by Jill Barnett
“So hands off. That’s an order.” Sam nodded at the huge-barreled gun that the one soldier held. “The guns are here. I need your help.”
Nobody was looking at her, so Lollie quickly wiped her eyes, took a deep cleansing breath, and looked up. One of the soldiers—Gomez, she thought his name was—smiled at her and nodded as if to say it was okay. Then he and the other soldier turned and left. She felt better. Sam might not like her, but his men did.
Jim pushed away from the wall of the wooden bungalow and whistled. The bird paced back and forth, squawking, but it didn’t leave its perch. “Come on, Medusa.” Jim held out his arm.
It flapped its wings and paced again, still not leaving the eave.
“What’s the matter with you?” He stared at the bird, then reached into his shirt pocket and held out a nut.
The bird ignored it, screeched, whistled once, then flew from the eave right onto Lollie’s head.
She stood as still as a hickory tree. Her eyes widened as she whispered, “Does she bite?”
“Only me,” Sam said, his gaze aimed toward the top of her head.
“Can someone get her off?” Lollie whispered, feeling the bird shift its weight from one foot to the other.
Jim walked over to the bird. “Come on, you. Let’s go help Sam.”
“Awk! Help Sam! He’s full of it! Get him a shovel!” Medusa stepped off her head, and Lollie exhaled with relief. Then the bird hopped from Jim’s arm right back onto Lollie’s shoulder. She froze, trying to see out of the corner of her eye. The bird shifted, then hummed a little purring sound and stretched its neck out to peer at her. “Who’s that?”
She looked at Sam, at Jim, and finally at the bird. “I’m Eulalie Grace LaRue.”
“Awwww. Pretty Eulalie Grace LaRue.” The bird ducked her head and nuzzled Lollie’s jaw.
Surprised, she laughed. “And what’s your name?”
“I’m Medusa. I’m a mynah. Sam’s an ass.”
Lollie giggled and looked up at Sam. He wasn’t happy, which made her giggle more because a grown man could look so irritated with a little bird.
He turned to Jim. “Leave that damn bird with her. Neither of them knows when to shut up. Now let’s go.” He spun around and stalked away.
Jim shrugged and started to follow him. He glanced in Sam’s direction, then quickly back at her. “Later,” he said in a voice much too loud for secrecy.
“Like hell!” Sam shouted over his shoulder. Jim frowned, hit his ear a couple of times, and followed him, laughing very loud.
Lollie watched them go, then turned to look at the mynah. “Well, now I have some company.”
“Company halt!” Medusa shouted in a deep voice.
“I see I’ll have to work on your vocabulary.” She turned and walked back to the bungalow. “Now, Medusa, say `Yan-kee . . .”
Chapter 15
The knife blade sliced through the air. Sam jumped back, dodging its sharp edge. He crouched again, his own knife poised, ready. Others fought around him. He could hear the dull thud of men falling to the ground, the victors’ shouts, the exhaled breath of the fallen. He ignored the sounds, instead taking in air slowly, with purpose, controlled. He and his adversary moved in a circle, two instruments of war, combatants with instincts sharp, eyes locked in battle, ready to move with deadly accuracy at the mere blink of the other’s eye.
Sam saw it coming. It was always in the eyes. The man shot forward, his knife poised like a bayonet in front of his body. Sam grabbed his wrist and rammed the man’s arm and knife upward, his own arm slid in a death pin on the man’s throat. Sam squeezed.
Barely ten feet away, a blond head—an empty blond head—poked out from the bushes. It plunged back down, leaving the bush rattling loud enough to be heard above the exercise.
Sam released the rebel. “Take a rest. And, Gomez . . .” The soldier picked up his knife and shoved it back in its sheath.
“ . . . Next time don’t blink.”
The rebel nodded and left the small dirt arena they used to train the men in armed combat. Sam turned back toward the bushes and waited. It didn’t take long.
