Wyatt's Hurricane

I

As the first grey light of dawn touched the sky Julie eased her cramped legs. She had tucked them under her body in an attempt to keep them reasonably dry and she had failed, but at least they were not lying under a running torrent of water. The wind had dropped with the coming of day; no longer did it howl ferociously nor did it fling cascades of water at them, but still the water ran in a muddied flood down the ravine.

It had been a bad night. In their little cave under the great rock they were well protected from the wind; it had roared about them but they were untouched by it. The water was something else. It came from above, slowly at first, and then in an increasing rush, pouring over the rock that protected them in a dirty brown waterfall which splashed with increasing violence at their feet, and carried with it the tree-fallen detritus which littered the ravine above.

As the wind grew in strength the wall of water before their faces was torn and shredded, blowing away in a fine spray across the hillside, and when the wind backed and eddied they were deluged as though someone had thrown a bathful of water into the cave. This happened a dozen times an hour with monotonous regularity.

Their shelter was cramped, small — and safe. The walls of the ravine rose sheer on each side and the wind, tearing over the open hillside, sometimes actually sucked the air out of this cleft at the height of the storm and left them gasping for breath for the space of a couple of heart-beats. But this did them no harm and indeed helped, because the water also went with the air, giving them momentary respite.

They could either sit with their legs outstretched and have the waterfall pouring over their feet and the danger of bruises or worse as the flood swept down tree branches and stones, or they could sit on them and get cramp. They alternated between these methods, extending their legs when the cramp became too bad. The water was not too cold, for which Julie was thankful, and she thought hysterically that she was being washed so clean that she would never need to take another shower ever again. The very thought of the hissing spray of water in her bathroom at home made her feel physically sick.

At first they could talk quite comfortably. Rawsthorne was feeling better for the rum. He said, ‘We might get a bit wet here, but I think we’ll be safe with this rock behind us.’

‘It won’t move?’ said Mrs Warmington nervously.

‘I doubt it. It seems to be firmly embedded — in fact, I think it’s an outcropping of the bedrock.’ He looked through the waterfall before him. ‘And there’s a good runoff for the water down there. It won’t back up and drown us. All we have to do is sit here until it’s all over.’

Julie listened to the rising shriek of the wind overhead. ‘It seems as though the whole island will blow away.’

Rawsthorne chuckled weakly. ‘It didn’t in 1910 — I see no reason why it should now.’

Julie pulled her legs in from under the waterfall and tucked them underneath herself. ‘We’ve got enough water now — more than enough.’ She paused. ‘I wonder how all those people got out of St Pierre in the middle of a battle.’

‘My guess is that Favel had something to do with it,’ said Rawsthorne thoughtfully. ‘He must have had because they are in the Negrito — his line of communication with the mountains.’

‘You think Dave Wyatt told him about the hurricane?’

‘I hope so. It will mean that that young man is alive. But perhaps Favel had other sources of information; perhaps there was a message from the Base, or something like that.’

‘Yes,’ she said slowly, and lapsed into silence.

The rainfall increased and the torrent coursing down the ravine became a flood swirling over the top of the big rock. The wind strengthened and now it was that the eddies hurled back water into the cave, to leave them gasping for breath and clutching at the stone around them for fear of being washed away. Mrs Warmington was very frightened and wanted to leave to find a safer place, but Julie held her back.

Rawsthorne was not feeling well. The events of the last two days had been too much for him, and his heart, not too good in normal circumstances, was beginning to act up. He doubted if he could have gone on any longer on their flight from the coast and was thankful for this respite, unpleasant though it was. He thought of Julie; this was a good girl, strong and tough when the necessity arose and not frightened of taking a chance. He could tell that young Wyatt was on her mind, and hoped that both of them would be preserved during this terrible night so that they could meet again and pick up their normal lives. But neither of them would be the same again, not in their approach to the world and, especially, to each other. He hoped they would find each other again.

As for that damned Warmington woman with her eternal nagging moan, he did not care if she was washed out of the cave there and then. It would at least leave more room and they would be rid of a strength-sapping incubus. He gasped as he was soaked by a solid wall of water, and all thought left him save for the one desire for survival.

So the night went on, a terror measured in hours, a lukewarm hell of raging wind and blowing water. But the wind died towards the morning and the cave became drier, no longer inundated every few minutes. Julie eased her cramped legs and thought that, incredibly enough, they were going to survive. She roused Rawsthorne, who said, ‘Yes, the wind is dropping. I think we’ll be all right.’

‘My God, I’ll be glad to get out of here,’ said Julie. ‘But I don’t know if I’ll be able to stand. The way I feel now I’ll have to learn to walk all over again.’

‘Can we go out?’ asked Mrs Warmington with the first animation she had shown for a long time.

‘Not yet. We’ll wait until it’s lighter, and the wind will have dropped even more by then.’ Rawsthorne hunched his shoulders and peered forward. ‘I have the idea it would be easy to get drowned out there, especially stumbling around in the dark.’

So they stayed in their cramped shelter until the dim light revealed the sides of the ravine and then they went out into the glorious daylight, first Julie, ducking cautiously through the rapidly flowing curtain of water, then Mrs Warmington, and finally Rawsthorne, who moved slowly and painfully as though his joints were seized up. Julie’s hair streamed in the wind that swooped boisterously down the ravine — it was blowing hard by any standards but it was no hurricane.

She waded knee deep through the rushing water and gained the bank, then turned to give a hand to Mrs Warmington, who squeaked and slipped. ‘My shoe,’ she cried. ‘I’ve lost my shoe.’

