"He must believe it now," exclaimed Wyatt. "How else can he account for the evacuation of Cap Sarrat Base?"
Favel waved his hand. "He will find that easy to rationalize. The Americans withdrew because they feared an assault from the mighty army of Serrurier, the Black Star of the Antilles. The Americans ran away because they were afraid."
Wyatt looked at him in astonishment and men knew that Favel was right. Any man who could banish a hurricane would automatically reason in that grandiloquent and paranoiac manner. He said unwillingly, "Perhaps you're right."
"I am right," said Favel decisively. "So what must we do now? Come, I will show you." He led Wyatt to the map table. "Here we have St. Pierre -- and here we have your line which marks the limit of flooding. The population of St Pierre will be evacuated up the Negrito Valley, but keeping away from the river. While this is being done the army must contain the assaults of Serrurier and Rocambeau."
"And that's not going to be too bloody easy, "said Manning.
"I am going to make it less easy," said Favel. "I want two thousand troops to supervise the evacuation. That leaves one thousand to withstand Serrurier on the right, and two thousand to contain Rocambeau on the left. They'll have all the artillery, of course."
"Juhio, have a heart," yelled Manning. "It can't be done that way. We haven't the men to spare. If you don't have enough infantry to protect the guns they'll be overrun. You can't do it."
"It must be done," said Favel. "There is not much time. To move a whole population, we will need the men to get the people from their homes, by force if necessary." He looked at his watch. "It is now nine-thirty. In ten hours from now I do not want a single living being left in the city apart from the army. You will be in charge of the evacuation, Charles. Be ruthless. If they won't move, prod them with bayonets ; if that fails, then shoot a few to encourage the others. But get them out."
Wyatt listened to Pavel's flat voice and, for the first time, knew the truth of what Causton had implied. This was a man who used power like a weapon, who had the politician's view of people as a mass and not as individuals. Perhaps it was impossible for him to be otherwise: he had the ruthlessness of a surgeon wielding a knife in an emergency operation -- to cure the whole he would destroy the part.
"So we get them out," said Manning. "Then what?"
Favel gestured at the map, and said softly, "Then we let Serrurier and Rocambeau have St. Pierre. For the first time in history men will use a hurricane as a weapon of war."
Wyatt drew in his breath, shocked to the core of his being.
He stepped forward and said in a cracked voice, "You can't do that."
"Can't I?" Favel swung on him. "I've been trying to kill those men with steel, and if I had my way I would kill every one of them. And they want to kill me and my men. Why shouldn't I let the hurricane have them? God knows how many of my men will be lost saving the inhabitants of St. Pierre; they'll be outnumbered five to one and a lot of them will die -- so why shouldn't the hurricane exact my revenge?"
Wyatt momentarily quailed before those blazing blue eyes and fell back. Then he said, "I gave you the warning to save lives, not to take them. This is uncivilized."
"And the hydrogen bomb is civilized?" snapped Favel. "Use your brains -- what else can I do? This afternoon, when the evacuation is complete, my men will be in sole possession of St. Pierre. I am certainly not going to leave them there. When they withdraw the Government forces will move in, thinking we are in retreat. What else would they think? I am not asking them to be drowned in St. Pierre -- they enter the city at their own risk."
"How far will you withdraw?" asked Wyatt.
"You drew the line yourself," said Favel remorselessly. "We will hold, as far as we can, on the eighty-foot contour line."
"You could withdraw further," said Wyatt heatedly. "They'd follow you on to higher ground."
Pavel's hand came down on the table with the sound of a pistol shot. "I have no wish to fight further battles. There, has been enough of killing men. Let the hurricane do its work."
"This is murder."
"What else is war but murder?" asked Favel, and turned his back on Wyatt. "Enough, we have work to do. Charles, let us see which men I can spare you."
He walked to the end of the room, leaving Wyatt shattered. Causton came over and put his hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry your head about the policies of princes," he advised. "It's dangerous."
"This is against all I've ever worked for," said Wyatt in a tow voice. "I never intended this."
