Incredibly, Mrs Warmington had retained her purse when they were dragged down the hill, and now Julie picked it up and dumped the contents on to the floor. It contained no more than the usual rat’s nest found in a woman’s purse; lipstick, compact, comb, money in notes and coins—quite a lot of that, traveller’s cheques, pen, notebook, a packet of tissues, a bottle of aspirin, a small flask of spirit which proved to be bourbon, an assortment of hairpins, several loose scraps of paper and a cloying scent of spilled face powder.
She stirred the heap with her finger and said sardonically, ‘You’ve lost your jewels.’ She took the tissues and began to stanch her wounds. They were not too bad; the worst was not a quarter of an inch deep, but they bled freely and she knew that when they stopped bleeding her legs would become very stiff and painful to move. She took two of the aspirin tablets and dumped half of the contents of the bottle into her shirt pocket. As she swallowed the aspirins she wished they had water, and wondered what could be done about that. Then she donned her slacks and tossed the remainder of the tissues to Mrs Warmington. ‘Clean yourself up,’ she ordered abruptly, and went to the door again.
She stayed to observe the scene for a long time. The quarry apparently formed a convenient military park close to the main road but not in the way of traffic. There were many trucks moving in and out but she noted that the general trend was to lessen the number of vehicles standing idle. She hoped briefly, but with no great assurance, that everyone would go away, forgetting the white women imprisoned in the hut, and wondered how much chance there was of that happening.
After a while she tired of the changing scene that always remained the same and began to explore the hut. Mrs Warmington sat mutely in her corner, looking at Julie with frightened eyes, and Julie ignored her. Most of the boxes were empty, but behind a large tea-chest filled with bits and pieces of scrap iron she found a sledge-hammer and a pickaxe, both in reasonably good condition.
Julie hefted the hammer and then explored the walls of the hut. The wooden framework was rotten and the nails that held the rusty iron sheets were corroded, and she thought she would have no difficulty in battering her way out provided there was no one within earshot—an unlikely eventuality. She put the tools close to hand behind the door where they would not be easily seen and settled down again to her vigil.
The morning wore on and slowly the quarry emptied of vehicles. As the sun rose higher in the sky the hut warmed to an oven-like heat and the iron walls were too hot to touch. The two women sat there and sweated, listening to the noisy clash of gears and the roar of engines as trucks drove to and fro—and they became very thirsty.
She wondered what had happened to Rawsthorne and concluded that he must also have been taken prisoner, or perhaps killed. It had only been the fortunate arrival of the Negro officer that had saved them, and maybe Rawsthorne had not been so lucky. She coldly contemplated the grim fact that if she did not get out of this hut she would die. Rawsthorne had already rejected the quarry as being safe from the hurricane, and however the fortunes of the civil war she would die if she could not escape.
Her thoughts again turned to Wyatt. It was a great pity that now they had come together at last they should be parted and that both would probably die. At the moment she did not give much for her own chances, and while she was ignorant of what had happened to Wyatt, she was doubtful of his having survived the war that had washed over St Pierre.
She was aroused from her reverie by Mrs Warmington. ‘I’m thirsty.’
‘So am I,’ said Julie. ‘Shut up!’
Something was happening—or rather, not happening—and she made a quick gesture with her hand, pressing Mrs Warmington to silence. It had suddenly gone very quiet. True, there was the noise of traffic from the main coast road, but the closer rumble of trucks from the quarry had ceased. She looked through the crack in the door again and found the quarry empty except for one soldier, who squatted in the shade a dozen yards away and seemed to be dozing. There had been a guard, after all.
Julie turned and snatched the purse from Mrs Warmington’s grasping hand and took out the wad of notes. Mrs Warmington flared up. ‘Don’t take that—it’s mine.’
‘You want water, don’t you?’ asked Julie. ‘We might be able to buy some.’ She looked at the thick bundle of money. ‘We might even be able to buy our way out of here—if you keep quiet.’ Mrs Warmington closed her mouth abruptly, and Julie said, ‘I don’t know my way around in this language, but I’ll try; the money will speak loud enough, anyway.’
