“That’s fascinating,” said Emilie. “I never knew that about you. What a terrible ordeal.”
“So now you know the truth,” said Abbé Morel. “That’s how I became a priest.”
“So in order for you to find your true calling, God had to first take away your sight.”
“In a manner of speaking,” said Abbé. “The Lord was testing me. He taught me a difficult lesson, that to reach a state of enlightenment, sometimes one has to go through a period of great hardship. We have to lose everything in order to realize what it is we truly want; what we truly need. Each one of us is tested in his own way.”
“I think the Lord is testing me now,” she said.
“My dear, what are you talking about?” said Abbé Morel.
Emilie stared at him. “I think I’ve made a terrible mistake. I can’t marry Lucien.”
Abbé’s face turned serious. “Are you certain? What happened?”
“I’ve never been more certain in my life. I discovered that he’s been unfaithful. He has other women.”
Abbé’s face blanched. “Good Lord, how could we have been so wrong about him?”
“When I tried to tell Maman and Papa, they wouldn’t hear of it. They forbid me to call off the wedding and cause a scandal. I feel so alone.”
Abbé brought his hand to his mouth, but he could not disguise his shock. “Oh dear, you can’t marry that scoundrel. We have to call off the wedding, but it will cause terrible problems.”
“Some days I wish I could just run away like you did so many years ago,” she said.
“Running away won’t solve this problem,” said Abbé Morel. “Not with Lucien. He only respects strength, but I was convinced he was in love with you and would soften with time. Now I see now how wrong I was.”
“Tell me the truth, Tonton Abbé, why did you leave Carriacou? Is it true what people are saying, that you threatened to leave the priesthood?”
“No, my dear,” he laughed. “That’s idle gossip. I’m afraid the real story isn’t quite so dramatic. The simple truth is I got too old for the job. I entered the priesthood late in life. I grew tired of transferring from one parish to another, and I was desperately lonely on that godforsaken island. Sometimes the loneliness became so great, I would take to my bed for days. Before long, my old stomach ulcer started acting up, and I needed a doctor’s proper care. They don’t have a full-time doctor on Carriacou, just an English doctor who takes the ferry over from Saint Vincent twice a month. So, given my weakened condition, I asked for a position in Saint-Pierre.”
Emilie touched Abbé’s cheek. “If I had known how lonely you were, I would have come to visit you.”
“Carriacou is no place for a young woman.”
“But after you left, nothing was the same anymore. Life lost all meaning for me. Even Lucien couldn’t fill the hole you caused when you left. And then when you came back, you were different. You had changed.”
“So had you, Emilie,” said Abbé, gazing at her. “You became a beautiful young woman. I don’t want to see all that beauty and innocence go to waste. I don’t want to see you turn cynical and bitter because life showed you her ugly side. I promise to do everything in my power to get you out of this predicament.”
Emilie kissed the priest’s hand. “Thank you, Tonton Abbé. I knew I could count on you.”
Abbé Morel laid his hand on Emilie’s cheek. He prayed that somehow he would be able to help her, even if he needed a miracle.
Chapter 8
Friday, April 25
Down in Fort-de-France, Gov. Louis Mouttet was facing a big dilemma. The election was days away, and for the first time, it looked as if the Radical Socialists were going to win. Their candidate, an influential mulatto named Louis Percin, was gaining in the polls and stood a good chance of being elected as the new delegate to the Chamber of Deputies. In Mouttet’s mind, that would be a disaster. Percin’s staunchest ally, Amédée Knight, was a wealthy mulatto industrialist who was pushing the Radical Socialist agenda to the consternation of the business community. Knight had power, money, and influence, and he represented the biggest thorn in the side of the bourgeoisie. Adding to the humiliation, Knight had befriended Mouttet’s own boss, Albert Decrais, the Minister of Colonies, and was using every means at his disposal to usurp the powers of Mouttet’s office in a bid to wrest total political control of the island. The situation was becoming intolerable. Connard! Mouttet crumpled up the latest issue of L’Opinion and threw it in the wastebasket.
