On découvre l’Espagne
Comme un panorama.
À l’horizon sans borne
Le grave Escorial
Lève son dôme morne,
Noir de l’ennui royal.
From the top of the mountain,
Near Guadarrama,
We discover Spain
Like a grand panorama.
On the horizon without bounds
The grave Escorial
Raises his somber dome,
Black from royal boredom.
The image of his mother’s face brought a surge of pain. Memories like that popped up from time to time although he tried hard to bury them. His greatest regret was not being able to say goodbye when she lay dying. By the time he got word of it in Senegal, it was too late. The pain crushed him. He was her only child, the only link she had to his father, who had died while Rémy was still a baby.
It was still early by the time the steamer glided into the harbor of Saint-Pierre. His first sight of the town brought him surprising contentment.
Stretched along the coast, the city of Saint-Pierre held its arms open in a welcoming embrace. Built at the foot of Mount Pelée, the town sloped down from the hills in a terrace fashion and spread out along the shore. Nestled between an abundance of foliage were stone villas with red roofs, walled-in gardens, a theater, hotels, a commercial district, and cathedrals with lofty steeples that peeked out through the mahogany and tamarind trees. Guarding the waterfront was a fort bearing the Tricolor, and beside it sat a contingent of stone warehouses. The marketplace was bustling with traffic, and horse carriages clip-clopped through the streets, creating a scene that was both charming and welcoming to the traveler.
When it was time to disembark, Rémy picked up his luggage and boarded one of the small skiffs sent to ferry the passengers to shore. Martinique was his new home now, for better or worse. As his commanding officer back in Senegal had stipulated, this was to be his final posting unless he committed another offense, in which case he would be shipped off to the penal colony in French Guyana, a veritable death sentence.
As he took his first steps on dry land, a feeling of relief washed over him. After weeks at sea, the hustle and bustle of place Bertin jarred his senses. The colors, the smells, and the cheerful sounds of bartering in the marketplace and the echoes of native music brought him a sense of calm. And the faces! Faces similar to those he had seen in Africa speaking in their own native patois. Charming native women in colorful madras skirts and headdresses sailed past with baskets laden with fruit and spices. Barefoot workers with glistening bodies were hard at work rolling hogsheads of sugar and rum down to the water. Fishermen in canvas trousers, schoolchildren, nuns, turbaned marketwomen with exotic, African faces, white-helmeted customs officers, and gendarmes in slate-blue tunics and pillbox hats—all created the bouillabaisse that was Saint-Pierre.
He walked over to a public fountain and took a refreshing drink. While he was taking in the sights, an old peasant woman carrying a basket of goods approached him. A wide-brimmed straw hat shielded her head from the sun, but it could not hide the poverty and misery that were etched into her face. She wore a faded muslin skirt and chemise stained yellow from dirt and sweat, but she wore no shoes. Her dirty, calloused feet displayed the direness of her predicament most wretchedly.
“Monsieur, would you buy something from pauvre petite Prospérine?” she said in a soft voice.
Rémy turned away. “No, thank you, madame.”
She tugged at his sleeve. “Monsieur, buy something? Soap? Razor? Comb? Bay rum?” Staring into her eyes, Rémy was struck by the old woman’s dignity. Her eyes had a purity that belied her wretched situation. His taut expression slackened.
“How much for a bottle of bay rum?” he said.
“Twenty centimes.”
Reaching into his billfold, he pulled out a five franc coin and pressed it into her hand.
“Take this, madame.”
Relief washed over the old woman’s face. “Merci, monsieur. May the Bon Dieu protect you.”
Something about the woman’s words gripped him. Grasping the coin in her bony hand, the old woman disappeared into the crowd. As Rémy watched her meander through the marketplace, a stocky, redheaded soldier in his late thirties with a jovial face and a casual manner approached him.
“Welcome, Lieutenant,” said the soldier, saluting.
Rémy returned the salute. “Thank you, Sergeant. My name is Lt. Denis Rémy, just arrived from Senegal.”
The sergeant thought for a moment. “Ah yes, Lieutenant Rémy. I’ve heard your name mentioned. Colonel Fournier has been expecting you. Shall I take you to the commandant myself?”
“That would be splendid. And who are you?”