But it was gone, washed swiftly down into the valley in the fast water. ‘Never mind,’ said Julie. ‘It doesn’t really matter. Maybe we won’t have to do much walking from now on.’

Rawsthorne joined them, and said, ‘I wonder what’s happening down in the valley. I think it’s important we should find out.’

Julie glanced at him. ‘If we climb out of here on to the hillside we should be able to see. I think we can get up that way.’

The earth had turned to mud, thick and slimy, and it was not easy to climb out of the ravine. They floundered and slid on the slippery surface, but eventually reached the top by tugging on convenient branches and tough tufts of grass. Everything they grasped to pull themselves up by held firm — only the strong was left, the weak had been destroyed by the wind.

Even the barren hillside had been wrecked. Most of the low, gnarled trees showed white wood where branches had been ripped off, and there were raw scars in the red earth to show where entire trees had been uprooted. Hardly a tree had a leaf left on it, and the whole slope had been scraped free of everything that could be moved.

Rawsthorne looked down into the valley. ‘My God!’ he exclaimed. ‘Look at the Gran Negrito — the river!’

The whole floor of the valley was covered with a leaden sheet of water. The Negrito Valley drained most of the southern slopes of the Massif des Saints and the vast runoff of water from the mountains had met the floods pressing in from the mouth of the river in Santego Bay. The river had burst its banks, flooding the rich plantations, destroying roads and bridges and drowning farms. Even from where they stood, so high above the valley, and despite the dying wind, they could hear the murmur of the flood waters.

Mrs Warmington was white-faced. ‘Isn’t there anyone alive down there?’

‘The people we saw were climbing the slopes,’ said Rawsthorne. ‘There’s no reason to suppose they were caught in the floods.’

‘Let’s go down and find out,’ suggested Julie.

‘No!’ said Rawsthorne sharply, and Julie looked at him in surprise. ‘I don’t think we’ve finished with the hurricane yet.’

‘That’s nonsense,’ said Mrs Warmington. ‘The wind’s dropping all the time. Of course it’s over.’

‘You don’t understand,’ said Rawsthorne. ‘I think we’re in the eye of the hurricane. We’ve got the other half to go through yet.’

‘You mean we’ve got to go through all that again?’ asked Julie in alarm.

Rawsthorne smiled ruefully. ‘I’m afraid we might have to.’

‘But you don’t really know,’ said Mrs Warmington. ‘You don’t really know, do you?’

‘Not really, but I don’t think we ought to take a chance on it just yet. It all depends on whether we encountered the hurricane dead centre or whether it just caught us a glancing blow. If it hit us dead centre, then we’re in the eye and we’ve still got to go through the other half. I’m not a good enough weather expert to tell, though; Wyatt could tell us if he were here.’

‘But he’s not,’ said Mrs Warmington. ‘He landed himself in gaol.’ She hobbled along the hillside and looked down. ‘There are people down there — I can see them moving.’

Rawsthorne and Julie crossed over to where she was standing and saw the hillside crawling with people on the lower slopes. Rawsthorne scratched his chin. ‘It’s a good thing the valley is flooded, in a way,’ he said. ‘They can’t get down into the bottom again where they might be caught in the winds next time round.’

‘Well, I’m going down there,’ said Mrs Warmington with unexpected decision. ‘I’m sick and tired of being pushed around by you two. Besides, I’m hungry.’

‘Don’t be a fool,’ said Julie. ‘Mr Rawsthorne knows more about it than you do. You’re safer up here.’

‘I’m going,’ said Mrs Warmington, stepping out of arm’s reach. ‘And you’re not going to stop me.’ Her chin quivered with foolish obduracy. ‘I think it’s nonsense to say that we’ll have another storm like the one we’ve just gone through — things don’t happen that way. And there’ll be food down there and I’m starving.’

She edged away as Julie stepped forward. ‘And you blame me for everything, I know you do. You’re always bullying me and hitting me — you wouldn’t do it if I were stronger than you. I think it’s disgraceful the way you hit a woman older than yourself. So I’m going — I’m going down to those people down there.’

She darted away as Julie made a grab for her and went stumbling down the hill in an awkward limping gait due to the loss of her shoe. Rawsthorne called Julie back. ‘Oh, let the damned woman go; she’s been a bloody nuisance all along and I’m glad to see her back.’

Julie halted in mid-step and slowly walked up the hill again. ‘Do you think she’ll be all right?’ she asked doubtfully.

‘I don’t give a damn,’ said Rawsthorne tiredly. ‘She’s meant nothing but trouble all along and I don’t see why we should get ourselves killed trying to save her neck. We’ve done our best for her and we can’t do more.’ He sat down on a rock and put his head in his hands. ‘God, but I’m tired.’

Julie bent over him. ‘Are you all right?’

He lifted his head and gave her a wan smile. ‘I’m all right, my dear. There’s nothing wrong with me but too many years of living. Sitting about in wet clothing isn’t too good at my age.’ He looked down the hill. ‘She’s out of sight now. She went in the wrong direction, too.’

‘What?’

Rawsthorne smiled and waved his hand in the direction of St Pierre. ‘The St Michel road is over there; it leaves St Pierre and sticks to the upper slopes of the Negrito Valley before it climbs over to join the coast road. If we were leaving I would suggest going that way — I don’t think that road would be flooded.’

‘But you don’t think we ought to leave,’ Julie said in a flat statement.

‘I don’t. I fear we’re going to have more wind. We’ve found a safe place here and we might as well stick to it as long as we’re not entirely sure. If the wind doesn’t blow up in another three or four hours then it will be safe to move.’

