"Can we stay here?"
"You're welcome as long as you keep out of the way."
So they stayed in battalion headquarters and Wyatt relayed to Dawson the substance of what he had learned. Dawson said, "I don't think you have a hope in hell of seeing him. Would you be bothered by a nutty scientist at a time like this?"
"I don't suppose I would," said Wyatt despondently.
He listened carefully to all that was going on about him and began to piece together the military situation as it stood. The name of Serrurier was hardly mentioned, but the name of Rocambeau was on everyone's lips.
"Who the hell is this Rocambeau?" demanded Dawson.
"He was one of the junior Government generals," said Wyatt. "He took over when old Deruelles was killed and proved to be trickier than Favel thought. Favel was relying on finishing the war in one bash but Rocambeau got the Government army out of the net in a successful disengaging action. He's withdrawn to the east and is regrouping for another attack, and the devil of it is that he managed to scrape together enough transport to empty San Juan arsenal. 'He's got enough ammunition and spare weapons to finish the war in a way Favel doesn't like."
"Can't Favel move in and finish him before he's ready? Sort of catch him off-balance?"
Wyatt shook his head. "Favel has just about shot his bolt. He's been fighting continuously against heavy odds. He's fought his way down from the mountains and his men are dropping on their feet with weariness. He also has to stop for resting and regrouping."
"So What happens now?"
Wyatt grimaced. "Favel stops in St. Pierre -- he hasn't the strength to push further. So he'll fight his defensive battle in St. Pierre, and along will come Mabel and wipe out the lot of them. Neither army will have a chance on this low ground round Santego Bay. No one is going to win this war."
Dawson looked at Wyatt out of the corner of his eye. "Maybe we'd better get out," he suggested. "We could go up the Negrito."
"After I've seen Favel," said Wyatt steadily.
"Okay," said Dawson with a sigh. "We'll stick around and see Favel -- maybe." He paused. "Where exactly is Rocambeau regrouping?"
"Just off the coast road to the east -- about five miles out of town."
"Holy smoke!" exclaimed Dawson. "Isn't that where Rawsthorne and the others went?"
"I've been trying not to think of that," said Wyatt tightly.
Dawson felt depressed. "I'm sorry," he said abjectly.
"About pulling that stupid trick with the car. If I hadn't done that we wouldn't have got separated."
Wyatt looked at him curiously. Something had happened to Dawson; this was not the man he had met in the Maraca Club -- the big, important writer -- nor was it the grouchy man in the cell who had told him to go to hell. He said carefully, "I asked you about that before and you bit my ear off."
Dawson looked up. "You want to know why I tried to take your car? Ill tell you. I ran scared -- Big Jim Dawson ran scared."
"That's what I was wondering about," said Wyatt thoughtfully. "It doesn't fit with what I've heard about you."
Dawson laughed sourly and there was not a trace of humour about him. "What you've heard about me is a lot of balls," he said bluntly. "I scare easy."
Wyatt looked at Dawson's hands. "I wouldn't say that."
" It's a funny thing," said Dawson. "When I came slap-bang against Roseau and knew I couldn't talk my way out of it. I ought to have got scared then, but I got mad instead.
That's never happened to me before. As for my reputation, that's a fake, a put-up job -- and it was so easy, too. You go to Africa and shoot a poor goddam lion, everyone thinks you're a hero; you pull a fish out of the sea a bit bigger than the usual fish, you're a hero again. I used those things like a bludgeon and I built up Big Jim Dawson -- what the Chinese call a paper tiger. And it's wonderful what an unscrupulous press agent can do, too."
"But why?" asked Wyatt helplessly. "You're a good writer -- all the critics say so; you don't need artificial buttresses."
"What the critics think and what I think are two different things." Dawson looked at the point of his dusty shoe. "Whenever I sit at a typewriter looking at that blank sheet of paper I get a sinking feeling in my guts; and when I've filled up a whole lot of sheets and made a book the sinking feeling gets worse. I've never written anything yet that I've liked -- I've never been able to put on paper what I really wanted to. So every time a book came out I was scared it would be a flop and I had to have some support so it would sell, and that's why Big Jim Dawson was invented."
