Limekiller!

LIMEKILLER AT LARGE

Night. and not plenilune, either. You can bet your boots. Limekiller has no boots, he has, though, a shovel. Limekiller feels that if he eats another pannikin of rice and beans or of the thin chowder called fish-tea that he. that he. What he is after, he is after turtle-eggs so significant a source of insult in the rich, rich Chinese culture, largely represented in British Hidalgo, by the canny and philoprogenitive merchant Aurelio Aung and about 327 of his descendants. Better be exceedingly careful in talking about turtles to the Aung. More better say as little as possible about eggs at all to any of them. To ask, even to ask. “Don Aurelio, do you think it’s going to rain?” would bring conversation to a sudden and deathly-still halt. As for that sole man ever known to have placed his hand on the ancient and naked head of old Aurelio Aung (for what reason, knows only God), death did not exactly come on swift wings, but it is certain that Aurelio Aung III felled him with a kick he had learned before kung fu became well-known in the regions of the dark west and that Aurelio Aung, Jr. had assisted III to propel the man down a flight of steps at the bottoms of which a throng or tong of unnumbered Aung were waiting to and did kick him with many sharp kicks of their sharp- pointed shoes (they being fashionable, and Old Aung had imported them and sold them in considerable numbers) before P.C. Oscar Spencer C. Featherstonehaugh Smith, then on duty, had finished strolling over quite leisurely. It may not have been a capital offense “to kill a Chinaman” in Pecos, Texas, during the incumbency of Judge Roy Bean; but it was quite a serious offense to insult Aurelio Aung in King Town, the ancient and moldering capital — as the man commonly called Bloody Whoop-whoop, a citizen of a Commonwealth Country (not, thank God, Canada!) soon found out. For not only was he subsequently refused service at hotels, bars, and brothels, but within no less than eighty-seven hours had been declared an Inadmissible Person (“in that he did disturb the peace of Her Majesty’s Realm in British Hidalgo in a state of drunkenness by shouting ‘Delete the Oueen and all those other damn Dutch delete,’ and did assault one Aurelio Aung Senior a loyal subject of her Majesty,” etc. etc. for several other charges: of which others he had indeed been guilty but otherwise nothing more than a tolerant smile would have come of them); and was propelled by the pink palms of no less than three police sergeants across the Spanish-speaking border of a neighboring Republic. Which was the end of that. Though the pelicans and the hedgehogs may have picked his bones, and the satyrs danced upon them; serve him right.

For, over the course of many, many years, as John Lutwidge (Jack) Limekiller had learned, as follows: the turtle having a shell cannot copulate with other turtles and hence has conjugal union with a snake and is therefore (the turtle) w-ritten with the Chinese character meaning Forgets Filial Piety; by touching with one’s palm the shell of the turtle one can tell if it is going to rain or not (Jack did not learn exactly how, and very much forebore to ask): therefore to imply that some one is a turtle or a turtle’s eggs is somehow to insinuate several ugly matrimonial skeletons in some one’s family- closet… or sandalwood chest. Oh dear.

And as for the flexible yet muscular neck-and-head of the turtle extendable and retractable, references to and comparison with any particular member peculiar to the male anatomy are surely so obvious that only a turtle — But enough. The Aung family was clever. It was cognitive. It was commercial. It would do business in almost anything from galbanum to guppies. But it would not do business with turtles. And it would certainly not do business with turtles’ eggs. Indeed as a general thing it would not admit knowing that turtles had eggs.

This left the local turtle-egg-hunting field narrowed down to only the Bayfolk, the Black Arawack, the White Creoles, and the Brown Panyars. All of whom admired the Aung family tremendously.

But did not share their prejudices.

At all.

But Smith-Piggott cared for none of these things.

Augustus Smith-Piggott, Permanent Undersecretary to Government, was a fixture. Legislatures, Governors, Cabinet Ministers, came and went: Smith-Piggott alone remained. His laccolithic face was in itself a monument to Empire; indeed, he was a one-man proverb all in his own right, to wit, “You no say ‘No’ to Smeet-Peeggott!” And on the day when he had decided that the turtles of the deeps (and perhaps even the shallows) might be endangered, the fate of legal hunting of their eggs was sealed.

Suppose that you were a young man, of full age, and although in very good health, felt that you had admired the Canadian snowscape fully as much as Kipling had, and now desired to copy Kipling in another manner, and survey the warmer souths: you, too (provided that your passport was in good order and that you were not on one of those Wanted for Extradition information sheets which circulate, sunset or not, throughout what used to be the British Empire. You might also have found yourself considering coconuts in place of maple leaves; Dr. Benjamin Jowett (My name it is Benjamin Jowett/ Whatever is knowledge 1 know it/ I’m the Provost of Trinity College/ And what I do not know is not knowledge.), in a bit of a snit, had once observed that there were more sun-worshippers than Anglicans in Her Majesty’s dominions; and perhaps there still are.

