He gazed northward in the direction of Mount Pelée, but the mountain was enveloped in a thick gray cloud. There was an ominous low rumbling that resembled underground thunder and the air smelled foul again. Didn’t all the experts say the volcano was extinct? What a ludicrous assessment! Nobody in his right mind would believe that. Then again, there could be some truth to the claim that the volcano was settling down again. But what if they were all wrong? He sat down and jotted out two telegrams, and then he went upstairs to pack an overnight bag, and he told his wife he was heading up to Saint-Pierre for a meeting with the scientific committee. He looked at the clock. It was seven a.m.
On his way to the ferry, Mouttet stepped into the telegraph office. When the operators saw him, they bolted upright.
“Good morning, Governor,” said one of the wireless operators. “Nice seeing you today.”
“Which one of you is Coppet?” said Mouttet.
“That would be me, sir,” said the young man standing up straighter.
“I need you to send this urgent telegram to the Colonial Office, and I must have their response today. I’ve written it down for you. And here’s another one for Mayor Fouché. Give them top priority. I’m heading up to Prêcheur to inspect the damage in the town, but I should be back to Saint-Pierre by noon.”
“Yes, sir. Right away.”
Coppet put on his headphones and began tapping his Morse key as fast as he could.
Fort-de-France 3 May.
To Decrais, Minister of Colonies: The volcano known as Mount Pelée is in eruption. Large quantities of ash and cinders are covering the surrounding countryside where the inhabitants were forced to flee and find refuge in Prêcheur, Saint-Philomène, and Saint-Pierre. Explosions have been heard and at 2:00 am the crater spat forth flames and ejected large projectiles, some of which fell on the district of Prêcheur, more than 2 km from the summit. Please advise if large-scale evacuation is in order. We are in desperate need of food, supplies, and vaccines. Large loss of cattle and agricultural produce. HHeading up to Prêcheur to deliver first round of aid and to inspect the damage.
L. Mouttet
“There, sir, it’s been sent,” said Coppet. “Here’s your copy.”
“Thank you,” said Mouttet, pocketing the slip of paper. “I’ll be staying at the Hôtel Intendance. Please send the reply there as soon as you receive it.”
“Certainly, sir.”
After Coppet had sent the second telegram, Mouttet left the telegraph office and headed to the wharf. Crowds of people were pointing at Mount Pelée in alarm, their fearful voices rising above the noise of traffic. When he arrived, he was relieved to see they were already loading boxes of supplies onto the Rubis for transport to Prêcheur. Waiting for him was his aide-de-camp, Didier, who was organizing the transport. Good, plenty of food and supplies. That should keep the people happy and settled for the time being. For once Mouttet was starting to feel as if the situation was under control. As the steamer pushed off from the dock, he felt the weight coming off his shoulders.
Chapter 28
Saturday, May 3
Emilie woke to find a nurse opening the shutters. The sky was dark outside, as if a black cloud had blotted out the sun. When the wind blew particles of ash inside, the nurse quickly closed the shutters and covered them with a white sheet. Then she turned on a kerosene lamp for light. Emilie blinked a few times, but her vision was still fuzzy. It looked as if she was lying in a hospital bed in a room that smelled of urine and disinfectant. Everything was white—the walls, the sheets, the porcelain receptacle, the nurse’s uniform, even the hospital gown she was wearing, but the bed was made of cast iron, and she could feel the steel slats beneath the thin mattress. Beside her bed was a table containing a metal tray with a syringe and a bottle labeled morphia, and on the wall facing her was a crucifix and a basin with free-flowing spring water, the only adornments in the otherwise bare room.
The nurse noticed her fluttering eyelids and came over to check her pulse. She was a beautiful mulâtresse who wore the white habit and veil belonging to the order of Saint-Paul de Chartres, the nuns responsible for caring for society’s most vulnerable: the orphans, the poor, and the wounded soldiers in the military hospital. They also cared for the lunatics in the asylum on rue Levassor. Emilie’s eyes widened and she felt a surge of panic. She tried to sit up, but she couldn’t move her feet. Something cold and hard was restraining her.
