Cross on the Drum

by Cave, Hugh

  They talked on Dufour's pleasantly cool veranda, over sips of sugared rum. "You ought to have a mule, Father," the little man said. "It isn't good to be walking in this heat."

  "I could use one. I can't understand why Mr. Mitchell didn't have one."

  "He was too old, he said."

  "Well, I'm not too old and I did plenty of riding at Fond Marie. I'll have to get one."

  "They are expensive."

  "Are they? How expensive?"

  "In Anse Ange, seventy-five dollars." Dufour rubbed his nose. "But I could sell you one for less."

  Barry managed to conceal his surprise. "You have mules here, you mean?"

  "Two. They are the only ones on the island, except those at the plantation."

  "I'd like to look at them."

  The little magistrate had a boy bring his animals around from the back yard, and Barry was examining them when the police chief came up the road. Sergeant Edma was not much bigger than Dufour but was younger. About thirty, Barry guessed. In a much-washed khaki uniform he was entirely presentable. He murmured "Mon Père" and shook hands as though the meeting were an event.

  The mules appeared to be in excellent condition. Barry inquired the price.

  "The gray one I can let you have for sixty dollars," Dufour said after turning the problem over in his mind. "The other I do not like to sell."

  Barry glanced at Pradon Beliard, saw approval on the latter's face and said, "Have you also a saddle I can buy?"

  Dufour's boy brought one, plus a bridle and blanket. The equipment was far from new but would serve. "How much?"

  Dufour shrugged. "Thirty dollars?"

  "That's a bit steep, don't you think? Make it twenty." In St. Joseph one always bargained. It was almost an insult to accept a man's first price.

  "Twenty-five."

  "I'll tell you what. I'll give you seventy-five for everything if you'll come to church on Sunday and put a dollar in the plate. Is it a deal?"

  It was the sort of offer that could not fail to delight a St. Joseph politician. The magistrate showed all his decaying teeth in a laugh like a duck's quack. He slapped his thighs. "It's a deal."

  "Bring the animal up to the house this evening and I'll pay you. Don't forget a bill of sale, please." Barry shook hands with both men and excused himself, then thought of something else. "By the way, Sergeant, I'm hoping to see you in church too."

  "If I am not busy with police work, mon Père."

  As he walked with Pradon through the village, Barry had to smile. His second day here and he owned a mule. That was progress.

  Petit Trou sprawled prettily along the shore under wind-bent coconut palms. There was little activity, but where he found people to talk to, he stopped. He used the same formula on them all. "I'd like to see you in church on Sunday." They probably wouldn't come, but it could do no harm to invite them.

  The Cabrit, the other shore village, was a disappointment, scarcely more than a cluster of fishermen's shacks. But, Pradon explained, few of the island's four thousand inhabitants lived in the three villages. Stupid people, they preferred to isolate themselves on their little garden plots or, if fishing was their means of earning a living, in clusters of shacks along the shore.

  "What we need here on Ile du Vent is organization," Pradon said loftily, "with, of course, an intelligent leader to do the organizing."

  Barry glanced at him in surprise. Meaning you? he wondered.

  As they climbed to the plateau at three o'clock he summed up the results of his day. He had laid the groundwork for a clinic, started a model farm, asked quite a few islanders to come to church, and established relationships with two important men. Not forgetting the mule.

  A fair start. He hadn't cleaned the church, of course. He would do that tomorrow. At the edge of the mission clearing he dismissed Pradon with a word of thanks.

  DRIVEN BY CONSCIENCE, he spent the rest of the afternoon scrubbing and sweeping the church after all, then slept and had to be waked by Lucy to eat the supper of chicken stew she had prepared for him. It was a very good supper.

  An hour later little Felix Dufour delivered the gray mule.

  Dufour came into the clearing on foot, followed by his boy. The boy was leading the mule, Barry noticed, not riding it. Barry had half a mind to try the beast before handing over the money, but was too tired. The mule was sound enough, he was sure. If it had a mean disposition or a few cute tricks, as many did, he was experienced enough to deal with the situation.

