Manning pointed his finger at Wyatt. "You say that to Favel and you'll get your head chopped off. Somebody had to get Serrurier out and Favel was the only one with guts enough. And it couldn't be done constitutionally because Serrurier abolished the constitution, so it had to be done with blood -- a surgical operat ion. It's a pity, but there it is."
He relaxed and grinned at Causton. "Our hypothetical fruit corporation might have caught a tiger by the tail -- Favel is no one's dummy. He's a bit of a reformer, you know, and hell hold out for fair pay and good working conditions on the plantations." He shrugged. "I'm no company man; it's no skin off my nose if Favel bites the hand that's fed him."
Wyatt winced. It seemed that Causton was right again. Nothing in this topsy-turvy world of politics made sense to him. It was a world in which black and white merged into an indeterminate grey, where bad actions were done for good reasons and good actions were suspect. It was not his world and he wished he were out of it, in his own uncomplicated sphere of figures and formulae where all he had to worry about was whether a hurricane would behave itself.
He was about to apologize but he saw that Manning was still talking to Causton. ". . . will be better when San Fernandez can build up a fund of development capital instead of it being siphoned off into Serrurier's pocket. A bit of spare money round here would make all the difference -- it could be a good place."
Causton said, "Can Favel be trusted?"
"I think so. He's liberally inclined, but he's not a milk-and-water liberal, and he's got no inclination to be taken over by the Russians like Castro. He'll stand up to the Americans, too." Manning grinned. "He'll make them pay a hell of a lot more for Cap Sarrat Base than they've been paying." He became serious. "He'll be a dictator because he can't be anything else right now. Serrurier beat the stuffing out of these people, killed their natural leaders and drained them of guts -- they're not fit for government yet. But I don't think hell be a bad dictator, certainly not as bad as Serrurier."
"Urn," said Causton. "He'll have to take a lot of criticism from well-meaning fools who don't know what's been going on here."
"That won't worry him," said Manning. "He doesn't give a damn about what people say about him. And he can give as good as he gets."
The table shook and there came a roll of thunder rumbling from the east. Manning lifted his head. "The party's started -- Rocambeau has begun his attack."
in Julie looked through a crack in the door of the corrugated iron hut, paying no attention to the shrill voice, of Mrs. Warmington who sat crouched on a box behind her. There still seemed to be a lot of trucks in the quarry, although she had heard many drive away. And there were still many soldiers about, some standing in groups, talking and smoking, and others moving about intent on their business. She was thankful that the officer had not considered it necessary to post a guard on the hut; he had merely tested the bolt on the outside of the door before pushing them inside.
She had had a hard time with Mrs. Warmington -- the woman was impossible. When they were captured and brought down to the quarry Mrs. Warmington had tried to talk her way out of it, raising her voice in an attempt to get her point over -- which was that she was an American and not to be treated like a criminal when she had merely been defending her life and honour. It had not worked because no one understood English, no matter how loudly shouted, and they had been thrust into the hut and, Julie hoped, forgotten.
She turned from the door, irritated with Mrs. Warming-ton's monologue. "For God's sake, will you be quiet?" she said wearily. "What do you want them to do -- come in here and shut you up with a gun? They will, you know, once they get as tired of you as I am."
Mrs. Warmington's mouth shut with a snap -- but not for long. "This is intolerable," she said with the air of a victim. "The State Department will know of this when I get home."
"// you get home," said Julie cruelly. "You shot a man, you know. You shot him with Eumenides's gun." She cocked her head at the door. "They're not going to like that."
"But they don't know," said Mrs. Warmington craftily. "They think it was that Greek."
Julie looked at her in disgust for a long moment. "They don't know," she agreed. "But they will if I tell them."
Mrs. Warmington gulped. "But you wouldn't do that . . . would . . . you?" Her voice tailed away as she saw the expression on Julie's face.
"I will if you don't keep your big trap shut," said Julie callously. "You killed Eumenides -- you killed him as surely as if you'd shot him and pushed a bayonet into his back yourself. He was a nice guy ; not very brave maybe -- who is? -- but a nice guy. He didn't deserve that. I'm not going to forget it, you know, so you'd better watch yourself. If I killed you here and now it wouldn't be murder, just decent execution."
