“She told me about you. You can rest assured she loves you dearly.”
“I just hope there’s some way I can make this up to her,” said the priest. “I must return to Saint-Pierre now, but please do everything you can to get Emilie out of that place. You can send her to her cousin’s house in Morne-Rouge. She’ll be safe there. As for me, I’m needed back at the prison.”
“What about Mme Dujon?” said Rémy, motioning to the stricken woman who lay on the couch.
Abbé Morel reflected for a moment. “We should send her up to Morne-Rouge as well. She’ll be safe there. As for me, I will ride back to Saint-Pierre with you. I’ll tell Da Rosette to prepare Madame for the trip.”
He bent down and whispered something to Da Rosette, who looked at the stranger with immediate understanding. She whispered something back in Creole, of which Rémy could only pick up a few passing words.
“The nurse says Madame is still in shock from losing her husband. Perhaps they should stay here until she improves.”
Rémy shook his head. “No, I have reason to suspect the plantation is still in danger from the volcano. We have to evacuate everyone for their safety.”
After making plans to send Mme Dujon and Da Rosette up to Morne-Rouge with the remaining house servants, Rémy ordered all the workers to evacuate their cottages and head south until the volcano calmed down. Then he mounted his horse while Abbé Morel mounted his donkey, and together they headed back to Saint-Pierre. During the ride Rémy found Abbé Morel to be a warm and affable companion. The Jesuit shared with him many stories about his travels to far-flung islands to minister to the poor. Rémy was deeply moved by Abbé Morel’s accounts of self-sacrifice; he could easily understand why Emilie was so fond of him.
Just as Saint-Pierre was coming into view, they heard cries and wails echoing from the town. A crowd of people had gathered near the Mouillage. Everything seemed to be in disarray. A few ships hoisted sail and were heading back out to sea, which threw the remaining ships in panic. Sailors were rushing about on the decks trying to put order as the small skiffs paddled back toward shore. Rémy raised himself in the saddle so he could see better and was shocked to see waves of people running through the streets, causing pandemonium as ashes rained down over their heads. It was just as he feared.
A soldier galloped furiously toward them. When he approached, Rémy could see it was Sergeant Aubert. He halted just in front of them, saluted, and explained that Captain Renoult had ordered Rémy back to the garrison for urgent new orders.
“Thank you, Sergeant,” said Rémy. Turning to Abbé Morel he said, “It seems I’m needed back at the garrison after all, but I will search for Mlle Emilie the first chance I get. Please don’t worry. She’ll be safe with me.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” said Abbé Morel. “Go and may God protect you.”
Riding back toward town, Rémy watched the priest heading down rue Victor Hugo on his faithful donkey, a lonely figure with the weight of the world on his shoulders.
Chapter 32
When Rémy reached Saint-Pierre, the city was in a state of panic. Ash was falling, creating confusion. The streets were clogged with refugees who were camped outside, milling about aimlessly or seeking shelter and sustenance. Aubert and Rémy rode over the ash-covered cobblestones, wondering how much more the refugees would have to endure. The crowd was so thick, especially near the cathedral on rue Victor Hugo, that it was almost impossible to wend through the disorder. Desperation showed on everyone’s faces. People were fighting to get through the doors to baptize their children or to confess their sins. Babies were crying. Mothers looked frantic. Troops from the garrison were attempting to clear the area, but there was no place for the people to go. The city was swiftly running out of accommodations. A few nuns were distributing food and water since the public fountains were clogged with ash, but there was little to go around. Everywhere he looked, there were piles of ashes with the crumpled bodies of dead birds. He wondered how much longer it would be before the people started asphyxiating as well.
