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?”
“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.
&n
bsp; “Would you like them to stay on?”
Lafayette’s enthusiasm swelled, and so did Lafayette.
“Would you like to be houseboy 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.”
A Rendezvous in Haiti Page 11
