Authors: Stephen Becker

A Rendezvous in Haiti (22 page)

“Bobby,” she said, “I'm going to cry now. I'm not pretty when I cry.”

“I don't want a pretty woman,” he said. “They always ask for jewelry. I want a good cryer. Come here.”

They had not ridden for an hour in the morning when they saw dust, and a small column that broke into a gallop. The breeze had held, and the three jogged along in comfort, sun at their backs, and the column raced toward them. It proved to be Dillingham with a squad, hooting and hollering and raising a cheer when they were sure it was a woman.

Dillingham almost skidded to a halt. Flanagan circled the group, uttering war whoops and urging his horse to prance and rear, against all regulation. Dillingham's eyes were shining: “Miss Barbour! Miss Barbour, respects from the whole camp. Macâwe heard! Never saw such a happy mob of leatherheads! Father Scarron: thank you, Father. We all thank you.”

McAllister said, “You heard? How'd you hear?”

“Lafayette,” Dillingham said. “How else?” The mounted men had surrounded them, and were grinning and touching their hats to Caroline. Dillingham went on: “They're both dead?”

“The white Caco for sure. Martel with a bullet in the belly.”

The squad raised a wild, shrill cheer, and the men shouted praise. But McAllister was not laughing, and Caroline and Father Scarron had not spoken. The cheering died, the grins faded, respectful solemnity prevailed.

Dillingham asked, “You all right, Mac?”

“I'm fine. Just aged a bit.”

“Then it wasn't easy.”

“We're all tired,” McAllister said.

“Sure you are,” Dillingham said. “Do you need food? Drink?”

McAllister said, “We'll wait.”

“Flanagan! Over here!” And to Caroline: “Do you need a doctor, Miss?”

“No, thank you, Lieutenant.”

“Flanaganâback to camp and report! All shipshape, no doctor. Flank speed, man! Captain Healy give you a cigar!”

Flanagan yelped again and cantered off.

“Well, by God, Mac, by God, Mac, by God.”

As the three rode among their escort Caroline said sadly, “They're like schoolboys.”

McAllister said, “No, they're men, and some of them will die badly and they all know that. Beware pride, Miss.”

They entered the camp at Hinche to a festival welcome: a couple of hundred Marines cheering their lungs out, and volley after volley of blanks from a squad of riflemen, and Healy on the veranda waving, and Lafayette darting out to toss a flower amid roars from the ranks. The Marines stood before their tents in ironed khakis, and the company streets were like ruled lines, and had been policed: not a scrap of paper, not a cigarette butt. Blanchard imagined the morning's work, the men darning, mending, blacking, oiling, spitting and polishing boots and buckles; he imagined the inspection. Their campaign hats sat square and flat-brimmed; no cowboys today. Captain Healy shouted, “Hats off!” and off they came, and the men waved them and shouted.

Caroline said, “No band.”

“Stop that,” McAllister said. “They care.”

Scarron said, “That's the hell of it. They do care.”

They rode to the veranda and dismounted to more cheers. Captain Healy marched down the steps and said, “Miss Barbour, I hope you're as happy as I am. Can't remember a day like this. Healy, Miss, captain, at your service.”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, thank you, Captain Healy, of course I'm happy. I'm so grateful.”

“Well, it was all McAllister here. No doing anything with these romantic young fellows. Miss, I'm making jokes because I don't know how to say how glad I am. I trust you're well.”

“Yes. I'm well.”

Dillingham stood beaming beside his captain.

“And Father Scarron: the Corps owes you debt. You can do me one more favor and say grace at dinner tonight. Colonel probably fly up this afternoon. I'm giving the men all sorts of leave and privileges. Cancelled all punishment, by golly. It is a holiday and an occasion for thanksgiving.”

“Delighted,” said Father Scarron.

“Come up on the veranda now and let the men have a look at you. Here you go, Miss Barbour.”

They flowed up the steps in a body, and the cheering resumed. Healy asked, “Mac, was he American?”

McAllister said, “No sir.”

“By God, I'm glad of that. There you go, Miss Barbour. Safe and sound now, and among friends, and your father will hear the news at sea. Now then: line up along the rail.” Healy waved to his overjoyed troops, who roared back at him and shattered the heavens with rebel yells. “Speak up, Miss Caroline. Got to talk pretty or I'll have a mutiny on my hands.” He raised those hands for silence.

Caroline glanced wildly at McAllister, who showed amusement. “You've been through worse. And you look sweet wearing a pistol.”

“Oh dear God,” she muttered. She stood taller, between McAllister and Scarron, and called out, “Men!”

They cheered again, whistled, yipped.

Caroline laid a hand on the ouanga bag. All these men in khaki. Blanchard's sombrero, and that one lovely smileâwhere was his sombrero? Bobbing downstream. She drew a long breath, and heard herself tell these men that she now knew a bit of what they faced, and was proud to be the daughter of a Marine.

Pandemonium. At the edge of camp the Haitian vendors shouted and danced.

Healy called for silence. In time he had it. “You men! This is Father Jean-Baptiste Scarron and without him it would not have happened. Let's hear some thanks!”

Lesser pandemonium; no ill will; one cry of “Up the Pope!”

Scarron waved modestly, a blessing, two fingers.

Caroline said, “I suppose they're buried by now.”

Scarron said, “No. The villagers will burn them tonight, side by side, on a great pyre, and there will be chanting, and keening.”

Caroline said, “God keep them. I'm still â¦ out there. I can't believe it's over.”

“It's over,” McAllister said. “You're back from Haiti.”

Scarron said, “It's not over for me. I'm not back from Haiti.”

Captain Healy burst among them with a monstrous great grin, and waved a cigar; he flung an arm across McAllister's shoulders and shouted over the cheering, “By God, Mac! There's a medal in this for youâbound to be!”

About the Author

Stephen Becker (1927â1999) was an American author, translator, and teacher whose published works include eleven novels and the English translations of Elie Wiesel's
The Town Behind the Wall
and AndrÃ© Malraux's
The Conquerors
. He was born in Mount Vernon, New York, and after serving in World War II, he graduated from Harvard University and studied in Peking and Paris, where he was friends with the novelist Richard Wright and learned French in part by reading detective novels. The recipient of a Guggenheim Fellowship and a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts, Becker taught at numerous schools throughout the United States, including the University of Iowa, Bennington College, and the University of Central Florida in Orlando. His best-known works include
A Covenant with Death
(1965), which was adapted into a Warner Brothers film starring Gene Hackman and George Maharis;
When the War Is Over
(1969), a Civil War novel based on the true story of a teenage Confederate soldier executed more than a month after Lee's surrender; and the Far East trilogy of literary adventure novels:
The Chinese Bandit
(1975),
The Last Mandarin
(1979), and
The Blue-Eyed Shan
(1982).

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Kat JK Lee

ISBN: 978-1-5040-2693-2

This edition published in 2016 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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