“Where am I?” said Emilie, struggling against the restraints.
“No, no, no,” said the nurse, pushing her back down. “You’re not ready yet. Doctor said you must rest. You’ve had a terrible trauma.”
Emilie groaned as the painful memory came flooding back. She could remember only traces of it: shouting men, struggling horses, an avalanche of black mud, her father’s terrified face, a gunshot, and bodies sinking in the mud. Then came darkness. After that, her memory went blank.
“I must go and find my mother,” said Emilie with renewed vigor. She tried to sit up again, but this time she realized her feet were shackled to the bed. Shackled? “What’s this? Why am I being held like this?”
“It’s for your own good,” said the nurse, pushing her back down. “The doctor was afraid you would hurt yourself if you got up too soon. He ordered strict bed rest. Anyway, now is not the time to be out on the road. The entire town is covered in ash and soot. There’s almost no fresh water to drink. Animals are dying of suffocation. People are panicking, and rivière Roxelane is flooding again.”
The entire town is covered in ash?
“Sister, how long have I been here?”
“Since yesterday,” said the nurse. “Last night at midnight, loud explosions were coming from Mount Pelée. I was afraid you would wake up. When I looked out, I saw lightning and a huge column of black smoke shooting out of the crater, sending ashes and cinders raining all over the city. About two hours later, flames were shooting out, and large pumice stones began to fall on the roofs. We could hear them bouncing on the rooftops. Everyone ran to the chapel to pray, and this morning when we awoke, the entire city was covered in ash. The patients were howling in fear, but you managed to sleep through it. We kept you heavily sedated.”
“I don’t remember a thing.”
The nurse looked at her with pity. “Given what you’ve been through, you’re lucky. Some people have recurring memories of tragedies, and they never fully recover. I think you’ll be fine once you’ve rested. The doctor has high hopes for your full recovery. Anyway, you’re much safer here than out there. Everyone is anxious and afraid. Fights have broken out. Some people are packing up all their belongings into donkey carts and heading south. I heard from Sister Marie-Denise that people are crowding into the churches and fighting for places at the confessional.”
“Why?” said Emilie.
“They want absolution. They want peace in their hearts. People think the end is near. Thank goodness the governor arrived this morning to calm everyone down. Hundreds of people from Prêcheur are flooding into the city, but most are stuck along the coast with nowhere to go. There’s almost no food left, so they’re getting panicky. People are so frightened they are fleeing their homes and are paying exorbitant amounts to leave on steamships and ferries. The roads are almost all blocked. But no matter where you go, there’s no escaping the constant ashfall and the horrible smell of rotten eggs. There are so many extra mouths to feed, I don’t know how we’ll cope.”
From outside her room, Emilie could hear the agonizing moans of the other patients. They were demanding to be set free. She also heard the sound of metal clanging, as if the patients were banging their chains. She felt a shiver up her spine.
“Nurse, where am I?” she said.
“The Colonial Health Institute,” said the nurse, avoiding her gaze.
Emilie froze. The lunatic asylum?
“Why am I here?” she said. “Who brought me here?”
“Your fiancé found you in a catatonic state after an avalanche buried pa
rt of your plantation. He brought you here yesterday. He said you had witnessed a terrible tragedy and needed help. But perhaps you’re not ready to talk about it yet.”
Lucien brought me here? “What day is it today?”
“Saturday.”
“I meant what date?”
The nurse eyed her. “The third of May. Why do you ask?” She poured a cup of water from a pitcher. “Here; drink this.”
Emilie brought the cup to her lips and drank. She could take only a few sips before the trauma returned, a haunting vision of death that caused her stomach to clench, her heart to race, and perspiration to ooze from her pores. The blood drained from her face as the memory came flooding back. The horses, the mud, the terrified faces, the screams, the shouts, her father’s anguish . . . the gunshot . . . the final gunshot . . . She handed the cup back to the nurse, laid her head against the pillow, and sobbed, her cries mingling with the anguished shrieks that reverberated from down the hall until it was a ghastly chorus. Tears streamed down Emilie’s face. She felt a cold compress against her forehead and the pinch of a needle in her arm, and soon everything went black again.
