CAPTAIN FELLOWS sang loudly to himself, while the little motor chugged in the bows of the canoe. His big sunburned face was like the map of a mountain region—patches of varying brown with two small lakes that were his eyes. He composed his songs as he went, and his voice was quite tuneless. "Going home, going home, the food will be good for m-e-e. I don't like the food in the bloody citee." He turned out of the main stream into a tributary: a few alligators lay on the sandy margin. "I don't like your snouts, O trouts. I don't like your snouts, O trouts." He was a happy man.
   The banana plantations came down on either bank: his voice boomed under the hard sun: that and the churr of the motor were the only sounds anywhere—he was completely alone. He was borne up on a big tide of boyish joy—doing a mans job, the heart of the wild: he felt no responsibility for anyone. In only one other country had he felt more happy, and that was in war-time France, in the ravaged landscape of trenches. The tributary corkscrewed farther into the marshy overgrown state, and a buzzard lay spread out in the sky. Captain Fellows opened a tin box and ate a sandwich—food never tasted so good as out of doors. A monkey made a sudden chatter at him as he went by, and Captain Fellows felt happily at one with nature—a wide shallow kinship with all the world moved with the bloodstream through the veins: he was at home anywhere. The artful little devil, he thought, the artful little devil. He began to sing again—somebody else's words a little jumbled in his friendly unretentive memory. "Give to me the life I love, bread I dip in the river, under the wide and starry sky, the hunter's home from the sea." The plantations petered out, and far behind the mountains came into view, heavy black lines drawn low-down across the sky. A few bungalows rose out of the mud. He was home. A very slight cloud marred his happiness.
   He thought: After all, a man likes to be welcomed.
   He walked up to his bungalow: it was distinguished from [27] the others which lay along the bank by a tiled roof, a flagpost without a flag, a plate on the door with the title, "Central American Banana Company." Two hammocks were strung up on the veranda, but there was nobody about. Captain Fellows knew where to find his wife—it was not she he had expected. He burst boisterously through a door and shouted: 'Daddy's home." A scared thin face peeked at him through a mosquito net; his boots ground peace into the floor; Mrs. Fellows flinched away into the white muslin tent. He said: "Pleased to see me, Trix?" and she drew rapidly on her face the outline of her frightened welcome. It was like a trick you do with a blackboard. Draw a dog in one line without lifting the chalk—and the answer, of course, is a sausage.
   "I'm glad to be home," Captain Fellows said, and he believed it. It was his one firm conviction—that he really felt the correct emotions of love and joy and grief and hate. He had always been a good man at zero hour.
   "All well at the office?"
   "Fine," Fellows said, "fine."
   "I had a bit of fever yesterday."
   "Ah, you need looking after. You'll be all right now," he said vaguely, "that I'm home." He shied merrily away from the subject of fever—clapping his hands, a big laugh, while she trembled in her tent. "Where's Coral?"
   "She's with the policeman," Mrs. Fellows said.
   "I hoped she'd meet me," he said, roaming aimlessly about the little, inferior room, full of boot-trees, while his brain caught up with her. "Policeman? What policeman?"
   "He came last night and Coral let him sleep on the veranda. He's looking for somebody, she says."
   "What an extraordinary thing! Here?"
   "He's not an ordinary policeman. He's an officer. He left his men in the village—Coral says."
   "I do think you ought to be up," he said. "I mean—these fellows, you can't trust them." He felt no conviction when he added: "She's just a kid."
   "I tell you I had fever," Mrs. Fellows wailed. "I felt so terribly ill."
   "You'll be all right. just a touch of the sun. You'll see—now I'm home."
   [28] "I had such a headache. I couldn't read or sew. And then this man ..."
   Terror was always just behind her shoulder: she was wasted by the effort of not turning round. She dressed up her fear, so that she could look at it—in the form of fever, rats, unemployment. The real thing was taboo—death coming nearer every year in the strange place: everybody packing up and leaving, while she stayed in a cemetery no one visited, in a big aboveground tomb.
   He said: "I suppose I ought to go and see the man."
   He sat down on the bed and put his hand upon her arm. They had something in common—a kind of diffidence. He said absent-mindedly: "That dago secretary of the boss has gone."
