Once an Eagle (69 page)

“—Colonel, I want to apologize,” Damon murmured, “for my—for questioning your orders at Wu T'ai.”

Lin looked down. “It's I who should apologize. For my anger.” He sighed and rubbed his nose. “If we had tried to take him with us the Japanese would have caught us at Chunsho Valley. And in any event he would probably have died. He knew.” He peered at his hand, chafing his fingers delicately against his thumb, and now tears hung in his eyes, wetting the long lashes. “A good friend. The best of my officers. A good friend.” He sighed again, and now his face fell into a series of blocklike planes. “Do you know how he came to us?” Damon shook his head. “He lived near Tamingfu, in Hopeh. A simple sheepherder, content to pass his days in peace and poverty. He had even worn the queue. And then the Japanese came. They slaughtered his sheep, they killed his son, they raped his daughter. What he did not see, he heard. For two weeks he walked around like a dead man, without hope or fear. And then one night he came in, to find four Japanese asleep in his house, with no one on guard. He told me: ‘All of a sudden I came awake. I was a man. What was I doing, standing there? I was a man.' He paused there in the dark, watching the Japanese, listening to his daughter moaning in the next room. Then he went and got the knife he used for butchering sheep, and killed them, one by one. The fourth soldier woke up and fought, but he killed him before he could cry out.

“Now he had four rifles. He went to his relatives and told them what he had done. Two were afraid, but he convinced the others. They knew what would happen to them all, in time. He armed them with the rifles, and they assaulted the small Japanese garrison in a merchant's house in the town. He overpowered the sentry with a ruse, and they took the post. Now he had twenty-seven rifles and a pistol. He persuaded neighbors to join his band and left for the hills. In time he had two companies with four automatic weapons. All from standing in the dark with a butcher knife.”

Damon said: “What happened to the people of the town when the Japanese came back?”

Lin's eyes narrowed. “It went very hard with them.”

“I would think so.”

“That is guerrilla warfare, Ts'an Tsan.”

“But the people,” Damon protested, “the women and children, the innocent bystanders—you're involving them in this war of yours. It's like putting them in the front line without weapons …”

“Yes,” Lin nodded, “that's it, exactly: the front line. But not without weapons.”

“But what do you call—”

Lin raised a hand. “Ts'an Tsan, you have seen Hangkow, you have heard about Nanking—do you think those planes make a neat distinction between the soldier and the little child? Japanese artillery has shelled defenseless towns, their soldiery have raped and slaughtered without scruple. I have seen it. No—it is they, in their arrogance and greed who have said, ‘You are all the enemy, a lesser race, to be enslaved.' And every boy who cuts a Japanese telephone wire in the night, every farmer who comes running to us with information of enemy movements, every woman who hides half a tan of millet in the earth—all of them know this in their innermost hearts.
And they will not be despised …

“No! It is the Japanese who have made this a people's war. That is the great irony—they planned to bring China to her knees; instead, they have brought her to her feet. She will never be the same again …”

The lamp sent a long spiral of black smoke toward the ceiling and Lin frowned at it. “It is curious, how the world sees us. The inscrutable Chinese, remote, impassive; a horde of coolies, China's swarming millions—as though we were a race of lemmings incapable of grief or laughter, without idiosyncracies … The fact is, the Chinese is the most individualistic of people—he cannot help seeing himself as monumentally unique, sacred and inviolate. More so than the American perhaps, Ts'an Tsan. And the Japanese hates this in us—and in you, as well. He will turn and attack you, of course; in his own good time. But for vastly other reasons.”

Damon said: “Can you hold out until that day comes?”

“We will hold out until the end of time itself. The Japanese will never conquer us: we will drain them of every soldier, every rifle, every tank and lorry they send here, until they give it up as a bad job and go home … provided
you
do not give them the victory, Ts'an Tsan.” He smiled at the Observer's incredulous stare. “Yes. The United States has furnished Tai Nippon with more than half of all war matériel she purchases abroad.”