"Otto Frisch and Lise Meitner didn't mean trouble When they split the uranium atom back in 1939." Causton nodded up the room towards Favel. "If you find a way of controlling hurricanes, it's men like that who'll decide what they'll be used for."
"He could save everyone," said Wyatt in a stronger voice. "He could, you know. If he retreated up into the hills the Government forces would follow him."
"I know," said Causton.
"But he's not going to do that. He's going to pen them in St. Pierre."
Causton scratched his head. "That may not be as easy as it sounds. He's got to stand off Rocambeau and Serrurier until the evacuation is completed, then he has to conduct a controlled retreat without being smashed while he's doing it. Next, he has to establish his perimeter on the eighty-foot line and that's a hell of a long line to hold with five thousand men -- less what hell have lost while all this has been going on. And on top of all that he'll have to dig in against the wind." He shook his head doubtfully. "A tricky operation altogether."
Wyatt looked at Favel. "I think he's as power-mad as Serrurier."
"Look, laddie," said Causton. "Start thinking straight. He's doing what he has to do in the circumstances. He's begun something he's got to go through with and in the dicey position he's in now, he'll use any weapon at hand -- even a hurricane." He paused thoughtfully. "Maybe he's not as bad as I thought. When he said he didn't want any more battles, I think he meant it."
"He might well," said Wyatt. "As long as he comes out on top."
Causton grinned. "You're getting an education in the political facts of life. Damn it, some of you scientists are bloody naive."
Wyatt said, with something of despair in his voice, "I'd have liked to have gone into atomic physics -- my tutor wanted me to -- but I didn't like the end results of what they were doing. Now it's happening to me anyway."
"You can't live in an ivory tower all your life," said Causton roughly. "You can't escape the world outside."
"Perhaps not," said Wyatt, frowning. "But there's sometiling I've got to do. What about Julie and Rawsthorne and the others? We must do something about them."
Causton made a strangled noise. "What were you thinking of doing?" he asked with caution.
"We've got to do something," said Wyatt angrily. "I want transport -- a car or something -- and an escort for part of the way."
Causton struggled for a while to sort out his emotions. At last he said, "You weren't intending -- by any chance -- going into the middle of Rocambeau's army, were you?"
"It seems to be the only way," said Wyatt. "I can't think of anything else."
"Well, I wouldn't worry Favel about it now," advised Causton. "He's busy." He regarded Wyatt thoughtfully, trying to decide if he could be entirely sane. "Besides, Favel won't want to lose you."
"What do you mean by that?" demanded Wyatt.
"Hell expect you to consult the skies and give him a time-able for his operations."
"I'm not lending myself to that sort of thing," said Wyatt through his teeth.
"Now, look here," said Causton in a hard voice. "Favel has over sixty thousand people to think of. You have only four -- and you're really only thinking of one. He is getting the people out of St. Pierre, you know -- and that is not essential to his military plans. In fact, the effort might damn' well cripple him. I'll leave it to you to see where your duty lies." He turned on his heel and walked away.
Wyatt looked after him with a sinking feeling in
his stomach. Causton was right, of course; too damnably right. He was caught up in this thing whether he liked it or not -- in saving the population of St. Pierre he would help to destroy the Government army. Perhaps it would be better to think of it the other way round -- in helping to destroy the army he would save the people. He thought about that, but it did not make him feel much better.
At eleven o'clock the city of St. Pierre boiled over. Manning's plan was brutally simple. Starting simultaneously in the eastern and western suburbs, just behind the troops drawn up ready for battle, his evacuating force pitched the inhabitants into the streets, going systematically from house to house. The people could take the clothes they stood up in and as much food as they could carry -- nothing else. The result was as though someone had thrust a stick into an ants' nest and given it a vicious twist.
Manning issued maps of the city to his officers, scored with red a nd blue lines. The red lines indicated the lines of communication of the army; no civilians were allowed on those streets at all on pain of death -- at all costs the army must be protected and serviced and nothing must stand in the way of that. The blue lines led to the main road leading up through the Negrito Valley, the road along which Wyatt had driven with Julie what seemed a hundred years before.