‘All right — we’ll stay,’ said Julie. She moved over and looked down into the ravine at the smooth sheet of water flowing over the big rock. The cave was completely hidden behind that watery curtain. She laughed and turned back to Rawsthorne. ‘There’s one good thing — we’ll have a lot more room now that fat bitch has left us.’

II

Wyatt stood on the top of the ridge overlooking St Pierre and looked down over the city. The waters had ebbed since his first startled vision in the flash of lightning, yet half the city was still flooded. The climacteric wave had left nasty evidence of destruction, the wrack of a broken city at the high-water mark half-way up the ridge. The houses at the bottom from which the battle assault had been made just a few hours before had disappeared completely, as had the wide stretches of shanties in the middle distance. Only the core of the city was left standing — the few modern towers of steel and concrete and the older stone buildings which had already withstood more than one hurricane.

Away in the distance the radar tower that marked Cap Sarrat Base had vanished, cut down by the wind as a sickle cuts a stalk of grass. The Base itself was too low-lying and too far away to see if much more damage had been done, although Wyatt saw the glint of water where no water should be.

And of the Government army there was no sign — no movement at all from the ruined city.

Causton and Dawson walked up the slope behind Wyatt and joined him. ‘What a mess!’ said Causton, and blew out his cheeks expressively. ‘I’m glad we got the population out.’ He dug into his pocket and produced a cigarette-lighter and a soggy packet of disintegrating cigarettes. ‘I always pride myself on being prepared. Here I have a waterproof lighter guaranteed to work under any conditions.’ He flicked it and a steady flame sprang forth. ‘But look at my damned cigarettes.’

Dawson looked at the flame which burned without a flicker in the still air. ‘Are we really in the middle of this hurricane?’

Wyatt nodded. ‘Right in the eye. Another hour or so and we’ll be in the thick of it again. I don’t think Mabel will drop much more rain, though, not unless the bitch decides to stand still. They do that sometimes.’

‘Don’t pile on the agony,’ pleaded Causton. ‘It’s enough to know that we have another packet of trouble coming.’

Dawson rubbed his ear awkwardly with a bandaged hand. ‘I’ve got a hell of an earache.’

‘That’s funny,’ said Causton. ‘So have I.’

‘It’s the low pressure,’ said Wyatt. ‘Hold your nose and blow to equalize the pressure in the sinuses.’ He nodded towards the flooded city. ‘It’s the low pressure that’s keeping all that water there.’

As the others made disgusting snorting sounds he looked up at the sky. There was a layer of cloud but he had no means of knowing how thick it was. He had heard that sometimes one could see blue skies in the eye of a hurricane, but he had never seen it himself nor had he ever encountered any who had, and he was inclined to dismiss it as one of the tall tales so often found in weather lore. He felt the sleeve of his shirt and found it was nearly dry. ‘Low pressure,’ he said. ‘And low humidity. You’ll dry off quickly. Look at that.’ He nodded to where the ground was beginning to steam gently.

Causton was watching a group of men march down the slope towards St Pierre. ‘Are you sure Favel knows that more wind is due?’ he asked. ‘Those boys are in for trouble if they don’t get back here smartly.’

‘He knows it,’ said Wyatt. ‘We discussed it. Let’s go and see him — where did he say headquarters were?’

‘Just up the road — it’s not far.’ Causton chuckled suddenly. ‘Are we dressed to go visiting?’

Wyatt looked at the others — they were caked with sticky mud from head to foot and he looked down at himself to find the same. ‘I doubt if Favel will be in better condition,’ he said. ‘Come on.’

They walked back, skirting their foxhole, and suddenly Causton stopped dead. ‘Good grief!’ he breathed. ‘Look at that.’

In the next foxhole lay a body with an outflung arm. The back of the hand which would normally be a rich brown in colour was dirty grey as though all the blood had been drained from it. But what had made Causton pause was the fact that the body had no head, nor was there a head anywhere to be seen.

‘I think I know what did that,’ said Wyatt grimly. ‘Something came over when the wind was really bad and I think it was a sheet of corrugated iron. It hit the ground just about there, then took off again.’

‘But where’s the goddam head?’ said Dawson wildly.

‘That will have blown away, too. It was a strong wind.’

Dawson looked sick and walked away. Causton said with a catch in his breath, ‘That... that could have happened to any of us.’

‘It could,’ agreed Wyatt. ‘But it didn’t. Come on.’

His emotions were frozen. The sight of violent death did not affect him and he found himself unstirred by the sight. He had seen too much killing, too many men shot dead and blown to bits. He had killed a man himself. Admittedly Roseau deserved killing if ever a man did, but Wyatt was a product of his environment and killing did not come easily to him. The sight of an accidental death in a hurricane meant nothing to him and left him untouched because he compared it to the death of a whole army of men — also killed in a hurricane, but not accidentally.

Headquarters was a series of holes in the ground. Headquarters was a hurry of officers. Headquarters was a widening circle of effects with Favel as the calm centre.

Wyatt could not get to see him right away. He did not mind because he had weighed up Favel and knew that he was not forgotten and that Favel would see him in time. There were priorities and Wyatt was not among the first. With Dawson, he hovered on the outskirts of the busy group and watched the activity. Men were being sent up into the Negrito in ever increasing numbers and Wyatt hoped that Favel knew what he was doing.

Causton had vanished, presumably about his work, although what greater disasters he could find for his eager readers Wyatt could not imagine. Dawson was impatient. ‘I don’t see the point in waiting round here,’ he grumbled. ‘We might as well just sit back there in our hole.’