All of which is beside the point at issue or where is it at, the point being (a) that Limekiller was hungry, and (b) that it was Inhibited “to trap, dredge, catch, dig, trench, or otherwise secure the eggs of the great sea-turtle, the lesser-sea-turtle, the green or the hawksbill turtle, or any other turtle, tortoise, hiccatee, or bocatura whatsoever from any point upon or within one league of the seacoast of Her Majesty’s Colony of British Hidalgo during such months which may be gazetted for purposes of said Inhibitions and all persons who may contravene such inhibitions shall be given into custody… to serve at hard labour at Her Majesty’s pleasure for not more than one year and one day, etc.” — it being damned well- understood in common-law and chancery that you might, if the Crown wanted it, serve every single day of such sentence for every single egg they caught you with.

Limekiller was very hungry?

He was.

Otherwise catch him at the wane of the moon with very little light save that supplied by the phosphorescent wash of the weaves and the great and glittering stars clad only in shirt and britches (it was his bad shirt, too, for his good one had been just washed and hung drying from some ratlines or something on his boat Saccharissa) and with a shovel. Limekiller did indeed appreciate the need for keeping the sea-turtle or whatever was its particular name (Sadie? Lou? Jane?) from being egg-hunted to extinction; he also appreciated that its newly-surfaced hatchlings en route to the Stream of Ocean (just open Homer at random. “Agamemnon shook his great purple cloak and with a great cry [or, loudly breaking wind], spake these winged words, ‘Out upon thee, thou caitiff dog, and get thee gone from the camps of the well-greaved Aechaeans [or, pos. the Greeks with swollen legs], ne’er taking breath till thou reach the Stream of Ocean, and take care thou offend not the Turtle-eaters dwelling thereby, whom Apollo and Poseidon delight twice a year to visit. ’ “ See?) the newly-hatched and tiny turtles on route from their nests to the water were swooped down upon and eaten by predators innumerable, and he hoped that the dozen or so eggs he might take never would be missed; though perhaps in all this he was Wrong. And if he were asked why, nevertheless, he was doing so, he might answer, as did a well- known vegetarian found eating a steak, “I was hungry.”

Aurelio Aung y compania might extend credit once, he/they might (though less likely) extend credit twice, but after that appeals for credit would only send him/them back to the abacus. Hence see Limekiller, his boat moored up a creek by the mangroves brown, pacing the beach under cover of night. And what would George II have thought about it all?

Neither history nor poetry had been very kind to George III. One poet has perhaps summed it up:

George Third

Ought never to have occurred.

Such a blunder

Makes one wonder.

Deft, no? Eh?

Of George I, we retain dull memories that he, not being able to speak English, thus became the first British Sovereign not to attend cabinet meetings, to the great advantage of Constitutional Government. But of George II — well, what of George II? The answer must only be: nothing. Nothing much in England, nothing good in Scotland, nothing much good in Ireland, and certainly nothing at all in British Columbia. But in British Hidalgo: a great deal more than nothing: for when it came to the second George’s attention that the Spanish Viceroy of Mexico or perhaps Peru (history is a little blurry as to this) was caught out in sketching plans to invade the sea-coast of British Hidalgo (which was, in those days, almost all sea-coast), did not George II declare that, if this were done, “He vould, py Got, pompard der coasts of Shpain!”? This has been forgotten in Britain (it has probably been forgotten in Spain, both nations having had very long and very bad headaches from their respective and very disrespectful empires); it has never been forgotten in British Hidalgo; “the Spaniard” — as he is always called, collectively — having foreborne to make the planned invasion.

To this day, in fact, in Woodcutters Cove, that forgotten last refuge of the White Creoles, there is still a statue of this bristly little monarch. True, it is only half life-size, and the sculptor has pictured him wearing the armor and tunic of a Roman general, with the result that there is a subversive school of thought which maintains stubbornly that it is a statue of Queen Victoria in corset and petticoat. But that is neither here nor there; and, alas, increasingly, that is where one nowadays mostly finds the White Creoles of the Colony, to wit: neither here nor there. the principal exception being, of course, Woodcutters Cove. Darker and more vigorous races have in large part taken over, elsewhere. The children of Asia (of both ends and of the middle) run most of the shops. The civil service and police constabulary are mostly Bayfolk (which is to say, mostly Black or Tan). Most of the farming around there is done by Panyars, as the entirely Mestizo population is called. The Black Arawacks, who are culturally Amerindian, do most of the fishing. What then do the White Creoles do? They do what log-cutting is still being done thereabouts. Aniline dyes have swept away the demand for logwood, and the mahogany has long been exhausted. But when baulks of rosewood and spars of pine or Santa Maria, logs of serricoty, or emmory, are cut, it is the White Creoles who cut it. And w’hen not doing that, they sit upon their verandahs, drinking rum and watered lime-juice, and they murmur of Good King George’s Golden Davs. that Good King being, of course, George II.

“‘Tired of fish-tea and rice-and-beans’?” Ruddy — for Rudderick — Goforth repeated, as one should repeat, “'Tired of life?”’

