Green City in the Sun (50 page)

     She watched him circle the crowd of Europeans and make his way surreptitiously to the rear of the jail; at the same time she listened to the heated exchange between Wanjiru and the governor. Mona suddenly understood. This was the girl's objective: to divert the attention of the authorities while a few of her people set David free.

     Frightened, and worried for her brother, Mona pulled her pink silk wrap tightly about herself, looked around to make sure she wasn't being observed, then struck off along the route her brother had taken—toward the rear of the jail.

     W
HILE SEVENTEEN-YEAR-OLD
Wanjiru continued to amaze her own people and the Europeans alike with her oratory, David Mathenge was making his first bid for freedom.

     Since most of the police effort was directed toward the street, it had been easy for David's friends to overwhelm the few guards, gain access to David's cell, and get him out. Seeing that he got clear of the compound without getting caught, however, turned out to be another matter. Because David couldn't walk.

     He had been tortured.

     Not here, in the white man's jail, but back up north in Karatina, in a hut on Chief Muchina's land. Wounds on his feet, which the police doctor had bandaged without asking questions, made it nearly impossible for him to walk. Two comrades got him by the arms and ran, half dragging David, to the gate where four policemen, Africans in the service of King George, lay unconscious. A group of young Kikuyu, wielding clubs and tribal knives, milled nervously on the other side of the gate, watching the end of the alley, where the crowd of Africans was clustered around Wanjiru.

     The air seemed to crackle with tension. Wanjiru's words were firing their blood. The youths kept an eye on the cellblock, waiting for David and their friends; they also glanced frequently at the soldiers on the rooftops, who were training their rifles on the mob in the street.

     They heard the governor again shouting an order for dispersal, followed this time by a threat to shoot if the crowd didn't clear away.

     The small group at the rear gate shifted uneasily. They felt the weapons in their hands, the heat in their veins. Their orders had been to get David Mathenge away quickly and unseen, to a prearranged hideout in the mountains. But the hot-blooded young men were starting to hear not the orders of a mere girl but the thunder of manhood in their ears. These were young Africans who had never known warfare, who had been born too late to experience the pride and excitement of being warriors, who now suddenly resented these white men who had taken away their fathers' spears.

     And that was why, when they saw a lone European youth creep into the alley, a rifle in his arm, they lost control.

     Several things happened at once. The gang of youths descended upon Tim Hopkins with clubs and knives just as David Mathenge was being brought through the gate. In the same moment Arthur Treverton appeared at the end of the alley, on foot, his ribbon-cutting saber unsheathed.

     There was a moment of confusion, which later none of the participants would be able to unravel for the authorities, in which Arthur, seeing Tim fall beneath the blows and kicks, plunged like a madman into the knot of Africans.

     David Mathenge shouted, "No! Stop!" and saw the second white boy fall.

     Pulling free from the two who supported him, David stumbled toward the fight and grabbed for his crazed friends, shouting at them to stop. He saw a dagger go up and then plunge; he reached for it but missed, falling to his knees next to Arthur's body. Shocked, David saw the dagger go into the white boy's back. He reached for it, pulled it out.

     A cry from the end of the alley made the youths stop and turn, startled.

     A white girl, dressed like an Asian memsaab, stood at the entrance of the alley, her eyes wide, her hands over her mouth.

     The group broke and ran. Two flew over a wall; the rest dashed past Mona and disappeared into the street crowd. She stared at the two white boys lying on the ground and at David Mathenge, who was kneeling by her brother, a bloody dagger in his hand.

     Their eyes met.

     For an instant time stood still as David Mathenge and Mona Treverton stared at each other. Then, suddenly remembering themselves, David's two companions ran forward and dragged him to his feet.

     He held back, to look at Mona with pain-filled eyes. He opened his mouth but was unable to speak. Then his friends pulled him away, and just as shouts from the street were calling for police and the alarm was sounded, David ran, leaving Mona with the body of her brother.

G
RACE PUT THE SCALPEL DOWN AND HELD HER HAND OUT FOR A
hemostat. She looked at her scrub nurse. "Rebecca! A clamp, please!"

     The woman looked up from her instrument tray, startled. With a mumbled apology she placed the clamp into Grace's outstretched hand and looked quickly away, embarrassed.

     Grace frowned. It was unlike Rebecca to be distracted during surgery. She was one of the hospital's best scrub nurses, vigilant and dedicated, proud to be the only African woman in the province skilled in surgical assistance. But this morning, as they worked in the light of the October sun, Rebecca seemed uncharacteristically inattentive.

     "Another clamp, please. I shouldn't have to ask for them."

     "I'm sorry, Memsaab Daktari."

     "Is there something wrong, Rebecca? Do you wish to be relieved?"

     "No, Memsaab Daktari."