"You've been trying to do an impossible thing -- achieve perfection."
Dawson grinned. "IT1 still try," he said cheerfully. "But it won't matter any more. I think I've got over being scared."
Many hours later Wyatt was shaken into wakefulness. He had not been aware of falling asleep, and as he struggled into consciousness he was aware of cramped limbs and aching joints. He opened his eyes, to be blinded by a flashlight and he blinked painfully. A voice said, "Are you Wyatt, or is it the other chap?"
"I'm Wyatt," he said. "Who are you?" He threw off the blanket which someone had thoughtfully laid over him and stared at the big bearded man who was looking down at him.
"I'm Fuller. I've been looking all over St. Pierre for you. Pavel wants to see you."
"Favel wants to see me 1 How does he even know I exist?"
"That's another story; come on."
Wyatt creaked to his feet and looked through the doorway. The first faint light of dawn was breaking through and he saw the outline of a jeep in the street and heard the idling engine. He turned and said, "Fuller? You're the Englishman -- one of them -- who lives on the North Coast, in the Campo de las Perlas."
"That's right."
"You and Manning."
"You've got it," said Fuller impatiently. "Come on. We've got no time for chit-chat."
"Wait a minute," said Wyatt. "I'll wake Dawson."
"We've got no time for that," said Fuller. "He can stay here."
Wyatt turned and stared at him. "Look, this man was beaten up by Serrurier's bully-boys because of you -- you and Manning. We were both within an ace of 'being shot for the same reason. He's coming with me."
Fuller had the grace to be abashed. "Oh! Well, make it snappy."
Wyatt woke Dawson and explained the situation rapidly, and Dawson scrambled to his feet. "But how the hell does he know about you?" was his first question.
"Fuller win no doubt explain that on the way," said Wyatt. The tone of his voice indicated that Fuller had better do some explaining.
They climbed into the jeep and set off. Fuller said, "Favel has established headquarters at the Imperiale -- it's nice and central."
"Well, I'm damned," said Dawson. "We nee dn't have moved an inch. We were there this . . . last . . . afternoon."
"The government buildings took a battering during the bombardment," said Fuller. "They won't be ready for occupation for quite a while."
Dawson said feelingly, "You don't have to tell us anything about that -- we were there."
"So I'm told," said Fuller. "-Sorry about that."
Wyatt had been looking at the sky and sniffing the air. It was curiously hot considering it was so early in the morning, and the day promised to be a scorcher. He frowned and said, "Why has Favel sent for me?"
"An English newspaperman came in with a very curious story -- something about a hurricane. A lot of nonsense really. Still, Favel was impressed enough to send search-parties out looking for you as soon as we settled in the city. You are the weather boffin, aren't you?"
"I am," said Wyatt with no expression in his voice.
"So Causton came through all right," said Dawson. "That's good."
Fuller chuckled. "He served a term in the Government army first. He told us that you'd landed in the jug -- the one on Liberation Place. That wasn't encouraging because we plastered the Place pretty thoroughly, but there weren't any white bodies in the police station so there was a chance you'd
got away. I've been looking for you all night -- Favel insisted, and when he insists, things get done." Wyatt said, "When does the war start again?"
"As soon as Rocambeau decides to make his push," said Fuller. "We're fighting a defensive action -- we're not strong enough to do anything else right now."
" What about the Government troops to the west?"
" They're still grouped around Cap Sarrat. Serrurier is still afraid the Yanks will come out and stab him in the back."
"Will they?"
Fuller snorted. "Not a chance. This is a local fight and the Yanks want none of it. I think they'd prefer Favel to Serrurier -- who wouldn't? -- but they won't interfere. Thank God Serrurier has a different opinion."
Wyatt wondered where Fuller came into all this. He spoke as one who was high in the rebel hierarchy and he was definitely close to Favel. But he did not ask any questions about it -- he had more important things on his mind. The best thing was that Favel wanted to see him and he began to marshal his arguments once again.