For a small colony like Martinique, politics captured a large portion of the public’s imagination. They treated it almost like a national sport. On the pages of Les Colonies, Marius Hurard mocked and demeaned Knight, calling him “The White Hater” or “The Little Machiavellian Sultan,” and Knight retaliated on the pages of L’Opinion by calling Hurard a “Political Narcissist” or “The Man of Insatiable Ambition.” Every day it was something else. The mudslinging was quickly reaching a boiling point. Instead of fighting duels in the old-fashioned manner, they launched offensives with pen and ink. And the posters they hung on the walls left little to the imagination. It took all the restraint Mouttet could muster to maintain an image of impartiality in the face of such smears. Some days he considered early retirement. As a representative of the French government, Mouttet was expected to stay neutral in political matters while maintaining order and control, jobs that seemed mutually exclusive. But now it looked as if power was finally going to swing in the opposite direction. To survive, Mouttet knew he would have to navigate safely through these muddy waters. It was a constant source of irritation.
Mouttet leaned back in his chair and sighed. At forty-five, he was in the prime of life and had reached what he believed was the pinnacle of his career. Not bad for a middle-class civil servant. A bulging middle hinted at his predilection for good food and wine, and occasional bouts of dysentery and malaria had coarsened his otherwise handsome features. His only claim to vanity was a walrus moustache that was still black, though there was a hint of gray at his temples, giving him the appearance of a wise sage. Yes, he had weathered many political storms in his career, but he was certain that with a little behind-the-scenes maneuvering, he could help the Progressives defeat the Radical Socialists at the polls. Although he personally liked Knight, the man had a way of getting under his skin. There was only one thing he knew for sure: on a small island it was nearly impossible to hide from one’s political enemies, and therefore, it was better to remain friends.
Still, there were other matters to consider. There was the constant threat of riots, labor strikes, hurricanes, and rabble-rousers that sometimes curiously showed up in the homes of the wealthier békés, who comprised a small but powerful white minority on an island populated largely by the descendants of African slaves and mulattoes. The békés were an odd bunch. Strictly Bonapartists, they gave lip service to the ideals of the Third Republic, but they were no great lovers of republicanism. Ardently Catholic, they were even less fond of the new Socialist ideals, especially those espoused by Amédée Knight, which placed Mouttet in the uncomfortable position of being pitted between both sides. Personally, he was sympathetic to the Socialist cause, but he had learned over the years to keep his opinions to himself. The last thing he needed was to get on the bad side of either political party. He shuddered when he remembered how the previous governor, Merlin, was turned into a political football. When it was Mouttet’s turn to leave, if that day ever came, he wanted it to be on his own terms. Even God couldn’t deny him that.
He got up from his desk and peered out the window to the sun-drenched harbor of Fort-de-France. The bay was already starting to fill up with steamers and schooners for another day of brisk commerce. Statuesque coal women, charbonniers, were hard at work hauling countless baskets of coal into the coal chutes of the ships. Their skin glistened as they labored in the hot sun. Ranging in color from café au lait to bronze to deepest mahogany, the women displayed graceful features and long, curved necks that c
ontrasted sharply with the harshness of their lives. Even in sooty rags, they displayed curves that would put Venus to shame. Without their labor, every port in the West Indies would be forced to shut down, including Martinique. Chaos would ensue. Money would be lost, and angry telegrams would pile up on his desk. A headache he could definitely live without. These women were a force to be reckoned with, and if he had learned anything from his years in colonial service, it was to never underestimate the power of a bribe.
Walking over to the mahogany cabinet, he poured himself a glass of rum, the island’s best rhum agricole, distilled to perfection from the juice of fresh-cut sugarcane taken directly from the field. To this he added a twist of lime, a dash of spring water, and a spoonful of cane syrup. Sublime. The perfect elixir to calm his flagging spirits.
