indulged in small talk, including a discussion of Harvard classmate Richard Tregaskis, who had written a best seller titled Guadalcanal Diary. “Richard always had a book in him,” Armistead said. “But he missed the true meaning of Wilton’s Ridge.”

  “Which was?” Kennedy prompted.

  “That some men carry within themselves a predilection for killing, and it is like an infectious disease, especially in battle.” Armistead sipped his drink, then asked, “Did you hear about Georgie Mead?”

  “Yes, I visited his grave when I first got out here. There was a mess kit on it with a scratched epitaph that said ‘A Great Leader of Men—God Bless Him.’ Kick called me when the news came of his death. I was in Palm Beach at the time. I told her I hoped to get out here and punish the Japanese for killing him.” Kennedy shook his head. “I’m afraid I was pretty naive.”

  “Georgie got it on the beach,” Armistead said, as if to himself. “He never even got a football field’s length onto the island. My God, what a waste.”

  “He loved his youth, and his youth has become eternal,” Kennedy said.

  “Pilgrim’s Way,” Armistead replied, and continued the quotation. ‘“Debonair and brilliant and brave, he is now part of that immortal England which knows not age or weariness or defeat.’ Substitute America for England, and there you have it. America, after all, is the understudy for England on the world’s stage.”

  “Oh, I sincerely hope not!” Felicity exclaimed, then lapsed back into silence.

  “Were you on Guadalcanal for the entire battle, David?” Kennedy asked.

  “I came in immediately after the first landing. At the time, it looked like it was going to be a cakewalk. But the day after I arrived, Jap hit us with a brigade that came out of nowhere, and the fighting never stopped for seven months. Finally Jap sent his barges to pick up the few of his fellows who were left, and it was over.” He mused over his glass. “They wanted to give me the Medal of Honor for what I did on Wilton’s Ridge, but I told them I didn’t want it.”

  “A Medal of Honor would look awfully good on your record,” Kennedy said. “Especially since, as I recall, you were interested in politics. I suspect our fathers hope both you and Joe will serve in the Senate someday.”

  “Politics,” Armistead mused, while absently performing the salute against the no-see-ums trying to drink from his eyes. “Yes, I’m still interested, but in a different way from my father. He has not seen what I have seen, or done what I have done.”

  “The war, you mean,” Kennedy said.

  “I mean wading in blood up to my ankles,” Armistead replied in a distant voice, which Kennedy thought odd, considering the subject. “I mean my hands around another man’s throat, choking him, smelling his last breath in my nostrils. Call it war, if you will. It is but murder by another name.”

  “Dinnerisservedpleasemissus!” Mumba yelled from the kitchen door, and behind him came the two Lahana villagers who worked with Gogoomey, hired for the evening to be the servers. Their bodies were glistening with sweat. The heat in the kitchen was apparently overwhelming with the cook turning the stove into a blast furnace.

  Kennedy seated Victoria, and Armistead handled the chair for Felicity. Victoria’s thanks were whispered. Felicity thanked Armistead with a nod while growling, “Your thumb out of the soup, Mumba!” She looked around. “That goes for all you boys!”

  The soup was something white—Kennedy guessed potato soup but decided not to ask for a clarification as he might not like the answer. Felicity picked up her spoon only to have a fruit bat suddenly drop into her bowl. The dazed bat flapped its black wings, then staggered out of the soup onto the table. Armistead, his tassels flying, grabbed it with his long arms and flung it into the sky. The bat took off, leaving behind a little rain of white droplets. Everyone at the table dabbed daintily at the dampness on their clothes and in their hair. Kennedy said, “Apparently a Jap bat.” And everyone laughed, even Felicity, whose lap was soaked with soup.

  Before the next course, there was a disagreement in the kitchen marked by the breakage of china, the clang of pots, pans, and kettles, and the stamp of bare feet on the kitchen floor that shook the veranda. Cook’s voice could be heard in a solid stream of complaints interrupted occasionally by little yips from Mumba. From this battleground, the kitchen door slammed open, and once more Mumba and the boys appeared, their expressions betraying nothing. The plates delivered up had a kind of fish on them, complete with head and tail, grilled a golden brown in every place it wasn’t burned black. Each fish had a baleful eye that seemed to accuse from its plate. “Dig in,” Kennedy said, taking the role of Mastah.

