Treasure Up in Smoke

by David Williams

  Peregrine wished someone would ask him about squash or rugby football; he played both. His practice as an oarsman was rustier than his experience on a bicycle. He feared O’Hara might be about to reveal the existence of a coxless pair in which they could continue their progress against the fast-flowing current. ‘Actually, no. I’ve done a bit of canoeing.’ Despite O’Hara’s earlier insistence on the traditional necessity of walking to the Falls, making the journey in a dug-out might conceivably have been in more accurate emulation of his ancestor’s method of progress in 1652.

  ‘We don’t do either here – current’s too strong and there are too many rapids and shallows. Rafting’s fun, though – coming down, at least. Used to be the way they brought things to market – there’s still a bit of river traffic. Look, there’s a raft moored on the other side.’ He pointed to a narrow platform of bamboos some twenty feet long. ‘They punt ’em from the front. With a seat on the back it’s quite a joy-ride for passengers. In Jamaica it’s a big tourist attraction. Here we’d have to break the journey at Devil’s Falls.’ O’Hara spoke more as though he were planning a project than simply making conversation. ‘It’s one of the things your friend Dogwall is quite keen about.’

  ‘And you, sir? I mean,v you don’t have many tourists yet, do you?’ Peregrine put the question in what he considered to be a disarmingly casual style.

  ‘Your circumspection does you credit, Mr Gore.’ The style was admired, but O’Hara was far from disarmed. ‘If you mean do I enjoy the prospect of this beautiful island being overrun by tourists, my answer is frankly no. However, needs must: if the thing is properly controlled I think we could become a profitable paradise.’ O’Hara gave a quick, bitter laugh before continuing. ‘You see, we’ve always had a balanced economy here, and nowadays we’re too dependent on cigars for a living. It can’t last for ever.’

  ‘You mean smoking may become illegal?’

  O’Hara started at what should have been an innocuous if unlikely suggestion. Then, satisfied that Peregrine’s question could be taken at its face value, he answered, ‘I doubt that. I’ve never smoked myself, though; it’s a dirty as well as an unhealthy habit.’ Which seemed a suitable enough rejoinder from a scout-master.

  ‘Was the economy any better balanced when the island depended on guano?’

  ‘Not really; and you’ve got a point, of course. Cigars took over from bird-droppings as our staple export, and now I fear we may soon have to find something to replace cigars. Tourism could do it. Rum, I fear, won’t – not unless the free-world production drops considerably, or the price rises – or both.’

  ‘I thought King Charles Cigars were very much in demand, sir.’

  ‘These fads are often short-lived. We’ve kept up demand by creating shortage. The product is not that remarkable’ – nor was it, in its basic form. ‘The production costs have become so great I’m seriously thinking of phasing the thing out entirely. The land where we grow the tobacco could be put to much better use . . .’

  ‘Under sugar, sir?’ Peregrine was doing his best to represent the mm lobby.

  O’Hara smiled. ‘In certain circumstances, yes. Mr Dogwall has golf-courses and villas in mind.’

  ‘Could I ask . . . I mean, if it isn’t rude, sir . . . have you got Mark Treasure and Mr Dogwall here together on purpose?’

  They had temporarily left the river bank and were following a path over rising ground. O’Hara stopped as though humouring a whim – a doctor might have divined a more serious reason for the halt. ‘There’s a fine view both ways from here in daylight – not bad now, come to that.’ He paused. ‘You could hardly credit coincidence – and neither will your Mr Treasure. If you want the truth, our well-intentioned but misguided Governor invited the Dogwalls, once your dates were fixed, in the conviction that I should find the Americans and their purposes so ignoble in the comparing that I would dismiss them. He was quite wrong, I’m afraid. Pity; it’s the one attempt at subtle diplomacy he’s ever engineered to my knowledge and it’s backfired. Come, we’d better push on.’

  Peregrine was finding his companion surprisingly expansive. ‘You mean, you’ve gone off the distillery project, sir?’ The possibility that he, ‘advance-party Gore’, might get the blame if this was so loomed large in his mind.

