Part 3 (1/2)

”They will never learn to get out of the way if you slow down every time,” he said sharply. ”Keep going.”

As they drew nearer Joseph could see the flat peasant faces of the four Annamese boys clearly; they were wide-eyed with apprehension, but obviously determined to remain rooted to the spot until the last moment. Jacques Devraux's face was visible in the rearview mirror and his cold expression did not flicker as he held his hand firmly on the blaring horn.

When the large chromium headlamps of the Citroen were only five feet from them, the first boy flung himself into the roadside ditch and let out a yell of triumph as he tumbled into the filthy water. Two of the others stumbled but managed to leap awkwardly over the offside fender of the car. The fourth boy, however, slipped and fell to his knees and was only beginning to scramble upright again when the fender caught his chest with a thud that shook the vehicle. His arms and legs flew wide as he cart wheeled over the hood and fell in a motionless heap in the dusty road behind them.

Ngo Van Loc started to slow the car, but to the surprise of the Americans Jacques Devraux motioned him to keep driving. The Frenchman studied the scene behind them in the rearview mirror for a second or two but did not turn his head. Joseph and the other occupants in the landaulet twisted in their seats and watched the rest of the villagers rush to surround the fallen boy. The baggage truck that was following slowed as the crowd in the road thickened, then stopped, unable to pa.s.s.

”Won't you turn back, Monsieur Devraux, to see at least if he's alive?” asked Nathaniel Sherman in a quiet voice.

”There is really no need to inconvenience yourself, senator,” replied Devraux calmly. ”I a.s.sure you this is a very common occurrence here.”

”But shouldn't the accident be reported to your police?”

”There is no need. The most a French judge will fine you is the cost of the funeral expenses- twenty-five piastres if in fact the boy has died. And the judge will only do that if he really has to. Repeated warnings are given to the peasants to stay away from pa.s.sing traffic. They ignore these warnings completely.” He glanced briefly in the mirror again. ”The baggage truck driver will take care of it. He is Annamese.”

The Frenchman spoke the final words in a tone that suggested he would find it disagreeable to discuss the subject further, and the senator lapsed into silence. Joseph glanced at Ngo Van Loc, but although his knuckles were white on the steering wheel he made no comment, and n.o.body else spoke for the rest of the journey.

9.

”You will never argue with me again in front of clients, French or foreign, is that clear?” Jacques Devraux held himself ramrod straight on the back of his stocky saddle pony and delivered his order to his son in a vehement undertone. ”Your behavior was unpardonable! It's astonis.h.i.+ng to me that a boy whose father and grandfather have both been soldiers before him should have such a poorly developed sense of loyalty and duty.”

Paul bit his lip as he jogged at his father's shoulder along a trail that wound through fringes of jungle beside the La Nga River. His face had grown pale at the harshness of the rebuke and he drew a long breath before replying. ”You can't expect me to agree with you on every single thing, Papa,” he said, keeping his voice low so that it did not carry to Senator Sherman and his sons, who were strung out in single file on their ponies behind them. ”But that doesn't mean I'm disloyal to you.”

”Perhaps you will learn the meaning of obedience and respect at St. Cyr. I hope so. If you don't, you won't remain an officer cadet for long.” Devraux didn't look at his son as he spoke, but stared straight ahead along the track, his face set in harsh lines. ”After the Americans leave I must travel to Canton again. You will have to conduct on your own the party of French officials who want to shoot muntjac. I don't wish to hear from them on my return that you've been airing the kind of sentiments I heard from you today.”

Paul rode without speaking for a minute or two, listening absently to the strident cries of unseen birds in the tangled roof of the tropical forest. He sensed that his father was silently demanding some expression of regret, but whenever he glanced at his grim, unsmiling face he found it impossible to summon an apology to his lips. ”Are you going on Surete General business?” he asked at last in a low voice after glancing around again to see if they could be overheard. ”Is it to do with the bomb that was thrown at the governor general?”

”You know I can't discuss my work for the Surete with you,” replied his father brusquely. Then he turned his head and eyed his son coldly. ”But perhaps holding the views you do makes you feel no action should be taken against the enemies of France.”

A faint flush rose to the French boy's face. ”I'm as proud of our country as you are, Papa,” he said softly. ”But if we did things differently here there wouldn't be any need for resistance movements. And the Surete wouldn't need to spy on anybody.”