‘I wouldn’t want Favel to make a mistake now,’ said Wyatt. ‘I’ll stick around. You can go back if you like, and I’ll join you later.’

Dawson shrugged. ‘It’s the same here as anywhere else.’ He did not move away.

After a while a tall Negro walked over to Wyatt and he was astonished to see, on closer inspection, that it was Manning, his face smeared with the all-pervading mud. ‘Julio would like to see you,’ he said. His face cracked into a grim smile. ‘You certainly called the shot on that hurricane.’

‘It’s not over yet,’ said Wyatt shortly.

Manning nodded. ‘We know that. Julio is doing a hell of a lot of forward planning to see what we can salvage out of this mess. That’s what he wants to talk to you about. After you’ve seen him I think I can find you a bite to eat; you’re not likely to get any more until we’ve got rid of bloody Mabel.’

Favel received Wyatt with the same quirk of the lips curved in a half smile. Incredibly, he looked smart in a clean shirt and had found time to wash, although his denim pants were stiff with mud. He said, ‘You did not exaggerate your hurricane, Mr Wyatt. It was every bit as bad as your prognosis.’

‘It still is,’ said Wyatt bluntly. ‘What about those troops you’ve sent up the Negrito? They’ll get caught if they’re not careful.’

Favel waved his hand. ‘A calculated risk. I find I am always forced to make these decisions. Let us look at the map.’

It was the same map on which Wyatt had sketched out the supposedly safe areas up the Negrito. It was damp and mud-smeared and the crayon lines had run and blotched. Favel said, ‘Messengers were selected to report back here during this break in the hurricane and they’ve been coming in during the last half hour — not as many as I would have liked, but enough to let me know the broad situation.’

His hand hovered over the map. ‘You were right to tell me to get the people off the valley bottom — the whole valley is flooded from the mouth to about here.’ He sketched in the area quickly with a pencil. ‘That’s about eight miles. The Gran Negrito has broken its banks and there is yet more water coming from the mountains down the Gran Negrito itself and down the P’tit Negrito. The bridges are down and the roads under water.’

‘It looks a mess,’ said Wyatt.

‘It is,’ agreed Favel. ‘This road, the short cut to St Michel up the Negrito, is pretty clear. At this moment it’s the only usable road in or out of St Pierre. Because it hangs on the side of the valley it missed the floods. There are a few blockages such as fallen trees, and the three bridges are not too safe. Men are clearing it now and looking at the bridges. Other men are digging in for protection against the second half of the hurricane. As soon as it is over they will come out and do whatever final repairs are necessary on those bridges.’

Wyatt nodded. That sounded reasonable.

‘Now, Mr Wyatt, how long is St Pierre going to be flooded?’

Wyatt looked at the map. ‘What’s this line you’ve drawn here?’

‘That’s the extent of flooding that exists now — as far as we can tell.’

‘That’s on the twenty-foot contour — we can extend that.’ He took the pencil and drew a quick, curved line. ‘It takes in half the city, a lot of Cap Sarrat, all the flat ground here including your airfield, but there’s not much east of here because of the higher ground by this headland. All that area is under water because of the present low pressure, but as soon as Mabel moves on things will return to normal very quickly.’

‘So we can go down into St Pierre as soon as the hurricane passes.’

‘Yes, there’ll be nothing to stop you.’

‘What about the flooding in the Negrito — how long will that take to subside?’

Wyatt hesitated. ‘That’s a different matter. The river has backed up from the mouth and it’s still blocked by the floods here, in Santego Bay. Then there’s all the water coming down from the mountains to make things worse and it will all have to drain to the sea on the original river course. That’s going to take a long time, but I couldn’t tell you exactly how long.’

‘That is what I thought,’ said Favel. ‘My estimate is a week, at least.’ His finger traced a line on the map. ‘I’ve sent a regiment up the St Michel road with instructions to spread out along the ridge over the Negrito and dig in. When the hurricane has gone they will go down and conduct the people over the hills to the St Michel road, bringing them back that way to avoid the floods.’

He looked up. ‘Others of that regiment will push on to St Michel and down the coast. There are other towns on San Fernandez besides St Pierre. Sending those men now is risky but it will save two hours, and a lot of lives can be saved in two hours, Mr Wyatt.’ He shook his head. ‘We will need medical supplies, blankets, clothing; we will need everything it takes to keep men alive.’

‘The Americans will be coming back,’ said Wyatt. ‘Commodore Brooks will have radioed for assistance. I’ll bet they’re loading up rescue planes in Miami right now.’

‘I hope so,’ said Favel. ‘Do you think the airfields will be usable?’

‘That’s hard to say. I should think your own airfield will be written off, but the military airfield at the Base is built for heavy weather so it may be all right.’

‘I will have it checked as soon as the hurricane is past,’ said Favel. ‘Thank you, Mr Wyatt — you have been of great service. How much longer have we got?’

Wyatt stared at the grey sky, then looked at his watch. He felt the faintest of zephyrs blowing on his cheek. ‘Less than an hour,’ he said. ‘Call it three-quarters of an hour, then the wind will come again. I don’t think there’ll be much rain this time.’

Favel smiled gently. ‘A small blessing.’

Wyatt withdrew a little way and Manning thrust an open can into his hand. ‘You’d better eat while you can.’

‘Thanks.’ Wyatt looked about. ‘I don’t see your pal Fuller around.’

A look of pain crossed Manning’s face. ‘He was killed,’ he said in a low voice. ‘He was wounded in the last attack and died during the hurricane.’

Wyatt did not know what to say. To say that he was sorry would be inadequate, so he said nothing.

