Sergeant Aubert, looking uncharacteristically grim, strode up to Rémy. He saluted and said, “Mon lieutenant, before the situation gets out of control, I believe we should allow small groups of civilians to evacuate, perhaps a dozen at a time. If we keep them here, civil disorder will break out, and more lives will be lost.”
Rémy shook his head. “Colonel Fournier made it clear that no one is allowed to leave the city save for military personnel, gendarmes, and clergymen. Everyone else must remain in their homes until the volcano calms down.”
“That doesn’t appear to be likely anytime soon,” said Aubert. He shielded his eyes and scanned the mountain. “I believe our keeping the people here is downright cruel.”
“While I sympathize with their plight, I cannot countermand a direct order from my commanding officer,” said Rémy. “Between you and me, Colonel Fournier shares our view, but his hands are tied. He told me to forget the idea of allowing citizens to evacuate. Instead, he urged me to offer them food and drink supplied by the sisters of Saint-Paul de Chartres.”
Aubert scowled. “The old man’s gone mad. Too much malaria, rum, and dengue fever. What about Captain Renoult?”
“No chance,” said Rémy. “He won’t allow it. If he finds out we’re letting people through, he’ll relieve me of duty and put me in jail. I can’t risk running afoul of the brass again.”
“I don’t suppose there are any volcanoes in French Guiana, am I right?” said Aubert wryly.
“No, just alligators, piranhas, and rats the size of dogs . . . not to mention the dry guillotine.”
“That puts things into perspective,” said Aubert. “I guess I’ll be heading back to my post now.”
“Before you leave,” said Rémy, “do not, I repeat, do not turn your gun on anyone. If the people attack out of desperation, shoot in the air or use the butt of your rifle to turn them back. There is to be no shooting at civilians under any circumstances. Is that clear?”
“Oui, mon lieutenant,” said Aubert, saluting.
“Carry on,” said Rémy, returning the salute. “Let’s hope this whole thing blows over shortly.” As he watched Aubert return to his post, Rémy felt a wave of nausea, a sinking feeling that the situation would not improve but would soon spiral out of control.
Chapter 36
Tuesday, May 6
In the early morning hours, Rémy was shaken by a startling sight. The summit of Mount Pelée exploded with loud detonations. The blast sent a ball of flame and a mushroom cloud of black smoke over a thousand feet into the air, sending shock waves through the city. Lightning flashes lit up the purple-gray sky, and the explosions shook the town to its foundations. A bank of electric generators at the power station on rivière Roxelane failed when they clogged with ash, plunging half the town into darkness. Streetlamps ceased functioning, and a rash of burglaries broke out, adding to the alarm. And now rivière Blanche turned into a raging torrent, cutting off traffic to and from the northern half of the island, adding further alarm. Fear and despair were starting to show in the people’s faces. Frantic residents wandered through the streets with parcels on their heads, their paths lit by kerosene lamps as they yelled, “Get out now! Save yourselves! The river has burst its banks!”
The volcano sounded like the discharges of artillery, while the windows rattled from aerial vibrations. It set off a wave of panic. Homeless people thronged the Mouillage district, and the churches were packed with people desperate for absolution. Mudslides continued rumbling on the mountainside, tumbling down toward rivière Blanche, throwing up clouds of dust, adding a terrifying show to the onlookers. To the residents of Saint-Pierre, it looked as if the world had come to an end. And for the vast majority, there was no escape.
While Rémy was out making his rounds, he was shocked by the sheer number of posters hanging all over town depicting Mayor Fouché assuring the public they were in no danger. The mayor urged them not to yield to groundless panic and to resume their normal business to whatever extent possible. But by the looks of things, no one was taking him seriously. The normally bustling marketplace was like a graveyard. The schools were empty, and food was running out. Even place Bertin looked like a ghost town. And there were only a few stalwarts huddled outside the Chamber of Commerce waiting for supplies to come in by ship, desperate for any sign that la Mère Patrie had not forgotten them.
