up Victoria Park on nigger-Pompey’s horse. He has followers throughout
Jamaica. If there is anyone who might expose Dunstone-wittingly or
otherwise-it could well be Whitehall and his fascists.7 “Hammond didn’t
know that,” protested McAuliff. “He made it clear that you … the
Halidon … were the only ones who could stop Dunstone.”
“Hammond is a professional. He creates internal chaos, knowing that his
breakthrough can come at any instant during the panic. Would it
surprise you to know that Hammond is in Kingston now?”
Alex thought for a moment. “No … but I’m surprised he hasn’t let me
know it.”
“There is a reason. He doesn’t want you to fall back on him. He flew
in when word was received that Chatellerault was in Savanna-la-Mar….
You knew that, didn’t you?”
“He knows it because I told Westmore Tallon.”
“And then there are the Jensens. That charming, devoted couple. So
normal, so lovable, really … who send back word to Julian Warfield of
every move you make, of every person you make contact with; who bribe
Jamaicans to spy on you…. The Jensens made a huge mistake once, years
ago. Dunstone, Limited, stepped in and recruited’them. In exchange for
obliterating that mistake.”
McAuliff looked up at the clear night sky. A single elongated cloud was
drifting from a distant mountain toward the yellow moon. He wondered if
the condensation would disappear before it reached the shining
satellite, or blur it from beneath … envelop it from the ground.
As he was so enveloped.
“So there are the components,” said Alex aimlessly. “The Halidon knows
a lot more than anyone else, it seems. And I’m not sure what that
means.”
“It means, Doctor, that we are the silent caretakers of our land.”
“I don’t recall any election. Who gave you the job?”
“To quote an American writer: ‘It comes with the territory.” It is our
heritage. We do not swim in the political rivers, however. We leave
those to the legitimate competitors. We do try our best to keep the
pollution to a minimum.” The priest figure finished his cigarette and
crushed the burning end under his sandaled foot.
“You’re killers,” said McAuliff simply. “I know that. I think that’s
the worst kind of human pollution.”
“Are you referring to Dunstone’s previous survey?”
am.”
“You don’t know the circumstances. And I’m not the one to define them.
I am here only to persuade you to give me Piersall’s documents.”
“I won’t do that.”
“Why?” The Halidonite’s voice rose in anger, as before.
His black eyes above the black hollows pierced into McAuliff’s.
“Mon? ” came the shouted query from the field. The priest figure waved
his arm in dismissal.
“This is not your business, McAuliff. Understand that and get out. Give
me the documents and take your survey off the island before it is too
late.”
“If it was that simple, I would. I don’t want your fight, goddammit. It
has no appeal for me…. On the other hand, I don’t relish being chased
all over the globe by Julian Warfield’s guns. Can’t you understand
that?”
The priest figure stood immobile. His eyes softened; his lips parted in
concentration as he stared at Alexander. He spoke slowly; he was barely
audible. “I warned them that it might come to this. Give me the
nagarro, doctor. What is the meaning of the Halidon?”
McAuliff told him.
They -returned to the river campsite, McAuliff and the runner who had
assumed the name and function of TMarcus Hedrik. There was no pretense
now. As they neared the bivouac area, black men in rags could be seen
in the bush, the early dawn light shafting through the dense foliage,
intermittently reflecting off the barrels of their weapons.
The survey camp was surrounded, the inhabitants prisoners of the
Halidon.
A hundred yards from the clearing, the runner-now preceding Alex on the
narrow jungle path, pistol secure in his field jacket belt-stopped and
summoned a Halidon patrol.
He did so by snapping his fingers repeatedly until a large black man
emerged from between the trees.
The two men spoke briefly, quietly, and when they were finished the
patrol returned to his post in the tropic forest.
The runner turned to McAuliff.
“Everything is peaceful. There was a skirmish with Charles Whitehall,
but it was anticipated. He severely wounded the guard, but others were
nearby. He is bound and back in his tent.”
“What about Mrs. Booth?”