She spoke levelly and without emphasis, but her words were chilling and Mrs. Warmington shrank into a corner with horror in her eyes. Julie said, "So walk carefully round me, you big bag of wind, or I might be tempted. I could kill you, it shouldn't be too difficult." Her voice was detached, but when she looked down at her hands she saw they were shaking violently.
She turned and looked again through the crack in the door, astonished at herself. Never before had she struck at another person with such deadly intent to hurt, never before had she trembled in such fury. For too long she had exercised the tact drilled into her as an air hostess and it felt good to let rip at this futile and dangerous woman. She felt a surge of strength and knew, she had done the right thing.
She felt a warm trickle run down her thigh, and looked at her arm and saw the drying blood where she had been jabbed by a bayonet. There was much activity outside but no one seemed to be taking particular notice of the hut, so she stripped off her slacks and examined the wounds in her legs.
Incredibly, Mrs. Warmington had retained her purse when they were dragged down the hill, and now Julie picked it up and dumped the contents on to the floor. It contained no more than the usual rat's nest found in a woman's purse; lipstick, compact, comb, money in notes and coins -- quite a lot of that, travellers' cheques, pen, notebook, a packet of tissues, a bottle of aspirin, a small flask of spirit which proved to be bourbon, an assortment of hairpins, several loose scraps of paper and a cloying scent of spilled face powder.
She stirred the heap with her finger and said sardonically, "You've lost your jewels." She took the tissues and began to stanch her wounds. They were not too bad; the worst was not a quarter of an inch deep, but they bled freely and she knew that when they stopped bleeding her legs would become very stiff and painful to move. She took two of the aspirin tablets and dumped half of the contents of the bottle into her shirt pocket. As she swallowed the aspirins she wished they had water, and wondered what could be done about that. Then she donned her slacks and tossed the remainder of the tissues to Mrs. Warmington. "Clean yourself up," she ordered abruptly, and went to the door again.
She stayed to observe the scene for a long time. The quarry apparently formed a convenient military park close to the main road but not in the way of traffic. There were many trucks moving in and out but she noted that the general trend was to lessen the number of vehicles standing idle. She hoped briefly, but with no great assurance, that everyone would go away, forgetting the white women imprisoned in the hut, and wondered how much chance there was of that happening.
After a while she tired of the changing scene that always remained the same and began to explore the hut. Mrs. Warmington sat mutely in her corner, looking at Julie with frightened eyes, and Julie ignored her. Most of the boxes were empty, but behind a large tea chest filled with bits and pieces of scrap iron she found a sledge-hammer and a pickaxe, both in reasonably good condition.
Julie hefted the hammer and then explored the walls of the hut. The wooden framework was rotten and the nails that held the rusty iron sheets were corroded, and she thought she would have no difficulty in battering her way out provided there was no one within earshot -- an unlikely eventuality. She put the tools close to hand behind the doo
r where they would not be easily seen and settled down again to her vigil.
The morning wore on and slowly the quarry emptied of vehicles. As the sun rose higher in the sky the hut wanned to an oven-like heat and the iron walls were too hot to touch. The two women sat there and sweated, listening to the noisy clash of gears and the roar of engines as trucks drove to and fro -- and they became very thirsty.
She wondered what had happened to Rawsthorne and concluded that he must also have been taken prisoner, or perhaps killed. It had only been the fortunate arrival of the Negro officer that had saved them, and maybe Rawsthorne had not been so lucky. She coldly contemplated the grim fact that if she did not get out of this hut she would die. Rawsthorne had already rejected the quarry as being safe from the hurricane, and however the fortunes of the civil war turned she would die if she could not escape.
Her thoughts again turned to Wyatt. It was a great pity that now they had come together at last they should be parted and that both would probably die. At the moment she did not give much for her own chances, and while she was ignorant of what had happened to Wyatt, she was doubtful of his having survived the war that had washed over St. Pierre.
