hurricane!

by Mary Lyons

  'Yes, how about that aircraft scattered all over the airport!' Betty exclaimed. 'Lester has just been telling me all about it. It seems some rich college boy, who's staying here on the island, had a mite too much to drink before lunch, and then decided to show off in front of his girlfriend. The silly young fool, who'd had only a few flying lessons, completely misjudged his landing and managed to smash up his daddy's new aeroplane. And would you believe it—that boy walked away from the crash without even a scratch!'

  Trying to ignore the sledge-hammer still pounding away in her head, Samantha looked around the hotel lounge. She hadn't been imagining that noise just now. All the heavy furniture had been dragged to the sides of the room and piled up against the walls, heavy ropes being used to tie the smaller pieces together. Even as she watched, she was amazed to see the gardener, Jason, and two other helpers marching into the room carrying planks of wood, which they proceeded to begin nailing up over the windows.

  'Hey!' she called out weakly. 'What do you think you're doing?'

  'We gotta board up these windows,' Jason replied. 'I done told you that there was a storm coming,' he added, a clearly discernible note of triumphant satisfaction in his voice.

  'You can't do that. Stop it, at once!'

  'Master Brandon says we is to do as he says,' Jason retorted, barely pausing to answer her as he continued banging nails into the ancient mahogany wall-panelling, which was her aunt's pride and joy.

  'Oh, he did, did he?' she grated angrily, swinging her legs off the sofa and struggling to stand up. 'I'm feeling much better,' she said firmly, ignoring Betty's urgent protestations that she ought to stay lying down, as she forced herself to walk—admittedly, somewhat un­steadily—out of the lounge in search of her husband.

  It took her some time, but she eventually tracked him down at the far end of the kitchen, where he was super­vising the assembly of what seemed to be endless buckets of water.

  'What on earth are you doing here, sweetheart?' he asked, coming over to put an arm around her waist and looking down at her with deep concern. 'Betty assured me that you haven't been seriously hurt, but I'd like you to go back up to the lounge and lie down. There's nothing you can do here for the time being.'

  'I want a word with you, Luke,' she said sharply.

  'Yes, of course, darling, but I'm busy just at the moment. So, if you'll just go and put your feet up. . .'

  'Now!' she demanded curtly.

  Luke studied her carefully for a moment, and then shrugged his shoulders before giving his helpers—a mixture of guests and staff—some more tasks to carry out. 'OK,' he said, leading her away into an empty wine cellar. 'What's the problem?'

  'There isn't a problem—or not one that can't be solved, very quickly,' she grated. 'I'm not prepared to have my aunt's hotel ruined—and I'm certainly not going to have nails driven in to her antique panelling! If the guests are fool enough to do what you tell them—well, that's their problem; but I want to know what gives you the right to think you can order the hotel staff around? You have absolutely no authority to do so, and. . . and I won't have it!'

  To her complete surprise—and fury!—he threw back his head and roared with laughter.

  'I don't see what's so damn funny,' she grated angrily.

  'You're not just funny, sweetheart,' he drawled with sardonic amusement. 'You're absolutely priceless!'

  'Oh, yes. . .?' she bristled.

  He grinned. 'I really can't think of any other woman who, only half an hour after crash-landing an aeroplane which she has flown through a terrifyingly dangerous electrical storm—and incidentally managing to knock herself unconscious—would then pick herself up and start bitching about who does what in this damn hotel!'

  'I'm not bitching,' she snapped.

  'Oh, yes, you are—and it's going to stop, right now,' he said firmly, all trace of amusement fading rapidly from his face. 'We aren't getting too much information through on the radio link with Antigua, but the best guess seems to be that this island is likely to avoid the main force of Hurricane Hannah. However, it looks as if we are going to be hit by the tail end of the storm. If so, we have very little time in hand before it arrives, and I'm not prepared to risk my life, and the lives of others, in long-drawn-out discussions. As from now, I'm the boss around here, and you will do exactly what I tell you to. Right?'

