Brave Hearts Read online

  Their head cargadore, Vincente, frowned. “We can’t stay here.”

  “It’s all right now,” Jack replied.

  “I don’t like it either,” Catharine said uneasily. “Jack, what are we going to do?”

  The cargadores were busy making a fire. It would be their usual lunch: boiled rice and boiled coffee with a fresh banana for dessert.

  “I think I’d better take a look ahead.”

  Catharine pushed away from the bole of the coconut tree. “I’ll go with you.”

  “No.” At her quick frown, he explained. “This is just a reconnaissance, Catharine. I can move more quietly by myself with Vincente. You’ll be safer here. I’ll post a look-out.”

  She understood the logic, but she didn’t like it. She hated this ghostly, deserted barrio. There was nothing but silence and the imprint of a Japanese sneaker on the damp earth.

  Catharine felt a wave of despair when Jack and Vincente left, but she smiled and raised a hand in farewell. She was being foolish, a combination of fatigue and fear. It was certainly good to have an afternoon to rest, and Jack and Vincente could move faster without all of them. They would find a boat, and she and Jack would be on their way. She pushed aside her memory of the Pacific and its endless empty space. What kind of boat could Jack find that would be seaworthy enough to get them to Australia? How would they sail it? He would have to find, too, a navy man willing to risk the journey. That, perhaps, would be the easiest task of all. The island, with all its incredible wilderness, was a refuge for growing numbers of Americans, including the army and navy men who had ignored Wainwright’s order to surrender.

  Perhaps they were only hours away from escaping the Philippines. Catharine wandered aimlessly around the barrio. Perhaps it had been a prosperous small community. There were almost a dozen huts on stilts. She wondered where all of its citizens had fled. Her walk reinforced her sense of oppression. The cargadores had doused the fire and were stretched out asleep in the shade of a hut, except for Pilo serving as a sentry. Catharine hesitated, then climbed up the ladder of one of the huts, where there was a broad bamboo sleeping platform against the back wall. She crossed to it and sank gratefully down. She smiled a little as she drifted into sleep.

  It was a sound that woke her, brought her upright, one hand tight against her throat: a mélange of noises, the thudding of feet, a frantic thrashing through thick undergrowth, shouts, a high, broken-off scream.

  Catharine knew even before she flattened herself to one side of the opening to look down into the clearing. From her height, she could see perfectly. She could see the blood welling from the throat of Pilo, her favorite among the cargadores, a slender, laughing young man who liked to whistle American songs. Now he wavered on his feet; his hands came slowly up to try and staunch the flow of blood. The Japanese soldier raised his sword, swung again, and Pilo’s head rocketed backwards to bounce against the hard-packed dirt.

  The sun-drenched, blood-splotched clearing wavered in her sight. Catharine pressed hard against the side of the nipa wall, knowing what must come, knowing with a growing horror that they would find her. She would be a woman and an enemy for them to do with as they chose; she had no means of protection, no way of resisting.

  A noise close at hand, a sound of movement very near, a small crackle obtruded over the shouts in the clearing below.

  Her head turned. She froze, an animal’s instinct; the horror in the clearing was transcended by the horror so close at hand.

  The cobra, patterned a brilliant black and yellow, moved slowly across the outside wall of the hut, then paused at the doorway. Its hooded head swayed gently in the rectangular opening.

  “You must go back up into the mountains.” The teniente looked nervously over his shoulder. “The Japanese are everywhere, all up and down the coast. They are driving the people from their barrios, capturing Americans, and putting them into camps. I would not be here myself, but I had to come back to get some medicine for my old mother. You must go back up into the mountains.” The teniente spoke with finality.

  Jack wiped the back of his hand across his cheek. It was sweltering in the seacoast barrio. Beyond the barrier reef lay the surging Pacific and, thirteen hundred miles away, Australia and safety.

  “A boat,” Jack began.

  The teniente didn’t even bother to answer. He just shook his head. “No boats,” he said again with that tired finality. “They sank them all. You must go back up into the mountains.”