Manning said, ‘He was a good chap — not too good with his brains but dependable in a tight corner. I suppose you could say I killed him — I got him into this.’

It came to Wyatt that others had their guilts as well as he. It did not make him feel any better, but it gave him more understanding. He said, ‘How did it all happen?’

‘We were in the Congo,’ said Manning. ‘Working for Tshombe — mercenaries, you know. That job was coming to an end when I got on to this job and I asked Fuller if he’d like to come along. The pay was so bloody good that he jumped at it, not that good pay will do him much good now.’ He shrugged. ‘But that’s in the game.’

‘What will you do now?’

‘There’s not much left here,’ said Manning. ‘Julio asked me to stay on, but I don’t think he really wants a white man to play any big part in what’s going to come next. I hear that there are jobs open in the Yemen, working for the Royalists — maybe I’ll go across there.’

Wyatt looked at this big man who spoke of working when he meant fighting. He said, ‘For God’s sake, surely you can find easier ways of making a living?’

Manning said gently, ‘I don’t think you’ve got it, after all. Sure, I get paid for fighting — most soldiers do — but I pick the side I fight for. Do you think I’d have fought for Serrurier?’

Wyatt groped for an apology and was glad to be interrupted by Dawson, who came over and said excitedly, ‘Hey, Dave, I think there’s something you ought to know. One of these guys has just come down from the Negrito — he says there’s an American woman up there. At least, that’s what I think he says; this is a bastard of a language.’

Wyatt swung round. ‘Which man?’

‘That guy there — the one who’s just finished talking to Favel.’

Wyatt strode over and grasped the man’s arm. ‘Did you see an American woman in the Negrito?’ he asked in the island patois.

The man turned an exhausted face towards him and shook his head. ‘I was told of her. I did not see her.’

‘Where was this?’

‘Beyond the St Michel road — down in the valley.’

Wyatt tugged at him urgently. ‘Can you show me on the map?’

The soldier nodded tiredly and suffered himself to be led. He bent over the map and laid down a black finger. ‘About there.’

Wyatt looked at the map blankly and his heart sank. Julie would not be there, so far down in the Negrito. The party had gone along the coast road. He said, ‘Was this an old woman? — A young woman? — What colour hair? — How tall?’

The soldier blinked at him stupidly, and Dawson cut in, ‘Wait a minute, Dave. This guy’s beat, he can hardly stand up.’ He pushed a bottle into the man’s hand. ‘Have a snort of that, buster; it’ll wake you up.’

As the man drank from the neck of the rum bottle Dawson looked at the map. ‘If this guy has come from where he says he has, he’s come a hell of a long way in double-quick time.’

‘It can’t be Julie,’ said Wyatt in a depressed voice. ‘That note she left in the Imperiale said they were going up the coast road.’

‘Maybe they didn’t,’ said Dawson. ‘Maybe they couldn’t. There was a war going on at the time, remember.’ He stared at the map. ‘And if they did go to where they said, they’d get mixed up with Rocambeau’s army when it retreated. If Rawsthorne had any sense he’d move them out of there fast. Look, Dave; if they travelled in a straight line over the hills they could get into the Negrito. It would be one hell of a tough trip, but it could be done.’

Wyatt turned again to the man and questioned him again but it was no use. He had not seen the woman himself, he did not know her age or her colouring or anything more about her than that an American woman had been seen up the Negrito. And Wyatt knew that this meant nothing, not even that she was American; to these people all whites were American.

He said drearily, ‘It could be anybody, but I can’t take a chance. I’m going up there.’

‘Hey!’ said Dawson in alarm, and made a grab at him but could not get a grip because of his ruined hands. Wyatt threw him off and began to run for the road.

Manning came up behind and said, ‘What’s the matter?’

Dawson choked. ‘All hell’s going to break loose in half an hour and that obstinate guy is taking off for the Negrito — he thinks his girl’s up there.’

‘The Marlowe girl?’

Dawson looked after Wyatt. ‘That’s the one. I’ll be seeing you — someone’s got to look after that crazy idiot.’

He began to run after Wyatt, and Manning began to run too. They caught up with him and Manning said, ‘I’m a fool, but I think I can get you up there faster. Follow me.’

That brought Wyatt up short. He stared at Manning, then followed, as Manning led the way back to a place further along the ridge where there was a low stone structure. ‘This is where I’ve been hiding during the hurricane,’ said Manning. ‘I’ve got my Land-Rover inside; you can take it.’

Wyatt went inside and Dawson said, ‘What is this thing?’

‘An old gun casemate — perhaps three hundred years old. It was part of the harbour fortifications in the old days. Favel wouldn’t come in here — he said he wouldn’t have better protection than his men. But I had Fuller to look after.’

They heard the engine roar as Wyatt started up and the Land-Rover backed out. Dawson jumped in, and Wyatt said, ‘There’s no need for you to come.’

Dawson grinned. ‘I’m a goddam lunatic, too. I’ve got to look after you — see you safely back to the nuthouse.’

Wyatt shrugged and rammed the gear-lever home. Manning shouted, ‘Try not to bend it; it belongs to me, not the corporation.’ He waved as the Land-Rover lurched past him, its wheels slipping in the mud, and he looked after it with a thoughtful expression. Then he went back to headquarters because Favel would need him.

When they got on to the road the going was easier, and Dawson said, ‘Where exactly are we going?’

The Land-Rover bounced as Wyatt pressed on the accelerator. ‘We go as high up overlooking the Negrito as we can,’ he said. ‘To where the road turns off to go down to the coast and St Michel.’ That was where he and Julie had admired the view and drunk weak Planter’s Punch. ‘I hope the bridges are all right.’