  'Absolutely dead wrong!' she stormed, wincing as a flash of pain zigzagged through her head. 'Why should you think that you can order me and the others about?'

  'Because I know the basic facts and figures on how best to survive in hurricane conditions, and I'm sure that you have only a hazy idea of how to go about it,' he said grimly. 'You're aunt's precious panelling, for in­stance, isn't going to be worth a damn when the storm strikes this island—because with winds travelling any­thing up to seventy miles an hour, much of this hotel isn't likely to remain standing! Boarding up the windows may just save it—but I wouldn't bank on that, if I were you.'

  Samantha stared up at the man exuding such forceful, masculine authority. As always, despite the tension of the situation and the chaotic state of the hotel sur­roundings, Luke was looking his usual cool, immaculate self. Granted, he had somehow found the time to change into a pair of faded blue jeans, and the stone-washed, blue cotton shirt stretched across his broad shoulders had clearly seen better days; but nevertheless, both gar­ments looked as if they had just come straight from the laundry.

  It was so damned unfair, because she was only too well aware that she looked a complete and utter mess. Goodness knew what had happened to her flying suit, but her slacks and T-shirt were now dusty and stained with oil and blood. As for her hair. . .! Not that she really cared what she looked like, of course, and she knew that she really shouldn't be thinking about anything so friv­olous at such a time as this—but it did somehow put her at a considerable disadvantage in this confrontation. Be­sides which. . . Samantha gave a heavy sigh. It was no good trying to fool herself—she knew in her heart of hearts that Luke was right. They were in a desperately dangerous situation, and it was stupid as well as futile of her to oppose him without having any good, sensible grounds for doing so. And the final clincher, if she needed it, was the realisation that she was feeling far too tired and weary to put up anything more than a token resistance.

  'Well. . .?' he demanded curtly.

  'OK—we'll do it your way,' she muttered.

  Luke looked down at the girl, his hard blue eyes soft­ening as he saw that she was almost swaying with exhaustion. 'Come along,' he said, gently leading her back into the kitchen and sitting her down on a chair. 'Now, I want you to relax,' he added, squatting down beside her and taking her trembling hands in his, almost as if he was willing some of his strength into her weary body. 'There's an awful lot to do, and very little time to do it in. I've asked that smart girl, Penny, to get some of the male guests to haul a load of mattresses down here into the cellar. As you so rightly pointed out, back in St Barts, when the tail end of the hurricane strikes this is going to be the only reasonably safe place in which to shelter. So, my main efforts are going to be concen­trated on making it as comfortable as possible. All right?'

  She nodded, feeling almost too tired to say anything, and pathetically grateful to be able to sit down and rest her trembling legs.

  'Now, you of all people should know who's who in this hotel, right? So, as Lester and I begin herding all the guests and hotel staff down here, I want you to make a list of all of their names. I guess that I don't have to tell you that it's going to be very important that we keep a close check on everyone—and it may be necessary to run regular roll-calls. All right?'

  'Yes, I. . .' She took a deep breath, staring fixedly down at the strong brown hands so firmly clasping her own trembling fingers. 'Of course I'll do all I can to help. You're quite right. . . there can only be one person in charge of all the arrangements, and I. . .I'm sorry for being so stupid as to lose my temper just now.'

  Luke gave a low laugh of warm
, tender amusement. 'Oh, Samantha! Coming from you—that's a really ter­rific apology! Hey, now, don't spoil it. . .!' he said quickly as she opened her mouth to deny that it was any such thing. 'I've got to leave you now, sweetheart, but I want you to remember—even if I don't manage to get back down here for some time—that I don't just think you're a great pilot. . . but that I also happen to love you very much indeed,' he added softly, leaning forward to press his warm lips to hers in a brief, gentle kiss, before rising to his feet and quickly leaving the room.