“That's not true!” Damon exclaimed in English. Lin made a soft, importunate gesture. “Where did you hear that?”

“In one of your own papers, Ts'an Tsan.”

“Which one? When? I don't believe it …”

Almost reluctantly Lin took a worn, bent notebook out of an inner pocket, slipped a grayed, much-folded, sweat-soaked clipping out of the back pages and handed it over. It was a UP dispatch from what looked like
The New York Times.
There it was, in chapter and verse: it was true. Damon could feel his face burning as he read. When he finished he folded it up and handed it back. He felt a terrible rage compounded of shame and confusion; then it passed, leaving in its wake only a hard implacable stoicism. He rubbed his hands on his trousers.

“I'm sorry, Colonel Lin,” he said quietly. “I should not have doubted you. I am out of touch with my own country. With events in my own country. It seems.—And I had to come out here to learn this,” he muttered. “All the way out here …”

“Among the heathen Chinese?” Lin asked, and wiggled his black eyebrows.

He smiled back. “Among the heathen Chinese …”

“Well, heaven will not delay a traveler.”

“Is that an old Chinese proverb?”

“Oh yes, Ts'an Tsan.”

“I like old Chinese proverbs. Is there one for every occasion?”

“Very nearly.” Lin rose with a grunt, stretching his arms and arching his back painfully. “And now I suggest we try to sleep a little. Before another day is upon us.”

Damon got to his feet; his legs were so stiff and sore he thought for a moment he would fall, and gripped the rough wood table with both hands. “What will you do after the war, Lin?” he asked, to cover his dismay. “Sit in a room overlooking your Yü-tze Valley and write your memoirs? Read
The Romance of the Three Kingdoms?
Or will you travel?”

“Oh, I will not survive this war, Ts'an Tsan.”

Damon stared at him; the little man was smiling—a slow, infinitely sad smile. “All my old comrades are dead except Tsai Huan-tung, and he is faraway now, in Chahar.” He shook his head. “I have been lucky, very lucky, so far. Once in the arm, once in the leg. But the third time will be fatal. After this war … I never think of it. That's a luxury for others, not for me.” He opened his hands, to include the bare, neat room, the men sleeping in a huddled group behind him. “This is my life, the end of my life. For a new China—where the girl child is not left to die on the manure pile. For a China where the Sons of Han can live as they were meant to live. Like men.”

Watching that thin, furrowed, indomitable face with its roguish eyebrows, Damon felt a wave of hot sorrow wash through him. Yes, he thought, gripping his hands together, let them win; let them hang on and win through to their victory. Yes, he thought, and by God, land to those who till it—and honor and dignity to those who have suffered so much and so long in its name; and his eyes stung with tears.

He reached out and gripped Lin Tso-han's arm. “Tsui ho sheng li,” he said.

Lin's eyes glistened again. He nodded. “Yes!” he cried softly. “To—fina' vic-t'ree … ” It was the only English Damon had heard him speak. And then in French: “You are learning Chinese, Ts'an Tsan. What a curious thing for an American to do.” All at once he grinned. “Ah, if only all Americans were like you, and all Chinese like me, eh? What a glorious world it would be … ” He chuckled, as though it were the funniest thing he'd ever thought of. “And now we must get some sleep, before we both fall down in a stupor.”

Outside, the first light was breaking over the mountains.

