‘No bother, lady. Pleased to be of service.’
Dianne was from California and sauntered around in scraps of material that used to be men’s clothes as though she were really at home in them.
‘The truth is that trousers make me feel safe,’ she said to Nadine. ‘I wouldn’t want to be raped by a Nip, nor get dragged off to one of their brothels. No, siree!’
It was enough that the girl was willing. ‘Just help me get the stuff through.’
Dianne’s face lit up like a moonbeam. ‘This is real exciting.’
‘You make it sound like a great adventure.’
‘Isn’t it?’
Nadine grimaced. ‘It’s downright bloody dangerous.’
Dianne’s bravado reminded her of Peggy and amused her, but her humour did not last for long. The moon was too bright for receiving contraband but they had to risk it.
They moved against the shadow of the barbed-wire fence, matt black silhouettes against strings of wire and posts. A hunched figure made itself known on the other side. He gave a signal. The two women waited until they were sure that the lookouts in the wooden towers had swung away from them.
They had roughly ten minutes before they swung back.
* * *
The jungle night throbbed with the sound of insects, monkeys and the leathery wings of the flying fox.
Moonlight battered the treetops but failed to pierce the matt blackness among the trunks of teak, banyan and ground-hugging bushes.
Genda sniffed the air as he moved cautiously and slowly along the jungle path. He smelled men, rotting leaves, dung and stagnant water. After a while he also smelled the sea. They were getting close to their destination.
His orders were to apprehend insurrectionists believed to be operating from a fishing village nestled between the jungle and the sea.
The sound of breaking surf told him they were nearly there.
Genda’s concentration shifted between the job in hand and Nadine and the baby. Conditions in the camp were appalling. Would the child survive? Would Nadine?
He had done his bit, purchasing medicines from traders, smuggled in his flute case. Tonight he was out on patrol and in his absence had bribed Kikushu, a Korean guard, to hand over the medicines and food. Those Japanese he trusted most were with him on this mission. One of his own men had vouched for the Korean.
A whispered report came back from the men he’d sent up front to check the village.
‘All is quiet. They sleep.’
The outlines of palm-roofed huts came into view against a dark blue sea. A number of small fishing boats heaved gently on the swell, their prows tied to the stilts supporting the huts.
The silence was total, unbroken even by the barking of dogs or the cackling of chickens.
Genda frowned.
‘A trap, major,’ his sergeant whispered.
‘Perhaps,’ said Genda and his frown deepened. He was alert to all possibilities.
‘So,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘If you have prepared an ambush, how do you keep the animals quiet?’
Even in the subdued light, he could see the consternation on his sergeant’s face. An ambush would only succeed if it surprised those who were ambushed. But a village without the usual sounds was not normal.
He led them forwards.
Not even the smell of cooking fires disturbed the night. There were no dogs, no chickens and no plump children squatting on the sandy earth.
‘They’re not here,’ he said, his feet sinking into the soft, white sand. ‘They’re gone. Someone warned them.’
His judgement turned out to be right. The huts were searched, but everything – including cooking utensils, animals and even their fishing nets – had disappeared.
It was surmised that the rebels were getting inside information, possibly from the traders who regularly visited the camp, and the local girls who fraternized with some of the younger Japanese soldiers.
With a sinking heart, Genda surveyed the empty huts. He was certain they’d been betrayed and had no doubt Yamamuchi would root out whoever had betrayed their mission. And whoever it was would suffer, but so would the innocent; hostages would be taken from other villages and beheaded as a warning to those who dared deny Japanese superiority.
Unconsciously, he allowed his gaze to wander along the path of moonlight to the far horizon. Diamonds of brightness danced on the water. His attention returned to the waiting boats, noting their position – just in case, he told himself. Just in case.
