Battle Cry - Leon Uris [170]
Peterson smiled. “Looks like you came in well prepared. Matter of fact, you pulled rank on me.”
“What do you mean, sir?” Andy asked.
He flipped the paper over to us.
Dear Svend,
A big Swede by the name of Andy Hookans will probably come stammering into your sanctuary any day now to pop the question. I’ve met the girl and she’s too damned good for him. She is an angel. I’d appreciate your cutting any red tape in getting them married. If you don’t, I’ll send all my boys to Father McKale.
Thanks,
Sam Huxley
P.S. (We missed you at the poker game last Friday.)
“Er…the P.S. isn’t for publication.”
“Yes, sir.” Andy beamed. “Yes, sir.”
CHAPTER 6
IN RECENT weeks Seabags had been taking his liberty in Otaki, a small town some twenty miles north of Paekakaraki. A yarn spinner, and one with a knack for making friends, he had conquered the place lock, stock and barrel. Seabags Brown became known as the Mayor of Otaki. As he roamed the streets of his favorite haunt the population of the predominantly Maori town would echo a chorus of “Hi, Seabags!”
And he’d answer the greeting between chaws of the eternal plug: “Hi, cousin.”
Although the cultures of the white man and the Maori were intermixed, the natives clung jealously to many of their ancient customs and rituals, especially in the smaller towns such as Otaki. Rites of long-gone generations were kept alive in meetinghouses on the outskirts of town and the tribe was ruled by an ancestral chieftain. Few white men ever set foot in the last stronghold of these native traditions. Seabags was one who was always welcomed into the meetinghouses. On the occasion of the aged chief’s birthday Seabags was permitted to invite a few of his friends to the ceremony. Seabags, not being able to master the chief’s tongue-twisting name, addressed him only as Cousin Benny.
In spite of Seabags’ standing in Otaki, I was a bit leery of going to the party. A few days before, a Marine had attacked a Maori girl and tempers in the town were high. Seabags assured us that it was quite safe. Marion, L.Q. and me accepted the invite. Marion was anxious to get a glimpse of the ceremony to use as background for a story. Seabags warned him that it would be an insult to refuse a drink so Marion agreed to try one. Then Seabags said that Cousin Benny might offer one of his granddaughters and it would be a bigger insult to refuse that. Marion turned red and kept quiet.
As we got off the train and headed for the nearest pub I felt as if I was walking on a bed of hot coals. Then started the chorus of old men, young men, old women, middle-aged women: “Hi, Seabags!”
“Hi, cousin.”
A dozen small dark children raced up behind us and climbed all over him. “Hi, Cousin Seabags,” they cried. He knelt and tussled with them and sent them scampering for the nearest candy store with a handful of pennies.
We entered a bar and took positions at one end to dig in on a couple of quarts of beer, with sarsaparilla for Marion. As we drank time away till the meeting hall opened, an exceptionally large Maori entered. His shirt was open and revealed a burly chest. He was fierce looking and gripped a machete knife in his big brown hand. It was polished and glinting and wicked looking. He strode up to the bar and spotted us. He advanced in our direction with slow, deliberate steps, his machete swinging back and forth in menacing fashion. L.Q. backed up and nearly trampled Marion trying to get out of the way. This guy didn’t love Marines. Maybe he was the raped girl’s brother.
He came face to face with Seabags and raised his knife! And slammed it on the bar. “Hi, Seabags!” he said, throwing his arms around the farmer.
L.Q. passed out in a dead faint.
“Hi, cousin,” Seabags said. “Pull up a glass. I want you to meet…funny, I could of swore I brung three guys with me.”
At dusk we made our way to the hapu house in the flatland outside the city limits. The exterior was carved and painted in a style that reminded me of Indian totem poles. At the door