9

In the club
on Dewey Boulevard the orchestra was playing “Thanks for the Memory.” The rooms were decorated with flags and bits of bunting; there were battle streamers, crossed sabers, and piles of cannonballs made of papiermâché, and couples drifted through the discs of blue and scarlet and amber light in sharp, gaudy patterns. There were infantrymen from the Army of the Continental Congress in blue-and-buff coats and tricorns, there were volunteers from the War of 1812 in gray tunic and busby—an impersonation affected by slight modifications on the West Point uniform; there were doughboys and Confederate cavalrymen—there was even a Fire Zouave of 1861, in red pantaloons and fez, and sporting a scimitar. Several participants were decked out in curious combinations of turn-of-the-century Spanish uniforms, the product of ransacking Manila shops or the homes of Filipino acquaintances. There was an Arab, a Moro, a Prussian Oberst with a monocle and Kaiser Wilhelms—there was even the inevitable wag sweating profusely in a helmet of cardboard and chain-mail skirt made of hemp and painted silver, but Emily Massengale couldn't tell who he was because everyone was wearing a mask. Colonel Semmes, who had set the theme of the ball—“The Soldier in History”—had insisted that everyone come masked and remain that way until midnight.

The women had more latitude, though most of them tried to conform to the theme, and there were several Molly Pitchers and Molly Starks in crinolines and bustles and gathered bonnets; but there were also southern belles, buckskin lasses and medieval ladies in horned hats and long velour trains, gathered up now for dancing. A Salvation Army girl in a drab Mother Hubbard smock had a placard around her neck that read “Doughnut & Choc. 75¢.” There was also a camp follower in the full and original sense of the term—Emily Massengale, sitting in the row of chairs near the verandah, suspected it was Kay Harting—fitted out in a yellow silk dress slit above both knees, ostrich plumes, a giddily plunging bodice and two beauty marks, one above the other.

“Look at
him!
” Susan Gantrell, sitting beside her, cried. She was dutifully wearing her mask but nothing could disguise the Georgia accent or the quick, birdlike inclination of her head. “Genghis Khan … This is such fun, isn't it?”

“Yes,” Emily said absently. The mask bothered her if she shifted her gaze quickly so she kept her eyes front and let the dancers slide across her field of vision.

“Oh look, look at that!”

“What?”

“The tall one—the tall one in the gorgeous uniform!…” And there, gliding into Emily's line of sight, was a man in the dazzling uniform of a Napoleonic marshal, the short sea green tunic with gold epaulets and red facings, tight white breeches, ermine-trimmed hussar's jacket worn off the shoulder. “Where ever did he get it?”

That would be telling, Emily thought. Courtney—it was he—was dancing with a stout little woman dressed as a Chinese empress, all brocade. Millicent Lange, that would be, with a costume picked up from the Tientsin tour. Courtney moved out of her vision, moved into it again, circling slowly; he was smiling, his lips curving under the mustache. He'd had the costume made for a ball in Washington when he'd been one of Pershing's aides, and had insisted on including it in their personal gear wherever they went. Our dreams betray us, she thought somberly, and sipped at her drink; we can offer a mask to the world, but our dreams betray us all the same. She herself was wearing the Phrygian cap and short skirt and boots of a Jacobin woman of the French Revolution, she hadn't really known why. Now, watching Courtney gracefully swirling and gliding in his gorgeous uniform, she did know. “Liberté, égalité, fraternité,” she murmured, and smiled to herself.

A giant dressed as a Confederate cavalryman, with slouch hat and a massive black handlebar mustache, came up to them and bowed from the waist. “Ladies, is it your intention to deprive a gentleman of your terpsichorean talents on this memorable evening?”

Emily recognized Jack Cleghorne instantly. She said, “Well, you can't very well dance with us both, Joe Wheeler.”

“Hampton, ma'am. Wade Hampton, CSA. Yours to command.” But now he faltered. “I must confess myself faced with an impossible dilemma—
two
such charming ladies …” Susan giggled and he turned to her, offering his arm. “Would you care to do me the honor, ma'am?”

“Why, Gen'l, Ah'd be delaaaghted,” Susan cried in her broadest Georgia drawl, and rose.

