by Alec Waugh
That’s what I’ve got to do, Boyeur told himself. Teach these stuck up prigs a lesson. They had tricked him, brought him here on false pretenses; led him to think a party was being given in his honor, to celebrate his engagement. They had encouraged him to think that: it’s what the A.D.C. had told him.
“When you rang me up, you said that H.E. wanted to have the dinner on a night that I could come. You did say that, didn’t you?” he challenged.
“I did.”
“And you said that H.E. wanted an opportunity of wishing Muriel and myself good luck. Did H.E. tell you to say that?”
“Yes.”
“But that wasn’t the real reason for the party, was it? He wanted to get me at the same table as the Fleurys. He wanted a showdown about that Leg. Co. meeting. That was the real reason for the dinner, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
Archer did not hesitate over that “yes.” There was no point in lying, when you were unlikely to be believed.
“As I thought,” said Boyeur. “As I thought.”
They had tricked him here; taken him off his guard, staged their showdown and made him shake hands with that conceited puppy. Maxwell Fleury; turning his back on him indeed, refusing to sully his eyes with the sight of him at such a moment. He’d show Maxwell Fleury where he got off. And the Governor too, and the whole pack of them. Bradshaw: making out that his teeth were drawn because he was now a councilor, because he was marrying into the local aristocracy. The Fleurys, Bradshaw, General Templeton, His Excellency Major General the Lord Templeton: he’d show them all. He’d demand of the Planters Association a twenty per cent rise in wages for field laborers; he’d give them a three day ultimatum. And if they didn’t come to heel he’d call a general strike. He’d held his men in long enough. They were impatient, straining at the leash. And in the temper that they were in, that they would be in when he gave the word, a general strike wouldn’t be a mere staying away from work. Men like that wouldn’t sit idle before their huts. There’d be incidents, slashed tires, flaming cane fields, gutted boucans. He’d show his men what a revolver could do when you pulled the trigger.
5
The party broke up at eleven. Templeton came out on the doorstep to bid his guests good-by. To Muriel he was particularly cordial.
“This has been a great pleasure to me. I hope that this will prove to be the first of many visits to this house. Once again I wish you the best of luck.”
His smile was friendly and benign. Boyeur noted it with a satisfying appreciation of the moment’s dramatic irony. The General would be smiling the other side of his face tomorrow. His jaw was set as he released the clutch. He drove fast. He did not speak one word on the way back. He was unconscious of Muriel’s presence at his side. He was following his own thoughts. He kissed her goodnight negligently, outside her parents’ house. He did not get out of the car. He was impatient to be at his desk, drafting his ultimatum.
Chapter Twenty-Six
1
Boyeur’s ultimatum was delivered at ten o’clock next morning. It was the sole topic of conversation two hours later in the Jamestown Club. Bradshaw happened to be there.
“Is there any chance of the planters agreeing?” he inquired.
“None at all,” they told him.
“Will Boyeur call the strike off?”
Heads were shaken.
“It’s very doubtful. He’s bluffed before. He’s doing this to impress the gallery. He’ll find some way of saving face. There’ll be a conference. We’ll concede him something. He’ll tell his followers that a wise shopkeeper always puts a high price to start with, so that he bargains down not up.”
“I see.”
But himself he did not agree. Certainly if the issue was put to Boyeur in a way that challenged him. He called upon Boyeur after lunch.
“Do you know what they’re saying about you in the club?”
Boyeur laughed when Bradshaw told him.
“What did you say?” Boyeur asked.
“I didn’t say anything, but I know what I thought.”
“What did you think?”
“That you can’t afford to call ‘Wolf, wolf again.”
“Have I ever called it?”
“They think you have. They say you’ve kept this strike like a joker, up your sleeve. They’re beginning to say that it isn’t a joker at all: only the deuce of diamonds.”
“They say that, do they?”
“They say more than that. They say that you are trying to make the public forget that you were expelled from the Leg. Co.”