It wasn’t his habit to drink so early in the day, but lately the pressures of the office had become burdensome. It was nothing to complain about. In fact, he thought he was lucky. If he played his cards right, Martinique would be his home for many years to come. Perhaps it would even be his final home, the tropical paradise of his dreams in which to spend his golden years. With such a casual style of living and abundant luxuries, he had no desire to uproot his family and move to another colonial outpost like the Ivory Coast or the Sudan. And moving back to France was out of the question. After spending half his life in the colonial service, he had no desire to ever return to the Métropole again.
And then there was the matter of the volcano. Another damned nuisance! There wasn’t a single trained geologist on the entire island, yet every nitwit considered himself an expert. He lit a cigar, leaned back in his chair, and took a few satisfying puffs. He could almost smell Euphemie’s accras de morue wafting down the hall. Those cod fritters seasoned with spices and fried to perfection were an island specialty, a delicacy. One that Euphemie had mastered with the skill of a great artist, like a Monet or Cézanne. In many ways these island women with their sumptuous cuisine, feminine wiles, coquettish behavior, and exotic clothing were like master artists. Artists who could . . . oh dear. He glanced at the clock. Time to get the meeting started.
Mouttet called for his assistant.
Didier stuck his head in. “Oui, monsieur?”
“Has Colonel Fournier arrived?”
“Yes, sir, he’s waiting in the vestibule.”
“Call him in please.”
Mouttet rose when Colonel Fournier entered. After returning the colonel’s salute, he shook his hand. This was a man to respect. Mouttet had admired him from their first meeting, but he wondered if the colonel wasn’t getting too old for the job. He was still sprightly but was somewhat bent. Handsome, distinguished, and with a tolerable amount of gray, Fournier was sixty on his last birthday. As acting garrison commander at Saint-Pierre, he was perhaps the only man on the island whose opinion Mouttet truly respected, especially on matters of security.
“Care for a cigar? A glass of rum?” said Mouttet.
“What year?” said Fournier.
Mouttet grinned. “The cigar or the rum? For you, my friend, only the best: Rhum de Sa Majesté, 1892. Napoleon’s choice for his troops. As pure as mother’s milk and probably a lot better for you. As an inveterate drunkard once said after learning his cholera was incurable and he would soon be removed to a world of pure spirits: ‘That’s a comforting thought as it’s impossible to get any in this world.’”
Fournier laughed. “That’s a good one! What can I do for you today?”
“I’m developing a long-term strategy for the colonization of Martinique, which I’d like to share with you. I believe that once she’s developed, Martinique will prove to be a magnificent asset to la Mère Patrie. Every day I receive correspondence from businessmen all around the globe expressing their interest in investing in our island. We desperately need to build up our infrastructure and secure our coastline. To do this, we’ll need the best officers, men of good character whom we can trust. We have to make it clear to Decrais at the Colonial Office that we won’t accept any officers with black marks on their record or who are deficient in character or lacking in moral stamina. And we certainly should not accept into our ranks any habitual criminals, lunatics, gamblers, or those considered constitutionally defective. As long as I’m in charge, Martinique will not be a place for shooting rubbish. Is that clear?”
“Absolutely. It has always been my policy. Is there any particular reason for your concern?”
“I heard we’re expecting a new officer at the garrison, one who was shipped out of Africa quite abruptly under a cloud of suspicion. Are you aware of this case?”
Colonel Fournier looked thoughtful. “Yes, I’m aware of it, but let me assure you, Governor, that in all my years of service, there have only been a handful of cases that would fall into that category. I’ve learned not to question the Colonial Office in these matters. Telegrams have a way of getting misplaced; good men are sometimes caught in the bureaucratic shuffle. Plus, I feel it’s only proper to give each man the benefit of the doubt. I assess each officer as he arrives and shuffle the derelicts down to Cayenne. I’m proud of my regiment, and you have no reason to worry about it.”
