Brave Hearts (19 page)

“Spencer, I must talk to you.”

He looked up vaguely. “Oh, Catharine. How are you this morning?” But he didn't wait for her to answer. His face twitched a little as another explosion shook the concrete walls. “Those bastards never stop, do they?”

Her voice sharpened. “I must talk to you.”

He focused on her. “Is anything wrong?”

She felt a desire to laugh hysterically. The enormous shells exploded above with hideous regularity, the curved cement walls shook, and the acrid dust swirled through the tunnels, coating people, floors, beds, food, and medicine with the fine, dry dirt.

“Yes, something's wrong. I must speak to you in private.”

“Easier said than done,” he said drily.

People swarmed up and down the tunnel: soldiers, officers, patients, nurses, orderlies.

“Let's go to the vault.”

He looked surprised, but nodded. “I have some last-minute . . .” He broke off and looked sharply around. Catharine understood. The arrival of the submarine was top secret, of course. Only a few would know it was coming; only a select few of the trapped thousands would escape in it. She should feel joy. Instead, she felt an aching coldness.

They waited at the east entrance for a lull in the shelling, then took the five-minute drive to the vault. Catharine didn't speak until they were alone, with the heavy door closed behind them.

She faced him and felt, with surprise, a pang of sorrow. Spencer had always been so immaculate, so very much in command of himself and his surroundings. It was heartbreaking to see him ill shaven, in crumpled, dirty clothes, his eyes red-rimmed with fatigue and worry. And he, too, lived with the expectation of coming horror, especially if he loved Peggy.

He rubbed his face tiredly, then said impatiently, “What is it, Catharine?”

“I should have talked to you a long time ago. In London. I'm sorry I didn't.”

He managed a smile. “It can't be too earthshaking. The important thing is that the sub gets in tonight. We leave just before dawn and . . .”

“No. I'm not leaving,” she said quietly.

He looked at her as if she'd lost her senses.

She had his attention. “Don't be absurd, Catharine. Don't you understand? We're getting out of this hellhole.”

“No.” She repeated it loudly. “No. I'm not leaving. I'm in love with another man.”

He stared at her in disbelief. His brows drew together, and he flushed angrily.

“I can't believe it.”

She realized, ironically, that Spencer had sensed nothing of her feelings this past year. Oh, hadn't they fooled each other. And what great fools they'd both been.

“It's true. I met him in London. Jack Maguire, the INS correspondent.”

“A newspaperman?” His voice rose in distaste.

Her own anger flared. She clenched her hands, felt the hard metal of her engagement and wedding rings. She looked down and stripped them off without hesitation. They slid easily from her thin finger. She held the rings out to Spencer.

His eyes fastened on the shining silver and gleaming diamonds in hurt wonder. He didn't take them. “That isn't necessary, Catharine, and it's a bit melodramatic.”

She stepped back a pace. “It is necessary. I want you to understand that we're finished.”

Spencer's face looked thin, gray, and cold. “A man like that isn't your sort.”

He was furious.

“I'm better qualified to determine that than you,” she retorted. As she heard her own words, she hated their tone. She and Spencer had cared for each other once, long ago. There had never been great passion, but there had been liking and respect. Now that mutual regard was destroyed, shattered by their mutual betrayal. Yet, even so, how could they speak to each other in these corrosive bursts?

Then the question spurted out of her, the question she hadn't intended to ask.

“Why didn't you tell me about Peggy? For God's sake, why didn't you tell me in London?”

“Peggy?” He looked at once defeated, weary, heartsick. He didn't even attempt a denial. “How did you know?” he asked dully.

She told him of her foray to the vault and the embrace she had seen.

For the first time since Charles's death, she saw a sheen of tears in his eyes. “I'm sorry, Catharine. I should have told you, but I was afraid—if we divorced—that I'd lose my posting. And the work is so important to the war. I had to keep on. Then, when the posting to Manila came up, the ambassador said you had to come, too.” Anger flashed in his eyes again. “But if I'd known you were involved with that fellow, everything would have been different.”

Who should have spoken first? Who was at fault? Each had remained quiet for what seemed to be good reason. Now they looked at each other across an abyss of disappointment and unhappiness, both of them hurt for what might have been. For Jack and Catharine, it was forever too late because only the diplomats and their wives and a few nurses would escape to Australia aboard the submarine.

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.