At noon Governor Mouttet and his entourage left on the Topaz for Prêcheur to drop off food supplies and to aid in the evacuation of the sick and elderly, but they returned an hour later reporting that a panic onshore had caused several people to fall in the water and almost drown. Since there was not enough room on the Topaz to take everyone, fighting and scuffling broke out, resulting in several injuries. It did not help matters that Prêcheur was coated in five inches of ash and rivière Blanche had become a roaring torrent, cutting the villagers off from the relative safety of Saint-Pierre. By the time Governor Mouttet returned to Saint-Pierre, he appeared shaken and distressed. When he alighted ashore, he looked like he had aged ten years. He mirrored the hopelessness of the people of Prêcheur, who had to face another night of torment in the shadow of Mount Pelée.
A large group of travelers hoping to flee Saint-Pierre had assembled on the wharf. They were loaded down by packages and trunks and were clamoring to board one of the steamers of the Compagnie Gerard to Fonds-Saint-Denis, Morne d’Orange, or Le Carbet. But there was not enough space for everyone. Rémy estimated over three hundred panicked travelers were trying to cram aboard a single steamer. It was an impossible situation that was reaching a boiling point. Wending his way through the crowd, Rémy approached the governor. “Excellency, I’d like to have a word with you if possible.”
“Yes, yes, what is it?” said Mouttet, ashen-faced.
“I was wondering if you would reconsider your decision to keep the people in Saint-Pierre. I believe we would have a better chance of maintaining order if we permitted small groups of people to leave. I fear the situation will deteriorate due to the shortage of food and accommodations.” Mouttet’s eyes were unfocused and glazed. He seemed to be staring off at some uncertain point in the distance. After Rémy made his request, he only shook his head.
“There is to be no change to my policy as of the present,” he said. “I’m still awaiting orders from the Colonial Office. In the meantime, I’ve put in a request for more supplies, but so far there’s been no word. I’ll let the garrison commander know as soon as I hear something.”
“But, sir . . .”
“Lieutenant, as I stated previously, the safety of Saint-Pierre is completely assured. I have sent troops to patrol the road to Fort-de-France, with orders to turn back refugees who are trying to leave. That should go a long way to restoring order.”
They were enveloped by the crowd. People were pushing and shoving in an attempt to board the ships. To alleviate the situation, gendarmes pushed them farther back, but Rémy felt as if his body were being crushed by the onslaught.
“But, sir, as you can see, the situation is growing desperate,” said Rémy. “Look around you. I fear a breakdown of law and order. We can’t hold out much longer.”
“I’m sorry, Lieutenant, there’s nothing more I can do now,” said Mouttet, pushing past Rémy. “I’m heading down to Fort-de-France to check on the situation there, but I’ll be back later this afternoon. As far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing in the activity of Pelée that warrants a departure from Saint-Pierre. There will be no evacuation.”
Stunned, Rémy stared at the governor and then walked away.
The governor’s words fell like a sharp sword on his neck. So that was it. There was to be no evacuation. No assistance from the Métropole. No hope of rescue. They were on their own, cut off from the rest of the world in their hour of need. He watched the governor wend his way through the crowd, feeling a gnawing ache in his gut. The governor was handling the matter like a career bureaucrat when the situation demanded a more aggressive approach. A large-scale evacuation
was warranted, even by sea if necessary. There were just a scant five miles between Saint-Pierre and the rumbling volcano. Tremors and ashfall had become a daily occurrence. Mudslides were an ever-present danger. Already the people were showing signs of fatigue and despondency. If the situation deteriorated, there could be a stampede, riots. Hundreds could die. Shaken by this realization, Rémy returned to his makeshift post guarding the southern route, but the plight of the refugees was getting worse. He feared the soldiers would soon be forced to use their weapons, if only to save their own lives.
An hour later, Governor Mouttet stepped off the Topaz in Fort-de-France and hurried to the telegraph office. He glanced at his pocket watch. He had only an hour to collect his messages and tend to his errands before the next sailing back to Saint-Pierre. Time was precious; the people in Prêcheur were desperate for supplies and relief, and the fumes from the volcano were becoming intolerable. Most of the refugees were camped along the shore, waiting for ships to take them farther south, away from the volcano. His last attempt to evacuate the sick and elderly on the Topaz had resulted in a debacle, with several people falling into the water and nearly drowning. He couldn’t risk another catastrophe like that. If word got back to Decrais at the Colonial Office that he had botched the rescue attempt, there’s no telling how it would end. He looked up and saw the naval cruiser Suchet bobbing in the harbor, and an ingenious plan formed in his head. Salvation was close at hand. When he pushed open the door to the telegraph office, the clerks jumped to their feet.
