But her heart turned over at the thought that she might not see Wyatt ever again.
It took them a long time to transport their supplies to the top of the ridge. Rawsthorne, although willing, was not a young man and had neither the strength nor the stamina for the sustained effort. Mrs Warmington was totally unfit for any kind of work and after she had toiled to the top with her small load of blankets, she sat back and watched the others work. Julie was fit enough, but she was not used to the intense heat and the strong sun made her head swim. So it was Eumenides who carried the bulk of the supplies, willingly and without complaint. All he allowed himself was a contemptuous glance at Mrs Warmington each time he deposited a load at the top.
At last all the stores had been moved and they rested for a while on the ridge-top. On the seaward side they could see the main coast road, still as warm with refugees heading east away from St Pierre. The city itself was out of sight behind the headland, but they could hear the distant thud of guns and could see a growing smudge of smoke in the western sky.
On the other side of the ridge the ground sloped down into a small green valley, heavily planted with bananas in long rows. Over a mile away was a long, low building with a few smaller huts scattered about it. Rawsthorne looked at the banana plantation with satisfaction. ‘At least we’ll have plenty of shade. And the ground is cultivated and easy to dig. And a banana plant blowing down on one wouldn’t hurt.’
‘I’ve always liked bananas,’ said Mrs Warmington.
‘I wouldn’t eat any you find down there; they’re unripe and they’ll give you the collywobbles.’ Rawsthorne meditated for a moment. ‘I’m no expert on hurricanes like Wyatt, but I do know something about them. If the hurricane is coming from the south, then the wind will blow from the east to begin with—so we must have protection from that side. Later, the wind will come from the west, and that makes things complicated.’
Eumenides pointed. ‘Over there—lil ‘ollow.’
‘So there is,’ said Rawsthorne. He arose and picked up a spade. ‘I thought these might come in useful when I put them in the car. Shall we go? We can leave all this stuff here until we’re sure we know where we’re going to take it.’
They descended into the plantation, which was quite deserted. ‘We’ll keep away from that building,’ said Rawsthorne. ‘That’s the barracks for the convict labour. I imagine Serrurier has given orders that the men be kept locked up, but there’s no point in taking chances.’ He poked at the ground beneath a banana plant and snorted in disgust. ‘Very bad cultivation here; these plants need pruning—if they’re not careful they’re going to get Panama disease. But it’s the same all over the island since Serrurier took over—the whole place is running down.’
They reached the hollow and Rawsthorne adjudged it a good place. ‘It’s nicely protected,’ he said, and thrust his spade into the earth. ‘Now we dig.’
‘How dig?’ asked Eumenides.
‘Foxholes—as in the army.’ Rawsthorne began to measure out on the ground. ‘Five of them—one for each of us and one for the supplies.’
They took it in turns digging—Rawsthorne, Eumenides and Julie—while Mrs Warmington panted in the shade. It was not very hard work because the ground was soft as Rawsthorne had predicted, but the sun was hot and they sweated copiously. Near the end of their labours Julie paused for a drink of water and looked at the five…graves? She thought sombrely of the unofficial motto of the Seabees—‘First we dig ‘em, then we die in ‘em.’ In spite of the hot sun, she shivered.
When they had finally completed the foxholes and had brought down the supplies it was near to sunset, although it seemed hotter than ever. Rawsthorne cut some of the huge leaves from some near-by plants and strewed them over the raw earth. ‘In the middle of a civil war camouflage does no harm. Anyway, these plants need cutting.’
Julie lifted her head. ‘Talking of the war—don’t the guns sound louder…closer?’
Rawsthorne listened intently. ‘They do, don’t they?’ He frowned. ‘I wonder if…’ He clicked his tongue and shook his head.
‘If what?’
‘I thought the battle might come this way,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think so. Even if Favel takes St Pierre he must attack Serrurier’s forces between St Pierre and Cap Sarrat—and that’s on the other side.’
‘But the guns do sound nearer,’ said Julie.
‘A trick of the wind,’ said Rawsthorne. He said it with dubiety. There was no wind.
