“Please continue,” she said. “I find your story fascinating. And I didn’t take the least bit of offense.” Emilie loved the way the two soldiers seemed to be vying for her attention. She found the whole situation terribly amusing.
Aubert nudged his horse closer to Emilie’s. “When he’s finished telling you his story, I’ll tell you mine, which is full of duels, glorious battles, and hair-raising adventures that will keep you up at night.”
“Aubert, your stories are not for ladies,” said Rémy. “Now, scat!”
Rémy continued, “As I was saying before, the day I enlisted in the army was the happiest day of my life. As a proud Frenchman, I was ready and willing to serve la Mère Patrie in any capacity she required. A short while later, I volunteered for service in a penal battalion in Senegal, a position that no other soldier in his right mind wanted, but I needed a chance to prove myself. During my career I explored over a thousand square miles of Senegal. Without a doubt the happiest days of my life.”
“So why did you leave Senegal?” she asked.
“A soldier must go where he’s sent,” he said. “We learn not to question our commanding officers.”
“Perhaps it was for the best,” she said. “I’ve heard about the terrible conditions of our colonial soldiers in Africa, how ill-fed, ill-clad, and ill-lodged they are. And the cruel punishments they inflict on them.”
He looked at her wryly. “I’m sure there are just as many bad stories out there as there are bad journalists, but if you would visit our camps, speak to our soldiers, join us on our marches, in the mess halls, and at our drills, you would get an entirely different picture, one of heroism and self-sacrifice. You would see a camaraderie and devotion to duty that would make your heart burst with pride. All we men speak of are battles, medals, and acts of heroism. That is what keeps us going.”
“Will you ever go back to France?” she said.
“For many of us, there’s no home to go back to,” said Rémy. “For soldiers like me, fighting battles is our only hope, our only desire, and our greatest motivation. For some men it represents our only possibility for redemption since it is only in the heat of battle that we can meet a glorious death or a thrilling adventure.”
“Tell me something, did you find your redemption in the heat of battle?” said Emilie.
Rémy shook his head. “No, mademoiselle, I’m still waiting for my redemption.”
After rounding a bend they came to a clearing, where they got their first unobstructed view of Mount Pelée. Rémy whipped out his binoculars and focused on the summit.
“There’s a column of smoke rising from the crater,” he said.
Landes borrowed his binoculars. “They appear to be shooting out of a fumarole, a steam vent in the dry crater lake. I’m certain it didn’t exist before.”
“I’ve been watching it for quite some time,” said Emilie. “The whole situation seems strange and bizarre. That’s why I was so determined to join you on this expedition. I want to know the truth.”
“Brave girl,” said M. Mirville. “Something strange is going on up there, indeed, especially with regard to all the projectiles that have been wreaking havoc on the countryside.”
“Have you read about the eruption of Mount Krakatoa?” said Rémy. “I’ve been studying the subject night and day trying to gain some insight into this volcano.”
“There’s no parallel between Krakatoa and Pelée at all,” said M. Mirville. “One was a live volcano, and this one is most definitely extinct.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” said Rémy.
“I guarantee you this debonair old gentleman has just woken up from a deep slumber,” said Mirville. “He’ll soon go back to sleep.”
“What can you tell us about Krakatoa?” said Emilie.
Rémy reflected for a moment. “Back in 1883, Mount Krakatoa in the Dutch East Indies erupted with an explosion so powerful it ruptured the eardrums of sailors forty miles away and caused a spike of more than two and a half inches of mercury in pressure gauges in the Batavia gasworks, sending them off the scale.” He paused for a minute to let that sink in. “The pressure wave from the volcano was so great, it was recorded in barometers all around the world. The eruption was the greatest cataclysmic event of our lifetime.”
M. Mirville harrumphed. “Our West Indian volcanoes have nothing in common with those in the Dutch East Indies. Pelée has been extinct for years, possibly centuries.”
“If that’s the case, then why are we heading up there now?” said Rémy.
“Purely as a precaution,” said Mirville. “This is a scientific mission, after all.”