“Pretty tired of’m, yes,” Limekiller agreed. He sipped from the bottom of his glass. There hadn’t been much rum to start with and it had been of low proof: but the lime-tree after all grew in the front yard, and even if one didn’t know much else, one knew that lime- juice kept away the dreaded scurvy. There was, this time, a different and a more bitter taste in the glass, but no mystery was involved. and neither was Angostura. idly he picked up the piece of paper which Ruddy had copied, he said, from an old book, and read once more the careful capitals.

A Sovran Cure for The Small Feaver. Take one small bottle of white Rum called by Ye Spaniard a chaparita and lay therein three twigs of the Yerb Contribo and lett it steep for three Dayes. Drink 7 oz? morning and one ozz Evening for 3 dayes and Ye maye see Ye Feaver abate. Canton [sic] do not use same Twiggs more than thrice.

It was an old “old book.” Ruddy asked how “Jock” was feeling. “Jock” shrugged. “I guess the fever’s gone down,” he said. “It wasn’t much of a fever anyway.”

Ruddy covered his long chin with his long hand, and took thought. “Well… if the fever has gone down. and you still hasn’t got no appetite

“Didn’t say that I have no appetite. Said that I have no appetite for fish-tea and rice-and-beans.”

Goforth looked upward, as though an information might be lodged on the ridge-pole of his house. From the outside, nothing looked trashier than the thatched roof of a “trash house,” at once shaggy and so soon shabby: from the inside, nothing looked more beautiful and more symmetrical: compensation, this was called. John L. Limekiller could not see it, but evidently Rod. Goforth could, and — having found the information — took his hand away from his chin and slowly opened his mouth. Also in the yard were the purple-drooping jacaranda trees. The book said its flowers were blue. blue!. but any fool could see they were purple.

Almost as though determined to exhibit a prime feature of the classical old White Creole accent, R. Goforth said, “Vhat you vants to do is to elewate your wittles.” He gave a great nod.

“‘Elevate my —

“Get you a tin of carn-beef. Get you a tin of peas-with-salad- cream.”

He almost smacked his lips as he named these imported delicacies, and sounded rather like a physician of the previous century recommending a couple of dozen oysters, some canvas- back duck, and a pint of champagne.

His guest sighed. “What I’d like to get me is some back-bacon and a couple of eggs. But when I mentioned write-it-down to Domingo Aung,” the entire Aung extended family, to which Aurelio w'as Titular Uncle, maintained the tradition of Spanish- language given-names perhaps dating back to days when kings named Alfonso reigned over Manila as well as Malaga; “to Domingo Aung, he suddenly got very hard of hearing.”

R. Goforth signified by a sort of rictus that wrell he knew the occasional auricular difficulty of Aurelio Aung and Clan. Then, “I tells you vhat,” said he. “You vants to picquet the beach at night, and get you a few' tortle eggs; bock-bacon, forget about it until you gets rich again.”

And he told Jack this, and he toldjack that, and he toldjack a few other things; also he told Jack this. “Ond in case they should apprehend you, vhich I werv much doubts, as po-licemen doesn’t vant to poke around such places at night unless eat ease really big-time, but suppose they should:, here is vhat you remember: stout denial. You does understand that? Neh-wer confess! E-wen if ah dead body lie before you, stout. denial! Maybe it fool you, get up and valk avay, maybe somebody help it valk. The Lah of Ewwidence is ah chancy thing. This is a British country — this is not a Frinch country — not a Spaniard country — the police gots to produce ewwidence you are guilty. So —”

‘“Stout. denial.”'

“Stout. denial.“

Likely, (Limekiller was thinking, waiting on the log just above highwater mark) likely if his lovely lady, Felix, was hereabouts he would have found something better to do of nights. Also, Felix (nee Felicia) would have spurred him on to borrow a shotgun and go hunting gibnut, or maybe even armadillo. wild-hog. antelope (very w'ell: it was really a small dear, it ate well, didn’t it). But Felix and her cousin May w'ere in King Town, getting their residence permits renewed, shopping for piece goods and native arts and crafts, getting books out of the National Library: officially, Unoffidally: also going to parties and to events very generally called funs. Maybe he, Jack, did not altogether like this last notion, for who knows whom Felix might meet? But he did not own her, nor her gleaming copper-red hair, nor her lovely long body; and he could not control her goings or her doings. So.

Here he was, and what was that, barely he could see it but he could see it, its back breaking the surface of the water (not the surf, no, there was no surf to speak of within the reef-protected waters of the Great Bay of Hidalgo: the water).? Sure enough, as it came nearer and nearer, only a turtle would be homing in to land amid the shallows. The creature seemed to give no heed to possible danger, it hesitated not for a single moment, on it came, in it came, up it came, it dragged its large body up upon the beach and, propelling its bulk across the sands, crawled and crawled and. then it stopped. Began to dig. Kept on digging.