  It was a very fishy fish, full of bones, but Kennedy ate it as if were nectar and ambrosia, smiling and chewing and picking bones from his mouth, and wishing all the while for more gin. Every few seconds, he leaned over to swipe at the mosquitoes that were furiously biting him on his legs, even through his trousers. Armistead was doing the same. Felicity held back until she couldn’t stand it any longer, a minute at most, before furiously scratching her legs. Victoria, if being bitten, serenely ignored the assault.

  The next plate delivered from the kitchen was a side plate of mashed breadfruit covered with chunks of unmelted margarine. That apparently completed the dinner offerings of cook, who could still be heard nattering at the boys, although the crashing of china and banging of pots seemed to have come to an end, perhaps because they had all been broken or dented beyond repair. Felicity remained calm throughout as if nothing untoward were happening.

  After it was apparent no more food was coming, Kennedy called Mumba and asked for cigars. The boy thumped off, soon to return with one fresh cigar and another half smoked. Kennedy recognized the stump as one he had flipped off the veranda last night before bed. He took it without complaint.

  “Victoria, would you like to see the house?” Felicity asked.

  Victoria sat up very straight in her chair. “Yes, missus,” she said. “I would like that very much.”

  “Please call me Felicity,” Felicity said.

  “Oh, thank you, Felicity,” she simpered. Armistead rushed to her chair to slide it back. Kennedy, not to be left out, did the same for Felicity. After giving Kennedy a look that was indecipherable but full of meaning, Felicity led Victoria through the double doors of the parlor.

  Armistead and Kennedy retired to the cane-backed chairs at the rail of the veranda while Mumba, abandoned by the temporary help, cleared the dining table. Kennedy produced a Zippo lighter from his shirt pocket and offered its flame to Armistead, then lit his own short cigar. They both enjoyed a few quiet puffs, the blue haze somewhat slowing the mosquito attack, at least around their faces.

  “It is very nice of Felicity to treat Victoria with such kindness,” Armistead said. “Most colonial women would not allow her in their homes even though she is half white.”

  Kennedy waved his cigar. “Perhaps the war has changed such attitudes,” he said, and dropped the subject. He didn’t much want to discuss colonial racism, especially since he feared Armistead might begin a long, scholarly discourse, a tendency he’d observed in the man at school. To get down to cases, he asked, “David, why are you here?”

  Armistead shrugged. “I wanted to see my old classmate.”

  “My real question is, why are you on Noa-Noa?”

  Armistead rocked in his chair, one big boot pushing on the rail, the other hanging over. “I could ask you the same thing,” he said.

  “I’m happy to provide the answer. I’m on a special assignment. It required me to go to Santa Cruz for a new boat—the one I had got sunk, run over by a Jap destroyer, you see. On my way north, I found Felicity paddling around off Mary Island with her son aboard a lifeboat after her schooner went down in a storm. Then I went up to New Georgia, where I managed to get knocked in the head by an old cannibal chief. Felicity brought me here to recuper
ate.”

  Armistead looked at Kennedy to see if he was joking. “Quite a tale. But where’s your new boat?”

  “It kept going north, still on that assignment. A Coast Guard officer named Thurlow is her present skipper.”

  “Not Josh Thurlow!” Armistead exclaimed. “He was with me on Wilton’s Ridge! How is the son of a bitch?”

  “Very much in charge of this operation.”

  “Which is to accomplish what, if you may say?”

  “To find you and bring you back to Melagi for court-martial.”

  Armistead didn’t immediately react to Kennedy’s stark response. His cigar glowed in the darkness as he continued to rock in the wicker chair. Finally he said, “Thurlow is a hard case. He will find me or die trying.”

  “He has a guide. Penelope Whitman, or as you may know her, Kimba. They went to find you on Vella Lavella.”

