Saigon (11 page)

Joseph saw Tran Van Hieu and his father make their obeisance gravely beside other high-ranking Annamese. Three times they lowered themselves to the ground in response to commands chanted by the minister of rites and all the time the musicians and singers banged gongs and drums and continued their strangely discordant chanting. On his throne Khai Dinh remained unmoving, accepting their abject demonstrations of loyalty without a flicker of expression. 

“The Chinese call it ‘kowtow’ but the Annamese term is ‘lam lay,’” said the governor deprecatingly at Joseph’s shoulder. “But whatever you call it, it doesn’t come easy to some of the older members of the fraternity. I sometimes wonder if some of them are going to get up again.” He laughed unpleasantly at his own jest, and a number of Frenchmen around them smiled. 

Joseph watched Tran Van Hieu’s father lower himself to the ground with difficulty for the third time. He might have looked comic if his proud, wrinkled face had not remained set in a devout and dignified expression as he went through what was clearly a considerable exertion to his failing strength. As each group of mandarins finished their performance of the ritual they backed slowly to the edge of the courtyard to be replaced by others, and wave after wave of courtiers in silks of all hues flowed across the gray flagstones under the yellow glare of the early sun. When the last group had backed from the emperor’s presence, the chant of the court musicians suddenly changed to a faster rhythm and the gateways filled immediately, to Joseph’s astonishment, with the gray, swaying bulk of elephants. Decked in tasseled yellow howdah cloths and ridden by straw-hatted Annamese mahouts perched straddle-legged behind their ears, a dozen elephants lumbered slowly across the flagstones and lined up before the open doors. Urged on by their riders with short metal-tipped bamboo rods, the elephants lowered themselves slowly to their knees, facing towards the throne, and remained kneeling for a minute or two, their trunks curling and swaying in front of them in time with the cacophonous music. Then, with a lazy dignity, they rose one by one and backed out of the courtyard again. 

The explosions started as soon as the last elephant had shuffled out of sight. To Joseph’s startled ears they sounded like a simultaneous volley of a thousand rifle shots. Without pause the explosions became a continuous bombardment, and thick, white smoke engulfed the courtyard, blotting out the sun. Joseph looked wildly round the throne room, expecting to see the emperor and the Resident Supérieur bolting for cover. But the emperor remained impassive on his dais and the Resident Supérieur merely raised an amused eyebrow in the direction of one of his colleagues. 

“Don’t look so worried. It’s only the traditional Annamese way of welcoming Tet.” The governor had to shout into Joseph’s ear above the din to make himself heard. “They believe that these very loud explosions will frighten away all evil spirits and make sure they have good fortune for the coming twelve months.” 

Looking outside again Joseph saw then that the smoke and explosions were emanating from tall bamboo poles set up around the courtyard. Topped by a few sprouting leaves the poles were festooned to the ground with garlands of paper-wrapped firecrackers, which were all now detonating deafeningly. He let out a long breath and raised his hands to cover both ears. “That’s a relief! I thought the Great War had begun all over again.” 

The celebratory boom of cannon echoing from another part of the citadel marked the end of the ceremony and the emperor descended slowly from his throne to shake hands in European fashion with the Resident Supérieur, and side by side they led the way into an antechamber. A band outside began to play the “Marseillaise” and iced champagne was served for the guests to toast the emperor and the New Year. Jeweled caskets of areca nut, betel leaves and little jars of lime were served by court servants to mandarins who wished to chew betel, and gem studded boxes of cigarettes and cigars were offered to the French. As Joseph sipped his champagne, Tran Van Hieu appeared silently beside his mother with a younger Annamese man and bowed gravely. 

“It gives me great pleasure, Madame Sherman, to welcome you and your son to the imperial court of Annam,” he said politely. “I hope that you found our New Year ceremony of some interest.” 

“I’m very honored to have been present,” replied the American woman, smiling in her turn. “Especially as I believe ladies are not normally permitted to observe the rites.” 