She went to the door and looked through the crack. ‘Hey you, there!’
The soldier turned round lazily and blinked at the door. He saw what appeared to be a bank-note of large denomination protruding through the door of the hut and moving gently up and down. He scrambled to his feet, seized his rifle, and approached the hut with circumspection diluted with avarice. The bank-note flashed from sight as he made a grab for it, and a feminine voice said, ’L’eau…agua. Can you get us some?’
Julie watched the puzzlement on the man’s face, and said urgently, ‘Bring us water. Water…l’eau…agua. You can have the money.’
The soldier scratched his head, and then his face cleared. ‘Ah—l’eau!.’
‘That’s right. You can have the money—the money, see when you bring l’eau.’
He broke into a jabber of incomprehensible patois, finally ending with, ’L’argent…la monnaie…pour l’eau?’
‘That’s right, buster; you’ve got it.’
He nodded and went away and Julie breathed a sigh of relief. Her throat was parched and felt like sand-paper, and the thought of cool water made her feel dizzy for a moment. But there was something that had to be done before the soldier returned. It was not likely he would unlock the door—he probably had no key—and how would he get the water into the hut?
She seized the sledge-hammer and prodded tentatively at the bottom of the door where it seemed to be weakest. Then she swung the hammer like a golf club and crashed it once against the rotten wood. A piece gave way leaving a small opening, and she dared not do more. She did not know how far the soldier had gone and he could still be within earshot—one sharp noise he might dismiss, but not the constant repetition necessary to break down the door.
She saw him coming back bearing a bottle and a tin cup and he paused a moment and looked helplessly as she rattled the door. He said something and shrugged his shoulders and she knew he could not open the door, so she bent down and put her hand through the hole she had made. ‘Down here,’ she shouted, hoping he did not realize the opening was new.
He squatted before the door and put the bottle and cup just out of her reach. ’L’argent,’ he said in a bass growl. ‘La monnaie.’
She cursed him and pushed a bank-note through the hole. He grabbed it and pushed the tin cup within her reach. She drew it through the hole gently, careful not to spill it, and passed it to Mrs Warmington. When she reached for the bottle it was still beyond her grasp. The soldier grinned and said cheerfully, ’L’argent?’ and she was forced to give him more money before he would let her have the bottle.
The water, tepid though it was, was a benison to her dry throat. She drank half the bottle in one swallow and then paused, looking at Mrs Warmington who was licking the last drop from the rim of the dirty cup. She said, ‘Take it easy; this stuff is expensive—it’s costing you over four dollars a cup.’ She put the bottle in the corner and looked at her watch. It was twelve-thirty.
The soldier had gone back to sitting in the shade, but he kept his eye on the hut, hoping for more easy money. Julie said, ‘I wish to hell he’d go away.’
She heard a tapping sound from behind her and turned to look at Mrs Warmington, who was gazing hopefully into the cup as though she expected it to fill up by magic. The tapping continued and came from the back of the hut, so Julie went to the back wall and listened closely. There was a familiar but incomplete rhythm which she recognized as the old shave-and-a-haircut of her childhood day
s, so she gave the two taps necessary to complete the phrase and said in a low voice, ‘Who’s that?’
‘Rawsthorne—don’t make a noise.’
Her heart leaped in her breast. ‘How did you get here?’
‘I followed you when you were brought down here. I’ve been watching from the top of the quarry. I was only able to get down when that bloody guard went away just now.’
‘Where did he go?’ asked Julie urgently.
‘Up the track and out of sight,’ said Rawsthorne. ‘I think he went as far as the main road.’
‘Good!’ said Julie. ‘I think I can make him do it again. If he goes that far we can get out of here. Can you wait there?’
‘Yes,’ said Rawsthorne. He sounded very much his age and as though he was desperately tired. ‘I can wait.’
Julie went back and found that Mrs Warmington had finished the bottle of water. She looked up defiantly, and said, ‘Well, it was my money, wasn’t it?’