Fuller pulled up the jeep outside the Imperiale and they all climbed out. There was a great coming and going and Wyatt noticed that the revolving door had been taken away to facilitate passage in and out of the hotel. He chalked up another mark to Favel for efficiency and attention to minor detail. He followed Fuller inside to find that the hotel had been transformed; the foyer had been cleared and the American Bar had a new role as a map room. Fuller said, "Wait here; I'll tell the boss you've arrived."
He went off and Dawson said, "This is how I like to view a war -- from the blunt end."
"You might change your mind when Rocambeau attacks."
"That's very likely," said Dawson. "But I refuse to be depressed." There was a cry from the stairs and they saw Causton hurrying down. "Welcome back," he said. "Glad you got out of the cooler."
Wyatt smiled wryly. "We were blown out."
"Don't believe it," said Dawson. "Wyatt did a great job -- he got us both out." He peered at Causton. "What's that on your face -- boot-polish?"
"That's right," said Causton. "Can't get rid of the damn' stuff. I suppose you'd like to clean up and put on some fresh clothing."
"Where's Julie -- and Rawsthorne?" asked Wyatt.
Causton looked grave. "We got separated quite early. The plan was to head east."
"They went east," said Wyatt. "Now they're mixed up with Rocambeau's army."
There was nothing anyone could say further about that and, after a pause, Causton said, "You'd better both take the chance of cleaning up. Favel won't see you yet -- he's in the middle of a planning conference, trying to get a quart out of a pint pot."
He took them up to his room and provided welcome hot water and soap. One glance at Dawson's hands produced a doctor, who hustled Dawson away, and then Causton found a clean shirt for Wyatt and said, "You can use my dry shaver."
Wyatt sat on the bed and shaved, already beginning to feel much better. He said, "How did you get separated from the others?"
Causton told him, then said, "I got to Favel in the end and managed to convince him you were important." He scratched his head. "Either he didn't need much convincing, or my powers of persuasion are a lot better than I thought -- but he got the point very quickly. He's quite a boy."
"Hurricanes excepted -- do you think he's got a chance of coming on top hi this war?"
Causton smiled wryly. "That's an unanswerable question. The Government army is far stronger, and so far he's won by surprise and sheer intelligence. He plans for every contingency and the ground-work for this attack was laid months ago." He chuckled. "You know that the main force of the Government artillery never came into action at all. The guns got tangled in a hell of a mess not far up the Negrito and Favel came down and captured the lot. I thought it was luck, but I know now that Favel never depends on luck. The whole damn' thing was planned -- Favel had suborned Lescuyer, the Government artillery commander; Lescuyer issued conflicting orders and had two columns of artillery meeting head-on on the same road, then he ducked for cover. By the time Deruelles had sorted that lot out it was all over, and Deruelles himself was dead."
"That must have been when Rocambeau took over," said Wyatt.
Causton nodded. "That was a pity. Rocambeau is a bloody efficient commander -- far better than Deruelles could ever be. He got the Government army out of the trap. God knows what will happen now."
"Didn't the Government armour cause Favel any trouble when he came out on the plain?"
Causton grinned. "Not much. He sorted out the captured artillery in quick time, ruthlessly junking the stuff that was in the way. Then he formed it into six mobile columns and went gunning for Serrurier's armour. The minute a tank or an armoured car showed its nose, up would come a dozen guns and blast hell out of it. He had the whole thing taped right from the start -- the Government generals were dancing to his tune until Rocambeau took over. Like when he blasted the 3rd Regiment in the Place de la Liberation Noire -- he had artillery observers already in the city equipped with walkie-talkies, and they caught the 3rd Regiment just when they were forming up."
"I know," said Wyatt soberly. "I saw the result of that."
Causton's grin widened. "He disposed of Serrurier's comic opera air force in the same tricky efficient fashion. The planes started flying and bombing all right, but when each plane had flown three attacks they found they'd come to the end of the ready use petrol, so they broke open the reserve tanks on the airfield. The lot was doctored with sugar -- there's plenty of that on San Fernandez -- and now all the planes are grounded with sticky engines."