There were incidents. The blue lines indicated one-way traffic only, a traffic regulation enforced with violence. Those attempting to go against the stream were brusquely ordered to turn round, and if this failed, then the point of a bayonet was a convincing argument. But sometimes, against a frantic father looking for his family, even the bayonet was not convincing enough and the rifle beyond the bayonet spoke a louder word. The body would be dragged to the side of the road so as not to impede the steady shuffle of feet.
It was brutal. It was necessary. It was done.
Causton, wearing the brassard of a rebel officer, roamed the city. In all the hot spots of a troubled world he had covered in the course of his work he had never seen anything like this. He was simultaneously appalled and exultant -- appalled at the vast scale of the tragedy he was witnessing, and exultant that he was the only newspaperman on the spot. The batteries of his tape recorder having run down, he wrote the quick, efficient shorthand he had learned as a cub reporter in notebooks looted from a stationery shop, and recorded the scene for a news-hungry world.
The people were apathetic. For years Serrurier had systematically culled the leaders from among them and all that were left were the sheep. They resisted vocally on being told to get out of their homes but the sight of the guns silenced them, and, once in the street, they fell into the long line obediently and shuffled forward with Pavel's men at their heels chivvying them to greater speed. Inevitably there were confusions and bottlenecks as the greater mass of the populace came on to the streets ; at one corner where two broad streets debouched into a third at a narrow angle there was chaos - -- a tangled inextricable mass of bodies crushed against one another which took Pavel's bawling non-coms two hours to straighten out, and when at last this traffic jam was eased it left a couple of dozen crushed and suffocated corpses as evidence of anarchy.
Causton, in his borrowed car, toured the city and finally aimed to the Negrito, checking on his map to find the quickest way on a red-lined route. He arrived by means of a side road it the main road leading into the Negrito valley quite close to where Serrurier's artillery had been captured, and saw the long line of refugees streaming away in the distance. Here there was a sizeable force of rebel soldiers, about two hundred strong. They were weeding out able-bodied men from the passing stream, forming them into squads and marching them away. Curious, Causton followed one of these squads to see where they were going and saw them set to digging under the rifles of Pavel's men.
Pavel was establishing his final defence line on the eighty-foot contour.
When Causton returned to his car he saw a little pile of bodies tossed carelessly into a heap by the roadside behind the rebel troops -- the conscientious objectors, the men who would not dig for victory.
Sickened by death, he contemplated driving up the Negrito to safety. Instead, he turned the car and went back into the city because he still had his job to do and because his job was his life. He drove back to general headquarters at the Imperiale and asked for Wyatt, finding him eventually on the roof, looking at the sky.
He looked up too, and saw a few feathery clouds barely veiling the furnace of the sun. "Anything doing yet?" he asked.
Wyatt turned. "Those clouds," he said. "Mabel's on her way."
Causton said, "They don't seem much. We get clouds like that in England."
"You'll see the difference pretty soon."
Causton cocked an eye at him. "Got over your bloody-mindedness? "
"I suppose so," said Wyatt gloomily.
"I have a thought that might console you," Causton said. "The people who are going to get it in the neck are Serrurier's soldiers, and soldiers are paid to get killed. That's more than you can say for the women and children of St. Pierre."
"What's it like out there?"
"Grim," said Causton. "There was a bit of looting, but Pavel's men soon put a stop to that." He deliberately refrained from mentioning the methods being used to get the people on the move; instead, he said, "The devil of it is that there's only one practicable road out of town. Have you any idea how much road-space a city full of people takes up?"
"I've never had occasion to work it out," said Wyatt sourly.
"I did some quick mental arithmetic," said Causton. "And I came up with the figure of twelve miles. Since they're not moving at more than two miles an hour, it takes six hours for the column to pass any given spot."