Time was running out. As long as his grandfather was favoured by the military high command, he was safe from the colonel who still sought advancement. But things could change. Opinions and strategic thinking were like the pieces on a chess board, always shifting. Favourites could become expendable overnight. If his grandfather did fall from favour then his life might be forfeit.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Every fibre, every bone and every nerve ending in Nadine’s body screamed for release: her arms were tied behind her but closer to the post than her legs so that her back was arched as tautly as a bow, her hips thrust forward. A bamboo stake had been wedged against the upright pole to which she was bound, the tip of its sharpened point stabbing at the small of her back. If she dared fall asleep, or even relax, the spike would sever her spine and exit through her stomach.
Her weariness was such that falling asleep would have been terribly easy, but Shanti was crying. Out of the corner of her eye she had seen Kia, the baby nestling in the crook of her arm. Kia’s face had been tight with terror. Betty and Rosalyn were with her, their trembling hands hovering like humming birds about their faces.
They’d begged the guards to have mercy; she’d heard them. Butts of rifles and the threat of sharp bayonets had herded them back inside the huts. The start of curfew was long past and the moon was hiding its light behind ragged clouds.
The Korean guard they’d met had quibbled about handing over the goods and argued for more money. Nadine had been aware that to give in would create a precedent for other occasions and refused.
‘Then thee and thy own will go without,’ he had said testily, pulling the goods back from her waiting hands.
Nadine had made a mental note to tell Genda that this man could not be trusted. But thoughts of those lying sick and dying were not far from her mind. She told Dianne to go to Betty.
‘Betty will give you some money…’
Dianne had not gone three steps before the shout went up, lights were lit and they’d found themselves surrounded.
Flashlights brightened the darkness.
Dianne screamed.
Nadine cried out, ‘It’s nothing to do with her. I take full responsibility.’
Yamamuchi’s breath fell on her face. ‘Yes. This is indeed your responsibility.’
With a swift, dramatic movement he swung his sword above his head.
For one horrific moment Dianne’s body stood headless, blood spurting from her severed arteries. Then she crumpled.
Now it was Nadine’s turn. She held her breath. As the tip of the sword tickled her throat, her daughter’s crumpled face flashed into her mind. She closed her eyes. Any minute now I’ll be dead, she thought. Any minute.
But the colonel had other plans. He was angry with her, but also angry with Major Shamida, a man who by accident of birth alone he’d never trusted. But he’d heard rumours from far-off Tokyo. The major’s grandfather was advising the Mikado to sue for peace. Unfortunately for him, the hawks of the Japanese Imperial Army were in the ascendant and advised the opposite. His days were numbered. It was just a matter of time.
How long will I take to die?
Nadine’s eyes flickered. What a stupid question.
Pain and fatigue fought for supremacy in her emaciated body. Neither won. They were too well matched.
By dawn her limbs were trembling, her blood pooling in her muscles. As the sun began its merciless climb into the sky she sucked at dry lips. It had been over twelve hours since she’d ha
d a drop of water or anything to eat. Food she could do without; water was what she craved. Cool water. She thought of it on her tongue and hearing the sound of the sea imagined its coolness washing over her.
She heard scuffling, shouting and cries of anguish. Someone had tried to bring her water but had been chased away.
And all the time Shanti’s crying gave her the strength to go on, to stay awake, but in staying awake she remembered what had happened to Dianne, the girl who had wanted adventure. The vision was painful. She was in danger of breaking, so forced herself to concentrate on pleasant things and sweet moments. Shamida reciting his poem sprang into her mind.
How do I love thee… A few beautiful words printed on a ragged scrap of paper.
Genda! Where was Genda?
* * *
Madam Cherry couldn’t stop laughing, rolling around on the tumbled bedding, her dragon-patterned dressing gown falling open to reveal her nakedness. ‘You fool! You stupid fool!’
The colonel with whom she had shared a short and rather terrible relationship was a blur of shapes within a booze-fuelled haze. He had a long face and a very square chin, like a jar she’d always thought.