  Jack and Vincente took time to get some supplies—a sack of rice and some peanuts. They didn’t talk as they toiled back up the trail toward the barrio where they had left the others.

  It was Vincente who was in the lead and saw first. He gave a cry, a deep, tearing cry, at the sight of his younger brother, Pilo. Vincente ran, flung himself down, and, rocking back and forth on his haunches, stared at the severed head, covered now with clusters of flies and maggots.

  Jack burst past him, thundered into the clearing, and saw the splotches of blood, drying pools now, and the bodies.

  “Catharine, oh, God, Catharine!”

  He plunged from the nearer bodies to the second and knew she wasn’t there. His mind filled with ghastly pictures of Catharine with the Japanese and what they would have done to her.

  “Jack,” whispered a strangely taut and careful voice.

  He stood very still. Was his mind gone now, too burdened by horror to accept the truth? Then it came again, the restricted and fearful call of his name.

  “Jack. The middle hut. Look.” The words were even, toneless.

  He looked up then, saw the hut, and didn’t see Catharine; but hanging in the doorway, the enormous black and yellow cobra swayed nervously.

  Jack slowly started forward, pulling free his rifle as he walked.

  The cobra saw him; the hood expanded to its full extent.

  Jack walked slowly, so slowly, but he was determined to be close enough that his shot couldn’t miss. The cobra swayed back and forth, excited, angry, sensing a threat.

  The words, higher now, louder, spilled from the open doorway.

  “Be careful. They can spit venom.”

  The cobra’s head began to turn, seeking the source of noise behind it.

  Jack brought the rifle up in one smooth movement, sighted, and pulled the trigger. The explosive sound reverberated in the clearing, and the cobra’s hood blew apart.

  When Catharine was in his arms, neither of them spoke. They clung to each other, held to each other. Slowly, strength began to flow between them.

  “I’m sorry,” he said finally. “I should never have left you.”

  “If you’d been here, you’d be . . .” She didn’t say it, didn’t want to face it, put the horror into words. Tonelessly, she told him what had happened, how the Japanese soldiers had laughed as they killed the last of the men in the clearing, then started to search the huts.

  “The cobra stopped them. They left when they saw the cobra.”

  “How long was it before we came?” Jack asked.

  “An hour.”

  An hour of terror, waiting for the cobra to crawl into the hut, drawn by the heat of her skin, an hour when all that saved her from death was absolute will.

  Jack took her hand in his.

  “What are we going to do?” she asked.

  He looked at Catharine, her face pale and strained, and he managed a grin. “Well, kid, it looks like we missed the last boat, so we’re going to take a trip to the mountains.”

  A trip to the mountains—it meant days more of slogging along trails, hoping to avoid Japanese patrols, negotiating narrow paths, skirting crevasses, hiding, hunting for food, always one step away from disaster, not knowing where they were going or what lay ahead.

  Or what would happen when they got there.

  Jenny held up the worn cotton blouse, once white, now a kind of bluish gray. “If I scrub it one more time, it’s going to disintegrate.” Then she grinned. “What the well-dressed refugee wears—any damn t
hing she can lay her hands on.”

  Catharine smiled and used a tiny swipe of soap on her own blouse. The icy mountain stream swirled past; her hands tingled from the cold, but it was pleasant to joke with Jenny as they did their morning wash. She and Jack were fortunate to have found this group of mining engineers and their wives. They’d been with them for almost a week now, sleeping in the sala of the hut that belonged to Jenny and her husband, Calvin Mackey, and their young son, Roger. The Mackeys, in their early thirties, were friendly, cheerful, and unshakably optimistic. Jenny was a languid redhead who managed to accomplish a great deal of work in their primitive camp without looking as though she was exerting herself. Her husband spent his free time studying a dog-eared map of the province, trying to determine where would be the best spot for an American landing, which Catharine considered the acme of positive thinking.