“Good afternoon, Governor,” said Jules Coppet, doffing his cap.
Mouttet looked at their expectant faces. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. Has anything arrived for me from Paris?”
“Not yet, sir,” said Coppet. “But I received this message from our office in Saint-Pierre.”
He sorted through a pile of messages and handed a telegraph to the governor.
CABLE LINK WITH ST. LUCIA BROKEN. BELIEVED SEISMIC ACTIVITY PELEE RESPONSIBLE. ROUTING ALL EXTERNAL TRAFFIC VIA YOU.
“What do you make of this?” said Mouttet.
“Exactly what it says, sir,” said Coppet. “It means we’ll be responsible for sending all the messages from Saint-Pierre and Fort-de-France, which means double the work. We could be backed up for several days. They say the cable lines to Saint Lucia and Saint Vincent were damaged in the avalanche that destroyed the Guérin sugar factory. Now we have only one working cable, the one to Dominica.”
Mouttet furrowed his brow. “Only one cable?”
“Yes, sir,” said Coppet.
“That sounds serious.”
“It’s very serious, sir,” said Coppet. “It means it could take hours or even days for us to get through to Paris. All messages will have to be routed through Dominica and from there to Saint Thomas and New York. It’s a disaster.”
“Some of the messages have already gotten lost in the shuffle,” added another operator. “Dominica is complaining of backlogs. It could take weeks to sort through all this mess. We need help.”
Mouttet felt a tightening in his chest. The situation was starting to escalate. How did things manage to deteriorate so quickly?
“I noticed the cruiser in port,” said Mouttet. “Please send an urgent cable to the Colonial Office. Do you have some paper?” Coppet handed him paper and a fountain pen. The governor scratched out a message and handed it back. “I need that cruiser at my disposal as soon as possible. Give this message top priority.”
“Yes, sir,” said Coppet.
He put on his headphones and began tapping out a message in Morse code:
Fort-de-France 6 May.
To Decrais, Minister of Colonies: Request you put Suchet at my immediate disposal. Heading up to Saint-Pierre to coordinate the evacuation of Prêcheur. Please advise soonest possible. Imperative you send me five thousand francs for immediate relief.
L. Mouttet
“Here’s your copy, sir,” said Coppet.
“Good work,” said Mouttet, pocketing the message. “I’ll be heading back to Saint-Pierre in an hour. You know where to reach me with any messages. I’ll be at my suite in the Hôtel Intendance. Please forward any messages to me straightaway.”
“Yes, sir,” said Coppet, doffing his cap once more. “Consider it done.”
After the governor had left, Jules Coppet turned to his companion and said, “What do you suppose he plans to do with the Suchet—shell the volcano?”
“He’s only been here a few months, and I think he’s already lost his mind,” said the other telegrapher.
The two men burst into laughter.
Chapter 37
Wednesday, May 7
Just before dawn, a violent scene erupted on Mount Pelée. Clouds of ash and bolts of lightning with reddish flames lit up the early-morning sky. Huge projectiles shot out of the crater with terrifying booms, rocking the town with explosions like cannon fire. Black smoke billowed out of the crater, creating a sense of impending doom. Glasses fell off tables, windows shattered, and barometers plummeted. The explosions knocked Rémy out of bed. Stumbling to his feet, he made his way to his desk, feeling the floor shaking beneath his feet. He grabbed his binoculars and made his way to the window to study the scene up close.
“Good Lord, it looks like the end of the world,” he said, feeling a profound sense of doom. The summit of Mount Pelée was alight with orange-red flames. Ash was spurting everywhere. The harbor looked like a scene from the last days of Pompeii. The once-sparkling blue water was dull and gray, littered with the corpses of farm animals, tree trunks, and deposits of ash and pumice stones that seemed to stretch on for miles.
