Left on Paradise (49 page)

“So what?” Ryan said. “We still have no authority. What laws could we use?”

“The laws of war.”

“The war is over.”

“Then we use military tribunals to mete our justice,” Donovan said. “I’ve seen them used more than once.”

“I’m no anthropologist,” Ryan said, “but even I can’t see executing the natives for breaking our standards of civilized conduct.”

“Then what was today about?”

“Trying to save our own neighbors.”

“Which,” Father Donovan said, “required us to fight the natives for living according to their own laws and customs.”

“No,” Ryan said, “it was our neighbors who they ate.”

“We handed Heather to them,” Father Donovan said, “like a lamb to wolves. They only took the others after we attacked their chief.”

Ryan said nothing.

“They did no more to us,” Donovan continued, “than they’ve done to their own people. Hell, the more I think about it, the more I think they breed just to make food. How else could a few dozen people survive on those god-forsaken little islands? Where else could they get a little protein? They played Morales for manna from heaven and now we’ve lost our comrades.”

“We have two choices,” Steve said as a light flickered out and a corner of the assembly tent went dark. “Either we send them home to eat each other or we civilize them here. Executing them is out of the question.”

The northsman scoffed.

“They’re just hungry,” Ryan said, “that’s all. Food will break the cycle of cannibalism. There’s plenty of room on this island for us to live together in peace. Who knows but we’ll save them by our good example? Sure, they’ll become citizens over time, but we can amend the constitution to allow only children born on our island itself to possess full voting rights. The others can be admitted into active citizenship on an individual basis.”

“Brent died,” Tiffany asked as tears streamed down her face, “so cannibals could be made citizens? To live with his children?”

Several other widows and widowers agreed and it wasn’t long before even Ryan acknowledged that his proposal wouldn’t pass.

“I accept the judgment of the people,” Ryan said, “but we can’t send the children away since the women will eat their babies in a heartbeat. We can’t aid and abet cannibalism. If not for their good, then for our own sake, we have to let the children remain.”

This proposal was far more acceptable and the majority nodded their heads, if only slightly.

“How old?” Father Donovan.

“I’d give the teenagers a chance,” Ryan said.

“No,” Donovan said, “they’ve the taste for human flesh already. It’ll never stop. The babies are harmless enough and probably children under ten. Teenagers will have to fend for themselves.”

Dozens of voices seconded this proposal.

“There are children,” Father Donovan said as he stood and raised his voice from the shadows to silence the assembly, “who haven’t yet reached puberty. How can we support or even look after them?”

The audience let the priest answer his own question.

“If they’re kept under supervision,” Donovan continued, “they can be made to help with crops and harvests—and help earn their own keep. Why should our own people be forced to work twice as hard to replace losses while those responsible escape accountability?”

“Made to help?” Viet snapped as he stood up. “Under supervision? We’re talking forced labor. Be clear.”

“I’ll be perfectly clear,” Father Donovan said. “No euphemisms. I’ll say the very word—reeducation camps. It’s the only way that these people will escape cannibalism. They can go home to eat each other or they can stay here and be taught what they need to learn. In fact, we can be humane enough to let even the adults stay if we use camps. In just a few months, the younger ones will pick up enough English to communicate our ideals to the older generation.”

“Do you mean to say temporary slavery?” Viet asked.

“I wrote my thesis at Marquette against the theology of Southern racism and slavery,” Father Donovan replied, “and I believe in freedom more than any person here. We’ll let the natives choose their own lifestyles, sleep with their own loves, and worship as they please as long as they give up cannibalism and work their quota.”

Viet pressed the point. “Which is?”

“The same as ours,” the priest replied. “The same as ours. Of course, some of us will have to oversee their efforts and guard them from each other.”

“Ours will be happy slaves.”

“I don’t like forced labor,” Ryan now joined the discussion, “but we’ve forced some of our own people to work for a living, so why not these people? We’re no better than them and no worse. Donovan is right; it’s the only way to protect us and them alike.”

