Wyatt's Hurricane / Bahama Crisis

by Desmond Bagley

  He had been doing a lot of thinking in Wyatt’s absence, planning what to do when the hurricane was over. He would not stay in St Pierre; he would go right back to New York and rearrange his affairs. Then he would come back to San Fernandez, buy a house overlooking the sea, and buy a boat and do a lot of fishing. And write a book once in a while. His last three books had not been too good; they had sold because of Wiseman’s jazzy publicity, but in his heart he knew they were not good books even though the critics had let them by. He wondered why he had lost his steam and had been troubled about it, but now he knew he could write again as well, or better, than he had ever done.

  He smiled slightly as he thought of his agent. Wiseman would have already written a lot of junk about Big Jim Dawson, the great hero, practically saving San Fernandez single-handed, but he wouldn’t really give a damn whether Dawson was alive or dead—in fact, if Dawson had been killed it would be a red-hot story. Dawson would take great pleasure in reading all the press releases and then tearing them up and littering Wiseman’s desk with the fragments. This was one episode in his life that wasn’t going to be dirtied and twisted for profit by a conniving press agent. Or a conniving and dastardly writer, for that matter.

  Maybe he would write the story of the last few days himself. He had always wanted to tackle a great non-fiction subject and this was it. He would tell the story of Commodore Brooks, of Serrurier and Favel, of Julie Marlowe and Eumenides Papegaikos, and of the thousands of people caught in the double disaster of war and wind. And, of course, it would be the story of Wyatt. There would be little, if anything, in it of himself. He had done nothing but get Wyatt in gaol and cause trouble all round. That would go in the book—but no false heroics, none of Wiseman’s synthetic glorification. It would be a good book.

  He twisted and lay closer to the ground in an effort to avoid the driving wind.

  The day wore on and again San Fernandez was subject to the agony of the hurricane. Once more the big wind tormented the island, sweeping in from the sea like a destroying angel and battering furiously at the central core of mountains as though it would sweep even those back into the sea from where they had come. Perhaps the hurricane did contribute towards the time when this small piece of land would be finally obliterated—a landslide here, a new watercourse gouged in the earth there, and a fraction of a millimetre removed from the top of the highest mountain in the Massif des Saints. But the land would survive many more hurricanes before being finally defeated.

  Life was more vulnerable than inanimate rock. The soft green plants were uprooted, torn from the soil to fly on the wind; the trees broke, and even the tough grasses, stubbornly clumped with long spreading roots, felt the very earth dissolve beneath. The animals of the mountains died in hundreds; the wild pig was flung from the precipice to spill its brains against the stone, the wild dog whimpered in its rocky shelter and scratched futilely against the earthfall that sealed the entrance, and the birds were blown from the trees to be whirled away in the blast and to drown in the far sea.

  And the people?

  On the slopes of the Negrito alone were almost 60,000 exposed men, women and children. Many died. The old and tired died of exposure, and the young and fit died of the violence of air. Some died of stupidity, not having the sense to find proper shelter, and some died in spite of their intelligence through mere ill-luck. Others died of illness—those with weak hearts, weak chests and other ailments. Some, even, died of shock; perhaps one can say that these died of surprise at the raw violence of the world in which they lived.

  But not as many died as would have perished if they had stayed in the ruined city of St Pierre.

  For ten hours the storm raged at the island—the hurricane—the big wind. Ten hours, every minute of which was a stupefying eternity of shattering noise and hammering air. There was nothing left to do except to cower closer to the earth and hope to survive. Wyatt and Dawson crouched in their shallow trench behind the rock and, as Dawson had said, they ‘sat this one out’.

  At first Wyatt thought in some astonishment of what Delorme had said, and he smiled sardonically. So this was how legends were created. He was to be cast as a saviour, a hero of San Fernandez—the man who had saved a whole population and won a war. He would be praised for the good he had done and the bad he had been unable to prevent. Obviously Delorme had been quite sincere. To him, Serrurier and all who followed him had been devils incarnate and deserved no better than they had received. But to Wyatt, Serrurier had been sick with madness, and his followers, while misguided, had been men like any others, and he had been the one who had shown Favel the trap into which they might be led. Others might forgive him, or even not realize there was anything to forgive, but he would never forgive himself.