As the sun dipped down they prepared for the night and arranged watches. Mrs Warmington, by common consent, was left to sleep all night as being too unreliable. They talked desultorily for a while and then turned in, leaving Julie to stand first watch.
She sat in the sudden darkness and listened to the sound of the guns. To her untutored ear they sounded as though they were just down the valley and round the corner, but she consoled herself with Rawsthorne’s reasoning. But there was a fitful red glare in the west from the direction of St Pierre—there were fires in the town.
She searched her pockets and found a crumpled cigarette, which she lit, inhaling the smoke greedily. It had been a bad day; she was tense and the cigarette relaxed her. She sat with her back against a banana tree—or plant, or whatever it was—and thought about Wyatt, wondering what had happened to him. Perhaps he was already dead, caught up in the turmoil of war. Or maybe raging in a cell, waiting for the deadly wind he alone knew was going to strike. She wished with all her heart they had not been separated—whatever was going to happen, she wanted to be with him.
And Causton—what had happened to Causton? If he found his way back to the hotel he would find the note they had pinned on the door of the store-room under the stairs and know they had fled to safety. But he would not know enough to be able to join them. She hoped he would be safe—but her thoughts dwelt longer on Wyatt.
The moon had just risen when she awoke Eumenides as planned. ‘Everything quiet,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Nothing is happening.’
He nodded and said, ‘The guns ver’ close—more close than before.’
‘You think so?’
He nodded again but said nothing more, so she went to her own foxhole and settled down for the night. It is like a grave, she thought as she stretched on the blanket which lay on the bottom. She thought of Wyatt again, very hazily and drowsily, and then fell asleep before she had completed the thought.
She was awakened by something touching her face and she started up, only to be held down. ‘Ssssh,’ hissed a voice. ‘Keep ver’ still.’
‘What’s wrong, Eumenides?’ she whispered.
‘I don’ know,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Man’ peoples ‘ere—lis’en!’
She strained her ears and caught an indefinable sound which seemed to emanate from nowhere in particular and everywhere at once. ‘It’s the wind in the banana leaves,’ she murmured.
‘No win’,’ said Eumenides definitely.
She listened again and caught what seemed to be a faraway voice. ‘I don’t know if you’re right or wrong,’ she said. ‘But I think we ought to wake the others.’
He went to shake Rawsthorne, while Julie woke Mrs Warmington, who squealed in surprise. ‘Damn you, be quiet,’ snapped Julie, and clapped her hand over Mrs Warmington’s mouth as it opened again. ‘We might be in trouble. Just stay there and be prepared to move in a hurry. And don’t make a sound.’
She went over to where Rawsthorne and Eumenides were conferring in low tones. ‘There’s something going on,’ said Rawsthorne. ‘The guns have stopped, too. Eumenides, you go up to the top and see what’s happened on the seaward side of the ridge; I’ll scout down the valley. The moon’s bright enough to see for quite a distance.’ His voice held a note of perplexity. ‘But these damn’ noises are coming from all round.’
He stood up. ‘Will you be all right, Julie?’
‘I’ll be fine,’ she said. ‘And I’ll keep that damned woman quiet if I have to slug her.’
The t
wo men went off and she lost sight of them as they disappeared in the plantation. Rawsthorne flitted among the rows, edging nearer and nearer to the convict barracks. Soon he came to a service road driven through the plantation and paused before he crossed—which was just as well for he heard a voice from quite close.
He froze and waited while a group of men went up the road. They were Government soldiers and from the sound of their voices they were weary and dispirited. From a word and a half-heard phrase he gathered that they had been defeated in a battle and had not liked it at all. He waited until they had gone by, then crossed the road and penetrated the plantation on the other side.
Here he literally fell over a wounded man lying just off the road. The man cried aloud in anguish and Rawsthorne ran away, afraid the noise would attract attention. He blundered about in the plantation, suddenly aware that there were men all about him in the leaf-shadowed moonlight. They were drifting through the rows of plants from the direction of St Pierre in no form of order and with no discipline.