     Grace tried to read the nurse's eyes. Much of her face was hidden by the
white surgical mask, but her eyes, which avoided meeting Grace's, revealed a highly emotional state.

     Another of the reasons Grace had singled out this Kikuyu woman for surgery work was her even temperament and ability to remain calm in a crisis. This morning, however, Rebecca seemed to be agitated, and Grace was suddenly concerned.

     "Silk tie, please, Rebecca," she said, holding her hand out for something she should not have to ask for. This was a routine hysterectomy. Grace and Rebecca had performed so many together, that they often went through an entire procedure without Grace's needing to say a word.

     But now, to Grace's further surprise and rising concern, Rebecca confessed that she had forgotten to put silk on her instrument tray.

     "Perhaps you should scrub out," Grace said, signaling to the other African nurse in the operating room. She was the circulator, the member of the surgical team who did not stand at the sterile table. "Bring some silk ties quickly," Grace said to her. "And then see if anyone is available to relieve Rebecca."

     As Grace returned her attention to the wound, clamping bleeders that needed silk ties, she did not see the two nurses exchange a secret, worried look.

     "REBECCA," GRACE SAID as she removed her white surgical gown and gloves, "I want to talk to you."

     The nurse was cleaning up the operating room, her gestures abrupt, her work sloppy. A replacement had not been found; Rebecca had had to stay through the entire hysterectomy, making too many mistakes.

     "Rebecca?" Grace repeated.

     "Yes, Memsaab Daktari," the woman said, not turning around.

     "Is there trouble at home? Are you having difficulties with your children?"

     Rebecca had four boys and three girls, ranging from fourteen years old down to one year; her husband had abandoned her during her last pregnancy
to live in Nairobi. In all her years of working at Grace's mission, from the day she graduated from the new Secondary School for Girls, through her training with Grace and her years of working in the operating room, Rebecca had been able to keep her personal life from interfering with her work. But now Grace suspected that the responsibilities of being a single mother were wearing her down.

     And yet Rebecca now turned, faced Grace fully, and said, "No, Memsaab Daktari. There is no trouble at home."

     Grace tried to think. It occurred to her that this morning was not the first time Rebecca had acted strangely. In fact, Grace realized all of a sudden, Rebecca had started to change sometime around the day of the great protest in Nairobi two months ago. Now that she thought about it, Grace was certain that that was when Rebecca had started to act oddly, just days after that terrible afternoon which saw the murder of Arthur Treverton and the miraculous jailbreak of David Mathenge. Was that what troubled Rebecca now? Was her conscience troubled by the reckless actions of a handful of her people?

     Rebecca Mbugu was a devout Christian who attended church in Nyeri every Sunday and was involved in many charitable works. Her children all had been baptized and attended mission schools. Many Kikuyu like Rebecca had been shocked by and ashamed over Arthur Treverton's brutal killing and the cowardly escape of David Mathenge. After that day all unity within the tribe appeared to have broken down; Wanjiru lost some of her influence; the Africans had returned quietly to their farms.

     That day seemed to have had a specially hard impact on Rebecca, Grace decided now; perhaps she had been in that protesting mob on King's Way.

     Grace came up, put a hand on the nurse's shoulder, and said, "If you ever need to talk, Rebecca, or if you need help in any way, you know that my door is always open."

     When she left the operating room, Grace again missed the look exchanged between the two African nurses.

     Grace Treverton Mission covered nearly twenty acres and consisted of stone buildings, which were the primary and secondary schools, the hospital, dispensary, nurses' dormitory, and vehicle maintenance shed. In the
center of this collection that resembled a small town, Grace's imposing house stood. It occupied the spot where Birdsong Cottage had once been, but it was much larger and had been built, after the fire eight years ago, with an eye to permanence.

     As Grace crossed the spacious lawn that separated the buildings, she waved to people who called out to her, and she heard children singing in one of the classrooms:
"Old MacDonald ana shamba..."

     She had a great deal on her mind. There was the news of a yellow fever vaccine that had just been developed in the United States; her experiments with chloral in treating tetanus; the need to hire a full-time laboratory technician; her plans to travel into French Equatorial Africa at Christmastime. James Donald, on a trip into the Gabon territory last year, had met Dr. Albert Schweitzer and had given him a copy of Grace's rural health manual,
When
You
Must Be the Doctor.
Dr. Schweitzer had written a letter of high praise to Grace, inviting her to come and visit him at his clinic in Lambarene, and it was because of this and other things occupying her mind that Grace was unaware of anything amiss on this bright October morning.

     For one thing: that the mission compound was unusually quiet.

     She climbed the steps of the veranda, where imported California fuchsias were just coming into leaf, and looked around in puzzlement. It was her habit to have midmorning tea out here while she went through the day's mail, and Mario never failed to have the table set, the teapot in its cozy. But the table was bare, with not even a white cloth over it, and the morning mail had not been laid out.