“And if we find out Pelée is not extinct, then what?” said Rémy. “What if we find out it is more similar to Krakatoa than we ever imagined?”
“That’s not likely to happen,” said Mirville. “Our West Indian volcanoes have no historical record of lava flow. Any lava ejected is sure to run down the ravines into the ocean. I foresee no danger to the public whatever.”
“That’s just the point,” said Rémy. “Krakatoa didn’t emit any lava either. According to eyewitnesses, the volcano emitted clouds of hot gases that traveled at high speeds over land and sea, causing numerous deaths. But I don’t wish to cause you any undue alarm. We have to investigate the matter first.”
Emilie shuddered. She stared up at the volcano as it loomed overhead. The dense jungle vegetation that flanked the mountain could not hide its distinct corrugated shape, formed by dozens of ravines and gorges that raked down the mountainside, carrying fresh spring water down to the lower elevations. In many ways Pelée was like a living, breathing organism, a volatile creature of rock, soil, mineral, gas, steam, and fire that if angered could burst forth with a vengeance. For the rest of the journey up to Morne-Rouge, they noticed that instead of the air becoming cooler and fresher, the telltale smell of rotten eggs became more pervasive. The horses began to show signs of distress, balking and whinnying. The higher they climbed, the more the animals flattened their ears and whinnied. After a tiring journey, they reached Morne-Rouge slightly weary but eager to tackle the next stage of the journey.
Chapter 12
Sunday, April 27
Morne-Rouge
Sitting at an altitude of fifteen hundred feet, Morne-Rouge was the highest village in Martinique. It was nestled in a saddle-shaped valley between Mount Pelée to the north and the Pitons du Carbet to the south and consisted of a single street bordered by wooden cottages, shops, and a small church. Beyond the main square lay villas with orchards and fields containing bananas, limes, and papayas and bordered by hedges of hibiscus and Indian reeds. These were the country homes of the wealthy merchants from Saint-Pierre.
As they made their way down the street, the air was cooled by the trade winds that blew from the east, which diminished the smell of sulfur. But the scientific committee would not be staying long in Morne-Rouge. Before they set out on their climb, they took Maurice to his cousin’s house and bade him farewell.
Standing in the doorway, Emilie tried to make the best of things. The worst part was the forlorn look in Maurice’s eyes and the way he tried to disguise the lingering pain in his chest. But her brother could not hide the hacking cough that was plaguing him. Every time he coughed, she felt a lump in her throat and a stabbing pain in her heart.
She hugged her brother. “Goodbye, Maurice. I hope you feel better soon.”
“I’d rather be going with you,” he said with a tinge of sadness.
“Next time,” she said, kissing his cheek. “And don’t give Cousin Luc too much trouble. Try to be good.”
“Yes, I’ll try not to spill gravy on the tablecloth.”
Emilie forced herself to smile. It pained her that Maurice was forced to give up his dream of becoming a doctor because of his chronic illness, and now he was denied even a simple pleasure like climbing a mountain. But his stoic nature would not allow him to complain. He kept it all bottled up inside, never letting on that he was suffering
and slowly dying. It was this quality of self-sacrifice that hurt Emilie the most. Maurice was so different from their shallow, social-climbing parents, who had no capacity to appreciate their selfless, gallant son. She hugged Maurice and left him to rejoin the others, who were milling about by the horses, pretending to be searching through their equipment. By the time she mounted Balthazar, Maurice had already retreated inside the house.
“Emilie, there’s no need to worry about your brother,” said Professor Landes. “He’ll be fine here. He’s young and strong. By next year he’ll be climbing Mount Pelée all by himself.”
“I can’t stop worrying about him,” she said wistfully.
“Your brother has tremendous fortitude,” said Rémy. “I’m sure he’ll manage all right.”
“Is it fortitude or stubbornness?” she said.
“I wasn’t aware there was a difference,” said Rémy.