He could not only see the sand it was excavating with its hind flippers, he could hear it falling back down; he could also hear. and had been hearing. faint sounds of music from Woodcutters Cove Town. principally the faint sounds of the juke-boxes in the various “liquor booths,” not indeed of Creole or Bayfolk music, for those traditions were alas dying: of the recorded popular music of the United States, of Jamaica. And also, or instead, as the soft wind shifted, as the rock and reggae paused long enough sometimes for the records to be changed, he heard something else, heard a music quite different: it was, must be, could only be, the sound of Mrs. Standish playing her spinnet. It was of course softer than the sounds of the clamorous juke-boxes, but it was also nearer. Almost an axiom: the tropics are not kind to stringed instruments. No, and perhaps the tropics were not particularly kind to Mrs. Standish, either; she was the wife of the Anglican minister, Limekiller had not officially met her, but he had more than once seen her, an aging woman with a loosening face and figure. Mister Standish had a Dedicated countenance and it grew more Dedicated with the passing of time; Mrs. Standish’s face merely grew older.

The sand flashed, the sand fell. Why should the sand flash? Was that only the sand he was hearing? Did sand clash and ring? He did not want to disturb the great sea-she-turtle, assuming it to be disturbable, but he was moved to arise and to get him, so softly as he could, adown the nighttime sands. The turtle showed no signs of alarm — of, even, awareness: slowly he drew near. Surely. surely not!

I walked along the evening sea

And dreamed a dream which could not be.

The evening waves, breaking on the shore,

Said only, Dreamer, dream no more.

Where was that from? Who cared. He stooped. His hands moved in the heap of cast-up sand. His fingers clutched a something, and he drew it out. He drew out a few more. Deliberating himself be calm, he took his shirt off and spread it on the beach a few feet away from the constantly-increasing heaps of sand, and, finding no stone, anchored it first with a chunk of coconut shell. Then he could contain himself no longer; into the wood which fringed the beach he went, crouched, carefully considered the matter of direction, struck a match. Looked. Was Charles II indeed King of France as well as of England, Scotland, Ireland? Probably not, probably it was not even an idle boast but merely a habit, a reflex, to describe him as such. No King of England if not King of France.? — but that was long before. The mosquitoes, no longer kept even somewhat at bay by the sea-breezes, fiercely sounded their shrill sounds and attacked: let them. He held in his hand, John Lutwidge Limekiller, a coin of twenty-one shillings and minted (presumably) from gold mined in the great Kingdom of Guinea; he had little idea — he had none! — what the current value of such a coin might be, but he knew that it had to be more than twenty-one shillings — twenty-one pounds would not value it enough!

Money! Money! Here he had had scarcely enough to eat, and now he would be rich! for, although he had as yet no way of knowing how many golden guineas there were… let alone where they had come from. some foundered ship whose timbers perhaps broken on the reef, yet had (perhaps) managed to get inside that same before sinking altogether and before the officers or crew were able to manage salvaging the gold, or all of it. perhaps it was indeed the universally-magic thing, a Buried Treasure!. perhaps the loot of some captured galleon or — what difference did it make! — a thousand perhapses! He, John Lutwidge Limekiller, was rich! — comparatively speaking — he was (maybe) rich!.

Only maybe not.

The she-turtle had had enough of digging, her nest-hole was now deep enough, and began to lay.

Rich? Only maybe not. His fingers told him, after he had crept back to the great chelonian, that there were many coins in the hoard: how might that coast have shifted over the centuries because of storm, erosion, hurricane, and flood. and his mind told him something else.

In every grant of freehold stood the words, and he knew them well, for he had, after all had been granted more than one freehold himself, for all that they were for but small acreages; there stood the words, All Indian Ruins and Mines of Gold and Silver and Precious Stones are the Property of Her Majesty the Queen, Her Heirs or Assignees', these words were emphatic and clear and admitted of no dispute. Well. almost none. Suppose such gold were already mined? Coined? Abandoned? Kicked up on a beach by the hind-flippers of a gravid sea-turtle with no more on her membrane-thing template of a mind than digging a hole in which to plash her scores and scores of opalescent eggs; what? Why, for that matter, was there only one turtle here and now? A matter for enquiry; would anyone enquire?

And. wasn’t there something, somewhere, amidst all the antique and baroque legal terminology' about treasure-trove and bonavaconcia, wasn’t there something about high-water mark? low-water mark? What should Jack do? For certainly he had to do something. and right now: one could hardly expect the turtle would remain fixed for a landmark whilst he ran loping along the strand to report the matter.

And so he had taken the gold, he had shoveled and sifted, long after the turtle’s instinct, located in that reptilian little head protruding between carapace and carapace, had told her that her oviducts might now rest; and off she had waddled, struggled, crawled, dipped into the water, sank into the water, was gone into the water: and, about the sum of two-score and ten coins had he sifted from the sands. He had carefully set them down on his shirt, and, since it was the bad shirt, rent in at least one place and worn thin in others, he had tied the treasure by the sleeves and knotted them and then he had stripped off his trousers and slipped the swag inside of them and closed that outer covering up, then -

Then he hied him down to the mangroves brown where the sea-tide sucked and sawed… or something like that. very much like that. and had heaved it up onto his own boat, videlicet the Saccharissa, then lying at the mouth of Mangrove Creek, with all her apparel. And, after counting it a few times, say, about forty or fifty times, had stowed it in the cubby; well… he had taken the trousers back, first, because really he needed them now.