”Life is not that simple,” replied the older man sarcastically. ”There are outside forces in Russia and China trying to stir up trouble for us here.” Then he paused and looked more thoughtfully at his son for a moment. ”But don't think there's any pleasure or satisfaction in such work, Paul. Many hours are wasted watching and waiting. And often there's nothing to show for it at the end. I do it from a sense of duty - for my country. For myself I would much rather be hunting - or even back in the army again.”

Paul detected a faint note of weariness in his father's voice and for a fleeting instant his mask of grim detachment had seemed to soften. ”I'm sorry, Papa,” he said quickly. ”It wasn't that clever of me.”

Jacques Devraux continued to ride straight-backed in his saddle without acknowledging the grudging apology, and Paul was beginning to wish he had left it unsaid when his father spoke again in a softer tone. ”Your mother's death caused me great pain, Paul, you already know that. But having his only son turn against him is painful for a man too.”

The French boy looked up sharply at his father, but the familiar expressionless mask had already settled back on his face. ”You'd better ride back now and check the baggage carts,” he said sharply. ”Make sure the Moi haven't lost anything. And stay in the rear till we get to the camp.”

Joseph Sherman saw Paul turn his pony and begin trotting back towards him. He had been riding in front of Chuck and his father, watching with admiration the erect, narrow-backed figure of Jacques Devraux jogging easily at the head of the column; the fierce-eyed Frenchman had quickly made a deep impression on Joseph's fifteen-year-old mind and he was trying to hold his own shoulders high and square in the same fas.h.i.+on. The Frenchman's dark aquiline features and unsmiling silences made him think of history-book pictures he'd seen of the warrior heroes of ancient Greece and Rome, and the dismay h had felt at first when their car had struck the Annamese villager had increased his sense of awe.

He had forgotten the incident, however, the moment they entered the jungle for the first time, riding on the little saddle ponies which Devraux's Mol bearers had brought to the road from the hunting camp. One moment they had been crossing a burning glade of shoulder-high gra.s.s in the full glare of the sun and the next they descended abruptly into a dark, silent, mysterious world where the air was cool and moist, the earth soft and spongy underfoot, and dazzling orchids blazed suddenly among the deep green undergrowth. The change had been so abrupt that Joseph had been moved to speak only in hushed whispers of the thrilling sights and sounds that unfolded all around them. They had disturbed alligators in the shallows of the river, listened to unseen deer bark in the riverside thickets, and a herd of wild pigs had fled snuffling and grunting from a stagnant pool at their approach. He and Chuck vied to identify the exotic birds they saw: ibis, king- fishers, herons, white pheasants arid once a peac.o.c.k darted frantically across their path. A wide grin of delight had become a permanent fixture on his face, and Paul smiled at him in return as he cantered back to check the ox carts.

”Regarde, Joseph.” said the French boy suddenly reining in his pony beside him and pointing to the far edge of the plain that they were crossing. ”Do you see the elephants?”

Joseph turned in his saddle in time to see a score of shuffling gray humps slip silently into the distant trees. ”Those are the first wild elephants I've ever seen in my life,” he whispered reverently, and his grin of delight spread from ear to ear.

He was still grinning when they rode into the camp which had been built by the Moi in a bend of the Slow-flowing river. Four huts of palm thatch laid over jointed poles had been constructed, arid cooking and storage tents were pitched nearby. Immediately the little mountain tribesmen, who seemed to have stepped straight out of the sepia photographs in his history book, began unloading the baggage, and Joseph saw them take their crossbows and arrows from the carts and carry them to their own huts a hundred yards away along the riverbank. ”Moi,” he knew from his reading, was an Annamese term derived from the Chinese word for ”savage,” and looking at the dark-skinned, low-browed men, he could see they were of a different racial stock from the Annamese; they wore only breechclouts that left their haunches naked and they grinned and chattered animatedly in their own language as they moved quickly about their work. Some of them had plaited sc.r.a.ps of cloth in their long black hair and all wore beads around their necks.

The women who waited to greet them outside their huts wore bracelets of tin on their wrists and ankles, but otherwise their only other garment was a long dark cloth wrapped round the hips, which left their jutting, dark-nippled b.r.e.a.s.t.s uncovered. Seeing Joseph staring at the women, Paul walked over to him and put an arm around his shoulder. ”You like our Moi women then, young Joseph, do you?” he asked, grinning broadly.

The American boy colored and laughed. ”They're okay, I guess.”