She was aroused from her reverie by Mrs. Warmington. "I'm thirsty."
"So am I," said Julie. "Shut up!"
Something was happening -- or rather, not happening -- and she made a quick gesture with her hand, pressing Mrs. Warmington to silence. It had suddenly gone very quiet. True, there was the noise of traffic from the main coast road, but the closer rumble of trucks from the quarry had ceased. She looked through the crack in the door again and found the quarry empty except for one soldier, who squatted in the shade a dozen yards away and seemed to be dozing. There had been a guard, after all.
Julie turned and snatched the purse from Mrs. Warming-ton's grasping hand and took out the wad of notes. Mrs. Warmington flared up. "Don't take that -- it's mine."
"You want water, don't you?" asked Julie. "We might be able to buy some." She looked at the thick bundle of money. "We might even be able to buy our way out of here -- if you keep quiet." Mrs. Warmington closed her mouth abruptly, and Julie said, "I don't know my way around in this language, but I'll try; the money will speak loud enough, anyway."
She went to the door and looked through the crack. "Hey -- you, there!"
The soldier turned round lazily and blinked at the door. He saw what appeared to be a bank-note of large denomination protruding through the door of the hut and moving gently up and down. He scrambled to his feet, seized his rifle, and approached the hut with circumspection diluted with avarice. The bank-note flashed from sight as he made a grab for it, and a feminine voice said, "L'eau . . . agua. Can you get us some?"
Julie watched the puzzlement on the man's face, and said urgently, "Bring us water. Water . .. l'eau .. . agua. You can have the money."
The soldier scratched his head, and then his face cleared. "Ah -- l'eau!"
"That's right. You can have the money -- the money, see -- when you bring l'eau."
He broke into a jabber of incomprehensible patois, finally ending with, "L'argent ... la monnaie . . . pour I'eau?"
"That's right, buster; you've got it."
He nodded and went away and Julie breathed a sigh of relief. Her throat was parched and felt like sand-paper, and the thought of cool water made her feel dizzy for a moment. But there was something that had to be done before the soldier returned. It was not likely he would unlock the door -- he probably had no key -- and how would he get the water into the hut?
She seized the sledge-hammer and prodded tentatively at the bottom of the door where it seemed to be weakest. Then she swung the hammer like a golf club and crashed it once against the rotten wood. A piece gave way leaving a small opening, and she dared not do more. She did not know how far the soldier had gone and he could still be within earshot -- one sharp noise he might dismiss, but not the constant repetition necessary to break down the door.
She saw him coming back bearing a bottle and a tin cup and he paused a moment and looked helplessly as she rattled the door. He said something and shrugged his shoulders and she knew he could not open the door, so she bent down and put her hand through the hole she had made. "Down here," she shouted, hoping he did not realize the opening was new.
He squatted before the door and put the bottle and cup just out of her reach. "L'argent," he said in a bass growl. "La monnaie."
She cursed him and pushed a bank-note through the hole. He grabbed it and pushed the tin cup within her reach. She drew it through the hole gently, careful not to spill it, and passed it to Mrs. Warmington. When she reached for the bottle it was still beyond her grasp. The soldier grinned and said cheerfully, "L'argent?" and she was forced to give him more money before he would let her have the bottle.
The water, tepid though it was, was a benison to her dry throat. She drank half the bottle in one swallow and then, paused, looking at Mrs. Warmington who was licking the last drop from the rim of the dirty cup. She said, "Take it easy ! this stuff is expensive -- it's costing you over four dollars a cup." She put the bottle in the corner and looked at her watch. It was twelve-thirty.
The soldier had gone back to sitting in the shade, but he kept his eye on the hut, hoping for more easy money. Julie said, "I wish to hell he'd go away."
She heard a tapping sound from behind her and turned to look at Mrs. Warmington, who was gazing hopefully into the cup as though she expected it to fill up by magic. The tapping continued and came from the back of the hut, so Julie went to the back wall and listened closely. There was a familiar but incomplete rhythm which she recognized as the old shave-and-a-haircut of her childhood days, so she gave the two taps necessary to complete the phrase and said in a low voice, "Who's that?"