Also he had recollected to bring along a few of the eggs, and he set up the caboose, which, in British Hidalgo had no reference to railroad trains but referred to the little wood-stove set in a sandbox; and he had cooked them at leisure and eaten them with relish, and with salt and with pepper.

They had tasted better than rice and beans.

Eggs.

As for turtle-eggs, very well, never mention the matter to anyone Chinese, however defined. As for eggs as something other than victuals (wittles, as Rud Goforth called them), as something thick with legendary qualities, there were also the obeah eggs. Obeah eggs came color-coded: a clean white egg meant one thing, a clean brown egg meant another; a speckled egg, whether the birdy sings of them or not, meant worst of all; and then there were eggs still stained with chickenshit and clotted with tufts of down and, sometimes, blood. A chapter in a local grimoire (were there such a thing, and there wasn’t) might be written about eggs stained red with anatto and eggs stained red with red mangrove bark. and the immense difference (qualitative rather than quantitative) between them.

But. why does the egg left at night symbolize death?

Because the egg left at day symbolizes life.

Is why.

He had meant to report it.

But the hours, as hours will, had gone by. The gold still stood (or sat) in the cramped cubby of his boat. And he had not reported it.

Sailing south you see the weird sugarloaf-shaped hills behind Spanish Bight; whereas elsewhere, some hills seem five miles away and are actually twenty-five, these hills seem to be one-and-twenty miles away, but are really only one. One mile away, that is. A curious phenomenon. They rise out of the midst of palm trees which look rather like the giant ferns of earth’s past eras; easily one may imagine dinosaurs nibbling on the tops of them. Something similar. could one call it confusion. delusion. afflicted Limekiller. He had forgotten to cross off how many days on his calendar (it advertized 30 Pure Turkish Cigarette 3o / M., Grower and Mfger rather garishly, and was generally understood to have been also of, if not the growth, then of the manufacture, also, of M.: but that was another story. Indeed.) how many days had he forgotten to cross off? he could not think how many. When had he found the trove of gold coins? had it been last night? the night before last? several nights ago? Limekiller was no longer, and perhaps had never been, from the moment Doubt entered his mind, quite sure. At all sure. And, on the other hand, if he stayed aboard his boat, he would only be driven again to count the coins, and he could see himself becoming a latter-day Silas Marner: this would not do.

If he left the boat, might not someone come aboard of her and peek and peer and probe and. Nobody ever had. Before. So he had gone, he told himself, for a Walk. And the possibilities for walking being limited, had found himself going into the hamlet called Woodcutters Cove. A hamlet it might be (might be? it was.), but it was also what foreigners sometimes called “the provincial capital”: not quite. A District was not really a province, being a Canadian Limekiller knew all about provinces, provinces had lieutenant-governors, premiers, legislative assemblies — a District had none of these. It had a District Commissioner, who was an administrative officer, the name of the District was Seville (pronounced by every man, woman, and child in British Hidalgo as Civil just exactly the same as Shakespeare pronounced it, The King is as civil as an orange, a pun which had baffled Shakespearean scholars — none of whom had ever lived in British Hidalgo — almost ever since the death of James I and V), and its capital was Woodcutters Cove. though there was talk of moving it to Seville Town, where the citrus works were, and the bitter “civil oranges” made into marmalade. But they had been talking about that at least since King Edward had abdicated, not that there was necessarily a connection.

Limekiller passed the old Anglican Church, the Parson’s Paddock, the Parsonage, and expected next to pass about a quarter of a mile of trash houses until he came to the shops and the liquor booths, and had begun to wonder at which one of the latter his credit might still be good, not at the Juno Club, not at the New Africa, not at the Bayman’s Bogue, maybe at the Little Bit of Heaven? maybe at the Hidalgo Club? when his wonders were interrupted by his being hailed from the Government Building in the following words, “Mr. Limekiller! May I give you a hail?”

Grammatically, the question was not without fault. And to reply with some such reply as, “What in the hell have you just been doing you dumb son of a bitch?” was socially contra-indicated. The man who from an office window had called to him was Percival FitzEvans Blythe; Percival FitzEvans Blythe was perhaps not very distinguished-looking, he was perhaps not very well set-up, and even perhaps he had not a very intriguing personality; but there was one thing about him which admitted of no perhaps: and Limekiller, suddenly a prey to the dismals, was well aware of what this was.

“Good afternoon, District Commissioner,” said Limekiller.

“Would you just step inside, Mr. Limekiller,” said Mr. P.F.E. Blythe, without a question-mark. And popped his head back in. The Stamp Acts, which had caused so many heart-flutterings and tea-bashings in British North America (old boundaries) had never disturbed a single soul in British Hidalgo, where in proposing a written contract it was proverbial to remark, “If you has the Queen’s head on a stamp, and a dollar for earnest, you cahn’t go wrong.” Limekiller now felt, dimly recollecting Mark Twain’s comment that the average man would rather see General Grant in full dress uniform than Lillian Russell naked, felt that he would much, much rather pay to see the Queen’s head on a thousand stamps than Percival FitzEvans Blythe at a window or anywhere else for free, stepped inside. And whilst doing so he encountered a licensed (so to speak) beggar commonly called Wee-Wee; Wee-Wee seldom encountered Jack without asking for a dime or a shilling or a glass of rum or a plate of rice and bean, always with a face the most ingratiating; his face now seemed to say, “I may not be six feet tall and blonde and I may be just getting out of gaol again for being publically intoxicated and Pissing on The Plinth but on the other hand neither have I just been asked by the District Officer if I would step inside.” They passed each other in a strange and strong silence.