The adjacent bushes shook, branches cracked, a gasp cut through the air. Shaking his head, he moved over to the perimeter, leaning in the comfortable shade of a lowland pine. Lollie was behind a wall of giant croton bushes, tiptoeing in those hard militia boots, something he would have bet a month’s pay was impossible. Since she was on tiptoe, he assumed that her intention was furtive silence. He exhaled in disgust. She muttered the whole way.
She moved toward him, pausing to poke her head out of the bushes every so often. Less than five feet from him she stopped again, bending around the bush, butt up, so she could look between the branches. Her blond hair was tied back with a piece of jute rope and hung down her back. He could still see the light blond streaks that blended with the color of the rest of her hair, a dark blond that was the color of Old Crow, his favorite drink.
In the dark rebel clothing Jim’d scrounged up for her, she looked different, less lah-dee-dah LaRuish. She shifted her weight, drawing his gaze to her round rump and the tight black pants that covered it and her legs. His mind flashed with the thought that whoever had invented the skirt ought to be shot.
“Where is he?” she murmured, breaking his concentration and calling his attention away from her butt and back to her head, which shifted from one opening to another.
A lazy smile touched Sam’s lips, and he pushed away from the tree. “Looking for me?”
She gasped and shot upright.
He watched her turn and gape at him, and her wide eyes darted left, then right, a sign she was looking for something to say. Finally he gave up, deciding he would be a grandfather by the time she spoke up. “What do you want?”
She rammed her shoulders back and stuck up her chin.
Jesus, what now?
“I’d like something to do.”
“Look, I told you before. This is a war camp. We’re training soldiers to fight for their freedom and their lives. It’s not some social club.”
“Where’s Mr. Bonifacio? He’s in charge. I think he’ll give me something to do.”
“Andres is in Quezon, meeting with Aguinaldo. He won’t be back for a while.” He crossed his arms over his chest and added, “So you’re stuck with me.”
She sighed one of those hurricane winds, then looked around. He could see her trying to think, and the thought crossed his mind that any minute he might smell smoke.
She looked him in the eye. “I’m just asking for something to do. Can’t I help with something, anything, please, Sam?”
“Where’s the damn bird? I heard she’s been keeping you busy.”
“Jim took her with him today.”
“That must have been interesting. Jim’s been complaining that he never sees Medusa anymore. I understand she’s taken quite a liking to you.” Birdbrains of a feather.
“She didn’t want to go with him, but I talked her into it.
“I’m sure that did wonders for Jim’s ego.” The woman had managed to lure Jim’s obnoxious bird away, which didn’t exactly bother Sam. He could live without that bird chattering constantly. And if it kept this woman busy, then that was fine with him. But now she was bored again. It might be worthwhile to give her something to do just to keep her out of his hair. “What can you do?”
She looked a little lost for an answer, but eager. Then she asked, “What do you need done?”
I need you gone, he thought, distractedly brushing some dust from his pants while he tried to come up with something. He stopped and stared at his dusty pants. Then he smiled, coming up with the perfect solution. “Laundry.”
“Laundry?” The eagerness left her face.
“Follow me.” He walked right past her, soon hearing the thud of her boots behind him. He crossed the camp to the north side, where ten long wooden bungalows served as the barracks. He rounded a corner, then moved past a stack of barrels and the small pit the men used for recreation. He
r boot steps scurried behind him, and suddenly he felt her tug at his arm.
“Sam?”
He stopped. “What?”
“What’s that?” She pointed to the dirt pit lined with sandbags.
“The cockpit.” He turned to go, but she wrenched back on his arm.
“The what?”
“The men use it in their free hours. For cockfights.”
“Cockfights?”
“Yeah, where they put two birds in a pit and let them fight it out while the men bet on which one will win.”
“Oh, my Gawd . . .”
“Gambling’s big in the islands. It’s their way to relax.”
Her face looked like she’d just met the devil. “What about the birds?”
“They’re treated like prized pets. Bought and sold based on their strength and number of wins. Most of the birds lead better lives than slum children, since the Filipinos take the sport seriously.”