   "Where?"
   "West." He could feel her arm go stiff: she strained away from him towards the wall. He had touched the taboo—he shared it, the bond was broken, he couldn't tell why. "Headache, darling?"
   "Hadn't you better see the man?"
   "Oh, yes, yes. I'll be off." But he didn't stir: it was the child who came to him
   She stood in the doorway watching them with a look of immense responsibility. Before her serious gaze they became a boy you couldn't trust and a ghost you could almost puff away: a piece of frightened air. She was very young—about thirteen—and at that age you are not afraid of many things, age and death, all the things which may turn up, snake-bite and fever and rats and a bad smell. Life hadn't got at her yet: she had a false air of impregnability. But she had been reduced already, as it were, to the smallest terms—everything was there but on the thinnest lines. That was what the sun did to a child, reduced it to a framework. The gold bangle on the bony wrist was like a padlock on a canvas door a fist could break. She said: "I told the policeman you were home."
   "Oh, yes, yes," Captain Fellows said. "Got a kiss for your old father?"
   She came solemnly across the room and kissed him formally upon the forehead—he could feel the lack of meaning. She had other things to think about. She said: "I told cook that mother would not be getting up for dinner."
   [29] "I think you ought to make the effort, dear," Captain Fellows said.
   "Why?" Coral said.
   "Oh well ..."
   Coral said: "I want to talk to you alone." Mrs. Fellows shifted inside her tent—just so she could be certain Coral would arrange the final evacuation. Common sense was a horrifying quality she had never possessed: it was common sense which said: "The dead can't hear" or "She can't know now" or "Tin flowers are more practical."
   "I don't understand," Captain Fellows said uneasily, "why your mother shouldn't hear."
   "She wouldn't want to go. It would only scare her."
   Coral—he was accustomed to it by now—had an answer to everything. She never spoke without deliberation: she was prepared—but sometimes the answers she had prepared seemed to him of a wildness. ... They were based on the only life she could remember—this. The swamp and vultures and no children anywhere, except a few in the village, with bellies swollen by worms, who ate dirt from the bank, inhumanly. A child is said to draw parents together, and certainly he felt an immense unwillingness to entrust himself to this child. Her answers might carry him anywhere. He felt through the net for his wife's hand—secretively: they were adults together. This was the stranger in their house. He said boisterously: "You're frightening us."
   "I don't think," the child said, with care, "that you'll be frightened."
   He said weakly, pressing his wife's hand: "Well, my dear, our daughter seems to have decided ..."
   "First you must see the policeman. I want him to go. I don't like him."
   "Then he must go, of course," Captain Fellows said, with a hollow unconfident laugh.
   "I told him that. I said we couldn't refuse him a hammock for the night, when he arrived so late. But now he must go."
   "And he disobeyed you?"
   "He said he wanted to speak to you."
   "He little knew," Captain Fellows said, "he little knew." Irony was his only defence, but it was not understood: nothing [30] was understood which was not clear—like an alphabet or a simple sum or a date in history. He relinquished his wife's hand and allowed himself to be led unwillingly into the afternoon sun. The police officer stood in front of the veranda: a motionless olive figure: he wouldn't stir a foot to meet Captain Fellows.
   "Well, lieutenant?" Captain Fellows said breezily. It occurred to him that Coral had more in common with the policeman than with himself.
   "I am looking for a man," the lieutenant said: "He has been reported in this district."
   "He can't be here."
   "Your daughter tells me the same."
   "She knows."
   "He is wanted on a very serious charge."
   "Murder?"
   "No. Treason."
   "Oh, treason," Captain Fellows said, all his interest dropping: there was so much treason everywhere—it was like petty larceny in a barracks.
   "He is a priest. I trust you will report at once if he is seen." The lieutenant paused. "You are a foreigner living under the protection of our laws. We expect you to make a proper return for our hospitality. You are not a Catholic?"
   "No."
   "Then I can trust you to report?" the lieutenant said.
   "I suppose so."
   The lieutenant stood there like a little dark menacing question mark in the sun: his attitude seemed to indicate that he wouldn't even accept the benefit of shade from a foreigner. But he had used a hammock: that, Captain Fellows supposed, he must have regarded as a requisition. "Have a glass of gaseosa?"