“The woman? She is with Samuel Tucker. She was asleep a half hour
ago…. That Tucker, he will not sleep. He sits in the chair in front
of his tent, a rifle in his hands. The others are quiet. They will be
rising soon.”
“Tell me,” said Alex while the runner still faced him, what happened to
all that Arawak language? The Maroon colonel, the units of four, the
eight days?”
“You forgot, Doctor. I led the Whitehall-mon to his courier. The
Colonel of the Maroons never got the message.
The reply you received came from us.” The runner smiled.
Then he turned, gesturing for Alex to follow him into the clearing.
Under the eyes of the runner, McAuliff waited for the white light of the
miniature panel to reach full illumination.
When it did, he pressed the signal-transmitter button, holding his left
hand over his fingers as he did so. He knew the concealment was
unnecessary; he would not radio for aid. He would not jam the frequency
with cries of emergency. It had been made clear that at the first sight
of hostile forces, each member of the survey would be shot through the
head, Alison Booth and Sam Tucker the first to be executed.
The remainder of the understanding was equally clear.
Sam Tucker would continue to send the signals every twelve hours.
Alexander would return with the runner into the grassland. From there,
with the “priest” he would be taken to the hidden community of the,
Halidon. Until he returned, the team was a collective hostage.
Alison, Sam, Charles Whitehall; and Lawrence would be told the truth.
The others would not. The Jensens, James Ferguson, and the crew would
be given another explanation, a bureaucratic one readily acceptable to
professional surveyors: During the night a radio message from Kingston
had been relayed by Falmouth; the Ministry of the Interior required
McAuliff’s presence in Ocho Rios; there were difficulties with the
Institute. It was the sort of complication to which survey directors
were subjected. Fieldwork was constantly interrupted by administrative
foul-ups.
When the priest figure suggested the time of absence be no less than
three full days, Alex demanded to know the reason for so long a period.
“I can’t answer that, McAuliff.”
“Then why should I agree to it?”
“It is only time. Then, too, are we not at checkmate …
Mr. Bones? We fear exposure perhaps more than you fear for your
lives.”
“I won’t concede that.”
You do not know us. Give yourself the margin to learn.
You will not be disappointed.”
“You were told to say three days, then?”
,:I was.”
Which presumes that whoever told you to say it expected you to bring me
to them.”
“It was a distinct probability.”
Alexander agreed to three full days.
Lawrence, was rubbing a penicillin salve over Charles Whitehall’s bare
back. The rope burns were deep; whoever had lashed Charley-mon had done
so in fever-pitch anger. The ropes on both men had been removed after
McAuliff’s talk with them. Alexander had made it clear he would brook
no further interference. Their causes were expendable.
Your arrogance is beyond understanding, McAuliffl” said Charles
Whitehall, suppressing a grimace as Lawrence touched a sensitive burn.
” I accept the rebuke. You’re very qualified in that department.”
“You are not equipped to deal with these people. I have spent my life,
my entire life, stripping away the layers of
Jamaican–Caribbean-history!”
“Not your entire life, Charley,” replied Alex, calmly but incisively. “I
told you last night. There’s the little matter of your extra-scholastic
activity. ‘The black Caesar riding up Victoria Park on nigger-Pompey’s
horse.”
“What?”
“They’re not my words, Charley.”
Lawrence suddenly pressed his fist into a raw lash mark on Whitehall’s
shoulder. The scholar arched back his neck in pain. The
revolutionary’s other hand was close to his throat. Neither man moved;
Lawrence spoke. “You don’t ride no nigger horse, mon. You den walk
like everybody else.”
Charles Whitehall stared over his shoulder at the blur of the brutal,
massive hand poised for assault. “You play the fool, you know. Do you
think any political entity with a power structure based on wealth will
tolerate you? Not for a minute, you egalitarian jackal. You will be
crushed.”
“You do not seek to crush us, mon?”
“I seek only what is best for Jamaica. Everyone’s energies will be used
to that end.”
“You’re a regular Pollyanna,” broke in Alex, walking toward the two men.
Lawrence looked up at McAuliff, his expression equal parts of suspicion
and dependence. He removed his hand and reached for the tube of