Operation Manhunt

by Christopher Nicole

  He rolled on his side. Geraldine lay against him, eyes still closed, body flaccid. He gazed at Strohm, and the captain leaned over and placed two fingers on the girl’s neck. “She is all right,” he shouted. “Just exhausted.”

  “We’re all exhausted,” Jonathan shouted back. “So where does it end?”

  The captain shrugged. “Not here, Mr. Anders. Or it will be the end. We will go on, when the wind drops.”

  As with the night and the sea, so with the day and the wind. Time ceased to have meaning. Jonathan lay on his stomach, next to the girl, his watch only inches from his eyes. He hypnotized himself by watching the second hand. Memory began about seven, after Geraldine’s collapse. It progressed through the forenoon, slowly; seven became eight, eight became nine, nine became ten, and ten at last became eleven. The wind howled above them and beneath them and around the tree, the rain slanted down, the ground remained damp and unpleasant, but at least it wasn’t cold. His stomach reminded him that the last time he had eaten had been Benny’s sandwiches the previous evening, and his throat insisted that he had not drunk since before even that. He sucked his wrists and forearms, using the sweat and the rain to allay his thirst.

  Strohm held on to the tree, and stood up. The wind tore at his hair, ballooned his shirt, but less violently than earlier. The clouds had blown away, and the noonday sun scorched the forest, causing it to steam, amazingly hot, uncanny in the still-boisterous wind. Strohm released the tree and stood there, facing the breeze, chin tilted backward.

  “We can move,” he said. “We must. Come on, now. The wind will blow us on up the hill, eh? And if we stay here, they will be upon us.”

  “Time to go, Gerry.” Jonathan shook her shoulder.

  She opened her eyes, gazed at him. “Can’t I lie here?” she begged. “Just a little longer? My feet are so sore.”

  “When we get to Roseau, you can sleep for a week,” he promised. “But if we don’t move now, we’ll never even get to a road.”

  She nodded, rose to her knees. “Come on, Daddy.”

  Brian O’Connor obeyed, but Phyllis Malthus still sat, Aristotle on her lap. “I’m not going anywhere,” she declared. “Why should I? Jimmy isn’t going to harm me. I’m his wife. I’m going to stay right here until he comes for me.”

  “He shot at you, didn’t he?” Benny asked. “You come along with us, Mrs. Malthus. If you don’t get up on those great fat feet of yours right now I’m going to wring that confounded dog’s neck.”

  “Oh!” she cried. “Are you going to stand there and let him speak to me like that? Captain? Mr. Anders? I appeal to your sense of decency.”

  “I left mine on the schooner,” Jonathan said.

  They climbed, with the wind gusting and booming behind them and above them and on either side of them. But they could walk now. The horrifying violence of the morning was gone. They followed a swathe of destruction, fallen trees, uprooted bushes, scattered branches, dead birds, struck from the air by the force of the tempest. The brief flurry of sunshine ended all too quickly, and the rain and the thunder and the lightning came again, until, without warning, the wind dropped, and the thunder faded, so suddenly that they stopped moving and stared at each other—tattered, bedraggled, covered with mud and dirt, hair matted and rain dribbling constantly down their faces and necks, six scarecrows thrown up by the storm.

  “Whatever is going to happen now?” Phyllis Malthus asked.

  “It’s done,” Strohm said.

  “Isn’t this just the eye?” Geraldine asked. “All hurricanes have eyes, where it’s calm for a little while.”

  “In the center, Miss O’Connor,” Strohm said. “We only felt the fringe, I’m glad to say. So let’s get on. Look over there. The land starts falling away.”

  “And that’s smoke,” Benny shouted, bounding through the forest like a small boy.

  “Smoke?” Geraldine cried. “Oh, boy. Let it be smoke, really.”

  They arrived at the reverse slope so unexpectedly they nearly fell over Benny. There was another ridge in front of them, connected to where they were standing by a saddle of rock. But beyond, there was certainly white vapor.

  “Must be a village,” Benny said. “Tucked away in a valley over there. Houses, people, eggs. I love eggs.”

