Chapter 3
After breakfast Emilie grabbed her straw hat and gave Da Rosette an obligatory peck on the cheek, and then she ran outside to find Maurice, grateful for the chance to be out in the sunshine. She needed time to think—time to clear her head, time to plan her next course of action. She was determined to end their engagement, but it had to be handled delicately. Any rash action on her part could end in disaster.
As she made her way through the fields, the workers called out to her and waved. Most of them had known her since she was a baby. The Dujons were békés, white French Creoles who could trace their lineage back to the first French settlers of Martinique. Domaine Solitude, the Dujon family plantation, was sprawled across five hundred acres of the richest volcanic soil on the island. The plantation represented the only world Emilie knew and the only world she loved. Five generations of Dujons had grown up on the plantation, but it was her father, Georges, who had made the decision to switch from sugarcane to cocoa, believing that chocolate would one day become a prized commodity.
Although it was still morning, it was already hot and muggy. Soon it would be too hot even for the workers to labor outside. When the sun reached its zenith, they would clamber inside their thatched huts for their midday meal, which consisted of manioc, breadfruit, plantains, and black peas, after which they would lie down for their afternoon sieste. To sustain their bodies they drank copious amounts of tafia, white rum mixed with spring water, and to sustain their spirits they filled the church pews every Sunday. But Martinique was not, according to the strictest definition, a Catholic country. On an island steeped in voodoo, witch doctors, called quimboiseurs, wielded enormous power over the people and were not to be taken lightly.
Although life in Martinique was hard, it was punctuated by celebrations like Carnival, followed by a rousing Mardi Gras, when the people from the countryside would crowd into Saint-Pierre and engage in festive dances like the bamboula and caleinda and sing satirical songs while they paraded through the streets to the accompaniment of musicians on the ka drum, beating out African rhythms that stirred the crowd to a frenzy. Although Carnival drew many visitors from around the world, some aspects of it were morbid and frightening.
Every year as Carnival drew to a close, the Red Devil, whom they called Papa Djab, would make his appearance at night and always under cover of the darkness. From a dark alleyway, the Red Devil would emerge under the glow of the oil lamps, clad all in red, with a skull face and cow horns. Only his eyes were visible, and on his head he wore a wig made of horsehair, upon which he would place a shining lantern. Papa Djab was so terrifying and sinister, he could make even the bravest man climb a breadfruit tree.
As the crowd cheered, Papa Djab would parade down rue Victor Hugo, dancing in time to the music as he chanted incantations meant to raise the dead: “Bimbolo! Zimbolo!” Behind him, a devilish chorus all dressed in red would ring out, “Bimbolo! Zimbolo! The devil and the zombies sleep anywhere and everywhere!” After a while a hush would descend on the crowd while everyone waited to see what Papa Djab would do next. When she was little, Emilie would always hide behind Da Rosette’s skirts, too fearful to face the Red Devil up close.
Over the years Emilie had heard rumors that Papa Djab was really the Grand Zamy, a quimboiseur who kept an herbal store in the mulatto quarter of Saint-Pierre. During the day, he wore a stylish European suit and waistcoat with a gold watch chain, and on his head he wore an authoritative pith helmet. Like all proper Frenchmen, he was baptized and given the name Gaston Faustin Jacquet, but to the people of Martinique, he was the Grand Zamy, a man to be feared, a man to be respected, a man whose voodoo spells often resulted in sudden and inexplicable deaths.
She found Maurice at the edge of the field. Tall, gentle, and easygoing to a fault, Maurice was a younger version of their father with his sandy-blond hair and blue eyes. He was loading baskets of cacao pods into a waiting donkey cart to be transported to the drying shack. All around, workers in their bakouas, wide-brimmed straw hats, were using their cutlasses to slash off the ripened pods from the barks of the trees. When the pods were too high, they would pull them down using poles fitted with a cutter at the end. Other field hands were weaving through the fields collecting fallen pods from the ground and putting them into burlap bags. Piles of yellow cacao pods began to collect under the trees to the constant chop-chop that reverberated across the fields.
Maurice was hard at work, but despite his youth, he looked tired and worn out. Clad in a white linen shirt and khaki trousers, his blond hair was streaked back from sweat, and his face was red from the heat. With each passing day, he grew thinner and more listless, his features more gaunt. Ever since Maurice had contracted consumption, he had fought a constant battle for his life. He refused to give in to the ravages of his disease and often pushed himself beyond his limits, even if it meant putting his own life at risk. Yet despite his constant pain, his blue eyes shone with mischief. He would never give up an opportunity to tease his sister. In this manner, he was relentless.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” he said, grinning. “Did you get enough beauty sleep? We must look ravishing for our wedding day.”
Emilie frowned. “Not you too! That’s all I hear from Da Rosette. It seems as if no one cares that last night the mountain was rumbling and spewing out fire and ash.”
“I think I slept through it,” said Maurice. “I don’t remember a thing. And there was no mention of it in the newspaper this morning.”
“It’s almost as if they’re hiding something.” Emilie paused for a moment and added, “But something else happened last night. I found out Lucien is in love with another girl.”
