"A risk I am prepared to take," she said simply.
There was a short silence. Alberto shook his head. "An im-possibility, Sister. You must see that."
There are times when the naivete of the truly good can be wholly infuriating. She said, with that disarming smile of hers, "I am as much for peace as you, Colonel, but I also have a special interest here, remember. The fate of Sister Anne Josepha and her friend."
"I would have thought the church had martyrs in plenty, Sister," he replied.
Joanna Martin stood up. "That sounds to me like another way of saying you don't really expect to come back. Am I right?"
"Se Deusquiser,senhorita."
"God wills."Joanna Martin turned to me, white faced. "You must be mad. What are you trying to prove?"
"You want to know if your sister's alive, don't you?" I asked.
She went into the saloon, banging the door behind her. Sister Maria Teresa said patiently, "Am I to take it that you refuse to allow me to accompany you, Colonel?"
"Under no circumstances, Sister." He saluted her gravely. "A thousand regrets, but I am in command here and must do as I see fit."
"In spite of my authorisation?"
"Sister, the Pope himself could not make me take you with us today."
I think it was only then that she really and truly appreciated the danger of the entire undertaking. She sighed heavily. "I did not understand before. I think I do now. You are brave men, both of you."
"I do my duty only, Sister," he said, "but I thank you."
She turned to me. "Duty in your mase also, Mr Mallory?"
"You know what they say, Sister." I shrugged. "I go because it's there."
But there were darker reasons than that - I knew it and so did she for it showed in her eyes. I thought she might say some-tiling - a personal word, perhaps. Instead she turned and followed Joanna into the saloon.
Hannah threw his cigarette over the rail in a violent gesture. "You're dead men walking. A dozen arrows apiece waiting for each of you up there."
"Perhaps." Alberto turned to me. "The stipulation is that we go unarmed. What do you think?"
"As good a way of committing suicide as any?"
"You don't trust them?"
"Can you trust the wind?" I shook my head. "As I've said before, whatever they do will be entirely as the mood takes them. If they decide to kill us instead of talking, it won't be out of any conscious malice, but simply because it suddenly strikes them as a better idea than the last one they had."
"I see. Tell me, what was Karl Buber's attitude regarding guns?"
"He was never without one prominently displayed, if that's what you mean. Forest Indians fear guns more than anything else I can think of. It doesn't mean they won't attack you if you're armed, but they'll think twice. They still think it's some sort of big magic."
"And yet they demand that we go unarmed." He sighed. "An unhealthy sign, I'm afraid."
"I agree. On the other hand, what the eye doesn't see..."
"The same thought had occurred to me, I must confess. That oilskin coat of yours, for example, is certainly large enough to conceal a multitude of sins."
He was suddenly considerably more cheerful at the prospects I suppose, of finding himself with a fighting chance again.
"I'll see to the necessary preparations,' he said. 'We'll go over things in detail closer to the time."
He went along the deck to the wheelhouse leaving me alone with Hannah. His face was white, eyes glaring. For a moment I thought he might take a punch at me. He didn't get the chance because Joanna chose that precise moment to appear from the saloon.
I could have sworn from her eyes that she had been crying, although that didn't seem possible, but there was fresh powder on her face and the wide mouth had been smeared with vivid orange lipstick.
She spoke to Hannah without looking at him. "Would you kindly get to hell out of here, Sam? I'd like a private word with Galahad here."
Hannah glanced first at her, then at me and went without argument, some indication of the measure of control she had over him by then, I suppose.
She moved in close enough to make her presence felt "Are you doing this for me?"
"Not really," I said. "I just like having a good time."
She slapped me across the face hard enough to turn my head sideways. "Damn you, Mallory," she cried. "I don't owe you a thing."
She did the last thing I would have expected. Flung her arm about my neck and fastened that wide mouth of hers on mine. Her body moved convulsively and for a moment it was difficult to consider other things. And then she pulled free of me, turned and ran into the saloon.
None of it made a great deal of sense, but then human actions seldom do. I moved along the starboard rail to the prow and paused to light a cigarette beside the Lewis gun which was for the moment unmanned in its sandbagged emplace-ment.
There was a stack of 47-round drum magazines ready for action at the side of the trim, deadly-looking gun and I sat down on the sandbags to examine it.
"The first gun ever fired from an aeroplane". Hannah appeared from the other side of the wheelhouse. "That was June 7,1912. Shows how long they've been around."
"Still a lot around back home," I said. "We used them in Wapitis."
He nodded. "The Belgian Rattlesnake the Germans called it during the war. The best light aerial gun we had."
There was silence. Rain hissed into the river, ran from the brim of my wide straw sombrero. I couldn't think of a thing to say, didn't even know what he wanted. And even then, he surprised me by saying exactly the opposite of what I had expected.
"Look, kid, let's get it straight. She's my kind of woman. You saw her first, but I was there last and that's what counts, so hands off, understand?"
Which at least meant he expected me to survive the day's events and unaccountably cheered, I smiled in his face. Poor Sam. For a moment I thought again he might hit me. Instead he turned wildly and rushed away.
The place was marked on the large-scale map for the area as Matamoros and we found it with no trouble at all. There was an old wooden jetty rotting into the river and a landing stage almost overgrown, but the track to the house, originally built wide enough to take a cart, was still plain.
We moved into the landing stage, a couple of men ready at each Lewis gun, another ten behind the canvas screen on the starboard side, rifles ready, my old comrade-in-arms Sergeant Lima in charge.
