By late afternoon, a new group approached. They claimed to be survivors from the Guérin sugar factory. They begged and pleaded to be allowed to leave. Rémy was at once distressed by their plight. There were two dozen of them, men and women with soot-covered clothes, haunted eyes, and panicked faces. Their voices were both pleading and demanding. Something in the tone of their voices bothered Rémy. The men carried machetes, and the women were armed with knives. They didn’t look like normal refugees with mattresses, pots, and pans. There was something sinister about them, almost as if they were in a voodoo trance.
Standing firm, Rémy ordered the soldiers to turn them back, but upon refusal, the refugees lunged at the troops, attacking them with their weapons, slashing at the soldiers’ throats with cutlasses. A scuffle ensued, during which one of the refugees lunged at Aubert’s throat with his machete, slashing him across the neck. Blood spurted everywhere. Aubert fell to the ground. Rémy stared in horror. A jolt of electricity shot through his veins. Grabbing his revolver, he jerked the hammer back, aimed at the attacker, and squeezed the trigger.
A blast rang out. The man collapsed on the ground, writhing in agony. The blood-soaked machete landed only inches from Aubert’s body. The refugees turned and fled, screaming. Trembling and in a state of shock, Rémy knelt down beside Aubert and cradled his friend’s head in his arms. Aubert’s eyelids fluttered, and he had a pulse, albeit weak. But the sergeant was quickly losing blood from the gash on his neck. Blood soaked his shirt and the ground where he lay.
“Hang in there,” said Rémy. “You’re going to make it. You’re a fighter. You’re the best soldier I’ve ever known . . .”
“Forget about me . . .” said Aubert, struggling to speak. “Go . . .find the girl . . .before it’s too late . . .” His eyelids fluttered and closed.
“Stay with me,” Rémy screamed, clutching his friend tighter. “Don’t leave me!”
He grabbed a shawl from a woman and wound it around Aubert’s neck several times like a tourniquet. It turned bright red almost immediately. Rémy tried to hide the horror he felt, but Aubert was losing massive amounts of blood. He didn’t have much longer to live. Rémy cursed the stupid politicians and the inept bureaucracy that created this disastrous situation.
“Don’t worry, you’re going to be all right,” he said, hugging his friend.
Aubert clutched his arm. “G–get the girl, or you’ll regret it the rest . . .”
Rémy could see the life slipping out of his eyes. They were starting to roll back. He held his friend and begged him not to leave, but Aubert was too weak to answer. His muscles stiffened and his eyes rolled back, then he went completely still. Rémy stared in shock at the lifeless body of his friend: Sgt. Jean-Alfred Aubert was dead.
Rémy yelled for two gendarmes. They came running when they saw the commotion and asked what happened. They laid Aubert’s body on a stretcher and carried him away. Sickened by the unnecessary bloodshed, Rémy staggered to his feet and ordered his men to fix their bayonets.
He ordered two soldiers to chase after the machete-wielding refugees, but they were already dispersed in the crowd. The situation was now out of control. He did not know how much longer they could hold out under these conditions. His hands and clothes were soaked with Aubert’s blood, an unnecessary casualty of the volcano. It was exactly as he’d feared. Aubert was brutally murdered, and the onlookers were shaken by the ordeal. The people of Saint-Pierre and the refugees were desperate to survive. It was only a matter of time before a riot ensued, and more innocent lives would be lost.
He felt his limbs shaking. His heart beat like a kettledrum, and he was gasping for breath. Something inside of him snapped. He knew he was in shock, that he was losing control. He felt his nerves shattering. He raised his hands and stared at Aubert’s blood. Sapped of energy and sickened beyond belief, he decided he could no longer wait to find Emilie. He had to find her before it was too late. He knew her life hung in the balance. He was through waiting for the right time, through taking orders, through having no control over his life. He decided once and for all that he would rescue her no matter what happened, even if it cost him his life.
Leaving a corporal in charge, Rémy marched back to the fort and headed straight to the office of Captain Renoult. He made no attempt to hide the blood on his hands or clothes. The only thing he tried to hide was the disgust he felt at the unnecessary bloodshed, the terrible loss of his best friend.