“What happens to the birds? Don’t they get hurt?”
“The strongest fighters in the sport survive. The others . . .” Sam shrugged.
“Riding is a sport, horse racing is a sport, lawn tennis and croquet are sports, even that Yankee pastime, baseball, is a sport. Putting two helpless birds in a ring to fight is not a sport!”
“Tell that to the men. Now let’s go. I’ve got to get back.” He walked away, moving past some supplies crates and around another corner. He heard her gasp and stopped and turned.
She stood staring past the crates. He followed her gaze to the cock pens where eight rough wooden hutches stood in a line, each one containing a fighting cock.
“Oh, you poor birds! I feel so sorry for them.” Her voice caught.
He was damned sorry he’d been stupid enough to come this way. He grabbed her arm. “Do you want something to do or not?”
She nodded, but kept looking at the cages as if they were filled with sick babies.
“Come on.” He pulled her with him, determined to give her something to keep her busy, and away from him.
Those poor birds. Lollie sighed and stirred the big black pot of boiling clothes. She kept glancing toward the men’s barracks, unable to get those cages out of her mind. She’d grown a special fondness for birds in the last few days. Medusa had become almost a constant companion since she’d first lit on Lollie’s shoulder. The bird slept on a crude wooden perch Gomez had carved for her, and many times Lollie had crossed to the cook hut with Medusa perched on her head. The men were nice to her, smiling and bringing her little things, peanuts for the bird, pails of fresh water, ripe papayas and mangoes. Everything had been pleasant until she’d seen those birds and realized what the loud distant cheers had been the night before.
She swiped at her sweaty forehead with an arm, an arm sore from stirring, and then she looked at the other five boiling cauldrons. In an attempt to forget the birds, she’d tried to concentrate on what she was doing, stirring cauldrons of brewing clothes like a laundry witch. She’d switched utensils, from the stirring paddle to a long wooden thing Sam called a dolly. It looked like a small stool, but rising out of where the seat would have been if it were a stool—which it wasn’t—was a long wooden stick, not unlike the handle of a broom. At the top of the stick were two wooden handles that she was supposed to hold and then twist. The wooden legs that stuck out of the bottom would then mix up the clothes, spinning out the dirt.
She grabbed the dolly. What a silly name. She drew her arm across her forehead, wiping away the sweat and bits of damp hair. A dolly was something you dressed up in pretty clothes and placed on your bed. It was a toy, a plaything. She moved to the next pot and churned the clothes. This was anything but a game. It was hard work. She blew out a tired breath, then glanced toward the men’s quarters, picturing for the hundredth time those poor little roosters. They were used for games, too. Cruel games.
It made her angry that they could do something so cruel and call it a sport. She got chills just thinking about it. Of course once again it was a male sport, and men seemed to dictate what was acceptable. But she didn’t find cockfighting acceptable, and she doubted any other woman would, either. The whole thing just didn’t seem right, and someone should have done something about it.
She chewed on her lip for an indecisive moment. Dare she? One mental picture of what a cockfight would be like was enough. She dared. The immediate area was deserted, the men occupied elsewhere.
Sam hadn’t said anything about how long to cook the clothes. They had been pretty dirty, so the longer they cooked, the cleaner they’d be. It made sense. Yes, perfect sense.
She returned the paddle and dolly to their hooks on the side of the building. Then she checked to see if anyone was around. Still no one. Must be divine intervention, she decided.
With the Lord on her side, she strolled to the corner and peered around, looking over the wide dirt center of the camp. A few soldiers milled about, moving what she assumed were gun crates and supplies. She waited until she was sure their backs were turned, and then she scurried across the compound trying very hard to be quiet. If Sam saw her, he’d know exactly where she was headed. The man had an uncanny knack of showing up when she least expected him.
She made it to the first barracks, leaned her back against the wooden wall so she was well hidden, then peered around the corner. No one walked her way. The men were still busy talking, laughing and working. She gave a silent prayer of thanks.