  And then the hurricane drowned all thought and he lay there supine, waiting patiently for the time when he would be allowed to rouse himself to action and go down into the valley in search of the one person in the world he wanted to bring out in safety—Julie Marlowe.

  The hurricane reached its height at eleven in the morning and from that time the wind began to decrease in violence very slowly. Wyatt knew there would not be any sudden drop in wind-speed as when the eye of the hurricane came over the island; the wind would quieten over a period of hours and would remain blustery for quite a long time.

  It was not until three in the afternoon that it became safe enough for a man to stand in the open, and even then it was risky but Wyatt was in no mood for waiting any longer. He said to Dawson, ‘I’m going into the valley now.’

  ‘Think it’s safe?’

  ‘Safe enough.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Dawson, sitting up. ‘Which way do we go?’

  ‘It will be best to go right down, and then across the lower slopes.’ Wyatt turned and looked across the hillside in the direction of Delorme’s foxhole. ‘I’m going to have a word with that officer again.’

  They walked gingerly across the slope and Wyatt bent down and shouted to Delorme, ‘I’d wait another hour before you get your men out.’

  Delorme looked up. His face was tired and his voice was husky as he said, ‘Are you going down now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Then so will we,’ said Delorme. He heaved himself up and groped in his pocket. ‘Those people down there might not be able to wait another hour.’ He blew shrilly on a whistle and slowly the hillside stirred as his men emerged from a multitude of holes and crevices. One of his sergeants came up and Delorme issued a rapid string of instructions.

  Wyatt said, ‘I’d take it easy on the way down—it’s not so difficult to break a leg. If you come across any white people I’d be glad to know.’

  Delorme smiled. ‘Favel said we were to watch for a Miss Marlowe. He said you were worried about her.’

  ‘Did he?’ said Wyatt in surprise. ‘I wonder how he knew.’

  ‘Favel knows everything,’ said Delorme with pride. ‘He misses nothing. I think he talked with the other Englishman—Causton.’

  ‘I’ll have to thank him.’

  Delorme shook his head. ‘We owe you a lot, ti Wyatt; what else could we do? If I find Miss Marlowe I will let you know.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Wyatt looked at Delorme and knew he had changed his mind. ‘And I’ll certainly come to see you at your plantation. Where did you say it was?’

  ‘Up the Negrito—at La Carrière.’ Delorme grinned. ‘But wait until I have cleaned it up and replanted—it will not look good now.’

  ‘I’ll wait,’ promised Wyatt, and turned away.

  It was not easy going down the hill. The wind plucked at them viciously and the surface had been loosened at the height of the storm so that small landslides were easy to start. There were many fallen trees round which they had to make their way, and the ripped-up trees left gaping holes. It was three-quarters of an hour before they reached the first of the survivors, a huddle of bodies lying in a small depression. The wind was still fierce and they had not yet stirred.

  Dawson looked at them with
an expression of horror. ‘They’re dead,’ he said. ‘The whole lot of them are dead.’ hugging a child in her arms; the child was obviously dead—the head hung unnaturally on one side like that of a broken-jointed doll—but the woman seemed not to be aware of it. ‘What can you do about a thing like that?’ he asked.

  ‘We can’t do anything,’ said Wyatt. ‘It’s best to leave her to her own people.’

  Dawson looked back along the hill. ‘But there are thousands here—what can one regiment of men do? There are no medical supplies, no doctors, no hospitals left standing in St Pierre. A lot of these people are going to die—even those who have survived so far.’

  ‘There are a lot of people on the other side of the valley, too,’ said Wyatt, pointing across the flood. ‘It’s like this all along the Negrito—on both sides.’

  The hillside heaved with slow, torpid movement as the inhabitants of St Pierre came to the tired realization that their agony was over. Favel’s men were now among them, but there was little they could do beyond separating the living from the dead, and the men who had enough first-aid knowledge to be able to splint a broken limb were kept very busy.

  Wyatt said hopelessly, ‘How can we find one person in this lot?’

  ‘Julie’s white,’ said Dawson. ‘She ought to stand out.’

  ‘A lot of these people are as white as we are,’ said Wyatt glumly. ‘Let’s get on.’

