Corrigan's Run

by Colin Falconer

  Manning frowned. ‘That's a very cynical view.’

  ‘Uncle Matthew needs to prove something to himself. Am I being cynical to say that?’

  ‘I suppose not. We all have something to prove, it’s true.’

  She finished dressing Father Goode's leg with some strips of muslin she had torn from her dress. She stood up, smoothing down the tapa cloth she now wore in its place as if it was her best Sunday frock.

  ‘Tell me one thing,’ Manning asked her. ‘Why did Corrigan help you?’

  ‘You underestimate him, Mister Manning.’

  ‘I don't think so. I've known Patrick a long time. He’s a rogue and a charlatan, and I say that as a friend. God knows what his enemies say about him.’

  ‘Perhaps I appealed to his better nature.’

  ‘He doesn't have one.’

  ‘Then how else do you explain it?’

  Manning looked down, embarrassed. ‘I suspect there may have been a personal motive.’

  The blood rushed to Rachel's cheeks and she turned away. ‘Well if he has one, I'm sure I've no idea what it might be,’ she said, and she turned and left the hut.

  *****

  About four hundred yards from the camp, one of the mountain streams that fed the Ngulinni River broke across an outcrop of hard basalt, forming a ridge across the softer clay of the hillside. It had formed a waterfall, some thirty feet high, that dropped into a broad, black pool.

  The water was cool, and shielded from the path behind a curtain of ferns and hanging creepers. Rachel went there every day to bathe.

  That afternoon, as she made her way along the narrow path, she heard voices. She recognised them at once; it was Corrigan and Sanei.

  She hesitated. She thought about turning back. Perhaps they were bathing together in the pool. Instead, she kept going, knowing the sound of the waterfall would drown out her footsteps. As it was, she almost fell over them. They were both naked, waist deep in the water, just a few yards from the water's edge. Rachel sank down onto her haunches, so that they would not see her, the breath catching in her throat.

  Corrigan had his back to her. Sanei was facing him, her arms around his shoulders. She splashed his face with water, teasing, then ran away from him through the shallows, the water sparkling on her long brown limbs. Corrigan caught up with her and with a playful bellow he pulled her down into the pool and they both went down, yelling and laughing. Sanei tried to wriggle free but Corrigan gripped her wrist and pulled her towards him. He was not laughing anymore. He bent to kiss her throat. She pulled his head to her bare breast.

  I must go, Rachel thought. This is not just ungodly, this is wrong. You are spying on them!

  But she couldn’t tear herself away. She watched Corrigan move his hands over the girl's body, caressing her. She felt an terrible ache in that dark, guilty place between her legs and she bit down hard on her knuckles.

  I want to be her, she thought. I want this man more than I have ever wanted anything.

  She didn't care about her uncle, or about God. All she cared about was Corrigan.

  Sanei's mouth was open in that silent animal scream that Rachel had first seen that morning outside the church, on another woman's face. Suddenly the girl’s eyes opened wide and she looked directly into Rachel's face in triumph.

  Rachel gasped. She turned and stumbled back through the jungle, running blindly until she finally sank to her knees by the side of a moss-covered tree, her breathing ragged in her chest. She wept; not just because of the terror and exhaustion of these last months, but for all the time that came before, for the twenty years of living with herself as a total stranger.

  Chapter 37

  Kumasi had wrestled with the dilemma all night, like a dog worrying a bone. He was confused and frightened. That afternoon one of the young men had come back from a fishing expedition and told him that he had seen Japanese soldiers camped in the next bay. That could mean only one thing. They were hunting for the kiap.

  The villagers at Marmari Point had known that Manning had made camp on Mount Tulagi within two days of his arrival. Since then they had been up to the ridge many times, trading their field fruit and fish and sometimes a wild chicken.

  But then the japoni soldiers had come and threatened them. They told them that they must not help the Europeans. They said that if they knew where any white man was hiding they should tell them straight away.

  Kumasi had pretended not to understand.

