Angel Death

by Patricia Moyes

  Glass windows on the south and west sides—the lee sides of the building—were crisscrossed with adhesive tape, so if they did blow out there would be less danger of flying glass. Stacks of tinned food were brought down from the storage shed to the main hotel building, where Emmy and the Colvilles proposed to take shelter. Outside, vulnerable objects such as wheelbarrows and stepladders were upturned, laid flat, and where possible tied down. The jeep was parked so as to be out of range of any tree or building that might fall on it. All the time, as the sinister sunlight faded, the wind grew stronger, and black clouds came crowding in from the east.

  The radio kept up its unending stream of information. St. Matthew’s Golf Club had mobilized its entire fleet of launches as well as its helicopter to ferry members to St. Mark’s for evacuation by air. Many guests from the Harbour Prospect Hotel had already left the island—all available aircraft were running a shuttle service to San Juan to airlift visitors to safety. All seagoing craft should seek and remain in safe shelter, paying special attention to anchors and mooring lines. Residents were advised to take all appropriate hurricane precautions. Stocks of candles and tinned food should be laid in, in case of power failures.

  Emmy’s mind, as she worked, ran around like a spinning prayer wheel. Oh, God, take care of Henry. Oh, God, let him be safe in harbor.

  By five P.M. the radio reports had become distinctly sinister. The Seawards, along with other islands, were now under a hurricane warning, which meant that the arrival of hurricane-force winds was imminent. By six o’clock, John had driven all the staff members to their homes, and it had started to rain. The besieged garrison of the Anchorage sat at the bar, had a drink, and listened to the wind and rain. It all seemed very unreal. Even Emmy could recall worse weather conditions on this island, and it occurred to all of them that in the absence of the radio’s alarming predictions, they would not have taken the weather situation at all seriously.

  John cooked a simple meal and opened a bottle of good wine. The rain grew heavier, pounding on the tin roof so as to make conversation difficult, and the slender bushes of hibiscus and oleander bent gracefully under the gusts of wind. Still nothing frightening happened. Nobody mentioned Henry.

  At ten minutes past ten, when Emmy and the Colvilles were enjoying a cup of coffee and a brandy, there was a sudden screaming increase in the force of the wind. Simultaneously, a massive clap of thunder and blast of lightning, and all the lights went out.

  “Here he comes!” John shouted. “Inside, everybody, and get the shutters battened down!”

  They were only just in time. Even though they had been sitting in the sheltered bar, on the protected side of the building, the wind hit with such force that it was all that Margaret and Emmy could do, pulling together, to close and bolt the door to the office, where they now retreated. There was no longer any hope of getting to the bedrooms above by way of the outside staircase. The office, kitchen, and downstairs cloakroom would be the hurricane hole for the three inhabitants of the Anchorage until the storm had passed.

  Thanks to the precautions taken, the windows were boarded up, there was a good supply of food and water, and by the light of several candles the quarters looked positively cozy. Margaret and Emmy had brought three mattresses down to the office, together with pillows, sheets, and light blankets. The radio continued to pour out advice, weather bulletins, and updates on the position of the hurricane. The siege was on.

  The worst part, Emmy thought, was the noise. The building was actually standing up very well to the tremendous buffeting of the wind, and apart from a slight rattling of the window boards, all would have been peaceful inside the office had it not been for the banshee howling of the gale outside. Like a shrieking maniac, the wind was clawing and tearing at everything it encountered—trees, vehicles, wires, buildings. Dull thuds and metallic crashes from outside told the shelterers that property was coming under fire and suffering. The radio, having given Hurricane Alfred’s latest position as one hundred miles to the southeast of the Seaward Islands, moving northwest at twelve miles an hour, was now filling in time by playing a steel-band rendering of “Island in the Sun,” perhaps with unconscious irony or possibly with deliberate black humor.

  The ringing of the telephone took them all by surprise. Emmy had taken it for granted that telephone communication would have been cut off.

  John answered it. “Colville. Yes…yes, Sir Alfred…yes, she’s here, I’ll put her on… What?… Not too bad, so far. How is it with you?… Good… No, it doesn’t sound too hopeful, does it?… Just a moment, here’s Emmy… ” He held out the receiver.