  “They’ll have coffee,” Geraldine said. “Gallons and gallons of coffee.”

  “Beer,” Strohm said. “I’m going to drink a barrel of beer.”

  “Say, isn’t this the island where they serve those frogs?” Phyllis Malthus said. “Mountain chicken? I’ve had some. They’ll have mountain chicken up here, all right. And some nice breast for you, my pet. Oh, yes, all the breast you can eat.”

  Jonathan dragged wet hair from his forehead. “This is Dominica, remember,” he said. “In the West Indies? People don’t use fires.”

  “You are the most pessimistic fellow I have ever come across,” Benny remarked. “They have to cook, haven’t they? And there wouldn’t be any electricity laid on out here.”

  “They wouldn’t cook with fires that big, either,” Jonathan said.

  “Well, I suggest we find out,” Strohm said. The going was easier now, from the point of view of heart and lungs and muscle. But the ground was soaked, and they spent most of their time slipping and sliding down the surprisingly steep hillside, out of which trees and underbrush grew with complete assurance, often at right angles to the ground.

  Soon they reached the ridge itself, and commenced climbing once again, but no longer steeply. The jungle was less thick here, and Jonathan cast an uneasy glance over his shoulder; should Malthus gain the brow behind them while they were thus exposed, they would have very little chance of survival.

  “What’s that smell?” Geraldine asked.

  “Ugh!” Phyllis Malthus commented. “It’s the steward’s eggs, and rotten ones at the very least.”

  “That’s sulphur,” Jonathan said. “I know where we are.”

  “So tell the rest of us,” Benny said.

  “We’re entering what the locals call the Valley of Desolation,” Jonathan said.

  “That sounds like the title of one of those big-big novels,” Geraldine remarked.

  “It’s a series of sulphur springs,” Jonathan explained. “Or maybe it’s all just one big sulphur spring.”

  They looked down from a height of not more than two hundred feet into a long, narrow canyon suggestive of the dry bed of a once vast river, for through the center, at the bottom of a small ravine which was clearly the only way across the valley, there flowed a stream. But the water steamed, and the smell of sulphur surrounded them, making breathing difficult, adding to the heat of the morning.

  “It looks like something out of The Lost World by Conan Doyle,” Geraldine whispered. “You expect to see a dinosaur lumbering through the smoke.”

  “Isn’t that something?” Phyllis Malthus remarked. “I wish I had my movie camera.”

  “It’s volcanic,” Jonathan said. “As a matter of fact, look over there, on the far side of the valley itself. See that big sulphur cloud?”

  The white steam hung in a huge ball, close to the ground, only occasionally allowing wisps of vapor to escape upward toward the mountains which turned the valley into a natural amphitheater.

  “That actually is a volcano; a very small one. The locals call it the Boiling Lake. It’s a great tourist attraction.”

  “Gee,” Geraldine said. “Could we take a look at it?”

  “You come back with a tourist party, Miss O’Connor,” Strohm suggested. “And I wish I could see one now. I thought you said this was a well-known spot, Mr. Anders?”

  “It is. But it’s not all that easy to get to. You won’t find anyone trekking out here in the hurricane season. You can only reach it on foot.”

  “That’s terrible,” Phyllis Malthus complained. “Any self-respecting tourist committee would have punched a six-lane turnpike through to it by now.”

  “So how far away would you say is the nearest habitati
on?” Brian O’Connor asked.

  “I think it’s about a three-hour walk,” Jonathan said. “Then we should come to a road, and I think a small settlement.”

  “Presuming we walk in the right direction, of course,” Benny said.

  “Three hours?” Geraldine asked. “Over this terrain?”

  Strohm shrugged. “We can’t stay here, Miss O’Connor.”

  They climbed down, seemed to be entering a vast frying pan. The cliffs shut off the last of the faint breeze which was all that remained of the hurricane wind, and the sun, now at its zenith, blazed into the valley like an outsize searchlight. Yet when they reached the floor it was difficult to see, because of the clouds of sulphurous steam which surrounded them, and had them coughing and gasping.

  “This stream is wider than I thought,” Geraldine said. “How do we get across?”