   "No. No, thank you."
   "Well," Captain Fellows said, "I can't offer you anything else, can I? It's treason to drink spirits."
   The lieutenant suddenly turned on his heel as if he could no longer bear the sight of them and strode away along the path which led to the village: his gaiters and his pistol-holster winked in the sunlight. When he had gone some way they could see him pause and spit: he had not been discourteous, he had waited till he supposed that they no longer watched him before [31] he got rid of his hatred and contempt for a different way of life, for ease, safety, toleration, and complacency.
   "I wouldn't want to be up against him," Captain Fellows said.
   "Of course he doesn't trust us."
   "They don't trust anyone."
   "I think," Coral said. "he smelt a rat."
   "They smell them everywhere."
   "You see, I wouldn't let him search the place."
   "Why ever not?" Captain Fellows said—and then his vague mind went off at a tangent. "How did you stop him?"
   "I said I'd loose the dogs on him—and complain to the Minister. He hadn't any right ..."
   "Oh, right," Captain Fellows said. "They carry their right on their hips. It wouldn't have done any harm to let him look."
   "I gave him my word." She was as inflexible as the lieutenant: small and black and out of place among the banana groves. Her candour made allowances for nobody: the future, full of compromises, anxieties, and shame, lay outside: the gate was dosed which would one day let it in. But at any moment now a word, a gesture, the most trivial act might be her sesame—to what? Captain Fellows was touched with fear: he was aware of an inordinate love: it robbed him of authority. You cannot control what you love—you watch it driving recklessly towards the broken bridge, the torn-up track, the horror of seventy years ahead. He dosed his eyes—he was a happy man——and hummed a tune.
   Coral said: "I shouldn't have liked a man like that to catch me out—lying, I mean."
   "Lying? Good God," Captain Fellows said, "you don't mean he's here?"
   "Of course he's here," Coral said.
   "Where?"
   "In the big barn," she explained gently.
   "We couldn't let them catch him."
   "Does your mother know about this?"
   She said with devastating honesty: "Oh, no. I couldn't trust her." She was independent of both of them: they belonged together in the past. In forty years' time they would be dead as last year's dog. He said: "You'd better show me."
   He walked slowly: happiness drained out of him more [32] quickly and completely than out of an unhappy man: an unhappy man is always prepared. As she walked in front of him, her two meagre tails of hair bleaching in the sunlight, it occurred to him for the first time that she was of an age when Mexican girls were ready for their first man. What was to happen? He flinched away from problems which he had never dared to confront. As they passed the window of his bedroom he caught sight of a thin shape lying bunched and bony and alone in a mosquito tent. He remembered with self-pity and nostalgia his happiness on the river, doing a man's job without thinking of other people. If I had never married. ... He wailed like a child at the merciless immature back: "We've no business interfering in their politics."
   "This isn't politics," she said gently. "I know about politics. Mother and I are doing the Reform Bill." She took a key out of her pocket and unlocked the big barn in which they stored bananas before sending them down the river to the port. It was very dark inside after the glare: there was a scuffle in a corner. Captain Fellows picked up an electric torch and shone it on somebody in a torn, dark suit—a small man who blinked and needed a shave.
   "Que es usted?" Captain Fellows said.
   "I speak English." He clutched a small attaché case to his side, as if he were waiting to catch a train he must on no account miss.
   "You've no business here."
   "No," the man said, "no."
   "It's nothing to do with us," Captain Fellows said. "We are foreigners."
   The man said: "Of course. I will go." He stood with his head a little bent like a man in an orderly-room listening to an officer's decision. Captain Fellows relented a little. He said: "You'd better wait till dark. You don't want to be caught."
   "No."
   "Hungry?"
   "A little. It does not matter." He said with a rather repulsive humility: "If you would do me a favour ..."
   "What?"
   "A little brandy."
   "I'm breaking the law enough for you as it is," Captain [33] Fellows said. He strode out of the barn, feeling twice the size, leaving the small bowed figure in the darkness among the bananas. Coral locked the door and followed him. "What a religion!" Captain Fellows said. "Begging for brandy. Shameless."