They left their horses and donkeys in a barn and then set about organizing the supplies for the trip. To reach the summit of Mount Pelée, they would have to hike on foot, armed only with cutlasses and service revolvers in case they met up with the deadly fer-de-lance, the deadly pit viper that roamed the forests.
Once they were ready, the climbers hiked down the street until they came to a dirt road bounded by banana fields. Taking the lead, Durancy said, “I have to warn you, the hike will take us through dense tropical forests and steep slopes. It will be muddy and dangerous. Keep a watch out for the fer-de-lance. One bite has enough venom to kill a man. Above all, we must all stay together. Some people have been lost in the forests of Mount Pelée and barely made it out alive.”
“With all due respect,” said Sergeant Aubert, “the lieutenant and I are experienced surveyors. We’re trained to operate on difficult terrain.”
“Sergeant, with all due respect, you have not been to the summit of Mount Pelée,” said Durancy. “It’s my duty to warn you the journey will be replete with hazards. Are there any questions?”
Everyone shook their heads.
“Good, let’s get started.”
For the next hour they marched single file behind Durancy and Césaire up a sloped trail through dense vegetation consisting of bamboo trees, breadfruit and sandbox trees, cabbage palms, and enormous mango trees. The sun beat down mercilessly on their straw hats, and they welcomed the occasional foray into forested areas, where the lush foliage provided much-needed shade. There were nine climbers in all: Durancy and Césaire in the lead, followed by Lt. Rémy, Sergeant Aubert, Professor Landes, M. Mirville, Emilie, and finally the two porters who brought up the rear. They marched in a steady rhythm, stopping every now and then to take a drink of water or to gaze down at the town of Morne-Rouge, which was becoming smaller the higher they climbed. During the journey the path became steeper and more littered with rocks and tangled with vines, creepers, lianas, shrubs, and guinea grass. Swarms of mosquitoes buzzed around their heads, biting them, while birds called out to them from the branches above their heads. The higher they climbed, the more clearly they could observe the summit of Mount Pelée through wisps of clouds.
Rémy focused his binoculars on the summit. “Look there, Professor Landes, do you see those puffs of smoke coming from the crater?”
“Yes, they are coming from the Étang Sec, the dry crater on the lower summit,” said Professor Landes. “By my recollection, that is where all the sulfur is being expelled, but it makes no sense since there have never been fumaroles spotted in that location before. I guess we’ll discover more when we see it firsthand. But something odd is definitely going on here.”
“I’m starting to believe Mount Pelée is an active volcano and not an extinct one as all the experts would have us believe,” said Rémy.
Landes kept his eyes on the mountain. “Right now we’re operating under the assumption that the volcano is just another curiosity in the natural history of Martinique. Our job is to ascertain that the earthquakes and fumarole activity are just a passing phase or if they pose an actual threat to the civilians.”
“In other words, we could be heading into another Vesuvius,” said Aubert, removing his pith helmet to wipe the sweat off his brow.
“Not likely,” said Professor Landes. “In all recorded history, there’s never been any lava ejected from any volcano in the West Indies. In other words, they’re not half as volatile as our dear politicians, and they certainly blow out less hot air.”
“Yes,” added Rémy. “But even a debonair gentleman can have a short temper.”
“Which reminds me of our previous governor, a debonair gentleman who resorted to fistfights to settle his political disagreements,” said M. Mirville. “Not very reassuring.”
Rémy lit a cigarette and took a few puffs. “For a small island, there’s quite a lot of salacious gossip going around. Not to mention all those racy political posters that leave little to the imagination.”
Emilie stopped drinking from her canteen. “Welcome to the West Indies, where political mudslinging is a national sport.”
“I find it highly amusing,” said Rémy. “I’m starting to get a picture of life here in the tropics: hot tempers, hot quarrels, and hot lava.”
“Yes, but not necessarily in that order,” added M. Mirville.
“There’s something I still don’t understand,” said Emilie. “If the governor feels the volcano could pose a threat to the population, why not just evacuate everyone?”
“I suspect it’s a lot cheaper to convince the people they’re in no danger,” said Aubert.
