The Outcasts (21 page)

“Good afternoon,” said the major in a British voice. “You are the first people we have seen for many hours. I assume that we are near the new bridge.”

Morrison turned to Philips, who answered, and Morrison was momentarily pleased with his own new delicacy, and thought, eminent diplomatist, but could not finish the thought.

“Yes,” Philips said, and held forth a hand. “I am Philips, an engineer. This is Morrison. Our friends Ramesh and Tall Boy.”

The major was bland and correct, and shook hands with all four. He introduced Captain Ten Eyck, who was stocky like Philips and wore glasses, and had a carbine slung on his shoulder. The tanks, behind them, radiated heat, and seemed to breathe heavily. In each turret stood a lieutenant: Morrison assumed they were lieutenants. The major reminded him of body-building courses advertised in cheap magazines, and he was ashamed of that resentment too.

“How far is the bridge?”

“About four miles,” Philips said.

“Good. There is a stream near by, I believe.”

“Through the woods, there. A quarter mile.”

“Good. With your permission we will rest here for an hour or two.”

Philips smiled. “Good of you to put it so politely. By all means.”

“No objection if I station my tanks in the shade, there?”

“None. Have you food?”

“Yes, thank you. Are there other people here?”

“No.”

“Nothing at all there to the west?”

“Nothing.”

“Fine. Captain: tanks at five-yard intervals under those trees, facing west.”

The captain said “Sir!” and walked back to give the orders.

“We were told that the bridge was finished,” the major said.

“It is,” Philips said. “We have a few days more of cleaning up.” The tanks growled and clattered. Major Mackenzie invited the civilians to clear a way, and they all moved to the roadside. The tanks passed in a roar and Morrison marveled again at the size of them. In his war these would have been heavies but he supposed that they were now mediums. They flung up surprisingly little dust but stank of oil and hot metal. Morrison was sorry for the crews inside. He was sweating freely now, and not altogether from the heat of the day.

“No use to stand in the sun,” the major said, and they walked to the trailers under the trees. “We shall be here about two hours,” he said. “Do you know the terrain on the other side of the bridge?”

Philips glanced at Morrison, who stood silent.

“What we could see,” Philips said, “was scrub and small groves, and some grasslands. Beyond a mile or two I do not know.”

“Thank you.” The tanks had wheeled off the road and were crashing through the light underbrush. A small tree shivered down. The tanks roared and snorted, maneuvering. A flight of small yellow birds arrowed out of the forest and across the road, and disappeared to the west.

“What—” The word caught awkwardly in Morrison's tight throat, and he began again. “What are you planning to do over there?”

The major smiled and shrugged. “Take a look. Now: where is that river?”

An hour later Morrison was still sticky and sweating, but had a bad headache to distract him. He swallowed three aspirin tablets with a pint of water and sat cooling himself with the fringed fan. Ramesh and Tall Boy were at the river with the soldiers; he could hear the shouts and laughter of men at play. After a few minutes in the stagnant air, that settled on his skin like steam, he slouched to the refrigerator. He was half-way through a bottle of beer when Philips returned.

“That is the life,” Philips said. “Thirty days off each year with pay. One of the lieutenants is a man I know. I was drunk with him five years ago when he was a private, and he remembered. Small world.”

“Quick promotion,” Morrison said. “What are they going to do?”

“How would I know? That beer looks good. This heat is because of the moisture. Soon enough it will rain now.” He plucked a bottle from the refrigerator and uncapped it, and stood, legs apart and feet splayed, back arched and mouth up, and drank off most of it. “Ah. Ah.”

“They must have something in mind,” Morrison said. His head throbbed. “Those are tanks.”

“I noticed,” Philips said. “I suppose they want to see if the Portagees are up to mischief. Or maybe just build an officers' club.”

“There are people back there,” Morrison said angrily.

“Oh, yes. So there are. Your bootleggers. Tell me about them.” Philips lowered himself to the dust and sprawled back against the trailer.