Dawson tried to wedge himself in as the Land-Rover swung recklessly round a corner. ‘How far is it?’

‘We ought to get there in half an hour if we can keep moving fast. Favel said the road was blocked by fallen trees but he was having it cleared.’

They began to climb and Dawson looked over to the left. ‘Look at that goddam river. It’s like a sea — the whole valley is under water.’

Wyatt concentrated on the road. ‘That’ll be salt water, or very brackish. It won’t do the agriculture any good.’ He did not even give it a glance; all his attention was on his driving. He was going too fast for this road with all its bends and climbing turns, and he tended to swing wide at the corners. It was unlikely there would be anything coming the other way but the chance was there. It was a chance he was prepared to take for the sake of speed.

Dawson twisted and looked back anxiously at the sea. It was too far away for him to see the waves but he caught a glimpse of the distant horizon before the Land-Rover slid round the next corner. It was boiling with clouds — great black masses of them splintered with lightning. He looked sideways at Wyatt’s set face and then up at the wet road coiling and climbing along the southern slopes of the Negrito Valley. This was going to be a near thing.

The plantations on each side were ruined, the soft banana plants hammered flat into a pulpy mass on the ground by the blast. The few plants left standing waved shredded leaves like forlorn battle flags, but it was doubtful if they would survive the next few hours. The sugar-cane was tougher; the stiff canes still stood upright, rattling together in the rising wind, but the verdant green top leaves had been stripped away completely and the plants would die.

They turned another corner and came upon men marching stolidly up the road. Wyatt swerved to avoid running them down, lost speed and cursed as he had to change gear. The soldiers waved as they passed and Dawson waved back. He hoped they found shelter soon — this was no time to be on an open road.

Then they came to the first bridge spanning a watercourse which was normally dry but which now gushed water, a spouting torrent that filled the narrow gash in the hillside and streamed under the bridge to hurl itself in a waterfall down the almost sheer drop on the other side of the road. There were men standing by the bridge who looked up in amazement as the Land-Rover came up and Wyatt made a gesture with his arm to indicate he was going to cross. A sergeant shrugged and waved him forward and Wyatt drove slowly on to the bridge.

Dawson looked over the side and held his breath. He thought he could feel a vibration as the fast-moving water slapped at the underside of the bridge and he hoped fervently that it had not been weakened. There was a sheer drop down there of over a hundred feet and he had never had a head for heights. He closed his eyes and opened them a few seconds later when he heard Wyatt change gear to find the bridge was behind and they were continuing the long climb.

Every minute or so Wyatt flicked his eyes to the sky. The clouds were thickening as the southern edge of the hurricane drew closer. The few remaining banana plants still standing streamed their tattered leaves and he knew the big winds were not far away. He said, ‘We’ll probably get to the top just in time.’

‘Then what?’

‘Then we take shelter below the crest of the ridge. We should have company — Favel pushed a regiment up there.’

‘That seems goddam stupid to me,’ commented Dawson. ‘What good can it do?’

‘It’s a matter of organization. The people down in the valley don’t have it — they’re undisciplined and fragmented, and they’ll be worse after the hurricane. If Favel can get a disciplined group among them as soon as the wind dies he can save a lot of lives. Ever heard of disaster shock?’

‘I can’t say I have.’

‘When a disaster hits a community the survivors come out in a state of shock. They’re absolutely helpless. It’s not merely a question of not wanting to help themselves — they’re not capable of it. They just sit around, absolutely numb, while hundreds of them die for lack of minimal attention — things as elementary as putting a blanket over an injured man just don’t get done even if the blanket’s there. It’s a sort of mass catalepsy.’

‘That sounds bad.’

‘It is bad. It happens in war, too, in cases of heavy bombing or shelling. The rescue organizations like the Red Cross or the special alpine teams they have in Switzerland know that the only thing to do is to get people in from the outside as fast as possible.’

‘But Favel’s men aren’t coming in from the outside,’ objected Dawson. ‘They’ll have taken as big a battering as anyone else — apart from having just fought a war.’

‘Disaster shock doesn’t have as great an effect on disciplined groups which have the backbone of an existing organization, but it hits civilian populations seriously. Favel’s men can do a hell of a lot to help.’

They crossed the second bridge. This was an old stone structure which stood as firm as the rock of which it was built.

Then, a few miles further on, they ran into water on the road, just a skim at first, but deepening to over six inches, which made the steering groggy. Wyatt cursed. ‘Favel told me this bloody road wasn’t flooded.’

The water was surging down the open hillside and flowing across the road, and the wind flickered across the surface of the water blowing away a fine mist. Wyatt drove slowly and came to the last bridge with the usual army squad about it. ‘What’s happened?’ he asked.

A sergeant turned and pointed upwards. ‘Blanc, there has been a landslide in the ravine.’

‘How’s the bridge?’

The soldier shook his head. ‘Not good. You must not cross.’

‘Be damned to that,’ said Wyatt, and put the Land-Rover into gear. ‘I’m going over.’

‘Hey!’ said Dawson, looking forward. ‘It doesn’t look too good to me.’ This was a wooden trestle bridge and it seemed decidedly rickety. ‘That thing has moved — it’s been slung sideways.’

Wyatt drove forward and stopped just short of the bridge. The whole structure was leaning and the road bed was tilted at a definite angle. He put his head out of the side window and stared down at the supports in the gorge below and saw the raw wood where baulks had broken. The wind blew his hair into his eyes and he drew back and glanced at Dawson. ‘Shall we chance it?’