“I am Sgt. Jean-Alfred Aubert, attached to the Fourth Regiment at Fort Saint-Pierre, where I believe you are assigned. Allow me to show you the way. Follow me please, sir.”
“My pleasure.”
The sergeant motioned to a nearby soldier, who picked up Rémy’s suitcase, and together they led him past the bustling place Bertin to the fort.
Heading north along rue Bouillé, they traced the curve of the harbor, past the customhouse, commission houses, cafés, and a long stretch of stone warehouses that Aubert explained was the Figuier Quarter, the commercial district. When they arrived at rivière Roxelane, they crossed a stone bridge over which passed most of the traffic through the city. They continued down rue des Bouchers straight to the entrance of the fort.
The guard on duty stiffened and saluted. Aubert led Rémy down a corridor lit by electric lights, and when they arrived at an anteroom, he instructed Rémy to wait outside while he went to inform the commandant of his arrival.
Sounds of metropolitan French filled the hallway as groups of young soldiers passed by on their way to the barracks. Aubert reappeared and motioned for Rémy to follow him into the commandant’s office. When he crossed the threshold, he caught his first glimpse of the colonel, a broad-shouldered man in his sixties with a distinct Roman nose and a graying beard. He was sitting at his desk sorting through a pile of correspondence, at his side sat a gleaming revolver and a steaming mug of coffee. The office was a simple affair, containing only a simple wooden desk, chairs, a bookcase, and on the wall, a large map of the West Indies and a portrait of Waldeck-Rousseau.
Rémy saluted. “Lt. Denis Rémy reporting for duty, sir.”
Colonel Fournier saluted and shook his hand. “Welcome to Martinique, Lieutenant. I trust you’ve had a pleasant journey.”
“Yes, considering I was sick half the time.”
“That’s to be expected,” said the colonel, chuckling. “I spent a few years in Senegal myself, but that was before your time. Most gorgeous sunsets I ever saw were in Dakar. Please take a seat.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I’ve been reading up on you. Quite an impressive service record.” Fournier put on his reading glasses and opened up a dossier marked Lt. Denis Rémy. “Hmm, five years with the Twentieth Battalion of the chasseurs à pied at Mézières, decent grades at the École des sous-officiers, a good service record at the penal battalion at Senegal, a transfer to the Camp des Madeleines near Dakar, an appointment to the general staff, advisor to the railroad project.”
“Yes, sir,” said Rémy. “I mapped much of the region between the Upper Niger and the Gold Coast. I acquired extensive knowledge about the region and the natives.”
Fournier leafed through the papers. “And then it says you volunteered for a dangerous mission in Mali, but there’s no report of the outcome.”
“Yes, sir. You see, the mission was aborted.”
Fournier removed his reading glasses. “Aborted?”
“We ran into some difficulties, sir. It was a personnel matter.”
Fournier leaned back and observed him. “Care to elaborate?”
“Not really, sir. After that I was transferred here. I was not given a choice.”
“Something is not quite add
ing up,” said Fournier, furrowing his brow. “Is there something I should know?”
“It was a simple misunderstanding. The matter was officially sealed, and I’d rather not discuss it.”
Fournier cleared his throat. “Well, so be it. I see you’ve accomplished much good work in Africa, but since we don’t get many transfers from the general staff, you’ll understand if the men are somewhat curious.”
“I have no intention of becoming a carnival exhibit.”
Fournier eyed him, then pushed aside the file. “Then I have no need to question you further at this time. Let’s get on with it then, shall we? There’s not much to say other than the life is hard here in the West Indies. We have occasional bouts of yellow fever, dengue fever, typhoid, and malaria, but I suppose you developed some immunity from your years in Africa. We have a pretty decent military hospital and an excellent surgeon. You’ll find no lack of entertainment venues, although I would caution you to avoid certain establishments on rue Bouillé and rue Saint-Jean-de-Dieu, where there have been a number of knife fights. We also suffer from occasional hurricanes, earthquakes, and civil unrest.” He stopped when Rémy gave him a quizzical look. “Regarding the civilians, two years ago there was an uprising on the island. Some workers went on strike and started fires on four plantations, using every means at their disposal to prevent the harvesting of the sugarcane. An infantry post sent to restore order was attacked and fired on its assailants, killing nine men and wounding fourteen. Since then the situation has quieted down, but there’s still a great deal of tension. The lieutenant who commanded the troops that fired on the striking workers was removed from his post and transferred to Cayenne.”