  He did make certain the bill of sale was in order, and, to be doubly safe, had Lucy make her mark on it as a witness. Then, after tethering the animal at the clearing's edge, he retired to his office and wrote two letters.

  The first was to Peter Ambrose, but when he read over what he had written he tore it up, realizing he had said things about old Leander Mitchell that might be unfair. His revision was much shorter, stating simply that he was unpacked and already at work, he thought the island a beauty spot, and as an amateur doctor he had already attended his first patients. He hoped Peter would be able to spare some medicines.

  The second letter was addressed to Edith Barnett at the plantation, and he found himself thinking about her with surprising sentimentality as he put the words down. It was even something of a struggle to avoid being sentimental in what he wrote.

  She would like Ile du Vent, he told her, and went on to describe the island in rather flowery prose, becoming almost lyrical when he wrote of the wonderfully cool green garden spot at the top, with its breathtaking view of the sea and the channel. He liked the people, most of them at any rate, and had no fear of being poisoned in the pursuit of his work, despite her warnings. He was quite sure Mitchell had not been poisoned, except possibly with rum. (He could say this to Edith, knowing she would be discreet.) But there were some problems.

  "With one of these you could help me," he wrote. "I've started a model garden. These people haven't the faintest notion of what good vegetables look like and will think I've come straight from heaven if I can turn out corn, spinach, turnips, leeks, carrots, beets, etc., etc., of the sort we grew at Fond Marie. It's the same old story: they plant each season's crops with seeds from the last one, quite unaware of the need for a fresh start. I'll wager there hasn't been a packet of seeds on this island, or in Anse Ange either, within the memory of the oldest inhabitant. Would it be possible for you to send me some quickly, or, even better, bring them in person? I didn't bring nearly enough."

  The letters finished, he went to bed, resolving to replace the Christmas tablecloth between the two rooms as soon as he could obtain a piece of plain cotton or denim for the purpose. What day was market day in Terre Rouge? It didn't matter. Each of the three villages had a different day, probably. He could send Lucy. No sense fretting over it now. Better go to sleep. Tomorrow he must finish cleaning the church.

  But he could not sleep. His mind was too active.

  Strange, that he of all people should have been entrusted with the task of saving souls in a place like this. He was hardly the man for it. Or was he? They certainly weren't ready, these people, for any infusion of abstract religion; old Mitchell had found that out to his sorrow. But it might be possible to implant the Christian idea by example. After all, that was the way Christ had taught, wasn't it? By helping them with their more pressing problems, he might slowly win their friendship and confidence. Then they might accept spiritual help as well. It would take time, of course. A lot of time. But he himself needed time. He wasn't ready.

  To be inspiring, a man had to be inspired himself. To lift up, he had to have his feet planted on something solid. That would come, perhaps. Meanwhile, it couldn't be forced. He had tried to force it in theological school and only floundered deeper into doubt. He had plagued Peter Ambrose with questions, hoping some of Peter's remarkable faith would rub off on him, and it hadn't. Perhaps his work with the people of Ile du Vent would provide some answers.

  But they had to be real answers. They had to be something more sub
stantial than Peter's "It's in the Bible if you'll look for it, my boy." Otherwise he preferred to go on doubting. He was like his father in that respect. His father's determination to weigh all sides of a question had been a byword in diplomatic circles. His mother, on the other hand, had been like Peter, accepting any opinion, any belief, provided she could fortify her acceptance with the findings of "greater minds than mine." His mother had been a very placid woman, his father restless and unhappy.

  He sat up to pour a drink of water from the pitcher Lucy had left on the washstand. Yes, perhaps Ile du Vent would answer his problems. At any rate it would keep him busy, and out of honest toil might come some of the answers he sought. Thinking had produced none. He sighed, remembering the windswept ridge at the top of the island. If only he could build a clinic there . . .

  He almost dropped the pitcher. By heaven, he could build on the ridge! Why not? The lack of water was no real problem—no problem at all. It rained there often. You could tell by the way the pomme-rose grew. The right sort of roof, with gutters to direct the runoff into metal or concrete tanks—it would be simple!

