Cross on the Drum

by Cave, Hugh

  "Do you have proof?"

  "Depends on what you consider proof. He's working for Lemke, of that I'm positive. Mrs. Lemke says he sees her husband every day, and why should he do that unless he's handing in a progress report, so to speak? It's Lemke who's after me, of course. I know why but can't tell you. Pradon is simply his hatchet man."

  "You think it was Pradon who started that story about Toto's being dead?"

  "I think so, yes. I think he also put Dufour up to selling me the mule. Not that Dufour wouldn't have sold me the animal anyway, if he'd thought of it."

  "It was Pradon who burned the church?"

  Barry reached into his pocket and took out the empty cigarette package he had been carrying around for days. "I told you about the passageway between the grotto and Catus' hounfor. The day I walked through it with Micheline I found this."

  "American cigarettes!" St. Juste exclaimed.

  "Whoever burned the church that night probably used that passageway. I can't think of a soul on the island other than Pradon who might smoke American cigarettes. They're not sold here or in Anse Ange. They are sold at the company store in Fond Marie."

  St. Juste moved his head slowly up and down. "And he's just the sort to have brought some along when he came here, to show the peasants what a big shot he is." He frowned, handing the package back. "Do you suppose he put Micheline up to accusing you of—"

  "No. She herself wanted to hurt me."

  "Is he the one who spread the story that Catus let that little girl die? That you'd said so?"

  It was Barry's turn to shake his head in bewilderment. "That puzzles me; it really does. Catus did let the child die. She only had malaria; she could have been saved. I told him about it—not accusing him, mind you, but explaining, instructing if you like, in the hope he would co-operate a little better in the future." Barry glanced at Lucy, saw that she was still drinking in every word, and decided it no longer mattered. She was Pradon Beliard's aunt, true, but she had no particular feeling for Pradon. She certainly wouldn't run to him with any tales. "We talked in Catus' house, just the two of us," he went on. "The door was shut. Unless someone was listening outside, I don't see how we could have been overheard. The only other person who knew the truth about the child's death was Mrs. Lemke. I'm positive she didn't discuss it with anyone."

  "Someone must have heard you."

  "Someone must have."

  "Micheline lives in the house next door."

  "Yes."

  "And, as you say, she wanted to hurt you at that time. If she wanted badly enough to hurt you, she wouldn't care what she did to her brother."

  "I prefer to think Pradon is the one responsible, though how he could have known about it I don't know. Getting a rumor started must require a certain sinister skill. He's proved himself an expert."

  "And you're convinced that he's behind this fantastic attempt to get the church away from you, Mr. Clinton?"

  "You would be too if you'd seen Constant's face when I mentioned his name. Yes, I'm certain. The scheme may have originated with Lemke—it very probably did—but the one who talked Constant into it was Pradon."

  "You need a lawyer yourself, Mr. Clinton," St. Juste grumbled. "That Beliard ought to be behind bars."

  Barry's smile was a tired one. "What I've told you isn't evidence. It's only what I think."

  "What you know."

  "But I can't prove it."

  Lucy brought sliced cachimans for dessert. Barry noticed that neither he nor St. Juste had a complete fruit and recalled that on entering the dining room he had seen the little dog industriously chewing on some black seeds. He smiled, glad to know that she intended feeding the animal. Most of the peasants left their poor half-starved pets to shift for themselves, considering it practically a major crime to give them food a human might eat.

  She said, leaning over him, "Mon Père."

  "Yes, Lucy?"

  "If this Antoine Constant takes the church away from you, what will he do with it?"

  He was startled by the quaver in her voice and turned his head to look up at her. Her whole face was trembling. A film of moisture veiled her eyes.

  "Why, I don't know, Lucy. Turn it into a house, I suppose, and live there."

  "Can he do that?"

  "If he owns it he can."

  "But he doesn't own it! A church belongs to God!"

  "Yes, a church belongs to God. But if Constant can prove he has a prior claim, he can do what he likes with it."