“What caused the workers’ strike?” asked Rémy.
“As usual it was politics,” said Fournier. “It was a classic political maneuver that backfired, resulting in those tragic deaths. Two of Martinique’s delegates to the Chamber of Deputies won the election by promising the workers an increase in their wages, which the plantation owners refused to uphold. The situation grew heated, the delegates denied making such promises, and instead blamed the governor and the metropolitan government, whom they claimed were responsible for the uprising. The delegate from Guadeloupe denied their assertion, which resulted in two deputies coming to blows.” When Rémy looked shocked, Fournier hastily added, “I should warn you that politics is a divisive issue in the West Indies. We have a new governor now, a man by the name of Mouttet, but there’s a new election in a couple of days for two new delegates, so our main objective is to maintain law and order to ensure a peaceful election. As for you, however, I have a completely different assignment, one that promises to make use of your topographical skills.”
Rémy perked up. “Oh? What is it?”
“We’ve been having some seismic activity coming from Mount Pelée. The governor formed a scientific committee to climb up the mountain and do some scouting around the crater to calm down the civilians, who’ve been understandably jittery lately. Given your extensive surveying experience in Africa, I went ahead and put you on the committee. Your orders are to report to Prof. Gaston Landes at the lycée. When you’ve completed your assignment, you’re to report directly to the governor. Any questions?”
“Just one, sir,” said Rémy. “I’m honored to serve la Mère Patrie in any manner that is required, but I have never surveyed a volcano before. My experience is limited to the jungles and rivers of Senegal and Mali.”
“Take my copy of Geography of Martinique.” Fournier handed a large volume to Rémy. “In it you’ll find all the information you need. Anything else you need, you can find in the Schoelcher Library. And make sure to pick up your gear from the quartermaster. You’ll need a good set of field glasses and a barometer. I hear the view from the summit of Mount Pelée is quite extraordinary. On a clear day you can see clear across the Dominica Channel.”
Rémy hesitated for a minute. “Just one more question, sir: How likely is it the volcano will erupt?”
Fournier waved his hand. “Not likely at all in my opinion. There hasn’t been a major eruption in hundreds of years. We expect it to die down shortly. Bear in mind the governor’s main concern is to keep the civilians calm. The population tends to be highly superstitious. Their beliefs are tied up with voodoo and black magic. The government has had little success in uprooting these primitive beliefs from the people. One of their voodoo sorcerers thinks the extinct volcano is on the verge of erupting.”
“Then would it be wise to climb up to the summit?”
“That’s for the committee to decide,” said Colonel Fournier. “I’m afraid it’s out of my hands. Sergeant Aubert will show you to your quarters in the officers’ barracks.”
Rémy saluted. “Thank you, sir. I have one request related to this mission.”
“What is it?”
“I would like to request that Sergeant Aubert be detailed as my aide-de-camp.”
“That can be arranged.”
“Thank you, Colonel,” said Rémy, saluting.
Colonel Fournier returned the salute. “Good luck, Rémy, and welcome to Martinique.”
Rémy strolled out, invigorated by his new assignment, hopeful that his stay in Martinique would be calm and placid. A fresh start to his life.
Chapter 10
Sunday, April 27
After settling into the officers’ barracks and collecting his gear, Rémy strode over to the lycée to meet Professor Landes and learn about his new mission.
In Landes, Rémy found a sympathetic man with no pretenses other than an innate love of natural history. Landes was about the same age and sported a goatee and spectacles. In addition to a good sense of humor, he possessed an almost encyclopedic knowledge about the geography and botany of the West Indies. Landes gave Rémy a list of equipment to procure, and they agreed to head out the following Sunday.
When Sunday arrived, Rémy and Sergeant Jean-Alfred Aubert dressed in their khaki uniforms, helmets, and expedition boots. They saddled their horses and hired a porter with a donkey to carry all the gear they could not fit in their saddlebags, and then they headed over to the lycée. They found Professor Landes in his carriage, and beside him sat M. Paul Mirville, chief chemist at the military hospital. Trailing behind them was a porter on a donkey who looked less than thrilled with his mission.