'"I spent an hour looking at maps," said Wyatt. "Favel wanted me to outline safe areas for the people. I did my best, • looking at bloody contours, but -- " he thumped a fist into the palm of his hand -- " safe? I don't know. This town ought to have had a hurricane plan ready for lifting from a pigeon-hole and putting into action," he said savagely.
"That's not Pavel's fault," pointed out Causton reasonably. "You can blame Serrurier for that." He looked at his watch. "One o'clock and Rocambeau hasn't made a move yet. He must have been mauled more seriously than we thought. Have you eaten yet?"
Wyatt shook his head, so Causton said, "Let's see what we can rustle up. It might be the last time we'll eat for quite a white."
They went downstairs and were buttonholed by Manning, 'Who had just walked in. "When's that hurricane due?" he asked abruptly.
"I can't tell you yet," said Wyatt. "But give me another couple of hours and I'll tell you exactly."
Manning looked disgusted, but said nothing. Causton said, "Is there anything to eat around here? I'm getting peckish."
Manning grinned. "We did find a few stray chickens. You'd better come with me."
He took them into the manager's office, which had been converted into an officers' mess, and they found Favel just finishing a meal. He also questioned Wyatt, going into it much more thoroughly than Manning had, and then he went back to his map room, leaving them to eat in peace.
Causton gnawed on a chicken leg and then paused, pointing it at Manning. "Where do you come into all this?" he asked. "How did you get tangled up with Favel?"
"A matter of business," said Manning off-handedly.
"Such as professional advice on how to organize a war?"
Manning grinned. "Favel doesn't need any teaching about that."
Causton looked profound. "Ah," he said, as though enlightenment had suddenly come to him. "Your business is A.F.C. business."
Wyatt looked up. "What's that?"
"The Antilles Fruit Corporation -- very big business in this part of the world. I was wondering where Favel got his finance."
Manning put down a bone. "I'm not likely to tell you, am I? I wouldn't shoot off my mouth to a reporter."
"Not in the normal way," agreed Causton. "But if the reporter had the smell of the right idea and he was good enough at his job to ferret out the rest of
it, you'd want him to get the right story, wouldn't you? From your angle, I mean."
Manning laughed. "I like you, Causton ; I really do. Well, I can give you some kind of story -- but it's off the record and don't quote me on it. Let's say I'm having a quiet talk with Wyatt here, and you're eavesdropping with those long ears." He looked at Wyatt. "Let's say there was a big American corporation which had a lot of capital invested in San Fernandez at one time, and all its holdings were expropriated by Serrurier."
"A.F.C.," said Causton.
"Could be," said Manning. "But I'm not saying so out loud. The officers of this corporation were as mad as hornets, naturally -- their losses were more than twenty-five million dollars -- and the shareholders weren't pleased, either. That's one half of it. The other half is Favel -- he's the chap who , could do something about it -- for reasons of his own. But he had no money to buy arms and train men, so what more natural than they get together?"
"But why pick you as a go-between?" asked Causton.
Manning shrugged. "I'm in the business -- I'm for hire. And they didn't want an American; that might not have looked right. Anyway, I went shopping with the corporation's money -- there's a chap in Switzerland, an American, who has enough guns to equip the British army, let alone our piddling little effort. Favel knew exactly what he wanted -- rifles, machine-guns, mortars to pack a big wallop and yet be easily moved, recoilless rifles and a few mountain guns. He got his best men off the island and set up a training school -- and I'd better not tell you where. He hired a few artillery instructors to train his men and then gradually started to recruit again on the island. When he had enough men we shipped in the arms."
Wyatt said incredulously, "Do you mean to tell me that all this has been done so that a fruit company can make a few dollars more profit?"
Manning looked at him sharply and his hand curled into a ball. "It has not," he said crisply. "Where do you get that idea?"
Causton said hastily, "Pray forgive my young friend. He's still wet behind the ears -- he doesn't understand the facts of life, as I've had occasion to tell him."
Bagley, Desmond - Wyatts Hurricane Page 19