“Tradition is most important, but it is not good to live entirely in the past. The French have brought many advantages to our country as you no doubt have already seen.” The mandarin turned and motioned the younger Annamese forward to introduce him. “May I present to you, Madame Sherman, a member of my wife’s family, Monsieur Dao Van Lat. He is my wife’s brother and he works as a journalist with a newspaper in Hue. He was educated in Paris, and when he heard that some Americans had been present at today’s ceremonies he expressed a wish to meet you.” 

The handsome young Annamese in his early twenties who offered his hand promptly to Joseph and his mother had the piercing gaze and broad forehead of a scholar. Unlike the other Annamese present who wore court robes, he was dressed in the conventional short black gown and white trousers of an ordinary civilian and on his head he wore the traditional black turban of the region. 

“Are you writing about today’s ceremonies for your newspaper, Monsieur Lat?” asked Joseph eagerly. 

“I shall write only that which was written last year and the year before that,” said the Annamese with a sarcastic smile. “‘The traditional rites of homage to the emperor Were performed in the Palace of Perfect Concord.’ I shan’t be allowed to say that we were really saluting the Resident Supérieur of France.” 

“My brother-in-law was educated in Paris but he is an idealist whose unorthodox views are not shared by myself or many of our countrymen,” cut in Tran Van Hieu hastily. “You should not take what he says too seriously.” The mandarin excused himself with a nervous smile and moved quickly away across the antechamber to talk with a group of French officials. 

“What the Imperial Delegate says is not strictly true.” said Dao Van Lat quietly. “Many people in this. country do not share his affection for France.” 

“But why can’t you write about the ceremonies the way that you want?” inquired Flavia Sherman politely. 

The Annamese glanced over his shoulder for a moment to see if they were overheard. “You are not French, Madame, so perhaps I may be honest, yes?” 

The American woman nodded. 

“We have no freedom of press here. Newspapers are closed and journalists are sent to jail if they displease our foreign masters.” Lat’s eyes glittered suddenly with the fervor of his words. “We aren’t free either to pursue our political beliefs. We can’t hold meetings or travel freely. We can’t even send mail without its being intercepted!” 

“But what would you write in your newspaper about the ceremonies if you were free to say what you liked?” asked Joseph. “I thought they were fascinating. The ‘lam lay’ is a very old ritual that in other countries you can only read about in history books.” 

“Exactly, Monsieur Joseph,” Lat glanced quickly around the room again. “The ceremonies taught us by the Chinese emperors ceased to be celebrated fourteen years ago in China itself when the revolution of Sun Yat-Sen put an end to the Manchu dynasty. The precepts of Confucius only make sense if the Son of Heaven to whom we offer loyalty and allegiance represents the power and dignity of the people. The French have long ago destroyed the authority of Confucius in our old society. Today you have watched our mandarins banging their foreheads on the flagstones — but not for our emperor! That’s what 1 would write today if I were free to choose. But instead I say only: ‘The traditional rites were performed.’ “Lat paused and smiled another glittering smile. 

The firecrackers were still exploding intermittently in the courtyard and occasional salvos of cannon fire boomed out from beyond the walls of the Imperial City. Joseph noticed out of the corner of his eye that Khai Dinh had risen from his seat and was walking slowly in his ponderous Ming boots towards the door. Once he seemed to sway slightly and one of the red-robed princes moved quickly to his side and took his elbow. 

“Our Son of Heaven unfortunately is a sick man,” said Lat, seeing Joseph turn to watch the emperor. “Did you notice how often he mops his face with a handkerchief? He is only forty-two but it is feared he may have tuberculosis. We are not allowed to write about that in our newspapers, either.” 

All conversation ceased and the firecrackers quietened suddenly by some invisible command as the emperor took his ‘eave of the Resident Supérieur and the governor of Cochin-China; the other French officials and guests immediately began lining up to file past and shake the sovereign’s hand in farewell. 

“If you go now, Madame and Monsieur Sherman, you too will be able to shake the hand of the emperor of Annam,” said Lat in a low voice. “Although it is not our custom to shake hands, he likes to please his foreign overlords. But make the most of your chance, because soon our emperors will exist like those of China — only in the dusty pages of history books. Au revoir” 

Dao Van Lat hurried out of the antechamber by a side door, leaving Joseph and his mother to join the line of departing guests. When the Emperor Khai Dinh offered his slim, feminine hand to Joseph it felt limp and damp, and although the American boy murmured his farewell politely in French, the sovereign didn’t raise his head to look at him. Because Joseph was already slightly taller than him, his last memory of the Annamese Son of Heaven was a close-up view of the shimmering jewels in the top of his golden crown. 