  “You know, I thought surely they had killed her,” he said. “She is a remarkable woman. Worthy of the Amazons.”

  “But why aren’t you on Vella, David?”

  “I was there until two days ago. Then I had business over here.”

  “Can you tell me what that business is?”

  “It would be better for you if you didn’t know. Can you tell me the charge against me?”

  “Desertion. Dereliction of duty. AWOL. I would imagine they’ll think up a few more.”

  Armistead shook his head. “While I was recuperating, I wondered if anybody would look for me. After a while, I thought they would assume I was killed in action and would keep thinking that until. . .” He puffed his cigar, blew smoke, then lapsed into silence.

  “Whitman reported you had deserted and stolen his wife.”

  “Both lies, but it doesn’t matter.”

  “David, it does matter. You need to wait here with me until Thurlow gets back. Then you can go into Melagi and explain everything, except perhaps those tattoos and the earrings. I would imagine your family will be a bit surprised to see them.”

  “Father would likely have a heart attack!” Armistead laughed. “I think Mother, if she were still alive, might be a bit more understanding. She was quite the wild child before marriage, so I hear.”

  “Have you turned Turk, David? Is that it?”

  Armistead’s lips twitched and his eyes crinkled, as if he were recalling a joyful thing. ‘“From whence ariseth this? Are we turn’d Turks, and to ourselves do that which heaven hath forbid the Ottomites?’” He threw back his head and laughed. “I have become Othello, the Moor!” He wiped away a mirthful tear from his eye. “No, Jack, I haven’t gone completely native, though it has crossed my mind. There would be worse things than to stay in this wild and lovely place. Certainly I have never known quite so much happiness as I have with Victoria.”

  “Come back with me, David. We’ll get you out of this. Then you can choose any life you want.”

  Armistead’s smile gradually faded. “I can’t,” he said finally. “It’s too late. I have to do this thing.”

  Kennedy didn’t say anything. He knew it was time to listen.

  “What I am going to do may not do any good,” Armistead said quietly, “but I have to try.”

  Kennedy smoked his cigar.

  “I would appreciate it if you would look after Victoria. Make sure she is returned safely to her father. He’s coming to Noa-Noa tomorrow, up at Chuma. Do you know where it is?”

  “Felicity and I visited it yesterday. We saw something very odd there, sawn palm trees held up by a network of vines. What’s that all about?”

  “I have nothing to do with that. It has to do with Joe Gimmee’s search for what he calls the great secret.”

  “What is the great secret?”

  “I couldn’t begin to describe it to you. I fear I slept through most of my economics classes. I don’t blame you for looking puzzled. You’ll just have to come up to Chuma and see what transpires.”

  “And your secret, David? This thing you have to try. Can’t you tell me something of it?”

  “I have come to hate this war,” Armistead replied in a stony voice. “And I hate murder in the name of it. That is all I will say except I hope I will be judged by my intention, if not the result.”

  Felicity and Victoria chose that moment to join them. To Kennedy’s surprise, they were laughing gaily, having apparently made copious use of the remaining gin. Armistead rose. “Victoria, it’s time we went home.” He nodded to Felicity. “Thank you very much, Missus Markham. The evening was delightful.”

  Felicity’s smile faded. “May I ask where home is, Lieutenant?”

  “We’re being put up in Lahana.”

  Victoria extended her hand to Felicity. “I will never forget your kindness, missus.”

  “You are a dear child,” Felicity said, taking her hand.

  Victoria hugged Felicity, then stepped back, embarrassed. “I forget myself,” she whispered.

  Armistead and Victoria walked down the steps and across the grass and into the shadows and then disappeared, leaving Felicity and Kennedy watching after them. “I truly like her very much,” Felicity said. “She is bright and quick. John could do far worse than to find such a woman for his wife someday.”

  “David said Joe Gimmee was coming to Chuma tomorrow,” Kennedy said.

  “Did he say why?”