We bumped against the landing stage not twenty yards away from that green wall and a couple of men went over the rail and held her in on hand-lines, the engine gently ticking over, ready to take us out of trouble with a burst of power if necessary.
But nothing happened. A couple of alligators slid off a mud-bank, a group of howler monkeys shouted angrily from the trees. The rest was silence.
Alberto said, "Good, now we make ready."
We went into the saloon where Joanna, Sister Maria Teresa and Hannah sat at the table talking in low voices. They stopped as we entered, Alberto, Pedro the half-breed interpreter and myself, and stood up.
I took off my yellow oilsin coat and Alberto opened the arms cupboard and produced a Thompson sub-machine-gun with a drum magazine which we'd prepared earlier with a specially lengthened sling. I slipped it over my right shoulder, muzzle down and Hannah helped me on with my coat again.
Alberto took a gun which was, I understood, his personal property - probably one of the most deadly hand-guns ever made: the Model 1932 Mauser machine-pistol, and he gave Pedro a.45 automatic to stick in his waistband under the ragged poncho he wore.
The interpreter was something of a surprise for I had expected at least some sign of hiswhite blood and found none. He looked all Huna to me in spite of his white man's clothing.
To finish, Alberto produced a couple of Mills grenades, slipped one in his pocket and handed the other to me. "Another little extra." He smiled lightly. "Just in case."
There was some confused shouting outside. As we turned, the saloon door was flung open and Sergeant Lima stood there, mouth gaping.
"What is it, man?" Alberto demanded and Hannah produced the.45 automatic from his shoulder holster with a speed which could only indicate considerable practice.
The holy Sister, Colonel," Lima croaked. "She has gone into the jungle."
There was dead silence and Joanna Martin slumped into a chair and started to whisper a Hail Mary, probably for the first time in years.
Alberto said savagely, "Good God, man, how could such a thing be? You were supposed to be' guarding the deck. You were in command."
"As God is my witness, Colonel." Lima was obviously terri-fied. "One second she was standing there, the next, she was over the rail and into the jungle before we realised what was happening."
Which was too much, even for the kind of rigidly correct professional soldier that Alberto was. He slapped him back-handed across the face, threw him into a chair and turned to Hannah.
"Captain Hannah, you will oblige me by taking charge here. I suggest you keep the launch in midstream till our return. If this miserable specimen gives you even a hint of trouble, shoot him." He turned to me. "And now, my friend, I think we move very fast indeed."
Pedro was first over the rail and Alberto and I were not far behind. The launch was already moving out into the current as we reached the edge of the forest. I glanced back over my shoulder, caught a glimpse of Hannah standing in the stern under the awning, a machine-gun in his hands, Joanna Martin at his shoulder. God knows why, but I waved, some sort of final gallant gesture, I suppose, then turned and plunged into that green darkness after Alberto,
As I have said, the track had been built wide enough to ac-commodate reasonably heavy traffic and I now discovered that it had exceptionally solid foundations, logs of ironwood, em-bedded into the soft earth for its entire length. The jungle had already moved in on it to a considerable extent, but it still gave a quick, clear passage through the kind of country that would have been about as penetrable as a thorn thicket to a white man.
The branches above were so thickly intertwined that vir-tually no rain got through and precious little light either. The gloom was quite extraordinary and rather eerie.
Pedro was well ahead, running very fast and soon dis-appeared from sight. I followed hard on Alberto's heels. After a while, we heard a cry and a few yards farther on found Pedro and Sister Maria Teresa standing together,
Alberto kept his temper remarkably under the circum-stance. He simply said, "This is foolishness of the worst kind, Sister. I must insist that you return with us at once."
"And I, Colonel, am as equally determined to carry on.."she said.
I was aware of the forest foxes calling to each other in the jungle on either side and knew that it was already too late to go back, perhaps for all of us. The thing I was most conscious of was my contempt for her stupidity, a feeling not so much of anger, but of frustration at her and so many like her who out of their own pig-headed insistence on doing good ended up causing more harm than a dozen Avilas.
There was some sort of thud in the shadows a yard or two behind. My hand went through the slit in my pocket and found the grip and trigger guard of the Thompson. There was a Hum lance embedded in the earth beside the track, a necklace of monkey skulls hanging from it.
"What does it mean?" Sister Maria Teresa asked.
"That we are forbidden to go back," Alberto said. "The decision as to what to do with you is no longer mine to make, Sister. If it is of any consolation to you at all, you have prob-ably killed us all."
At the same moment, a drum started to boom hollowly in the middle distance.
We put a bold face on it, the only thing to do and moved on,Pedro in the lead, Sister Maria Teresa following. Alberto and I walked shoulder-to-shoulder at the rear. We were not alone for the forest was alive with more than wild life. Birds coloured in every shade of the rainbow lifted out of the trees in alarm and not only at our passing. Parrots and macaws called angrily to each other.
"What did you say?" I murmured to Alberto. "A chief and five elders?"
"Don't rub it in," he said. "I've a feeling this is going to get considerably worse before it gets better."
The drum was louder now and somehow the fact that it echoed alone made it even more sinister. There was the scent of wood-smoke on the damp air and then the trees started to thin and suddenly it was lighter and then the gable of a house showed clear and then another.
Not that it surprised me for in the great days of the Brazilian rubber boom, so many millions were being made that some of the houses on the plantations up-country were small palaces, with owners so wealthy they could afford to pay private armies to defend them against the Indians. But not now. Those days were gone and Matamoros and places like it crumbled into the jungle a little bit more each year.