  “Emmy Tibbett here.”

  “Ah, Mrs. Tibbett. I thought I should call you while I could to let you know that our appointment for tomorrow is naturally cancelled.” Sir Alfred cleared his throat. “Now, I don’t want you to worry any more than you have to. I’m sure there’ll be an explanation. We’ve no news of Windflower, but she must have been in Seawards waters today for that radio message to have been picked up here. Well, no news is good news, even in this weather.”

  “But, Sir Alfred—”

  “So we’ll just have to presume that she’s safely holed up somewhere—”

  “Sir Alfred!” Emmy was shouting into the telephone. “Don’t you understand, that message—” The phone went dead.

  John said, “What’s the matter, Emmy?”

  “Damn it. The phone’s gone now.”

  “Well, we were lucky to have it for so long. What did he say?”

  “Oh, he was trying to be kind. There’s no news of Windflower, but he thinks she has to be in the Seawards, because of the Starfish message.”

  “That sounds logical,” said John.

  “But it isn’t!” cried Emmy, near tears. “I was so upset about everything that I wasn’t thinking straight earlier on. I’ve only just realized that that message couldn’t have come from Windflower.”

  “Couldn’t? But with the call sign Anemone—”

  “Oh, I’m sure it was from the smugglers,” Emmy said. “But it couldn’t have been sent from Windflower for the very good reason that she doesn’t carry a VHF radio. So Windflower—and Henry—may be absolutely anywhere by now!”

  “Just about anywhere,” said John, “is better than here tonight.”

  It was a very long night. The radio kept up its continuous coverage, with updates on Alfred’s position. The black track on the map snaked closer and closer to the island of St. Benedict, to the southeast of St. Matthew’s, and at midnight the Seawards radio announced that Radio St. Benedict had gone off the air after a final frantic message that their transmitting tower was toppling. The only communication with the island was now by ham radio operators, who were manning their sets around the clock. If the hurricane continued on its present course, it might be expected to hit the British Seawards around dawn, with winds up to 120 miles per hour.

  All the time, the noise grew louder until it was difficult to hear the radio, even with the volume turned fully up. An extra-loud crash on the roof indicated that something had fallen on it, probably a tree.

  Margaret said, “There’s absolutely nothing we can do but sit here and hope, Emmy. Do try to get some sleep.”

  “Margaret’s right,” John put in. “Tomorrow’s going to be one hell of a day, whatever happens. I’ll make some cocoa—thank God we cook with bottled gas—and I suggest you take a couple of aspirin and at least lie down.”

  Emmy managed a tired smile. “All right,” she said, “but I won’t sleep.”

  She was wrong. Against all odds, she drifted off into unconsciousness, almost lulled by the incessant screaming of the gale. Her last thought was to wonder if the little white pills had really been aspirin, or something stronger. Emmy slept.

  When she woke, sickly gray daylight was filtering through the taped-up windows. Margaret was sound asleep on the mattress beside her, while John sat at the desk, making notes as the radio continued to drone out its messages. He looked up, saw Emmy, and smile
d.

  “Good morning, Emmy.”

  “I did sleep,” said Emmy wonderingly. And then, “Am I dreaming, or is there just a bit less wind?”

  “You’re not dreaming,” John said. “We’ve had a small miracle. Alfred took a turn towards the north at three-thirty A.M. He’s passing us right now, but about forty miles away. We’re feeling his southern side, with winds of only about eighty miles an hour.”

  Emmy sat up stiffly. “Only!” she echoed ruefully.

  “To the north of the eye, it’s blowing over a hundred,” said John. “So be thankful. Like a cup of tea?”

  “I’ll make it.”

  “O.K., you do that. I want to stay with the radio.”

  As Emmy filled the kettle from a jerrican, she heard the latest radio announcement. Alfred’s position was forty-two miles north of St. Mark’s, moving north-northwest. Grim reports were beginning to filter through from St. Benedict via the indefatigable ham operators. A score of confirmed deaths, many thousands left homeless, severe flooding. Hurricane warnings now in force for Haiti and the Dominican Republic. Damage to the British Seawards so far reported light—windows broken, roofs off, roads impassable due to flooding and fallen trees. Then the parochial messages, bringing it all so close to home.

