Brave Hearts (9 page)

She took a deep breath and stared down at the empty sheet of note paper in her lap. She couldn't decide what to do. The answer should be simple. She hadn't been home to Stone Mountain for three years—not for three years, two months, and eighteen days. She should go home during the week's leave she would have.

But Rowley would be there.

She didn't have Rowley's letters—there wasn't room to bring them—but they'd come regularly every week to London. Last year the letter telling of his mother's death had come. Now he was free to marry, and he wrote and told her so.

She smiled, thinking of him. Tall, thin, serious Rowley. He was thirty-four, too old to be drafted. His automotive repair shop had to turn business away. There were no cars to buy for the duration, and everybody brought their old cars for Rowley to fix. The war had improved his finances so much that he told her proudly they could buy a house after they were married. He knew, without saying, that she wouldn't want to live in the old house where his mother had spent so many years of illness.

Peggy's smile slipped away. Rowley was kind and gentle. A good son, everyone stressed, taking care of his invalid mother.

Peggy knew that if she went home to Stone Mountain, Rowley would press her to marry him. She'd written him several times that she would never marry him, but each time, patiently, he wrote back, saying he knew she'd come home to him someday.

The ship wallowed heavily. The bow came up then, sickeningly, the long, slow roll began. Peggy's bottom bunk tilted slowly out, then back.

She wished to God the voyage would end. But, when they docked in New York, she would have to make her choice. Spencer would be going to Washington for a week of briefings. Peggy shot a furtive look across the narrow cabin. Catharine rested in the bottom bunk. She held a book of poetry loosely in her hands, but she wasn't reading. Peggy hated being so near Catharine. Even in the dull light of the gray cabin, Catharine was beautiful, her black hair glossy and fine, her eyes such an incredibly vivid violet. Throughout the voyage, she'd smiled gravely to the others—she was always courteous—but Peggy had no inkling of what she thought or felt.

Peggy had dreaded sharing a cabin with Catharine. She had only glimpsed her at various embassy functions, so she had no idea what Spencer's wife would be like. Fortunately, the ship was crammed full of men and women housed separately, ten to a cabin. She and Catharine shared a cabin with a German refugee family, the mother and three children. The two teenage girls chattered constantly, which was irritating but made it impossible for Peggy and Catharine to talk.

But Peggy didn't want to talk to Catharine anyway. She didn't want to see her or be around her because it reminded Peggy, forcibly and bitterly, that Catharine was Spencer's wife.

Spencer never spoke of Catharine. He never said a word about his marriage. In the quiet of one night, he'd told Peggy about Charles, and Peggy mourned inside because she would never be able to give him a son.

Now Catharine slept in the bunk across from Peggy, and Catharine was on her way to the Philippines as Spencer's wife.

Spencer had explained it. “Catharine's got to come. If it weren't for the department, I'd leave Catharine in New York.”

He looked down at Peggy then. “You don't have to come,” he'd said quietly, “but I want you to come.”

Peggy moved restlessly in her bunk. She felt suffocated and miserable. She hadn't seen her family in three years, but Spencer would be alone in Washington because Catharine was going to visit her brother in New York. If Peggy went to Washington, she could be with Spencer.

She took a deep breath and began to write.

Dear Mom and Dad,

I was so close to home last week. I thought about you and I would have come if I could have, but I was only on a brief stop in Washington on my way to San Francisco.

She stopped writing and thought about her mother, her russet hair a little dulled now with age but her face youthful and loving. Peggy wanted to see her so badly—she and her mother had always been very close.

But her mother would know there was someone. She would want to know all about him. She'd be excited and would want to plan a wedding.

Peggy gripped the pen and bent back to her letter.

The gray metal walls of the bulkhead felt cold and clammy. For a moment, Catharine pictured the convoy in her mind, eighteen ships in two staggered rows, all of them a misty gray, plunging heavily through the rough Atlantic water. At dawn and at dusk the ships looked ghostly, but that was the point, of course. German submarines liked to attack at dawn and at dusk, sending torpedoes in white-capped rows toward their hurrying prey. Catharine wondered coldly just what their odds were. But anyone who could get on a convoy to America went because it meant they were going to a country that wasn't at war. People ate well in America, and the cities glistened without fear after dark. America was more than an ocean away from war. The passengers on this converted peacetime liner didn't mind the cramped quarters or the blacked-over port holes or even the fear, because they were on their way to America. A pervasive eagerness underlay the passengers' speech and manner.

