A Rendezvous in Haiti (14 page)

They sat upon the floor. Father Scarron found the isolation, the closed door, rather soothing. God was not mocked, of course, God was not excluded, but the privacy was a comfort.

“How did you hear?”

Scarron only shook his head. Boniface, he knew, was never one to rush a quarrel. They drank companionably for a time. Boniface offered tobacco; Scarron declined with thanks. They listened to the crowd.

“I am not one of you,” Scarron said. “You know that.”

“We never counted on you.”

“Whose rotten idea was it?” He had not expected an answer, and after a pause he went on: “Barbarous. In the name of liberty. You call yourself an idealist, I suppose.”

“I call myself a Haitian. What do you call yourself?”

“You must tell me where she is,” Father Scarron said. “Or at least where he is.”

“Someone else will tell you; not I.”

“I must see him,” Scarron said. “You must tell me.”

Boniface shrugged. “There is no ‘must' for me. The ‘must' is for you: you must choose.”

“Between what and what?”

“Between your own people and the others.”

“First I must decide which is which,” Father Scarron said. “Will you help me? How long have we been friends?”

“We've been friends for ten years and no I will not help you.” And more roughly, “You're one of
them
, you know. This whole conversation is silly.”

“Boniface!” The priest's tone was passionate, harsh. “This is a foolish young woman who is no part of Haiti's quarrels.”

“And is a blanche,” Boniface said. “Would you be here if it were some scrawny black whore from an alleyway?”

Scarron bowed his head.

“How long have you been a priest?” Boniface asked.

“Twelve years.”

“And how long have you been black? And you will really do this, for a blanche?”

“No. As usual, for something larger and indefinable. A last favor?”

Boniface sat impassive.

“Who is the white Caco? Is he really white?”

Boniface shrugged, and shook his head. “God help you. You're a good man in your way but it is the wrong way. Go to Hinche and start there. Some advice?”

“Please.”

“Wear your vestments always.”

The disguise had been melodrama, a mortification by wardrobe. In the morning he dressed properly, but for the broad straw hat, and sought McAllister, first at the hotel; then at Olofsson's, which the Marines had converted to home, infirmary, tavern; and then at the Caserne Barracks, a name he detested: “caserne” meant “barracks” and what kind of ignoramus ruled Haiti now? And how could such quibbles even enter his mind? He addressed the duty officer in Creole, then in French.

Another officer, a little fellow, said, “Jesus Christ. He wants McAllister.” This officer wore wings above his breast pocket. “Tell him McAllister is a Protestant. Ask him if he speaks English.”

“You had better let me see someone,” Father Scarron said. “It is about Caroline Barbour.”

The pilot sat surly, but the duty officer rose immediately. “Follow me, Father.”

“Yes, of course, a standing order,” Colonel Farrell said. “Any news whatever from any source whatever. Please be seated. Let me send word to McAllister.”

Again books and maps; and what could the priest learn from them today? Gibbon, of all antichrists! But a darling funny man. And these military histories; a French dictionary; histories of Haiti too, and a couple in French! One could like these people. Still, they will blame this on all of us.

The colonel returned. “He'll be along. Can you tell me? You look … perturbed.”

“Red-eyed and sore, wrestling with my God.”

Courteously the colonel waited.

“She was taken by four men. She is on her way to Martel. Two of the men were unknown to my … informant. The other was—I am sorry to have to tell you this—I am sorry to tell you this—I am sorry—I am sorry—”

Still the colonel waited.

The priest slumped. “He was a son of Fleury.”

“Fleury.” The colonel reflected. “Martel's master.”

“His backer; his patron. Martel accepts no master.”

“And where is Martel?”

“I have reason to believe that he is not far from Hinche. More than that I cannot tell you.”

“Because you know nothing more? Or … divided loyalties?”

“Divided loyalties,” Father Scarron said, “but I do not think that you and I mean the same by that.”

The colonel mulled this. “Well, never mind for now. We'd already heard it was Martel, you know. We don't even need spies; gossips volunteer. We've assembled what we have on Martel's whereabouts—Batraville's too, Savoie's too. And Fleury's son is not Fleury. Appraise Martel for me—what sort of man is he?”

