Conquering Kilmarni

by Cave, Hugh

  Peter realized he didn't know much about the police in Jamaica. There was a two-story building in Rainy Ridge with a station on the ground floor and a courthouse above it. In charge of the station was a Corporal Buckley, and there seemed to be three or four men under him. Peter saw the corporal on horseback sometimes—he certainly could ride that horse of his—and sometimes saw him riding around with one of his men in a police Land-Rover, which was a four-wheel-drive English vehicle like an American Jeep.

  Suddenly aware of what the housekeeper was really saying, Peter looked at her in alarm. "Will the police be coming here, Miss Lorrie?"

  "Most likely them will, Peter. Me do wish you could find Zackie and warn him, because maybe him is only hiding from him daddy and don't yet know the police are after him."

  Wondering if he should wake his father, Peter went upstairs. Mr. Devon was already up and taking a shower, he discovered to his relief. That was a good sign, for Kilmarnie's hot water was pretty cold at this hour. There hadn't been any hot water at all until Mr. Devon had rigged up a solar-heating system on the roof. But the plantation water came from just under Blue Mountain Peak, the highest point on the island, and the sun had to be real high and hot to warm it.

  Showered and dressed, Mr. Devon looked like a new man when he came striding into the living room at last. He really was a handsome man, Peter realized. Mom had always insisted he was, and she'd been right, even though she was undoubtedly prejudiced.

  Hoping his father would know some way to help, Peter told him about the trouble Zackie was in.

  "Stealing?" Mr. Devon said. "Well, it shouldn't surprise us, I suppose. He wants money to find his mother, you said."

  "But why would he steal it, Dad? He has that garden up in the bush."

  "Yes, he has that. But he's only a boy and probably impatient. Put yourself in his shoes, son." Mr. Devon was frowning now. "This boy wants to get out of here, away from his worthless father, and find his mother in Kingston. Once he finds her, he won't come back here. So if he can hurry things up by stealing . . ."

  "Well, I hope the police don't find him!" Peter said defiantly.

  "You don't have any idea where he might be?" Peter shook his head.

  "Have you spoken to Mr. Campbell?"

  "Uh-uh. Why would I do that, Dad?"

  "Zackie is on the Kilmarnie payroll now, and if he doesn't know the police are looking for him, he's probably working. Campbell should be able to tell you where."

  That was true, Peter realized. If Zackie had finished the stretch of track the day before—and he probably had, no matter how long it took him—he would have checked back with the headman and asked for another piece of work.

  "Another thing," Mr. Devon said. "Today's payday. He'll be coming with the others at four o'clock for his pay." He rubbed the jaw he had just shaved. "Maybe you ought to warn him not to come. Corporal Buckley might have heard he's working for us and plan on being here."

  "Did the women finish planting field six, Dad?"

  "No, not yet."

  "Mr. Campbell should be there, then. Is it okay if I go talk to him?"

  "Go ahead, if you want to."

  Peter hurried up to field six and found the headman supervising the planting again. He was leaning against a tree and writing in a notebook. He seemed surprised when Peter asked him where Zackie was working.

  "I don't know." He shook his head. "I thought he'd surely finish that piece of track yesterday and ask me what to do today. But I haven't seen him. Maybe he's sick."

  Peter didn't think Zackie was sick. It seemed more likely that he knew Corporal Buckley was looking for him and had gone into hiding. Peter thought he knew where the boy might be hiding, too. It was a long way, though, and if he went there without saying where he was going, his father might worry.

  Peter went back to the house and found his father on the veranda, gazing down at the roofs of Mango Gap. "Mr. Campbell doesn't know where Zackie is, Dad," he reported. "But I think I know. Is it okay if I go up to his garden?"

  "That's a long hike," Mr. Devon said. "Are you sure you—"

  "If I don't, he may come here at four o'clock, like you said, and get caught. You'd do the same for any friend of yours, Dad."

  Mr. Devon was frowning now. He still didn't want any part of Zackie's problems, Peter guessed. But he said at last, with a kind of sigh, "Well, all right, I suppose. But be careful, Peter."