  ‘Well, it’s just not on, my boy, compared to the other idea. Tourism is labour-intensive, distilling rum isn’t. And tourists will bring in enough foreign currency to make up for the loss on cigars.’ Peregrine thought it best not to enquire any more about the imminent collapse or closure of the cigar trade. ‘Even my brother has got his mind around that simple fact.’

  ‘Is your brother against the distillery too, sir?’

  ‘My brother’s against anything that threatens his personal income from our companies. No, he’s not against the distillery. He’s more in favour of expanding the cigar business. Madness, madness.’ O’Hara seemed with these last utterances to be ruminating to himself rather than addressing his companion.

  ‘I suppose all the decision-making is up to you, sir?’ Peregrine had tried to make the question sound complimentary.

  O’Hara grinned, CI doubt you’ll find anyone to disagree about that – though it sticks in their throats – some of them. It’s probably difficult for you to understand. Doesn’t sound very democratic and so on. But you see, we O’Haras have looked after the people of this island for more than three hundred years – and nobody’s ever starved here in all that time. God gave us a great trust and woe betide the O’Hara who forgets it.’ The older man’s face stiffened. ‘And God help the man who thinks he’s earned the right to challenge my judgement.’ He looked keenly at Peregrine. ‘You know what I mean by noblesse oblige?’

  ‘I think so, sir.’

  ‘It’s a code you make a way of life if you’re born into a position such as mine. You don’t stint your effort, you dedicate yourself to the well-being of those in your charge, and above all you don’t seek to improve your own lot at the expense of the common good.’ O’Hara spoke quietly but with great conviction. Peregrine was impressed – but he was also somehow uneasy.

  A history master at Wellington College who had despaired of this particular pupil might at that moment have drawn comfort from knowing his labours had not been entirely in vain. Somewhere in Peregrine’s mind there lurked the residue of a tutored conviction. The doctrine of the Divine Right of Kings, he knew, had sometime taken a fearful beating – and justifiably so.

  Father Babington rose from the anguish of his devotions. He was hardly conscious of time, only vaguely aware that he had been on his knees in the Presbytery for several hours and that in only a few more he must be the chief celebrant at the crowded service on the mountainside. But his thoughts were not of priestly office, only of his responsibilities as a leader, and a Carleon.

  The agony of decision still lay heavily upon him, even though the decision had been made. In any other context he could have – would have – taken counsel from a superior in the church or, he ruminated bitterly, from Joe O’Hara himself.

  Instinctively, from his youth up, Babington had subscribed to the conviction that Joe knew best. Not until the conversation after he had heard the older man’s confession had he ever found compelling reason to question that conviction. His strongest sense was still one of betrayal.

  He had argued with himself – God knew he had argued these several hours past – but there was no escaping that Joe was negating the very principles they had both so often pledged themselves to defend. The cost of that defence for the priest had sometimes been very high indeed. By putting his responsibility as a Garleon before all else, by seeking to protect the material as well as the spiritual wellbeing of his fellow islanders, by subverting the innocence of others under Christian vows he had created what had often been a torment of conscience for himself. The expiation had been in Joe’s dedication and the example of Joe’s selflessness. The satisfaction had been to watch a people live in harmony and dignity without loss of thei
r independence to alien paymasters or cultures.

  The priest was well enough aware that the independence on King Charles had always been in the gift of one man, but that man had exercised his power with charity and humility. Joe O’Hara had earned the respect he was just about to betray – something that made the act even more terrible: something that made it necessary for him to be stopped.

  CHAPTER IX

  Glen Dogwall gave a loud burp. The utterance seemed hardly to register with Mongo Joyce, now in shirt-sleeves and tieless. Judging by appearances neither man could have passed a sobriety test. Dogwall was leaving the Chief Minister’s house; they had repaired there for a night-cap an hour before. Mrs Joyce had fetched the drinks and gone to bed, after saying good-night to her husband as well as their guest; Dogwall had noticed this.

  ‘I’ll walk you to the end of the road.’