No one had said quite that, but Bradshaw knew Boyeur well enough to suspect that that had been in part one of the reasons for his action.
“Thank you for telling me,” Boyeur said.
Bradshaw went straight to the cable office. He had already written out his copy.
Thirty-six hours later it appeared in the Baltimore Star.
“I was wrong,” it ran, “in believing that the threatened eruption of the political volcano in Santa Marta has subsided. Far from it. David Boyeur, who was expelled from the Leg. Co. meeting for breach of manners has taken his revenge by issuing an ultimatum to the Planters Association. A 20% wage increase for all field laborers or a general strike in three days time. The planters believe Boyeur is bluffing, but he is not. Though no one believes it in Santa Marta, the general strike will begin on Friday. Friday is pay day. It is doubtful if the men will receive their pay, since they will be on strike. They will consider they have been cheated. There will be incidents. Those incidents may lead to serious disorder. No man can tell what will happen. Boyeur’s prestige is at Stake. The Governor is a soldier. He is accustomed to striking swiftly and striking hard. There have been many equivalent situations in British colonial history—Amritzar is the most recent—when a military governor has opened fire on the mob. This may happen here. No one can tell. But without any doubt the volcano is erupting.”
Twenty-four hours later the article reached the Colonial Office in Westminster. The Minister read it with irritation. These wretched little West Indian islands were like mosquitoes, trivial and maddening. He wished a tidal wave could submerge the lot of them, leaving the big three islands and B.G. as a manageable proposition. The Windwards and the Leewards were a nuisance and a liability: taking up all this time when there were problems of real importance to be decided in the other colonies.
Templeton had complained that the Minister was getting jumpy. He was. A Cabinet reshuffle was imminent. No one knew whose head would fall. This was a crucial point in his career. If he once lost Cabinet rank he would be unlikely to recover it, but he might in the reshuffle be sent to the Foreign Office. The road led straight from there. Everything depended upon the next few weeks, and anything might happen in the next few weeks in Kenya or in Malaya.
The situation had changed since he had given Templeton his instructions last September. The wave of nationalism was getting out of hand, not only in the British colonies but in the French as well. Morocco was a tinder box, and events in Morocco were influencing the nationalists in British Africa. A go-slow directive had been issued to the Colonial Office. “We don’t want any more trouble,” the Minister had been told, “but if there is trouble, we want you to come down hard on it.” Damn Santa Marta, thought the Minister.
He reread Bradshaw’s article. Bradshaw was no fool. Bradshaw had guessed right before. And Templeton was the kind of man who might open fire on a mob. Nothing like that must happen. Better forestall the danger by a premature show of force. There was a destroyer in the Caribbean, the Cheltenham, on a training cruise. Best send it straight to Jamestown. Revolutionaries knew what a destroyer meant. You couldn’t fire back against long range shells.
The Minister rang for Purvis. “Get in touch with the Admiralty, tell them that we are expecting trouble in Santa Marta, we want the Cheltenham there straight away. It’ll mean my having to speak to someone personally. Find out who that someone is. Perhaps the First Lord will do. Anyh
ow find out; then cable Templeton not to worry, tell him the Cheltenham is on its way.”
When the cable reached Santa Marta its recipient smiled. Poor old Bobbie. What a panic he was in. Still he supposed it didn’t matter. It would be pleasant to have a Man-of-war at anchor. It would be a diversion for the islanders. He would give a dance for the officers.
That morning there was a meeting of the Executive Council.
“I have what I am sure will be happy and reassuring news for you,” he informed them.
To his surprise the news proved anything but welcome, particularly to Norman.
“Nothing could do more harm to our plans for attracting tourists to the island. We shall undo all the good that we have done in entertaining those journalists. They are back now in America; we cannot explain to them what the true situation is. They will welcome the opportunity for an effective headline. They will present an alarmist picture of conditions here. They will scare tourists away. Look what happened in Grenada.”
