Farnham nodded, pursing his lips.
“Now, about this election,” he said imperturbably. “Just how was it conducted?”
“In the normal way.”
“A secret ballot? With all the Maroons notified in plenty of time to assemble, and all of them casting their votes?”
Cuffee’s face turned ugly and thunderous.
“That’s an insulting suggestion. But I don’t have to answer it, because as you’re quite well aware it isn’t even any of your business.”
“Nevertheless, I have to ask it,” Farnham persisted quietly. “And I could only put one interpretation on your refusal to answer.”
Cuffee’s big fist clenched and lifted a little from his side, and the Saint balanced himself imperceptibly on the balls of his feet and triggered his muscles for lightning movement, but Farnham stared up at the Colonel unblinkingly. The fist slowly lowered again, but the congestion remained in Cuffee’s contorted features.
“You go too far,” he said harshly. “This is exactly the kind of meddling I intend to put a stop to. I am obliged to declare you persona non grata. Do you know what that means?”
“In diplomatic circles, it would mean I was to be kicked out of the country.”
“Precisely.”
“Do you mean immediately?”
Cuffee hesitated for a second, and it was as if a mask slid over his face, smoothing out the grimace of fury and leaving only a glint of cunning in his eyes.
“No. It’s late now for you to be starting back. Stay the night, if you can find a place to sleep. Let your friend look around, and make the most of it. He’s the last visitor we shall admit for a long time. Since you’re here, I shall give you a formal reply to take back to your Governor tomorrow. And I may also give you proof that the Maroons are behind me.”
He turned on his heel and strode back towards his elite guard, his adjutant following him, leaving the Saint and David Farnham standing alone under the darkening sky.
4
“Well,” Farnham said stoically, “at least I think I know where we can get a bed.”
The house that he led them to was one of the better ones, as evidenced by the white paint that gleamed through the dusk as they approached. Yellow lights glowed behind the windows, but the porch was dark, and on it the figure of a black man in dark clothes, standing motionless, was almost invisible until they were within speaking distance.
Farnham said affably, “Good evening, Robertson.”
The man said, without moving, “Good evenin’, sah.”
“Aren’t you going to invite us in?”
The man’s shoes creaked as he shifted his weight. He said, after a pause, “No, sah. Better you go back dung de hill, sah. I’ gettin’ late.”
“That’s all right, we’re not going back till tomorrow.”
“Better you go tonight, sah. De Colonel don’ wan’ nobody from outside comin’ ’ere.”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” Farnham said impatiently. “You were Colonel yourself once, the first time I came here. You know the Colonel can’t stop anyone seeing his friends. And I want you to meet a friend of mine — Mr Templar.”
“Yes, sah. How you do, Mr Templar, sah. But is bes’ you go dung de hill—”
The door behind him was flung open, and the shape of another man was framed in it.
“Did someone say ‘Mr Templar?’ Is that you, sah — the Saint?”
“Yes, Johnny,” Simon said.
The man who had stood on the porch was almost bowled over in the rush as Johnny plunged past him, grabbed Simon’s hand, and hustled him and Farnham into the house. Robertson followed them rather quickly, shutting the door behind them. As the lamplight revealed him, he was a very old man, and he twisted his thin gnarled fingers together feverishly.
“I don’ wan’ no trouble here,” he mumbled.
“I don’t want to make any,” said the Saint. “But Johnny’s the lad from New York I was telling you about, Dave.”
“Pleased to meet you, Johnny,” Farnham said, putting out his hand. “I’ve heard a lot of nice things about you.”
“Colonel Robertson is a great-uncle of mine,” Johnny explained. He turned to another white-haired old negro who sat in a rocking chair in the corner. “And this is a sort of older cousin, Commander Reid.”
“I’ve met the Commander,” Farnham said, with another cordial handshake.
He sat down at the bare oilcloth-covered table and tapped the dottle from his burned-out pipe into a saucer which served as ashtray.
“And now, for heaven’s sake,” he said, “will one of you tell me what’s got into everybody around here?”
“We don’ wan’ no trouble,” Robertson repeated, wringing his hands mechanically.
“Goin’ be lotsa change roun’ here,” said the Commander.
“Things are real bad, Mr Templar,” Johnny said. “I found that out already. And ever since I found out, I’ve been wondering whether I could find you on the island, or if you’d really come here like you said you might on the plane.”
“Dis Missah Templar is a fren’ o’ yours, Johnny?” asked the Commander, rocking busily.
Johnny looked at both the two older negroes.
“He’s a wonderful guy. In America, almost everyone knows him. He does things about people like Cuffee. If anyone can help us, he can.”
“I’m just a visitor,” Simon said tactfully. “Mr Farnham’s the Government man.”
A stout elderly woman came out of the partly screened-off kitchen and began to distribute plates laden with steaming rice and what looked like a sort of brown stew around the table. Farnham greeted her cordially as Mrs Robertson, and she smiled politely and went back for more plates, without speaking, for in the councils of the older Maroons a woman’s views are not asked for.
“Please, you must both eat with us,” Johnny said. “And we’d be honored to have you sleep here.”
Robertson shuffled to the table and sat down, looking helpless and lonely, but the Commander pushed back his rocker and stepped across with decisive vigor.
“Okay, Johnny,” he said heartily. “You’ fren’, and Missah Farnham is my fren’. All o’ we is fren’ly here. Dem help us, all okay.”
The dollop of stew on the rice was made from goat, Simon decided, strongly seasoned and flavored in part with curry. There were tough elements in it, but it was very tasty, and he discovered that his appetite had developed uncritical proportions while his mind was occupied with other things.
“You’re an intelligent young man, Johnny,” Farnham said across the table. “What’s your version of all this nonsense?”
“It isn’t nonsense, Mr Farnham, sah. This fellow Cuffee’s a Communist organizer. I know. I’ve heard fellows up in the States who talked just like him. From what I could find out, he got himself a following pretty quick. It seems there’s been some others like him here before, only white people, but talkin’ the same way, so he didn’t have to start out cold. But being a Maroon himself, he got a lot more attention. He had plenty of material to work with. I don’t want to say anything against the Government myself, sah, I’m sure they’ve tried to do what they can for us, but it’s a pretty hard life up here, just for a man to scratch enough from the ground to feed himself and his family. The people go down to the market an’ talk to other people workin’ outside, an’ the young men go to Kingston an’ see how there are other people no different, colored people I mean, who are livin’ so much better, an’ they talk to ones who have joined the unions, an’ they all come back an’ talk.”