The raucous cries of wild jungle fowl welcoming the pale light of another dawn roused Chuck Sherman from a deep, refreshing sleep. He sat up immediately on his cot, feeling a surge of pleasurable anticipation course through him at the prospect of one more day stalking the great game animals of southern Asia through the beautiful tropical forest where he now felt almost at home. He pulled aside the mosquito net and in the gray light caught sight of his gleaming double-barreled Holland and Holland .450 propped against the wall of the hut. For a brief moment he experienced again the exhilaration he had felt on the plain late the previous day when he dropped a big red banteng bull with a single shot from nearly two hundred yards. The animal had been plunging towards the shelter of a riverside bamboo grove when he fired and it had probably been the best shot of his life. His father had wounded another bull in the same herd, but not mortally, and although they had tracked it by a faint blood trail for an hour, in the end, to the senator’s ill-concealed irritation, they had been forced to abandon the search. 

Chuck drew his hunting knife from its sheath before picking up his boots. He upended each of them in turn and allowed himself a grim little smile of satisfaction when a squirming scorpion tumbled from one of them. After killing it with the knife he dressed quickly. He had already learned his lesson by painful experience; the burn like swelling on his left calf still throbbed occasionally to remind him of the morning a week ago when he had drawn on his trousers carelessly, to discover that a scorpion had spent the night nestling in one of the legs. 

In his shaving mirror he saw a face burned a deep brown by two weeks of fierce tropical sunshine. His blue eyes were bright and clear and the frequent pump of adrenaline through his veins as he tracked arid shot for fourteen successive days had left his senses sharpened, on a high edge of alertness. He felt fit and hardened by the spartan life of the jungle camp and he contemplated exercising the skills of stealth and lightning-sharp reaction again for one last day with a fierce relish. As he finished shaving he found he was grinning broadly at his reflection in the mirror; in that jungle dawn he knew he was as happy as he had ever been in his life. 

On the other side of the camp he saw Jacques Devraux, already dressed, checking the hides the Moi had finished cleaning late the previous night. He had become accustomed to the grim silences that surrounded the Frenchman but he admired greatly his harsh efficiency in the jungle and had learned through him to identify the spoor of all the larger animals. Senator Sherman had shot marginally less well than his son and was openly disgruntled about this. But in the two weeks, as they moved slowly north into the forested hills and grassy uplands close to the hill station of Dalat, they had killed between them prime specimens of almost all the groups required for the museum. Paul Devraux had returned to Saigon the previous evening with the hides of buffalo, banteng, seladang cows and calves and a dozen smaller deer, to organize their shipment to the United States. Only a bull seladang, the giant wild ox of Asia, had so far eluded them. 

When Chuck crossed to the cook tent, carrying his rifle for the early start they planned for the final day, his father was already sitting at a table in the open, sipping a steaming mug of black coffee. Torrential rains had fallen each afternoon in the past week, and three days before in the steaming jungle he had contracted a fever which he had kept at bay since with frequent doses of quinine. His face was still taut and sallow, and he looked as though he had not slept well. 

While the wife of Ngo Van Loc served his breakfast and poured coffee the American boy peered anxiously at his father. “How are you feeling this morning, Dad? Got that fever beat now?” 

“Fever and the jungle go together like a carriage and pair, Chuck,” said the senator lightly. “It doesn’t do to get too excited about it. I’ve been feeding it a goodly amount of quinine and aspirin in the night to keep it from going hungry.” 

Although his face was damp with perspiration he winked over the rim of his coffee mug, and Chuck, reassured, smiled back. As he bolted down his breakfast Chuck gazed around the clearing with delighted eyes. The first rays of the sun were gilding the grassy hillsides visible through the trees, and all around them the thick green roof of the jungle was gradually coming alive with the cries of darting, bright-hued birds. “I guess, Dad, this must be some of the finest hunting country in the world, isn’t it?” 

