Refiner's Fire (25 page)

They assembled their equipment one evening, went over the plan, arose the next morning, and cut through impossibly thick brush for hours until they got to the first tributary of the White Water. Whereas moving through brambles and vines had yielded a mile an hour, they went three times as fast when walking in the ice-cold stream bed. Soon they came to a point where they were up to their thighs, and here they met the White Water itself. They were not anxious to test Marshall's theory, especially since the water was so cold, but they blew up the flotation bladders, lashed in their equipment, and set off on the little river in a group—knowing that they would soon separate, but pledging never to pass Lucius. That way, they could consolidate as fast as the current brought them together. At first it was slow going. They had to stand up every now and then to clear rocks and push themselves over gravel beds.

But soon they were floating, sliding, running, and crashing down the leaping river. It gradually became momentous and terrifying, but they were not terrified, since they took it in stride by stages, which is to say that they were hypnotized and entrapped by it, and completely oblivious of the danger. The White Water was full of black pools, high waterfalls, and rapids. It was frothing, clean-smelling, frigid, green, clear, blue, and it ran through deep gullies and glades of thick jungle rising from the banks. Orchids, vines, and trees hung above them. They choked on mouthfuls of fresh water, and laughed when they collided with one another, or, when caught behind a boulder or a fallen log, one of their number cursed exquisitely and flailed his arms like an infant trying to escape his buggy. All the while they were aware of the contrast between cold rapids and green jungle, and of the dancing mist which hung over the river and reflected the hot sun in prismatic bands as thick as the vines.

The water was thundering. It had started as an insignificant white sound and, in the few hours that they drifted, had become utterly ear-shattering. They could not shout above it. It was not just one sound, but thousands of combined single sounds which changed continually—some gaining, some losing intensity—the pitch and tone forever varying. When they reached the canyon fork, where they would land several miles in back of the encampment (downwind from the dogs), the cold water, rushing sounds, flying spray and foam, straining logs and limbs (they were brown and continually wet and they moved rhythmically as if animate), and raging streams overwhelmed them and almost prevented them from reaching a tenuous point on shore, where they clung together against the current, holding as best they could to crags in the rock wall they had to climb. The canyon was like a numbing crucible of molten ice. It held them breathless inside while they bent their heads to look at the cliff top.

“How can we get up that wall?” asked Stanhope, hardly heard above the roar. He was obviously beside himself even though he had lost five pounds in the freezing water on the way down. Farrell pulled out his bayonet and rammed it between two rocks. They fastened a line to it so that they could hold on and not be swept away. This enabled them to rest before the climb. It was only about forty feet, but they were exhausted and numb and it was almost vertical, with few handholds. Marshall felt obliged to volunteer, but remembered the cliff of eagles. Nielson, the oldest, and seemingly the worst candidate, said, “Someone has to go up before we freeze to death,” and began to pull himself to the first handhold. He knew how to climb and was not afraid to do what he had to do for getting up, including a frightening traverse to an untested ledge. The higher he got the better he climbed, because he knew there was little choice, and because the sun warmed his hands and made him feel human again instead of reptilian. At the top he pulled himself over a toupee of soft grass, and rested in the hot sun, due to which he immediately began to steam. He threw down a fishing line and pulled up a climbing rope, so that everyone (including Stanhope) scaled the cliff in good order. They quickly disappeared into the brush, moving quietly with weapons ready.

Half a mile from the village they climbed into an enormous vine-crossed sea grape tree. Perhaps two dozen buildings the color of wet straw were visible in irregular lines, between which were corrals of cows, horses, and pigs. Because they were downwind they could smell the animals, but the animals couldn't smell them. White smoke came from several dinner fires. Beyond the village a completely green expanse rolled now and then to right or left with the curve of the riverbanks. It was strange to be so entirely inland, and not see or smell the sea, which, even at Rica Vista, had always made its presence felt. In a band of a hundred yards around the thatch huts were cultivated plots protected by wooden fences and barbwire. There seemed not to be many men inside the compound, but those who were visible were armed with rifles and automatic weapons. Lucius shook his head back and forth, amazed that this pitiful grouping had defied the law for so long. Two companies of marines airdropped or heliborne would have served to take them prisoner a long time before, if hands had not been tied (Lucius did not make the political decisions of the Commonwealth).