‘Like a jar,’ she chuckled, her sense of self-preservation addled by half a bottle of whisky.
Yamamuchi’s angry eyes were jet beads above his ginger-jar chin and made her chuckle even more. He hated being reminded that the dancing girl had been dallying with the American-born major.
‘She was your toy but Major Shamida was her bullock. It was his pistle that brought forth the golden egg! Not that the fruit is very healthy. It squalls all the time, so I’m told.’
Yamamuchi fetched her a heavy backhander that sent her sprawling. Too late, she sobered up enough to realize what she had said and what she had done. Yamamuchi’s face was turning crimson. Virility was important to all men, but more so to Yamamuchi. Mocking it was dangerous. Telling him how frequently the major had met the dancing girl had intensified the insult and fuelled his anger, but Madam Cherry was drunk, her mind befogged by whisky.
The colonel’s eyes narrowed to wafer-thin slits as he took off his belt.
Realizing her mistake, madam reverted to the ways that had made the colonel her own, crouching submissively, simpering in a trembling voice. ‘Whatever Yamamuchi-san wants, I want too. He knows that, does he not? He knows I am his servant and that his prosperity and joy are mine also.’
She endured him ripping off her clothes, the digging of the buckle into her throat.
Her bleary vision worsened as the buckle pressed against her windpipe. Opening and shutting her mouth like a fish out of water, she fought for air.
With each thrust of his loins Yamamuchi shouted curses on Nadine, the Anglo-Indian dancer, calling her a third-rate whore; calling Shamida a treacherous son of a ronin: a rogue samurai of no account.
He did not notice Madam Cherry’s distress. He did not care that she was clawing at the belt, her fingernails breaking as she tried to get her breath.
He hardly noticed that the body into which he spilled his seed was now lifeless.
* * *
It was late when the patrol got back following a thorough search of the jungle and paddies surrounding the fishing village. Genda mused about the situation. Nothing had been found. It was obvious that someone had tipped them off, someone from inside the camp. The vision of the village stayed with him: the silence, the lack of either Japanese or rebels or ordinary villagers. Above all else, he recalled the position of the fishing boats.
Shadows flitted through the undergrowth as they made their way back along the jungle track. Rebels swearing death to the emperor and all his cohorts, leapt onto their gunfire. Superior weapons and tenacious fighting beat them off. By the time they got back to the camp they were tired and footsore. All were looking forward to a decent meal and some sleep. Some would not eat until they had bathed in the warm waves lapping the nearby beach.
On arrival, a young lieutenant whom Genda had befriended stood with two guards.
The lieutenant saluted. ‘Major. I need to speak to you.’
He looked nervous. The two guards with him looked uncertain. He barked an order as he waved them away. ‘I will send for you when I need you.’
Genda frowned. As the senior officer present it should have been his order. He immediately sensed that something was wrong.
The lieutenant confirmed this and explained what had happened.
‘I am speaking as a friend,’ he began.
As the tale unfolded, the tiredness that was always present at the end of a patrol left Genda’s body.
‘Bastard! I’ll kill him with my bare hands.’
Although spoken in English, the expletive was understood.
The lieutenant continued. ‘He’s posted guards at the gates. If you attempt to pass into the women’s camp you will give them reason to shoot you. Those on guard there are those he trusts the most.’
‘But I can see her?’
The lieutenant answered. ‘Oh, yes. Those are his orders and her punishment for dealing in contraband. He took great delight in stating that you may see her through the wire, you may even talk to her if you shout loud enough, but you may not go to her. It is your punishment to see her suffering from a distance.’
Every fibre of Genda’s being was stretched to breaking point. The moment he had meditated on had finally come. He trembled inside as his lieutenant and his loyal sergeant followed him to the gate. Guards stood with bayonets fixed on the other side. He knew by their faces where their loyalty lay.