Renoult was drinking a cup of coffee and dictating a telegram to an orderly. When he saw Rémy, he raised an eyebrow and dismissed the clerk. He motioned for the lieutenant to enter.
Rémy marched in and saluted.
“Yes, Rémy, what is it?” said Renoult, with obvious impatience.
“Mon capitaine, there is something I have to report.”
“Yes, what is it?”
“One casualty: Sgt. Jean-Alfred Aubert. He was hit with a machete by refugees desperate to flee the city. He died of his wounds.”
“I will inform his family by telegram while we still have one open line to Dominica,” said Renoult. “It may take a day or two to reach France. Is there anything else?”
“Yes, mon capitaine, there’s an urgent matter I must take care of,” said Rémy.
“What is it?”
“I have to go to the hospital to see about a patient.”
“Who is it?” said Renoult.
“A young woman who—”
“That’s impossible,” said Renoult. “Return to your station at once. Dismissed.”
“But, sir, it’s very important,” said Rémy, struggling to control his breathing.
“The answer is still no,” said Renoult. “You are responsible for guarding the southern road. I have put an entire contingent of men under your command. Have you lost your senses? Do you wish me to relieve you of your command?”
“No, sir, but a woman’s life may be at stake,” said Rémy.
“Lieutenant, we have an entire city at stake. I cannot relieve you of your duty to take care of one woman who is obviously being taken care of. Now return to your post at once. Our orders are to keep the people contained. No one is allowed to leave the city without express permission from the governor.”
“But, sir . . .”
Renoult’s face clouded over. “Lieutenant, we are in a state of emergency. Return to your post at once, or I will arrest you for dereliction of duty.”
Rémy trembled inside. His mind raced, and he felt dizzy. Sweat and soot poured down his temples, and his limbs were shaking. He had a sinking feeling that if he didn’t rescue Emilie, she would be dead by morning. In his mind’s eye, all he could see was carnage and death: a beautiful woman reduced to ashes. Perhaps he was going mad. Perhaps he had lost his sense of reason. Perhaps he was a disgrace to his uniform like his commanding officer had told him back in Senegal. Perhaps he deserved to be sent to the penal colony in French Guiana. None of that mattered now. The only thing that mattered was finding Emilie. He had to rescue her, even if it meant he was court-martialed and sent to prison. Even if it meant his name was ruined. So be it. He had nothing else to live for.
Red-faced and gasping, Rémy shook his head. Then he took two steps backward and fled the fort, Renoult’s shouts ringing in his ears.
It was dusk by the time Rémy arrived at the Colonial Health Institute. He realized he was now a fugitive and could be arrested on the spot. This knowledge kept his heart racing and his senses on high alert. Luckily the hospital workers were oblivious to this fact. They were sweeping the accumulated ash into piles, closing the shutters, and getting ready to lock up the hospital for the night. The rivière Roxelane was gushing loudly in the background and the wind rustled the trees overhead. He had arrived just in time. Another minute more, and it would have been too late. He assessed the property. The hospital consisted of a main two-story building built of stone, with a red-tiled roof, and several smaller buildings. Surrounding the entire complex was a stone wall with an iron gate, which h
ad not yet been locked. This was his first piece of luck.
Pushing open the gate, Rémy headed up the path to the entrance, and after several insistent knocks, an elderly nun opened the door.
“Yes, sir, can I help you?” she said, studying his face inquisitively.
“I’m here to see a patient.”
The nun shook her head. “I’m sorry, but visiting hours are over. Come back tomorrow.” She tried to shut the door, but when Rémy prevented her, she added, “Please remove your boot, sir. I must close the door. It’s almost vespers . . .”
“I must get in,” said Rémy. “I can’t come back tomorrow. It’s an emergency. I must see her now.”
He fixed his stare on the elderly nun. When she saw his insistence, she pouted and reluctantly let him in.
“You do realize I’m breaking hospital policy by letting you in,” she said. “The doctors are very strict around here. It’s for the patients’ safety.”