Except, Catharine thought drily, the passengers in this particular cabin. She glanced at the German family. She'd talked with them several times, and they were pathetically grateful to find someone who spoke German. They were going to America because they were refugees—refugees with some hope left, but with little eagerness or joy.

The frail, thin mother wore her gray-streaked blond hair in a tight coronet braid. She clucked nervously after her daughters. They were going to live with the mother's cousin in Chicago. Mrs. Eberhardt asked Catharine what Chicago was like. Catharine smiled and said quietly, “I've not been there, but a friend once told me that it was very alive, very exciting.” The old woman nodded, a little frown between her eyes. Catharine knew she was frightened. The Eberhardts escaped Berlin when Jews were being rounded up. They fled to France, but when France fell to the Nazis, the call for Jews once again went out. The mother and daughters escaped through the underground, but Herr Eberhardt and their son, Emil, were captured by the Gestapo in Paris. “They were sent by train to a place called Dachau. And people say, they whisper that it is awful there.”

Greta Eberhardt knitted as she lay in her bunk. The two younger daughters chattered. The oldest girl lay in her bunk, unmoving, her face turned toward the bulkhead.

Catharine's glance moved on to touch Peggy. Catharine had never paid much attention to Spencer's secretary, but she was really a very pretty girl, with a fresh round face, eager blue eyes, and lovely golden-red hair. But Catharine detected something wrong there, too, some kind of deep unhappiness.

A man, of course.

What else but love or the lack of it can cause such sorrow.

Catharine felt suddenly guilty. She'd been so absorbed in her own loss, in coming to terms with her separation from Jack, that she'd had no time or energy to share with anyone else. It didn't matter with Spencer. He was deep into a mass of papers that had been sent to prepare him for his mission to Manila. He and Peggy spent most of every day in a far corner of the old saloon, which had been transformed into a combination mess-cum-office and lounge. Spencer smiled absently when they met at meals and inquired if everything was all right, her accommodations satisfactory. He'd laughed once. “Not quite the way we traveled home the last time.” He'd certainly kept Peggy busy, but perhaps that was best. Catharine wished she had something to absorb her thoughts, to pull them away from the never-ending circle of pain and regret.

Catharine turned a page of the book she held in her lap, but she was watching Peggy. Yes, there was some story there. Otherwise, why was she so stiff and distant when you could tell by looking at her that she was generally happy and friendly? And she was looking decidedly ill. The best thing, of course, would be to get up on deck. Catharine opened her mouth to speak.

With a hideous clang, the warning klaxon blared and a tinny voice shouted over the PA, “Battle stations! All hands to battle stations!”

The German woman, her face pale and pinched, looked frantically at Catharine.

“They must have sighted a submarine,” Catharine said huskily in German. She knew the sudden tightening of her throat revealed her fear, but they were all afraid, she knew that. All of them shared the tight, quivering throb of fear because they were trapped and waiting, once again helpless, passive victims. Neither fear nor hope nor tears would affect the path of torpedoes. Catharine reached down for her life jacket. She looked across the cabin and saw Peggy strapping on her life jacket.

The ship lurched far to the right. The bunks across from Catharine swung crazily upward. Everyone reached out to grab onto the nearest support.

A dull crash that sounded like thunder reached down into their below-water cabin, but they all knew it wasn't thunder. Mrs. Eberhardt cried out and her younger daughter ran to her.

The ship heeled abruptly in the opposite direction.

Catharine knew then that a sub had been sighted, and their ship was desperately swerving to avoid being struck by a torpedo. Would the accompanying destroyers sink the sub before it succeeded in its mission? Or would a torpedo strike home and would the strike hit their ship or another? Who would live and who would die?

Peggy spoke out harshly. “Mrs. Cavanaugh, tell that girl to put on her life jacket. She's just lying there.”

Catharine turned. The oldest German girl lay in her bunk, face to the wall. Her mother spoke in rapid German.

“Doesn't she understand what's happening?” Peggy demanded irritably.

“I imagine she understands,” Catharine said quietly. “I don't think she cares. Her mother told me she was very much in love.” Catharine took a deep breath. “She saw the Gestapo drag him away.”

“Oh, God,” Peggy said wearily.

Clutching the edge of the bunk for support as the ship continued its plunging effort to avoid torpedoes, Catharine worked her way closer to the girl, then spoke softly in German. “Please, Marlene, put on your jacket. Please do it for your mother.”