  But—would the Bishop give his consent?

  6

  BARRY HAD COME TO ILE DU VENT on a Monday. On Thursday of that week Warner Lemke and his wife Alma returned to the island from Fond Marie. Theirs was a strange homecoming. They had kept up a pretense of compatability on the ride from Fond Marie to the channel, but only because Jeff Barnett and not one of his men was at the wheel of the jeep. (A necessary gesture, Jeff had felt, since his daughter Edith would be visiting the island soon and would have to be a guest of theirs.) On the launch, all pretense had been dropped completely. There was no need for it. The boy in charge of the boat did not matter.

  Now they were riding through the sloping fields of young sisal to the plantation house, on horses that had been sent down to the island beach for them. They were dismounting under the mango tree that shaded the front of the bungalow from the sun. They were climbing the veranda steps. They had absolutely nothing to say to each other.

  On the veranda Warner Lemke glanced angrily at his wife. She was attractive this morning. She was always attractive, of course—he never would have married her otherwise—but this morning she had taken special pains, it seemed, to accent her best points. She wore silver-gray slacks and a filmy white blouse that let her bra show through. She was the only woman in St. Joseph who ever wore slacks. She only laughed when the peasant women gawked at her in astonishment and the men smiled secret smiles.

  Why had she dressed so alluringly today? Why had she fussed with her hair and spent so much time with make-up? Was it to torment him, the way she had tormented him by deliberately paying attention to other men at the farewell party for dear Mr. Clinton, after discovering his secret? He turned away and went inside, to avoid looking at her.

  The house was a square bungalow with a large front room that was used for an office and sitting room and, behind that, off a short hall, two bedrooms and a bathroom. It ought to be larger, but the plantation on the island had been in existence less than two years. It had returned nothing yet on the investment. No sisal had been cut. His job was to watch the stuff grow and see that the natives allowed it to grow. He was a watchman, nothing more; no matter how he tried to be more, he was simply a watchman. Anybody could do the job as well.

  Two bedrooms, he thought, and from now on both of them would be used. Alma had made that clear at Couronne last night.

  He recalled their conversation. She had left him on the veranda having a nightcap with Jeff and Marian after a session of bridge, and when he entered their room half an hour later she was in bed, looking at a magazine. She had watched him undress. When his clothes were off and he was groping in the wardrobe for his pajamas, she had said, "There's something you ought to know. When we return to the island I'm going to use the guest room."

  It was the first time she had brought up the subject of his infidelity since the night of the farewell party. He was startled, because after throwing it up to him that night—"bombarding" him with it was the word—she had gone into a long sulk. She was probably bringing it up again now because they would be on their way back to Ile du Vent in the morning.

  He had put his pajamas on before turning to face her, and then said in a voice perfectly under control, "Are you going to tell me who told you?"

  "No, I'm not."

  "It isn't hard for me to guess, you know."

  "Guess, then."

  "I already have. I already know."

  "Do you?" she said. "Good. We won't have to discuss it then."

  He took a step toward her. Damn her, didn't she know what happened inside him when he saw her in a nightgown? She knew, all right. When they were first married she'd made good use of the knowledge, too. He'd always known when she wanted new clothes or a trip to New Orleans or new furniture for the house. She didn't come out with it as most women would. She made sure first he was in the right mood, meaning a mood to give her anything she desired in return for her love-making.

  She'd had a thousand little tricks. She would call him into the bedroom and let him surprise her with no clothes on, or almost none, and then say, "Darling, I didn't mean you to jump right up. I meant when you'd finished reading your paper." She'd ask for the loan of his razor after her bath and then call out, "I'm making a mess of this, dear. I wish you'd show me how to use it."

  A thousand tricks. But when she didn't want him in that mood, it was a different story. He was oversexed. He was unnatural. He was a beast. What he needed was a machine, not a wife. That was how it had been in the beginning, when they had lived in Louisiana and he had worked for the sugar company there. That was still how it was when they had first come to St. Joseph after three years of marriage.

