He chose a path that brought him into the village behind the technical and opposite the crowd of wailing women and frightened children. A few disbelieving eyes turned toward Bishop as he broke from cover, but the gunner did not recognize the importance of their behavior. He was still glowering at the assembled group when Bishop sprang up into the bed of the technical and broke his neck with a savage twist.
Bishop didn’t stop, but instead hopped over the side of the truck and ducked low, keeping it between him and the hut, where the other two rebels had gone. With the coolness of a stalking lion, he padded around the rear of the truck and approached the hut at an angle that kept him out of line of sight of anyone looking out the door.
The old man struggled to rise, his face twisted in pain. When his eyes met Bishop’s gaze, there was something else there, too. Apprehension? Pleading? Bishop couldn’t fathom why the man would be looking at him that way. He was already helping the villagers. There was no time to ask for an explanation. Bishop pressed his back against the side of the hut and waited.
The rebels emerged a moment later. The first man passed by Bishop without even looking in his direction. When the second man emerged, Bishop stepped in front of him and delivered a close in blow that instantly knocked the man unconscious, and then spun on his heel and delivered a roundhouse punch that landed squarely at the base of the other rebel’s skull.
As the second man collapsed in a heap at his feet, Bishop saw the old man moving toward him, shaking his head and repeating a phrase over and over. It didn’t sound like a ‘thank you.’
“English?” Bishop asked.
The man frowned. “Non.” He then said something in what sounded to Bishop like French, but was just as incomprehensible. He gestured at the rebels and then pointed an accusing finger at Bishop.
Bishop fought a powerful urge to simply turn and walk back into the jungle. A little gratitude would have been appreciated, but he understood why the villagers were afraid. It was easy for him to show up and crack a couple of heads, but he would leave, and they would still have to deal with the rebels. There might even be violent reprisals.
The old man turned away from Bishop and addressed the villagers in a loud clear voice. Almost as one, the people began dispersing to their huts. It had sounded like a call to arms, but as Bishop studied the faces, he saw women and children, mostly girls, and a few elderly couples.
“Where are all the men?”
The old man looked at him, as if waiting for the question to be uttered in a language he understood, then pushed past him and entered the hut.
Bishop felt another pang of guilt and helplessness. There weren’t any able-bodied men in the village. Maybe they had all gone off to the city to work, been conscripted by the army or shanghaied by the rebels, who were notorious for kidnapping young boys — anyone big enough to hold a rifle — and forcing them to serve as foot soldiers. They would be indoctrinated and set on a lifelong path of violence.
A few moments later, villagers began to emerge from their huts. Some of the women had large cloth-wrapped bundles on their heads, while others carried baskets and herded small flocks of goats. Bishop spied the old man, likewise carrying a sack full of supplies. “What’s going on? Where are you going?”
The old man gave him an appraising stare for several seconds. Then, as if his actions were answer enough, he turned and joined the procession heading down the road.
“Was it something you said?” a voice called from across the road.
Bishop turned and saw Knight and Felice emerge from the trees. “More like something I did, but I’m not really sure.”
Knight shuffled toward him, but Felice started after the old man. “Hujambo, bwana!”
The man glanced at her, but just as quickly turned away and kept going. Felice shrugged and walked back to join Bishop and Knight.
“Where are they going?” she asked
“To hide in the jungle, I think,” Bishop replied. “Probably afraid of getting caught up in this. I don’t blame them. When we’re gone, they still have to live here.” He pointed at the men on the ground. “And what I did.”
He stopped and cocked his head to the side. He had heard something in the distance, the faint but unmistakable roar of an engine. In a matter of just a few seconds, the noise grew steadily louder. He became certain that there was not just one vehicle, but several. “Time to go.”
“Can’t we take their ride?” Felice asked.
It was a tempting suggestion, but using the technical would mean staying on the roads, and the roads were dominated by the rebel forces. Their only hope of eluding the men who hunted them was to follow the example of the villagers and flee into the jungle. There wasn’t time to explain all that to Felice, so he grabbed her arm above the elbow and hastened her into the trees. As they passed once more into the forest, the first vehicle in a long convoy rolled into the village.
“They’re going to know we were here,” Knight said.
Bishop thought it sounded like an accusation. For Knight, a trained sniper, remaining concealed and leaving no footprints — literal or figurative — was of paramount importance. If Bishop had not intervened during the search of the village, the rebels would have moved on and been none the wiser. Now, whatever lead they had gained on their pursuers was gone. The hunters would know that they were nearby and the search would intensify. He didn’t regret what he’d done. Sneaking around was Knight’s way, not his. If he wasn’t going to take risks to help the helpless, then what was the point of being a soldier? Unfortunately, he knew the risk was not his alone. His impulsive action had put Knight and Felice in danger as well.
“Take her and keep going,” he told Knight. “I’ll try to draw them off.”
The tumult behind them intensified as more vehicles entered the village, and then changed in pitch with the addition of shouted voices. The rebels had found their fallen comrades.
“There’s no time for that. We have to—”
“Look!” Felice’s shout was so loud that Bishop winced, but when he turned to silence her, he saw that she was pointing off to their left. There, standing about fifty yards away was the old man from the village. He waved for them to join him.
Bishop looked to Knight. “Well?”
“I don’t have a better idea.”
They started toward the old man, and as they drew near, he turned and headed deeper into the forest. Despite his advanced years, the man moved with a spry surefootedness that revealed a lifelong familiarity with the savage wilderness. He set an urgent pace, almost faster than Bishop could move while remaining stealthy. Knight also struggled to keep up. He was drenched in sweat, and the heat and rising humidity sapped his strength by degrees.
He quickened his pace just enough to get close to their guide, and hissed, “We have to slow down.”
The old man glanced back and said something in his native language.
He looked at Felice. “What did he say?”
“No idea. I only know a few phrases of Swahili.” She was already winded, but sprinted ahead to the old man’s side. “Parlez vous Francais?”
The old man didn’t look at her, but uttered something in French, which was equally incomprehensible to Bishop.
Felice translated. “He says we will be able to rest soon, but right now they are too close.”
The engine noise faded into the distance, but the shouts of the men spreading out into the forest remained constant. Bishop knew they were leaving a trail a blind man could follow. He wondered if the old man was leading them somewhere specific. Clearly the rest of the villagers had gone somewhere else, and it occurred to him that the old man might not be leading them to a place of safety after all. Perhaps he was simply trying to make sure that they didn’t follow his neighbors, thereby leading the hunters to the villagers’ refuge. Or maybe he was going to lead them back to the rebels and turn them in, to ensure the villagers’ safety.