‘Why not leave the truck here?’ asked Dawson. ‘You said it wasn’t far to the top.’

‘We might need the truck on the other side. I’ll take it across — you get out and walk.’

‘Oh, nuts!’ said Dawson. ‘Get on with it.’

The Land-Rover crept forward on to the bridge and leaned the way the bridge was tilting. There was an ominous and long-drawn creak from somewhere beneath and then a sudden loud crack, and the whole bridge shuddered. Wyatt kept moving at the same slow pace even though the tilt was perceptibly worse. He eased out his breath as the front wheels touched solid ground and permitted his foot to press a little harder on the accelerator. The Land-Rover jolted and there came a rending crash from behind, and Wyatt frantically fed fuel to the engine. He felt the rear wheels spin under the sudden surge of power and then they were bowling along the road too fast for safety.

Dawson looked back and saw the gap where the bridge had been and he heard the tearing and rending sounds coming from the gorge. There were beads of sweat on his forehead as he said, ‘Favel isn’t going to like that — you busted a bridge.’

‘It would have gone anyway,’ said Wyatt. His face was pale. ‘We haven’t far to go.’

III

When the wind strengthened again after that incredible calm Julie said dully, ‘You were right — it’s coming again.’

‘I’m afraid so,’ said Rawsthorne. ‘A pity.’

She grimaced. ‘Just when I’d got dry. Now we have to sit under that damn’ waterfall again.’

‘It’s better in the ravine,’ said Rawsthorne tiredly. ‘At least we have more protection than the people down there.’

It had been so quiet during the lull that they had been able to hear the murmur of voices from the multitude below quite clearly. Sometimes it had been more than a murmur; when the wind dropped they heard a woman screaming at the top of her voice, in long, sobbing wails. She had screamed for a long time, and then had stopped, her voice suddenly cut short. Julie looked at Rawsthorne, but neither of them made any comment.

She had expected the people to move, to come up the hill since the floods had made the valley impassable, but nothing like that happened. ‘They are West Indians,’ said Rawsthorne. ‘They know hurricanes — they know it is not over yet.’

‘I wonder what’s happened to the war,’ said Julie.

‘The war!’ Rawsthorne gave a short laugh. ‘There will be no more war. Did Wyatt tell you what would happen to St Pierre in the event of a hurricane?’

‘He said there’d be flooding.’

‘We English have a fatal gift for understatement. If the armies were fighting in St Pierre when the hurricane struck then there are no more armies. No Government army — no rebel army; a complete solution of conflict. There might be a few remnants left, of course; scattered and useless and in no condition to fight, but the war is over.’

Julie looked up at the grey sky through leafless branches. She hoped Wyatt had got out of the city. Perhaps he was somewhere down there — on the lower slopes of the Negrito. She said, ‘What about the Base?’

Rawsthorne shook his head. ‘The same,’ he said. ‘Young Wyatt estimated that the big wave would completely cover the Base.’ He tried to cheer her up. ‘Commodore Brooks might have reconsidered and evacuated, you know. He’s no fool.’

‘Dave tried to tell him, but he wouldn’t listen. He couldn’t get past that fool Schelling. I don’t think he would evacuate; he’s too stiff-necked — a real Navy man with his “Damn the torpedoes!” and “Damn the hurricanes!’ ”

‘I didn’t get that impression of Brooks,’ said Rawsthorne quietly. ‘And I knew him very well. He had a very difficult decision to make, and I’m sure he made the right one for all concerned.’

Julie looked up at the tall tree on the edge of the ravine and saw the topmost branches straining in the wind. It would soon be time to take shelter again. She knew it was futile to worry about Wyatt — there was nothing she could do — and there was someone closer at hand to trouble her.

Rawsthorne looked very ill. His breathing was bad and, when he spoke, it seemed to strain him. His face had lost its floridity and turned the colour of dirty parchment and his eyes were shrunk into dark smudges in his head. He also had trouble in moving; his actions were slow and uncertain and there was a trembling palsy in his hands. To be soaked to the skin for the next few hours would be the worst thing that could happen to him.

She said again, ‘Wouldn’t it be wiser to go down the hill?’

‘There is no better shelter there than we have here. The ravine provides complete shelter from the wind.’

‘But the water...’

He smiled gently. ‘My dear, one would get just as wet anywhere else.’ He closed his eyes. ‘You’re worried about me, aren’t you?’

‘I am,’ said Julie. ‘You don’t look too good.’

‘I don’t feel too well,’ he confessed. ‘It’s an old complaint which I thought I’d got rid of. True, my doctor said I mustn’t exert myself, but he didn’t take account of wars and hurricanes.’

‘It’s your heart, isn’t it?’

He nodded. ‘Running over these hills is all very well for younger men. Don’t worry, my dear; there is nothing you can do. I certainly don’t intend to do any more running. I shall sit placidly under that waterfall and wait for the wind to stop.’ He opened his eyes and looked at her. ‘You have a great capacity for love, child. Wyatt is a very lucky man.’

She coloured, then said softly, ‘I don’t know if I’ll ever see him again.’

‘Wyatt is a very stubborn man,’ said Rawsthorne. ‘If he has something to work towards he will not permit himself to be killed — it would interfere with his plans. He was very concerned about you, you know, the night the battle began. I don’t know which was on his mind more, the hurricane or your safety.’ He patted her hand and she felt the tremble of his fingers. ‘He will be looking for you still.’

The wind gusted among the leafless trees, drying the sudden tears that ran down her cheeks. She gulped and said, ‘I think it’s time to go back into our hole; the wind’s getting stronger.’

