A Rendezvous in Haiti (15 page)

“No; but I can read a map.”

“I know where it is,” McAllister said. “I'll take him in.”

“You'll do what I tell you,” Healy said.

“I resign,” McAllister said. “I have no mufti but I'll strip off my insignia if you want that.”

Healy said, “Lafayette: you go now. I'll see you later.”

The yard-boy backed out.

“I'd like to leave in the morning,” Scarron said.

“I'd like to leave tonight,” McAllister said.

“We can't do that,” Scarron said. “Two riders in the dark are fair game. In daylight they'll see I'm a priest.”

“McAllister is not going anywhere,” Healy said, “unless I say so.”

“I just resigned.”

“Your resignation is not accepted. There's a war on. You're under arrest till dinnertime.”

At dinner Father Scarron said, “We're officers in different armies; and a victory for you is a defeat for me.”

“Meaning,” Healy asked, “that God is not on our side?”

“God takes no side in man's wars. Would you have him rejoice in mayhem and murder?”

“Both sides always claim him,” Dillingham said.

“I believe he is neutral,” Father Scarron said. “We define him as omniscient because we want to believe that he cares about our hangnails and nosebleeds, and omnipotent so he can cure them. But his concerns may be more sublime. You have no chaplains here?”

“In Port-au-Prince,” Healy said. “They come out Sundays. So you're doing this as a civilian? A friend?”

“No; as a priest too. But God is not a Marine.”

“And the Marines ain't gods,” Healy said. “I admit that freely. But we do a job as hard as yours, and we think we're doing good like you do, and we trust our chain of command like you do.”

“But your task is not hopeless,” Scarron said. “Mine is.”

“I believe that's heresy,” Healy said. “Mac, you haven't eaten a damn thing all day.”

“You look like hell,” Dillingham said. “You're not
ready
. You're no use to us or her dead on your feet.”

McAllister said, “I'm retired.”

Healy slammed a flat hand to the table. “Goddam it, McAllister, you eat and sleep, hear me? That's an order. I just may have work for you, you stupid swabby. Didn't anybody ever tell you that a good Marine is more afraid of his officers than he is of the enemy? Jesus! The Academy! Every time.”

McAllister said, “Well now,” and his face came alive.

Healy said, “Got to protect the Panama Canal, don't we?”

“Absolutely,” said Dillingham.

“Got to improvise in unforeseen circumstances, don't we?”

“Absolutely,” said McAllister.

Healy said, “Loyalty up, loyalty down.”

McAllister said, “Pass me some of that steak, would you, and the yams?” He drew a copious breath and collared another bottle of beer.

Dillingham said, “Hell, I'd go in there myself, Mac. You know that.”

The three officers seemed to bask. Seminarian, priest, Roman Catholic, Father Scarron was no stranger to solidarity. It filled the room, as if these three had taken a vow aloud. He saw them better now, and liked them better; and distrusted himself for it.

Father Scarron slept well, on a cot in what seemed to be the guest bedroom, upstairs; painted on his chamber-pot was a bouquet of pink roses. In the morning he dressed nervously; more excitement. Quite a vocation, the priesthood, what with flying machines and pastoral calls upon guerrillas.

Furthermore, he was set to work before breakfast, and admired the Corps' efficiency. The men rarely looked him in the eye, but brought him a bedroll, rations, a canteen. Flanagan offered a short course in horsemanship; it was unnecessary, but Scarron let him teach, and afterward said gravely, “Thank you, my son. The blessing be yours.” Flanagan tried to hide his pleasure but could not; perhaps he thought he was now safe from harm.

Scarron chatted for a moment with the yard-boy Lafayette, who rejoiced obviously in his presence. “And what is your real name?”

“Emilien Bonenfant, Father. Emilien-zézé.”

Too good to be true, like the farmer named Bonhomme or the sailor Delamer.

“A priest is holy,” Lafayette went on with grateful solemnity.

“Tell me,” asked the priest, “do the Americans treat you well?”

Lafayette was enthusiastic.

“Would you like them to stay on?”

Lafayette's enthusiasm swelled, and so did Lafayette.

“Would you like to be house-boy to an American family?”

Lafayette sighed for joy.