Similar remarks were made by others, though a slim majority seemed to favor deporting the cannibals until Steve reminded them that sending the natives home might lead to cannibalism of the corpses of their loved ones. Consequently, it was voted to reeducate the natives in Paradise. It also was decided the cannibals should be made to help feed themselves—with a food levy to be collected to provide for their guards. Indentured servanthood—or “citizenship training” and “republic education” as some called it—was to last only as long as the savages remained a threat to public safety. Children were given to the childless couples of the east village to perpetuate their own lineage and Kit was allowed to keep the boy she’d saved. In any event, no one else wanted the younger children. The southerners needed mature adults to work their fields and the northerners solicited teenaged girls. Jason explained that his adopted village hoped to bridge the linguistic barrier with the selection of younger women. It was hoped that the girls would learn some English while engaged in intimate relationships and that their subsequent offspring would be raised bilingual. This seemed a good idea to the majority, skepticism from the west village not withstanding.

After the meeting ended, chains and padlocks brought for animal care were drawn from storage and shackled around the fiercer cannibal women’s wrists and ankles. Combinations and keys were sent to the respective neighborhoods where cannibals were assigned to work—excepting only the west village (which assessed that slavery was more work than it was worth). The first native accepted her chains without protest, but the next three saw the final state of the former’s enslavement and resisted. Only after one of them was whipped with a leather belt for biting a northsman did the others submit. Once adults were secured, all natives were returned to the LCVP as an improvised prison. By the time islanders finally dispersed to their own homes, the dark already was deep.

Several citizens of Paradise didn’t go home, but wandered around New Plymouth in grief (some of them sedated by liberal doses of Valium). Others slept near the beach, hoping to beg a ride home as soon as the American yacht arrived. Grieving widows turned to their children for consolation and distraught men did the same (though several stepparents made alternative arrangements for the care of children to whom they weren’t deeply attached). It was in this way that Brittany was sent to Kit—with the boyfriend of the girl’s dead mother not bothering to say farewell.

Kit cradled a dark-skinned baby in her arms as she walked along the pitch-black shore with Linh and her daughters—who helped with Brittany, Tyrone, and Theodore. Viet and Tiffany took the more direct path of Mount Zion, along with Ryan and Maria, while Sean and Ursula hurried ahead. John remained in mourning at New Plymouth, as did Olivia and Ilyana. Lisa stayed with a friend from the south. Everyone else was gone. Six of twenty-four neighbors were killed in two day’s time and two others removed from the village.

Now the beach was pitch black as the cloud-obscured moon provided little light. War-weary islanders watched the movement of flashlights and lanterns atop Mount Zion and Kit twice stubbed her toes on rocks. Both twins skinned their knees and Linh broke the strap of a sandal. Only Brittany didn’t receive a scratch. The westerners walked until they came to their own beach, then turned inland. Only then did the cannibal’s son fuss such that Kit nursed him with a rag soaked in coconut milk.

“He’s finally eating,” Kit said.

“I’ll have the girls milk a goat when we get home,” Linh said.

“Will one bottle get him through the night?”

“He hasn’t eaten much. You should fix two.”

“And I’ll get some cool water for storage.”

“Not bad for a first-day mom.”

“It’s awful,” Kit said as she looked toward Brittany, “that she lost her mother.”

“Her mother was a drunk and a whore; the girl is better off with you.”

Kit said nothing.

“No one watched her,” Linh continued, “not even at the beach. She played alone, ate alone, and babysat herself.”

Kit didn’t disagree.

“If,” Linh said, “we had child protection services, she’d already be in foster care.”

Only after a long pause did Kit glance at Tiffany’s twin boys.

“Do they understand any of this?” Kit asked with a tremor to her voice. “Do they understand their parents are gone?”

”It’s a blessing they don’t.”

“I wonder if they’ll ever recover from such a loss,” Kit said.

“I did,” Linh whispered.

The baby fussed for a few moments in Kit’s arms—until she settled him with more juice.

“It’s terrible,” Kit said, “to think he’s a cannibal’s son and the northerners wanted to kill him. That these tiny cheeks have been nourished by milk made from human flesh.”

“It’s the spirit that counts, not the flesh. The child has done no evil and we don’t believe in original sin.”