“Bless you, Sister. It’s extremely important.”
“What is the name of this patient?” she said as she led him to an office where keys were dangling from hooks on the wall.
“Emilie Dujon.”
She eyed him sharply. “There’s no one here by that name.”
Rémy was stunned. “I’m certain she was brought here. Perhaps she was admitted under a different name. A gentleman by the name of Lucien Monplaisir brought her here several days ago.”
“Did you say Monplaisir? We have a young lady here by that name. No one has been to see her. Come with me.”
She snatched the key off the wall and led Rémy down a darkened corridor lit by gas lamps. When she reached the correct room, she inserted the key in the lock and flung open the door.
But the room was empty.
Rémy was shocked when he saw the empty bed, the half-used jar of morphia, the pillow streaked with blood, evidence of a struggle, and Emilie’s shawl lying forlorn on the floor. He picked it up and smelled it. It still had traces of orange flower, hyacinth, jasmine, musk, and sandalwood. It was her scent.
“As you can see, she’s not here,” said the sister. “Which seems very odd. We keep strict records of our patients, and no one has been discharged for days.”
“Could she have gotten out by herself?” asked Rémy.
“That’s impossible,” said the sister. “The doors are locked from the outside. Somebody must have let her out. I shall have to investigate what happened. Dr. Bertrand will be very upset when he hears about this tomorrow morning. This is very troubling.”
The sister began questioning the other nurses, who had begun to congregate outside the room out of curiosity. No one had any knowledge of Emilie’s disappearance until a wide-eyed young novice revealed that a mysterious doctor had appeared late one night claiming to have authorization from the young woman’s family to fetch her. He had pushed his way inside and arrogantly demanded to be taken to the young woman’s room and given the keys to unlock her restraints. Since the young nun was the only one on duty that night, she had no choice but to comply. Rémy shuddered at the news. It was clear Emilie had been coerced or threatened into leaving against her will, and possibly by someone she didn’t know or trust. But something still didn’t add up. Who was this mysterious doctor, and why did he come in the middle of the night? Was this unknown doctor, in fact, Lucien Monplaisir? And if not, who was he? And where did he take her? Rémy asked the young nun for a description of the doctor, and when she described a suave older gentleman with tufts of white hair, a commanding presence, and piercing eyes, he knew it was Gaston Faustin Jacquet, the notorious quimboiseur. Thanking the sister, Rémy doffed his pith helmet and rushed out of the hospital.
Chapter 38
Rémy hurried through the streets of Saint-Pierre, aware that Renoult probably had soldiers out looking for him, ready to arrest him and haul him off to jail. He figured he had only minutes to find Emilie. By now there was a constant rain of ash and cinders all over the city. Visibility was limited. People scurried through the ash-covered streets in desperation, searching for any means of escape, but all exits were blocked. Their faces were frantic, streaked with ashes and soot, their clothes a disheveled mess. Some pulled small children by their arms, crying and miserable. Other people resigned themselves to their fate, peeking out through wooden shutters, doorways, or from balconies, casting wary eyes toward the mountain. Occasionally a carriage would pass through the streets, its wheels muffled by the ash on the cobblestones. The streetlamps were dark due to the loss of electricity, which lent a gloomy aspect to the town. The only light came from the kerosene lamps that glowed in the windows, like tiny beacons of light in a snowstorm. Saint-Pierre by all appearances was a ghost town and her people, the walking dead.
Sporadically, explosions like cannon fire reverberated from the mountain, causing people to cry out in fear. They would stare at the summit of Mount Pelée with eyes widened in terror as orange-red flashes of lightning lit up the evening sky. In their eyes, Rémy saw raw fear. Tremors added to the surreal atmosphere. To make matters worse, the air was growing increasingly noxious from sulfur and ash. People coughed and wheezed; horses snorted and collapsed on the street. Dogs and cats cowered in the alleyways, frail and near death from hunger. Rémy wondered how much longer the people would hold out under these conditions. The only thing that was keeping him sane was the hope he would find Emilie and save her. If he lost this chance, there was no point in going on. No more point in living.