  They took to the slopes again where an incursion of the flood crept inland, and Wyatt paused constantly to ask the more alert-seeming survivors if they had seen a white woman. Some did not answer, others replied with curses, and others were slow and incoherent in their replies—but none knew of a white woman. Once Wyatt yelled, ‘There she is!’ and plunged back down the hill to grasp a woman by the arm. She turned and looked at him, revealing the creamy skin of an octoroon, and he let her arm fall limply.

  At last they arrived at their goal and started a more systematic search, patrolling up and down the hill and looking very closely at each group of people. They searched for nearly an hour and did not find Julie or any other white person, male or female. Dawson was sickened by what he saw, and estimated that if what he saw was a fair sample there must have been a thousand killed on the one side of the Negrito alone—and the injured were beyond computation.

  The people seemed unable to fight their way clear of the state of shock into which they had been plunged. The air was alive with the moaning and screaming of the injured, while the fit either just sat looking into space or moved aimlessly with the gait of tortoises. Only a minute few seemed to have recovered their initiative enough to leave the hillside or help in the rescue work.

  Wyatt and Dawson met again and Dawson shook his head heavily in response to Wyatt’s enquiring and wild-eyed look. ‘The man can’t have made a mistake,’ said Wyatt frantically. ‘He can’t have.’

  ‘All we can do is keep on looking,’ said Dawson. ‘There’s nothing else we can do.’

  ‘We could go over to the coast road. That’s where they went in the first place. That we know.’

  ‘We’d better finish checking here first,’ said Dawson stolidly. He looked over Wyatt’s shoulder. ‘Hey, there’s one of Favel’s boys coming this way—it looks as though he wants us.’

  Wyatt spun on his heel as the soldier ran up. ‘You looking for a blanc?’ asked the man.

  ‘A woman?’ asked Wyatt tersely.

  ‘That’s right; she’s over there—just over the rise.’

  ‘Come on,’ shouted Wyatt and started to run, with Dawson close behind. They came to the top of the slight rise and looked down at the couple of hundred people, some of whom raised enquiring black faces and rolling eyes in their direction.

  ‘There!’ jerked out Dawson. ‘Over there.’ He stopped and said quietly, ‘It’s the Warmington woman.’

  ‘She’ll know where Julie is,’ said Wyatt exultantly, and ran down the slope. He pushed his way among the people and reached out to grasp Mrs Warmington’s arm. ‘You’re safe,’ he said. ‘Where’s Julie—Miss Marlowe?’

  Mrs Warmington looked up at him and burst into tears. ‘Oh, thank God—thank God for a white face. Am I glad to see you!’

  ‘What happened to Julie—and the others?’

  Her face crumpled. ‘They killed him,’ she said hysterically. ‘They shot him and stabbed a bayonet in his back…again…and again. My God…the blood…’

  Wyatt went cold. ‘Who was killed? Rawsthorne or Papegaikos?’ he demanded urgently.

  Mrs Warmington looked at the backs of her hands. ‘There was a lot of blood,’ she said with unnatural quietness. ‘It was very red on the grass.’

  Wyatt held himself in with an effort. ‘Who…was…killed?’

  She looked up. ‘The Greek. They blamed me for it. It wasn’t my fault; it wasn’t my fault at all. I had to do it. But they blamed me.’

  Dawson said, ‘Who blamed you?’

  ‘That girl—that chit of a girl. She said I killed him, but I never did. He was killed by a soldier with a gun and a bayonet.’

  ‘Where is Julie now?’ asked Wyatt tensely.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Mrs Warmington shrilly. ‘And I don’t care. She kept on hitting me, so I ran away. I was frightened she’d kill me—she said she would.’

  Wyatt looked at Dawson in shocked surprise, then he said dangerously softly, ‘Where did you run from?’

  ‘We came from the other side, near the sea,’ she said. ‘That’s where we were locked up. Then I ran away. There was a river and a waterfall—we all got wet.’ She shivered. ‘I thought I’d get pneumonia.’

  ‘Is there a river between here and the coast?’ asked Dawson.

  Wyatt shook his head. ‘No.’ Mrs Warmington was obviously in a state of shock and would have to be treated with kid gloves if they were going to get anything out of her. He said gently, ‘Where was the river?’