  “The school of St. Michael and All Angels will be closed today. All nonessential government employees on St. Mark’s should not, repeat not, report to work this morning. The Carib Supermarket in Priest Town will not open today. Civil Defense authorities inform motorists that they should use their vehicles only in emergencies. The road between Fat Cow Bay and Plumtree Bay is impassable due to fallen trees. The coast road between Priest Town and Mango Tree Bay on St. Matthew’s is flooded and should only be attempted by four-wheel-drive vehicles in extreme emergencies. The following banks and commercial offices have told us they will not be open today…” The exhausted voice of the announcer droned on. He had been on duty for fifteen hours without a break. Outside, the sky lightened slowly, as if with reluctance. The kettle boiled. Emmy made tea.

  By seven o’dock the wind had diminished appreciably. Emmy reflected on the relativity of human reactions. There must be a fifty-mile-an-hour gale blowing, a greater force of wind than she had ever before experienced, and yet it seemed almost mild in contrast to the storm’s earlier fury. Margaret woke up and had a cup of tea, and John even ventured out into the bar to inspect the damage. Emmy followed him cautiously.

  Even in the shelter of the bar, which had two solid walls, it was difficult to walk against the force of the wind. The palm-leaf section of the roof had blown off completely, scattering the garden with untidy brown fronds and leaving a bent and gaping skeleton of girders open to the gray skies. Sure enough, a big mahogany tree had fallen across the roof of the office, but it did not appear to have done very much damage.

  The garden looked like a battlefield—plants uprooted, small trees and shrubs laid flat, plump green and yellow papayas rolling forlornly in the streams of rainwater that cascaded down the hillside and toward the beach. Flower beds had become sloughs of mud, and the wooden gates at the head of what had been the driveway were wrenched from their hinges and lay half-submerged in mud and sand. But the jeep was still there, even though its canvas roof was ripped and flapping. There were no broken windows or doors blown in. The bar was still standing, although all the stools had blown over and were rolling around the concrete floor.

  John turned with some difficulty to Emmy and smiled. Against the wind, he mouthed rather than shouted, “We’ve been lucky.” Emmy nodded and smiled back.

  It was then that Emmy saw a tall figure in bright yellow oilskins, bent nearly double against the wind, making his laborious way up the ruined road toward the Anchorage. She grabbed John’s arm.

  “Look! Somebody’s coming!”

  “Good God,” John shouted. “It looks like Morley. What on earth—?”

  Morley Duprez had reached what had been the gateway and was struggling through the remnants of the cattle guard, sinking nearly up to the top of his black rubber boots. Raising his head against the wind, he saw John and finished the last few yards to the comparative shelter of the bar in a stumbling near-run.

  “Mr. Colville! Mr. Colville!” Morley’s voice was tossed away contemptuously by the fury of the wind.

  John grabbed the black man’s arm and pulled him through the door and into the haven of the office, where he stood dripping water and oozing mud, fighting to catch his breath. Emmy, following the two men, managed with a struggle to close the door behind them.

  Margaret, sitting up on her mattress with her cup of tea, said, “Morley! How on earth did you get here? What’s the news? Have some tea.”

  She scrambled to her feet and began pouring.

  Morley Duprez said, “Mr. Colville, can you help us?”

  “Of course. Anything I can do. What is it?”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Colville.” Morley buried his nose gratefully in the steaming mug. Then, “It’s a boat, Mr. Colville. A yacht. Washed ashore in Bluefish Bay and breaking up. There’s just a chance we can do something to save her if we have a four-wheel-drive vehicle with a tow bar.”

  “My jeep?”

  “Yes, Mr. Colville. Priest Town is mashed up, man. Most jeeps thrown over, broken good.”

  Margaret said, “What about the Golf Club? They have better vehicles—”

  Between gulps of tea, Morley said, “Know the Club Service area? Down near the water?” Margaret nodded. “All their vehicles in there…flooded out. Not one working till afternoon at best.”

  John said, “You’ve been to the Golf Club, have you?”

  “No, man, no way. I’m goin’ there, but I hear what happen them vehicles.”

  “You heard? From whom?”