  On the way up to the secret garden Peter noticed that Zackie had finished the piece of work he'd been given. But when he arrived at the garden itself more than an hour after leaving the house, there was no sign of the Jamaican boy, or any sign that he had been there and gone. The place was exactly the way the two of them had left it after eating lunch there the day before.

  For a minute Peter was tempted to dig up the money box to see if Zackie had taken the money. But he wasn't sure he ought to do that, and, besides, the floor didn't look as if it had been disturbed.

  Should he leave a message in case his friend did come here? He would try, he decided. He thought for a while about what he ought to say and then in big letters, with a stick, he scratched some words in the reddish earth of the hut's floor.

  "Zackie, Do not come for your pay. Come tonight after dark and stay with me. Peter."

  That might help, he thought as he started back down the mountain. Even though he was in hiding, Zackie probably would come to work in the garden. He wouldn't waste the day.

  EIGHT

  On the once-a-week paydays, when the workers came for their money, Mr. Devon used the garage for an office. It was more convenient than using a room in the house, and still it provided the necessary shelter in case of rain.

  It was his custom to set up a table there about three o'clock, at which time Mr. Campbell would come and sit with him to go over the weekly work sheets. Mr. Campbell would read off the amount of money due each worker, and after putting that amount in an envelope, Mr. Devon would write the worker's name on the envelope.

  With planting going on, there would be more than the usual number of people coming for their money this time, and Mr. Devon had suggested that Peter might help by writing the names on the envelopes. So the three of them—Mr. Devon, Mr. Campbell, and Peter—were seated at the table, getting ready for the arrival of the workers, when the police Land-Rover came down the driveway and stopped.

  Out of it stepped a tall man in his thirties, with red stripes on his dark blue pants. Like every other policeman Peter had seen in Jamaica, he looked like an athlete. That, Dad said, was probably because of the rigorous training they all had to go through at Fort Charles. To be a policeman one had to have a certain amount of schooling, too, and a clean record.

  The man had parked the Land-Rover where the garage would hide it from anyone coming down the driveway. Now he approached the table and stood stiffly at attention, as if he were about to salute. Mr. Devon stopped putting money into envelopes and looked up at him.

  "Good afternoon, Corporal. What can I do for you?"

  "I am looking for someone, Mr. Devon."

  Peter felt himself start to shake, but only the slightest of frowns appeared on Mr. Devon's face. And Dad's voice betrayed nothing at all as he said, "Looking for whom, Corporal?"

  "Someone who works for you. The boy named Zackie Leonard."

  "Zackie? May I ask why?"

  "To question him. There has been some stealing going on."

  Mr. Campbell, too, had stopped working on the paybill now, and both men simply sat there, calmly gazing up at the tall policeman. Mr. Campbell was taking his cue from Dad, Peter realized. Stay calm. Look normally curious but not anxious.

  "Are you saying Zackie has been stealing, Corporal?" Mr. Devon asked quietly.

  "Well, sir, he's been reported for stealing before."

  "I see. But you have nothing tangible to go on."

  Corporal Buckley moved his shoulders in a shrug.

  "Very well," Mr. Devon said. "If all you want to do is talk to him, I have no objection
. But if your plans include more than that, I'm entitled to see some sort of warrant or court order, am I not?"

  The corporal's face changed. "What, sir?"

  "I'm not too familiar with the rules here," Mr. Devon said mildly. "But I can't believe it's proper to drag a person off to jail simply because you think he might be the thief you're looking for."

  The corporal did not look pleased. But before he could speak in anger, if that was what he meant to do, Mr. Campbell leaned across the table and motioned to catch his attention.

  "Look, Corpie," Mr. Campbell said. "What Mr. Devon is afraid of is you making a whole lot of trouble with so many workers here. It would cause a big commotion, if you see what I mean. Why don't you just stand back over there, sort of out of the way, and see if young Leonard actually does come for his money. That way all the other workers won't be wondering what's going on."

  The corporal looked around, as if trying to decide where to position himself.

  "Over there by the veranda steps would be a good place," Mr. Campbell said.