  ‘On the top of a hill,’ said Mrs Warmington incomprehensibly. Dawson sighed audibly and she looked up at him. ‘Why should I tell you where they are? They’ll only tell you a lot of lies about me,’ she said spitefully. ‘I’m not going to tell you anything.’ She clenched her fists and the nails dug into her palms. ‘I hope she dies like she meant me to.’

  Dawson tapped Wyatt on the shoulder. ‘Come over here,’ he said. Wyatt was looking horrified at Mrs Warmington, but he backed away under Dawson’s pressure until they stood a few paces away from her. Dawson said, ‘I don’t know what this is all about. I think that woman has gone crazy.’

  ‘She’s raving mad,’ said Wyatt. He was trembling.

  ‘Maybe—but she knows where Julie is all right. Something’s thrown a hell of a scare into her, and it wasn’t the hurricane, although that might have tipped her over the edge. Maybe she did kill Eumenides and Julie saw her do it—that means she’s scared of a murder charge. She may be crazy, but I think she’s crazy like a fox—faking it up, I mean.’

  ‘We’ve got to get it out of her,’ said Wyatt. ‘But how?’

  ‘Leave it to me,’ said Dawson savagely. ‘You’re an English gentleman—you wouldn’t know how to handle her kind. Now, me—I’m an eighteen-carat diamond-studded American son-of-a-bitch—I’ll get it out of her even if I have to beat her brains in.’

  He walked back to her and said in a deceptively conciliatory manner, ‘Now, Mrs Warmington; you’ll tell me where Julie Marlowe and Mr Rawsthorne are, won’t you?’

  ‘I’ll do no such thing. I don’t like people tattling and telling lies about me.’

  Dawson’s voice hardened. ‘Do you know who I am?’

  ‘Sure. You’re Big Jim Dawson. You’ll get me out of here, won’t you?’ Her voice broke pathetically into a wail. ‘I want to go back to the States.’

  He said dangerously, ‘So you’ll know my reputation. I’m supposed to be a bad bastard. You’ve got one chance to get back to the States quick. Tell me where Rawsthorne is or I’ll have you held here pending the enquiry into the disappearance of the British consul. There
’s sure to be an enquiry—the British are conservative, they don’t like losing officials, even minor ones.’

  ‘On top of the hill,’ she said sullenly. ‘There’s a gully up there.’

  ‘Point it out.’ His eyes followed the direction of her wavering hand, then he looked back at her. ‘You’ve come out of this hurricane pretty well,’ he said grimly. ‘Someone must have been looking after you. You should be thankful, not spiteful.’

  He went back to Wyatt. ‘I’ve got it. There’s a gully up there somewhere.’ He waved his hand. ‘Over in that direction.’

  Without a word Wyatt left at a run and started to climb the hill. Dawson grinned and moved after him at a slower, more economical pace. He heard a noise in the air and looked up to see a helicopter coming over the brow of the hill like a huge grasshopper. ‘Hey!’ he shouted. ‘Here comes the Navy—they’ve come back.’

  But Wyatt was far ahead, climbing the hill as though his life depended on it. Perhaps it did.

  II

  Causton stood on the concrete apron near the ruined control tower of the airfield on Cap Sarrat Base and watched the helicopters come in from the sea in a straggling and wavering line. Commodore Brooks had been quick off his mark—the aircraft carrier under his command must have been idling just on the outskirts of Mabel and he had sent off his helicopters immediately the weather was fit for flying. And this was only the first wave. Planes would soon pour into San Fernandez, bringing much-needed medical aid.

  He looked across at the small group of officers surrounding Favel and grinned. The Yanks were due for a surprise—but perhaps not just yet.

  Favel had been quite clear about it. ‘I am going to occupy Cap Sarrat Base,’ he said. ‘Even if only with a token force. This is essential.’

  So a platoon of men had made the dangerous trip across the flooded mouth of the Negrito and here they were, waiting for the Americans. It all hinged on the original treaty of 1906 in which Favel had found a loophole. ‘The position is simple, Mr Causton,’ he said. ‘The treaty states that if the American forces voluntarily give up the Base and it is thereafter claimed by the government of San Fernandez, then the treaty is abrogated.’