So to him I am a blanc, Father Scarron concluded. “God bless you,” he said.

The priest and the three officers made a substantial breakfast—banana fritters and mango jam, rivers of coffee—and Scarron noted that McAllister tucked away his share, sitting alert, gabbing away. And what had Healy told the lieutenant? Interesting. A plucky one, this captain. Mettlesome. The sun was just up, and a few gray clouds drifted; Scarron hoped that rain would not delay them. He had considered riding clothes, but his soutane was essential.

“You don't fly the Haitian flag,” he said to Healy. It was red and blue—the old tricolor with the white slashed away.

“We did for a while,” Healy said, “but my boys fussed and grumbled and called it a heathen banner. Do you fly it in church?”

“Of course not.”

McAllister said, “Maybe we ought to fly it again. Maybe we ought to show some respect for two Haitians doing our work for us. Ambassadors.”

“Father Scarron's an ambassador,” Healy said. “Lafayette's only a gossip, with with eight or ten wives and a few business operations on the side.”

“Some Catholic,” Dillingham said.

“In the hills of Haiti there is neither marriage nor giving in marriage,” said Father Scarron. “Your Lafayette may have a dozen irregular connections. But I make no doubt he cares for his children and treats his women with courtesy, as their other husbands do when Lafayette is not available. What is his real name, by the way?”

“Hell, I couldn't pronounce it if I knew it,” Healy said.

“I thought not,” said the priest, “Well, your yard-boy is an illiterate peasant, but he is a man of many talents. He speaks three languages, you know.”

Dillingham asked, “Which three is that?”

“Creole and French and English.”

“That's one up on me and Mac,” Healy said. “I have some Spanish and Mac's French is pretty good. Dill here hardly even speaks English.”

Dillingham said, “I learned a few words at the Naval Academy,” and even McAllister smiled.

Healy asked, “How many have you, Father?”

“Four, with the Latin; and a smattering of Italian.”

“I just hope you talk Martel's language,” McAllister said.

“I did once,” Scarron said. “And a priest matters to Martel's people.”

“You may not matter to that white Caco,” Healy said.

“Don't you worry about him,” McAllister said. “Captain, I want to thank you. You're laying a hell of a lot on the line for me.”

“Not for you,” Healy said. “For your lady. You just fetch her safe and sound, hear?”

“I'll do that,” McAllister said, and to the priest, “Let's move out, shall we?”

Flanagan led their mounts to the dusty ground below the veranda. “These are my own horses,” McAllister told the priest. “As sturdy as any troopers anywhere.”

“Huge brawny beasts they are,” Scarron said.

Marines stood quietly in the baked company streets. The officers and priest shook hands all around. “Good luck,” Dillingham said. One of the men echoed them, “Good luck,” and others took up the cry, then subsided.

Healy said, “God be with you.”

“An invocation,” Scarron murmured. “Yes. Trust in the Lord.”

“I trust in you,” McAllister said.

And so the two mounted and started off, side by side, a wild light in McAllister's eye, Father Scarron erect and confident in the saddle but doleful within.

8

Showers broke in mid-morning, and thickened to sheets of rain; the white Caco inverted his slung rifle, led their wagon off the trail and bedded it snugly among mahoganies. He wrapped the rifle in a spare shirt from his bedroll. Above them the rain snapped and danced on flat glossy leaves. He unhitched the mule and stripped his horse, wincing in the effort; he tethered both and offered water to Caroline. The brim of his sombrero was gently curled, and collected rain, and spilled it as he busied himself.

Caroline said, “I'm cold and wet and hungry.”

“Drink. It's rum.” He tossed her a second canteen, uncased and shiny.

She shivered. “Can we build a fire?”

He did not speak, only continued housekeeping.

The rum seared; she perked up in time to catch the saddle-cloth he flung at her. “Over your head,” he said, “like a Spanish woman.”

“A fire would help,” she said.

“There's nothing to burn.”

“Let me help,” she said. “Let me move, let me be warm.”

“Be drier under the wagon,” he said.

She drew the pistol from her waistband and waggled it.

“Mon dieu, les poules,” he said. “I want to be dry, is all. If I lean back against the off fore wheel and you lean back against the near rear wheel we can be cozy and your maidenhead will be safe for a few minutes at least and you can talk your bloody head off.”