“Larger than life,” Scarron said. “Strong, cunning. May I say a patriot?”

“Yes. The last refuge of a scoundrel?”

“He is no scoundrel,” Scarron said.

“Miss Barbour has probably not reached his camp. There's a chance we can talk to him first. You'll help us?”

“Anything,” Scarron said.

“Would Fleury help?”

“Never. He hates the blancs perfectly. His hatred is a work of art.”

“Who was the fourth man?”

“I fear I can say nothing of him.”

“Is he here in Port-au-Prince?”

“Nothing whatever.”

“Ah. The confessional. I understand.”

“Do you then? I do not. When a crime is to be committed against the pouvoir établi, I may speak. But when all the authority is established by white invaders …”

The colonel was sympathetic. “Shall we say ‘allies'? But I understand.”

Father Scarron did not contradict him, but wondered if anyone not a priest could really understand. And where was McAllister?

They stood by the car, outside the barracks. Wyatt was already fuming beside the driver. McAllister's duffel bag lay on the back seat.

“I'll tell it all to Captain Healy,” McAllister said. “He's a waggish man but a disciplined officer.” McAllister was a large and healthy fellow, and today he seemed a blind gray hulk.

“I understand discipline,” Scarron said.

“He's from Alabama.”

Scarron shrugged.

“So am I,” Wyatt grumbled.

“Have you flown before?”

“Never,” said the priest.

“It's dangerous,” Wyatt said. “People vomit.”

McAllister said, “Shut up, Wyatt.”

Wyatt subsided.

“It's noon now. The corporal will pick you up here about a quarter of two. We'll expect you in Hinche by about four. You can lunch here in the mess, if you'd like.”

Wyatt snorted.

“The colonel has invited me,” Scarron said. “A discussion of policy. He will tell me what the Marine Corps can and cannot do, and what I may and may not do in their name.”

McAllister made a sour face. “Yes. Rules. We've had cables from Washington, cables from Colonel Barbour. Do's and don'ts. By the book. But there is no book for this. Never mind what they say. You've got to take me to Martel.”

“The book. You remind me: I must fetch a breviary.”

“Whatever you need,” McAllister said. “We'll go along now. Thank you, Father. I thank you from the heart.” The two shook hands. McAllister climbed into the car and slammed the door; the car shuddered and rattled, and they sped away.

The colonel added little to what Scarron knew. The colonel admired independence, liked Haiti, respected its intellectuals. The problem of self-government was knotty. The United States, for example, was eighty-five years old in 1861, presumably a mature republic, and the bloodiest war in its history was its Civil War. At what point was the United States ready for self-government?

The colonel seemed pleased with his even-handed view of history. Scarron was astonished that the man could even consider such matters. The priest picked at his ham and yam, sipped without enthusiasm at a white wine. Time lagged; the sun stood still.

“You'll be safe?” the colonel asked. “You're sure?”

“One is never sure. But in the hills they long for a priest. You cannot detach McAllister?”

“None. Policy. Transcends individuals.”

“Which rather leaves it up to me.”

“We're most grateful,” the colonel said. “My government, the whole Corps. I hope we can find a way to thank you properly.”

“Miss Barbour alive and well will be my thanks.”

“Amen to that.”

“In there,” Wyatt said. “In the back.”

Father Scarron clambered aboard, stowed his little black bag between his feet, and set his hat upon it.

Wyatt was standing beside the aircraft, with a helmet and goggles extended on one flat hand. Scarron waited. Wyatt's face was a battleground.

Scarron asked, “Are you Catholic?”

Wyatt said, “No!”

Scarron said, “I shall pray for your soul.”

Wyatt said, “Haw. Thanks very much.” He glowered, tossed the equipment to the priest, and scrambled into the forward cockpit. Scarron found a seat belt and decided he had better buckle it. The engine roared, and for some seconds Scarron forgot why he was there; his heart raced, and as the plane jolted forward he prickled in excitement; as they left the ground he marveled at their power; and as they rose above the forest he knew why the gods had lived on Olympus—why his own God ruled from beyond the stars. And when he first saw a moving Haitian, a thousand feet below, he held his breath, turned to gaze into the westering sun, and shocked himself with a heresy: if man could invent the flying machine, he could also invent God. The miracle of flight was perhaps more complex than the miracle at Cana.