In a few seconds she stood in front of the cages watching the birds. She moved to the closest cage. A deep brownish red rooster fanned his feathers, gurgling in his long throat and shaking that dangling red thing under his beak. He lifted his feet, shifting his weight just like Medusa. Lolly’s mind was made up. She stepped forward and reached for the wooden latch.
“Ouch!” She drew back her hand. The rooster had pecked her. She pressed on the spot of blood and glared. “You ungrateful thing, you.”
The bird stared back.
“But then, fighting is all you’ve ever known, isn’t it?” The rooster cocked its head.
“I understand,” she said, looking around for something long enough to spring the latches but still keep her hands from getting pecked bloody.
Spying a stick she retrieved it and went back to the cages. One by one she unlatched the doors.
There was one thing she hadn’t considered, and it happened.
They were fighting cocks, and true to their training, they fought, pecking and clucking right out there in the open. Feathers flew and dirt splattered upward, and the most horrendous noise erupted, squawks and clucks and screeches. It was just awful!
They squawked and she panicked. Stick still in hand, she swirled and ran toward the birds.
“Shoo! Shoo, you all!” She jumped up and down, waving the stick, trying to chase the birds into the jungle where they’d be free. Some of them scattered, some flew to the bushes, some disappeared.
It worked!
“Son of a bitch!”
Uh-oh. She froze. It was Sam’s voice, she’d have known that swearing anywhere.
Chapter 16
“Those men’ll kill you! And if they don’t, goddammit, I just might!” Sam closed the distance between them, intent on hauling Lollie out of there before he had a riot on his hands.
She froze, her face registered surprise, then guilt. Her arms dropped slowly to her sides, the long stick falling to the ground. Feathers and stirring dust were all that was left behind from the renegade cocks, which had scattered like a retreating army into the jungle brush.
His arm shot out with the speed of a striking snake and hooked itself around her waist, lifting her before she could give him any trouble. With her clamped against his hip, he spun around and made for her bungalow.
She made a sound of protest and he squeezed harder. “Shut up!”
He crossed the camp full bore, stormed up the steps, then threw open the door and crossed to the cot, where he dropped her like a sandbag. She screeched, pushed back the long blond hai
r that had fallen over her face, and looked up at him.
He moved his face closer to hers, and her blue eyes flashed with worry just before she scrambled up the cot until her back hit the wall with a solid thud. Her wary gaze darted left, then right, then left—her direction of flight.
His arm blocked her before she managed to stand. He threw her back down and planted a hand on either side of her, his upper body hovering over her and blocking her from rising more than a foot from the cot. “You stupid, damn little fool. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
She swallowed hard, shook her head. He moved his face even closer. She stared at his face and slowly nodded. “I saved those birds,” she whispered, adding with a note of ignorant pride, “Now they’re free.”
“Great . . . The damn birds are free. Are you proud of yourself’?”
Her look was unsure, but after a second she gave a slight nod.
“Feel like you’ve done something noble, don’t you? The birds are free, but these people aren’t free. Do you know why those men are here?”
“To fight,” she said with all the surety of someone who thought she knew what she was talking about, but didn’t.
“Yes, they fight, but not for fun, not because they want to kill, which is what you thought. This isn’t a game. They fight for freedom, lay their lives on the line to get what we Americans take for granted. This isn’t Belvedere, South Carolina. It’s the Philippines, a Spanish colony. The native people have no freedom, no say in the government, nothing. Their native priests are hung and left to rot in the town square. The Spanish Dominican priests steal everything of value from these people in the name of the church. Women and children are made slaves on the tobacco and cocoa plantations.”
Her lip began to quiver, but it didn’t stop him. He was too damn mad.
“Those men are here learning to fight to save their country. Many of them will never see their families again. They’ll die for a chance at that freedom you take for granted, the freedom that allows you to hide so luxuriously from the cruelties in this world.
