Десмонд Бэгли: Wyatt's Hurricane

Then they came to the first bridge spanning a watercourse which was normally dry but which now gushed water, a spouting torrent that filled the narrow gash in the hillside and streamed under the bridge to hurl itself in a waterfall down the almost sheer drop on the other side of the road. There were men standing by the bridge who looked up in amazement as the Land-Rover came up and Wyatt made a gesture with his arm to indicate he was going to cross. A sergeant shrugged and waved him forward and Wyatt drove slowly on to the bridge.

Dawson looked over the side and held his breath. He thought he could feel a vibration as the fast-moving water slapped at the underside of the bridge and he hoped fervently that it had not been weakened. There was a sheer drop down there of over a hundred feet and he had never had a head for heights. He closed his eyes and opened them a few seconds later when he heard Wyatt change gear to find the bridge was behind and they were continuing the long climb.

Every minute or so Wyatt flicked his eyes to the sky. The clouds were thickening as the southern edge of the hurricane drew closer. The few remaining banana plants still standing streamed their tattered leaves and he knew the big winds were not far away. He said, ‘We’ll probably get to the top just in time.’

‘Then what?’

‘Then we take shelter below the crest of the ridge. We should have company — Favel pushed a regiment up there.’

‘That seems goddam stupid to me,’ commented Dawson. ‘What good can it do?’

‘It’s a matter of organization. The people down in the valley don’t have it — they’re undisciplined and fragmented, and they’ll be worse after the hurricane. If Favel can get a disciplined group among them as soon as the wind dies he can save a lot of lives. Ever heard of disaster shock?’

‘I can’t say I have.’

‘When a disaster hits a community the survivors come out in a state of shock. They’re absolutely helpless. It’s not merely a question of not wanting to help themselves — they’re not capable of it. They just sit around, absolutely numb, while hundreds of them die for lack of minimal attention — things as elementary as putting a blanket over an injured man just don’t get done even if the blanket’s there. It’s a sort of mass catalepsy.’

‘That sounds bad.’

‘It is bad. It happens in war, too, in cases of heavy bombing or shelling. The rescue organizations like the Red Cross or the special alpine teams they have in Switzerland know that the only thing to do is to get people in from the outside as fast as possible.’

‘But Favel’s men aren’t coming in from the outside,’ objected Dawson. ‘They’ll have taken as big a battering as anyone else — apart from having just fought a war.’

‘Disaster shock doesn’t have as great an effect on disciplined groups which have the backbone of an existing organization, but it hits civilian populations seriously. Favel’s men can do a hell of a lot to help.’

They crossed the second bridge. This was an old stone structure which stood as firm as the rock of which it was built.

Then, a few miles further on, they ran into water on the road, just a skim at first, but deepening to over six inches, which made the steering groggy. Wyatt cursed. ‘Favel told me this bloody road wasn’t flooded.’

The water was surging down the open hillside and flowing across the road, and the wind flickered across the surface of the water blowing away a fine mist. Wyatt drove slowly and came to the last bridge with the usual army squad about it. ‘What’s happened?’ he asked.

A sergeant turned and pointed upwards. ‘ Blanc, there has been a landslide in the ravine.’

‘How’s the bridge?’

The soldier shook his head. ‘Not good. You must not cross.’

‘Be damned to that,’ said Wyatt, and put the Land-Rover into gear. ‘I’m going over.’

‘Hey!’ said Dawson, looking forward. ‘It doesn’t look too good to me.’ This was a wooden trestle bridge and it seemed decidedly rickety. ‘That thing has moved — it’s been slung sideways.’

Wyatt drove forward and stopped just short of the bridge. The whole structure was leaning and the road bed was tilted at a definite angle. He put his head out of the side window and stared down at the supports in the gorge below and saw the raw wood where baulks had broken. The wind blew his hair into his eyes and he drew back and glanced at Dawson. ‘Shall we chance it?’

‘Why not leave the truck here?’ asked Dawson. ‘You said it wasn’t far to the top.’

‘We might need the truck on the other side. I’ll take it across — you get out and walk.’

‘Oh, nuts!’ said Dawson. ‘Get on with it.’

The Land-Rover crept forward on to the bridge and leaned the way the bridge was tilting. There was an ominous and long-drawn creak from somewhere beneath and then a sudden loud crack, and the whole bridge shuddered. Wyatt kept moving at the same slow pace even though the tilt was perceptibly worse. He eased out his breath as the front wheels touched solid ground and permitted his foot to press a little harder on the accelerator. The Land-Rover jolted and there came a rending crash from behind, and Wyatt frantically fed fuel to the engine. He felt the rear wheels spin under the sudden surge of power and then they were bowling along the road too fast for safety.

Dawson looked back and saw the gap where the bridge had been and he heard the tearing and rending sounds coming from the gorge. There were beads of sweat on his forehead as he said, ‘Favel isn’t going to like that — you busted a bridge.’

‘It would have gone anyway,’ said Wyatt. His face was pale. ‘We haven’t far to go.’

When the wind strengthened again after that incredible calm Julie said dully, ‘You were right — it’s coming again.’

‘I’m afraid so,’ said Rawsthorne. ‘A pity.’

She grimaced. ‘Just when I’d got dry. Now we have to sit under that damn’ waterfall again.’

‘It’s better in the ravine,’ said Rawsthorne tiredly. ‘At least we have more protection than the people down there.’

It had been so quiet during the lull that they had been able to hear the murmur of voices from the multitude below quite clearly. Sometimes it had been more than a murmur; when the wind dropped they heard a woman screaming at the top of her voice, in long, sobbing wails. She had screamed for a long time, and then had stopped, her voice suddenly cut short. Julie looked at Rawsthorne, but neither of them made any comment.

She had expected the people to move, to come up the hill since the floods had made the valley impassable, but nothing like that happened. ‘They are West Indians,’ said Rawsthorne. ‘They know hurricanes — they know it is not over yet.’

‘I wonder what’s happened to the war,’ said Julie.

‘The war!’ Rawsthorne gave a short laugh. ‘There will be no more war. Did Wyatt tell you what would happen to St Pierre in the event of a hurricane?’

‘He said there’d be flooding.’

‘We English have a fatal gift for understatement. If the armies were fighting in St Pierre when the hurricane struck then there are no more armies. No Government army — no rebel army; a complete solution of conflict. There might be a few remnants left, of course; scattered and useless and in no condition to fight, but the war is over.’

Julie looked up at the grey sky through leafless branches. She hoped Wyatt had got out of the city. Perhaps he was somewhere down there — on the lower slopes of the Negrito. She said, ‘What about the Base?’

Rawsthorne shook his head. ‘The same,’ he said. ‘Young Wyatt estimated that the big wave would completely cover the Base.’ He tried to cheer her up. ‘Commodore Brooks might have reconsidered and evacuated, you know. He’s no fool.’