Emily watched them go off across the floor, which the Filipino boys had coconuted to a rich, ruddy gloss. The orchestra was playing that Cole Porter tune “Anything Goes,” and she hummed along with it. Sitting there she felt curiously secure behind the mask. What a joy it would be to wear one always—all day and all night. Slip through life incognito and carefree … She sipped at her drink, a pink gin, replaced it on the little red Chinese table beside her with slow, fastidious ease. Her fourth. Yes, fourth. The trick was to exercise care: the utmost tactical care in sustaining that fine, reassuring stasis, where everything rocked in a soft luminosity and all threatful, demanding things were far away. She sighed. Her feet, which had begun to swell abominably out here in the islands, already hurt her, but the tight, dry burning high in her belly had receded, like a well-banked fire. Gastric ulcer. Was it? She had a gastric ulcer, then—but no one was going to know about it, not even Courtney. Especially Courtney. Because that would mean—

The band had shifted to “All of Me”; a raggedy-pants private of '76 was dancing with the Manchu empress now, the Zouave was pirouetting with one of the Molly Pitchers, the Napoleonic marshal was with a slender woman in an Empire gown caught tightly under the breasts, a gold coronet and an upslanted blue mask adorned with brilliants: the Empress Josephine, obviously. Our dreams betray us. The woman's head was back, she was laughing, her throat fine and white. Who was that? The constant dipping and swirling of the couples dizzied her and she closed her eyes. It was odd: she'd been married to Courtney for eighteen years—and yet when she thought of him she never saw him full face but always in profile: the long, very straight nose, the thin lips curved in faintly mournful, almost deprecatory amusement, the eye—it was always the right profile—narrowed and speculative, as though searching for something. Eighteen years in March …

They had met at a picnic at Bar Harbor the second summer after the war. Courtney had been staying with the Holways. She would always remember the moment she had first seen him with a quick little catch at her heart, half-attraction, half-fear: standing tall and slender against the pines, in a sweater and flannel trousers. He always looked taller than anyone else—he liked to say it was a matter of bearing. Eliot Holway was saying something about the French, what a Godawful mess their government was in, that traitor Caillaux, and Courtney had replied, “Yes, but you'll have to admit they've done brilliantly with what they've had, for over a thousand years.”

“Oh yes,” she'd said flippantly. “You're that army officer, aren't you?”

He had smiled—a faintly disdainful smile that irritated her. “The very culprit, Miss Pawlfrey.”

“No, but I mean you're sort of a perennial.”

“Unregenerate is the word.” The others on the porch had laughed.

She had disliked him violently at first: his quick, calm assurance, his wit, the almost casual ease with which he could turn his mind to any subject offended her Boston sobriety, her conviction that all rewards must be earned. But later she found herself attracted to him. At the picnic the following afternoon he swam farther and longer in the bitter, icy water than any of the others, even her brother Forbes. He didn't know how to sail, coming as he did from New York State, but he caught on fast enough. Around the booming campfire later he sang a very funny London music hall song, and told stories about General Pershing, reviews and audiences with crotchety, lizard-faced French duchesses in draughty drawing rooms at Rambouillet or Saumur. His smooth dark hair was disheveled, his face ruddy in the firelight. He was such a change from the stalwart, straightforward manner of Forbes, or Eliot Holway or George Wainwright. Walking along the shore together, climbing over the furrowed granite, he had wanted to know what she was thinking.

“You're not supposed to ask a girl that,” she'd retorted.

“Oh come now—if you want equal rights with men you've got to expect to be treated like them.”

She laughed. “That's true, isn't it? That's what Father says: no authority without responsibility.”

“Yes. I've heard him.”

They both laughed, watching each other a moment. Then she said: “I was thinking how odd it is you're not married.”

“Odd?”

“Well, a man of your—your experience …”

“My creaking old age, you mean.”

“Oh, heavens, no—but all you've seen and done.”

He moved a bit ahead of her, climbing a long, rough shoulder of rock. Spray from the surf blew over them. “No excuse, sir. As we used to say back at the Point. The fact is, there just wasn't time for it.”

“No O-A-O?” She had picked up some of the slang from Ruth Holway, who had gone to dances at West Point.

