They returned to accounts.  Mr. Cruger expressed his gratification repeatedly and forgot the storm, although the wind was roaring up King Street and rattling the jalousies until flap after flap hung on a broken hinge.  Suddenly both sprang to their feet, books and notes tumbling to the floor.  Booming through the steady roar of the wind was the quick thunder of cannon, four guns fired in rapid succession.

As Alexander darted through the store, the clerks were tumbling over each other to secure the hurricane windows; for until the last minute, uneasy as they were, they had persuaded themselves that St. Croix was in but for the lashing of a hurricane’s tail, and had bet St. Kitts against Monserrat as flattening in the path of the storm.  The hurricane windows were of solid wood, clamped with iron.  It took four men to close them against the wind.

Alexander was almost flung across Strand Street.  Shingles were flying, the air was salt with spray skimmed by the wind from the surface of waves which were leaping high above the Fort, rain was beginning to fall.  Mr. Mitchell’s stables were in the rear of his house.  Every negro had fled to the cellar.  Alexander unearthed four and ordered them to close the hurricane windows.  He had saddled many a horse, and he urged his into Strand Street but a few moments later.  Here he had to face the wind until he could reach the corner and turn into King, and even the horse staggered and gasped as if the breath had been driven out of him.  He reared back against the wall, and Alexander was obliged to dismount and drag him up the street, panting for breath himself, although his back was to the wind and he kept his head down.  The din was terrific.  Cannon balls might have been rattling against the stones of every house, and to this was added a roar from the reef as were all the sounds of the Caribbean Sea gathered there.  Alexander would have pulled his hat down over his ears, for the noise was maddening, but it had flown over the top of a house as he left the store.  He was a quarter of an hour covering the few yards which lay between the stable and the corner, and when he reached the open funnel of King Street he was nearly swept off his feet.  Fortunately the horse loved him, and, terrified as it was, permitted him to mount; and then it seemed to Alexander, as they flew up King Street to the open country, that they were in a fork of the wind, which tugged and twisted at his neck while it carried them on.  He flattened himself to the horse, but kept his eyes open and saw other messengers, as dauntless as himself, tearing in various directions to warn the planters, many of whom had grown callous to the cry of “Wolf.”