“Don’t we? I’m not sure what I believe any longer.”

Linh gave a weak smile. “What I believe,” she said, “is Viet and I are leaving Paradise as soon as we can.”

“So am I,” Kit said. “Even Hollywood is better than this. They only devoured each other figuratively.”

The last leg of the walk passed without further chat and Kit soon moved an exhausted baby into Ursula’s crib—which Sean had brought to her tent. Linh’s daughters fetched bottles of fresh goat milk and stored them in pails of cool water. The baby woke once, trying to chew through Kit’s shirt to suckle from dry breasts until she offered him a bottle instead.

38

The First Coming of Officers and Gentlemen

Jose was awakened at dawn and escorted to the motor launch by a delegation consisting of Ryan, Steve, Chuck, and Dr. Erikson. Only the southerners chose not to send a representative since they grieved so many dead family and friends. During the trip, Steve advised the convicted deserter how best to survive and reminded him that President Carter had granted amnesty to draft dodgers just a few years after the war in Vietnam ended—though his words provided little comfort and Jose remained tearful throughout the voyage.

When the launch landed at Roanoke Island, matters were mostly as expected. Bodies hanging from trees were swollen and those left on the beach were stripped to bone by crabs. No signs of cannibalism, however, were detected and it was deemed safe to leave Jose alone. He was provided an assortment of tools and materials, including: shovel, ax, tent, bedroll, rope, hammer, saw, nails, knife, waterproof matches, magnifying glass, seeds, sharpening stone, fishing line and hooks, ten MREs, plastic jugs of fresh water, an emergency medical kit, a crate of canned fruit, and his own backpack including personal effects such as a Mennonite New Testament, an unopened deck of playing cards, and a leather soccer ball. Even after being asked one last time if he’d be willing to serve in the militia, Jose refused. Three of the four delegates expressed their hope that monthly visits would be permitted and asked Jose to care for the graves of the fallen in exchange for any additional support. For emergencies, Ryan left a flare gun and a short-range transmitter, along with a spare battery.

The launch returned before noon to Paradise Island, only to encounter a seventy-foot yacht steering toward shore. Ryan set a course to intercept the yacht and Steve signaled its captain to follow the launch through a break in the coral. The yachtsman did as told and twenty minutes later dropped anchor in the calm of the lagoon, having safely passed through the coral reef. As the yacht secured anchorage, Steve and Chuck returned Dr. Erikson and Steve Lovejoy to the beach near New Plymouth before they themselves motored back to
The Spirit of Liberty—
where they moored the launch to the yacht and climbed aboard. There, a middle-aged blonde served them sweet tea with real ice as she explained that her husband would be along shortly.

A moment later, a muscular and clean-shaven man emerged from the bridge.

“Captain James ... I’m sorry. It’s Jim Strong,” the clean-shaven man said. “Sorry to keep you, but we were trying to contact the Fleet.”

Ryan extended his hand.

“Really glad you’re here,” Ryan said, “I’m Ryan Godson.”

“On the way in,” Captain Strong said, “I was speaking with your people over the radio. They want to evacuate some casualties to Hawaii and they’re stabilizing one man for travel. We hope to sail tomorrow.”

“They explain what happened?”

“Someone said cannibals.”

Ryan nodded.

“I spent,” Captain Strong said, “over twenty years as a naval officer sailing the Pacific and never even imagined such tribes lingered hereabouts. What bad luck for you all.”

“It’s ruined everything.”

“We’ll get you fixed up,” the yachtsman said. “I’ve been in touch with a couple navy buddies at Pearl Harbor and they said they’d relay the distress call. If any ships are close, we’ll have the wounded choppered out as soon as possible.”

“That’s good news,” Ryan said. “We’ve already lost too many people.”

“Now tell me about those cannibals.”

Ryan relayed the whole story. He told of the harvest feast and the eating of Heather. He told of the brawl that first day and the pitched battle on the beach. Finally, Ryan explained that the State of Paradise had moved surviving natives to Paradise and punished its own draft dodgers and deserters.