  It was communal living. Catharine hated imposing on the Mackeys, taking away the privacy which she knew must mean so much to them. Jack had hired workers from a nearby tribe who were putting up a hut for them.

  When they moved in, they would be alone for the first time since they left Corregidor. She remembered those snatched hours, hours gouged out of time in an exploding hell, but hours that would always be precious in her memory. As she scrubbed away on the blouse, forgetting she had only that tiny piece of soap, she wished she could be beautiful for Jack. Her slacks were ragged; her blouse was paper thin. Catharine didn’t even have a mirror anymore. She’d lost so much in these months on the trail. She knew she was far too thin. Her hair hung in a thick, unruly braid down her back because her hair had gone so long without being cut. She squeezed the blouse and spread it to dry beside Jenny’s wash on the sun-warm rocks. As she began to wash a shirt of Jack’s, she asked abruptly, “Jenny, do you have any lipstick?”

  Jenny looked up in surprise, then with sudden understanding said, “Sure. I’m saving it to celebrate liberation, but I’d be glad to share.”

  Catharine already regretted her impulsive question. None of them had extra of anything. It wasn’t right to expect this newfound friend to share. “No, no. I just wondered. I wouldn’t want. . .”

  Jenny was already digging into the pocket of her shorts. “Look. Here are my prizes.” She pulled out a half-dozen bobby pins; a tiny vial of perfume; a compact with an unbroken mirror, which she proudly displayed; and a lipstick, which she uncapped. The smooth, dark red gloss shone like a ruby.

  “I can cut it in half . . .”

  Catharine refused that largesse and finally accepted a sliver of the lipstick when Jenny agreed to take four cigarettes.

  They laughed as they made their trade. Jenny confirmed Catharine’s estimate of her generosity when she promptly offered Catharine a cigarette.

  Catharine shook her head. “That’s not fair. You keep it for Calvin.”

  “Oh, he doesn’t smoke, which is marvelous because I get all he finds. Come on, take one, and let’s have a smoke.”

  They dried their hands and stretched out comfortably on the bank of the stream in a patch of sunlight.

  Jenny blew a light stream of smoke into the sunlight, watched it dissipate, then said teasingly, “Are you planning a second honeymoon?”

  It was a good-natured question, a light relief from the underlying fear that marked their days. Catharine’s hand paused in midair, and her cigarette burned for a long moment. The silence expanded, and Jenny suddenly flushed.

  “Sorry,” she said in confusion. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  Impulsively, Catharine reached out and touched Jenny’s arm. “You didn’t offend me. It’s just . . . I don’t know exactly what to say.” She took a deep breath, then said quickly, “Jack and I aren’t married.”

  “But I thought he said . . .” Then Jenny’s face matched her flaming hair. She sputtered and tried again. “I mean, golly, that’s all right.” She heard herself say that, found it wanting, and started over. “For heaven’s sake, I don’t care.”

  There was no censure in Jenny’s voice, only warmth and an eagerness to be supportive. For the first time in a long time, Catharine began to relax. Sitting on the warm rocks, she told Jenny about Jack. When she was finished, when she had told all of it, including the hard truth that Spencer, her husband, was in a camp only a few miles from here with the nurses and the missionary group, she looked reluctantly at Jenny.

  “Don’t be defensive,” Jenny said abruptly, her voice clear and certain. “You’ve done your best, Catharine. It isn’t as though Spencer loved you. I know you feel guilty, but if we were home, you would get a divorce and marry Jack. We aren’t home.” Some of the life seeped from her face. “We may never be home again, so don’t regret this chance to love Jack. When it comes down to it, there isn’t anything in life that matters but love.”

  It was just before sunset when Catharine and Jack moved the last of their goods into their new hut, which sat almost a hundred yards from that of the Mackeys. They ate dinner with the Mackeys, then walked slowly up the dusty path to their own hut.

  Catharine felt unaccountably shy. It had been so long, so very long since she and Jack had been alone. For so many weeks now, there had always been someone else present: their traveling companions, the cargadores, Americans with whom they stayed as they plunged deeper into the interior. As she climbed up the ladder and stepped into the hut, she turned to watch Jack duck through the low doorway.