“You wanted to see me, District Commissioner?”

The District Commissioner curtly gestured towards a chair facing him and, when Limekiller had seated himself, stared at him a moment without words, then asked, “Well, Mr. Limekiller, what about this gold?”

* * *

The shock was immense. Had he not already been suffering from a sruiltv conscience, the shock would have been even more immense and it was to be feared that he would almost at once have incriminated himself, had he not suddenly remembered Rud Goforth’s advice; “What gold?” he asked.

Another silence. Then the D.C. said, “Mr. Limekiller, anyone may bring charges and make accusations,” said the D.C. “And anyone may bear witness, true or false. But under our system of British Justice,” there was a slight but significant emphasis, British Justice, “something more is needed, and that is Evidence. Evidence openly presented in an open court at an open trial,” the word trial doing more to chill Limekiller’s blood than his sole trip to northern Labrador had done. “Mere testimony is not sufficient. We require evidence. Ev-i-dence. No evidence? No case.” He made a gesture.

Someone else now appeared, namely Police Constable Lucas; more than once P.C. Lucas had helpedjack demolish a chaparita of rum (without the herb Contribo) at a club or booth; there was no trace of any such memory on the P.C.’s face now. “Would you read your notes,” said the District Officer. Would you step inside. Would you read your notes. The District Commissioner was expert in the donning of the velvet glove. But wrell did John L. Limekiller know what lay inside.

“Acting upon information received,” read P.C. Lucas, “I w^ent in the police launch to the place called Mangrove Creek, accompanied by Mr. Stopford the District Surveyor —”

Limekiller was puzzled, for the first time, genuinely. “The, ah, Surveyor?” he interrupted.

The skies did not fall at this interruption. It was explained to him that it was well-known that the mouth of Mangrove Creek had at one time been located just inside the limits of Woodcutters Cove Town. And it was well-known that the effects of Hurricane Henrietta had closed that mouth and opened another. w'hich lay- outside the Towm limits. It was also known that Hurricane Elvia had quite estopped this and opened yet another. But it was not known if this new mouth lay in or out of the limits. “The question of mooring fees,” explained the D.C. Money.

On coming into sight of the vessel known to them as the boat Saccharissa registered as belonging to Mr. John Lutwidge Limekiller, P.C. Lucas and Surveyor Stopford observed two individuals unfamiliar to them moving about on the deck of aforesaid vessel and attempting to hand down an object not immediately identifiable to a third individual in a cayuco; did the two Officials open fire upon them? did they attempt to cut off their retreat? was the Magna Carta written in Volapiik?

we then hailed the three individuals,” read P.C. Lucas, virtuously, “but they at once made their craft to the opposite bank, and escaped into the bush. We would have pursued them but,” here the P.C. raised his eyes to those of his superior, who evaded them in a manner which indicated that he was at that moment passing no judgment as to should they have pursued said three individuals into the bush but might raise the matter at a time subsequent; “. but upon observing that the object they had dropped was spilling gold coins we thought it best to return with it and them at once and to report the matter to the District Commissioner,” and here he closed his notebook and stood with his legs apart.

“You recognize this shirt, Mr. Limekiller?” Limekiller would at that moment have been willing to swear upon a copy of Domesday Boke and/or the British North America Act that he did not even recognize that it was a shirt, except that -

— except that it had been mended once by Felix who, not content with sewing up its rents and tears had also sewed onto the right breast the initials JL in very large letters: and if there was anyone in the entire District of Seville who had not seen him wearing it, it could only have been Blind Bob who sat in the Market Place, with his sightless eyes rolling, making baskets out of native rushes. Hardly perhaps a case where the principle of Stout Denial seemed in order. “Yes,” said Mr. Limekiller.

“We have examined these coins and find them to be golden guineas of the Reigns of Charles II, James II, and William III,” said the District Commissioner. and indeed one would scarcely- have needed to be a member of the Royal Association of Numismatists to have done so. with the monarchs’ names and titles emphatically emprinted on the coins in neat Latin abbreviations.

“You may know, Mr. Limekiller, that although it is not forbidden to own such coins, their ownership must be registered with the Treasury,” Mr. Limekiller took advantage of the pause to say nothing, “in order to establish the question of rightful ownership.” Pause. Mr. Limekiller continued to say nothing. “So you see there is more than one question we have to answer,” the D.C. began to tick them off on his fingers. “One, are these your gold coins? Two, if they axe, then why have they not been registered? Three: if they have not been registered because you have just recently acquired them, then where and when and how did you acquire them? We perceive that there seems to be sand mixed among the gold and lying in the shirt which they were wrapped in. Can it be that the coins of gold were just recently dug up somewhere? — say, somewhere on the shore? In such a case we would have to add Question Number Four: was the gold obtained in an illegal manner or fashion?”Jack noted that the possibility that he had obtained the gold whilst illegally taking turtle eggs had not been raised: he himself was not going to raise it. “Question Five: is it not so that even if the gold was taken from someone who had himself illegally failed to register it, would that make the taking of it by someone else other than illegal? no — it would NOT! Theft would be and is theft! Mind you,” said the D.C., “I don’t accuse you of theft. Nor do I accuse you of having the gold in your possession — although you don’t deny do you, having the gold in your possession, do you? — other than legally?”