“No One-And-Only. Life was real and life was earnest. I went right out to a platoon in the South. And then we entered the war. Isn't it curious, though?” he mused, as though the idea had only just occurred to him. “I never once thought of it then. Romance and marriage.”

“That's a tall one!”

“No, I mean it.” He reached down to her, took her hand and drew her up to him—a sudden proximity that made her heart leap; his eyes were sparkling. “The fact is, I simply haven't met a girl who's taken my fancy. Until now, anyway … ”

He visited the Pawlfreys in Boston a month later, and she took him to teas around the Hill or out on Beacon Street, or kept him all to herself. She was enchanted with him; she couldn't think of anything else. Here he was—this handsome, brilliant officer with a glittering future (people said just that—
glittering
—it was one of the words that never failed to cluster around Courtney Massengale, all the extravagant words: brilliant, arresting, astonishing—he drew epithets the way a polished steel magnet picks up filings; even staid, crusty old Boston used some of them), and he was hers to display. Nothing like this had ever happened to her before.

He loved Boston, which surprised her: he liked to walk the narrow, crabbed streets in the raw east wind, looking up tablets and mementoes. Crossing the Common under the lordly elms, he asked her where Clinton's troops had been quartered during the British occupation. Laughing, she said she didn't have the faintest idea.

“But that's terrible,” he rebuked her. “Here you are, surrounded by history—the very foundations of the country's traditions—and you don't know something like that?”

He was smiling, but he was serious: she'd learned to tell. He took her education in hand. They stood where the crowd had been behind the Old State House when poor Crispus Attucks fell under the British bayonets, they walked along the grassy ridge on Breed's Hill (the battle had not been fought on Bunker Hill, he warned her, that was a myth unsupported by all historical evidence) where Prescott had slapped his trembling riflemen on their behinds with his stick, calling tightly, “
Show
the bastards, now! You show them!” He even dragged her up to a desolate clump of buildings near an abandoned football field in Dorchester which Washington's troops had seized, and where they'd mounted the guns that had forced the hated Redcoats to evacuate the city.

“Do you know, my great grandfather Charles Massengale came all the way from Selkirk to fight here? And then went back in '77 and commanded a regiment at Bemis Heights.”

“Where's that?” she wanted to know.

He threw back his head in mock outrage. “My dear young girl, they obviously teach you nothing in the Hub. Nothing …
Saratoga!
” he cried. A woman passing by stared at him and he bowed and gave her his most charming smile before turning back to Emily. “The great turning point! The supreme, triumphant moment after which nothing could ever be the same. Your father says you had an ancestor here at Dorchester Heights—so you could say our forebears fought shoulder to shoulder …” His eyes flashed, tawny against the gray northeast sky; his long white face looked eager and proud. She had never loved him more than at that moment.

Her brother Forbes was less enthusiastic. “Well—been out wandering down memory lane?” he inquired when they came in one afternoon.

“A harmless pastime.” Courtney regarded him tolerantly. “The trouble with you people is you've got so many traditions you don't half value them anymore.”

“We don't wave the gaudy flag over them, if that's what you mean.”

“Oh Forbes, don't talk rot,” Emily said. “You're just jealous. Because you were too young to go to France.”

He started to laugh, and then his face set in that stolid, quizzical way that meant he was getting angry. “Well, now,” he said.

“Come on, Emily,” Courtney broke in. He never called her Em, or Emmy, the way the others did. “That's hardly fair. We couldn't
all
of us be heroes. Why weren't
you
turning out doughnuts under a tent fly near St. Durance?”

“Because I was marching down Tremont Street in the suffragette parades,” she retorted gaily, and stuck out her tongue.

“Em!” Forbes protested, but Courtney threw back his head and laughed.

“Women's rights! What makes you think you deserve any?”

“Any woman is as good as any man.”

“Demonstrably false.” His eyes were still twinkling. “The Periclean Athenians never let them out of the house.”