The senator nodded. “It’s a hunter’s paradise, Chuck. It makes a man feel like a real man. Makes you remember all men were hunters once—and only the fittest of them survived. It’s a real pity it’s so far away from America.” 

“It sure is. I haven’t enjoyed anything more in my whole life than the shooting we’ve had here.” Chuck watched Jacques Devraux enviously for a moment as he moved briskly about the camp, giving orders to the Moi. “You know, Dad, I’m not so sure that I’m cut out for what you want me to be,” he said, and sipped his coffee with a pensive expression on his face. “I’m not sure I could do as well as you say in politics. I love the outdoors. I’d just as soon be doing what Monsieur Devraux does. That wouldn’t seem like work at all to me.” 

The senator looked up at him sharply. “You’re young yet, Chuck. You’ll come around to my way of thinking before you’re much older. I just know you will.” 

Chuck smiled at his father again, but without enthusiasm. “Maybe Joseph is a better candidate for the tricky world of politics, Dad. He’s already got an old head on his young shoulders, you know.” 

The senator waved a dismissive hand and stood up. “I don’t want to hear any more of this talk, Chuck. Let’s keep our mind on the job at hand. I’m going to prove to you today what I’ve often told you before — that all you need in this life to succeed is real cast-iron determination.” He turned away to swallow another handful of pills that he shook from a bottle, then picked up his rifle, “Come on; the sooner we make a start, the sooner you’ll see what I mean.” 

Jacques Devraux and half-a-dozen Moi trackers were waiting beside the narrow river that flowed past the camp, and the senator put his arm lightly around his son’s shoulders as they walked over to join them. “All we’ve got to do is convince ourselves that no matter what happens today we’re going to kill a seladang bull for the Sherman Field Museum. Then it’s as good as done, isn’t it?” 

“If you say so,” agreed Chuck with a happy laugh. 

When they reached the bank of the river Nathaniel Sherman motioned his son ahead into the waiting dugout canoe and laid a hand on Devraux’s shoulder. “Chuck and me just want you to know, Jacques, that we don’t aim to leave this jungle today without the hide and horns of the biggest bull seladang in all Asia. We’re going to match up that cow and her little calf we got last week with a daddy — or go bust in the attempt.’ 

The Frenchman peered intently into his face for a moment without replying. “Are you sure, senator,” he said at last, “that you wouldn’t be better taking that fever to your cot for the day?” 

“No sir! Like I told you, we’re determined to crown our collection with that seladang bull. So just lead us to him, if you please!” 

Devraux shrugged and climbed into the dugout behind him. The tall grass on the other side of the river was still wet with dew and before they had gone fifty yards all the men were drenched to the waist. They trekked in single file for more than an hour, holding their rifles high in front of their chests, without sighting any animals at all. When they entered the jungle again, the Moi several times spotted banteng, but what few traces of seladang they found proved to be cold trails. 

By nine o’clock Nathaniel Sherman was flagging. Beside a muddy pool in a shadow-dappled patch of jungle where faint feeding tracks had finally petered out, he lowered himself on to a fallen log. He was shivering again and he swallowed another handful of tablets from his waist pouch. Chuck noticed that instead of drinking the usual cold tea like the others he surreptitiously raised a hip flask to his lips a couple of times when he thought he was unobserved. 

“Are you sure you’re well enough to go on hunting, Dad?” he asked anxiously. “It sure looks to me as though that fever might be beginning to take hold.” 

“I can take my fever to bed for a couple of days back in Saigon,” snapped the senator irritably. “There’s no point wasting our last day.” He rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes, then stood up impatiently as two of the Moi who had been scouting the region while they rested rushed into the clearing and began chatting excitedly to Devraux, pointing back the way they had come. 

“They have spotted a group of seladang cows and calves grazing a half mile away,” said Devraux when they had finished. “The bulls may not be far off. They’re probably making for the cool thickets on this side of the river to avoid the heat. We must go carefully. There’s no more dangerous animal in the jungle if you surprise him at close quarters.” 

