The Ambassador's Son Page 5

  Josh now understood very well who the bastard was supposed to be.

  *FUBAR, an acronym much beloved by American troops during World War II, meant “f d up beyond all repair.”

  4

  Deep in thought, the bastard in question walked past the Raider softball field, which consisted of a large rectangle of mud scraped clean by a Seabee bulldozer. The Raiders were having themselves one hell of a game. The ball had been knocked into the bush, requiring the outfield to arm themselves to go hunt for it, lest a Japanese soldier might still be on the loose. While waiting for the patrol to return, the catcher had gotten angry at the batter for hitting the long foul and slapped him up alongside the head with his glove, foolishly neglecting the fact that the batter still held a bat. Typical Marine Corps mayhem had ensued; the catcher’s skull was whacked a good one, and every man left on the field engaged in wrestling or fisticuffs until the ball was restored. Near first base, John-Bull Markham was being taught by example the official Marine Corps method of strangling a man. The instructor was the baseman, and he was demonstrating the method on a runner who happened to be caught on base. John-Bull was clearly enjoying the lesson, as he was clapping his hands and jumping up and down with excitement. He’d never seen a man’s face quite so blue.

  Among the fans lining the field were three natives, wearing only lap-laps and tattoos and sitting on a Seabee bulldozer. One of the men, a huge, muscled ebony giant, was getting lessons on how to run the bulldozer from its operator, an American of African descent. The giant jerked the levers and the bulldozer’s blade abruptly lifted, knocking off one of his fellows, a cherubic little man who happened to be sitting on it. This made the giant laugh while the little man crawled away in the mud.

  Josh stopped for a moment to observe the fun, and it was then that Felicity Markham caught up with him in long, bold strides. “Wait up, Commander,” she said, in a somewhat insistent tone of voice, before softening it to say, “Good day to you.” She nodded toward the ball field. “Quite the contest, is it not?”

  Josh tipped his cap. “Ma’am. I guess it’s typical. At least it allows the Raiders to blow off some steam.”

  “Those three boys playing with the bulldozer are my Malaitans,” she said. “I’ve hired them to work on my plantation.”

  “Well, they appear to be blowing off steam, too.”

  She stuck out her hand. “I don’t believe we’ve ever been formally introduced. I’m Missus Felicity Markham of the Markham plantation on Noa-Noa.”

  “Josh Thurlow of Killakeet Island, Outer Banks of North Carolina,” he said, briefly taking her hand. It felt, even in the rising heat of the day, cool and dry.

  Felicity observed the giant at the levers of the bulldozer. “They’re getting above themselves,” she said in a worried tone. “Especially that one. Arenga’s his name. He’s what we call out here a pier-head jumper. That means he was hiding in the bush, having committed some foul crime in his village, most likely murder. Captain McQuaid, my recruiter, lay by his village and waited until Arenga came running up the village pier, jumped into the water, and swam out to us. The other two are pier-head jumpers as well. I’m going to have trouble with them, especially now that your Negro Yanks have put foolish ideas into their heads.”

  “Foolish ideas, ma’am?”

  Felicity ignored Josh’s disapproving expression. “It is my understanding that you may be going north, Commander, perhaps in the vicinity of Noa-Noa. I wonder if my son and I plus my Malaitans might go along with you.”

  Astonished, Josh asked, “How did you hear I was going north?”

  “Mister Vickers told me.”

  “I see. I’m sorry, but where I’m headed, you and your boy would be in danger.”

  Felicity gave Josh a knowing look. “Come now, sir. I’ve lived in the Solomon Islands for nearly a decade. John and I can take care of ourselves. Mister Vickers tells me that you have an assignment that will—”

  Josh interrupted. “Excuse me, ma’am. Vickers shouldn’t be telling you about secret military operations.”

  “Oh, pshaw. Secret military operations, indeed. Do I look like a Japanese spy? And even if I were, how would I tell your awful secret? Yell it up to Washing-Machine Charlie? John and I need to go home. Surely, Josh, you know something of why going home is so important.”