Slowly, the girl's head turned. Catharine knew she'd never seen emptier eyes, but, finally, like an automaton, Marlene pulled herself upright in the bunk and slid unresistingly into the bulky life jacket. Then she rested back against the bulkhead, her eyes staring blankly ahead.

The steel plates beneath Catharine's feet suddenly quivered. The women looked at each other with frightened eyes as depth charges exploded far beneath them, and the concussion waves rippled through the great ship.

Catharine reached out for Marlene's hand and then for Peggy's. They clung to each other. The Eberhardts softly cried. No one spoke as the enormous explosions continued. The strained hull of the ship creaked. Catharine tried not to picture the water outside, but in her mind she saw black-nosed torpedoes slicing keel level through the ocean.

They huddled together, silent and frightened, but beyond the moment, beyond the fear and the strain, Catharine felt Jack's presence almost as if he stood beside her with his lively, dark face and sardonic courage.

Her lips curved in a soft smile.

Whatever happened, she had loved a man.

“Goddammit, Jack, I'm sorry, but New York says no.”

“Screw New York.”

“Look, man, take it easy. It doesn't do any good to get mad.” Sam looked exasperated. “Why the hell should they send you to Manila? They've got a man in Manila.”

“Who?”

“Freddy Phillips.”

“Phillips couldn't cover a fire if it burned his ass.” Jack leaned forward, spread his big hands across the top of Sam's desk. “I've got to get to Manila.”

Sam lit a cigarette, blew a thin curl of smoke, and looked at Jack speculatively. “Why?”

“There's a story out there. I want to go after it.”

For the first time, Sam was interested. “What kind of story? What are you on to, Jack?”

“No deal. It's my story. Top secret, but I'm on to something big.”

Sam sucked the hot smoke deep into his lungs and coughed a little. “I've got to give New York more than that.”

“Tell them they'll be damn sorry if they don't send me.”

Sam shrugged. “I'll lay it on, but don't hold your breath.” He reached for the phone, placed the call, and, in a moment, looked up at Jack. “It will take a couple of hours to get through. I'll let you know.”

Jack nodded. He moved restlessly back to his desk, but in a few minutes picked up his cap, jammed it on his head, and hurried downstairs and out into the September night.

The cab dropped him at the Savoy. Once inside, he stopped for a moment at the top of the stairs leading down into the River Room. The soft, easy notes of Carroll Gibbons's piano flowed over him, the melancholy strains of “I'll Be Seeing You.” He joined a raucous group of correspondents, ate dinner, and drank three scotches. He kept looking at the pillar next to the table and its silvery, shiny covering. He could see Catharine's face, her fine, distinct bones, deep-set eyes, and sleek midnight-black hair.

When he got back to the office, he walked to his desk and found the note tucked in the carriage of the typewriter:

“New York says no, sorry.”

Jack took the note and scrawled a reply, “That's okay. It's been good to know you. I'll write from Manila. Jack.”

The train clacked through the star-spangled night. Catharine was glad they didn't have a compartment. She didn't want to share such a small space with Spencer. They had berths, she and Peggy two lowers and Spencer an upper. Catharine raised herself up on her elbow and peered out the window. The train would be coming into Chicago soon. She knew she wouldn't be able to see much, but Chicago was Jack's home and he'd promised to bring her there someday.

The train began to slow. She strained to see through the darkness, but it was an anonymous landscape, nothing more than rows of dimly seen dark houses. She would write Jack and tell him she'd been in Chicago, if only fleetingly, and that she'd thought of him. Oh, God, yes, had she thought of him.

She thought of him during the long days as the train rumbled across America. She thought of him during the hours they waited on sidings as troop and equipment trains took the right-of-way. She thought of him every day and every night and accepted the truth with a dull, never-ending pain—every mile on the train carried her farther and farther away from Jack.

The thought remained with her on the gray, chilly day that the U.S.S. President Harrison moved slowly out from San Francisco Bay. She stood at the railing until the last glimpse of the orange-red Golden Gate Bridge was lost to view. She was going farther and farther away from Jack.

Jack picked up his duffel bag. Huge patches of sweat marked the sides and back of his crumpled khaki shirt. The line of moving men stopped again. Jack dumped the duffel bag to the ground and pulled a battered pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He waited patiently in the broiling sunlight until, finally, it was his turn to step into the ramshackle tin office. A harried sergeant snapped, “Where are you bound?”

Jack pulled out his correspondent's papers. “INS to Singapore.”

“Singapore, Singapore,” the sergeant muttered. Then he yelled across the room, “Hey, Frankie, has that Lancaster left yet?”