The air was cloudy from swirling ash, causing the people to cough and wheeze. Almost everyone had a damp handkerchief tied around their nose and mouth. A young barefoot mother in tattered clothing and a forlorn turban sat nursing her infant in an alleyway. An old man with a cane stood outside place Bertin praying the rosary, while two gendarmes led a shackled man who’d been accused of looting to jail. Clearly the people were starving. They were desperate. A young corporal told Rémy the people were so hungry, they were looting the shops and warehouses in the Figuier Quarter. To Rémy the situation looked bleak, yet all he could think about was Emilie. He wondered if she was safe. He felt a tightening of his chest at her dire predicament. He loathed Lucien Monplaisir as he had never loathed a man before for locking her up in a lunatic asylum. That he could tear the young woman away from her loved ones and lock her up against her will made him seethe with anger. He was certain Emilie was alone and frightened, forgotten on an island gone stark raving mad.
When he arrived at the fort, he left his horse at the stable and marched into the captain’s office, feeling a knot in his stomach.
“Lieutenant Rémy reporting for duty, sir,” he said, saluting.
Captain Renoult stubbed out his cigarette and returned the salute. “Ah, Rémy, just the man I wished to see. The governor has asked for additional troops to keep the peace and supervise the distribution of food. I’m putting you in charge of a detachment of thirty infantrymen to stop the looting and to evict people from hotels and bars, where they have been demanding free food and shelter. After that I want you to guard the southern road that leads out of town.”
Rémy furrowed his brow. “Guard the southern road? Wouldn’t it be more effective to evacuate the people to relieve the overcrowding?”
Renoult shook his head. “The mayor refuses to evacuate the town. He wants law and order restored. Fights have been breaking out between the local residents and the refugees over food and shelter.”
“How can we calm the people down when there is no food or shelter?” said Rémy.
“That’s not my problem,” said Renoult. “The main issue right now is restoring law and order. See that something is done about it.”
“Yes, sir,” said Rémy. “But there is something important I must attend to first.”
“What’s that?” said Renoult, fixing his hooded eyes on him.
“There’s a young woman in the hospital who—”
“There’s no time for that now,” said Renoult with a dismissive wave. “We have much bigger problems to handle. I’m sure the woman, whoever she is, is in good hands. Carry on now.”
“Yes, Captain.” Left with no choice, Rémy saluted, did an about-face, and marched out.
Rémy spent the day patrolling the streets of Saint-Pierre with his soldiers, breaking up fights and removing squatters from inns and public areas and then relocating them to the barracks, the hospital, and other areas that had been set aside for the refugees. Some of the people showed signs of smallpox, in which case they were hauled off to the isolation ward in the military hospital. By midafternoon Rémy was worn out, wondering what would happen if a massive outbreak of smallpox occurred in the middle of the volcanic eruption. Thousands could be stricken. Did the island have enough resources to deal with a large-scale disaster?
In the midst of his turmoil, he arrived at a bar called Le Vieux Cocotier, where a disturbance was in process. Some drunken patrons were demanding free food and rum, but the owner was ordering them to leave. People were leaning in through the windows, shouting and yelling, adding to the disorder. Marching in through the crowd, Rémy ordered the men to disperse. The leader, a strapping young field hand who was clearly drunk, threw a punch at Rémy. He blocked the man’s fist and heaved him aside, where he crashed into some tables, tumbling to the ground. Furious, the man recovered and lunged at Rémy, but luckily he retrieved a bottle and broke it over his assailant’s head, knocking him unconscious. Seeing tha
t no other rioters dared raise their fists at him, Rémy ordered the soldiers to carry the recalcitrant field hand to prison for the night. Then he ordered everyone else to clear out of the saloon and told the owner to lock up and send everyone home.
In this manner Rémy and his soldiers went from saloon to saloon and from inn to inn, clearing out the ruckus. But it did little to improve the situation, as there was almost nowhere for the people to go. Many were reduced to sleeping in alleyways or camping out on the beach in makeshift tents. Some were cooking on the side of the road with pots and skillets set up over small fires. Fear and uncertainty showed in everyone’s faces. Children were sleeping in the arms of their weary mothers. Fish bones, crab shells, and empty rum bottles lay strewn about on the roads and sidewalks, adding to the disorder. Will this madness ever end? Rémy tried putting as many homeless people as possible in the barracks, but conditions were becoming increasingly unsanitary. They had run out of beds, and people were reduced to sleeping in the hallways. He began to feel as though the situation was hopeless, that the city was somehow doomed.
