the lake."
"Don't you mean into?"
"Into, out of, backwards, sideways. I don't care!"
"Good, I'm glad we've got that settled. There's the mission, I can see a
light." She did not answer but sat in her corner, breathing heavily,
drawing so hard on her cigarette that the glowing up lit the interior of
the Ford.
The church was in darkness, but beyond it and to one side was a long low
building. Bruce saw a shadow move across one of the windows.
"Is that the hospital?"
"Yes." Abruptly Bruce stopped the Ford beside the small front verandah
and switched off the headlights and the ignition.
"Are you coming in?"
"No."
"I'd like you to present me to Father
Ignatius." For a moment she did not move, then she threw open her door
and marched up the steps of the verandah without looking back at Bruce.
He followed her through the front office, down the passage, past the
clinic and small operating theatre, into the ward.
Ah, Madame Cartier." Father Ignatius left the bed over which he
was stooping and came towards her.
"I heard that the relief train had arrived at Port Reprieve.
I thought you would have left by now."
"Not yet, Father. Tomorrow morning." Ignatius was tall, six foot three
or four, Bruce estimated, and thin. The sleeve of his brown cassock had
been cut short as a concession to the climate and his exposed arms
appeared to be all bone, hairless, with the veins blue and prominent.
Big bony hands, and big bony feet in brown open sandals.
Like most tall, thin men he was round-shouldered. His face was not one
that you would remember, an ordinary face with steel-rimmed spectacles
perched on a rather shapeless nose, neither young nor old, nondescript
hair without grey in it, but there was about him that unhurried serenity
you often find in a man of God. He turned his attention to Bruce,
scrutinizing him gently through his spectacles.
"Good evening, my son."
"Good evening, Father." Bruce felt uncomfortable; they always made him
feel that way. If only, he wished with envy, I could be as certain of
one thing in my life as this man is certain of everything in his.
"Father, this is Captain Curry." Shermaine's tone was cold, and then
suddenly she smiled again. "He does not care for people, that is why he
has come to take you to safety." Father Ignatius held out his hand and
Bruce found the skin was cool and dry, making him conscious of the
moistness of his own.
"That is most thoughtful of you," he said smiling, sensing the tension
between them. "I don't want to seem ungrateful, but I regret I
cannot accept your offer."
"We have received reports that a column of armed bandits are only two
hundred kilometres or so north of here.
They will arrive within a day or two. You are in great danger, these
people are completely merciless," Bruce urged him.
"Yes, Father Ignatius nodded. "I have also heard, and I am taking the
steps I consider necessary. I shall take all my staff and patients into
the bush." "They'll follow you," said Bruce.
"I think not." Ignatius shook his head. "They will not waste their time.
They are after loot, not sick people."
"They'll burn your mission."
"If they do, then we shall have to rebuild it when they leave."
"The bush is crawling with Baluba, you'll end up in the cooking pot."
Bruce tried another approach.
"No." Ignatius shook his head. "Nearly every member of the tribe has at
one time or another been a patient in this hospital. I have nothing to
fear there, they are my friends."
"Look here, Father. Don't let us argue. My orders are to bring you back
to Elisabethville. I
must insist."
"And my orders are to stay here. You do agree that mine come from a
higher authority than yours?" Ignatius smiled mildly.
Bruce opened his mouth to argue further; then, instead, he laughed.
"No, I won't dispute that. Is there anything you need that I
might be able to supply?"
"Medicines?" asked Ignatius.
"Acriflavine, morphia, field dressings, not much I'm afraid."
"They would help, and food?"
"Yes, I will let you have as much as I can spare," promised Bruce.
One of the patients, a woman at the end of the ward, screamed so
suddenly that Bruce started.
"She will be dead before morning," Ignatius explained softly.
"There is nothing I can do."
"What's wrong with her?"
"She has been in
labour these past two days; there is some complication."
"Can't you operate?" am not a doctor, my son. We had one here before the
trouble began, but he is here no longer - he has gone back to
Elisabethville.
No," his voice seemed to carry helpless regret for all the suffering of
mankind, "No, she will die." "Haig!" said Bruce.
"Pardon?"
"Father, you have a theatre here. Is it fully equipped?"
"Yes, I believe so."
"Anaesthetic?"
"We have chloroform and pentothal." "Good, said Bruce. "I'll get you a
doctor. Come on, Shermaine." This heat, this stinking heat!" Wally
Hendry mopped at his face with a grubby handkerchief and threw it on the
green leather bunk.
"You notice how Curry leaves me and you here on the train while he puts
Haig up at the hotel and he goes off with that little French bit.
It doesn't matter that me and you must cook in this box, long as he and
his buddy Haig are all right. You notice that, hey?"
"Somebody's got to stay aboard, Wally," Andre said.
"Yeah, but you notice who it is? Always you and me those high society.
boys stick together, you've got to give them that, they look after each
other." He transferred his attention back to the open window of the
compartment.
"Sun's down already, and still hot enough to boil eggs. I could
use a drink." He unlaced his jungle boots, peeled off his socks and
regarded his large white feet with distaste.
"This stinking heat got my athlete's foot going again." He separated two
of his toes and picked at the loose scaly skin between.
"You got any of that ointment left, Andre?"
"Yes, I'll get it for you."
Andre opened the flap of his pack, took out the tube and crossed to
Wally's bunk.
"Put it on," instructed Wally and lay back offering his feet.
Andre took them in his lap as he sat down on the bunk and went to work.
Wally lit a cigarette and blew smoke towards the roof, watching it
disperse.
"Hell, I could use a drink. A beer with dew on the glass and a head that
thick." He held up four fingers, then he lifted himself on one elbow and
studied Andre as he spread ointment between the long prehensile toes.
"How's it going?"
"Nearly finished, Wally."
"Is it bad?"
"Not as bad as last time, it hasn't started weeping yet."
"it itches like you
wouldn't believe it," said Wally.
Andre did not answer and Wally kicked him in the ribs with the flat of
his free foot, "Did you hear what I said?" "Yes, you said it itches."
"Well, answer me when I talk to you. I ain't talking to myself."
"I'm sorry, Wally." Wally grunted and was silent a while, then: "Do you