Suddenly he saw a spurt of flame and then the growing glow of a newly lit fire. He shrank back and went another way, only to be confronted by the sight of another fire being kindled. All around the fires sprang into being like glow-worms, and as he cautiously approached one of them he saw a dozen men sitting and lying before the flames, toasting unripe bananas on twigs to make them palatable enough to eat.
It was then that he knew he was in the middle of Serrurier’s defeated army, and when he heard the roar of trucks on the service road he had just crossed and the sharp voice of command from close behind him, he knew also that this army was beginning to regroup for tomorrow’s battle, which would probably be on the very ground on which he was standing.
III
Dawson felt better once he had left the Place de la Libération Noire and the sights that had sickened him. There was nothing wrong with his legs and he had no trouble keeping up with Wyatt who was in a great hurry. Although the town centre was not being shelled any more the noise of battle to the north had greatly intensified, and Wyatt felt he had to get to the Imperiale before the battle moved in. He had to make certain that Julie was safe.
As they moved from the square and the area of government administrative buildings they began to encounter people, at first in ones and twos, and then in greater numbers. By the time they got near to the Imperiale, which fortunately was not far, the press of people in the streets was great, and Wyatt realized he was witnessing the panic of a civilian population caught in war.
Already the criminal elements had begun to take advantage of the situation and most of the expensive shops near the Imperiale had been sacked and looted. Bodies lying on the pavement testified that the police had taken strong measures, but Wyatt’s lips tightened as he noted two dead policemen sprawled outside a jewellery shop—the streets of St Pierre were fast ceasing to be safe.
He pushed through the screaming, excited crowds, ran up the steps of the hotel and through the revolving doors into the foyer. ‘Julie!’ he called. ‘Causton!’
There was no answer.
He ran across the foyer and stumbled over the body of a soldier which lay near an overturned table just outside the bar. He shouted again, then turned to Dawson. ‘I’m going upstairs—you see what you can find down there.’
Dawson walked into the bar, crunching broken glass underfoot, and looked about. Someone had a hell of a party, he thought. He nudged at a half-empty bottle of Scotch with one bandaged hand and shook his head sadly. He would have liked a drink, but this was not the time for it.
He turned away, feeling a surge of triumph within him. Not long before he would have taken a drink at any time, but since he had survived the attentions of Sous-Inspecteur Roseau he felt a growing strength and a breaking of bonds. As he defied Roseau, stubbornly keeping his mouth shut, so he now defied what he recognized to be the worst in himself and, in that, found a new freedom, the freedom to be himself. ‘Big Jim’ Dawson was dead and young Jimmy Dawson reborn—maybe a little older in appearance and a bit shrivelled about the edges, but still as new and shining and uncorrupted as that young man had been so many years ago. The only added quality was wisdom, and perhaps a deep sense of shame for what he had done to himself in the name of success.
He searched the ground floor of the hotel—discovered nothing, and returned to the foyer, where he found Wyatt. ‘Nothing down there,’ he said.
Wyatt’s face was gaunt. ‘They’ve gone.’ He was looking at the dead soldier sprawled with bloody chest near the upturned table. There was a buzzing of flies about him.
Dawson said tentatively, ‘You think—maybe—the soldiers took them?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Wyatt heavily.
‘I’m sorry it happened,’ said Dawson. ‘I’m sorry it happened because of me.’
Wyatt turned his head. ‘We don’t know it was because of you. It might have happened anyway.’ He felt suddenly dizzy and sat down.
Dawson looked at him with concern. ‘You know what?’ he said. ‘I think we could both do with some food. When did we eat last?’ He held out his bandaged hands and said apologetically, ‘I’d get it myself but I don’t think I can open a can.’
‘What did they do to you?’
Dawson shrugged and put his hands behind his back. ‘Beat me up—roughed me around a bit. Nothing I couldn’t take.’
‘You’re right, of course,’ said Wyatt. ‘We must eat. I’ll see what I can find.’