Limekiller cleared his throat, but with great control refrained from saying, “Ahh.” Or even “Umm.” He said, “Who says it was in my possession?”

The District Commissioner sat for a second with his mouth open. “Why who? Two of our Government officials. no. well… if the gold was not in your possession, then how did it come to be on your boat?”

“Maybe the same ones who were taking it off, put it on?”

The D.C. brushed away an invisible fly. “Why would they have done that?” And Limekiller quickly pointed out that it was not for him to ascertain their motives. “Best that you ask them that,” he suggested. And the D.C. looked up at the P.C. But P.C. Lucas continued to stand At Ease, saying nothing.

The District Commissioner now looked his invited guest straight between the eyes and said, “Now, Mr. Limekiller, it is not prohibited to own gold coins regardless of are they legal tender or not and the question, ‘Are such coins still legal tender or not’ is one into which I will not go;” echoes of Churchill’s reply to the new secretary telling him not to end a sentence with a preposition: “This is an impertinence up with which I will not put.” — “however, we are obliged to ahsk, I will not say demand” (and, Damned nice of you! thought Jack) “how you did get these coins, because they are not in shall we say common ownership. So I shall now ahsk you that question.”

There was a loonng pause. Then the D.C. said, “Very well.” He gestured to P.C. Lucas, who gathered up the shirt and its precious contents, the D.C. meanwhile unlocking the huge and antique safe, which would certainly not cause Mr. Jimmy Valentine or his successors much trouble; but where was he? It would certainly baffle anybody in Woodcutters Cove, Seville District: shoved the stuffed shirt in under the shelves of official documents, closed and clicked it shut. “We shall, I trust, see you here at shall we say eight of the morning. Good evening, Mr. Limekiller. and I should advise you to think it over.”

And think it over Jack did. All night long.

There was nobody for him to think it over aloud with. save his former First Mate, Skippy the Cat who had been demoted in favor of Felix. Did Skip chant pieces of eight, pieces of eight? Nope: he offered no grounds for belief that because and just because Jack had not been confined in the district gaol for the night that he might not find himself confined there — or in the national one — at some future time. D.C. FitzEvans was a Bavman and hence “cradled on the water,” as were they all: he would know the state of the winds without even taking thought, and he would know that the state of the winds would not carry Limekiller on a flight from Colonial waters at this time. Not only not to “Republican waters,” not to anywhere well — the winds would indeed carry him now' right onto the Muggleton Shoals and there he… or his boat. might have to wait a very long time indeed before any friendly boats and their crews appeared to help tow. push. pull. shove him off; because right on the mainland circumjacent to the Muggleton Shoals was the cabin of old Sully Simpson, a very loud lunatic who notoriously kept open house for Tata Duende, the Spook of the Woods; and nobody darker than lard would come or go within a marine mile of the area.

Therefore, even if he, John Lutwidge Limekiller, was safely out of gaol for the night, such safety could hardly be expected to continue for very long. Maybe they couldn’t prove that he had the gold illegally (though maybe they could). And if not, maybe they couldn’t get him for not having registered it. Or maybe the question of, had he been poaching turtle eggs w-ouldn’t be raised (would Ruddy Goforth.? not without incriminating himself for Abetting, he wouldn’t).

Back and forth his mind raced, with many and many a But, a So, an And all night long. And all the early morning. because in British Hidalgo, “eight of the morning” was absolutely not early!

— and as, for that matter, who were The Individuals who had boarded the Saccharissa and attempted to rob her — Limekiller had no idea. The Colony. which, being irrevocably on its way to independence. would not be a Colony for much longer. had been for long out of the way of the world: but the world, with its internal combustion engines, its radios, its vices, and its crimes, was inexorably creeping in. Jack did not wish to think that the robbers were Nationals (the phrase was replacing the old, bad word Colonials), but it seemed unlikely that foreigners would have come up from Republican waters in a cayuco — but it really didn’t matter. just as it really didn’t matter that if he had been content to, in the delicate Hidalgo phrase, “ease himself’ near to the boat instead of seeking the privacy of the bush on his way to town then he might have spied the intruders and scared them off.

Once again, as so often, he passed the Parsonage, passed the Parson’s Paddock, passed the Anglican Church, and came to the Government Building.

This time Wee-Wee (he was named after the wee-wee ant, which, with its voracious appetite, counterfeits the leaf-eating wee- wee disease) was not on the steps. But that didn’t really matter, either.

The District Commissioner wasted neither time nor words. “Now, Mr. Limekiller, what about this gold?”