Rawsthorne looked up. ‘I suppose we must go. It won’t be pleasant out here when the wind really starts.’ He got to his feet, creaking almost audibly, and his steps were uncertain. He paused for a moment, and said, ‘A few minutes longer won’t hurt. I don’t relish that waterfall at all.’

They walked over to the edge of the ravine, and looked down. The water still coursed over the big rock, although perhaps not as strongly. Rawsthorne sighed. ‘It’s not a comfortable bed for old bones like mine.’ The wind blew his sparse hair.

‘I think we ought to go down,’ said Julie.

‘In a moment, my dear.’ Rawsthorne turned to look over the windy hillside. ‘I thought I heard voices quite close — from up there.’ He pointed towards the top of the ridge in the direction of St Pierre.

‘I didn’t hear anything,’ said Julie.

The wind rose to a greater violence, singing crazily among the branches of the trees. ‘Perhaps it was just the wind,’ said Rawsthorne. He smiled tightly. ‘Did you hear what I said then? Just the wind! Rather silly of me to say that about a hurricane, don’t you think? All right, my dear; we’ll go down now. The wind is very strong.’

He walked over to the tall tree and used it to lean on while he felt for his footing on the edge of the ravine. Julie came forward. ‘I’ll give you a hand.’

‘It’s all right.’ He lowered himself over the edge and started to climb down, and Julie prepared to follow. There was a roar like an express train as a squall of wind passed overhead and an ominous creaking came from the tree.

Julie whirled and looked up. ‘Watch out!’ she screamed.

The tree was not securely rooted; water pouring from above had undercut the roots and the sudden hard pressure of the wind was too much for them. The tree began to topple, the roots wrenched themselves from the side of the ravine and the bole of the tree came forward like a battering ram straight at Rawsthorne.

Julie dashed forward and cannoned into him and, caught off balance, he lost his footing and fell down among the rocks. As it dropped the tree twisted and turned and a branch caught Julie a glancing blow on the head. She staggered back and the tree fell on top of her, crushing her legs painfully. The world was suddenly a twisting, turning chaos of red pain, and there were many crackling and popping noises as twigs and branches snapped off short on violent contact with the ground. Then all the noise faded away, even the howling of the wind, and the redness became grey and finally a total black.

At first, Rawsthorne did not know what had happened. He heard Julie’s shout and then found himself thrust into space. He was thoroughly winded by his fall into the ravine and lay for a while struggling for breath. There was a tightness in his chest, an old enemy which presaged no good, and he knew he must not move very much or his heart would begin to go back on him. But after a while, when he began to breathe more easily, he sat up and looked at the tangle of branches on the edge of the ravine.

‘Julie!’ he called. ‘Are you all right?’

His voice was painfully thin and lost in the suddenly risen wind. He shouted again and again but heard no reply. He looked up in despair at the wall of ravine, knowing that he must force himself to climb it, and wondered hazily if he would make it. Slowly he began to climb, nursing his ebbing strength and resting often when he found a firm footing.

He nearly made it to the top.

As he stretched out his hand to grasp a firm rock on the lip of the ravine he cried out in pain. It felt as though some vicious enemy had thrust a red-hot sword into his chest and his heart seemed to swell and break asunder. He cried out once more at the awful agony and fell back into the ravine, where he lay with the torrent of water lapping at his hair.

Julie did not know how long she was unconscious, but when she recovered her senses everything was murkily grey, and the shriek of the gale battered at her ears. She blinked and tried to get up, but she could not and for some time could not understand why. Her right arm was held down, and someone was apparently sitting on her legs.

She explored with her left hand and encountered the rough bark of the tree and suddenly knew what had happened. Further exploration told her more; the tree had fallen upon her and her right arm was held down by a stout branch while the trunk lay across her legs. She tugged to try to free her arm but nothing happened, and after several attempts, she gave up.

The roar of the wind filled the universe, and she wondered why she did not feel the blast more than she did. Then she found, after rubbing the caked blood from her half-closed eyes, that it was not as dark as she had thought. Tree branches were all about her, while the trunk which pinned her down shielded her from the worst of the wind.

She tried again to free her right arm and then gave up in despair. By turning her head at an awkward angle she found she was lying on the very edge of the ravine and could see down to the rocks and water below. On the extreme periphery of her vision she saw a dark shape huddled among the boulders, and by twisting her head until her neck hurt she saw it was Rawsthorne lying face down with a wave breaking quite close to his head.

She closed her eyes in pain. Not a comfortable bed for old bones, she thought. Poor Rawsthorne.

She lay quiet for a few minutes, trying to decide what to do next. The racket of the wind made it difficult to think in an orderly, consecutive manner, and her thoughts tended to wander, but finally she decided that she had better attack the major problem first — the tree trunk that was holding her down. She pushed at it tentatively without effect, and then pushed harder. It was like pushing at a hundred-ton weight, for all the difference it made.

She paused, dizzy with the effort, and thought again. This time she would try to pull herself from under the trunk. She manoeuvred her free hand so that she could push against the ground and then pulled, trying to ease herself out. A wave of pain enveloped her, a pain so great that she would not have believed it possible, and she sank into merciful unconsciousness.

During the day she awoke from time to time, vaguely conscious of the violence of the hurricane as it raged about her. During these brief spells of consciousness she had not the strength to move. A nagging voice of sanity at the back of her mind told her to make the effort, but it was too faint to rouse her.

The periods of unconsciousness became longer and her waking periods briefer. She no longer felt any pain in her legs and, towards the end, she no longer heard the wind even when her eyelids flickered open.

She did not know that her life was passing from her, slowly but inexorably.