Brave Hearts Page 17

  Spencer shook his head wearily. “Catharine, whatever is or isn’t between us, you have to come on the submarine. You can’t stay here. If you stay, you’ll be captured or killed. The Rock is going to fall. It’s only a matter of time, and not much of that.”

  “I will not leave without Jack.”

  He stared at her implacably. “You will come, Catharine.”

  Amea tugged on Catharine’s hand. Catharine was awake with anticipation, but she moved slowly. It was ghostly in the dimly lit lateral. Catharine eased to her feet and edged her way to the narrow aisle between the cots that were jammed end to end. None of the sleeping women stirred, but Catharine wondered how many lay awake, knowing that they were being left behind to be captured when Corregidor fell. Amea went first. Catharine, Peggy, and the high commissioner’s wife, Elizabeth, followed.

  The high commissioner, Spencer, Woody, several diplomats, and two nurses were waiting silently at the intersection of the hospital lateral with the main tunnel. When the group was complete, the high commissioner led the way out through the east entrance. A bus waited. An MP stood guard while the diplomats boarded.

  Catharine looked to her right and left, then decided this wasn’t the moment. She would make her move at the last possible instant, when there would be no time left to search for her.

  The bus lumbered slowly down the bomb-rutted road, skirting the larger craters. Catharine went over it in her mind. She’d considered every alternative, including making an appeal to Commissioner Sayre. She’d been on good terms with him, but she felt that beneath his genial exterior he was a tough professional. He would consider it very unprofessional for a State Department wife to refuse to escape from danger with her husband. Unprofessional and not permissible.

  Only General Wainwright could overrule the high commissioner’s orders as to who would leave on the submarine. Catharine had seen Wainwright several times in the main lateral. He was tall and thin to the point of emaciation. He seemed kindly, but he would scarcely be sympathetic, and he certainly wanted to be rid of as many civilians as possible.

  That left her one recourse.

  The group filed off the bus and walked silently down the gritty concrete pier. Heavy clouds scudded overhead. Only an occasional streak of moonlight washed over the pier, but it was light enough to see the double line of marines loading boxes on the docked PT. The PT, of course, would ferry the gold and the passengers out to the waiting submarine.

  Catharine edged away from the group. Everyone was intent upon his own task. Now would be a good time . . .

  “Ma’am.”

  She looked up.

  A marine sergeant nodded toward the edge of the pier. “Please stay with the group, ma’am.”

  He was polite but insistent.

  For the first time, Catharine began to be afraid, but she was determined. She wasn’t going to leave. No matter what she had to do, she wasn’t going to leave on that PT.

  The marine stood between her and a chance to slip away in the darkness.

  Catharine waited on the edge of the pier. The PT was moored alongside. On the other side of the boat, there was the open water of the harbor. When they boarded, no one would remark if she walked to the far side of the PT.

  If she were quiet enough, unobtrusive enough, she could be overboard, and no one would notice.

  The water held wreckage, of course. Worse—it held sharks. No one had swum since the bombings shattered the shark nets. Shark fins sliced through the water every day, grayish-blue masses of jellyfish bobbed in the choppy water, and stingrays slithered along the bottom.

  Catharine could see the dark mass of the water moving heavily in the harbor. It would take a brave shark to be close to shore tonight with all the activity. As for the rest—she was a Californian born and bred and she wasn’t afraid to swim in any water.

  Her decision made, she relaxed. She wouldn’t worry now or second-guess herself. It seemed such a dramatic act for Catharine MacLeish Cavanaugh. She could never have imagined a year ago that she would do anything this bold. Jack admired boldness and independence, but she feared not this time. He would be very angry because he thought she’d promised to leave if she could. He wouldn’t understand, but she knew she had to stay. She had no choice. If she left him, she might never see him again. She had to stay.

  Suddenly, the passing of the crates from marine to marine stopped.

  Amea leaned close. “Something’s wrong. The loading is way behind schedule.”

  Then Catharine heard Spencer shout, “But we aren’t even half done.”