He threw on his uniform and boots, refilled his cartridge with bullets, and went to receive his orders. Then he headed down to the courtyard, where his men were already assembled. Dividing them up into two groups, he sent the first group to patrol the town and keep order, and he sent the second group to guard the southern road to make sure people stayed safely in their homes.
More refugees flooded into Saint-Pierre. Some of them were survivors of the Guérin sugar factory disaster or had lost family members in the tragedy and were in a state of shock. Sisters from the convent brought them inside and gave them food and drink; the rest just wandered aimlessly through the throng or crowded into the marketplace, but food was scarce and money even scarcer. A shipment of food brought in by steamer went quickly. Bags of rice and beans and loaves of bread were handed out to famished residents, who grabbed them and fled back to their homes. Some people were too mesmerized by the pyrotechnic display on Mount Pelée to do anything but gape and stare. As the morning dragged on, more people flooded into Saint-Pierre since, by everybody’s estimation, it was the safest place for the displaced residents from the northern half of the island. Placards all over town announced that the volcano was on the wane and the people should sit tight and wait out the end of the eruption, but by the looks on their faces, few believed it anymore.
Rémy was exhausted from pursuing looters and squatters, yet more people arrived by steamers and small ferries or in simple donkey carts and horse wagons. The stream of refugees continued unabated. He reckoned the population had swelled by several thousand. But the volcano seemed no closer to quieting down. A thick layer of ash now covered every surface. Everyone’s clothes were covered in soot and ash. Children sat on the ground and played with the volcanic dust as if it were sand. The women were noticeably distressed. Their normally vibrant faces reflected fear and distress. For Rémy, the work was endless. He broke up countless fights, arrested dozens of disorderly civilians, and emptied houses of illegal squatters, but there was nowhere for them to go. They had taken up every inch of available space in the barracks, the inns, and the guesthouses. Some refugees were reduced to sleeping in the alleyways. Others crowded into the cathedral to hear mass or to baptize their children. Later, news began to spread like wildfire that the Soufrière volcano on Saint Vincent had erupted. This caused a wave of panic to spread throughout the crowd. They now be
gan to collect outside the mayor’s office, demanding answers. As Rémy watched the faces of the angry citizens, he sensed a rising tension in the air, a sense of impending doom.
The latest issue of Les Colonies did little to calm everyone’s nerves. At his post guarding the southern road, Rémy scanned the headlines, disturbed by Marius Hurard’s carefully crafted front-page interview with Gaston Landes that looked to be no more than political showmanship:
According to observations made by M. Landes, in the early morning hours of yesterday, the central crater of the volcano vomited out a yellow and black powdery substance at various intervals. The bottom of the neighboring valleys should be evacuated and those remaining should keep to a certain height to avoid being overwhelmed by the muddy lava, as were Herculaneum and Pompeii. Vesuvius, added M. Landes, claimed only a few victims. Pompeii was evacuated in time and few corpses were found in the buried cities. In conclusion, Mount Pelée presents no more danger to Saint-Pierre than Vesuvius poses to Naples.
The article ended with the coup de grâce—a statement by Governor Mouttet himself:
The security of Saint-Pierre remains uncompromised.
Incensed, Rémy threw the newspaper on the ground, where it was trampled by the feet of the crowd.
He looked up suddenly and saw a cloud of black ash billowing out of Mount Pelée like a giant cauliflower, filling the skies with swirling black ash and volcanic dust that blocked out the sun and cast a gloomy shadow over the town. There was an audible hush among the crowd. Everyone stared at it in horror. The ominous nature of the cloud told Rémy one thing: the end was near.
As he stood with his soldiers guarding the highway, the crowd grew agitated. They began yelling and shouting, demanding to be let out. Men shook their fists and women screamed and cursed at him, but Rémy and his soldiers were forced to turn them back at the point of their rifles. For several hours they guarded the road, not permitting anyone to pass except occasional gendarmes and clergymen, no matter how much the people screamed and shouted.
Island on Fire Page 25