  “Something about a great secret, but he said he wasn’t part of it, that his purpose in being here had to do with the war. Then he said he hoped to be judged by his intention, if not the result.”

  Felicity was silent for a moment, then said, “Something terrible is going to happen, Jack. I can feel it.”

  Kennedy impulsively took her into his arms and was astonished to discover she was trembling. She shook her head, then pushed him away. “I’m sorry, Jack. I’m frightened, and when I’m frightened, I crave solitude. It may seem perverse, but a woman of the Solomon Islands learns not to show weakness. I’ll bid you a good night.”

  “Good night, Felicity,” Kennedy said, letting her go. “My mother used to say things will always look better in the morning.”

  “That might be true in Massachusetts, dear Jack,” Felicity answered. “But not in these bloody islands! A morning here can kill you just as surely as the night.”

  52

  When the sun went down and the feast began, with much laughing and dancing, Josh returned to the gunboat and sent Once and Again, who were on the guns, off with the admonition to come back on the run if they saw a flare or heard gunfire. Later, as the party on shore was getting ever more boisterous, with much chanting and the beating of drums, Josh heard splashing in the water, then the thump of someone crawling aboard. It was Penelope, looking fetching in a white lap-lap, turned transparent by the water, and flowers in her hair. She was also wearing a dilly bag and carrying a plaited palm frond. She sat beside him, very close. “Hello, mastah,” she said. “I have come to serve you. The food I bring you is quite delicious, and I have managed to keep it perfectly dry, since I am a marvelous swimmer.”

  Josh was hungry, very hungry, so he took the offered frond wrapping and opened it. From it came the wonderful fragrance of roast pig. He ate with his hands, island style, then wiped his hands on his pants. Penelope snuggled in close. “I thought you were mad at me,” he said.

  “How could a mere Marie be mad at her mastah?”

  “Please don’t call me that,” Josh said. “I liked it most of all when you called me Josh darling. Do you think you could do that again?”

  “Perhaps,” she said, “but only if I can be your Penelope dear. Or even Penelope Bumppo.”

  “You are my dearest Penelope Bumppo.”

  “And . . .?” she asked slyly.

  “And you are my woman,” Josh said, pleased with himself that he could recall the last endearment she had desired.

  “You have pleased me beyond measure!” she cried, then graced him with one of her perfect smiles. “I shall therefore please you, I hope.” She opened her dilly bag and brought forth
a bottle and held it in front of Josh’s nose. It was, miraculously, a full bottle of Mount Gay rum. He snatched it. “Where did you get that?”

  “From my father.”

  Josh knew it was useless to ask any more questions, so he uncorked the rum and drank it full bore from the bottle, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “God, that is good stuff!” He handed it over. “Try it.”

  Penelope more than tried it. She tossed the bottle to her lips and took two glugs. Josh took it away from her, lest she drain the thing. “It requires a little more sipping to get the taste,” he explained, then took a glug himself that turned into two.

  Penelope laughed. “You are such a fool, Josh.”

  “I’ve always been a fool for two things, women and Mount Gay rum,” he confessed.

  “Women are not things,” Penelope pointed out, though not churlishly. “My father says that after the people of the Solomons learn how to gain treasure, women will be thought of as nearly equal to men, just as white people think, although we Maries should still follow the commands of our husbands.”

  Josh took another drink, then handed over the bottle for Penelope to do the same. “Quite the prophet, your daddy,” he said.

  “He sends you a message with the rum,” Penelope said. “Tomorrow, he goes to the special place he has prepared to receive treasure. All these people will go with him. He advises you to leave early, as the many, many canoes will surely attract attention from the Japoni.”

  “I thought I was supposed to follow him.”

  “He changed his mind. Now he thinks you should go first. He fears the Japanese submarine, I think, which is looking very hard for you.”

  “Where is he going? I can’t go there if I don’t know.”

  “I will tell you, but only if you come into the village and dance. I would so love to see you dance.”

  Josh was feeling pretty warm inside, the Mount Gay kind of warm. “All right, Penelope, my girl, I’ll do it. I’ll dance the night away with you.”