  He did not know what to make of the Japanese. They had lived under the protection of the British government for almost fifty years, and it had brought many benefits. The British had brought medicine, and Cargo and the Guberment law had ended many of the bloody tribal feuds.

  It was hard to like their new masters. The Japanese recruited them for carriers and laborers, but they were never paid for their work, as they had been by Manning and the other British kiaps before him. Worse than this, they had started looting their gardens.

  It took them months of hard work every year to create their gardens from the virgin jungle. They took care to cultivate a new plot every year, just clearing enough land to feed their families, only harvesting enough sweet potato, yams, taro, bananas and papaya needed for each day's meal.

  But the Japanese had just swooped down and taken everything, even their coconut trees, which fifteen years to grow. They chopped them all down for just one crop of nuts.

  One old man found the Japanese looting a garden he had recently planted with taro. The plants were still so young the edible bulbs had not even formed, so they were useless for food. Outraged at this senseless act, the old man tried to stop them and they had shot him down like a dog.

  Kumasi was terrified of them. Perhaps it was true what the japoni said - the war was over and Santa Maria was now part of the empire of Nippon. The white man Heydrich was working with them now, so perhaps it was true. Along with the rest of the village, he had been profoundly shocked by the Europeans’ sudden departure, for they had believed them to be invincible. Although they still a certain loyalty to the kiap, they wanted primarily to be left in peace.

  The village elders had gathered to discuss the problem. Some of them had wondered if the kiap had become a liability; if the japoni discovered his camp so close to Marmari Point, they might be punished. They had threatened to execute anyone who helped the Europeans. It might be better if they killed him themselves and took his body to the japoni.

  They looked to Kumasi for guidance.

  Kumasi was the luluai - the headman of the village, appointed by Manning himself. He had won the position largely because of his ability to speak good English, which he had learned as a young man working as indentured labour on the Queensland sugar fields.

  But this was not the real source of Kumasi's influence. He was also the village Big Man, or mumi. To achieve this exalted position, he had spent much of his wealth on lavish feasts and spectacular sacrifices to the spirits after the death of the previous incumbent. Aside from his wealth the mumi could use his influence to focus praise or scorn upon anyone in the village So it was because of this, not because of Manning, that the other men in the village deferred to him, laughing loudly at his jokes, concurring with his opinions, and generally ingratiating themselves with him.

  Kumasi did not wish to betray the kiap, despite the dangers involved in tacitly assisting him. Aside from the fact that the japoni had done little to endear themselves to the islanders, Kumasi had other, personal reasons. The kiap had the white woman with him; and it was the white woman who had saved Kumasi's life when he had the fire in his belly.

  Forcefully and eloquently, Kumasi enumerated all the reasons why they should not help the japoni, ending his discourse with the two most persuasive reasons of all; one, if they did, they might have to answer to King George again one day; and two, the kiap had Father Goode with him so they might have to answer to the Virgin Mary as well.

  As both these beings had assumed a mythical importance rivaling that of their own spirit ances
tors, the people of Marmari Point agreed that their mumi was a man of great wisdom, and the decision was made.

  Besides, they reminded themselves, there was also the mysterious matter of the Cargo.

  *****

  After the meeting, Kumasi sent his son Wesu to Manning's camp to warn him of the Japanese presence at Marmari. Wesu set off early, striding up the familiar jungle trails towards the hills.

  A bright coloured parrot shot through the dappled sunlight, the blues and yellows of its feathers vivid in the misted bolts of sunlight angling through the canopy of trees. Wesu made his way nimbly through the hanging vine-ropes and drooping parasites, through the dim passageway leading up to the ridge where Manning had his camp.

  Suddenly one of the ferns in front of him sprang into the air and pointed a long rifle at him. Wesu yelled and fell to his knees.

  The fern began to walk towards him. It had white eyes and long brown arms. It spoke to him.

  ‘What name you?’ the fern said.

  With great relief Wesu realized the fern was actually Sergeant Lavella, one of the kiap's policemen. He had fern branches stuck all over his body. Wesu was amazed. He had never seen camouflage before.

  ‘My name Wesu. Want talk-talk longa kiap. Japoni he come.’