“I'd like to kill you now,” she said. “I'd love to see you dead.”

“That's rude,” he said.

Beneath the leafy canopy rain trickled and spattered. It must be a pelting rain in the open, but they were snug here. “You go in there first and settle,” she said, “and set food and drink between us.”

“You give orders like your papa. Little lady colonel.”

“You're not human,” she said. “You speak French like a Frenchman but you can't be French because you speak English like an American and you can't be American because you speak Creole like a Haitian. You look like a Spanish bandit and you carry guns and knives and you'll do anything for money. You came here so you could be a big shot and abuse the poor Haitians, and their women too. I suppose behind their backs you call them niggers.”

“By Christ!” he whispered; he stood tall in the rain, he loomed, his blue eyes flamed. “What do you know about me? You don't know the first fucking thing about me, or Haiti either!”

The flung obscenity staggered her. She rallied: “I know you're a brute.”

“Where I come from,” he said, “I'm a nigger, and it's not the United States.”

“My God, you
are
mad.”

“Christ, you're a silly girl,” he said. “Put the pistol away and scoot under that wagon.”

Discretion was now the better part of valor; Caroline scooted.

For an hour they listened to the rain, and her anger floated between them like a mist; also a vague shame. She had not excelled in virtue. When he spoke it was sudden, and frightened her: “Going to leave the cart. You'll ride muleback.”

Muleback! For an instant she was the equestrienne, indignant; then she was grateful. Life was improving. Whatever befell them she would prefer muleback with a pistol to the bed of a cart, unarmed. “Thank you,” she said. “Not in this rain.”

“It will let up in five minutes or so,” he said. “At that time I am going in the bushes, and you go too if you need to.”

“Such gallantry,” she said. “Exquisite.”

“Shut your goddam mouth,” he said.

The noon sun shone, and to the east a pale moon was just rising; the sky was golden, but as they picked their way through the forest residual rain dripped from the trees, and tree frogs, refreshed, chorused and chimed their rhythmic thanks, a grand choir of croaks and peeps and snores. The man rode before, and Caroline admired his courage; she knew that she would not kill him, but he could not know it. Or could he? What did she know of him or Haiti?

“I suppose it really doesn't matter about the pistol,” she said.

“I want you to have it,” he said. “And keep your eyes peeled. If some sniper kills me, you'll have half a chance, and at the worst you can blow your own brains out.”

A distant tambor chattered then, and another. “There they go,” he said.

“What are they telling us?”

“Never learned,” he said. “They don't tell whole stories. They just say ‘traveler', or ‘danger', or ‘voodoo', or ‘blanc'. They learned the beat from tree frogs. You heard, after the rain?”

“Yes. It was just frogs.”

“You listen again after the next rain,” he said. “Kee. Kee. Kee. Then some others come in a little higher, ba-
dee
, ba-
dee
, ba-
dee
. Then some big old grandpapas, ka-
chungg
. Then some little ones, ko-ko-ko-ko-ko-ko. Pretty soon they're all at it together like some damn orchestra, and it
works
. They stay in rhythm, and the whole hillside makes music, and there's nothing but the golden sunlight and the green hillside and the music. Can't tell me where music came from. It came from tree frogs, that's where. African tree frogs.”

There was a note in his voice that she had not heard before: enthusiasm, a boyish pomposity. She cocked her head, curious and confused, but found no words.

Soon they rode out of the forest, and he paused. “Hold up,” he said. She halted her mule, which seemed neither stubborn nor hostile, but mindless and contented.

“We'll ride just below the crests,” he said, “as quiet as we can. That little fellow is out there somewhere, and so are plenty of others, spies and hungry outlaws and just plain hired hands, and we had best head straight for Martel.”

She nodded.

“By God,” he said, “I shut you up. No advice? No complaints?” He shocked her by smiling. She could not deceive herself: it was a beautiful smile, healthy white teeth, tanned face, dark brows: she battled a powerful impulse to smile back. “My name is Blanchard,” he added, pronouncing it in the American manner, “Louis Paul Blanchard. Pleased to meet you, I'm sure, and thanks for the bandage.”