In Grenada recently there had been a general strike. There had been incidents on the estates, stones had been thrown in the streets, a warship had been hurried to the rescue, bluejackets had been landed, tourists had been evacuated and it had taken the tourist trade in Grenada several seasons to recover from the consequent bad publicity. “We don’t want that to happen here,” said Norman.
He spoke with such vigor that the Governor was impressed. When the meeting was over, he sent for Whittingham.
“I’m speaking to you off the record. I should like to stop that warship coming here. I am assured that it will be bad publicity for the island’s tourist trade. It was a point that I will admit hadn’t occurred to me. I have always believed in the motto, if you wish for peace, prepare for war. I like the security that comes from a well-stocked armory. And so do you. But I see the point of the Tourist Board’s argument. How much actual danger is there?”
As Whittingham hesitated, the Governor produced his final selling point, the one that would be most likely to influence Whittingham.
“I’ll tell you how it strikes me: we ought to have sufficient forces in this colony to maintain order ourselves. If we haven’t, then we should strengthen our police forces. We ought to be self-sufficient. Are we? But remember I’m not going to hold it against you if there is greater trouble than we have a reason to expect.”
To that question, Whittingham could only give one answer.
“I should have welcomed a Man-of-war in the harbor, sir, because its presence would have acted as a deterrent, but I’m sure that we have enough forces to deal with any trouble that can arise.”
“Thank you, and remember, I promise you that this is off the record.”
The Governor drafted his Whitehall signal.
“Tourist Board convinced that unexpected arrival of battleship will scare away tourists as happened Grenada. Chief Police officer unofficially considers local police adequate any local emergency. Earnestly request you cancel orders Cheltenham”
The Minister shrugged when he read the message. Trust the man on the spot; yes, that was all very well in principle. But it was the man who appointed the man to the spot who was ultimately responsible for that man’s behavior. He had taken a risk when he appointed Templeton, a soldier and a cricketer, over the heads of career colonial officials. He had had a good press at the time. The Government had been congratulated on its wise appointment. But that was nine months ago. The honeymoon period was over. The new administration was open to criticisms from its own supporters. He couldn’t afford to make a mistake about Santa Marta. Better to have trouble in Kenya, better to have trouble in Malaya. The responsibility there would be less directly his. The appointments there were not of his making. The officials had not broken with tradition.
The telephone bell at his elbow rang.
“It’s your wife, sir, shall I put her through?”
“Yes, please.”
Marjorie’s voice was cool and calm and friendly.
“I’m sorry to interrupt you at your work. But I think it would be better if you didn’t pick me up here this evening. I may be a little late. Will you go straight to the Forresters’?”
He replaced the receiver thoughtfully. Why should she be a little late? The Forresters were in Hyde Park Gardens. Brompton Square was on the way there. Wouldn’t she want to be at home, to fix herself before going to the cocktail party? From where would she be coming? What might keep her? Was it his fancy, or had he detected during these last weeks that same kind of vagueness that had worried him eighteen months ago before he was in office? Was the novelty of being the wife of a minister wearing off? Was she becoming irritated by the frequent demands upon his time? Was she bored at having to meet so many politicians? That weekend at Chequers for example, where no one had talked anything but shop. He was overworked, worn out with detail; he did not give her the attention that she deserved, that she needed at her age. Maybe his only hold on her was the respect that she believed was owed to his position. If his head were to go in the Cabinet reshuffle—No, he couldn’t have trouble in Santa Marta.
He compromised. He sent Templeton a savings telegram, “Accept your man on the spot decision, Cheltenham will be within half day sail for next two weeks. Summon if situation worsens.”
He got on to the Admiralty by telephone. He explained the situation.
“But I don’t want trouble,” he insisted; “tell the captain of the Cheltenham not only to keep within half a day’s sail of Santa Marta, but in radio communication with the Governor.”