  ‘Oh, don’t put yourself out, Mongo; you must be tired – I can find my way.’ It was no great distance back to the grounds of Government House. The Chief Minister’s unpretentious home was at the end of a cul-de-sac; there were five or six similar neat, modern houses in the short street, each with about half an acre of garden.

  Joyce continued at the other’s side, despite the well-mannered protestation. ‘You’ve got it clear now, Glen? Joe O’Hara may own the land, but I’m telling you, man, nobody gets a hamburger concession on this island from now onwards without official approval: no way.’

  ‘Mongo, I understand.’ Dogwall sincerely wished he did but he was still as much in the dark about what motivated the Chief Minister’s personal attitude as he had been at the start of the evening. Either the guy was playing it straight for democracy or he was looking for a pay-off.

  Twice earlier Dogwall had missed the opportunity cautiously to introduce the prospect of a bribe – a sweetener to secure that high-toned ‘official approval’. Each time he had hesitated. Joyce’s advertised reputation was that he was incorruptible. Dogwall’s background and experience led him to doubt this virtue – in Joyce or anybody else. If the Chief Minister did have a price, then relatively it could not be very high. Whatever Joyce might say, it was O’Hara who ran KCI – the so-called Government was so much dressage. Even so, the Sunfun Hotel Corporation of America never failed to take a Chief Minister on the team if one was available.

  They stopped at the end of the road. ‘Mongo, I guess O’Hara will be doing pretty well out of this deal – for himself, I mean. OK, so we both know he’s Mr Big in these parts, and now he’s made it pretty clear he’s giving us the go-ahead I guess I was inclined to ignore the er . . . interests of the other er . . . powers in the land.’

  A small spaniel dog completed the almost impossible feat of squeezing beneath the gate of the end house, shook itself, then bounded up to Joyce and began prancing around his feet. ‘Sit, Zako.’ The dog immediately obeyed with the look of wounded innocence common to its kind.

  The episode hardly registered with Dogwall who was carefully watching the Chief Minister’s face. He saw nothing in the expression that discouraged him from continuing. ‘In your own case I know the expenses of office, of living – keeping up standards generally – gee, they must be horrendous these days.’ Joyce gave a just perceptible nod – the speaker was sure it was a nod of encouragement. ‘Mongo, old man, lemme come to the point – man to man; know what I mean?’ The guy was still all attention; this was going to be a push-over after all. ‘What I had in mind was fifty thousand dollars now and another fifty when the contract’s –’

  Dogwall, being a big man, went down heavily. The professional blow to the solar plexus was so effective that Joyce had no need to follow through with the planned uppercut to the jaw.

  ‘Go home, Mr Dogwall. And I mean home.’ The Chief Minister, trembling with fury, stood his ground. The astonished, winded American picked himself up, prepared to retaliate, thought better of it, gasped, and turned on his heels. He did not see Joyce pause to recover himself, then slowly walk up the drive of the house from where the dog appeared, the animal at his heels. Still less could he read his assailant’s thoughts and know that just as a hundred thousand dollars was not nearly enough to buy Mongo Joyce, so any chance of the Sunfun project progressing further had just evaporated – no matter who favoured it. The decision Joyce had made cut Joe O’Hara right out of the picture.

  ‘Magnificent, isn’t it?’ O’Hara shouted above the roar of the waterfall.

  ‘Terrific, sir.’ Peregrine was genuinely impressed with the two-hundred-foot cascade. They were standing below the Falls on the eastern bank of the river.

  O’Hara was glowing with lordly pride. ‘There was talk after the war of harnessing this for a hydro-electric scheme. My father got Westinghouse to put up a plan but he jibbed at the cost. Pity in a way. Of course we’d have been overpowered for an island this size but with the cost of oil these days it might have been a good investment.’ He gazed ruminatively at the torrent of water. ‘Mongo Joyce has been getting at me to reconsider the idea.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Well, come on, it’s a bit of a pull to the top.’

  Five minutes later the two were standing on a wide plateau of ground gained by following a steep and circuitous path from the foot of the Falls. O’Hara was pale and breathless. ‘If we ever do go in for hydro-electrics the first thing we’ll install is a lift up that hill.’ He smiled, then pointed to a cantilevered steel foot-bridge that spanned the river. ‘At least we don’t have to row across; the cabin’s on the other side.’