"He certainly gets full marks for effort," said Wyatt. "Where do Manning and Fuller come into all this?"
"I haven't got to the bottom of that yet. I think they had something to do with getting his war supplies. Favel certainly knew what he wanted -- rifles, machine-guns and mobile artillery, consisting of a hell of a lot of mountain guns and mortars, together with bags of ammunition. It must have cost somebody a packet and I haven't been able to find out who financed all this."
"Manning and Fuller were in the right place," said Wyatt slowly. "And the police seemed to think they had a lot to do with Favel. They beat Dawson half to death trying to find out more."
"I saw his hands," said Causton. "What did he tell them?"
"What could he tell them? He just stuck it out."
"I'm surprised," said Causton. "He has the reputation among us press boys of being a phoney. We know that the air crash he had in Alaska a couple of years ago was a put-up job to boost the sales of his latest book. It was planned by Don Wiseman and executed by»a stunt pilot."
"Who is Don Wiseman?"
"Dawson's press agent. I always thought that every view we've had of Dawson was through Wiseman's magnifying glass."
Wyatt said gently, "I think you can regard Wiseman as being Dawson's former press agent."
Causton lifted his eyebrows. "It's like that, is it?"
"There's nothing wrong with Dawson," said Wyatt, stroking his clean-shaven cheek. He put down the dry-shaver. "When do I get to see Favel?"
Causton shrugged. "When he's ready. He's planning a war, you know, and right now he may be on the losing end. I think he's running out of tricks; his preliminary planning was good but it only stretches so far. Now he faces a slugging match with Rocambeau and he's not in trim for it. He's got five Thousand men against the Government's fifteen thousand, and if he tries a war of attrition he's done for. He may have to retreat back to the mountains."
Wyatt buttoned his shirt. "He'll have to make up his mind quickly," he said grimly. "Mabel won't wait for him."
Causton sat in silence for a moment, then he said, almost pleadingly, "Have you anything concrete to offer him, apart from this hunch of yours?"
Wyatt stepped to the window and looked up at the hot blue sky. "Not much," he said. "If I were back at the Base with my instruments I might have been able to come to some logical conclusions, but without instruments ..." He shrugged.
Causto
n looked despondent, and Wyatt said, "This is hurricane weather, you know. This calm sultriness isn't natural -- something has stopped the normal flow of the southeast wind, and my guess is that it's Mabel." He nodded towards the sea. "She's somewhere over there beyond the horizon. I can't prove for certain that she's coming this way, but I certainly think so."
Causton s aid, "There's a barometer downstairs ; would that be any good?" He sounded half-heartedly hopeful.
"I'll have a look at it," said Wyatt. "But I don't think it will be."
They went downstairs into the hurly-burly of the army headquarters and Causton showed him the barometer on the wall of the manager's office. Wyatt looked at it in astonishment. "Good God, a Torricelli barometer -- what a relic!" He tapped it gently. "It must be a hundred years old." Looking closely at the dial, he said, "No, not quite;' Adameus Copenhans -- Amsterdam -- 1872.' "
"Is it any good?" asked Causton.
Wyatt was briefly amused. "This is like handing a pickaxe to a nuclear physicist and telling him to split some atoms." He tapped the dial again and the needle quivered. "This thing tells us what is happening now, and mat's not very important. What I'd like to know is what happened over the last twenty-four hours. I'd give a lot to have an aneroid barograph with a recording over the last three days."
"Then this is useless?"
"I'm afraid so. It will probably give a wrong reading anyway. I can't see anyone having taken the trouble to correct this for temperature, latitude and so on."
Causton waxed sarcastic. "The trouble with you boffins is that you've developed your instruments to such a pitch that now you can't do without them. What did you weathermen do before you had your satellites and all your electronic gadgets?"
Wyatt said softly, "Relied on experience and instinct -- which is what I'm doing now. When you've studied a lot of hurricanes -- as many as I have -- you begin to develop a sixth sense which tells you what they're likely to do next. Nothing shows on your instruments and it isn't anything that can be analysed. I prefer to call it the voice of experience."
Bagley, Desmond - Wyatts Hurricane Page 17