Wyatt's Hurricane / Bahama Crisis

by Desmond Bagley

  ‘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 softiy, ‘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.’

  Rawsthorn
e 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.

  TEN

  It seemed to Dawson that the second half of the hurricane was not as bad as the first half, but perhaps that was because there was little rain. Still, it was bad enough. When Wyatt left the road he had driven the Land-Rover into the rough bush on the hillside and had found an almost imperceptible dip in the ground. This was the best he could do to ensure the safety of their vehicle.

  Dawson said, ‘Why not stay inside?’

  Wyatt disillusioned him. ‘It wouldn’t take much to push it over on to its side even though I’ve jammed it among the trees. We can’t risk it.’

  So Dawson gave up hope of being out of the wind and rain and they began looking for personal shelter further along the hillside. The wind was already bad and steadily increased in strength and in the more violent gusts they were hard put to it to retain their footing. Presently they encountered the outlying flank of the regiment that Favel had sent to the ridge above the Negrito. The men were digging in and Wyatt was able to borrow an entrenching tool to do a bit of burrowing himself.

  Digging in was harder than it had been outside St Pierre; the ground was hard and stony with bedrock not far beneath the thin layer of poor soil and all he could manage was a shallow scrape. But he took as much advantage of inequalities of the ground as he could and chose a place where there was an outcropping of rock to windward which would give immovable protection.

  When he had finished he said to Dawson, ‘You stay here. I’m going to see if I can find one of the officers of this crowd.’

  Dawson huddled behind the rock and looked apprehensively at the sky. ‘Take it easy—that’s no spring zephyr you’re walking in.’

  Wyatt crept away, keeping very close to the ground. The wind closed about him like a giant’s hand and tried to pick him up and shake him, but he flattened out to elude its grip and crawled on his belly to the nearest foxhole, where he found a curled-up bundle of clothing which, when straightened out, would be a soldier.

  ‘Where’s your officer?’ he yelled.

  A thumb jerked, indicating that he should go further along the hillside.

  ‘How far?’

  Spread fingers said three hundred feet—or was it metres? A long way in either case. Puzzled brown eyes watched Wyatt as he crawled away and then were shrouded in a coat as the wind blew harder.

  It took Wyatt a long time to find an officer, but when he did so he recognized him as one he had seen in Favel’s headquarters. Better still, the officer recognized Wyatt and welcomed him with a white-toothed grin. ‘ ‘Allo, ti blanc,’ he shouted. ‘Come down.’

  Wyatt dropped into the foxhole and jammed himself next to the officer. He regained his breath, then said, ‘Have you seen a white woman round here?’

  ‘I have seen no one. There is no one this high up the hillside but the regiment.’ He grinned widely. ‘Just unfortunate soldiers.’

  Wyatt was disappointed even though he had not really expected good news. He said, ‘Where are the people—and how are they taking this?’

  ‘Down there,’ said the officer. ‘Near the bottom of the valley. I don’t know how they are—we didn’t have time to find out. I sent some men down there but they didn’t come back.’

  Wyatt nodded. The regiment had done a magnificent job—a forced march of nearly ten miles and then a frantic burrowing into the ground, all in two hours. It was too much to expect them to have done more.

  The officer said, ‘But I expected to find some of them up here.’

  ‘It’s more exposed at this height,’ said Wyatt. ‘They’re safer down there. I don’t suppose they’ll get a wind much above eighty or ninety miles an hour. Up here it’s different. How do you think your men will take it?’

  ‘We will be all right,’ said the officer stiffly. ‘We are soldiers of Julio Favel. There have been worse things than wind.’

  ‘No doubt,’ said Wyatt. ‘But the wind is bad enough.’

  The officer nodded his agreement vigorously, then he said, ‘My name is André Delorme. I had a plantation higher up the Negrito—I will get it back now that Serrurier is gone. You must come and see me, ti Wyatt, when this is over. You will always be welcome—you will be welcome anywhere in San Fernandez.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Wyatt. ‘But I don’t know if I’ll stay.’

  Delorme opened his eyes wide in sur
prise. ‘But why not? You saved the people of St Pierre; you showed us how to kill Serrurier. You will be a great man here—they will make you a statue better than the one of Serrurier in the Place de la Libération Noire. It is better to make a statue of one who saves lives.’

  ‘Saves lives?’ echoed Wyatt sardonically. ‘But you say I showed you how to kill Serrurier—and his whole army.’

  ‘That is different.’ Delorme shrugged. ‘Julio Favel told me you saw Serrurier and he did not believe you when you said there would be a hurricane.’

  ‘That is so.’

  ‘Then it is his own fault he is dead. He was stupid.’

  ‘I must get back,’ said Wyatt. ‘I have a friend.’

  ‘Better you stay here,’ said Delorme, raising his head to listen to the wind.

  ‘No, he is expecting me.’

  ‘All right, ti Wyatt; but come and see me at La Carrière when this is over.’ He held out a muscular brown hand which Wyatt gripped. ‘You must not leave San Fernandez, ti Wyatt; you must stay and show us what to do when the hurricane comes again.’ He grinned. ‘We are not always fighting in San Fernandez—only when it is necessary.’

  Wyatt climbed out of the foxhole and gasped as the wind buffeted him. He had been tempted to stay with Delorme but he knew he had to get back. If Dawson got into trouble he could not do much to help himself with his injured hands and Wyatt wanted to be with him. It took him over half an hour to find Dawson and he was exhausted as he climbed round the outcrop and tumbled into the shallow hole.

  ‘I thought you’d been blown away,’ shouted Dawson as he rearranged his limbs. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Nothing much. There’s been no sign of Julie or Mrs Warmington. They’re probably down on the lower slopes, and it’s just as well.’

  ‘How far are we from the map position that guy gave us back in St Pierre?’

  ‘It’s a little over a mile up the valley.’

  Dawson pulled his jacket about his chest and huddled against the rock. ‘We’ll just have to sit this one out, then.’