  Despite Luke's calm assurance that it was only the tail end of the hurricane, when the storm finally struck the island, Samantha was quite certain that it was the most awesome and frightening spectacle that she had ever ex­perienced. First, and almost without any warning, a vi­olent thunderstorm filled the sky, crashing and rumbling above their heads with such explosive noise that it was impossible to make oneself heard. The accompanying lightning was like nothing she had ever seen before: rapidly flashing between the outbuildings and bounding from tree to tree, it kept up a continuously ferocious blaze of pyrotechnics—not unlike a firework display which had become completely out of control.

  For what seemed hours on end, the thunderous noise assaulted their eardrums, the lightning shining almost continuously in thick, jagged sheets of eye-scorching in­tensity. Both these phenomena were accompanied by a cyclonic wind and torrents of unbelievably heavy, driving rain that drenched everything in its path, the puddles quickly becoming large ponds, and before long it seemed as though the hotel was surrounded by a great lake of water.

  Huddled down in the old, stone cellars which ran be­neath the hotel, the guests and servants stared at one another in a mixture of fright and fascination over the battle of the elements taking place outside their refuge. Through the windows high up on the walls, it was poss­ible to see much of what was going on, and there was a collective groan as, despite the driving rain, the wooden roof of the sugar mill was struck by lightning and sud­denly burst into flames.

  Staring at the sight, numb with shock and horror, Samantha was almost unaware of Luke's strong arms closing about her trembling figure, and holding her tight as she buried her face in his shoulder, her body racked with sobs.

  That was only the precursor of what was to come, and soon she didn't have the time to mourn the only real home of her own that she had ever possessed. She was far too preoccupied in trying to cope with the urgent problems arising from the loss of all light when the gen­erator blew up, and the cellar was immediately plunged into pitch darkness. It was difficult for Luke to make himself heard, over both the screams inside the cellar and the rumbling thunder and torrential shriek of the wind, but he eventually managed to calm everyone down as she, together with Betty, Lester and Penny, quickly lit the candles which Luke had stockpiled before the hurricane struck.

  As the minutes ticked by, the force of the wind seemed to redouble. The wooden shutters of the windows on the upper stories of the plantation house were ripped off the building, the shingles flying off the roof, and even from down below they could hear the boards across the windows—which had been completed only minutes before the storm arrived—crack and shatter as they were torn away. And then everything seemed to explode as the rain poured into the hotel like the sea into a sinking ship, the wind following closely to increase the mayhem and double the damage to the fabric of the building. Outside the hotel, trees were laid flat, loose branches flailing wildly about in the sky, and the guest bungalows were quickly reduced to sticks of wood and blown clean away.

  Down in the cellar, many of the occupants clutched each other in terror, staring in dread and fearful fasci­nation at the utter destruction so clearly illuminated by the continuous sheets of lightning.

  If she could have made herself heard above the storm, Samantha would have been happy to publicly apolo­gise to her husband for ever having doubted his com­petence in an emergency. It was his planning and forethought which had provided the buckets of fresh water, enough for everyone to drink their fill as the hours ticked by; the large stack of candles—and matches—with which they kept the frightening darkness at bay; the food which he had insisted should be prepared well in ad­vance, and the pile of newspapers which he had caused to be crumpled and placed inside the fridge and the deep­freeze cabinets, filling every inch of space before the doors and lids were shut and covered with heavy blankets, so that when the power failed—as it did—the food inside would stay cold and frozen.

  Samantha was never really able to calculate the true length of the storm. Seconds, minutes and hours seemed to blend into one another as she and Betty, together with some of the other servants, made their continuous rounds of the cellar, carrying trays of sandwiches and jugs of soft drinks, and also providing something stronger for those who had clearly decided, at the onset of the storm, that they would take refuge in the anaesthetising effect of alcohol. Thanks once again to Luke's prudent fore­sight, there were enough mattresses and cushions to ensure that everyone was able to obtain some rest from the storm raging outside, and eventually, since there was only so much sustained fright and terror that the human brain could cope with, most of the occupants of the cellar gradually fell into a fitful, exhausted sleep.

