“Good idea, I’ll make that a priority,” said Mouttet. “Anything else to add?”
“Yes, Governor,” said Ferdinand, consulting his notes. “From an engineering standpoint, we have been studying the ability of the structures to withstand the shock from the tremors as well as the accumulation of ash, pumice, and other projectiles. Then there’s always the risk of fire. At the present rate, the buildings will hold out, but if the debris increases in size and intensity, we could have a serious problem on our hands.”
“Point noted,” said Governor Mouttet. “M. Fouché, put your firemen on high alert. We must avoid the risk of fire at all costs.”
M. Ferdinand continued, “And one final point I wish to make is this: Are the roads capable of supporting a full evacuation?”
“Why wouldn’t they be?” said Mouttet.
“Well, for one thing, there is only one coastal road that leads directly to Le Carbet and Fort-de-France. Right now the conditions are poor. If it rains and floods, we can expect massive delays and further problems.”
“Such as?”
“In their present condition, the roads will never withstand the heavy wagon traffic that a massive evacuation would entail,” said Ferdinand. “Within a few hours, it would become a quagmire, vehicles would get stuck, and most of the civilians would only be able to get out on foot, which means only the young and strong would make it. The sick and elderly wouldn’t have a chance.”
“He’s right about that,” agreed Mirville.
Ferdinand continued, “With regard to the ongoing earthquakes, our office feels the multistory masonry buildings are in no direct danger of collapsing, so rest assured that on that issue alone, there is no reason to evacuate Saint-Pierre.”
“Excellent; thank you very much,” said Governor Mouttet. “Now, Professor Landes, with regard to the sulfurous fumes, do they pose a health hazard to the public?”
Landes tented his hands. “I have thought about this matter a great deal. While we have all seen birds plummeting to the ground after being asphyxiated and we’ve heard rumors about horses dropping dead in the same manner, I’ve concluded this is mostly exaggeration. While it’s true the birds can fly directly into clouds of fumes and grow disoriented and die, this is not a problem for horses and certainly not for humans. With regard to asphyxiation, so far we have seen only the severely ill coughing and wheezing. I have no reason to suspect it will become a health hazard for the general population.”
“I agree with Professor Landes,” said Mirville. “If the atmosphere were truly poisonous, wouldn’t dozens of people be dying already? So far not a single person has died of asphyxiation, and it seems highly unlikely.”
“Very well,” said Governor Mouttet. “Now moving forward, based on your findings at the summit, gentlemen, can you give us an approximate date as to when the volcano will quiet down? I seem to recall you mentioning at a previous meeting that the volcano was on the wane.”
Landes shook his head. “Governor, I’m afraid we can’t do that. It’s impossible.”
“I don’t need a scientifically accurate date. Just give me a reasonable date, something we can print in the newspaper—perhaps Ascension Day?”
There was a stir around the table.
“That’s absurd,” said Landes. “No one can predict when the volcano will settle down. It may take weeks, months, or even years. Mount Vesuvius was rumbling for several months before it erupted.” He fell silent before adding, “Given the severe nature of the ashfall and tremors, I think we have to consider the possibility that we may soon have a major eruption on our hands.”
The room fell silent. Rémy and Landes exchanged a quick glance but said nothing.
Mouttet twitched his moustache. “Professor, I was under the impression that this was just a passing phase. That’s what you and M. Mirville have been telling me all along. That’s what the newspapers have been printing. Are you telling me this has all been a farce?”
“No, but—” began Landes.
Rémy interrupted Landes. “Governor, allow me to shed some light on the matter. Last night while I was observing Mount Pelée, I heard several explosions coming from the crater, followed by flashes of lightning. The rivers are inundated with mud and debris. The carcasses of cattle are floating out to sea, and the ash is beginning to pile up on every surface for miles. As we speak, the water supply is becoming tainted by sulfur and volcanic mud. Animals are dying. Frankly, I’m not sure how much longer the city can hold out. I think we have to start taking the volcano more seriously. We may have a life-threatening situation on our hands.”