  He was too thin. She must insist that he eat more, but he was always so careful to see that she and any others had full plates. She sometimes felt as if she were being buried in a mountain of rice and fruit, but they must be grateful for the fruit. Someone had heard through the jungle grapevine of the hideous condition of the prisoners at the Davao Penal Colony, where hundreds of American and British prisoners of war were being held. The men were suffering from scurvy, rickets, and beriberi—all symptoms of an inadequate diet.

  “You’re too thin,” she blurted out, then felt like a fool. Was that the best she could do the first moment they were alone together?

  His prominent bones jutted beneath his skin; his shirt hung loosely on his large, now spare, frame.

  “You can fatten me up, Catharine. I’ve arranged for a native to bring us chickens when he can. Can you do something with chickens?”

  She glanced at the native stove at the far end of the room and nodded.

  They stood only a few feet apart in the fresh-smelling hut and stared at each other; neither knew what to say.

  Jack reached out his hand. “I love you. I promise I’ll make you a real home someday.”

  She moved then, stepped into his arms, and smiled up at him. “Oh, Jack, you Chicago fool, I don’t care about that. All I care about is you.”

  He stared down at her, a quizzical look in his eyes. “You know, that’s funny, but I know you really mean it. You’ve lived in finer houses than I could ever have and you don’t care, do you?”

  “And I never will.”

  She looked up at him, at his dear face, his dear, thin face, the strong nose accentuated now, his jaws protruding, his dark eyes sunken, but she didn’t see the deprivation or fatigue. She saw a love tough enough to last a lifetime, however long or short that might be.

  She reached up and gently stroked his cheek. His hand caught hers and brought it to his mouth. He kissed the palm of her hand, and sudden tears stung her eyes.

  “Love me, Jack,” she said softly.

  “Did I ever tell you I was the luckiest man in the world?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “I am. I fell in love with the loveliest woman in the world, and she loves me back. No man can be luckier than that.”

  Lucky. That was how he felt and, she realized, how she felt. Here they were, refugees in a strange land, subject to death if captured, yet both of them rejoiced in each other, knowing that these moments, this kind of love, were the essence of life. Together they could meet the uncertain future, no matter what happened.

  As the last shaft
s of sunlight speared through the doorway, Jack picked her up and carried her to the bamboo sleeping platform against the far wall. When he stood beside it, he held her and looked down ruefully. “This won’t be the most comfortable bed we’ve shared.”

  “It will be wonderful,” she said softly. Her hands reached up to bring his face down, her mouth sought his, and she gloried in the touch of his lips and the taste of his mouth. She felt a sweep of sheer happiness, the kind of happiness that only rarely touches human lives.

  When they lay together, their clothes tossed aside, and she felt the long length of his body, she laughed softly. He paused from touching her shoulder with the tip of his tongue and looked at her in surprise.

  “I’m so happy,” she said simply. “Oh, Jack, I was afraid today. It had been so long, and I feel that I’m ugly. My hair is wild, and I’m too thin.”

  “Ugly!”

  She laughed again at the outrage in his voice.

  “Ugly. Why, Catharine, you will always be lovely, always—now, tomorrow, years from now.”

  There was an Irish lilt in his voice. Again, she felt the heat of tears in her eyes.

  He caressed her, murmuring her name, and she stroked his back and tasted of his cheek. Then his hands were not so gentle but triumphant and urgent. She felt the heat of his passion and welcomed him in a wild and joyous union.

  Spencer leaned forward, his light blue eyes intent, accusing. “There isn’t sufficient security.”

  Frank MacPherson’s teammates on a Georgia rural football team in 1928 described him as built like a cement outhouse with a personality to match. He hadn’t changed much since then. They would have recognized the way he hunched his blunt, square head on his bull-like shoulders. “You got a key to some safety deposit box?” he rasped.