Десмонд Бэгли: Wyatt's Hurricane

She closed her eyes in pain. Not a comfortable bed for old bones, she thought. Poor Rawsthorne.

She lay quiet for a few minutes, trying to decide what to do next. The racket of the wind made it difficult to think in an orderly, consecutive manner, and her thoughts tended to wander, but finally she decided that she had better attack the major problem first — the tree trunk that was holding her down. She pushed at it tentatively without effect, and then pushed harder. It was like pushing at a hundred-ton weight, for all the difference it made.

She paused, dizzy with the effort, and thought again. This time she would try to pull herself from under the trunk. She manoeuvred her free hand so that she could push against the ground and then pulled, trying to ease herself out. A wave of pain enveloped her, a pain so great that she would not have believed it possible, and she sank into merciful unconsciousness.

During the day she awoke from time to time, vaguely conscious of the violence of the hurricane as it raged about her. During these brief spells of consciousness she had not the strength to move. A nagging voice of sanity at the back of her mind told her to make the effort, but it was too faint to rouse her.

The periods of unconsciousness became longer and her waking periods briefer. She no longer felt any pain in her legs and, towards the end, she no longer heard the wind even when her eyelids flickered open.

She did not know that her life was passing from her, slowly but inexorably.

It seemed to Dawson that the second half of the hurricane was not as bad as the first half, but perhaps that was because there was little rain. Still, it was bad enough. When Wyatt left the road he had driven the Land-Rover into the rough bush on the hillside and had found an almost imperceptible dip in the ground. This was the best he could do to ensure the safety of their vehicle.

Dawson said, ‘Why not stay inside?’

Wyatt disillusioned him. ‘It wouldn’t take much to push it over on to its side even though I’ve jammed it among the trees. We can’t risk it.’

So Dawson gave up hope of being out of the wind and rain and they began looking for personal shelter further along the hillside. The wind was already bad and steadily increased in strength and in the more violent gusts they were hard put to it to retain their footing. Presently they encountered the outlying flank of the regiment that Favel had sent to the ridge above the Negrito. The men were digging in and Wyatt was able to borrow an entrenching tool to do a bit of burrowing himself.

Digging in was harder than it had been outside St Pierre; the ground was hard and stony with bedrock not far beneath the thin layer of poor soil and all he could manage was a shallow scrape. But he took as much advantage of inequalities of the ground as he could and chose a place where there was an outcropping of rock to windward which would give immovable protection.

When he had finished he said to Dawson, ‘You stay here. I’m going to see if I can find one of the officers of this crowd.’

Dawson huddled behind the rock and looked apprehensively at the sky. ‘Take it easy — that’s no spring zephyr you’re walking in.’

Wyatt crept away, keeping very close to the ground. The wind closed about him like a giant’s hand and tried to pick him up and shake him, but he flattened out to elude its grip and crawled on his belly to the nearest foxhole, where he found a curled-up bundle of clothing which, when straightened out, would be a soldier.

‘Where’s your officer?’ he yelled.

A thumb jerked, indicating that he should go further along the hillside.

‘How far?’

Spread fingers said three hundred feet — or was it metres? A long way in either case. Puzzled brown eyes watched Wyatt as he crawled away and then were shrouded in a coat as the wind blew harder.

It took Wyatt a long time to find an officer, but when he did so he recognized him as one he had seen in Favel’s headquarters. Better still, the officer recognized Wyatt and welcomed him with a white-toothed grin. ‘ Allo, ti blanc, ’ he shouted. ‘Come down.’

Wyatt dropped into the foxhole and jammed himself next to the officer. He regained his breath, then said, ‘Have you seen a white woman round here?’

‘I have seen no one. There is no one this high up the hillside but the regiment.’ He grinned widely. ‘Just unfortunate soldiers.’

Wyatt was disappointed even though he had not really expected good news. He said, ‘Where are the people — and how are they taking this?’

‘Down there,’ said the officer. ‘Near the bottom of the valley. I don’t know how they are — we didn’t have time to find out. I sent some men down there but they didn’t come back.’

Wyatt nodded. The regiment had done a magnificent job — a forced march of nearly ten miles and then a frantic burrowing into the ground, all in two hours. It was too much to expect them to have done more.

The officer said, ‘But I expected to find some of them up here.’

‘It’s more exposed at this height,’ said Wyatt. ‘They’re safer down there. I don’t suppose they’ll get a wind much above eighty or ninety miles an hour. Up here it’s different. How do you think your men will take it?’

‘We will be all right,’ said the officer stiffly. ‘We are soldiers of Julio Favel. There have been worse things than wind.’

‘No doubt,’ said Wyatt. ‘But the wind is bad enough.’

The officer nodded his agreement vigorously, then he said, ‘My name is André Delorme. I had a plantation higher up the Negrito — I will get it back now that Serrurier is gone. You must come and see me, ti Wyatt, when this is over. You will always be welcome — you will be welcome anywhere in San Fernandez.’

‘Thank you,’ said Wyatt. ‘But I don’t know if I’ll stay.’

Delorme opened his eyes wide in surprise. ‘But why not? You saved the people of St Pierre; you showed us how to kill Serrurier. You will be a great man here — they will make you a statue better than the one of Serrurier in the Place de la Libération Noire. It is better to make a statue of one who saves lives.’

‘Saves lives?’ echoed Wyatt sardonically. ‘But you say I showed you how to kill Serrurier — and his whole army.’

‘That is different.’ Delorme shrugged. ‘Julio Favel told me you saw Serrurier and he did not believe you when you said there would be a hurricane.’

‘That is so.’

‘Then it is his own fault he is dead. He was stupid.’

‘I must get back,’ said Wyatt. ‘I have a friend.’

‘Better you stay here,’ said Delorme, raising his head to listen to the wind.

‘No, he is expecting me.’

‘All right, ti Wyatt; but come and see me at La Carrière when this is over.’ He held out a muscular brown hand which Wyatt gripped. ‘You must not leave San Fernandez, ti Wyatt; you must stay and show us what to do when the hurricane comes again.’ He grinned. ‘We are not always fighting in San Fernandez — only when it is necessary.’

Wyatt climbed out of the foxhole and gasped as the wind buffeted him. He had been tempted to stay with Delorme but he knew he had to get back. If Dawson got into trouble he could not do much to help himself with his injured hands and Wyatt wanted to be with him. It took him over half an hour to find Dawson and he was exhausted as he climbed round the outcrop and tumbled into the shallow hole.

‘I thought you’d been blown away,’ shouted Dawson as he rearranged his limbs. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Nothing much. There’s been no sign of Julie or Mrs Warmington. They’re probably down on the lower slopes, and it’s just as well.’