Caroline Barbour. He prayed for yet another miracle.

Descending, he was queasy: Wyatt took them down in a series of swings, a little left and a little right and the nose low, surely that could not be right, surely they should be level, but no, and Scarron quelled nausea; finally they touched, bounced, settled, ran. They came to a halt. Wyatt gestured rudely with a thumb: out. Father Scarron divested himself of helmet and goggles—a moment's vision, the angel Gabriel in helmet and goggles, the Annunciation—and barely reached the ground before Wyatt whirled the Jenny, taxied to the chocks, and cut the engine.

They sat in the old plantation house and examined the map as if seeking clues: Father Scarron, Healy, McAllister, Dillingham, Neubauer, Dillingham's platoon sergeant Carnahan. “There are ten thousand Haitians who know where he is,” McAllister said.

“The colonel's offered a reward,” Healy said. “Everybody in Haiti knows about that by now.”

“A reward is the best way,” Scarron told them. “I hate to say that but it's true. And if you find him?”

“Then comes the hard part. We're not authorized to make any exchanges, promises or payments. We
are
authorized to forget the whole matter if Miss Barbour is returned safe and sound.”

“It sounds so simple.”

“I know, I know,” Healy said. “Wheels within wheels and mysteries within mysteries. Things go on here that no white man can comprehend.”

“I'm riding in with you,” McAllister said. “I'll desert if I have to.”

“Good of you to give notice,” Healy said.

“First we have to find him,” Scarron said. “If I rode into the hills, they would all pass the word, and Martel would send for me.”

“Yes. Wyatt says there's been traffic in the hills, groups on the trail east of here.”

A sharp double rap: Private Clancy called, “Sir! Captain Healy, sir!”

“What is it, Clancy? Come in.”

Clancy braced and said, “It's that Lafayette, sir. He says he has a thing to tell you.”

Healy said, “Very good, Clancy. Send him in.”

Scarron asked, “Lafayette?”

“A nickname,” McAllister said. “He's the yard-boy.”

The yard-boy stepped into the room and halted; he bobbed a half-bow and said, “Mon Capitaine.”

Healy said, “What is it now, Lafayette?”

Lafayette was staring at the priest; he crossed himself and said, “Mon père!”

Scarron said, “B'jou, mon fils.”

Lafayette turned to Healy. “Moins hear more news, mon Capitaine.”

Healy said, “What is it, then?”

“Moins hear where is Martel,” the yard-boy said.

Now the Marines stared.

“Well, why don't you tell us?” Healy said.

Lafayette waited.

Healy exploded, then calmed himself. “Goddam it, Lafayette, you'll have your reward, I told you that many a time. Now out with it!”

“It say,” Lafayette began, and started again, “it say he bring his people one village, for vodun and talk about la guerre. Village is call Deux Rochers.”

“For Christ's sake,” Healy said. “Where Gunny got it. Tell us again, Mac.”

“A rough approach, a ford. Then up a wooded hill. Stream runs through it. The village is the high ground and there's no easy way up, it's all forest. Jesus, we left them cloth and seed and every damn thing.”

Father Scarron said, “You must not assume that the villagers love Martel. One day they cheer their liberators, not even sure what the word means; next day they weave spells to kill these bandits and chicken thieves.”

Healy said, “But they're all black, saving your presence, Father, and we're all white. Lafayette: what else?”

“It say,” Lafayette repeated, “white Caco have her.”

“I knew there was a renegade!” Healy said. “And a damn fine soldier the bastard is. By God, I knew it!”

Father Scarron was mystified: most of Haiti had heard rumors, yet this news amazed the Americans.

McAllister said, “A white man.”

And now Scarron wondered: was the lieutenant angry or relieved?

“Father Scarron,” Healy asked, “do you know where this Deux Rochers is?”