“They're just people. Primitive. Good-looking and easygoing. Their ancestors hid back there to get away from the white man. They liked me. They were worried about the bridge and I told them it would be all right.”

“You told them,” Philips said.

“Yes. Tanks,” Morrison said. “You don't ride around in tanks without a reason.”

“Calm down,” Philips said. “No government sends its people into unknown territory in tourist buses. Would it be more sensible to send Goray in a little red sports car?”

“Yes. What are they afraid of? God, they make me nervous!”

Philips shrugged. “You cannot argue with an army.”

“That's what makes me nervous,” Morrison said.

After a silence he said, “Oh, the hell with this. I'm going to see him. He must have orders of some kind.”

Philips glared suddenly. “You and your bloody promises. You had no right to promise anything or even to stick your nose in there. Do you know how long it took us to free this country and make our own army? How many died doing it? Five years ago the major was probably a corporal in the white man's army, mopping latrines or serving drinks to the officers' wives. Leave them alone.”

“No. At least he has to know that the people back there mean no harm. They're peaceful.”

“He does not care. Believe me. Whatever his orders tell him, he will do.”

“That's what I have to know,” Morrison said. “I wish I didn't have this headache. I wish it was cooler.”

“Go to your friends and warn them,” Philips said. “Take the Land-Rover,” and the bitterness in his voice bewildered Morrison. “Promises. Uncle Moe, schweitzering through the jungle, burning with second-hand indignation.”

“Second-hand hell,” Morrison said. “These people are my friends.”

“Friends. Your wards, you mean. Uncle Moe's black orphanage.”

“Shut up,” Morrison said. “You don't know where you came from yourself. You could be one of them.”

“Not bloody likely,” Philips said tightly.

“I'm going to see the major.”

“Good luck,” Philips said, his eyes hard, his hand trembling. “Never say that to me again. Do you hear? Do you hear?”

Morrison put on a shirt. It was starchy under the arms and hung like a coat of mail. Because you could never tell with soldiers, he found his passport and slipped it into a breast pocket. Magic. Now he was protected and had marvelous powers. Perhaps he was invisible. Arrows would fall blunted from his chest. He was sick and sore as from too much brandy, and when he closed his eyes, walking down the shady trail, he almost lost the feel of up and down, and stopped for a deep, tremulous breath.

A picket halted him, which was almost laughable, but it seemed less and less like a day for laughing. “Morrison,” he said. “The American. I want to see the major.”

“Yes sir,” said the man, and called to a corporal, who led Morrison to a patch of shade behind the cooking truck. The major and the captain and three lieutenants looked up at him with friendly curiosity, and the corporal went away. Morrison touched his purple cap.

“Mister Morrison,” the major said. “Is something wrong?”

“I, ah, have a request,” Morrison said.

“Please.”

“It's about the other side of the gorge.” He tried to address all of them, but his gaze came back to the major, who was sitting cross-legged like Dulani and holding a canteen in one hand.

“Go on.”

“I'm a foreigner here and I have no right to ask favors. I know that.”

“Please.”

“All right. I was wondering if you could give me any clearer idea of your orders.” He felt suddenly foolish and gangling.

But the major smiled pleasantly. “No,” said the major. He sipped from the canteen but his eyes were steady on Morrison. Nothing bothers him, Morrison thought. Where is the swagger stick? He saw it then between the major's crossed feet, and he began to know, in a moment of light, how Indians had felt, Kenyans, Zulus, hunched in supplication before the bland, golden British colonel.

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Morrison said sadly.

As if he had noticed the sadness, and cared, the major said, almost smiling, “If it was the old army I might rely upon your discretion. But we take ourselves quite seriously now. Live ammunition, and all. And then if it was the old army I would not be a major.”

“All right,” Morrison said.

“You have perhaps been a soldier yourself?”

“Yes. Once.”

“Then,” and the major spread his hands in fraternal good will. “The bridge is ready, and will hold?”

“The bridge is ready,” Morrison said, “and will hold,” and he moved to withdraw, but the major was speaking again.