Jim Strong listened without saying a word. Only after Ryan fell silent did he ask a question. “Where’s this Roanoke Island?”

“An hour or two east.”

Captain Strong pulled a folded map from his shirt pocket and pointed to what appeared to be empty sea along the edge of the map.

“About here?” the yachtsman asked.

“I’m no map expert,” Ryan said, “but if you say so.”

“I don’t want to sound like an international lawyer,” Captain Strong said, “but you’ve made a bit of a mess.”

“I’m not sure,” Ryan said with a puzzled look, “that I understand.”

“What I mean is it sounds like you’ve committed war crimes.”

“I ... I ...” Ryan choked on his own words.

“Not only,” the yachtsman said, “did you invade a foreign country without U.N. authorization, but slaughtering those natives clearly was illegal. When word gets back to The Hague, you may very well face a tribunal since that island wasn’t part of your territory.”

“They were eating our people,” Ryan protested.

“I’m not saying,” Captain Strong said, “you didn’t have the right to defend yourselves as a sovereign nation. Personally, I respect your guts. In fact, you may very well be exonerated for your behavior and you probably deserve a medal, but you will give an accounting—especially for murdered prisoners.”

Ryan turned to a northsman. “I warned you people,” he growled, “to be more civilized.”

Chuck said nothing.

“They were illegal killings by our laws too,” Ryan told Captain Strong. “There was no legal authority for them. They were never authorized.”

“I’m not your judge,” Captain Strong said. “I’m just here to evacuate the wounded. Why don’t we take a look?”

Ryan said he’d take Captain Strong to shore via the launch.

“Please,” the captain said, “don’t sail into open water with me in that boat. You people are suicidal. After years on cruisers and destroyers, even this yacht seems small.”

“We took the LCVP to Roanoke Island.”

“Suicidal,” Captain Strong said with a smile, “was the word I chose and I stand by it. Those things weren’t safe during the war and they’re museum pieces now.”

Now the captain called his wife to the deck bridge. Cynthia Strong was a fortyish woman whose shoulder-length blond hair already showed a few streaks of frosted gray and who dressed in a tank top and shorts that were neither too tight nor too fashionable; it was she who had served the iced tea. Now a second blonde, maybe two or three years older, accompanied her. The younger woman wore loose shorts and a knit blouse—and covered her hair with a bright red cotton scarf. A plain silver cross graced her breast. Both women sported wedding bands.

“Has Jim introduced you to the crew?” Cynthia asked.

Ryan shook his head.

“I swear he lost his manners at sea. This is my sister Jackie and she’s married to Steve. He’s another retired sailor ...”

“His name is Commander Steven Johnson,” Captain Strong said.

“Steve,” Cynthia continued, “is below deck. He was up all night navigating.”

“Tell him thanks,” Ryan said as he glanced at the second blonde.

“I will,” Jackie answered.

A minute later, Ryan and Chuck climbed down a rope ladder and boarded the launch. Chuck dropped Ryan at New Plymouth beach before asking permission to use the launch to motor north, claiming that he wanted to bring Father Donovan to New Plymouth to help with evacuation arrangements. Ryan didn’t object, asking only that Chuck return the launch as soon as possible since the wounded required transportation to the yacht. The northsman assured Ryan he wouldn’t be long.

Within the hour, Chuck talked with men from his village. Father Donovan clenched his fists in rage as he listened to his compatriot describe Captain Strong. Other northsmen also bantered, but it was Donovan who spoke loudest.

“Who the hell,” the priest muttered, “does he think he is? He’s not our judge.”

“Someone will be,” Chuck growled, “if he runs his mouth.”

“Let ‘em,” Donovan said, “it’s our word against his.”

“Really?” Chuck said with a shake of his head. “What about Steve and Ryan and John? What about the bodies we buried?”

“I was an elected officer and what we did was legal.”

“And maybe,” Chuck said, “they’ll try us at Nuremberg to make that point clear. Or we can share cells with Serbs at The Hague.”

“We’re done for,” Donovan growled as he slammed a fist into his own thigh. “Forensics will paint this black and white. No one will ever understand the situation we were stuck with.”