  The Englishwoman’s question, philosophical in nature, gave Josh the opportunity to appear to be pondering it while, in fact, he was simply enjoying the close proximity to a real honest-to-God female. It had been a good long while since he’d been within an arm’s reach of a woman, and Felicity Markham was a fine-looking female, make no mistake. She had curves, evident even beneath her baggy clothing, that Josh had nearly forgotten existed. He supposed Felicity had more than a little steel in her personality, and God knew she was a plantation bigot, but she surely smelled good, sort of like fresh cream.

  For her part, Felicity was not deceived by Josh’s apparent pondering. She knew she was being appraised just as she was appraising him. Josh Thurlow, she had absorbed in a moment, was big and rough, and perhaps not so very intelligent, and his nose was a bit crooked, and a ragged scar on his chin was unpleasant to perceive. He also had that square-jawed, conscientious look about him that made some men in bars want to take a swipe at him and others buy him a drink. She wondered what it would feel like to have his strong arms wrapped around her and to snuggle her face into his shoulder and to run her hands through his sandy hair. “Please take me and John home,” she said, to break the spell between them. “You’d go home if you could, wouldn’t you?”

  Josh finally replied in the only way he knew how, with the truth. “There’s not a man on this island who wouldn’t give his eyeteeth to go home.”

  “Then please help me.”

  “I just can’t oblige.”

  “You are on your way to interview Todd Whitman,” she said. “Maybe I can give you some background. After all, he was an overseer on our plantation for a while.”

  “Well, I would be interested in hearing what you know about Whitman,” Josh agreed.

  Felicity smiled. “I should hope so. It might make all the difference as to whether you find your lieutenant or not. Oh, stop looking at me as if I’ve stolen the crown jewels. Everybody on Melagi knows about Lieutenant Armistead. I even met the lad once. Though we only shared a greeting, he struck me as a very thoughtful young man. So we have a deal. I will tell you everything I know about Whitman, and you will take me to Noa-Noa.”

  Now it was Josh’s turn to smile, amused by her single-mindedness. “I will not take you to Noa-Noa, but I would appreciate your information anyway.”

  “Will you at least take my side of it with Colonel Burr?” she asked. “I might be able to arrange other transportation. All you’d have to do is tell him he should let me go.”

  “What makes you think he would listen to me?”

  “Every man has to listen to someone. I think you’re the only man on Melagi that makes the slightest impression on Colonel Burr. He has spoken often of you to me.”

  “Really? What did he say?”

  “That you were insolent, but the way he said it, I knew he respected you. Will you take up for me and John?”

  Josh gave it some thought and couldn’t see why not. “I will tell Colonel Burr today that he should let you go home, Missus Markham, and that’s a promise.”

  “Very well,” she said. “I will tell you what I know of Whitman. But I’d prefer to do it out of the hot sun.”

  Felicity took Josh’s arm and led him to the wispy shade of a frangipani tree where there were two crude chairs built from ammunition crates. High in the branches of the tree, a very bright yellow and green bird sang its little song, scarcely noticing a sleeping snake that wasn’t sleeping any longer.

  Felicity and Josh sat down in the chairs. Felicity said, “Well, here we are. All we need are drinks and we could be at the club.”

  Josh glanced up into the tree to where the bird was singing, actually more
of a cooing. “That’s a pretty sound. A pigeon of some sort, I suppose.”

  “It’s a fruit dove,” Felicity said without interest. She gazed into Josh’s crisp blue eyes and wished she could look into them a little closer. You are sex-crazed, she told herself.

  Josh looked up again when the fruit dove, which he still couldn’t see, stopped cooing in mid-coo. A bright yellow feather drifted down. “The first thing you must understand about Todd Whitman,” Felicity said, ignoring the feather, “is he’s Australian, not English. He arrived here penniless and probably just one step ahead of the law. He was never able to purchase land. No bank would trust him. So he became an overseer for several hardcase plantation owners who couldn’t control their workers. He was quick with his fists and knew how to cow any black after mischief. Once, several years back, we were unlucky enough to get a poor lot of boys and had to hire him on ourselves. But he was just too brutal in his methods, so we cashiered him. I suppose you’ve heard about the great Malaitan insurrection of ‘34? Whitman was a star player in that one.”