Julie snatched the bottle from her hands. ‘It doesn’t matter now; we’re getting out of here. Get ready—and keep quiet.’
She went to the door and called out, ’L’eau…more l’eau, please,’ and fluttered another bank-note through the crack. This time she wasn’t quick enough and the soldier snatched it from her before she could withdraw it. He grinned in satisfaction as he stuffed it into his pocket but made no objection to taking the bottle and cup.
She watched him walk out of sight and forced herself to wait two full minutes, then she swung at the door with the hammer and with her full strength. One of the planks split along its length; it was rotten with age and lack of paint and another blow shattered it. Rawsthorne called, ‘Wait!’ and stuck his head through the opening she had made. ‘Hit it down there,’ he said, indicating the area of the lock.
She swung the hammer again and the hasp and staple burst out of the rotten wood and the door creaked open. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Make it fast.’ And ran outside, not really caring if Mrs Warmington followed or not.
‘Over here,’ called Rawsthorne, and she ran after him round a corner of rock and out of sight of the hut. ‘We’re still in a trap,’ Rawsthorne told her. ‘This quarry is a deadend, and if we go along the track we’ll meet that guard coming back.’
‘How did you get down?’
Rawsthorne pointed upwards. ‘I came down there—and nearly broke my neck. But we can’t get up that way—not before the guard comes back—he’d pick us off the cliff like ducks in a shooting gallery.’ He looked around. ‘The only thing we can do is to hide.’
‘But where?’
‘There’s a ledge up there,’ said Rawsthorne. ‘If we lie flat we should be out of sight of anyone down here. Come on, Mrs Warmington.’
It was an awkward climb. Julie and Rawsthorne gave the ungainly Mrs Warmington a boost, and then Rawsthorne went up and turned to give Julie his hand. She rolled on to the narrow ledge with skinned knees and flattened herself out. Although she kept her head down she could still see the corner of the hut in the distance and expected to see the guard return with the water at any moment.
She whispered, ‘Supposing we do get on top of the quarry—what then?’
‘All the troops have gone from the top,’ said Rawsthorne. ‘They moved out of the plantation back towards St Pierre. I think General Rocambeau is going to attack very soon. I thought we could cut across country behind his army, moving over the hills until we reach the Negrito. We should be safe enough there.’ He paused. ‘But we might not have time; have you looked at the sky?’
Julie twisted her neck and looked up, wincing as the sun bit into her eyes. ‘I don’t see much—just a few high clouds. Feathery ones.’
‘There’s a halo round the sun,’ said Rawsthorne. ‘I think the hurricane will be here soon.’
Julie saw a movement near the hut. ‘Hush, he’s come back.’
The soldier looked at the hut in astonishment and dropped the bottle and the cup, spilling the water carelessly on the dusty ground. He unslung his rifle and Julie heard quite clearly the snap of metal as he slipped off the safety-catch. He looked around the quarry and she froze—if she could see him, then he could see her if he looked carefully enough in the right direction.
Slowly the soldier walked around the hut; he walked with deliberation, his rifle held ready to shoot, and she heard the dry crunch of his boots on the ground. He came forward intent on searching the quarry, and cast in a wide circle, peering into all the nooks and crannies left by the blasting. As he came closer he vanished from sight and Julie held her breath and hoped the Warmington woman would keep quiet, because now the man was very close—she could even hear the rasp of his breath as he stood below the ledge.
And he stood there for a long time. There was no movement of his feet at all, and Julie pictured him looking up at the ledge and wondering if it was worthwhile climbing up to investigate. There was a clink and a scraping sound as of metal on rock, and she thought: he’s put down his gun; he needs both hands for climbing. He’s coming up!
She jerked at the sound of a shattering explosion, and then there was another—and another. She heard the thud of boots and, after a few seconds, saw the man running across the quarry away from them to stand looking up the track with his hand shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun. The explosions continued in rapid succession. It was a noise Julie was becoming familiar with—an artillery barrage. Rocambeau had attacked and Favel was laying down protective fire.