He then sent another signal to Santa Marta. He asked for a daily bulletin of events, and requested that G.H. should keep in touch with Cheltenham.
If the situation got worse, he himself would act whatever the man on the spot might say.
2
On the first Monday of the strike Carl Bradshaw sat on the veranda of the Continental Hotel after breakfast in a mood of irritated doubt. He had canceled his passage to New York on the Friday morning counseled by his nose for copy to stay on, but nothing seemed to be happening. Life was going on as usual. School children had loitered by with their books under their arms. Buses had come in from the districts crowded with chattering peasants. Empty lorries had set out for the districts, presumably to collect cane and copra. The shops were open; cars went honking by. It looked like any other day. His flair for news appeared to have misled him.
That was what he was thinking at half-past nine. Ten minutes later he was alert, curious, his antennae stretched. A station wagon had drawn up outside the hotel. Mr. Preston was at the wheel. His wife was beside him. Their two children were in the back. They were carrying a great deal of luggage.
Bradshaw left the veranda and sauntered to the reception desk. Mrs. Preston was demanding accommodation for herself and for her children.
“No,” she was saying. “One room will not be sufficient. Two double rooms, if you please. My husband is returning to his estate this afternoon. It is very foolish, but it is not my business to interfere. A wife should let her husband make his own decisions on such points. But I am convinced that he will be back by Wednesday. It is not safe out there. Yesterday was Sunday, and everybody went to church. But tonight after an idle day, no, it is no place for a white woman and her children.”
Bradshaw was relieved. So his hunch had been right.
“What’s happened?” he asked.
“Nothing so far: but I heard those drums in the hills. I could hear them all round me. And there were fires in the cane fields. Don’t tell me that that’s a coincidence. Yesterday was Sunday. They had occupation. Whatever they may say, I continue to believe that there’s cockfighting every Sunday. You could not expect anything to take place on Sunday: but later in the week after three days idleness, you know how hunters get when they are not exercised, there’ll be trouble right enough. No doubt about that.
“I’m not going to risk having my children out there at a time like this. Something might happen that would warp their minds for life.
Frank can go back there if he wants. He tells me it’s his duty. He may be right, I’m not contradicting him. I’ve been brought up to believe that a man stays at his post. A captain goes down with his ship. But a woman’s duty is to her children, to the next generation. A man sets the example. A wife trains the children in the light of that example. That was what we meant by noblesse oblige. Frank returns tonight. But I shall not be surprised if he is back within a week, with the house burnt down. Yes,” she insisted, turning again to the woman at the desk, “I must have two rooms.”
“What about the Fleurys?” Bradshaw asked.
“They haven’t made their minds up yet. We discussed it with them as we drove in. I believe they’re going to wait a little and see what happens. It’s very foolish of them, in view of Sylvia’s condition. You knew of that of course. Yes, of course you did. There’s no secrecy in a place like this. As I say they may wait too long: that’s what I told them this morning when we drove past. It’s no good being wise after the event.”
Wise after the event. It was what Maxwell himself had felt as he watched the Prestons’ station wagon curve down the road.
“I suppose they are really right,” he had said to Sylvia.
“I suppose they are.”
In his own mind he had no doubt they were, yet he was chained by a complete inertia. He did not want to move. Danger might be imminent, but it was still several hours distant. There was a ghostly silence over the estate. He had gone out as usual before breakfast to the boucan for the morning roll call. Nobody had been there but the manager. They had discussed the various problems incidental to the strike: the animals were the chief. The pigs had to be fed and the horses watered. There were a few estate boys who were not union members, but they would knock off work on the least provocation. They had to be closely supervised; Maxwell and his manager had worked out a division of responsibilities. Beyond that there was nothing to be done. The coconuts would lie where they fell. The cocoa pods would rot. They could only wait. He had returned to breakfast with the prospect of an idle, empty day ahead of him. It was a pleasant prospect. Nothing to do and Sylvia to idle with.