  Sergeant Lavella lowered his rifle. He pulled Wesu roughly to his feet. ‘Come quick,’ he said, and led him back towards the camp.

  *****

  Ian Manning listened to the terrified native's story, and he clenched his hands together so that Corrigan could not see the tremor in them. Get a hold of yourself, man. Don’t let them see how scared you are.

  ‘We haven't got a chance,’ Corrigan said. ‘Those bastards will tear up every tree on this island to find us. Tell the Americans to get us off here tonight.’

  ‘That's not possible, old boy,’ Manning said, surprised at how calm his voice sounded.

  ‘So what are we going to do?’

  ‘We'll have to move the camp again.’

  ‘Jesus, we've only just got here.’

  ‘We've no choice.’

  ‘Well, that’s nice. The bloody vicar's leg's going to drop off any minute. If you try and shift him he's going to snuff it.’

  ‘Delicately put, Patrick.’ He turned to Sergeant Lavella, who was waiting for instructions with his finger hovering eagerly on the trigger of his rifle. ‘Take your men and watch the trail leading up from Kumasi's village. But don't fire unless you have to.’

  Sergeant Lavella shook his head vigorously. He understood. He would not fire unless he was forced to. That is, unless he saw a Japanese soldier.

  Chapter 38

  Lieutenant Kurosawa stood at the rail, watching a flight of belama frigate birds wheel away from the bow of the sampan with effortless grace. Ahead of them, a finger of land pushed out into the coral water, and the fronds of statuesque palms bent to the offshore breeze.

  The breeze brought with it the distinctive smell of the village at Marmari Point; woodsmoke, roasted pig, the taint of rotting vegetation and the sickly sweet scent of betel nut flowers.

  Kurosawa was troubled by a sense of unease. For the first time since he had joined the army, he was afraid. He sensed his own death.

  He found himself thinking about the pilgrimage he had made to the ancient capital of Nara, near Kyoto, before he left for the war. Nara was the ancient town where Buddhism first took root in Japan, and climbing up to the steps to the ancient wooden temple was meant to bring good luck.

  It was here that the sutras were first chanted by Chinese monks in the eighth century, a tradition that had been maintained for centuries. If he closed his eyes he could still hear them, ringing through the clear mountain air and the crowding cypress trees …

  ... the human body is frail and mortal ... it has no power as the earth has none, It has no durability as the wind has none, It is transient and sure to die …

  ‘So solemn, Kurosawa-san?’

  He turned, startled. It was Tashiro. ‘I was thinking.’

  ‘You think too much. That's your trouble.’

  ‘You're probably right, Tashiro-san.’

  He knew Tashiro probably resented him. Tashiro's father was Samurai; Kurosawa's father had sent him to Keio senior college, a school with western influences. He had even spent some time in the United States, at the University of Michigan.

  Tashiro had no college education; he had received his early training at one of the rikugen yonen gakko - a government military preparatory school - when he was twelve years old. The army was his life.

  Tashiro was a volunteer; Kurosawa was a conscript. Tashiro wanted battle; Kurosawa wanted to avoid it. Tashiro longed for glory, Kurosawa wanted to survive.

  ‘Soon we shall have them,’ Tashiro said. ‘They will not get away from us this time.’

  ‘We must step carefully, Tashiro-san. We need the natives on our side.’

  ‘The natives will co-operate - they have no choice!’

  Kurosawa remained silent. He knew it was pointless to argue.

  The sampan was just a few yards from the beach. The throb of the engines echoed around the lagoon and the jumble of thatched roofed huts among the palms. As they reached the shallows, the soldiers jumped out and waded ashore, Tashiro leading them, his sword drawn. They had brought a Chinese trader with them from Vancoro, Sam Doo, to act as translator with the natives. He stumbled along behind Tashiro, head down. Apparently he spoke Pidgin, a little Japanese and enough of the many island languages to make himself understood; this facility was the result of many years of running a South Seas' drinking and gambling establishment with a cosmopolitan clientele.