“He’s right,” added Capt. Matthieu Alexandre of the gendarmerie. “Saint-Pierre is being besieged constantly by refugees. If law and order break down, my men will be outnumbered. The situation is reaching a critical point.”
There was a loud murmur around the table and a great shuffling of feet.
Mouttet motioned for them to be quiet. “Gentlemen, you’re making it sound as if we have a genuine crisis on our hands. I need assurance this is not the case.”
“And there’s something else,” added Rémy, looking around the table. “I hesitated to voice my opinion before, but I’ve been doing a great deal of reading on the matter, and I believe I’ve found some striking similarities between Saint-Pierre and Pompeii.”
“Do you care to elaborate?” said Mouttet.
“Both Saint-Pierre and Pompeii are ports. Both cities were built in the shadow of a live volcano and experienced similar earth tremors and a pervasive sulfur smell. In addition, both towns experienced lengthy fallout of ashes and cinders prior to eruption . . .”
“Isn’t that just a coincidence?” interrupted Mouttet. “By all accounts, Mount Pelée is extinct. Isn’t that what you gentlemen have been telling me since last February, that the volcano is just going through a passing phase?”
“Well, yes and no,” said Landes, leaning forward. “No one can say for certain Pelée is extinct, nor can we say for certain when it will erupt, but I’m of the opinion that anything can happen. I believe we must prepare for a worst-case scenario. That is the only responsible way to handle the matter.”
The room burst into anxious chatter. Some of the men burst out laughing. Rémy gazed at their faces, feeling utter disgust. Don’t they realize they could all be dead in twenty-four hours?
Rémy added, “Actually, Governor, there’s something else I neglected to mention. There’s one very important distinction between Saint-Pierre and Pompeii.”
“What’s that?”
“Most of the residents of Pompeii fled before the eruption, while here in Saint-Pierre, our population swells every day with refugees. And we have an administration that refuses to face the fact that we may have a potential catastrophe on our hands.”
Mouttet’s face darkened. “Thank you, Lieutenant Rémy, but now is not the time for hysterics. We must be sober and deal with the situation one crisis at a time.”
“My point is that the people of Saint-Pierre are reacting with too much indifference,” said Rémy. “Everyone seems to have a blind faith that the government will protect them. Look around: everything is covered with ash. It blows in your eyes, gets inside your clothes, and contaminates your food. Every home has layers of ash and cinders inside, and they penetrate into the cupboards and the closets. Every piece of silver is tarnished. When you walk outside, your clothes, your hat, your shoes, everything is covered with ash. And I hear in the botanical garden the birds are asphyxiating. We have actual cases of horses dropping dead in the streets—not rumors. The countryside is covered in so much ash and cinders, it looks like a winter scene. We ignore these signs at our own peril.”
Marius Hurard, who had been sitting in the corner watching with interest, spoke up: “Gentlemen, up to now I’ve held my tongue, but on this issue I feel compelled to voice my opinion. I’m of the belief that spreading alarm is part of the Radical Socialist policy, the policy of our dear friend, M. Knight. If we cave in to fear, we clear a p
ath for their victory in the upcoming election. I propose we remain composed until the whole thing blows over. The only volcanic eruption I’m seeing is in everyone’s minds.”
Rémy and Landes exchanged an almost imperceptible glance.
“Hear, hear,” said Governor Mouttet. “I’m prepared to post troops outside of town with orders to stop any citizens from leaving who might spread panic or false rumors.”
Colonel Fournier, who had been silent up to now, spoke out. “Governor, I see no reason why we can’t evacuate at least the women and children. The safest and most effective route is by sea. There are a dozen ships in the harbor as we speak, any one of which could take several hundred people at a time. The refugees could camp as far south as Trois-Islets, safe from any potential lava flow. In my opinion, this is the only sensible course of action.”