  “Ah, it’s only a few inches deep,” Benny said.

  “Don’t step in it,” Brian O’Connor snapped. “It’ll take the skin off your feet like a knife. Use those stones along the center, and tread carefully; some of them are loose.”

  Now there’s an odd thing, Jonathan thought; if he’s been here before, why hasn’t he said so?

  “Well, what do you know,” Phyllis Malthus exclaimed, dramatically holding her left hand in front of her. The silver band mounting the outsize diamond solitaire of her engagement ring was turning black before their eyes.

  “At least it proves it is silver,” Benny commented.

  “I’ve a good mind to push you into that pool, you horrible man,” she shouted.

  “Keep moving,” Strohm called.

  “Look out!” Jonathan shouted, as Geraldine cautiously stepped onto the last rock before reaching the dry earth beyond the stream. The rock was moving under her, but she had felt it start to go and threw herself to one side. She cleared the boiling water, lost her balance, and went rolling among the rocks.

  “Are you all right?” Jonathan scrambled after her, followed by Strohm and Benny.

  She sat up, panting. “Just my ankle. It’s nothing, really. Give me a hand. Ouch!”

  She sank to her knees.

  “It’s ballooning,” Strohm said.

  “Just as if someone was pumping it full of water,” Benny said.

  Jonathan scratched his head, looked up at the towering hills, the unending steam. He felt a trapped sensation.

  “It’s all my fault,” Geraldine said. “Look, the rest of you go on and get help. Mr. Malthus isn’t going to harm me. Anyway, we don’t even know if they managed to keep on our trail.”

  “You must be joking,” Benny said. “We carved a road through that bush like a herd of elephants.”

  “And they’re committed to eliminating all of us now, Gerry,” said her father. “After deserting us on board the ship, they have no choice.”

  “Well, I could crawl over there, and hide.”

  “And suppose we didn’t manage to get back for you?” Jonathan demanded. “Nuts! If you have to stay, then we all stay.”

  “I was thinking that very same thing,” Benny agreed. “I’ve been thinking it ever since we came into this valley. Captain Strohm, why don’t we stop right here and give those pirates a taste of their own medicine?”

  CHAPTER 7

  Captain Strohm scratched his head. “Just how do you propose to do that, Benny? There are six full-grown men coming this way, and one of them carries a gun. We number three, if you include yourself.”

  “Oh, I’m not so decrepit as I look, Captain,” Benny said.

  “I’m glad to hear it. But Dr. O’Connor is out on his feet. Miss Geraldine here is a cripple, for the time being, and Mrs. Malthus is likely to be more trouble than help.”

  “So it’ll be six to three,” Benny said. “But they won’t be expecting us to make a stand, so we’ll have the advantage of surprise. And we’ll never find a more suitable defensive terrain.”

  “This valley?” Strohm cried.

  “It’s just a hunch.”

  “Captain Strohm, I propose we do as Benny suggests,” Jonathan said. “Stand and fight right here. I also propose that we place Benny in command.”

  Strohm stared at him. “You’re off on that tack about his being a Polish general again?”

  “I’d like to hear his reasoning,” Jonathan said. “Tell us, Benny.”

  “Well, Mr. Anders, it’s very difficult country. More difficult even than the hill we just climbed over. That boiling stream makes a sort of natural cheval-de-frise.”

  “What’s a cheval-de-frise?” Strohm asked.

  “It’s pieces of timber studded with spikes and interwoven with barbed wire, used by the old-time armies as a defensive measure against cavalry. And the fumes, well, they aren’t only a natural smoke screen, but I’d say they make any sort of continuous exertion next to impossible. We were puffing and gasping the moment we entered the valley.”

  “By the same reasoning,” Strohm objected, “we’ll be unable to do much rushing around.”

  “We won’t be doing any rushing around, Captain. We’ll be on the defensive, and as I pointed out, we’ll have the advantage of surprise. And lastly, we have here an inexhaustible supply of ammunition.” Benny stooped and picked up one of the stones which littered the valley. “And hot, too.”

  “They won’t be much good against bullets,” Strohm objected.