Ten minutes later they were wolfing cold meat stew right out of the cans. Dawson found he could just hold a spoon in his left hand and by holding the can in the crook of his right arm he could feed himself tolerably well. It was painful because his left hand hurt like hell when he gripped the spoon, but the last thing he wanted was for Wyatt to feed him like a baby—he could not have borne that.
He said, ‘What do we do now?’
Wyatt listened to the guns. ‘I don’t know,’ he said slowly. ‘I wish Causton or Julie had left a message.’
‘Maybe they did.’
‘There was nothing in their rooms.’
Dawson thought about that. ‘Maybe they weren’t in their rooms; maybe they were in the cellar. The guns were firing at the square, and that’s not very far away—maybe they sheltered in the cellar.’
‘There is no cellar.’
‘Okay—but they might have sheltered somewhere else. Where would you go in a bombardment?’ He shifted in his chair and the cane creaked. ‘I know a guy who was in the London blitz; he said that under the stairs was the best place. Maybe those stairs there.’
Awkwardly he put down the spoon and walked over to the staircase. ‘Hey!’ he called. ‘There’s something pinned on this door.’
Wyatt dropped his can with a clatter and ran after Dawson. He ripped the note from the door. ‘Causton’s vanished,’ he said. ‘But the others got away in Rawsthorne’s car. They’ve gone east—out of the bay area.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘Thank God for that.’
‘I’m glad they got away,’ said Dawson. ‘What do we do—follow them?’
‘You’d better do that,’ said Wyatt. ‘I’ll give you all the necessary directions.’
Dawson looked at him in surprise. ‘Me? What are you going to do?’
‘I’ve been listening to the guns,’ said Wyatt. ‘I think Favel is making a breakthrough. I want to see him.’
‘Are you out of your cotton-picking mind? You hang round in the middle of a goddam war and you’ll get shot. You’d better come east with me.’
‘I’m staying,’ said Wyatt stubbornly. ‘Someone’s got to tell Favel about the hurricane.’
‘What makes you think Favel will listen to you?’ demanded Dawson. ‘What makes you think you’ll even get to see him? There’ll be bloody murder going on in this city when Favel comes in—you won’t have a chance.’
‘I don’t think Favel is like that. I think he’s a reasonable man, not a psychopath like Serrurier. If I can get to him I think he’ll listen.’
Dawson groaned, but one look at Wyatt’s inflexible face showed the uselessness of argument. He said, ‘You’re a goddam, pigheaded, one-track man, Wyatt; a stupid dope with not enough sense to come in out of the rain. But if you feel like that about it, I guess I’ll stick around long enough to see you get your come-uppance.’
Wyatt looked at him in surprise. ‘You don’t have to do that,’ he said gently.
‘I know I don’t,’ complained Dawson. ‘But I’m staying, anyway. Maybe Causton had the right idea—maybe there’s the makings of a good book in all this.’ He slanted a glance at Wyatt, half-humorous, half-frowning. ‘You’d make a good hero.’
‘Keep me out of anything you write,’ warned Wyatt.
‘It’s all right,’ said Dawson. ‘A dead hero can’t sue me.’
‘And a dead writer can’t write books. I think you’d better get out.’
‘I’m staying,’ said Dawson. He felt he owed a debt to Wyatt, something he had to repay; perhaps he would get the chance if he stayed around with him.
‘As you wish,’ said Wyatt indifferently, and moved towards the door.
‘Wait a minute,’ said Dawson. ‘Let’s not get shot right away. Let’s figure out what’s going on. What makes you think Favel is making a breakthrough?’
‘There was a heavy barrage going on not long ago—now it’s stopped.’
‘Stopped? Sounds just the same to me.’
‘Listen closely,’ said Wyatt. ‘Those guns you hear are on the east and west—there’s nothing from the centre.’
Dawson cocked his head on one side. ‘You’re right. You think Favel has bust through the middle?’
‘Perhaps.’
Dawson sat down. ‘Then all we’ve got to do is to wait here and Favel will come to us. Take it easy, Wyatt.’
Wyatt looked through a glassless window. ‘You could be right; the street is deserted now—not a soul in sight.’
Wyatt's Hurricane / Bahama Crisis Page 15