   "But you drink it sometimes."
   "My dear," Captain Fellows said, "when you are older you'll understand the difference between drinking a little brandy after dinner and—well, needing it."
   "Can I take him some beer?"
   "You won't take him anything."
   "The servants wouldn't be safe."
   He was powerless and furious; he said: "You see what a hole you've put us in." He stumped back into the house and into his bedroom, roaming restlessly among the boot-trees. Mrs. Fellows slept uneasily, dreaming of weddings. Once she said aloud: "My train. Be careful of my train."
   "What's that?" he said petulantly. "What's that?"
   Dark fell like a curtain: one moment the sun was there, the next it had gone. Mrs. Fellows woke to another night. "Did you speak, dear?"
   "It was you who spoke," he said. "Something about trains."
   "I must have been dreaming."
   "It will be a long time before they have trains here," he said, with gloomy satisfaction. He came and sat on the bed, keeping away from the window: out of sight, out of mind. The crickets were beginning to chatter and beyond the mosquito wire fireflies moved like globes. He put his heavy, cheery, needing-to-be-reassured hand on the shape under the sheet and said: "It's not such a bad life, Trixy. Is it now? Not a bad life?" But he could feel her stiffen: the word "life" was taboo: it reminded you of death. She turned her face away from him towards the wall and then hopelessly back again—the phrase "turn to the wall" was taboo too. She lay panic-stricken, while the boundaries of her fear widened and widened to include every relationship and the whole world of inanimate things: it was like an infection. You could look at nothing for long without becoming aware that it, too, carried the germ ... the word "sheet" even. She threw the sheet off her and said: "It's so hot, it's so hot." The usually happy and the always unhappy one watched the night [34] thicken from the bed with distrust. They were companions cut off from all the world: there was no meaning anywhere outside their own hearts: they were carried like children in a coach through the huge spaces without any knowledge of their destination. He began to hum with desperate cheerfulness a song of the war years: he wouldn't listen to the footfall in the yard outside, going in the direction of the barn.
 
   Coral put down the chicken legs and tortillas on the ground and unlocked the door. She carried a bottle of Cerveza Moctezuma under her arm. There was the same scuffle in the dark: the noise of a frightened man. She said: "It's me," to quieten him, but she didn't turn on the torch. She said: "There's a bottle of beer here, and some food."
   "Thank you. Thank you."
   "The police have gone from the village—south. You had better go north."
   He said nothing.
   She asked, with the cold curiosity of a child: "What would they do to you if they found you?"
   "Shoot me."
   "You must be very frightened," she said with interest.
   He felt his way across the barn towards the door and the pale starlight. He said: "I am frightened," and stumbled on a bunch of bananas.
   "Can't you escape from here?"
   "I tried. A month ago. The boat was leaving and then—I was summoned."
   "Somebody needed you?"
   "She didn't need me," he said bitterly. Coral could just see his face now, as the world swung among the stars: what her father would call an untrustworthy face. He said: "You see how unworthy I am. Talking like this."
   "Unworthy of what?"
   He clasped his little attaché case closely and said: "Could you tell me what month it is? Is it still February?"
   "No. It's the seventh of March."
   "I don't often meet people who know. That means another month—six weeks—before the rains." He went on: "When the rains come I am nearly safe. You see, the police can't get about."
   [35] "The rains are best for you?" she asked: she had a keen desire to learn. The Reform Bill and Senlac and a little French Jay like treasure-trove in her brain. She expected answers to every question, and she absorbed them hungrily.
   "Oh, no, no. They mean another six months living like this." He tore at a chicken leg. She could smell his breath: it was disagreeable, like something which has lain about too long in the heat. He said: "I'd rather be caught."
   "But can't you," she said logically, "just give yourself up?"
   He had answers as plain and understandable as her questions. He said: "There's the pain. To choose pain like that—it's not possible. And it's my duty not to be caught. You see, my bishop is no longer here." Curious pedantries moved him. "This is my parish." He found a tortilla and began to eat ravenously.