“That’s preposterous,” said Marius Hurard. “There’s no history of lava flow in any West Indian volcano. An evacuation of any sort is likely to cause panic and will most certainly cost the Progressives the election.”
“M. Hurard, that is unconscionable,” said Colonel Fournier. “And I won’t stand for it. We’re talking about human lives, but all you seem to care about is politics. At this point, the election is of secondary importance.”
“The fact is,” said Professor Landes, “based on the position of the craters and the ravines that run down the slopes, we cannot guarantee the security of Saint-Pierre. I believe an evacuation, even a partial evacuation, is warranted.”
The men erupted in more squabbling and shouting. As Mouttet tried to quiet them down, Didier, the governor’s secretary, stormed into the dining room.
“Governor, I’ve just received word that the undersea cable linking Saint-Pierre and Dominica has been ruptured,” he said. “We’ve ordered the cable repair ship Grappler out to fix the cable to Guadeloupe, but they still haven’t solved the problem. We have loads of backed-up messages, so I took the liberty of requesting immediate assistance from Saint Lucia. I’ve just received word that Admiral Pierre Goudon has ordered the cable steamer Pouyer-Quertier to leave Castries at once and attend to the repairs. Meanwhile, our telegraphers are rerouting all messages over the remaining six cables.”
“Have we heard back from the Colonial Office?” said Mouttet.
“Not yet, sir.”
Mouttet looked noticeably agitated. “Resend the telegram at once, informing Decrais the situation is urgent, that Pelée appears to be in eruption. Tell him large quantities of ash are falling on the north side of the island, and the explosions are becoming more frequent and more volatile. Tell him to send aid at once, including medical aid for the smallpox victims. Meanwhile, Captain Alexandre, send some of the gendarmes down to Le Carbet with a wagon instructing the grocers to fill it up with supplies for the civilians flooding into Saint-Pierre. We must reassure them that they are safe and food is on the way. Otherwise, I fear we may have a breakdown in law and order.”
Captain Alexandre stiffened. “I assure you the gendarmes are well trained to ensure that law and order are maintained. And we will distribute the food as soon as it arrives.”
“And there’s one more thing, sir,” said Didier. “I’ve just received word of some civilian deaths on a plantation due north of here. They are asking for immediate assistance from the gendarmerie.”
“A plantation?” said Rémy, suddenly alarmed. “Which one?”
“Domaine Solitude, just north of here,” said Didier. “It’s owned by a man named Georges Dujon.”
Chapter 31
By the time Rémy reached Domaine Solitude, the plantation was in a state of chaos. The field workers were deserting the fields in droves. Cutlasses and pruning sticks lay strewn about like the remnants of a deserting army. The henhouse had been raided; not a single chicken remained. The few horses remaining in the stable were being guarded by a vigilant young stableboy, but the animals were in such a state of distress, they were neighing and stamping their hooves. There was no sign of Georges Dujon. When Rémy asked a passing worker what had happened, the man made the sign of the cross and fled to the cottages down in the valley.
Rémy ran up the stairs to the front door of the villa and entered. Inside, the sounds of crying and wailing reverberated down the hall. He spied a young servant girl heading for the door who told him that most of the household help had already fled, leaving only a few remaining servants to take care of Mme Dujon, who was in an agitated state. He asked about Emilie, but the woman only shook her head and departed. Alarmed, Rémy headed to the salon, where he found Mme Dujon in hysterics, flanked by the elderly nurse, a young servant girl, and a priest. Mme Dujon was sobbing violently, clutching her rosary beads while the priest prayed over her in Latin. As soon as he saw Rémy, he nodded toward the officer, and after blessing the woman, ushered him out to the hall, where they could speak in confidence.
“Pardon me for intruding, Abbé,” said Rémy, removing his helmet. “My name is Lt. Denis Rémy of the Fourth Regiment, sent by the garrison commander to assist you. Can you tell me exactly what happened?”
“There was an avalanche and a large loss of life,” said the priest, ashen-faced. “It came down from Mount Pelée in torrents, burying several acres and half a dozen men, including Georges Dujon himself. They have yet to recover the bodies.”