  “We must make Mr. Malthus use up his remaining five bullets as rapidly as possible, without, of course, causing any harm to any of us.”

  “And how do you propose to do that?”

  Benny winked. “We must use what material we find to hand. Well, sir, are you prepared to trust my hunch?”

  “I am,” Jonathan said. “Give me a good general any day.”

  “I guess we have no choice,” Strohm said. “But we’d better get a move on, General, because if they are following us they should be here any minute.”

  “Then we shall make haste. Mr. Anders, Miss O’Connor wished to take a closer look at that Boiling Lake. I think it would be a very good place for her to rest a while.”

  “Can’t I help, Benny?” Geraldine asked.

  “By keeping out of trouble, Miss O’Connor. No army can fight successfully while having to look to its rear all the time. I’ll send Mrs. Malthus and your father to keep you company.”

  Jonathan put one arm under her knees and the other around her shoulders, straightened with an effort. “Upsadaisy.”

  “This is all my fault,” she said. “If I’d been more careful where I put my big feet.…”

  Jonathan climbed the slope toward the steam cloud, inhaling sulphur, panting and gasping. “Then Benny wouldn’t have had the chance to show us what he could do as a general.”

  “You really think he’s General Pobrenski?”

  “I’m positive he is. What we have to do is make him act the general once again, and it’ll all come back. Your father should have thought of that one.”

  “But even if he is a general, he really has nothing to fight with, has he? Even you and the captain can’t take on six men and a revolver.”

  Jonathan sat her in the shade of an overhanging rock. Now they looked down on the lake itself. The sun glinted from the seething water, which leaped and bubbled, and covered a much larger area than had seemed possible from down in the valley; the farthest lip was invisible, but Jonathan estimated it could hardly be less than fifty yards across.

  “Isn’t that a sight?”

  “It’s tremendous,” she agreed. “But suppose something goes wrong, Jonathan?”

  “Well, we couldn’t be any the worse off, could we?” He chucked her under the chin. “Keep that up, and remember, somebody must have heard that radio message I managed to send. Your friend Crater and half the police forces and coast guards in the West Indies are probably out looking for us now. Or at any rate, they will be, the moment this hurricane is clear of the island.”

  “By which time we’ll all be dead,” she said gloomily.

  Mr
s. Malthus clambered over the rocks toward them, Aristotle in her arms, and followed by Brian O’Connor and Benny, who carried a branch he had broken from one of the few stunted trees growing in the valley.

  “Isn’t that lake marvelous?” Phyllis Malthus cried. “Oh, I do wish I had brought my camera. If only it didn’t stink so. It’s quite upsetting poor Aristotle. Isn’t it, pet? He’s the most terribly fastidious dog, you know, Doctor. Won’t eat any meat the slightest bit off.” She sat next to Geraldine with a sigh. “And how is your ankle, my dear child?”

  “It hurts.”

  “It’s badly swollen. Oh, what a terrible thing. And are we going to sit here while you go for help, Mr. Anders?”

  “You are going to sit here while we discourage that husband of yours, Mrs. Malthus,” Benny said.

  “You mean you’re going to assault Jimmy? Oh, dear me, no. I don’t think I could allow that.”

  Benny handed Brian O’Connor his stick. “Now this is a matter of life and death, Doctor, for all of us. You are going to stay here with the two ladies, and if Mrs. Malthus so much as opens her mouth to draw breath, you are to beat her over the head.”

  Brian O’Connor took the stick, somewhat gingerly. “Are you serious? Mr. Anders?”

  “I’m quite sure General Pobrenski is serious, Doctor,” Jonathan said. “And he is in complete command now.”

  “Just lay off the General Pobrenski stuff, will you?” Benny requested, “It makes me nervous.”

  “Well, of all the cheek,” Phyllis Malthus declared. “Of course, you wouldn’t ever hit me with that stick, Dr. O’Connor. You wouldn’t dare!”

  “Madam,” Brian O’Connor said. “After last night and the events of this morning, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to hit something with my stick, very hard. As a matter of fact, as a doctor, I would recommend it to myself. I should actually prefer it to be your husband, but if you are my appointed target, then I shall certainly do my best.”