   She said solemnly: "It's a problem." She could hear a gurgle as he drank out of the bottle. He said: "I try to remember how happy I was once." A firefly lit his face like a torch and then went out—a tramp's face: what could ever have made it happy? He said: "In Mexico City now they are saying Benediction. The bishop's there ... Do you imagine he ever thinks …? They don't even know I'm alive."
   She said: "Of course you could—renounce."
   "I don't understand."
   "Renounce your faith," she said, using the words of her European History.
   He said: "It's impossible. There's no way. I'm a priest. It's out of my power."
   The child listened intently. She said: "Like a birthmark" She could hear him sucking desperately at the bottle. She said: "I think I could find my father's brandy."
   "Oh, no, you mustn't steal." He drained the beer: a long whistle in the darkness: the last drop must have gone. He said: "I must go. At once."
   "You can always come back here."
   "Your father would not like it."
   "He needn't know," she said. "I could look after you. My room is just opposite this door. You would just tap at my window. Perhaps," she went seriously on, "it would be better to have a code. You see, somebody else might tap."
   [36] He said in a horrified voice: "Not a man?"
   "Yes. You never know. Another fugitive from justice."
   "Surely," he asked in bewilderment, "that is not likely?"
   She said airily: "These things do happen."
   "Before today?"
   "No, but I expect they will again. I want to be prepared. You must tap three times. Two long taps and a short one." He giggled suddenly like a child. "How do you tap a long tap?"
   "Like this."
   "Oh, you mean a loud one?"
   "I call them long taps—because of Morse." He was hopelessly out of his depth. He said: "You are very good. Will you pray for me?"
   "Oh," she said, "I don't believe in that."
   "Not in praying?"
   "You see, I don't believe in God. I lost my faith when I was ten."
   "Dear, dear," he said. "Then I will pray for you."
   "You can," she said patronizingly, "if you like. If you come again I shall teach you the Morse code. It would be useful to you."
   "How?"
   "If you were hiding in the plantation I could flash to you with my mirror news of the enemy's movements."
   He listened seriously. "But wouldn't they see you?"
   "Oh," she said, "I would invent an explanation." She moved logically forward a step at a time, eliminating all objections. "Good-bye, my child," he said.
   He lingered by the door. "Perhaps—you do not care for prayers. Perhaps you would like ... I know a good conjuring trick."
   "I like tricks."
   "You do it with cards. Have you any cards?"
   "No."
   He sighed. "Then that's no good," and giggled—she could smell the beer on his breath—"I shall just have to pray for you."
   She said: "You don't sound afraid."
   "A little drink," he said, "will work wonders in a cowardly [37] man. With a little brandy, why, I'd defy—the devil." He stumbled in the doorway.
   "Good-bye," she said. "I hope you'll escape." A faint sigh came out of the darkness: she said gently: "If they kill you I shan't forgive them—ever." She was ready to accept any responsibility, even that of vengeance, without a second thought. It was her life.
 
   Half a dozen huts of mud and wattle stood in a clearing; two were in ruins. A few pigs rooted round, and an old woman carried a burning ember from hut to hut, lighting a little fire on the centre of each floor to fill the hut with smoke and keep mosquitoes away. Women lived in two of the huts, the pigs in another, in the last unruined hut, where maize was stored, an old man and a boy and a tribe of rats. The old man stood in the clearing watching the fire being carried round: it flickered through the darkness like a ritual repeated at the same hour for a lifetime. White hair, a white stubbly beard, and hands brown and fragile as last year's leaves, he gave an effect of immense permanence. Nothing much could ever change him, living on the edge of subsistence. He had been old for years.
   The stranger came into the clearing. He wore what used to be town shoes, black and pointed: only the uppers were left, so that he walked to all intents barefoot. The shoes were symbolic, like the cobwebbed flags in churches. He wore a shirt and a pair of black torn trousers and he carried his attaché case—as if he were a season-ticket holder. He had nearly reached the state of permanency too, but he carried about with him still the scars of time—the damaged shoes implied a different past, the lines on his face suggested hopes and fears of the future. The old woman with the ember stopped between two huts and watched him. He came on into the clearing with his eyes on the ground and his shoulders hunched, as if he felt exposed. The old man advanced to meet him: he took the stranger's hand and kissed it.
   "Can you let me have a hammock for the night?"