“Mister Morrison. Why do you want to know about my orders?”

Morrison was silent, and looked at each of them for a tick. These are only men, he thought. Look: one wears glasses, and another is an Indian like Ramesh. And one is very black and one is light brown. And they are kind to children because they can afford kindness, and in the capital they drink when evening comes, just as I do.

“There are people back there,” he said finally. “I told them no harm would come from the bridge.”

“Well,” the major said, “it was not an authorized statement.”

“It was authorized by decency,” he said.

The major sighed. “This is a border area, Mister Morrison. A most delicate border area. A confluence of governments and economies and ideologies and colors. You understand.”

“I understand,” Morrison said.

“What sort of people are these?” the major asked.

Morrison told him.

“Oh,” the major said, already laughing, and then they were all laughing, quite relieved, dismissing him, “oh,” the major said, “bush niggers. Hardly important, old man. Bush niggers,” and they were all laughing.

“Their own people,” Morrison said. “Their own people. You should have heard them.”

He had gone back to Philips and for a long while had sat dumb in the folding chair with his hands clasped between his knees. His headache was gone—no, not gone, replaced; the heat seemed to be sucking his life from him. Soon he poured rum and water into a cup, and then again at a greedy gesture from Philips. While he sat numb, the soldiers drifted back to their tanks in twos and threes, and he watched them making small adjustments, grouping in crews and chattering playfully. The lieutenants checked their side arms with much clicking of metal, and chaffed their men. The major and his captain inspected and conferred. Ramesh and Tall Boy darted among the machines like children.

“Their own people,” Philips mocked him. “Much they have in common, an army major and a bush nigger.”

“They have a country in common, and a color. Not to mention a species. He'd cut them down without a second thought if he had orders.”

“Sometimes you make me sick,” Philips said. “No one is going to cut anyone down. And if he had to do it, there would be a reason. If we cannot open this country and make it safe, millions will die later and the rest will be slaves to—to you, with your computers and space ships.”

“Sure,” Morrison said. “How does it go? You can't scramble eggs without killing people.”

“Oh, will you stop whining?” Philips flared. “All around us they die every day. Flies die and birds and monkeys and men. And are renewed and replaced. Without reason. You too, and me, and soon. And you see good and bad. Well, I see life and death, and life is movement, and some movement kills other movement as men kill lion flies. You cannot breathe without killing. Goray tried to tell you that. You have to accept that. What is the matter with you suddenly?” Philips was pleading, in anger. “For God's sake, man, stop this.”

“I don't have to accept killing,” Morrison said flatly. “Or even uprooting. A shanty is a lot worse than a hut,” and he stopped there because the major was approaching. The major walked with a perky swing to his hips and shoulders. Ramesh and Tall Boy trotted along behind him. Morrison and Philips rose.

“I came to thank you both,” the major said, “and to tell you good-bye. Though we may stop in again on the way back.”

“By all means,” Philips said.

Morrison said nothing, and tried to keep his face empty. The major paused before him; there was more to say. The major's dark eyes were wide-set and steady. “You must forgive me, Mister Morrison, if I am blunt.” He rubbed his cheek with the round tip of the swagger stick. Morrison saw nothing in his eyes: not friendship, not enmity, not anger, not humor, not even gravity. Only the steady expressionless look of the man. “I was aware of your shock. But I deny your right to judge. And I tell you further that it cannot matter to you what is done here. All that matters is that
we
do it. That is something you have never understood, you, ah, foreigners. We do not require your permission and we are indifferent to your approval. Or disapproval. And I do not mean to be inhospitable. History”—and he paused, gazed off into the distance and pursed his lips slightly, as if fearing the rebuke of some remote preceptor—“has withdrawn your mandate.”

“I never had a mandate,” Morrison snapped, “and never wanted one, and I am not here to preach but only to build, and I am tired of being mistaken for Cecil Rhodes. I only want to protect some friends that I seem to have made trouble for.”