Bagley, Desmond - Wyatts Hurricane

by Wyatts Hurricane

  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 glowworms, 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 to-morrow's battle, which would probably be on the very ground on which he was standing.

  in Dawson felt better once he had left the Place de la Liberation 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 I"

  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 oat 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 inn he could feed himself tolerably well. It was painful because his left hand hurt lik e hell when he gripped the spoon, but the last thing he wanted was for Wyatt to feed him Eke 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 accessary 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."

  "Those people have brains," said Dawson. "No one wants to tangle with a driving army -- not even Pavel's. He may be as reasonable as you say, but reasonableness doesn't show from behind a gun. It's wiser to wait here and see what happens next."

  Wyatt commenced to pace up and down the foyer and Dawson watched him, seeing the irritability boiling up. He said abruptly, "Got a cigarette -- the cops took mine."

  "They took mine, too." Wyatt stopped 'his restless pacing. "There should be some in the bar."

  He went into the bar, found a pack of cigarettes, stuck one in Dawson's mouth and lit it. Dawson drew on it deeply, then said, "When are you expecting this hurricane of yours?"

  "It could be to-morrow; it could be the day after. I'm cut off from information."

  "Then take it easy, for Christ's sake I Pavel's on his way, and your girl-friend is tucked away safely." Dawson's eyes crinkled as he saw Wyatt's head swing round. "Well, she is your girl-friend, isn't she?"

  Wyatt did not say anything, so Dawson changed the subject. "What do you expect Pavel to do about the hurricane? The guy's got a war on his hands."

  "He won't have," promised Wyatt. "Not in two days from now. And if he stays in St. Pierre he won't have an army, either. He's got to listen to me."

  "I surely hope he does," said Dawson philosophically. "Because he's the only chance we have of getting out of here." He lifted his left hand clumsily to take the cigarette from his mouth and knocked it against the edge of the table. He winced and a suppressed sound escaped his lips.

  Wyatt said, "We'd better have a look at those hands."

  "They're all right."

  "You don't want them turning bad on you. Let's have a look at them."

  "They're all right, I tell you," Dawson protested.

  Wyatt looked at Dawson's drawn face. "I want to look at them," he said. "Things that are all right anywhere else go sour in the tropics." He began to unfasten one of the bandages and his breath hissed as he saw what it covered. "Good Christ! What did they do to you?"

  The band was mashed to a pulp. As he slowly drew the bandage away he saw, to his horror, two finger-nails come away with it, and the fingers were blue with one huge bruise where they weren't red-raw as beefsteak.

  Dawson lay back in the chair. "They held me down and beat my hands with a rubber hose. I don't think they broke any bones, but I'll not be able to handle a typewriter for quite a while."

  Wyatt had once caught his finger in a door -- a trivial thing but the most painful happening of his life. The finger-nail had turned blue but his doctor saved it, and he had been careful of his hands ever since. Now, looking down at Daw-son's raw hand, he felt sick inside; he could imagine how painful the battered nerve-endings would be. He said glumly, "Now I can stop being sorry I killed Roseau."

  Dawson grinned faintly. "I never was sorry."

  Wyatt was puzzled. There was more to Dawson than he had thought; this was not the same man who had tried to steal a car because he was scared -- something must have happened to him. "You'll need some embrocation on that," he said abruptly. "And a shot of penicillin wouldn't do any harm, either. There's a place across the street -- I'll see what I can find."

  "Take it easy," said Dawson in alarm. "That street is not the safest place in the world right now."

  "I'll watch it," said Wyatt, and went to the door. Opposite was an American-style drugstore; it had been broken into already but he hoped the drug supplies had not been touched. Before going out, he carefully inspected the street and, finding no movement, he stepped out and ran across.

  The drugstore was in a mess but he ignored the chaos and went straight to the dispensary at the back, where he rummaged through the neat drawers looking for what he needed. He found bandages and codeine tablets and embrocation but no antibiotics, and he wasted little time on a further search. At the door of the drugstore he paused again to check the street and froze as he saw a man scuttle across to hide in a doorway.

  The man peered out behind the muzzle of a gun, then waved, and three more men ran up the street, hugging the walls and darting from door to door. They were not in uniform and Wyatt thought they must be the forward skirmishers of Pavel's army. Gently he opened the door and stepped out, holding his hands above his head and clutching his medical supplies.

  Strangely, he was not immediately seen, and had got halfway across the street before he was challenged. He turned to face the oncoming soldier, who looked at him with suspicion. "There are none of Serrurier's men here," said Wyatt "Where is Favel?"