  A low, heavy voice rasped, “My orders are to rendezvous at 0600 hours. We are leaving now. Board the passengers.”

  “Wait a minute,” Spencer ordered. “We have to get the gold out.”

  “This ship leaves in five minutes.” It was the submarine commander.

  The passengers began to move toward the gangplank. The high commissioner, his wife, some nurses, Peggy. Catharine stood still.

  Spencer and Woody argued, but the commander shook his head. “I’ve got to make that rendezvous at 0600.”

  Woody turned to Spencer. “You and Catharine go ahead. I’ll stay and . . .”

  “No, it’s my job. You and Amea go with the shipment. I’ll stay. I know we can arrange for another sub.”

  “But Catharine will come with us,” Amea said urgently.

  Catharine backed up. “No. No, I won’t go.”

  Spencer didn’t answer for a long moment. Then he said woodenly, “Catharine will stay with me.”

  Amea gave a soft cry and hugged Catharine; then they were gone. Catharine and Spencer watched as the dark hulk of the PT moved out into the harbor.

  Spencer ordered a sergeant to oversee the return of the remaining gold to the vault; then he turned to Catharine. She couldn’t see his face in the darkness.

  “Amea and Woody think you are staying because you love me.

  “I’m sorry, Spencer.”

  He turned and walked away; she heard the echo of his footsteps on the concrete pier.

  Peggy rested in the narrow bunk aboard the Sunfish. Nausea welled in her throat. She wished she could cry, but all her tears were gone. She stared with dry, aching eyes at the dim gray curving walls of the submarine. It had never occurred to her that Spencer would be left behind, so she hadn’t told him. He was so busy with the gold, she’d decided to wait and tell him when they reached Australia. Another wave of nausea clawed at her throat. She bent up on one elbow and retched into the container that Amea held for her.

  “My dear, I know it’s awful,” Amea said gently. “The heat and the motion. Do you think it would help if you got up and tried to walk for a bit?”

  Peggy shook her head and sank back weakly onto the pillow. Mrs. Willoughby thought she was seasick, of course, but Peggy knew better.

  Oh, dear God, what was she going to do?

  Jack loomed above Catharine, his face hard, angry—and hurt.

  “For God’s sake, you could have gone without Spencer, couldn’t you?”

  She wasn’t going to lie. Not to Jack.

  “I could have gone.”

  He grabbed her arms, gripped her so tightly it hurt. “You bloody fool. Don’t you know there’s no hope? Bataan’s going to fall any day. You know what it’s like here.”

  She knew. Corregidor was running out of food, ammunition, and medicine. It might hold out for three more weeks. Maybe four. That was all.

  “You could have been safe.”

  “I couldn’t leave you, Jack. Can’t you understand that?”

  It took him a long moment to answer. Finally, he said gruffly, “All right, I understand it.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  His hands fell away from her. He looked at her somberly; then his face softened. “I love you, Catharine.” He shook his head. “Yeah, I understand.” He said wearily, “I’ve got to get you out of here. Somehow.”

  “Spencer’s requested another sub. They’ll take you, too,” she said eagerly. �
��You’re a correspondent.”

  “Spencer’s not going to get another sub. I’ve got some friends in HQ. The escape hatch’s closed. We’re here. We’re stuck here.”

  Catharine frowned. “Spencer will be very angry.”

  “Poor Spencer,” Jack said drily.

  “I mean, he’ll be upset about not getting the gold out, but I guess they can throw it away, too.”

  “Throw it away?”

  “Like the silver. He can’t get the silver out, so he’s having it dumped in the middle of the South Channel.”

  “He is? You mean he’s throwing silver into the ocean?”

  Catharine nodded.

  “When?”

  “They started last night. They’re going to dump some more tonight, and the rest of it tomorrow night.”

  The damn moonlight. Jack wished for clouds. Just one cloud would help, but the luminous, shining tropical sky glistened above him. Jack inched forward and watched the marines, their backs bent with effort, as they lugged the containers from the low stone building to the half-ton truck. One MP stood guard by the door to the building. A second held a rifle loosely and slouched by the back of the truck.