”They're a branch of the Rhade tribe but a bit ancient, wouldn't you say, for your youthful tastes? 'The chief in the next village has a dozen wives and a lot of juicy young daughters who would better suit a pa.s.sionate young man like you.” He slapped Joseph on the back and laughed again.. Then he nodded towards the senator and Chuck who were helping his father and Ngo Van Loc supervise the unloading of supplies. ”Everyone else is busy at the moment, so why don't we try to get something fresh for the pot. Nice little muntjac for supper, say.” He winked broadly. ”And if we have time I'll show you the Moi village, too.”

Joseph looked doubtfully towards his father. ”Hadn't we better ask?”

”Fetch your rifle. I'll go and check if it's okay.”

He ran across to talk to the senator and his father while Joseph collected hi light Winchester carbine from the hut he was to share with his brother. A moment later the French boy returned carrying a Mauser .350 slung carelessly over his shoulder. ”It's all right. I've promised we'll bring back a young hog deer.” He leaned close to Joseph and whispered, ”That means we've got to shoot two, okay?”

Two of the Moi carrying short poles followed them to a dugout canoe moored by the camp, and they paddled across the river to the plain on the other side. When they lauded Paul crept forward to peer out into the gra.s.sland from behind a tree. Then he waved Joseph forward. ”See over there, look! There are about a dozen deer grazing.”

The late afternoon sun was beginning t lose its heat, but under its fading glare the waving gra.s.s of the plain still s.h.i.+mmered in a gray-green haze and Joseph's unpracticed eye could detect no movement.

'There! Half a mile away; the red blotches close to the trees.” Paul turned Joseph's head gently in both hands until he saw the deer. ”And we're in luck, the wind's blowing straight towards us. We'll just walk quietly down behind the tree cover and bag two of those beauties. One for us, and one for the chiefs daughters, eh?” He chuckled quietly and set off towards the feeding animals.

When they were only fifty yards from the herd the French boy came back to Joseph and raised a mischievous eyebrow. ”Have you ever He nodded and winked exaggeratedly. ”. . . before, Joseph? Have you?”

The American boy looked away, his cheeks burning suddenly.

”I thought not.” Paul laughed and took his arm confidentially. ”You know, at your age I had. . . well, never mind. Let's shoot the muntjac first He led them to within thirty yards of the unsuspecting deer, then motioned for Joseph to sit down on the ground at the edge of the plain. He squatted beside him and demonstrated how to prop his elbows on his knees to steady the rifle. ”Take the little fawn nearest to us,” he whispered, pointing to one of the young.

Joseph fingered his rifle and gazed at the pretty little muntjac. Its red flanks were flecked with white, and it stood broadside on to him, a perfect target.

”Go on, take aim,” urged the French boy.

But Joseph didn't raise his rifle. ”You shoot, Paul. I might miss and scare them,” he said softly, his cheeks coloring again with embarra.s.sment.

The French boy gave a grunt of exasperation and fired almost casual1 from a standing position. The fawn bounded forward instantly in a reflex action, then fell dead in the gra.s.s. He shot a larger doe on the run as the little herd began das.h.i.+ng for cover, and the Moi bearers ran out into the plain to hoist the two dead animals on their shoulder poles. Grinning broadly the French boy led the way into the forest, and for a quarter of an hour they threaded through the trees following a narrow trail.

The village when they reached it consisted of three dozen palm-thatched huts raised on poles ten feet above the ground. In the shade beneath them pigs, dogs, domestic fowls, horses and even a few ancient buffalos swarmed in a stinking congregation. Moi children who had heard the noise of their approach came running helter-skelter to surround them and began shouting excitedly when they saw the dead deer. Paul pulled several cubes of sugar from his pocket and tossed them among the children, and they squealed and fought among themselves, pa.s.sing the prizes eventually from hand to hand.

”Ah, at last! Here comes the pholy.” The French boy nudged Joseph as a tall, white-haired Moi who was obviously the village chieftain slowly descended the stepped tree trunk that led from his hut to the ground. Paul gestured towards the biggest muntjac suspended from the carrying pole and made an elaborate gesture of donation.

The old man, who wore a cloth bow in his long gray hair, looked at the French boy for a moment, then his weather-beaten face cracked in a slow smile and he raised his arm above his head. From inside the hut behind him came the sudden sound of gongs and drums being beaten and immediately a bare-breasted woman appeared in the doorway at the top of the stepped log, holding aloft a tall earthenware jar.

A sigh of satisfaction escaped the French boy's lips. ”That's the ternum,” he whispered.

”The what?”

”Ternum - the Mois' own special rice alcohol. Fermented for three years - very potent. Think you can take it?”