Beyond them he saw her figure, strained over the spike of sharpened bamboo, and thought he could hear a baby crying. He stopped himself from shouting out. It took much effort for her to keep taut and not be speared. If he had to beg the colonel to let her live he would do so. If he had to die in order to have her released, he would do that too.
Too long he’d been unsure of where his loyalties lay: with the land of his fathers or the land of his birth? Now he knew. Patriotism was not enough, and what was his patriotism anyway? Japan or America? Perhaps neither. His was a loyalty to humanity.
He headed off towards the colonel’s quarters.
‘He’s with the She-Dragon,’ the lieutenant called after him.
If this hadn’t been such a serious occasion he would have smiled at the remark picked up from the women inmates. But these two were far from being figures of fun; one of them at least was less than a military man and far more of a murderer.
In answer to his knock, Yamamuchi bid him enter. Genda stiffened himself for what he had to say. Punishment, even death, would be preferable to letting Nadine die. Without her mother the baby would die too.
Subservience was in his mind when he pushed open that door but it was swiftly replaced by horror.
Yamamuchi was kneeling on the back of a naked Madam Cherry. He saw the belt around her neck, her tongue protruding between bruised lips. Her eyes were staring and vacant.
There was a look of triumph on the colonel’s face. ‘So. You have returned to meet your fate. You sullied my property. You will pay for that. You will pay for it in great measures.’
Genda’s hand slipped onto his sword.
Yamamuchi laughed. ‘American! Put that sword away. You sully its tradition, you dishonour bushido and your ancestors. I spit on you. American and cowardly you were born, and American and cowardly you will remain!’
Making a sound like the wind piercing a narrow gap, Major Genda Shamida’s steel blade split the air.
Blood poured from the colonel’s throat, spurting in time with the pumping of his heart. His expression of triumph turned to surprise. He fingered his throat in a vain attempt to stem the flow. It seeped through his fingers, streaming over his knuckles and down his arm.
Slowly he fell forward, his body covering that of his most loyal admirer. One leg struck out and kicked over the lamp, scattering its consort of moths.
The flames licked at the rush matting and in the search for more fu
el began to climb the walls towards the roof.
Genda threw back his head and closed his eyes. ‘Shamida, what have you done?’
There was no time to waste. He pulled woven mats from the floors, hemp hangings from the walls and heaped them onto the flames. The fire would destroy the cause of death, but there was bound to be suspicion. The finger would point at him, but at least it would give him time.
Tongues of flame licked hungrily at the makeshift funeral pyre.
Genda headed for the door, accompanied by the moths that had fluttered around a single flame but now fled the conflagration.
Outside, he grabbed a rifle from the nearest guard and shouted for his men, for his sergeant and the young lieutenant.
‘The colonel is dead and so is the Madam. The rebels have killed the colonel,’ he shouted. ‘All men over here. Search the perimeter fence.’
He ignored the unspoken questions: How did they get through? Why did we not hear gunfire? What were you doing there, Major Shamida?
Later for the questions, later when it would be too late.
One warlord had replaced another. Such was the tradition that allegiance was swiftly transferred from the dead colonel to the living major.
‘Did you not hear me, you fool? Leave the woman. Find the rebels.’
He used his sword to point in the direction he wished them to go.
The men who had been ordered not to let the major through into the women’s camp now flooded towards the perimeter fence and the main gate, their focus on apprehending the non-existent perpetrators.
‘Go with them,’ he said to the sergeant and the lieutenant.
They obeyed. Later they might question why he had gone in the opposite direction, but for now he was their superior officer. They knew their place and assumed he knew his.
Shamida ticked off a mental list. Food, water and a boat. But first Nadine and the baby.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Inside the hut, the night sounds had consisted of a cough, a child’s cry or a series of barely suppressed sobs which disturbed the night air. Outside, the leathery wings of flying foxes whisked through the darkness; a gibbon shrieked, jarring nerves, fooling senses.
East of India Page 27