  Jack watched patiently until he was sure of the drill. No one was checking the containers out of the building or into the truck. The marines came and went in erratic bursts.

  Jack moved closer and closer to the building until he crouched in the shadow of a blast-twisted tree. The marines moved back and forth between the truck. The MP on guard stood tiredly, feet spread apart. He didn’t pay any attention to the marines as they went in and out of the building.

  Occasionally, there would be a gap in the procession of workers. When the next opportunity came, Jack took it. Jack appeared on the trail between the truck and the door. The guard didn’t notice as he ducked through the door. In the dim light, Jack was just another man in uniform.

  Light shone dimly from a second doorway. Jack passed through. Another guard looked at him incuriously. Jack walked to the corner, bent, and lifted a wooden crate. For an instant, he staggered under its weight, but he managed to turn and carry it without stumbling. He hadn’t realized how weakened he was from months of too little food. It took all his strength to keep on walking. He trudged along the rough, uneven ground toward the truck.

  Halfway between the building and the truck he stopped. There was a shattered palm to the left of the rail and a sharp drop past it into a ravine. No one was coming toward him. He had to move before a marine reached the truck and made the return journey. His throat dry, his heart pounding, he plunged off the trail to his left. At the same time, he shoved the crate away from him. Vines whipped against him; dry, crackly underbrush jabbed and scratched at him. The crate thudded down the steep slope. Jack reached out and grabbed hard at a bush clinging to the side of the ravine. He hung there panting, waiting for the shout of discovery, for the rattle of rifle fire.

  Moments passed; his heart rate began to slow. His hands stung from the nettly bush and his shoulder ached from the strain of carrying, then shoving away, the heavy crate, but he didn’t care.

  The most public act of his plan had succeeded. Now all he had to do was find the crate in the tangled depths of the ravine, maneuver it across the island to the point where he’d hidden his motorboat, cross seven miles of dangerous current to Cavite, evade the occupying Japanese, and find someone who would sell him a seaworthy boat for the silver.

  Catharine didn’t know the enlisted man who handed her the note just after breakfast, and he was gone before she could thank him. She recognized Jack’s handwriting on the envelope and ripped it open.

  The message was brief:

  Dear Catharine—Gone to Cavite in search of transport. I’ll be back. Love—Jack.

  Cavite.

  The Japanese controlled the province. Much of the artillery fire that blasted Corregidor came from Cavite. Cavite crawled with Japanese.

  Catharine’s head jerked up, and she stared across the inky blue channel toward Cavite.

  Three quinquis—wicks dipped in coconut oil, then set afire—blazed in the nipa hut. The lights wavered and jerked as the sharp ocean breeze slatted through the bamboo walls. They cast light and shadow intermittently across the dark, impassive face of the village headman.

  “It would be very dangerous,” he said in sibilant Spanish.

  Jack’s face didn’t change, but he felt elated because he knew the headman knew of a boat. It had taken Jack a week of cautious approach, of moving from one native barrio to another, before he’d made contact with a Filipino willing to bring him along an obscure jungle trail to this meeting. But now Jack knew; a boat existed. Then his elation subsided. Knowing and getting were poles apart.

  “There will be no danger to you or any of your villagers,” Jack said in slow, emphatic Spanish. “All I require is the boat, with enough fuel to cross the South Channel to Corregidor.”

  For an instant, the impassive face showed a trace of surprise. Jack knew the headman wondered why any fool would go to Corregidor.

  The Filipino said quietly, “A boat is worth very much. What can you offer?”

  “Ten thousand dollars.”

  The headman’s dark eyes were uninterested. “American dollars are worthless now.”

  “Ten thousand dollars in silver.”

  It was suddenly still in the smoky, ill-lit hut.

  “Silver.” The headman’s face creased into a frown. “Where is this silver?”

  “When I see the boat, I will take you to it.”

  “Do you take me for a fool?” the headman demanded derisively.