  The man jerked his rifle threateningly. "What is that?"

  "Bandages," said Wyatt. "For my friend who is hurt. He is in the hotel over there. Where is Favel?"

  He felt the muzzle of a gun press into his back but did not turn. The man in front of him moved his rifle fractionally sideways. "To the hotel," he ordered. Wyatt shrugged and pepped out, surrounded by the small group. One of them pushed through the revolving door, his rifle at the ready, and Wyatt called out in English, "Stay where you are, Dawson -- we've got visitors."

  The man in front of him whirled and pressed his gun into Wyatt's stomach. "Pren' gar'," he said threateningly.

  "I was just telling my friend not to be afraid," said Wyatt evenly.

  He went into the hotel, to find Dawson sitting tensely in his chair looking at a soldier who was covering him with a rifle. He said, "I've got some bandages and some codeine -- that should kill the pain a bit."

  Pavel's men fanned out and scattered through the ground floor, moving like professionals. Finding nothing, they reassembled in the foyer and gathered round their leader, •whom Wyatt took to be a sergeant although he wore no insignia. The sergeant prodded the dead soldier with his foot "Who killed this one?"

  Wyatt, bending over Daw son, looked up and shrugged. "I don't know," he said, and turned back to his work.

  The sergeant stepped over and looked at Dawson's hands. "Who did that?"

  "Serrurier's police," said Wyatt, keeping his eyes down.

  The sergeant grunted. "Then you do not like Serrurier. Good!"

  "I must find Pavel," said Wyatt. "I have important news for Rim."

  "What is this important news, Wane?"

  "It is for Favel only. If he wants you to know he will tell you."

  Dawson stirred. "What's going on?"

  "I'm trying to get this man to take me to Favel. I can't tell him there's going to be a hurricane -- he might not believe it and then I'd never get to see Favel."

  The sergeant said, "You talk big,ti blanc; your so-important news had better be good or Favel will tear out your liver." He paused, then said with a grim smile, "And mine."

  He turned to issue a string of rapid instructions, and Wyatt sighed deeply. "Thank God!" he said. "Now we're getting somewhere."

  Six

  The highest point of Cap Sarrat was a hillock, the top of which was forty-five feet above sea-level. On the top of the hillock was a 400-foot lattice radio mast which supported an array of radar antennae. From the antenna right at the top of the tower accurately machined wave-guides conducted electronic signals to a low building at the base; these signals, amplified many millions of times, were then projected on to a cathode-ray screen to form a green glow, which cast a bilious light on the face of Petty Officer (3rd Class) Joseph W. Harmon.

  Petty Officer Harmon was both bored and tired. The Brass had been giving him the run-around all day. He had been standing-to at h
is battle station for most of the day and then he had been told off to do his usual job in the radar room that night, so he had had the minimum of sleep. At first he had been excited by the sound of gun-fire reverberating across Santego Bay from the direction of St. Pierre, and even more excited when a column of smoke arose from the town and he was told that Serrurier's two-bit army was surrounding the Base and they could expect an attack any moment.

  But a man cannot keep up that pitch of excitement and now, at five in the morning with the sun just about due to rise, he felt bored and sleepy. His eyes were sore, and when he closed them momentarily it felt as though there were many grains of sand on his eyeballs. He blinked them open again and stared at the radar screen, following the sweep of the trace as it swept hypnotically round and round.

  He jerked as his attention was caught by a minute green swirl that faded rapidly into nothingness and he had to wait until the trace went round again to recapture it. There it was again, just the merest haze etched electronically against the glass, fading as rapidly as it had arisen. He checked the direction and made it 174 degrees true.

  Nothing dangerous there, he thought. That was nearly due south and at the very edge of the screen; the danger -- if it came -- would be from the landward side, from Serrurier's joke of an air force. There had been a fair amount of air activity earlier, but it had died away and now the San Fernandan air force seemed to be totally inactive. That fact had caused a minor stir among the officers but it meant nothing to Harmon, who thought sourly that anything that interested the officers was sure to be something to keep bun out of his sack.

  He looked at the screen and again caught the slight disturbance to the south. As an experienced radar operator he knew very well what it was -- there was bad weather out there below the curve of the horizon and the straight-line radar beam was catching the top of it. He hesitated for a moment before he stretched out his arm for the telephone, but he picked it up decisively. His instructions were to call the Duty Officer if anything -- repeat, anything -- unusual came up. As he said, "Get me Lieutenant Moore," he felt some small satisfaction at being able to roust the Lieutenant from whatever corner he was sleeping in.