The next time she opened her eyes, it was night. It was quiet. The only light came from a kerosene lamp beside her bed. Her legs were still shackled to the bed, and cold beads of perspiration ran down her temples. She had no idea how long she had slept, but she felt as if she would burst. Left with no choice, she called for the nurse, and when there was no answer, she grabbed the cup and banged it on the metal tray as she screamed for help. Soon a nurse appeared in the room with a jangle of keys in one hand and a porcelain bedpan in the other. After Emilie had relieved herself, she said, “Nurse, please take these shackles off. I want to get up and stretch my legs.”
The nurse shook her head. “I will ask the doctor tomorrow, but tonight that’s impossible. I’m sorry.”
The nurse ran a cold compress against her forehead.
Emilie turned to face her. “I have to see my mother and nurse. Are they all right?”
“Your mother is being cared for at home. Your nurse is with her. Your fiancé has assumed all responsibility for your care.”
The implications of that were terrifying. Emilie felt a tightening in her throat.
The nurse picked up the syringe and gave her another shot of morphia. Emilie closed her eyes again, tormented by the feeling of utter helplessness. The cold shackles pressing against her legs reminded her of her imprisoned state.
The next time she awoke, it was morning. Suddenly her mind was clear. She lay in bed for several minutes, remembering the events that had led to her being brought to the hospital. She recalled Da Rosette’s anguished cries when Lucien had carried her back to the house. “Doudou, what happened to you?” the old woman had said through tear-streaked eyes. Emilie was paralyzed with grief and shock, but she remembered Abbé Morel’s worried face as Lucien carried her inside. The house was in complete disorder, and when Lucien and Durancy told her mother and Da Rosette about the tragedy, her mother had collapsed on the floor. The servants swarmed around her and lifted her to the sofa, while Da Rosette crossed herself and prayed feverishly. Everything was in chaos. Several workers had grabbed horses and tools and raced to the avalanche in the hopes of rescuing the trapped men, but it was too late. The men’s anguished cries echoed across the fields, sending the remaining workers into a frenzy. The plantation had suffered a devastating death blow.
Da Rosette tried to revive Emilie with smelling salts, but she was too much in shock. Left with no choice, Lucien decided to take her to the hospital on rue Levassor, where she would be better cared for. Hearing this, Abbé Morel became noticeably agitated. He tried to reason with Lucien that no one would take better care of Emilie than her nurse, but Lucien refused to listen to him. Abbé Morel tried to prevent him from taking Emilie, but it was no use. When Lucien picked up Emilie and carried her outside, Abbé rushed after him, begging Lucien to allow him to accompany them, at which point Lucien pushed the priest away. “No, Abbé! Go back to the house and keep watch over her mother.” Through tearstained eyes, Emilie saw Abbé Morel’s face fall. His countenance clouded over, but he said nothing. And then the carriage rolled away, and Abbé Morel’s figure grew smaller and smaller while she sat there feeling helpless. It was all hazy now, but bits and pieces were starting to come back.
When the nurse came in to check on her, Emilie said, “Nurse, what day is it?”
“Sunday, the Lord’s day.”
“I mean, what day of the month is it?”
The nurse looked at her. “The fourth of May.”
Emilie tried to appear strong. “May I leave now?”
The nurse shook her head. “No, my dear. Now is not the time. The whole city is covered in ash. The air is foul, and everyone is afraid to leave their homes. Horses are collapsing from asphyxiation. Even dogs and cats are dropping dead. Everywhere you look, hummingbirds lie dead by the hundreds, covered with ash. It’s too dangerous to leave the hospital grounds. Many of the wealthier families are fleeing to Fort-de-France, which leaves the poor people in greater anguish. They have nowhere to go. Last night in the cathedral, some desperate people ran to the altar yelling that they were going to die. A young woman fainted. They had to carry her to the hospital. The priests tried to calm the people down with prayers and blessings, but it did little to quell the fear. Here, I brought you a copy of Les Colonies to read with your breakfast. Later I will come and pray with you.” She placed a newspaper in Emilie’s hands and a tray of food in her lap.