Chapter 33
Sunday, May 4
When Emilie awoke, it was night. At least by the darkness, it appeared to be night. The hospital was quiet. The rumbling had abated. The shrieking of the patients had died down, if only temporarily. The only light came from a small kerosene lamp that glowed in the corner. She was thankful for the light, as without it the room would have the warmth of a stone crypt. She shuddered, thinking how terrifying it would be to wake up in the dark not knowing what was going on around her, whether she was alive or dead, whether she had been forgotten in the chaos. That alone could drive a person mad, she thought. The lack of fresh air and the nauseating smell of rotten eggs caused her to cough and gag. The fumes were relentless and only served to increase her feelings of claustrophobia and helplessness. Outside, she could hear rivière Roxelane flowing furiously toward the sea. It sounded like an overflow. She tried to guess what time it was, but it was impossible. Ash blew in through the sheet-covered shutters and was collecting on the floor in small mounds; it was beginning to spread all over the floor. The sight of it unnerved her. She wondered how long it would be before the situation became intolerable and everyone began asphyxiating from the fumes. I have to get out of this dungeon, she thought as a sweating terror came over her. I have to save myself.
She called out for help, but this time no one came to check on her. Even the water at her bedside tasted funny. Was it sulfur? She spit it out in disgust. Her thoughts drifted once again to escape. She had to break her shackles and make her way back to the plantation, back to her mother and Da Rosette. She had to find them and bring them to safety. Perhaps they could head down to Fort-de-France, where they had relatives. She feared they were frantically out looking for her, not knowing what had become of her. She was sure they must be searching for her. They couldn’t have forgotten about her. The feeling of isolation plagued her. She didn’t want to die alone in these two-foot-thick walls with not a soul knowing what had become of her. She didn’t want to end her life like a madwoman in a cell.
And then her mind drifted off to Rémy.
She saw his face in the glow of the kerosene lamp. She longed to reach out and touch him, to hear his soft voice, to feel his body close. She wondered if he was thinking about her, if he was worried about her. Why had it come to this? Why had fate come between them like an insurmountable ocean? Deep down inside, she feared she would never see him again.
The shackles around her legs were beginning to feel like slave irons. She tugged at them, but there was no chance of escape without a key. A key! Something about the word stirred her memory. What was it? Oh yes, only you hold the key to your own freedom. Isn’t that what the Grand Zamy had said? I must get the key, she thought. And then she remembered the tarot card that depicted a young maiden shackled to the throne of the devil. Her heart beat furiously when she realized the prophecy had come true. The Grand Zamy had predicted her future. She was shackled to the devil, and she was trapped inside the burning tower. If she didn’t break out, she would die in the flames. Somehow she had to escape before it was too late.
Mustering all her strength, Emilie pounded on the metal tray and screamed for help. Luckily, this time the door opened. In the darkness she could make out two shadowy forms slithering in through the door. A man and a woman. Emilie lay paralyzed with fear as the nurse came closer and peered in her eyes. In the glow of the lamp, Emilie could make out the nurse’s features. There was something unusual about her eyes. They had an almost feline quality about them. She was not the same nurse as before. Of this, Emilie was certain. For one thing she wore perfume and had sensuous features that vaguely resembled the beautiful mulâtresse she had seen in the Grand Zamy’s shop. The more Emilie scrutinized her face, the more certain she was that the woman was the mysterious shop assistant.
The nurse laid a damp cloth on Emilie’s forehead. Standing behind her was the doctor. He was a suave, older gentleman with tufts of white hair and an expensive suit and waistcoat, but around his nose and mouth, he had affixed a wet handkerchief to protect him from the sulfur fumes. It was hard to make out his features, but there was something oddly familiar about him as well. Emilie was certain she had seen him before.
“Is this the patient you told me about?” said the doctor in clipped tones.