  Morley shrugged. “Fellow work there,” he said briefly. Clearly, hurricane or no, the mysterious island grapevine was operating.

  Emmy opened her mouth to ask a question, but John forestalled her. “This boat—know anything about her?”

  “Not much. Daniel Markham saw her at first light this morning—you know he house looking down to Bluefish. White sailboat, that’s all he say. He come find me, and I come by you.”

  “Anybody aboard?” said John.

  “Daniel don’t see nobody, Mr. Colville, but he don’t know for sure.”

  Seeing Emmy’s face, John put an arm around her shoulders, gave her a quick squeeze, and said, “There are thousands of white yachts in the Caribbean, Emmy.”

  “Yes, but—”

  John became practical. “The question is, Can we get the jeep out of here and down to the bay? Have you seen the road, Morley?”

  “It’s not good,” Duprez admitted, “but with four-wheel you gotta chance, man. We pass by pick up young Melville—he a good strong boy. He be waiting us.”

  “O.K.,” said John. “Margaret, can you find my oilskins and boots? And those two lengths of fifty-foot rope we bought. The steel towing cable is in the jeep. Better bring my toolbox and the first-aid kit as well.”

  Emmy said, “I’ll come with you, John.”

  “Don’t be an idiot,” said John, not unkindly. “You’d only be in the way.”

  “John,” Emmy said, “I’m not being sentimental or hysterical. I know I’m not a trained nurse, but I do have a first-aid diploma, and if there is anybody on board—”

  Rather surprisingly, Margaret said, “Emmy’s right, John. You and the other men will be too busy with the boat to care for the people. Emmy can have my oilies and boots.”

  “Oh, all right.” John sounded unconvinced, but too preoccupied to be bothered with argument. He said. “Now, Margaret, you must get in touch somehow with the Golf Club.”

  “How? We’ve no telephone—”

  “Write a note to the Secretary and get it to Irving, just down the road. The wind’s moderating all the time—you’ll soon be able to walk that far. Tell him to pass it on—he’ll see it gets there by a system of relays.”

  “What am I to
say in it?”

  “Tell Peter that there’s a boat washed up in Bluefish Bay and that I’ve gone down with Morley and Melville. There may be casualties on board, but in any case we may not be able to get the jeep up again once we’re there. So ask him to send the helicopter to look for us just as soon as he can.”

  “O.K.,” said Margaret.

  John pulled his oilskin jerkin over his head and got into his rubber boots. Margaret handed a similar but smaller outfit to Emmy, with a grin and an encouraging wink. Emmy did her best to smile back. By the time she was suitably outfitted, and Margaret had given her the first-aid box with a rundown on its contents, the two men were already outside, fighting through the storm to the jeep. Emmy hurried after them.

  If the wind had abated slightly, this advantage was more than made up for by the fact that it had once again started to rain—heavy, warmish, tropical rain blown almost horizontally by the gale, which smashed into eyes and faces and made it virtually impossible to see. From the shelter of the bar, Margaret watched the three figures struggling toward the jeep, finally making it. After a moment of indecision, the engine turned over, hiccuped, turned over again, and finally roared into triumphant life. The windshield wipers, ineffective as blades of grass against the deluge, began sweeping manfully over the streaming glass. The lights went on. John leaned out from the driver’s seat to give his wife a thumbs-up sign, and slowly the jeep began to move through the squelching morass of the drive.

  To leave the Anchorage by the official exit was out of the question. The heavy gates had blown down across the cattle grid, blocking the way and buckling the stout steel pipes. Torrents of mud and water had weakened the concrete sides of the pit under the grid, which would, in any case, have formed a trap from which even the jeep would never have escaped.

  “Hold on!” John shouted to Emmy. She grabbed the snatch bar as John, in four-wheel drive and low gear, headed the jeep across what had once been a lawn. In happier times, the Anchorage gardens were protected against invasion from sheep, goats, and cows not only by the cattle grid at the gate, but by a thick hedge of oleander bushes. These plants are poisonous to livestock—a fact which the animals seem to know by instinct, for no beast will venture through an oleander thicket. Outside the bushes, a decorative but flimsy white paling fence marked the boundary of the inn’s domain.