Emilie picked it up and read the headlined article.
The rain of ashes never ceases. At about half-past nine the sun shone forth timidly. The passing of carriages is no longer heard in the streets. The wheels are muffled. The ancient trucks creak languidly on their worn tires. Puffs of wind sweep the ashes from the roofs and awnings and blow them into the rooms whose windows have been imprudently left open. Shops which had their doors half-closed are now barred up entirely . . .
My God, is the world coming to an end? Emilie set the newspaper aside. She tried to calm the beating of her heart, but it was impossible. An intense feeling of claustrophobia came over her, which she tried to conceal in her attempt to appear strong. But truth be told, the room was small and growing smaller by the minute. Her fear and anxiety were threatening to overcome her powers of reason. She had to fight at all costs.
“Nurse! I have to get out of here. My mother needs me. My father is dead, and someone has to take care of her. I’m sure Da Rosette is frantic with worry. Our house lies in the direct path of the volcano . . .”
The nurse shook her head. “I’m sorry; I can’t let you go. Not even to the courtyard. The air outside is not fit to breathe. Doctor’s orders.”
Emilie felt the sweat trickling down her forehead and her heart racing. With the shutters closed, there was no fresh air; the acrid odor of rotten eggs was nauseating, suffocating. Her mouth was dry, and her feeling of claustrophobia was increasing. She saw the walls of the hospital crashing down over her head, crushing her.
“Please, Nurse. Please take these shackles off. I have to get home.”
“No, dear, you must eat. You’re getting weaker by the day.”
Suddenly Emilie saw a vision. She recalled what the Grand Zamy had told her when he lifted up the tarot card that depicted a tower and a vision of impending death: A fire that will consume everything in its path, like a fiery furnace . . . a great destruction . . . and death, tremendous death: a massacre!
By now Emilie was gasping for breath. “Please let me go! I’m in grave danger. I must get out of here!”
The nurse shook her head. “Nonsense; you are perfectly safe here.”
“You don’t understand. The volcano . . . we’re all in grave danger. Please let me go.”
But the nurse only shook her head again and took Emilie’s pulse. She frowned as she made a note on her chart. Desperate, Emilie tugged at the nurse’s habit. “Please listen to me. The volcano . . . pl
ease let me out of here!”
But the nurse pretended not to hear her. She turned her back and poured a fresh cup of water from a pitcher. She left it on the table next to Emilie and then set about tidying the room, sweeping the floor, and emptying the bedpan in the gutter. Then, without another word, she left. Emilie watched her go with sad resignation. She felt invisible, powerless, and helpless. It was all too apparent the nurse was used to dealing with the insane, those written off as a lost cause. She took a bite of food but spat it out. Then she collapsed on the pillow, groaning as tears coursed down her cheeks. Her mind was numb from the tragedy, and her heart ached from the trauma. The pain was still raw. Now she had to contend with her own inevitable grim fate. She was locked up in a lunatic asylum with an erupting volcano only five miles away, and there was nothing she could do about it. Her fate was sealed in the cards. Suddenly the room felt more like a prison than a hospital. Maybe it really was a prison. A prison for the insane. Listening to the moaning and shrieking of the patients down the hall, Emilie realized her only chance of survival was escape.
Chapter 29
Saturday, May 3
In the infantry barracks, Rémy was starting to get uneasy about the situation. He barely slept the whole night. Since midnight, the volcano was belching out enormous black clouds, while lightning illuminated the purple-gray sky. It was like being in the middle of a maelstrom. He could not understand how the people of Martinique could take the volcano’s pyrotechnics in their stride. He had never seen such a display of nature’s power. It was like a message from heaven. When he finally awoke on Saturday morning, the entire town of Saint-Pierre was coated in a thick layer of ash. There was a pervasive sulfurous smell, and rivière Roxelane had turned into a raging torrent. The usual gaggle of washerwomen was gone. Even the usually cheerful fishermen looked gloomy.
Island on Fire Page 20