  Jack picked up his pack from the floor. He opened it, aware that the Filipino watched with a catlike intensity, his hand resting on the knife in his belt. Jack plunged his hand into the pack and pulled out a small leather bag. He jerked open the drawstrings and poured out a stream of silver coins. The coins clattered into a pile, then glistened in the soft light of the quinquis.

  The headman picked up several of the coins and studied them. He looked up at Jack. “It would be very dangerous. The boat must be brought here by night and camouflaged by day from the Japanese planes. If the crew were captured, it would mean their lives.”

  “Twelve thousand.”

  They bargained, Jack estimating how much silver his crate held, the headman estimating the food and medicines he could buy for his people.

  They shook hands at eighteen thousand.

  They stood shoulder to shoulder on the dusty patch of ground outside the outlet: nurses, doctors, soldiers, marines, ambulatory patients, civilians, off-duty support personnel. The crowd was silent except for an occasional shocked murmur when the night sky over Bataan exploded anew, each burst angrier, louder, more violent. Light moved in the sky, red, gold, orange, and pink; the noise was constant, the far-off roar of exploding ammunition like the thunder of an avalanche. The spectators watched somberly because they knew this was the deathwatch; this was the dying agony of an army that had fought beyond reason since December. Now it was April, and the bloody, convulsive end had come.

  A woman sobbed somewhere in the darkness to Catharine’s left, but Catharine’s eyes were dry. She wished she could cry. Her throat ached with unshed tears—this was pain too deep for tears. Jack had told her so much about the young soldiers who had fought these dreadful months. Even if they survived, what would happen to them when they were captured by the Japanese?

  And what would happen to those now standing here watching the fall of Bataan? Because if Bataan fell, Corregidor would soon fall. Capture now was certain. Some nights in the tunnel, men talked of what happened to those captured by the Japanese.

  Everyone standing here would either die or be captured.

  A curtain of fire shimmered across the night sky. Catharine lit a cigarette with trembling fingers. She drew deeply on it. She’d thought it couldn’t get any worse, the terrible bombardments by day and by night, the endless shrill whining shrieks of the incoming shells, the mind-numbing detonat
ions every few seconds, the lack of food, the heat, the dust, the flies, the quivering concrete walls.

  But it was going to get worse.

  Spencer frowned at the sheet of paper in front of him. He’d have Peggy . . . Then he remembered again; each time it was a twist of pain. Peggy was on her way to Australia. From there, she’d go by ship to San Francisco. The pain of her going ached deep inside him, but she was on her way home to safety. She was going to be all right.

  Peggy would get over him. That would be best for all of them.

  He wanted Peggy. He needed her, but he knew that it would never work out. A divorce would be a disaster for him. Divorce . . . A hot flicker of anger moved inside him. How could Catharine have become entangled with a newspaperman? The kind of man who didn’t have a dollar in the bank and never knew how long he’d hold a job. Spencer knew about that kind of man: worthless, restless, undependable. Catharine would come to her senses. He should have put her aboard that submarine. Now, who knew what was going to happen. He’d requested Washington to send another sub. He felt suddenly empty, sick. The gold was too important for Washington not to rescue it. They had to take care of the gold. When the sub came, he and Catharine would get out. He’d work everything out with Catharine. After all, they were so well suited. They’d worked together as a team for so long.

  His eyes moved restlessly, then stopped and focused on the chair where Peggy used to sit.

  Shells whined overhead and exploded every five seconds, gouging out huge craters, rocking the main tunnel and the laterals, filling the air with the fine, sandy dust. Men crouched motionless along the tunnel walls, staring dully at nothing. Patients coughed and choked. The wan, thin nurses worked to keep men alive and wondered what for.

  Catharine forced herself to get up every morning, to comb her hair, and to use a tiny bit of their precious water ration to clean her face and hands. She maintained a schedule, mornings in the wards helping write letters home or rolling bandages, afternoons sorting through the effects of the dead, packaging up the sad belongings that would be sent home along with the letters—should there ever be transport.