“I’m not worried about forensics,” Chuck said, “as much as I am about that sailor.”

“Maybe,” Jason now entered the conversation, “he’ll let it drop.”

“No chance,” Chuck said. “He’s spit and polish.”

“Then,” Father Donovan said, “we need to escape before we hang,”

“Where to?” Jason asked, his voice strained. “How? That launch couldn’t sail us to our deaths.”

“There’s only one way home,” Father Donovan whispered.

Everyone looked at him.

“The yacht.”

Heads nodded.

“We’d be caught before we hit full throttle,” Jason said.

“Not if they weren’t looking for us.”

Jason asked how it could be done.

“We’ll destroy all radios and take the yacht,” Father Donovan said.

“And go where?” Jason asked.

“I’ve got an uncle in Panama,” a northsman said.

“In a stolen yacht,” Donovan laughed, “we’d never touch a pier. And we don’t own passports either. We’ll have to reach the U.S. mainland. From there, we can disperse and go home.”

“We’ll be arrested as pirates,” Jason said, the blood drained from his face, “if we steal the boat.”

“Only if they catch us,” Donovan said.

“We’re progressives,” another northsman said, “not criminals.”

“What do you propose?” Donavan asked.

“Wait for a fair trial,” the northsman said, “and a chance to prove our case.”

“Every one of us standing here,” Father Donavan said, “cut a throat, split a skull, or took an unwilling woman. And even those who stayed behind voted for war. No one believes in international courts more than I do, but I’m telling you a bunch of American colonists wiping out a native population won’t play well either in Omaha or The Hague. Even if we avoid prison, we’ll be ruined.”

When one northsman wept that they had no options and were lost, Donovan pointed east.

“We can leave,” the priest declared.

“Won’t work,” Chuck said.

Father Donovan told him to explain.

“The boat doesn’t have enough range,” Chuck said, “and we don’t have money to refuel. We’d never reach California and we can’t chance docking anywhere else.”

“You sure about the fuel?”

“I’m positive. Even if she’s full, we couldn’t make the coast. And she’s not full. They’ve burned fuel since Honolulu. A lot—I would guess—since they got here in a hurry.”

Twenty minutes was spent suggesting possible fuel stops before everyone agreed the yacht wouldn’t work. Another twenty minutes was spent spinning out additional options and the following thirty minutes was spent discussing possible legal charges and prison sentences—with everyone admitting they’d face several years for killings that U.S. soldiers were permitted. Only after the conversation died did Father Donovan present a fourth option.

“There’s only one thing we can do,” he said. “We have to get rid of the evidence. Courts can’t convict on hearsay.”

Chuck asked how it could be done.

“We put out our version of the story.”

Jason’s jaw dropped. “Wouldn’t we have to get rid of the bodies?” he asked.

“Fire and water,” Donovan said, “will do the trick. We burn them and throw the bones to sea.”

“What about witnesses?” Jason said. “We weren’t alone.”

“We’d have to quiet them,” Chuck said.

“Or discredit them,” Father Donovan said. “If we cut radio communications, they’d never get word out. We could stage it so no one could figure anything out or ... I wonder if those damned westerners could be made to take the rap; it’s their fault we’re in this mess.”

“That’s cutthroat,” Jason said, his voice hoarse and dry.

“It’s life or death,” Donovan said. “And it’s Godson and Lovejoy and Smith who forced this crap on us with their otherworldly ideals.”

“It’s war,” Chuck said.

“It’s murder,” Jason protested, “of civilians.”

“Do you think,” Donovan said with another scowl, “Ortega beat the Contras without shedding civilian blood? Every war has its collateral damage and its incidental casualties. We didn’t invent war; we’re only playing by its rules.”

“I don’t know about this,” Jason said. “I don’t want any part of it.”

“Every man,” Father Donovan stared down every one of his northsmen, “is for me or against me.”

“I don’t like it either,” Chuck declared “but they backed us into a corner. We fought for them and they betrayed us. I’m not going to prison so they can play the innocent heroes. Not after we saved their asses in battle.”

“What about the natives?” Jason asked. “What about our women?”