“That’s impossible,” said Maurice. “He’s quite smitten with you.”
She brushed a tear from her face. “I saw it with my own eyes. I saw him with Suzette de Reynal in a most compromising position. I’ve made a terrible mistake.”
“I think you’re actually serious,” he said, staring at his sister.
“I’ve never been more serious in my life.”
Maurice bent down to load another basket on the wagon. “It must be a mistake. Everyone gets cold feet before their wedding. Lucien’s an odd bird, but he’s a good man. There must be an explanation for it. I can’t believe he would deceive you like that. Hey, grab me some of that water, will you?”
From a nearby bucket, Emilie spooned out a ladle of water and handed it to Maurice. He drank it in gulps and then poured the rest over his head, after which he wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt.
“I know one thing for certain,” said Maurice. “Lucien’s as rich as Croesus, so you’ll never lack for anything. I know he acts strange sometimes, but he’s not a bad sort. I’m sure he would never intentionally hurt you. I’m sure it was all a misunderstanding . . .”
Before Emilie could respond, they heard a voice calling from across the field. Julien, their foreman, was heading toward them. Tall, handsome, and confident, Julien was her father’s right hand. Like many others, he was the descendant of Hindu laborers who married mulatto women to create a unique West Indian blend of African, Indian, and European. Long-limbed, lean, and swarthy, he spoke the local Creole patois as if it was a musical sonata.
Julien doffed his straw hat.
“Bonjour, Mam’selle Emilie,” he said, bowing slightly in her direction.
“How’s everything going, Julien?” said Maurice, fanning himself with his hat.
“Very good, sah. The harvest is even better than last season. Come over here; there’s something I want to show you.”
The two siblings followed Julien across the field, past denuded cacao trees, luxurious banana trees, and various fruit trees, until they came to a clearing. Lying on the ground were two dead birds, a fine powdery ash covering their bodies.
“What happened?” said Maurice.
“They fell down from the mountain, sah.”
“That’s strange,” said Maurice. “They appear to be covered in ash.”
“Go now, sah. I take over for you.” Julien gave a confident nod, but underneath his cool exterior, Emilie detected a hint of urgency.
Maurice grabbed his horse and mounted it. He pulled Emilie up behind him, and together they rode back to the house. After they left the horse with a stableboy, they went inside to look for their father. Aside from a few chattering servants polishing the silverware, the house was quiet. They passed the salon and the dining room and went straight to the office of Georges Dujon.
Their father was sitting at his desk, typing a letter deep in concentration. Bleary-eyed and sweaty, his hair clung to his forehead like a damp mop. Each time he tapped out a letter, a look of supreme discomfort would cross his face, as if he was in great pain. Though still handsome, Georges Dujon was beginning to show the effects of age. His sunburnt face bore the signs of worry and drink, his hair was all white, his reddish beard was flecked with grey, and his hands were calloused from years of hard work. The quintessential West Indian planter, Georges had a commanding presence, even while mired in paperwork. On his desk, a steaming mug of coffee sat beside an open flask of rum, while scattered about were a hodgepodge of invoices, telegrams, fountain pens, and paper clips. A palm frond peeked in through an open window, and Mount Pelée loomed behind him, its summit veiled in silvery-white clouds.
“What are you two up to?” said Georges, looking up from his typewriter.
Maurice opened the sack. “Papa, I have something to show you. Julien found these out in the field. Have a look.”
He laid the dead birds out on his father’s desk. Georges reached out and picked up a bird, turning over its ashen body several times as he inspected it. His brow furrowed into deep ridges.
“Strange,” said Georges. “Their wings appear to be covered with ash, as if they flew into an oven. The poor wretches suffocated to death.”
“Julien said the ash fumes from Pelée killed them,” said Maurice.
Georges scoffed. “The old devil’s air vent, eh? That’s just superstitious nonsense tied up with voodoo and black magic. Everyone knows the volcano is extinct.”
“Papa,” said Emilie, “last night there were tremors, and ash was shooting out of the crater.”
“The old volcano is just settling down,” said Georges. “It’s extinct. That’s a scientific fact.”
“According to whom?” she said.
“According to every geologist in the world,” said Georges. “The West Indies is a known region of volcanic instability, so it’s only natural there will be occasional tremors. Anyway, the volcano is quiet now, so there’s no need to get all worked up. I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for the dead birds . . . perhaps they were struck by lightning. I suggest you two get back to work. We have to make our sailing date.”
“What about the rotten egg smell?” said Maurice.
“My boy, that is just sulfur, also known as sulfureted hydrogen, a harmless emission from deep within the earth,” said Georges. “I hear in Guadeloupe they use it to warm their coffeepots. Now is there something else you’d like to discuss, or are you quite finished?”
Emilie glanced over at Maurice, but he looked tongue-tied. She decided to switch tack.
“Papa, this is not about the money,” she said. “Our lives might be in danger. Didn’t Pelée erupt only fifty years ago?”