“Due to lift off in ten minutes.”

Jack's casual demeanor fell away: “Hey, that's for me. Hurry, man, I've got to make that plane.”

The sergeant nodded irritably and finished scanning Jack's papers. He picked up an official stamp, slapped it twice on a mimeographed sheet, which he handed to Jack along with his papers. He jerked his head to the left. “Out that door. First plane in line.”

Jack hefted the duffel bag and pushed through the door. He began to run, his eyes squinting against the merciless Egyptian sun. There it was. The propellers were beginning to spin, but the aft door was still open. He put on a burst of speed. A sergeant began to pull away the steps.

“Hold up!” Jack yelled, waving his travel pass.

The sergeant nodded and waved him aboard.

Jack hurried up the steps and over the coaming.

Straining to see in the dim interior, he stepped over bags and boxes to take an empty bucket seat near the wing. The hatch slammed shut, and the Lancaster began to taxi up the runway.

A slouched figure in the next seat turned. “Who're you with?”

“INS.”

“UP. Tom Carson.”

“Jack Maguire.”

They shook hands, then settled back forcibly as the plane accelerated and lifted off the field with a rough, jerking roar, turning slowly to the East.

Next stop: Singapore.

One city closer to Manila.

A military band waited on pier 7. As the U.S.S.
President Harrison
pulled slowly into its moorings, the band began to play “The Stars and Stripes Forever.”

Catharine and Spencer stood on the promenade deck with the captain, who pointed down at the band. “That's in your honor.”

The familiar, stirring march affected Catharine oddly. She had seen the American flag fly in many foreign capitals, but today the band looked small as it stood stiffly below on the sun-drenched pier. The march sounded peculiarly American and out of place on the steamy tropical air. The heavy, moist heat carried a fishy seaweed odor mingled with that of rotting garbage, tropical flowers, and sewage. Catharine looked beyond the seafront at the glittering white of Manila's new buildings, the soft gold and tans of the older Spanish section, and far away at the purple-black peaks of mountains.

Spencer tugged at her elbow. “They're ready for us to debark, Catharine.”

Catharine moved forward with Spencer to the gangplank. Spencer smiled and looked pleasant and approachable, an incoming diplomat with far-reaching powers who was aware of his importance but didn't wish to emphasize it. The manner and attitude were impeccable, but Catharine knew he was exulting in this stately arrival and display of rank.

As she started down the gangplank, Catharine saw the party of four waiting on the pier—two men in tropical whites and two women in light, summery dresses, picture hats, and white gloves. Each woman held a white-gloved hand to her hat, steadying it against the hot wind.

“It's the high commissioner himself,” Spencer said in a low, delighted voice.

They reached the bottom of the gangplank, and introductions were made.

The high commissioner's wife, Mrs. Sayre, beamed at Catharine. “My dear, we're so delighted you've come. We're quite a small circle since the military wives went home last spring. You'll be a very welcome addition, and we'll hope to show you the Manila we love.” Then she gestured to the woman beside her. “And I'm happy to introduce you to Amea Willoughby.”

Catharine smiled and held out her hand. She knew the name, of course. Amea's husband, Woodbury Willoughby, was the finance officer. His cooperation would be absolutely essential if Spencer were to succeed in his assignment. Would Willoughby resent Spencer's being sent in as a special envoy with extraordinary powers? Amea's warm, welcoming smile held no reserve. As Catharine well knew, wives often reflected their husbands' feelings as accurately as barometers. Catharine glanced at Willoughby pumping Spencer's hand, beaming with pleasure, and saying, “I am very relieved you've been sent to us. That shows State means business and understands our problems. You'll be able to cut through some of the obstruction at the central bank and . . .”

Catharine felt a wash of happiness for Spencer. Everything was going to turn out beautifully for him. Then, quick on the heels of that relief, came the quicksilver thought: When this assignment was over, somehow, someway she would find Jack.

A tiny, pale green lizard darted across the ceiling. Amea looked up at it and smiled. “They bring good luck, Catharine.”

Catharine looked at the lizard with some reserve. She had no particular aversion to lizards, but the small creature seemed typical of Manila, moving smoothly across the white walls to the sixth-floor apartment, defying logic to explain how it traveled to that height. But its quick, darting progress reminded her that everywhere the tropical growth was barely held at bay, all the crawling, swarming denizens pushed to take over man's structures. Catharine shuddered. She felt alien in this overpoweringly lush land.