The soldier hesitated and looked about the quarry again, then slung his rifle on his shoulder and disappeared from her view at a rapid trot, heading towards the track. ‘I think he’s gone,’ she said after a long moment.
Rawsthorne lifted himself up and looked about. ‘Then we must go too,’ he said. ‘We must strike for the high ground.’
IV
Favel’s force in the east resisted the first assault, shattering the wave of Government troops that tried to cross the open ground before the furthest suburbs with a deluge of shells and mortar bombs. Rocambeau had no artillery and was impotent in the face of this onslaught of fire, but he had the men—seven thousand to Favel’s two thousand—and he used them ruthlessly.
He lost five hundred in that first attack, but when it was beaten off he occupied a line within two hundred yards of the nearest houses, his men burrowing into the shell-holes that pitted the ground; and he filtered in reinforcements from the rear, crawling on their bellies from crater to crater, until his position was unassailable.
Not that Favel meant to counter-attack—or could attack. Over half his force was serving the guns and he had only nine hundred infantrymen to cover them—a dangerously small force. But his infantry were exceptionally well equipped to fight a decisive battle; they had all the automatic weapons which had been withdrawn from the men now evacuating the city and they had had time to site them well. Rocambeau was going to lose a lot more men before he had a chance of getting at those murderous guns which were hammering his force—if he ever could get at them. For the guns were prepared to retreat at a moment’s notice; their limbers and transport lay close at hand and they could retreat in echelon to already prepared positions when the order was given, and Rocambeau would be left to go through the whole futile, man-killing process again.
Favel did not even leave his headquarters. His officers knew what was expected of them and he knew he could rely on them to carry out the master plan, so he was left free to concentrate on the coming attack from the west. That morning he had gone down to the docks and watched the American evacuation of Cap Sarrat Base, powerful binoculars shortening the distance across the water. One by one the ships went and the aircraft roared towards the northeast in the direction of Puerto Rico and safety. A hazy pall of black smoke covered the Cap as the oil tanks went up in flames. Commodore Brooks was not leaving anything behind that would do anyone any good.
Favel thought of what Serrurier would do. Putting last things first, he would immediately occupy the Base. The American occup
ation of Cap Sarrat had always been a sore point with him and several times he had sought to break the agreement, only to be faced with the inflexible refusal of the American Government to be thrown out. Now it was open for him to take and take it he would—an empty victory with the promise of defeat lurking in the background. He would waste time on Cap Sarrat instead of organizing an attack on St Pierre with his reserve of fresh and unblooded troops now freed from the irrational fear of a stab in the back by the Americans.
So when Favel heard the guns from the east bellow in response to Rocambeau’s assault he smiled thinly. Rocambeau with his defeated and demoralized army had come into action first and Serrurier was still wallowing in his fool’s paradise on Cap Sarrat. Good! Let him stay there. If he knew there were but a thousand men to oppose his eight thousand perhaps he might change his mind—but there was no one to tell him, and if anyone did he would not believe it. He was a suspicious man and, fearing a trap, he would not believe anything so ridiculous.
Favel called an orderly and instructed him to bring Manning and Wyatt as soon as they could be found. Then he sat back in his chair and placidly lit a long thin cigar.
Wyatt was again on the roof when the orderly found him, scanning the horizon with binoculars. The high cirrus clouds, feathery and fragile, now covered the sky and were giving place to cirrostratus from the south, extending in a great flat sheet. It was still intensely hot and the air was still and sultry without the trace of a breeze. The sun was haloed—an ominous sign to Wyatt as he checked the time again.
He went down to see Favel and found Manning giving a progress report. ‘We’re moving along as fast as we can,’ he said. ‘But it takes time.’
Wyatt said abruptly, ‘Time is something we haven’t got. Mabel is moving faster than I thought.’
‘How long?’ asked Manning.
Wyatt's Hurricane / Bahama Crisis Page 21