“It was a partial eruption at best,” said Georges. “As I recall, your grandfather said the ash did a remarkable job of fertilizing the crops, which brings us back to business.” He pointed to a calendar on the wall. “The cocoa beans have to be packed and ready to sail three weeks from today. My customers send me urgent telegrams every day demanding to know the sailing date. If we miss the sailing, we’ll be out of business.”
“And if the volcano erupts, we’ll be dead,” said Emilie.
“Neither one of you is a geologist,” said Georges. “All the experts say Pelée is nothing more than an oddity of nature. Now, are there any more questions or are we going to stand here all day chatting?” Emilie opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. “Good; now get moving,” he boomed.
Emilie looked at Maurice and frowned. There was no point in arguing with the old man.
Chapter 4
Tuesday, April 22
Telegraph Office
Fort-de-France
Jules Coppet pushed open the door to the telegraph office while it was still dark. He poured himself a cup of coffee and changed places with the overnight operator. When he eyed the basket full of messages, he let out a groan.
“Busy night, eh?”
“No, it’s been slow,” said the night operator, putting on his cap.
“Then why are there so many backed-up messages?”
“Don’t get testy. I’ve been working on them for hours. Couldn’t get a single message through to Guadeloupe. It’s as if the whole island’s been shut down. These messages are left over from yesterday. I think you’ll have a busy day ahead of you.”
Coppet’s brow furrowed. “Stay a minute, will you? I want to show you how it’s done.”
He picked up the first message and tapped it out in Morse code. It was a routine commercial transaction involving two hundred hogsheads of sugar that were to be shipped on the steamer Versailles later that week. Simple enough. He sat back and took a satisfying sip of his coffee, waiting for a response. After a couple of minutes, he grew annoyed. After ten minutes, his annoyance turned to exasperation. Five minutes more, and his annoyance turned to anger. He tapped out the message again, this time with more vigor, but still there was no response.
Coppet shook his head. “Damn! I think the line is dead.”
“What?” said the night operator with a bewildered expression.
“It’s either that, or they shut down the whole island of Guadeloupe. The undersea cable must have snapped somewhere out on the seafloor. Send a message down to the cable office at once. Tell them to dispatch a cable repair ship to check on the damaged line right away. Until then, there will be no telegraph service to Guadeloupe.”
Chapter 5
Wednesday, April 23
The next day Emilie was in the outside kitchen when Victorine, the cook, told her a rumor that Lucien was spotted recently with a woman from Le Carbet, and the woman was expecting his child. Hearing this, Emilie’s face blanched. She dropped the knife she was holding and stared at the cook in disbelief. But the gravity in the woman’s eyes told her it was true. Emilie’s mouth went dry and she felt queasy. She took a few steps backward as the full weight of the cook’s words came crashing down.
She fled the kitchen, tears stinging her eyes, and ran to the drying shack, where she knew she would find Maurice. Once there she joined in the work of turning over the cocoa beans with a wooden panel and then covering them up with banana leaves for the fermentation process. It was hot, sweaty work, but at least it took her mind off her problems. Maurice looked up and smiled when he saw her, but his appearance shocked her. He looked as if he was deteriorating by the day. His face was red and swollen, and he looked near collapse.
Maurice erupted in a violent coughing fit. Listless, he slumped to the ground. The workers next to him tried to lift him up, but Maurice was too weak. Dropping everything, Emilie ran to his side. She looked in horror as a streak of blood dripped from his mouth down to his shirt. Thinking quickly, she dipped her handkerchief in a bucket of water and smoothed it over his forehead.
“Maurice, you’re very ill,” she said, her voice tinged with fear. “You must go inside.”
Maurice winced. “I’m fine. I just need a little rest.”
She felt his forehead. Maurice was burning up with fever. How long has he been hiding his illness? He was so thin, she hardly recognized him. When did he get so sick? How much
longer will he be able to bear the heat and humidity before he completely collapses? Emilie longed to spare Maurice the rigors of plantation work, yet she wanted to spare his masculine pride. But Maurice had to face the truth: If he was going to recover from consumption, he needed rest and proper medical care. Without it he would surely die.
Emilie unbuttoned his shirt and shuddered when she saw how thin he was. My God, he’s wasting away! How could I have been so consumed with my own problems that I neglected my own brother’s health? She swallowed hard and forced herself to put on a brave face. “Maurice, I think you’ve had enough for one day. Da Rosette made me promise to send you back if you got tired. Please don’t force me to lie to her.”
“I’m all right . . .” He winced. “Just give me a few minutes. . .”
Maurice was gasping for breath, and his face grimaced each time he spoke. He clutched his chest with each painful spasm, his face contorting in agony.
Alarmed, Emilie called out to one of the workers. “Césaire, come here! Help me get him up!”
Césaire came running, and together they lifted Maurice to his feet. They placed one of his arms over Césaire’s shoulder, and the worker gently guided him back toward the great house.
Emilie stood in the drying shack watching Césaire lead Maurice back home with slow, uneven steps. It broke her heart to see how her brave, handsome brother was stumbling like an old man. How unfair life was! Maurice was the kindest, gentlest soul she had ever known. He was unsullied by the vice and immorality of the world around him. But Emilie knew the unspoken truth: that without proper care, Maurice would not be long for this world.
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