“Very good,” said Mouttet. “There’s one more issue I’d like to discuss. It’s concerning those infernal rumblings coming from Mount Pelée that’s gotten the natives all jittery. To calm everyone’s fears, I’ve decided to set up a scientific committee to climb up the mountain and write a report about it. I’ve put Prof. Gaston Landes in charge, but he needs a few good men with surveying experience. Is there someone you can recommend?”
Fournier perked up. “I’ve got just the man for you.”
“Who is it?”
“That new officer you mentioned. The one that’s due to arrive from Senegal any day.”
“Does he have the necessary qualifications?”
“I’ve heard he has the best qualifications. He was responsible for conducting surveying missions in Senegal. He’s the perfect man for the job.”
“Splendid,” said Mouttet. “Tell him to report to Gaston Landes as soon as he arrives. Perhaps we can make good use of the chap. Give it your top priority.”
“Certainly, Governor.”
Colonel Fournier saluted and left. As he walked out the door, Mouttet crossed off the word volcano from his list of pending issues, confident the problem would soon be forgotten.
Chapter 9
Friday, April 25
Standing on the deck of the French steamer Versailles, Lt. Denis Rémy watched as the island of Martinique sprang into view. What started as a blue cloud on the horizon transformed into a deep-green island of soaring peaks, lush valleys, and undulating fields of sugarcane and banana. Everywhere he looked, the island was teeming with life. Mango trees, sprawling bougainvillea, flaming flamboyant, majestic palm trees, and endless plantations dotting the hillsides like a patchwork quilt of sumptuous beauty. Every now and then, he caught sight of a wooden cottage or a chimney peeking through the foliage, adding to the mystery, while along the shore, native sloops sailed past silvery beaches lined with coconut palms. It was intoxicating and refreshing, like a tropical oasis that suddenly appeared out of the azure sea. As he was taking in the sights, the cry of a seabird broke his reverie.
Although it was late morning, it was already hot on deck. The tropical sun beat down on the passengers who had gathered near the railing while stewards passed around glasses of rum punch. With his blue tunic and kepi and his features bronzed from a lifetime in the tropics, Rémy stood apart from the others. At thirty-three, he was fast approaching middle age, with the scars of a lifetime to prove it. Lean and muscular, his most distinguishing characteristics were a jaunty moustache and pair of penetrating blue eyes that gave the mistaken impression he was a ruthless sort, which wasn’t exactly a drawback for a career soldier. But in Rémy’s case, it was far from the truth. His sense of duty and honor had cost him dearly.
But that was all behind him now. A great feeling of loneliness gripped his
heart, a fear that his life had taken too many wrong turns. He wondered how long he would last out here in the West Indies. Between the cheap rum and the tropical diseases, he figured at most two years. He had gambled with his career and lost. Perhaps a younger man could overcome such a misstep, but not a man of his age. He remembered with a dull ache how the chief of the Bambara had warned him: “Ears that do not listen to advice accompany the head when it is chopped off.” But Rémy did what he was compelled to do. He did what any man of honor would have done under similar circumstances, and he harbored no regrets. He accepted his fate, and now all he wanted was to make the most of whatever time he had left.
But maybe, just maybe, he would have a chance to redeem himself.
He inhaled the fresh sea air and felt invigorated. So this is my new home, he thought. My place of exile, my Elba. With Martinique’s wild, untamed beauty, the island reminded him of Senegal. He gazed at the highest peak, a conical green mountain the deckhand had referred to as Mount Pelée in his lilting Creole. Even with his binoculars Rémy could scarcely catch a glimpse of the summit behind a veil of clouds. It looked well over four thousand feet high and reminded him of a poem his mother used to recite to him when he was a boy:
Du haut de la montagne,
Près de Guadarrama,
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