“The wave of the future,” Farnham said heavily. “And they want it all at once.”
“Yes, sah. It takes education to be patient, an’ patience to get education. An’ it takes a lot of both to know why Cuffee’s way won’t really solve anything.”
Cuffee, they learned, had organized the cadre of malcontents with swift efficiency. The disappearance of the most recently installed Colonel had provided such a fortunate vacancy that it was obviously suspect, but Johnny could only quote some of the dark rumors that had been muttered around the village of Accompong. About the handling of the latest election, however, his account was confirmed by Robertson and the Commander. Cuffee had made an inflammatory speech proposing his own leadership, while his bravos shouted down the arguments of the older conservative group. Two of the most stubborn skeptics had been beaten up. Cuffee’s young bullies operated the polls and announced the result.
“But they aren’t an army,” Farnham said. “At least, not what I saw. Can those two dozen ruffians really terrorize the whole community?”
“Hasn’t the same thing happened in bigger countries, but in a not very different proportion?” Simon reminded him.
“Besides,” Johnny said, “there’s more than what you saw. Cuffee’s got them out now, roundin’ up Maroons from all over for a big meeting tomorrow, where he’s goin’ to tell ’em what the new system’s goin’ to be.”
There was evidently some connection between this and Cuffee’s sudden decision to let them stay overnight, and Farnham and the Saint exchanged glances.
“Just what is his platform?” Farnham asked.
“I dunno, sah. But from what I hear, I think it’s something about how all the colored people in Jamaica should have the same rights as the Maroons, an’ we should let all of ’em join us who want to, and enlarge our boundaries till there’s room for all of ’em.”
“And eventually they end up with the whole island,” Farnham said grimly. “Yes, that’s clear enough.” He looked suddenly very tired. “I’m afraid this turns out to be a bit out of my department. I suppose I’ll just have to report it all to the Governor, and let Government decide what to do.”
“Government should be able to take care of it,” Simon remarked. “A few soldiers, or even policemen—”
“You’re forgetting the Treaty.”
The Saint had finished his plate. He lighted a cigarette thoughtfully.
“Well, where do I stand?” he inquired. “I don’t like Mr Cuffee on principle, and I didn’t sign any treaty.”
He was aware of a transient spark in Robertson’s dull eyes, and that for a moment the Commander paused in his energetic chomping, but most of all of the intent eagerness of Johnny.
“No,” Farnham said firmly. “You’re only a visitor. I know your methods, and they just won’t go here. This situation is ticklish enough already. Don’t make it any more complicated.”
“You’re the boss,” said the Saint, but he knew that Johnny was still looking at him.
David Farnham could not responsibly have taken any other attitude, but his enforced correctness cast an inevitable dampener over the discussion. They went to bed not long afterwards, after much repetition and no progress, and Simon sympathetically refrained from further argument when they were alone. The iron bedsteads were not luxurious, but the rough-dried sheets were fresh and clean, and the Saint never allowed vain extrapolations to interfere with his rest. A few seconds after his head settled on the pillow, he was in a dreamless sleep.
He awoke to a light touch on his shoulder, instantly, without a movement or even a perceptible change in his breathing. Relaxing one eyelid just enough to give him a minimum slit to peek through, he saw Johnny’s face bending over him in the first grayness of dawn, and opened both eyes.
Johnny put a finger to his lips and made a beckoning sign.
The Saint nodded, and slithered over the edge of the bed as silently as the uncooperative springs would let him. The hearty rhythm of Farnham’s snoring did not change, and Johnny was already a shadow gliding through the door. A few moments later the Saint, in shirt and trousers and carrying his sandals, joined him outside.
A little way up the path from the house, in shadows made darker by the paling sky, a group of five men stood waiting. As Johnny and Simon joined them, Simon saw that Robertson and the Commander were two of them. The other three were of similar age. There were no introductions. Johnny seemed to have been appointed spokesman.
“We talked for a long time after you went to bed,” he said. “I told them a lot about you. They think you might be able to help us. They want to show you the Peace Cave. That’s where the Treaty is supposed to have been signed. I haven’t even seen it myself. But they seem to think it’s important, I don’t know why. Will you go?”
“Of course,” said the Saint, with a strange sensation in his spine.
5
They set off at once.
Nobody talked, and before long the Saint himself was grateful to be spared the effort of conversation. Even in such good condition as he always was, he was glad to save his breath for locomotion. The trail wound up innumerable steep hills and down an identical number of declivities, through arching forest and over the slippery rocks and muck of little streams. The sun came up, scorching in the open, brewing invisible steam in the deceptive shade. Simon had to marvel at the driving pace set by the Commander in the lead and uncomplainingly maintained by the other old men.
In the full light, he saw that one of them carried a bottle of rum, one carried an old oil lantern, and one had a cardboard mailing tube which was the twin of the tube that Cuffee’s aide had carried. The significance of that last item puzzled him profoundly, but he managed to restrain himself from asking questions. The first rule of the whole mysterious expedition seemed to be that he should place himself blindly in their hands, and he had decided to do nothing that might upset the procedure.
They made one stop, in a grove of coconut palms. The Commander picked up a couple of fallen nuts from the ground, shook them, and threw them away. He looked up at the clusters of nuts overhead and pointed with the machete which he had carried all the way.
“Go get we some water coconut, Johnny,” he said. “See if you still a good Maroon.”
Johnny grinned, took off his shoes and socks, and scrambled up a tree with what Simon would have rated as remarkable agility, but which convulsed the rest of the party with good-natured laughter. The Commander deftly whacked off the tops of the nuts which Johnny threw down and passed the first one to Simon.
They sat in the shade and sipped the cool mild-tasting water from the nuts, and bummed cigarettes from the Saint, but the bottle of rum was not touched. Presently the Commander stood up, flourished his machete like a cavalry officer, and led them on.
It was nearing noon when the trail turned down around a small valley and twisted past a shoulder of exposed rock and more or less massive boulders. Later Simon was to learn that they were actually only about two miles from the village, and that the long hike had only been contrived as a kind of preliminary ordeal to test him. He could see the path winding up again beyond, and wondered if it was ever going to reach a destination, but the Commander halted at the rocky point and the rest of the safari gathered around him.
“Now we reach de Peace Cave,” said the Commander, and waved his machete. “Open de door!”
The first men to scramble up rolled aside one of the smaller stones, disclosing an opening little more than two feet square. The man with the lantern lighted it and crawled in first, on his hands and knees. Others followed. The Commander urged Simon upwards.