  When they reached the village it was deserted. Only Kumasi was there to meet them. Tashiro interrogated him through Sam Doo, but he just kept shaking his head. ‘It's no good,’ Sam Doo said to Kurosawa, as Tashiro stood by scowling, ‘he says he doesn't know anything about the English kiap.’

  ‘Ask him where the village people have gone,’ Kurosawa said.

  ‘He says they are frightened of you. They have run away.’

  This was in fact only partly true. In fact, most of the young men were helping Manning carry the teleradio higher into the mountains. The old people, the women and the children had been sent away to hide in the jungle. Kumasi had stayed behind, hoping to prevent the Japanese from burning down the village, as they almost certainly would if they found it empty.

  Tashiro sent some of his men to search the huts. The two Japanese turned their attentions to Sam Doo. ‘Ask him again where kiap is,’ Kurosawa said to Sam Doo. ‘He must tell us.’

  The little Chinese bowed and turned to Kumasi, and spoke to him in the local dialect. ‘He wants to know where the Englishman is. You must tell him. Say you don't know!’

  ‘I don't know,’ Kumasi said.

  ‘He says he doesn't know,’ Sam Doo said.

  Kurosawa translated for Tashiro. The first lieutenant frowned. He was convinced Manning was close by. If he was right this man must know where. No one could move through the mountains without the local people knowing - especially when they were loaded down with radios and supplies.

  No, Tashiro thought grimly. I must make an example of this one.

  There was a shout and Tashiro's sergeant ran out of Kumasi's hut with a white muslin scarf clutched in his right hand. He handed it to Tashiro, who turned to the old man and held it under his nose. ‘Ask him where he got this!’

  ‘He wants to know where you got it,’ Sam Doo translated for him. ‘Tell him to go fuck a monkey!’

  ‘It belongs to the missionary's niece,’ Kumasi answered truthfully. ‘She left it behind many months ago. She saved my life!’

  ‘Well?’ Tashiro said.

  Sam Doo thought quickly. He decided the old chief was not a very good liar. ‘He said one of the villagers traded a shark's tooth for it in Vancoro.’

  Tashiro's face flushed the color of old bronze. ‘Tell him to kneel down,’ he said.

  Kurosawa hesitated, then repeated the ord
er.

  Sam Doo stared, wide eyed. He turned to Kumasi and translated. The old man looked up into the Japanese officer's eyes, anticipating what was about to happen.

  He thought about the white girl who had cut the evil spirit out of him that night many months ago. His fingers went to the cicatrice of scar tissue just above his groin as he remembered. His own life was not his to save anyway. The girl had given it to him; now he would repay his debt to her.

  He dropped to his knees.

  Tashiro barked out a command and two soldiers ran across, seized the old man's arms and forced them behind his back. He drew his sword from the sheath at his belt.

  ‘Tell him,’ Tashiro said to Kurosawa. ‘Tell him if he does not tell me where I will find the Englishman, he is going to die.’

  ‘We don't make war on old men! Put away your sword, Tashiro-san.’

  Sam Doo understood enough of what was spoken to understand. ‘He doesn't know where they are,’ he repeated, desperately.

  ‘Tell him!’

  A thin trickle of saliva split from the chief’s betel-stained lips and hung suspended halfway to the ground. He began to wail.

  ‘What is he saying?’ Tashiro said.

  Sam Doo, also terrified now, shook his head. ‘It's a prayer to his ancestors,’ he mumbled, ‘He is getting ready to die.’

  ‘Very well,’ Tashiro said, and raised the sword over his head.

  The steel blade scythed down onto the back of the old man's neck, slicing cleanly through tendons and bone. The headless body went into a brief spasm and then the two soldiers let the torso slip to the sand, gouts of blood spouting horribly the neck.

  Sam Doo turned away and vomited.

  Kurosawa looked at his colleague, stunned. ‘This is not war,’ he said.

  ‘You talk like a woman,’ Tashiro said. He wiped the blade carefully on the broad leaf of a palm and sheathed his sword. ‘We will teach these people how to co-operate with us. Once they have seen how we treat disobedience, the natives will tell us where the Englishman is.’