  When the dawn finally crept slowly up over the hor­izon, Samantha, who had fallen asleep in a chair beside the kitchen table, opened her eyes and in the dim grey light saw Luke making his way up the steps which led out of the cellar. Clutching a blanket about her shoulders, she rose and stepped carefully over the sleeping bodies on the floor as she followed him up the stairs, to enter a world that was totally unrecognisable.

  'Oh—my God!' she gasped, shaking with cold as she stood in the shelter of the doorway beside Luke's tall figure, and stared about her in bewilderment. 'I—I hardly know where we are. . . I mean, of course I know this is the hotel, but. . .' She gestured hopelessly at the palm trees which were no longer growing upright, but lying like discarded matchsticks on the ground. And as for the lawn, it looked as if it had been ploughed up by some mechanical digger, each furrow filled with water which flowed like miniature rivers down towards the sea.

  'I'm sorry about the sugar mill,' he said, putting a warm, comforting arm about her shivering figure as they gazed at the building, which had lost its roof in the fire, and which no longer seemed to possess any doors or windows.

  'Yes,' she sighed, trembling with tiredness, and the chill engendered by the strong wind which was still blowing fiercely. 'It's returned to the state it was in before Aunt Emily began its restoration. Oh—goodness!' she gasped. 'I haven't had a chance to even think about her. Do you suppose they're all right on Antigua?'

  He shrugged. 'I can't pretend to know the answer to that question. But I do know that, however terrible the storm last night may have been, we were incredibly lucky only to have been touched by the edge of the hurricane. If we'd been in the middle of it, I'm not sure that we would have survived at all,' he added quietly.

  'But—but what's going to happen to the hotel?' she asked, looking tearfully around at the scene of total devastation.

  'Well, I reckon that it's going to mean bringing in a team of bulldozers, and laying the place flat before we start trying to build it up again. There really isn't any­thing to save, is there?'

  'Poor old Aunt Emily. I'm glad she's not here to see this.' Samantha paused for a moment. 'Barbara said. . . Is it really true that Aunt Em tried to stop you from seeing me?'

  'She didn't just try—she succeeded,' Luke said grimly, his arm tightening about her slim figure. 'How-ever, this isn't the time or place to discuss the machinations of your old aunt. Come on, we'd better get back. It's still not safe to stand about here,' he said, guiding her back down the steps of the cellar.

  'When can we leave?' she asked, frowning through the murky grey morning light at the chaos all around her, and the fetid smell of so many bodies packed tightly together.

  Luke shrugged. 'I'm not sure, but not for some hours, at least. The wind is still to
o strong to risk letting everyone out of the cellar just yet.'

  'It doesn't look that dangerous,' she protested, hating the thought of being cooped up in the subterranean en­closure for any longer than absolutely necessary.

  'Believe me, it may not look like it, but the wind is still strong enough to blow stray branches around, and there could be some nasty accidents if some of the guests are careless. My other worry is that the basic structure of many of the outbuildings has been damaged. I don't suppose you'd want to take the risk of any beams falling on. . .'

  His words were interrupted by a loud shriek from Mrs Dillman. 'Where's my little darling?'

  'It sounds as if Zachary Dillman has gone AWOL. That's all I need!' Samantha muttered in disgust, and then was ashamed to have been guilty of such a callous reaction as it quickly became apparent that Zachary was indeed missing.

  After a concerted hunt throughout the cellars, during which no trace of the child was to be found, Mrs Dillman collapsed into a state of complete hysteria. Betty quickly took charge, slapping the poor woman's face and then, as Zachary's mother lapsed into dry sobs, she took her aside and comforted her.

  'I imagine that imp of Satan had the same idea as we did, just now, and has gone outside for a breath of fresh air,' Luke quietly told Samantha. 'I'd better go and have a scout around what's left of the buildings, and see if I can find the boy.'

  'For goodness' sake—be careful, Luke!' she warned him urgently, anxiously catching hold of his arm. 'Es­pecially after what you've just said about the conditions out there.'

  'Well, well. . .I didn't know you cared!' he grinned mockingly.