“Okay, I’m ready,” said the senator, picking up his rifle. As Chuck followed Devraux into the trees he hung back, pulled out his flask again and drank deeply from it. Then, treading carefully, he followed on behind the last Moi trackers. 

The tall bamboo thickets fringing the narrow river rattled and groaned in the faint breeze as the file of men moved cautiously through the half-light beneath the dense overhead foliage. Every few paces they paused to peer ahead into the gloom, and when they reached a gap in the trees Devraux stopped and pointed. Two hundred yards away a group of about fifteen seladang were visible, the calves frisking and sporting around the cows that had borne them. 

“The Moi were wrong!” breathed Nathaniel Sherman in an awed whisper, as he peered through his field glasses. “There is a big old hump-necked herd bull right in the middle of his wives and children. And he’s mine!” Without waiting for the others he plunged down the bank into the stream, slipping and slithering heedlessly over the protruding roots and rocks. He waded across, scrambled up the other side and pushed through the undergrowth on the edge of the plain. 

Devraux, his face stolid, looked at Chuck Sherman. “From here the wind is wrong.” he said curtly. “You will see.” 

By the time they had splashed up the far bank Nathaniel Sherman was fifty yards away, moving erratically, breasting the grass, preparing to risk a standing shot at two hundred yards. But the swirling breeze was at the hunters’ backs, and the big bull suddenly lifted his muzzle to scent in their direction, and a moment later the whole herd was running towards the shelter of the trees. 

Cursing obscenely in his exasperation, Sherman set himself and fired. The crack of his first shot succeeded only in raising a screeching flock of parrots from the trees behind him and the heard ran on unharmed. The American cursed loudly again, then planted his feet more firmly and fired his second barrel — but still none of the seladang faltered. When his son and Devraux arrived at his side, however, he was still squinting through the sights of his raised rifle, watching the herd break up to enter the jungle. “Would you believe it, boy,” he whispered softly, “I hit him with my second.” Without waiting for Chuck he strode off in the direction taken by the herd, and halfway across the grassland he let out a roar and dropped to his knees. When he turned towards them, his son and Jacques Devraux saw that his fingers were bright with blood. “I told you I hit him! Nigh on two hundred yards and running away and I hit him!” He stood up breathing fast. “Come on, Chuck. Let’s go and get him.” 

Devraux placed a restraining hand on the American’s shoulder. Above the grasslands the air shimmered in the midday heat. “The blood trail is light. The animal is not badly wounded. To go on you must hunt through the hottest part of the day. It would be better to return to camp and resume when the sun begins to cool.” 

“If the rains come again today, hunting will be impossible later!” 

“It would be dangerous for a fit man to pursue this animal now. In your condition” — Devraux shrugged — “it would be madness.” 

Perspiration was streaming down the Senator’s face and his eyes were bleary with too much quinine. “I’ve made up my mind to finish that bull, Jacques. I’ve hit him and I’m going to kill him!” 

“Then I will take no further responsibility for this day’s hunting,” said the Frenchman with quiet finality. 

Nathaniel Sherman jabbed a thumb against his own chest and his words came out in a fierce undertone. “That’s just fine by me, Jacques. I will take the damned responsibility myself.” Peering down at the faint blood trail staining the grass, he strode angrily away towards the jungle with his son at his heels. After a moment’s hesitation Jacques Devraux followed at a distance with his trackers. 

For half an hour they followed the telltale red blotches until finally they petered out in a glade surrounded by dense thickets of thorn and bamboo. “I’d guess we must be getting pretty close, Chuck. He’s holed up somewhere around here licking that wound of his.” Nathaniel Sherman removed his helmet to mop his streaming face and as he did so a movement caught his eye in the tangled undergrowth. “Did you see that, Chuck?” he asked in a fierce whisper, pointing to a thicket of thorns. “I think we’ve found him.” 

Although the denseness of the bushes prevented a clear view, Chuck saw a patch of brown-black shadow move unmistakably and he immediately raised his rifle. 

“Wait — it’s mine!” His father motioned the weapon aside with a peremptory gesture. His eyes gleamed and he breathed noisily through his nose as he lifted his own rifle to his shoulder then fired both barrels at the shadow in quick succession.