He was breathless by the time he reached the voodoo shop on rue Longchamps. He looked up at the sign: “GASTON FAUSTIN JACQUET, HERBALIST AND HEALER.” Yes, this was the place. He was sure it was the same store he had seen Emilie coming out of the other day. The front door was locked and the shutters were drawn, but he thought he heard faint footsteps coming from inside. He peeked in through the shutters and saw only a tiny candle glowing in the back. A figure hovered near it and then disappeared behind a wooden screen. Other than that, it appeared empty. He cursed the fact that he couldn’t see more clearly. Somehow, he had to get inside. He banged on the door, but no one responded. He called out, “Open up!” but still no one came to the door. A few passersby stopped and stared as if he had lost his mind. A gendarme let out a derisive howl and muttered an insult under his breath, but Rémy ignored him and continued banging with all his might. Soon a pair of heavy footsteps thudded toward the door.
“What do you want?” said a deep voice behind the door.
“I wish to speak to M. Jacquet,” said Rémy.
“The shop is closed now. Come back tomorrow.”
Rémy clenched his fists, his face reddening and his temples sweating.
“Open up. I have to talk to you,” he said.
“I said go away and come back tomorrow,” said the voice. “We are closed now.”
By now his heart was pounding in his temples. His muscles were clenched, and all his senses were on high alert. Strangely, for all the ash and cinders, his mind was alert. He was in full control of his faculties. He didn’t know how much longer the city would last. He didn’t even know if he would still be alive by morning, but he was not about to back down now. He was not going to leave without Emilie.
He pounded on the door. “Damn you! Open the door!” But there was no sound from inside the shop.
Rémy took a step backward and, in one swift motion, slipped his revolver from his holster, cocked the hammer, and blew his way into the shop. The door flew open in a burst of gunpowder.
The first thing that struck him was the acrid odor of burning incense, combined with the smell of rum, cigar smoke, and burnt chicken feathers. In a corner he spied a garish altar with a skull that grinned menacingly. The ghoulish display was surrounded by statues of Catholic saints and African deities and a hideous mural depicting various forms of death. Behind a mahogany desk sat the quimboiseur, dressed in an expensive sack suit and waistcoat. He was poised and cunning in his chair, his chin resting in his upright hands and his eyes following Rémy’s e
very move. There was nothing friendly about his eyes.
Rémy charged at him, his revolver aimed at his chest. “Where is she?”
The Grand Zamy lifted an imperious eyebrow. “The spirits are not satisfied with you barging in here uninvited. Leave at once.”
“Where is Emilie Dujon?”
“Get out,” said the Grand Zamy, his eyes blazing.
“I am not leaving without her. I know you have her.”
The Grand Zamy’s face hardened. He placed his hands on the desk and glared at Rémy through smoldering eyes. “Who are you, and what is your business with her?”
“That’s none of your business. I know who you are and what you do for a living. I know you drug people and extort them. I can arrest you for suspicion of kidnapping and assault.”
The Grand Zamy sneered maliciously. “Put your gun away, Lieutenant. What evidence do you have?”
“I have witnesses who say you kidnapped her out of the asylum.”
“That’s a lie. Get out now.”
Rémy circled the desk and pressed the revolver to the older man’s temple. The quimboiseur’s body twitched and sweated profusely, but he remained impassive. The veins in his forehead pulsed, and his muscles clenched. Rémy realized this would not be like interrogating a common criminal.
“Tell me where she is,” said Rémy. “Or I will shoot you.”
“By the Holy Virgin, Saint Michael, and Saint Benoît, I will tell you nothing.”
Rémy pressed the cold steel into the Grand Zamy’s forehead. “Start talking.”
The quimboiseur eyed him. “I will only speak if you put the gun away. We must be reasonable. You look upon me as some malicious character, but that is unfair, and it insults the spirits. My work is vitally important. You must look upon quimbois as a sort of spiritual valve. It fulfills the supernatural needs of the people. It makes life and misfortune more bearable, since through voodoo lies a door that is always open to luck, love, and beauty. It makes the impossible possible.”
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