Rémy was horrified. “And you are quite certain M. Dujon is dead?”
The priest nodded. “Two people witnessed it, including his daughter Emilie, but there was nothing anyone could do. It happened so quickly. And now the poor girl is distraught. I don’t know what will become of her.”
“Where is she?”
“A gentleman came and took her away.”
Rémy grabbed his arm. “Please tell me the name of this man. I must know!”
“It was her fiancé, Lucien Monplaisir.”
A wave of alarm swept over Rémy. “Did he say where he was taking her? I must find her before something terrible happens.”
“He said he was taking her to the hospital on rue Levassor.”
Rémy’s eyes widened. “The lunatic asylum?”
“The poor girl was in shock,” said Abbé Morel. “She was screaming and crying. The situation was chaotic. Madame was beside herself with grief . . .”
“I should have known, the scoundrel!” said Rémy, his voice tinged with disgust. “Abbé, why did you let him take her?”
“She was in hysterics,” said the priest. “There was nothing we could do. I figured the sisters would take good care of her.”
“God help her!” said Rémy; he made a fist and banged the wall. Why, oh why did I let her come back? In his mind’s eye, he could see the expression of blind terror on her face as she witnessed her father sinking in the mud. He blamed himself for not keeping her in Saint-Pierre, where at least he could have protected her. Damn that scoundrel, Lucien!
Abbé Morel’s eyes clouded over. “I tried to calm her, Lieutenant, honestly I did, but she was so overcome with fright, I couldn’t reason with her. And when I tried to stop M. Monplaisir from taking her away, he pushed me with such a violent force I feared the worst. By that time, it was too late. Emilie tried to warn me about Lucien’s character, but I didn’t act quickly enough. I failed her. I fear she will never forgive me.”
The priest buried his face in his hands.
Rémy put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t blame yourself, Abbé. Now is not the time for regret. I have to find her and get her out of there. I should have known Lucien would be capable of doing something like this. I only wish I had gotten here sooner.”
“Do you know the man?” said the priest, still ashen-faced.
“Unfortunately, I do,” said Rémy. “He’s a ruthless scoundrel. He gave me a nasty crack on the head with a broken bottle. I’m not surprised he would lock Emilie up in the lunatic asylum. The man has no scruples. I have to get her out of there. She must be terrified.”
“Oh dear, this is all my fault . . .” said Abbé Morel, his voice breakin
g. “I should have done more to protect her. If only she knew how much I love her, how much it pains me that I failed her.”
“I’m sure she knows,” said Rémy. “But right now we’re in the middle of an emergency. There will be time for explanations later. I have to find her and get her out of there.”
Abbé Morel’s face turned grave. “Lieutenant, if something were to happen to me . . . and by this I mean if I should not survive this disaster, please take good care of Emilie. You seem like an honorable man. Her father’s dead, her brother is dying, and her mother had a nervous breakdown. She has no one else. Please promise me that.”
Rémy assured him that he would.
“Lieutenant, there’s something I don’t understand,” said Abbé Morel. “How do you know Emilie?”
“We met while I was on the scientific committee. She asked to join our party, and I didn’t have the heart to say no. The truth is, I grew quite fond of her during the expedition. When I heard about the mudslide, I feared for her safety. I knew the Dujon plantation lay in the direct path of the volcano, and I blame myself for letting her return home while the danger was so evident. I only wish I’d gotten here sooner.”
Abbé Morel’s face radiated with understanding. “Then I fear not for your safety for it is written, ‘Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.’ Please find her and take good care of her. I’m sure she’s terribly distressed.”
The priest poured Rémy a glass of rum. “Here, drink some of this. It will calm your nerves.”
Rémy downed it in one gulp and then studied Abbé Morel’s face as a realization dawned on him.
“Abbé, are you Emilie’s cousin, the priest?”
“Indeed, I am,” said Abbé Morel.
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