  There was a rustle in the limbs above, and more yellow and green feathers drifted down. Josh brushed one off his nose. “There’s something up there that’s killed that bird.”

  “Probably a sleeping snake, as it is known locally. Frightfully big, but harmless as long as you’re not a bird.”

  “How long do they get?”

  “I really have no idea. Now, about the insurrection. It was ’34, as I think I mentioned, and the coconut telegraph brought news that the Malaitans in the village of Kopapu had chopped off a white man’s head. You can imagine how upset it made all of us. Before long, we were all looking over our shoulders at our houseboys and nut pickers, wondering if some kind of revolt was brewing. Before the officials on Tulagi could look into the matter, several planters organized an expedition, put Whitman in charge, and off they sailed to storm Kopapu. Quite the bloody battle, so the story goes, with the chief killed and about half his men. Some Maries as well, and a few children, too. Whitman and his cronies came into Tulagi with all flags flying as proud as they could be, bringing with them every man in the village left alive. But after the colonial officials investigated, it turned out the story that started the whole thing was utterly wrong. It wasn’t a white man who’d gotten his head cut off but an expat villager who’d been living in New Zealand. He’d sneaked in off a trader boat and murdered a Marie he’d thought to marry. Jealousy, no doubt, since she’d married someone else. The old chief had acted according to the law of his village and put the miscreant to death and took his head as an example to others. Whitman and the other men acted according to no one’s law, except their own. It was all quietly covered up, of course.”

  Silence reigned in the frangipani branches although feathers still floated down, like bright yellow and green snowflakes. “Tell me about his wife,” Josh suggested while picking a feather off his nose.

  Felicity shrugged. “Whitman was seldom invited to any gatherings of the planters. He was too much a rough old cob, and he wasn’t a landowner, either. He only married her a few months before the Japanese came. I saw her at a party. I think it was in November 1941. Whitman was invited because we knew war clouds were gathering and everyone knew he could fight. Of course, his wife, being a Marie, was not allowed to come into the house.”

  “She’s the key to this, I suspect,” Josh mused. “Is there nothing else you can tell me about her?”

  “All I know are rumors.”

  “I’d be willing to hear them.”

  “They say she can fight as well as any man. This is unusual, Commander. The Maries of the Solomons are traditionally kept down by their men. They are the homemakers, childbearers, farmers, food gatherers, and providers of sex, but that is the extent of it. For instance, they are never allowed to touch weapons. It is tabu. If she’s become a warrior, she is a very special woman indeed.”

  Josh pondered the information. “She doesn’t sound like a woman who’d fall for a young marine like David Armistead. And it’s hard to imagine that David would fall so hard for her that he would desert his men.”

  “Love is a very strong emotion, Josh. Especially in emotional times such as war. I wouldn’t dismiss it out of hand.”

  “I suppose I can’t dismiss anything at this point,” Josh said, then stood and put out his hand. “You’ve been very helpful. I appreciate it, but I really must be going.”

  She stood with him, took his hand, then released it. “Will you speak with Colonel Burr concerning my situation?”

  “I said I would.”

  “Why don’t you just take John and me along with you?”

  “I’ve already explained why I can’t.”

  “But I would do anything,” she said, and her eyes bored into his. “Anything.” She felt a bit disgusted with herself as she made her offer, with all its sexual overtones, but a little excited, too.

  Josh glanced away, embarrassed for them both. “I guess you English had a good life here,” he said. “Before the war, I mean.”

  Felicity smiled. “I once heard a planter comfort a newcomer after he passed out drunk and a giant cockroach had nearly eaten one of his toes. ‘Take it easy, old man,’ he said. ‘It’s only the first ten years out here that’s hell.’ Well, Josh, I’ve been in the Solomon Islands for nine years. During that time, I’ve worked myself quite near to death, been through a typhoon, caught malaria, buried a husband, and now my coconuts are rotting while John and I are caught up in your bloody war. Another year and surely it will all turn into paradise.”

  Josh never knew what to do with a facetious woman. He tipped his cap to her and said, “I wish you well, ma’am.”

  “And the same to you, Commander. By the way, when you see Todd Whitman, you might want to ask him about Joe Gimmee.”