  The older man led the way to the bridge. The structure was some four feet above the surface of the water and bedded in concrete approaches on both sides. The bank on the far side was grassy. Some hundred yards beyond and facing the river stood a substantial, single-storied log house surrounded by a wide covered verandah. Peregrine had been expecting something a good deal more primitive. ‘Is this the site of the Treaty Ceremony, sir?’ he asked as they crossed the greensward.

  ‘Exactly right, my boy; where we are now. There’ll be a fair crowd. I receive Mongo Joyce on the verandah – a latter-day invention as you’ll imagine, but it gives everyone a better view.’ O’Hara glanced at his watch. ‘Now, you’ll have time for five hours shut-eye. Place isn’t exactly equipped for a long stay – we use it chiefly for picnics – but it has the usual conveniences and I can offer you a bed and some blankets. You’ll notice it’s a lot cooler up here. I’ll give you a shout at six-thirty, I’m always awake then. You’ll just need to follow the tow path to Mass, and there’s a free breakfast afterwards so you won’t starve.’ They stepped up on to the verandah. Before opening the door of the cabin O’Hara pointed to the left. ‘There’s the most marvellous view of the Falls from the end there – right outside your bedroom window. Just below there’s a rock stairway down to the bottom – my grandfather had it cut, but it’s an even steeper climb than the one we made on the other side.’ He was still breathing heavily.

  Glen Dogwall’s family had originated in the Deep South: he had just been forcefully reminded of traditional prejudices. His stomach still ached from the blow, but his pride had been hurt more than his body. The specific forms of revenge he plotted against Mongo Joyce encompassed everything from physical mutilation to character assassination. In a more sober state he would have planned the order of retributive acts if only to ensure that the Chief Minister would not be so racked by pain as to be spared the full consciousness of his social obliteration. As it was, Dogwall gave his imagination an entirely free rein and felt better by the minute.

  The American approached the guest-house by the path that skirted the sea-shore. As he drew close he heard voices. He checked the time, recalling the instructions he had given his wife. The hope blossomed in his mind that some tactical advantage might have been gained after all from what so far had proved a largely unrewarding evening. If things had gone as planned he should shortly be in a position to play the outraged husband – the bathroom episode had given him the idea. If it could be alleged that young Mr Gore had forced his
attentions on the unprotected Mrs Dogwall, that should go some part of the way to spoiling the image of the British contingent with ‘Holy’ Joe O’Hara. It should also help to ruffle the dignity of that puffed-up Governor as well as to upset Mr Mark Treasure – no doubt a pillar of moral rectitude as well as of the British banking system.

  Dogwall liked to think of himself as a simple man. In truth, only someone as ingenuous as he could have hoped to carry off such a transparently contrived machination as one that featured Mrs Dogwall playing the innocent to advances from Peregrine Gore. The lady herself had been prompted to express precisely this view but had thought better of it. She had not achieved the status and comfort of being the second Mrs Dogwall through failing to cooperate – and besides, she had found the prospect of a little licensed dalliance with Peregrine wholly attractive. It should be added that Glen Dogwall the Third would not have been President of the Sunfun Hotel Corporation of America if Glen Dogwall the Second had not been the founder, the Chairman and the owner of most of the stock.

  The swimming pool area was ablaze with light, a circumstance that immediately illuminated the fact that Dogwall was not coming upon a scene of unbridled abandonment. His wife, decently attired in a short beach jacket, was sitting at the poolside relaxed and unmolested. She appeared to be earnestly engaged in conversation with the man seated beside her. Whatever the stranger’s role and intentions, it was perfectly plain that Mrs Dogwall was in no immediate danger of being ravaged.

  The visitor was about Dogwall’s own age, but short and wiry. He was immaculately turned out in a well-tailored, dark, double-breasted blazer, white trousers and a yachting cap. The nautical aura was enhanced by a trim goatee beard. He was holding a tall drink in one hand and a long cigar in the other.