  On Ile du Vent she had changed. There was nothing on the island she wanted. No shops with pretty clothes in them. No furniture stores. No neighbors' homes with bright new gadgets that she just had to duplicate. So there'd been no reason for her to play up to him. He was a beast all the time. He was someone to avoid.

  But he always wanted her. Damn it, even then as she lay in bed with the magazine, her eyes mocking him, he had wanted her.

  "This needn't be the end of the world, you know," he had said.

  "Needn't it?"

  "Other men make mistakes."

  "Perhaps they do. But they're a little less casual about it, I hope. And a little more selective."

  "Oh, for God's sake, Alma. Men and women are different. You ought to know that. You'd been giving me a hard time and this girl was there waiting and—"

  "Oh, go to bed," she said, turning her back on him.

  He stood for a moment undecided. If he got into bed with her, what would she do? No, he couldn't do that. It was too soon, much too soon. He'd have to wait. He retreated to his own bed, still gazing at her. He got into bed and put out the lamp on the table between them. He lay there in the dark looking up at the ceiling.

  He could win her back. As time passed, this unpleasantness would recede in her mind and become less important. He shook his head, blowing a long breath out between tight lips. He was still dazed by what had happened.

  It had happened because the girl in question, an island girl named Anita Something-or-other—he didn't even know her last name—had left Ile du Vent and gone to the mainland; and he hadn't known about it because he hadn't been seeing her lately. He certainly hadn't expected to find her working at the Fond Marie mission when he went there to have Peter Ambrose look at an infected finger.

  And now Alma knew. She knew and would never forgive him, or said she wouldn't. But of course she would, eventually. She was no saint herself, if there was any truth to the tales he'd heard when he first began dating her. There'd been other men before him. Any girl who worked in a textile mill and shared an apartment with another girl instead of living at home with her folks . . .

  He looked across at her. "Alma, are you awake?"

  "I don't want to talk."

  "W
hat I have to say won't take long."

  "It won't take any time at all, because there's no point in your saying it." Her voice was deliberate, each syllable distinctly enunciated. "So you listen to me instead. If you have any ideas of a reconciliation, forget them. There isn't going to be one—not this time. Touch me and I'll scream until every soul in this house comes running to find out what's wrong, and when I've got an audience I'll tell them. Do I make myself clear?"

  Very clear, he thought, feeling his lips flatten against his teeth. He didn't answer her. She was capable of doing exactly what she said.

  But they wouldn't be here after tonight. Tomorrow they would be returning to the island.

  HE WALKED THROUGH THE HOUSE to make sure nothing had been disturbed during their absence. He spoke to Alberse, the houseboy, about putting his things away when the beach boys brought them up. It was not up to him to go out to the cook house and tell Renee, the cook, what to prepare for lunch; that was Alma's job. He waited for her to do it. Then he went out.

  He walked toward the western tip of the island, through the plantation. It was only just after eleven o'clock—they had left Couronne early—but the day was already hot. Every day was hot in this miserable place. He followed a footpath through a sea of young sisal plants that stretched from just above the shore to halfway up the ridge. Small green lizards sat on the rubbery leaves and cocked their heads to watch him pass.

  He looked about, admiring his handiwork. The sisal was well planted and well looked after; he was proud of it. It was a bloody shame, of course, to use the best soil on the island for a crop that would do nearly as well in poor stuff. Especially when the islanders were half starved. But that was Couronne's business, not his. Some big-shot politician in the capital had heard that Couronne wanted to expand, and had offered them the place here at a price they couldn't afford to turn down. That was how it went in St. Joseph. No matter how desperately the peasants needed something, there was always a big shot in a position to put his own needs above theirs. A month after the deal had gone through, this one had been riding around the capital in a new Cadillac with gold-plated horns mounted on its fenders. It was a good thing there were no roads on Ile du Vent to tempt him to bring it here. The people would probably throw every loose stone on the island at it.