  “And who would that be, ma’am?”

  “Just ask him,” Felicity answered, then walked away, leaving Josh standing amidst a pile of beautiful yellow and green feathers beneath the frangipani tree. Overhead, still unseen, the sleeping snake, contentedly full, went back to sleep.

  5

  All was quiet in the Melagi harbor and, for the moment, there was no war but instead a peaceful tropical splendor, a doldrums, a lazy, languid, indolent passivity. Tiny sunbursts glittered on the placid water near the white sandy beach. The fronds of crossed palm trees hung limply. Frigate birds made long, slow circles in a crystal blue sky. Three idle freighters lolled, their reflections so perfect it was as if they were sitting on mirrors. Above it all, Melagi’s great misty-green volcano continued its centuries-old slumber.

  The peace was shattered when a PBY Catalina amphibian aircraft stuttered to life, its twin engines spouting blue smoke, its propellers spinning into gleaming circles. The Catalina was not a handsome machine. It had a nose that looked like it belonged on a hound dog and a curved tail that had the grace of a ham bone. Its observation windows looked for all the world like fat transparent leeches hitching a ride, and its ungainly wing was nothing but a long metal slab. But plug ugly as they were, pilots and crews loved their Catalinas for perhaps the same reason men love some unattractive women; they are tough old crates that can take a lot of punishment and still go the distance.

  The Catalina preparing for takeoff in the Melagi harbor was named the Darlin’Dosie, and it belonged to Josh Thurlow and his boys by way of the scrap heap. In the left seat of the Dosie’s cockpit, Ensign Eureka Phimble finished his initial checkout, then said, “I didn’t have time to gas her up.”

  Josh tapped on the fuel gauges and squinted at the result. “We’ve got enough to get to Lumbari.”

  “We need to make it back, too.”

  “We’ll manage. Fly the plane.”

  Phimble scrutinized the wind sock on the beach and turned the Catalina to face the wind, what little there was of it. The lolling freighters were dead ahead. Beyond, the island of Guadalcanal was a gray, jagged shadow. “Wish I had more wind,” he grumbled. “Dosie don’t like to fly when there ain’t n
o wind.”

  “For God’s sake, Eureka,” Josh replied. “Will you just get on with it?”

  “I don’t want to have no part of chasing down Lieutenant Armistead. He found himself a woman, leave him alone, I say.”

  “We’ve been over this. If he’s deserted, somebody has to go after him.”

  “Why us?”

  “Fly the plane, Eureka.”

  Petulantly, Phimble fire-walled the throttles, but Catalinas never did anything fast, and that especially included taking off. She mushed forward, as if idling across a sea of molasses, while Josh anxiously peered through the cockpit windshield. “Eureka, you do see those freighters in front of us, don’t you?”

  “Freighters?”

  “You’re the worst pilot I ever saw,” Josh accused.

  “You still breathing?”

  “Barely.”

  “Then I ain’t yet the worst pilot you ever saw.”

  Phimble kept his eye on the needle of the airspeed indicator, waiting until it reached the proper tick on the dial. Dosie shook and roared and rattled, but she was picking up some speed. Finally Phimble pulled her wheel back to put her on the step, as Catalina pilots called the last moment before liftoff. Dosie obligingly lifted her nose but then settled back down in a mush. The freighters loomed ever larger. In fact, the features of the men on the freighter directly ahead could be discerned quite clearly. Josh noticed that they all had their mouths open, probably using them to scream. And now some of the freighter men were running across her decks.

  “You really might want to get us in the air,” Josh suggested in a tight voice as sailors began to abandon the freighter from bow to stern, taking their chances with the sharks.

  Phimble kept hanging on to the shaking wheel, his face a grim but determined mask. Finally, Dosie seemed to pull it all together. She grunted, licked clean of the ocean, and slowly and oh so ponderously rose into the air, a rainbow of water droplets flung off her tail. The bridge of the freighter swept past, so close Josh could have counted the rivets. Ahead was nothing but the air and the ocean and Guadalcanal, which, Josh noted sourly, was still higher than they were. “Eureka, you really are the worst pilot I ever saw!”