“Consider this scenario,” said M. Mirville. “There are tens of thousands of people living within a five-mile radius of the cinder cone. It would be impossible to evacuate everyone. Where would they go? Who would pay for it? How long would they stay away?”
“You’re talking about tens of thousands of people in harm’s way,” said Rémy. “I think I’m starting to get the picture. We could have mass panic on our hands.”
“Think of it as one big carnival,” said Aubert. “But instead of happy revelers, you have crowds of panicked residents stampeding over each other to escape the barrage of volcanic debris. Is that a comforting thought?”
“Personally, I try to keep a more positive attitude,” said M. Mirville. “I’m of the opinion the volcano will settle down soon enough. Right now it’s having a little attack of indigestion.”
“Let’s hope it stays little,” said Aubert with a wink.
They continued on in silence behind Durancy and Césaire, who were using their cutlasses to slash the thick brush and vines that lay in their path. Insects swarmed around their heads, tormenting them, and thorns pierced their flesh and tore at their clothes. Relief came when they reached a rushing river that flowed over large boulders and debris. Landes decided that the guides should tie one end of a rope to a tree, then wade across the stream, then tie the end of the rope around another tree. Each climber, in turn, would wade across the river holding on to the rope, thereby reducing the risk of falling into the rushing waters.
One by one each member held on to the rope and gingerly made their way over the stream, balancing on the rocks that formed a sort of bridge across the water. When it was her turn, Emilie grabbed the rope and stepped onto the first rock. Cool water soaked her feet and ankles. She was surprised by the force of the current. Stepping onto the next rock, she slipped and almost lost her balance. Luckily, the rope saved her from the ignominy of falling in front of the others. Finally, after a few more near misses, she reached the other side. Behind her, Rémy stepped across with expert adroitness, followed by Professor Landes, the porters, and the portly M. Mirville, who likewise managed to reach the other side unscathed.
The last to cross was Sergeant Aubert. He grabbed hold of the rope and stepped onto the first rock. With the confidence of a frog on a lily pad, he hopped to the next rock but was knocked off-balance when a tree trunk floated past, striking him on the leg. Teetering on the edge, he fell headfirst into the raging waters.
Wh
en his head emerged, everyone uttered a collective sigh of relief. Aubert uttered a loud, colorful oath as he splashed around, trying to regain his footing. Finally he waded across the river and climbed up the riverbank looking only slightly worse for wear. Hoisting himself out of the water, he tore off his shirt and wrung it out good-naturedly as the men made sport of his predicament. One by one he removed his boots and emptied the water onto the muddy bank, but when he discovered that his cigarettes were soaked, he threw them down in disgust, saying, “I don’t mind getting my boots soaked, I don’t mind getting waterlogged, but this is where I draw the line in service to la Mère Patrie.”
Rémy grinned. “Sergeant Aubert, your devotion to duty is admirable. I’ll make a special mention of it when I write my report. Until then you can have some of mine.” He tossed a pack of cigarettes to Aubert, who saluted and replied, “Thank you, Lieutenant, much obliged. And I believe it is my patriotic duty to inform you there’s a huge black centipede wriggling in your boot.”
Rémy looked down and froze.
An enormous black centipede was crawling down one of his boots with hideous movements of its legs. Emilie stared in horror. It was a bête-à-mille-pattes, a reviled monster capable of biting through shoe leather. They were sometimes found hidden in bedsheets, under pillows, in shoes, even in cribs. In a flash, Rémy grabbed his field knife, extracted the monster, and hurled it to the ground with a look of disgust, at which point Durancy stepped forward and slashed it with his cutlass, chopping the beast in two. The severed pieces writhed on the ground, filling them with disgust, until they finally lay still.
Still shaken from the incident, Rémy said, “Thank you, Durancy; that was a close call. And thank you for warning me, Sergeant Aubert. I owe the both of you a debt of gratitude.”
“Be grateful at least that your trousers are dry,” said Aubert.
“Believe me, Sergeant, I would much rather have wet boules than one of those monsters inside my boots,” said Rémy.
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