  The corporal turned and walked to the foot of the steps. He was still standing there straight as a flagpole when Mr. Devon and Mr. Campbell and Peter finished getting the pay envelopes ready, and was still there, though not quite so much at attention, when four o'clock came and the workers began to arrive.

  Some came in groups, others alone. One at a time they stepped up to the table for their envelopes, then moved away to take out the money to count it.

  Before long Zackie Leonard came walking down the driveway, Mongoose at his heels.

  At the sight of them, Peter thought his heart would stop beating. It was obvious Zackie did not know Corporal Buckley was standing by the veranda steps. Evidently he hadn't even considered the possibility that a policeman might be waiting for him. As he hurried to the table, with Mongoose bouncing along after him, he waved to Peter and said, "Hi!" Then when he stepped into the line, he had his back to the yard and did not see Corporal Buckley coming up behind him.

  There had been a hum of voices in the yard, as there always was when the workers assembled for their pay. It stopped dead now, and the policeman took his last few steps in a kind of frightening silence.

  Suddenly Zackie must have sensed he was the reason for that silence. A look of fear touched his face, and he spun around to see what was happening.

  The corporal's right hand closed on his arm. Mongoose voiced a shrill yelp of protest and dashed forward to grab a red-striped trouser leg in his teeth. Zackie all but twisted himself into a knot in his struggle to escape, but it was no use. The corporal simply stood there and held him. Trying to help him, Mongoose tugged wildly at the man's pant leg. At the table, Peter leaned forward, almost not breathing as he waited to see what the policeman would do next.

  What he did was a surprise, in a way. Still holding on to Zackie, he looked down at the dog, gave the captured leg a shake, and said almost mildly, "Hey! You stop that now!" Then when Mongoose ignored him, he didn't kick the dog, as Peter thought he might, but only reached down with his free hand, picked Mongoose up by the scruff of the neck, and held him off the ground until he let go. When he was dropped, Mongoose backed away a yard or so and sat there looking up at the corporal, as if puzzled by such nonviolent behavior.

  Then the corporal turned his attention to the boy and did what he had told Peter's father he would do. He asked questions. "Zackie," he said, "there has been a lot of thieving going on around here in the past few days. Are you the one doing it?"

  Zackie stopped staring at Mongoose and shifted his gaze to the corporal. "No!" he answered loudly.

  "Why should I believe you when you say that?" the policeman demanded. "Tell me why, please. You were caught stealing in Mr. Lee's shop not long ago."

  "That different! Me daddy, him sick with a bad headache and did want some aspirin, and me didn't have nuh money fe buy it!" Zackie meant, Peter supposed, that he hadn't had any money in his pockets, because even then he must have had some hidden in his secret garden. "Anyway, me never did steal the aspirin," Zackie protested loudly. "Mr. Lee did run me out of him shop before me could take it."

  The corporal continued to hold him, while everyone present, including Mongoose, watched and waited. "Zackie, I went to your house last night to talk to you, and you weren't there. Where were you?" he demanded.

  Zackie hesitated for a few seconds while returning the man's stare. Then he said defiantly, "Me not saying where in front of all these people, Corpie. Someone could tell me daddy."

  "You mean your father doesn't know where you were? What's going on here, anyway? Are you hiding from him?"

  Zackie nodded reluctantly.

  "Why?" the policeman wanted to know.

  Mr. Devon answered that from the table. "Because this boy shot a wild pig on my property, Corporal, and his father wanted it."

  The tall policeman turned his head. "I thought you didn't allow shooting on this property, Mr. Devon."

  "I don't. But that's a matter for the boy and me to settle."

  "And his father wanted the pig? To sell, you mean?"

  "To sell, yes. So he could buy more rum to stay drunk on, it would seem. And I believe there are some other things you ought to know before you accuse this boy of stealing," Mr. Devon added quietly. "So why don't you and I have a little talk at the house, Corporal, as soon as I'm finished with the paybill here?"

  "Well . . ."

  "You owe Zackie that, wouldn't you say?"

  The corporal thought about it, then turned to Zackie. "All right, boy," he said. "But if you are the one who's been doing the thieving around here, you'll have me to deal with in the end, and you'll wish you'd told the truth, I'm warning you." His hand fell away from Zackie's arm, letting the boy step back.