   "Ah, father, for a hammock you must go to a town. Here you must take only the luck of the road."
   "Never mind. Anywhere to lie down. Can you give me—a little spirit?"
   [38] "Coffee, father. We have nothing else."
   "Some food."
   "We have no food."
   "Never mind."
   The boy came out of the hut and watched them: everybody watched: it was like a bull-fight: the animal was tired and they awaited the next move. They were not hard-hearted: they were watching the rare spectacle of something worse off than themselves. He limped on towards the hut. Inside it was dark from the knees upwards: there was no flame on the floor, just a slow burning away. The place was half-filled by a stack of maize: rats rustled among the dry outer leaves. There was a bed made of earth with a straw mat on it, and two packing—cases made a table. The stranger lay down, and the old man closed the door on them both.
   "Is it safe?"
   "The boy will watch. He knows."
   "Were you expecting me?"
   "No, father. But it is five years since we have seen a priest … it was bound to happen one day."
   The priest fell uneasily asleep, and the old man crouched on the floor, fanning the fire with his breath. Somebody tapped on the door and the priest jerked upright. "It is all right," the old man said. "Just your coffee, father." He brought it to him—grey maize coffee smoking in a tin mug, but the priest was too tired to drink. He lay on his side perfectly still: a rat watched him from the maize.
   "The soldiers were here yesterday," the old man said. He blew on the fire: smoke poured up and filled the hut. The priest began to cough, and the rat moved quickly like the shadow of a hand into the stack.
   "The boy, father, has not been baptized. The last priest who was here wanted two pesos. I had only one peso. Now I have only fifty centavos."
   "Tomorrow," the priest said wearily. "Will you say Mass, father, in the morning?"
   "Yes, yes."
   "And Confession, father, will you hear our confessions?"
   "Yes, but let me sleep first." He turned on his back and closed his eyes to keep out the smoke.
   [39] "We have no money, father, to give you. The other priest, Padre José ..."
   "Give me some clothes instead," he said impatiently.
   "But we have only what we wear."
   "Take mine in exchange."
   The old man hummed dubiously to himself, glancing sideways at what the fire showed of the black torn cloth. "If I must, father," he said. He blew quietly at the fire for a few minutes. The priest's eyes closed again.
   "After five years there is so much to confess."
   The priest sat up quickly. "What was that?" he said.
   "You were dreaming, father. The boy will warn us if the soldiers come. I was only saying—"
   "Can't you let me sleep for five minutes?" He lay down again: somewhere, in one of the women's huts, someone was singing—"I went down to my field and there I found a rose."
   The old man said softly: "It would be a pity if the soldiers came before we had time ... such a burden on poor souls, father …" The priest shouldered himself upright against the wall and said furiously: "Very well. Begin. I will hear your confession." The rats scuffled in the maize. "Go on then," he said. "Don't waste time. Hurry. When did you last ..." The old man knelt beside the fire, and across the clearing the woman sang: "I went down to my field and the rose was withered."
   "Five years ago." He paused and blew at the fire. "It's hard to remember, father."
   "Have you sinned against purity?"
   The priest leant against the wall with his legs drawn up beneath him, and the rats accustomed to the voices moved again in the maize. The old man picked out his sins with difficulty, blowing at the fire. "Make a good act of contrition," the priest said, "and say—say—have you a rosary?—then say the Joyful Mysteries." His eyes closed, his lips and tongue stumbled over the Absolution, failed to finish ... he sprang awake again.
   "Can I bring the women?" the old man was saying. "It is five years ..."
   "Oh, let them come. Let them all come!" the priest cried angrily. "I am your servant." He put his hand over his eyes and began to weep. The old man opened the door: it was [40] not completely dark outside under the enormous arc of starry ill-lit sky. He went across to the women's huts and knocked. "Come," he said. "You must say your confessions. It is only polite to the father." They wailed at him that they were tired ... the morning would do. "Would you insult him?" he said. "What do you think he has come here for? He is a very holy father. There he is in my hut now weeping for our sins." He hustled them out: one by one they picked their way across the clearing towards the hut: and the old man set off down the path towards the river to take the place of the boy who watched the ford for soldiers.