  THE HOURS OF WAITING CREPT BY. In the afternoon Barry was surprised to see his housekeeper, attired in her best white dress, go across the red-earth clearing to the old church and disappear inside. Puzzled, he went as far as the door to see what she was up to. She was kneeling at the rail, gazing at the cross on the plain wooden table that now served as an altar.

  Strange. She was a faithful church-goer on Sundays, of course, but he had never thought of her as being especially religious. She had never discussed matters of faith with him. Had the conversation at lunch disturbed her?

  He did not intrude. If she wished to pray to the God old Mitchell had taught her to believe in, that was her affair. It was good to know there was one person on the island who did believe, and cared enough to pray. He returned quietly to the rectory. It was almost an hour later when Lucy came out of the church and went back to her kitchen.

  All morning the drums had throbbed. The sound continued through the heat of the afternoon and into the evening. After the evening meal St. Juste walked up to the village.

  "Waiting," he said on his return. "That's all they're doing: waiting. I'd say there were fifty or so at the tonnelle, Mr. Clinton, most of them just standing around watching the drummers and dancers. The rest are in their own yards, waiting."

  The drums were beginning to make Barry jumpy. "How long can this sort of thing go on?" he asked.

  "Well, there are vodun affairs that last a week, I'm told."

  A week? If it went on for a week, Barry told himself, he would be starting at every snap of a twig or rustle of a leaf. Not going out of his mind—he still put no stock in such nonsense—but caught like a fish in the net of his own nerves. The drums did something to you. The waiting was worse. Should he go up to the village and try to bring matters to a head? Would it force a showdown if he did? He asked St. Juste's opinion.

  The Couronne man said soberly, "Don't go, Mr. Clinton. That would be a very foolish thing to do."

  "What do you think might happen?"

  "There's just no telling. These drums aren't bothering you much. I've been watching you and I can see it. But Negroes react differently. I'm one and I know. You've seen what happens at a service. I suspect the drums have a good deal more to do with it than all that reciting of prayers and what not. There's something in the sound of the drums that works on a Negro's blood and nervous system, like a drug, and makes him do things a white man would never do. I don't think a white man could ever be possessed, for instance, though I've heard of some who thought they were."

  "You don't think I could be possessed?"

  "You? No, Mr. Clinton." St. Juste smiled. "Why?"

  "You're too questioning. Even if you wanted to be, and tried to be, you'd be searching your own feelings too much. To be possessed a man has to let himself go. I'm not saying I think all possessions are a fake, mind you. Only that a man can't get into the proper mood while full of doubts and trying to analyze himself."

  They were talking under the campy the tree. The sound of the drums rolled over them in the darkness.

  "Have you ever been possessed, Clement?" Barry asked.

  "No, Mr. Clinton."

  "You have been to vodun ceremonies, of course."

  "Oh yes, I've been to ceremonies. I used to go often. It's a queer business. A lot of it's pure superstitious nonsense, any sensible man knows that, but at the same time some of it's pretty mysterious. At least it is to me."

  "I'm sure it would be to anyone. There are mysteries in Christianity too."


  "Vodun's different, though. In Christianity your mysteries all happened long ago. You only have a record of them. In vodun they're likely to happen in front of your eyes."

  An interesting point, Barry thought, though perhaps open to debate. What about the innumerable miracles reported by Christians since Bible days? The Catholic shrines where the mysterious was thought to occur every day? The thousands of people who testified to having received miraculous answers to their prayers?

  He would have liked to probe the subject more deeply but a glance at St. Juste silenced him. The man was not as calm as a stranger might have thought him. His face twitched. He was nervously scratching a wrist. A battle was going on inside him.

  "These drums aren't bothering you much, Mr. Clinton, but Negroes react differently. "

  "Let's go inside," Barry said quietly.

  St. Juste swung on him. "Mr. Clinton, why don't you get out of here? It's foolish for you to stay. We can get someone to take us across to Anse Angel"

  "Now? In the dark?"

  "Yes, now!"