“Yes, Doctor,” said the nurse solemnly.
The doctor leaned forward, peering into Emilie’s eyes. “You’re certain this is the young woman who asked to be discharged from the hospital?”
“Yes, Doctor, this is the one,” said the nurse.
Suddenly Emilie sensed something was wrong. The doctor was the same approximate height and had the same deep, resonating voice as the Grand Zamy. The resemblance was uncanny. The realization caused Emilie to break out in goose bumps, as if she had awoken in the middle of a nightmare.
“Very well; let’s get started,” said the doctor. “I must ask you a few questions first. Are you indeed Mam’selle Emilie Dujon?”
“Yes,” said Emilie in a faint whisper. She tried to inch her body away from the doctor, but it was impossible since the shackles kept her immobile. He moved in closer until he was only inches from her face, scrutinizing her. She could smell the acrid odor of rum, incense, and cigars emanating from him.
“Ah, that’s better,” said the doctor, smiling. “I’m glad you’re still with us. We were worried about you for a while. We haven’t met before, but I’m your doctor. You can call me Dr. Faust.” He roared with laughter. Emilie’s eyes widened in shock. “According to official hospital policy, I cannot release you unless you sign these discharge papers. Are you prepared to cooperate?”
“Yes! I’ll do anything to get out of here,” she said.
“In time, in time,” said the doctor. “First we must take care of a little business.” From his breast pocket, he produced a folded sheet of paper, which he opened and scrutinized in the candlelight.
“Everything appears to be in order,” he said. “There is, however, the matter of payment. How much are you willing to pay to leave the hospital?”
Emilie was taken aback. “Pay?”
“Of course you must pay,” he said. “Did you think the hospital was free? The only question is how much are you willing to pay to get out of here?”
Emilie was stunned. She looked at the doctor and the nurse, but their eyes betrayed nothing. Her body began to tremble. Her teeth rattled, and she felt strangely cold and clammy, though the air was hot and humid. With no money, how could she pay? As far as she knew, there was only a hundred francs in her father’s strongbox, money he kept for dire emergencies. But he was dead. The plantation was in ruins. The volcano was on the verge of eruption. Somehow the hospital did not seem that important.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t understand,” said Emilie at last, feeling dizzy.
“Then allow me to explain,” said the doctor with mounting impatience. “You wish to be released from this hospit
al; I hold the key, but how much are you willing to pay to regain your freedom? How much is your life worth?”
“I want my freedom, but I have no money with me,” she said.
“That’s most unfortunate, because if you don’t pay me, you’ll never leave this hospital alive. The cards have foretold it. You will be consumed in a great fire. Your body will be incinerated. We have spoken of this before. You were warned about the danger. Now you must decide your fate.”
Emilie’s eyes widened. “Who are you? What is your name?”
“We are old friends,” said the doctor. “Now, mam’selle, if you want to leave this hospital, it will cost you a small fortune—or your soul. It depends on how much you value your life. The only question is, how much are you willing to pay?”
Emilie’s heart began to pound. What he was saying was impossible. The Grand Zamy was using her predicament to extort money out of her. He was trying to crush her with fear and threats. She felt the bile rising from her stomach to her throat.
“I truly don’t understand,” she said, looking at the doctor and nurse in disbelief.
The doctor dangled a key in front of her. “I hold the power to save your life. How much are you willing to pay to save yourself? Do you remember we spoke before about a gagé?”
A sudden realization dawned on Emilie. She was overcome with horror.
“Are you asking me to make a pact with the devil?” she said. “That’s impossible! I’ll never sell my soul to the devil. Give me the key now! If you don’t, you’re guilty of murder.”
The Grand Zamy roared with laughter. The sound of it filled Emilie with terror. Even the nurse laughed too, showing pearly white teeth, fine features, and glowing, catlike eyes.
“Mam’selle,” he continued, “I am holding a contract for which you already owe me eight thousand francs. If you sign a new one, I will gladly rip it up.”
He dangled a sheet of paper in front of her.
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