It was five o'clock, not too long before dark. They smelled roasting meat and plantain. Lucius felt as if his small force were part of his strong arm and fist. They stayed in the tree until an hour before nightfall. Then they attacked.

They had rehearsed it at Rica Vista on at least a dozen occasions. Each time, Marshall had assumed that he would have to overcome great fear in the real situation. But, to his surprise, he was not at all frightened. In fact, he had the same pulse and drive as in the many school soccer games he had played against superior force (mainly military schools full of the violent, rejected, and disturbed), when fear vanished at the instant of kickoff and primal forces directed even the soft, small, Eagle Bay boys in their faded striped shirts and maroon shorts.

They had expected that the leader would live in conspicuous fashion. In the first confusions, Farrell and Lucius were to have crawled up to his hut and taken him. But his house was indistinguishable. Then, in a charged moment, Lucius caught him in the glass circle of his telescope. He was sitting in a little booth in front of which was a table covered with beer bottles, cameras, pistols, and transistor radios. It was absurd, but he was playing with them as if he were a child with toys.

They decided to capture Big Tub in a somewhat different manner than they had planned. Lucius climbed a tree and, when every thing was ready to go, shot Big Tub in the leg. Big Tub bounded forward, knocking over his table of treasures. With the first shot as a signal, Marshall began to drop shells into the mortar. Soon enormous explosions and clouds of phosphor smoke filled an area on the other side of the village. Those inside began to shoot wildly at the smoke and noise, as if an army were attacking from the north, whereas Marshall and the others were on high ground in the south, completely unobserved. The half a hundred defenders looked and fired northward to a man. Shrapnel from the mortar shells, clouds of smoke, and falling leaves and branches (cut mainly by the Rasta bullets) gave them many targets and they fired in panic, increasing their own confusion.

Marshall dropped mortar shells steadily, one every ten seconds by his watch, changing elevation and bearing occasionally. There were twenty-four shells—the main reason for agony on the mountain—and his barrage lasted exactly four minutes. After two of these minutes, Farrell and Peter (who had crept up to the perimeter) rushed into the camp toward Big Tub, who rolled in pain over his cameras and radios. Covered at close range by Stanhope and Nielson, they were armed only with pistols hanging on lanyards. They reached Big Tub, hit him over the head, picked him up, and carried him out. Lucius was in the tree, ready to shoot anyone happening upon the scene. But no one came, and they began their retreat, dragging the mortar and Big Tub to the cliff over the river.

By the time they reached the cliff they could hear dogs howling and scores of men rushing through the bushes. Everyone except Nielson and Farrell was in near-panic. Farrell picked up the mortar and swung it like a hammer, letting go. It sailed in a heavy curve into a deep pool, where it crashed inaudibly. They lowered Big Tub to the base of the cliff. He weighed at least 300 pounds. Farrell and Peter were amazed that they had carried him so lightly. Marshall descended, followed by Peter, Stanhope, and Lucius. Farrell and Nielson had started to return the fire which by then came heavily from the brush. They had plenty of ammunition and the noise from the cliff top was almost as loud as the river.

When the flotation gear was set and Big Tub lashed in, Nielson climbed down the rope. Farrell remained, shooting. They pushed off, expecting Farrell suddenly to rush down the rope, or even to jump into the pool. They waited nervously, aware that the current was carrying them away from the landing place. Farrell never appeared. Above the sound of the water Nielson said, “He told me to go to hell. I don't think we'll see him again.” And they didn't.

T
HEY RODE
down the White Water. Because Marshall had been first on the rope he found himself in the same raft as Big Tub. With two of them, one extremely heavy, they sank low in the water and moved more slowly than the others, who quickly vanished downstream. Tub was still out when they passed the village. There, two riflemen waited on the cliff, but Marshall saw them from upriver. There was nothing he could do, and he watched as they sighted him in. He thought of going into the water, but was sure that the rapids would drown him. Besides, he did not want to lose his prisoner.