  Barry put a hand on the man's arm. "I've thought about it, Clement. Don't think I haven't. You go if you want to; there's no reason in the world for you to stay. But, you see, I'd only have to come back. And what would I say to the Bishop if I came back and found the mission destroyed?"

  St. Juste stood staring toward the village. "Damn them!" he whispered. "Damn their stupid souls to hell!"

  It was one of the very few times Barry had heard him swear.

  ALL NIGHT THE DRUMS THROBBED. Barry kept the lamp burning on the table beside his bed. Shortly before three, the office door opened and St. Juste's voice reached him through the curtain.

  "You awake, Mr. Clinton?"

  "I haven't been to sleep, Clement."

  "I haven't either. Do you mind if I stretch out on the cot here? I kind of think it might be smart for us to be together."

  "Why? "

  "Maybe you haven't noticed, but the beat of those drums has changed."

  Barry sat up in bed, listening. He could detect no difference in the sound. "Does that mean something, Clement?"

  "It could," St. Juste replied from the other room.

  At four-thirty Barry could see no point in lying there wide awake any longer. He rose and dressed, drew aside the curtain and stepped into the office. The door was open. St. Juste was not there.

  Barry went outside. There was a sudden movement at the corner of the building. St. Juste's low voice came to him through the darkness. "Is that you, Mr. Clinton?"

  "Yes. What's up?"

  "Listen."

  He listened. The drums were still. After nearly thirty hours of incessant throbbing they were silent. The night seemed to be holding its breath. Barry advanced and found St. Juste peering toward the village.

  "They stopped ten minutes ago, Mr. Clinton."

  "And now what are we to expect?"

  "I don't know. I wish to God I did." The man's voice was unsteady.

  Barry put a hand on his shoulder. "Aren't we being a little dramatic? he said. "This isn't the heart of Africa, you know. Or New Guinea. It isn't one of those movies in which the beleaguered explorers crouch in the jungle, surrounded by howling savages. Let's go and make some coffee, Clement."

  St. Juste voiced a nervous laugh. They went to the kitchen. When they opened the door the little black and white dog, shut up inside, ducked under the table and began to bark. It was a startling sound in the long-awaited stillness. Barry felt St. Juste stiffen and heard him suck in a breath.

  The sound aroused Lucy and she came from her room, tugging at her dress, just as Barry finished lighting the second of two lamps. She, too, was jumpy, he saw. He said quickly, "It's all right, Lucy. We were awake and thought we'd have some coffee."

  She stared at the door. "The drums," she whispered.

  "Yes. They've stopped."

  She turned to look at him. He saw her make an effort to pull herself together. "Shall I—shall I make some breakfast, mon Père?" she asked.

  "I suppose you might as well."

  She took half a dozen eggs from the kerosene refrigerator and broke them one by one into a cup, carefully examining each before transferring it to her mixing bowl. You never knew when a native egg might be bad. Before putting the mixture into the frying pan, she spooned some into a dish and gave it to the dog, smiling at Barry as she did so. St. Juste sat motionless at the table, watching her. When Barry addressed a remark to him a moment later, he had to come out of an apparent trance to answer it. He had been watching the dog.

  "Uh—what did you say, Mr. Clinton?"

  "I said it seems peaceful after all the racket."

  "Yes. Yes, it does."

  Lucy finished scrambling the eggs and served them. Before picking up his fork, St. Juste glanced at the dog again.

  BARRY WAS IN THE CHURCH when Edith rode into the clearing at nine o'clock. He heard the hoofbeats of her horse and guessed who it was. By the time he reached the church door she had dismounted in front of the rectory and was talking to St. Juste.

  She spoke to St. Juste for several minutes, the Couronne man maintaining silence until she had finished. He began to protest then —at least he seemed to be protesting—but she cut him short. He gave her an unhappy look and shrugged his shoulders. Edith turned from him and went into the office.

  When Barry entered the office, she was standing with her back to the desk, clutching the edge of it with both hands. Her only greeting was a nod, but she followed him with her eyes. When she spoke it was as though she were reciting a speech carefully rehearsed, so long rehearsed, in fact, that the words could now be delivered without emotion. Barry thought she looked tired. There were shadows under her eyes.