J.L. recalled yet again Ruddy Goforth’s Principle: ‘“Stout denial,’ Regardless and whatever: ‘stout. denial.”' For. after all. what alternative? Even if he didn’t get charged with this offense or that offense there was the very good (or very bad) chance of being ordered to leave the country and not come back. And he had, really, grown to love the little land, smaller than Newfoundland, British Hidalgo, the “country that you can put your arms around,” even if it was also “the end of the line.” Being there, even with its bugs and spooks, was and had for quite a time been better than being in Toronto in the snow-and even if it rained just as much as it rained in Vancouver, well the rain was warmer. And also. well. never mind.

“What gold?” he asked.

The D.C. looked a moment at him. Then he swiveled his chair around and worked at the dial of the old safe. The official papers laced with their red tape were where they had been. Nothing much else was there. The D.C. scraped his hands along the bottom. Some grains of sand. Some crumbles of dirt. The bad old shirt. Nothing else. Nothing else. The D.C. turned around. His mouth worked. Then he said, “Mr. Limekiller. Where is that gold?”

Jack felt his lips crack. But all he said was, staunchly, “What gold?”

Another silence. Then, moved by the devil, Limekiller said, “District Commissioner, I will thank you for that shirt — “

The District Commissioner took out the shirt, shook it, handed it over. Then he made an emphatic gesture, Limekiller left. He sneaked a look at Police Constable Lucas, but Police Constable Lucas, carefully looking at the wall, did not sneak back. The D.C. was, suddenly, shouting, “I shall call in the C.I.D.! I shall have the safe dusted for fingerprints! I shall discharge every police constable on duty lahst night! I shall take it up to the Colonial Privy Council! I shall take it up to the Law Lords in London! I —” The door closed on him and on what else he should do. Only, of course, he wouldn’t. For —

No evidence?

No case!

Because —

British Justice!

The outside world had begun to bring in its rot and corruption. But it had only begun.

Outside. well, not outside the District Office Building. outside the office of the District Commissioner. Limekiller found himself in the familiar-enough out-district police room. These rooms served for many purposes which were not always involved with crime, and, while not always the same, were always similar. This one had of course been whitewashed-but not very recently. It was immaculate. As always. On the wall (invariably), two framed photographs: Her Majesty the Oueen, who theoretically owned British Hidalgo and might, theoretically, sell it all to a real estate syndicate — but probablv wouldn’t; that was one of the photographs. The other, just a mite smaller, was of the Honourable Llewellyn Gonzaga MacBride, the Queen’s First Minister in British Hidalgo. She was in full regalia. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt open at the neck, no tie. They both wore smiles.

Overhead the slow fan.

At the dais, no one.

Not now, at any rate.

Behind a table doing extra duty as a desk, a police constable. He and Jack exchanged civil looks.

“Yes, Mr. Limekiller?”

“Am I, well, free to go? Eh?”

The P.C. slightly pursed his lips, slightly raised his eyebrows. It was the studiously non-committal face of a man being asked to guess the value of a sand-sailing-barge. He rose to his feet in a smooth motion. “If you will just make yourself at ease a moment, Mr. Limekiller, I will just go into the. He did not finish the sentence, but its meaning was obvious. The door of the inner office was opened for a moment, a voice (previously muffled) was heard, loud and clear, demanding to know “Why is there no Canadian High Commissioner in this Colony? — do they think that they can come down here and commit all kinds of tricks, just because they are from a Commonwealth country? I — what? what? He is still here? Out, out, OUT — get him out! I shall and the door closed again and the police-constable returned to his desk.

Slightly he shook his head, said, “Jock, you w’only vex de man!” “Only,” in Bay talk, an intensive: during a heat wave, it was “only” hot; during a downpour, it was “only” raining.

Jack said, “Eh?”

The police constable was once again studying the sand-barge. Very politely, though, he indicated the door to the outside world. “Mr. Limekiller,” he said, “you are now at large.”

Limekiller walked down the street. Lirst building in the next block, shaded by a purple-drooping jacaranda tree, was. still. sun-worshippers or not. the Anglican Church, crusted with lichens and moss. Would he go in and give thanks? There was, really, a lot of work he should be doing on his boat before Lelix got back. Whatsoever thy hands find to do, do it with thy might: Best he got back to his boat and think his pious thoughts there. But the way took him past the Parson’s Paddock, where no horse had pastured for many years. And then the way took him past the Parsonage and its late Tropical Gothic verandahs shielding the inner rooms from view. But not from sound. In the Parsonage was, evidently, the Parson’s wife, Mrs. Standish. The climate was, indeed, “not kind” to the spinnet. Perhaps also Mrs. Standish’s singing voice was past its prime. But gallantly she played and sang. He could hear her quite clearly. Believe me, if all those endearing young charms, sang Mrs. Standish, which I gaze on so fondly today, were to fleet by tomorrow and fade in my arms, Mrs. Standish sang. The waters of the Bay of Hidalgo slapped languidly along the shore. What had happened during the night? what had happened? — like fairy gifts fading away, sang Mrs. Standish.

Limekiller got into his skiff.