Десмонд Бэгли: Wyatt's Hurricane

‘Well, I’m going down there,’ said Mrs Warmington with unexpected decision. ‘I’m sick and tired of being pushed around by you two. Besides, I’m hungry .’

‘Don’t be a fool,’ said Julie. ‘Mr Rawsthorne knows more about it than you do. You’re safer up here.’

‘I’m going,’ said Mrs Warmington, stepping out of arm’s reach. ‘And you’re not going to stop me.’ Her chin quivered with foolish obduracy. ‘I think it’s nonsense to say that we’ll have another storm like the one we’ve just gone through — things don’t happen that way. And there’ll be food down there and I’m starving.’

She edged away as Julie stepped forward. ‘And you blame me for everything, I know you do. You’re always bullying me and hitting me — you wouldn’t do it if I were stronger than you. I think it’s disgraceful the way you hit a woman older than yourself. So I’m going — I’m going down to those people down there.’

She darted away as Julie made a grab for her and went stumbling down the hill in an awkward limping gait due to the loss of her shoe. Rawsthorne called Julie back. ‘Oh, let the damned woman go; she’s been a bloody nuisance all along and I’m glad to see her back.’

Julie halted in mid-step and slowly walked up the hill again. ‘Do you think she’ll be all right?’ she asked doubtfully.

‘I don’t give a damn,’ said Rawsthorne tiredly. ‘She’s meant nothing but trouble all along and I don’t see why we should get ourselves killed trying to save her neck. We’ve done our best for her and we can’t do more.’ He sat down on a rock and put his head in his hands. ‘God, but I’m tired.’

Julie bent over him. ‘Are you all right?’

He lifted his head and gave her a wan smile. ‘I’m all right, my dear. There’s nothing wrong with me but too many years of living. Sitting about in wet clothing isn’t too good at my age.’ He looked down the hill. ‘She’s out of sight now. She went in the wrong direction, too.’

‘What?’

Rawsthorne smiled and waved his hand in the direction of St Pierre. ‘The St Michel road is over there; it leaves St Pierre and sticks to the upper slopes of the Negrito Valley before it climbs over to join the coast road. If we were leaving I would suggest going that way — I don’t think that road would be flooded.’

‘But you don’t think we ought to leave,’ Julie said in a flat statement.

‘I don’t. I fear we’re going to have more wind. We’ve found a safe place here and we might as well stick to it as long as we’re not entirely sure. If the wind doesn’t blow up in another three or four hours then it will be safe to move.’

‘All right — we’ll stay,’ said Julie. She moved over and looked down into the ravine at the smooth sheet of water flowing over the big rock. The cave was completely hidden behind that watery curtain. She laughed and turned back to Rawsthorne. ‘There’s one good thing — we’ll have a lot more room now that fat bitch has left us.’

Wyatt stood on the top of the ridge overlooking St Pierre and looked down over the city. The waters had ebbed since his first startled vision in the flash of lightning, yet half the city was still flooded. The climacteric wave had left nasty evidence of destruction, the wrack of a broken city at the high-water mark half-way up the ridge. The houses at the bottom from which the battle assault had been made just a few hours before had disappeared completely, as had the wide stretches of shanties in the middle distance. Only the core of the city was left standing — the few modern towers of steel and concrete and the older stone buildings which had already withstood more than one hurricane.

Away in the distance the radar tower that marked Cap Sarrat Base had vanished, cut down by the wind as a sickle cuts a stalk of grass. The Base itself was too low-lying and too far away to see if much more damage had been done, although Wyatt saw the glint of water where no water should be.

And of the Government army there was no sign — no movement at all from the ruined city.

Causton and Dawson walked up the slope behind Wyatt and joined him. ‘What a mess!’ said Causton, and blew out his cheeks expressively. ‘I’m glad we got the population out.’ He dug into his pocket and produced a cigarette-lighter and a soggy packet of disintegrating cigarettes. ‘I always pride myself on being prepared. Here I have a waterproof lighter guaranteed to work under any conditions.’ He flicked it and a steady flame sprang forth. ‘But look at my damned cigarettes.’

Dawson looked at the flame which burned without a flicker in the still air. ‘Are we really in the middle of this hurricane?’

Wyatt nodded. ‘Right in the eye. Another hour or so and we’ll be in the thick of it again. I don’t think Mabel will drop much more rain, though, not unless the bitch decides to stand still. They do that sometimes.’

‘Don’t pile on the agony,’ pleaded Causton. ‘It’s enough to know that we have another packet of trouble coming.’

Dawson rubbed his ear awkwardly with a bandaged hand. ‘I’ve got a hell of an earache.’

‘That’s funny,’ said Causton. ‘So have I.’

‘It’s the low pressure,’ said Wyatt. ‘Hold your nose and blow to equalize the pressure in the sinuses.’ He nodded towards the flooded city. ‘It’s the low pressure that’s keeping all that water there.’

As the others made disgusting snorting sounds he looked up at the sky. There was a layer of cloud but he had no means of knowing how thick it was. He had heard that sometimes one could see blue skies in the eye of a hurricane, but he had never seen it himself nor had he ever encountered any who had, and he was inclined to dismiss it as one of the tall tales so often found in weather lore. He felt the sleeve of his shirt and found it was nearly dry. ‘Low pressure,’ he said. ‘And low humidity. You’ll dry off quickly. Look at that.’ He nodded to where the ground was beginning to steam gently.

Causton was watching a group of men march down the slope towards St Pierre. ‘Are you sure Favel knows that more wind is due?’ he asked. ‘Those boys are in for trouble if they don’t get back here smartly.’

‘He knows it,’ said Wyatt. ‘We discussed it. Let’s go and see him — where did he say headquarters were?’

‘Just up the road — it’s not far.’ Causton chuckled suddenly. ‘Are we dressed to go visiting?’

Wyatt looked at the others — they were caked with sticky mud from head to foot and he looked down at himself to find the same. ‘I doubt if Favel will be in better condition,’ he said. ‘Come on.’

They walked back, skirting their foxhole, and suddenly Causton stopped dead. ‘Good grief!’ he breathed. ‘Look at that.’

In the next foxhole lay a body with an outflung arm. The back of the hand which would normally be a rich brown in colour was dirty grey as though all the blood had been drained from it. But what had made Causton pause was the fact that the body had no head, nor was there a head anywhere to be seen.

‘I think I know what did that,’ said Wyatt grimly. ‘Something came over when the wind was really bad and I think it was a sheet of corrugated iron. It hit the ground just about there, then took off again.’

‘But where’s the goddam head?’ said Dawson wildly.

‘That will have blown away, too. It was a strong wind.’

Dawson looked sick and walked away. Causton said with a catch in his breath, ‘That... that could have happened to any of us.’

‘It could,’ agreed Wyatt. ‘But it didn’t. Come on.’

His emotions were frozen. The sight of violent death did not affect him and he found himself unstirred by the sight. He had seen too much killing, too many men shot dead and blown to bits. He had killed a man himself. Admittedly Roseau deserved killing if ever a man did, but Wyatt was a product of his environment and killing did not come easily to him. The sight of an accidental death in a hurricane meant nothing to him and left him untouched because he compared it to the death of a whole army of men — also killed in a hurricane, but not accidentally.