"Rawsthorne -- don't make a noise."
Her heart leaped in her breast. "How did you get here?"
"I followed you when you were brought down here. I've been watching from the top of the quarry. I was only able to get down when that bloody guard went away just now."
"Where did he go?" asked Julie urgently.
"Up the track and out of sight," said Rawsthorne. "I think he went as far as the main road."
"Good!" said Julie. "I think I can make him do it again. If he goes that far we can get out of here. Can you wait there?"
"Yes," said Rawsthorne. He sounded very much his age and as though he was desperately tired. "I can wait."
Julie went back and found that Mrs. Warmington had finished the bottle of water. She looked up defiantly, and said, "Well, it was my money, wasn't it?"
Julie snatched the bottle from her hands. "It doesn't matter now; we're getting out of here. Get ready -- and keep quiet."
She went to the door and called out, "L'eau . . . more l'eau, please," and fluttered another bank-note through the crack. This time she wasn't quick enough and the soldier snatched it from her before she could withdraw it. He grinned in satisfaction as he stuffed it into his pocket but made no objection to taking the bottle and cup.
She watched him walk out of sight and forced herself to wait two full minutes, then she swung at the door with the hammer and with her full strength. One of the planks split along its length; it was rotten with age and lack of paint and another blow shattered it. Rawsthorne called, "Wait!" and stuck his head through the opening she had made. "Hit it down there." he said, indicating the area of the lock.
She swung the hammer again and the hasp and staple burst out of the rotten wood and the door creaked open. "Come on," she said. "Make it fast." And ran outside, not really caring if Mrs. Warmington followed or not.
"Over here," called Rawsthorne, and she ran after him round a corner of rock and out of sight of the hut. "We're still in a trap," Rawsthorne told her. "This quarry is a dead end, and if we go along the track we'll meet that guard coming back."
"How did you get down?"
Rawsthorne pointed upwards. "I came down there -- and nearly broke my neck. But we can't get up that wa
y -- not before the guard comes back -- he'd pick us off the cliff like ducks in a shooting gallery." He looked around. "The only thing we can do is to hide."
"But where?"
"There's a ledge up there," said Rawsthorne. "If we lie flat we should be out of sight of anyone down here. Come on, Mrs. Warmington."
It was an awkward climb. Julie and Rawsthorne gave the ungainly Mrs. Warmington a boost, and then Rawsthorne went up and turned to give Julie his hand. She rolled on to the narrow ledge with skinned knees and flattened herself out. Although she kept her head down she could still see the corner of the hut in the distance and expected to see the guard return with the water at any moment.
She whispered, "Supposing we do get on top of the quarry -- what then?"
"All the troops have gone from the top," said Rawsthorne. "They moved out of the plantation back towards St. Pierre. I think General Rocambeau is going to attack very soon. I thought we could cut across country behind his army, moving over the hills until we reach the Negrito. We should be safe enough there." He paused. "But we might not have time; have you looked at the sky?"
Julie twisted her neck and looked up, wincing as the sun bit into her eyes. "I don't see much -- just a few high clouds. Feathery ones."
"There's a halo round the sun," said Rawsthorne. "I think the hurricane will be here soon."
Julie saw a movement near the hut. "Hush, he's come back."
The soldier looked at the hut in astonishment and dropped the bottle and the cup, spilling the water carelessly on the dusty ground. He unslung his rifle and Julie heard quite clearly the snap of metal as he slipped off the safety-catch. He looked around the quarry and she froze -- if she could see him, then he could see her if he looked carefully enough in the right direction.
Slowly the soldier walked around the hut; he walked with deliberation, his rifle held ready to shoot, and she heard the dry crunch of his boots on the ground. He came forward intent on searching the quarry, and cast in a wide circle, peering into all the nooks and crannies left by the blasting. As he came closer he vanished from sight and Julie held her breath and hoped the Warmington woman would keep quiet, because now the man was very close -- she could even hear the rasp of his breath as he stood below the ledge.
Bagley, Desmond - Wyatts Hurricane Page 20