  Peter half expected Zackie to turn and run then, before Corporal Buckley could change his mind. But instead of running, the boy stood motionless for a few seconds, gazing up at the tall man's face, then turned slowly to direct his gaze at the table.

  "Mr. Devon," he said, "me thank you, suh." Then, looking down at the ground, he walked slowly across the yard and up the driveway, Mongoose beside him, while everyone in the yard watched.

  Peter first wanted to leap up and run after them, then to call out to Zackie to wait. But he felt that Zackie would not like it. So he simply sat there with his father and Mr. Campbell until the boy was out of sight.

  The unreal silence ended then, and the murmuring began again, swelling to a peak as the workers talked excitedly about what had happened. Mr. Devon gathered up the paybill books and motioned Corporal Buckley to follow him to the house.

  Peter waited for the yard to clear before he left the garage. Climbing the veranda steps, he hesitated at the top. The big double doors were open at that hour to catch the warmth and brightness of the late-afternoon sun, and he saw his father and the policeman seated in the living room. They stopped talking and looked at him as he approached the threshold.

  "Will it be all right if I come in?" he said.

  The sudden frown on the corporal's face probably meant no, but Mr. Devon was the one who answered. "I think you should," he said with a nod. "Come and sit down, please."

  What interested Peter for the next hour or so was not so much what his father and Corporal Buckley said. It was the slow but steady change of expression on his dad's face while they were talking.

  Mr. Devon had not willingly become involved with Zackie Leonard's troubles. Peter knew that. Probably he was still fighting it. But the man talking to Corporal Buckley in the Kilmarnie living room was not quite the same Walter Devon who had come home full of despair and loneliness the day after visiting the cemetery where Mom and Mark were buried. It might be against his will that he was changing, but a change was taking place.

  Mr. Devon told the corporal about Zackie and the pig, filling in some details of what had happened. He told how Zackie was afraid of his father, yet felt he had a duty to look after the man whenever he could.

  The corpor
al talked mostly about the beginnings of Zackie's troubles. "Before I came to Rainy Ridge I was stationed in Seaforth," he said, "and I knew Merrick Leonard when he lived there with Zackie's mother. Her name is Elaine Grant."

  "You knew the boy's mother, Corporal?"

  The tall man nodded. "I knew her. She is a good woman, younger than Leonard. When I was her friend, she was keeping house for a lady on a sugar plantation, and it was like going to school again. I mean, the lady taught her to read and write better, and to speak good English. But then Elaine took up with Merrick Leonard—he worked on the plantation—and went to live with him, and had Zackie."

  "And then realized Leonard was no good, and left him?"

  "And went to Kingston to find work, leaving the baby with her own mother. I'm sure she had no idea what would happen when she did that, Mr. Devon."

  "Do you know where she is now?" Mr. Devon asked.

  Peter had been trying to do two things at once: listen to what his father and Corporal Buckley were saying, and think about Zackie. Rain had begun to fall again and he was remembering how the Jamaican boy had walked up the driveway with his head down, as if he were walking out of their lives forever. With the rain pounding the roof, he wondered where Zackie was sleeping now. It could be cold in the Blue Mountains on a rainy night.

  Zackie wouldn't be seeking shelter at Miss Lorrie's house; it wasn't safe for him there. Maybe he would walk up to his garden. If he did that, he would find the note.

  But would he want to walk all that way in a rain so hard it would soak him to the skin? There were small fertilizer shelters scattered through the coffee fields. He might decide to bed down in one of those.

  Mr. Devon's question snapped Peter out of his anxious reverie. Did the corporal know where Zackie's mother was? Alert again, Peter stared at the tall man and waited for the answer.

  "Yes, Mr. Devon, I do."

  "You do?"

  Corporal Buckley nodded. "As it happens, I have a sister who lives near the Constant Spring market in Kingston. Elaine is now a higgler there, she tells me." He hesitated, as if not sure he ought to say any more. Then he added very quietly, "I've been thinking I might go there and look for her, Mr. Devon."