“The valley has seen triumph and tragedy,” he told himself. “Time was when one could not have found a richer valley. And yet, even then those who labored there were poor. They were slaves. After that freedom and revolution, a hundred years.”
But now, how his hopes had grown. America, the United States, great, strong, beautiful America had come to the aid of little Haiti. Valleys were blossoming as of old. Health was returning to the people. And all this time they were free. “Free,” he repeated the word reverently.
“We hoped so much for our little valley too,” he told himself. “But there is not money for all. Some must wait. And now,” his throat tightened. “Johnny Thompson is lost, perhaps gone forever. And our golden dream will soon be forgotten.”
It was at this moment that he heard the call of old Pompee. It was a strange call, he thought. These Haitians express so much in a call. But this call spoke neither of joy nor sorrow.
“What can it be?” he asked himself as, springing down from his seat, high above the mountain crest, he went racing down at a reckless pace.
“What is it? Have you found him?” he cried as he came near.
Pompee did not answer. He merely stood and pointed at his feet.
Only when the boy stood at his side did he see that he was pointing at a hole in the Citadel’s stone top.
Dropping on one knee, he stared into the darkness of that man-made cavern but could see nothing. The sun had sunk too low. The spot of light was no longer there.
Only by lighting a match and allowing it to drop was he able to see. Then he gave forth a sharp exclamation. What he saw was a khaki handkerchief. The ownership of that bit of cloth was unmistakable. A little friend of Johnny’s had embroidered a large red J in each of his handkerchiefs.