After a brief introduction, Rémy sized up the newest member of the scientific committee. At sixty years of age and overweight, M. Mirville did not look capable of climbing the stairs of the theater, much less Mount Pelée. And to make matters worse, he walked with a pronounced limp, which he blamed on a nagging case of arthritis. With his fluffy white beard and shaggy eyebrows, Mirville resembled a mad scientist, and to their astonishment he even boasted that he had once climbed up Pelée in record time, prompting Rémy to wonder in which century, since the portly chemist seemed incapable of any form of physical exercise. After they had loaded all their gear, the men set out.
Landes explained that the first order of business was to hire some competent guides, which he would procure from a nearby plantation. Trotting up the coastal road, they began to smell the telltale scent of rotten eggs, an unmistakable sign of volcanic activity. Turning east, they headed up a road lined with leafy palms that led to the tiny hamlet of Saint-Philomène. After passing a small chapel and an outdoor market, they turned onto a dirt road bordered by dense vegetation, beyond which lay acres of cacao and coffee trees. Professor Landes announced that they had entered Domaine Solitude, the plantation of Georges Dujon, a respected landowner who hailed from a prominent old béké family.
Everywhere they looked there was a flurry of activity. Workers in straw hats were engaged in various activities related to the harvesting of cacao and coffee. Rémy had never observed a plantation up close. It seemed to be a small world within a world, a patchwork of fields, cottages, warehouses, wooden shacks, stables, a henhouse, and endless fields flanked by tropical forests that flanked the side of the mountain. The scene was picturesque a
nd quaint, a glimpse into a world Rémy never knew existed.
They halted in front of a stately plantation house built in the Creole West Indian style. Luxurious and graceful, it sat atop a bluff overlooking the Caribbean Sea, and had a haunting beauty that harkened back to a distant age. The main entrance stood atop a grand staircase, which led to a wraparound balcony adorned with wicker furniture and potted plants. The air was fragrant, smelling of jasmine and ylang-ylang, and the trade winds provided a constant fresh breeze. Bougainvillea vines crept up the sides of the house, and lofty tamarind trees provided shade. But upon closer inspection, Rémy noticed signs of neglect. A few wooden shutters were damaged, and some roof tiles were missing. The lovely yellow paint looked faded and chipped in places. But the house was lovely. It reminded Rémy of those stories he had heard about the Empress Josephine’s childhood in Martinique, a life of tranquility, innocence, and unspoiled beauty.
As he stood gazing at the house, Rémy had the oddest sensation they were being watched. Looking up, he spied a shadowy figure hovering behind a window. Whoever it was seemed to be staring at him intently, but no sooner did he look up than the figure vanished. He dismounted and handed his reins over to a groom, wondering what secrets the plantation house held.
An old native woman in a turban and colorful madras skirt was sweeping the porch. Upon their approach, she stopped to watch them with suspicious eyes. After Landes approached her and explained the nature of their visit, she hobbled inside and returned with the owner of the plantation, Georges Dujon, a ruddy-faced, white-haired older gentleman of aristocratic bearing. Rémy was immediately impressed with the man. Dujon was the epitome of a West Indian planter. Tall, barrel-chested, and with chiseled features, he had a commanding presence that drew attention. But it was his leathery skin and weathered hands that marked Dujon as a true man of the tropics. Rémy had heard these békés were a tough bunch, hardened by years of adversity and isolation from the Métropole. They were known to be generally suspicious of outsiders.
M. Dujon invited them in for refreshments. As they headed through the foyer, Rémy marveled at the exquisite mahogany furniture, Louis XIV gilded mirrors, pianoforte, planter’s chairs, and porcelain vases filled with exotic flowers. He stopped to admire an old musket rifle hanging on a wall beside a portrait of a beautiful woman dressed in the style of the ancien régime. Standing off to the side, Rémy spotted a young woman observing him from a doorway. She bore more than a casual resemblance to the lady in the portrait. Their eyes met for an instant, and a blush crept across her cheeks. Before he knew it, she disappeared and later, as they moved into the dining room, she reappeared in a different location, her delicate figure hidden behind the leaves of a potted palm. It was only after she entered the dining room that he was able to observe her up close.
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