  "I've come to say good-by," she said. "I don't feel I ought to stay here after what's happened."

  He nodded. "It isn't very pleasant."

  "I talked to daddy yesterday on the radio. Warner will take me over to the mainland in the launch and he'll meet me there."

  "Did you tell your father why you're leaving?"

  "Yes. He wanted to know my reason."

  "I see." He wondered what Jeff would think, being told that the Reverend Barry Clinton was accused of fathering a native girl's child. Not that it mattered about Jeff's knowing. He had nothing to hide and would make no effort to hide it. In fact he had already told Peter Ambrose the entire story in his letter.

  Edith seemed uncomfortable in his presence. She was fidgeting now. She had taken the pen off his desk and was turning it round and round in her fingers. "If there were any way I could help you by staying," she said, "but there isn't. And the situation at the Lemkes' is simply intolerable. He's drunk all the time now. I'm sure daddy will fire him when he finds out."

  He smiled. "I don't think being fired will bother Warner Lemke much."

  "He's horrible."

  He saw that she wanted very much to go. He held out his hand. "Thank you for coming over to say good-by."

  "When shall I—shall I see you again, Barry?"

  "I'll be stopping at Fond Marie to say good-bye to Peter on my way to the capital. Perhaps then."

  "On your way to the capital?"

  "I'm certain to be transferred out of St. Joseph." If, he added mentally, there's anything left of me to transfer. "Good-bye, Edith." He let her hand go and stepped back. She walked out of the office ahead of him.

  When she had mounted, she rode part way across the clearing and looked back as though waiting for something. At the same time St. Juste came from the kitchen with a suitcase. The face of the Couronne man was full of misery. He halted before Barry and put the suitcase down.

  "She says I'm to go back with her, Mr. Clinton. I'll have to unless you order me not to."

  Barry turned his head slowly to look at the girl on the horse. She quickly looked away, but not before he saw her expression. He felt his hands clench at his sides. What was there in the human heart, he asked himself, that made it hunger to hurt others when it was hurt itself?
First Micheline, now Edith.

  "You can't very well refuse, Clement."

  "She said I was sent here to help with the building, and since there's no work being done I'm not needed. I won't go if you tell me not to. I don't want to leave you at a time like this. But she's Mr. Barnett's daughter and I work for him. I might lose my job."

  "You've got to go," Barry said. He gripped the man's hand. "Good-bye, Clement."

  "Good-bye, Mr. Clinton. You take care of yourself."

  St. Juste picked up his suitcase. Edith turned her horse toward the path. Barry stood before the rectory and watched them go, the white woman riding, the Negro trudging along after her with his gaze on the ground. Would he see either of them again?

  He became aware presently that he was standing in the sun without a covering on his head, and the heat was making him dizzy. He went into the office and sat down.

  THERE WAS NOTHING TO DO; that was the worst of it. Being alone was bad enough, but being alone with nothing to do was a kind of living death. He tried to invent things to do. He rearranged his possessions in the stuffy little bedroom that had been Leander Mitchell's. He straightened the bottles and boxes of medicines on the office shelves and emptied the drawers of the desk and sorted out papers. What were the sick people of Ile du Vent doing for treatment? Were they doctoring themselves with roots and leaves as they must have done before his coming? Or were they simply lying in their airless, gloomy little houses and hopelessly suffering? Some of them must be pitifully anxious for this ghastly business to end, so they could seek his help.

  If only one person among them would have the courage to appear in the doorway and say "Mon Père, I need help." One, just one, to make a crack in the dam and let the stream begin to trickle again.

  He sat at his desk and went through his file of record cards, gazing at some of them a long time. Fifine Cesar, his first patient: those enormous, adoring eyes. Tina Nerette: was Lemke sleeping with her again? Was his being "drunk all the time now" only a pathetic attempt to hide from himself the extent of his degradation? And here was Toto Anestor, the lad who had been killed picking up a handkerchief . . .