As he got closer and they began to fire, he took out his pistol, thinking that he could try at least to drive them to cover. Bullets slammed into the water. Then he felt a shock in his right leg. His calf had been split down its length and it shot blood into the river. He screamed a shrill scream like that of a small child and fell back against the raft, only to feel a bullet graze his head and the blood pour down. As if this were not enough, his companion began to stir.

Big Tub was so big that he could have crushed Marshall with his fist. Marshall felt as if he approached his end. Then he became clear-headed and resolute, and angry. He raised his pistol in two hands and, to counter the motion of the river, moved it as in trap shooting, and let off a shot which dropped one of his attackers. The other promptly disappeared. On another bluff some more men stood with rifles. As Marshall went by he placed three good shots in their vicinity, driving them back. They too fired, and missed.

With his prisoner awake, his blood pouring from him, and the raft careening without control, Marshall found himself looking into a fierce, experienced, angry face. The man adjusted himself on the raft and began to move toward Marshall, who raised his pistol and pointed it straight at him. He saw a hideous smile, indicating that he was not believed.

Marshall set his teeth and drew back the hammer on the pistol; the click was heard above the waters. For an hour and a half they went down the rapids and then drifted on the big river—sometimes turning slowly, sometimes being submerged under a wave, sometimes being tossed like a chip down a patterned flume. All the while, Marshall kept his finger on the trigger. His adversary did not move an inch.

In darkness they approached a landing where the others were waiting and a purring diesel truck was ready to go. Nielson swam out and pulled in the raft. He and Peter had been grazed in the ambush, but not as badly as Marshall, who could not let go of his pistol. Nielson squeezed the trigger, firing a shot in the air, and then pulled the gun from Marshall's hand. They sped away toward Rica Vista.

I
T SEEMED
to Marshall as if he were in an Eakins painting of a nineteenth-century operating theater. The light was exquisitely beige. All around were the grave mustachioed faces of serious young gentlemen. The white-haired doctor was English. It was night, and a full moon, or nearly so, shone in the window from over the mountains. Dash and Mrs. Pringle were there. Lucius and Stanhope held down Marshall's shoulders. Marshall remembered what had happened. He had been given chloroform, to which he had proved allergic, and he had then suffered convulsions and unconsciousness. When he awoke the doctor had said, “Why didn't you tell me?”

Marshall was rather weak and could only answer, “You didn't ask.”

They brought a bottle of brandy which Lucius had stolen from BOAC, and they began to feed it to Marshall. It was painful to drink the stuff, and he threw up. “Drink it,” said the doctor. “I haven't any local anesthetics, I'm going to have to go in almost to the bone, and it's good French brandy.”

Marshall drank. After a little while, when he began to say half words about rowing on a hot painted river in the summer in Philadelphia—next to a coffer dam with water flowing over and through it like flax on a comb—the doctor made the first thrust with his long curved needle, coming down deep and hard into the muscle. Despite half a bottle of brandy and the company of Eakins, Marshall screamed and tensed explosively, locking up like iron. Then it was repeated over and over again. He was sweating so hard that he could not tell the difference between the sweat and the blood running down his face from the newly opened head wound, on which Mrs. Pringle held a thick red-soaked gauze pad.

Sixty stitches were placed one by one until the moon shone in the opposite window and the servants stopped their wailing outside because they had become hoarse, tired, and sleepy. Marshall lost his voice on stitch ten, and then could only gag and move in pain. He fainted every now and then, and revived. He began to think that he was Eakins, and then he thought that Eakins was cutting him open to get color with which to paint. In moments of relief he would catch Dash's eye and smile. He knew that if he lived (at every thrust the doctor said, “He'll live, he'll live”) he would finally get to sleep with her.

Dash, the moon, Eakins, a hot river in Philadelphia, the sharp needles, the three-star peach brandy, the blood and sweat on his face, the servant girls in customary wailing, the crickets, the whitehaired doctor, Rica Vista finally safe like a jewel in the night, the cold currents of the White Water, the room's beige lantern light, the dark colors swirling from a century back, the water flooding like flax through a comb—delighted him despite the pain. For despite the pain, or perhaps because of it, he felt the world coming fully thick and lovely fast.