Suddenly there was a terrifying explosion. The roar was deafening. The ground rumbled and shook, causing the horse to stumble and lose its footing. Emilie cried out in fright. She half expected to see the ground open up beneath them and swallow them up. Looking up through the swirling clouds, she could see an enormous column of ash shooting up in the sky thousands of feet like an enormous cyclone,—gray, black, and menacing. It had a power all its own, a force that came from inside the volcano. It was like nothing she had ever seen before. It filled the sky and was accompanied by huge projectiles that shot out of the crater and rained down in the direction of Saint-Pierre and the harbor. The noise was earsplitting, and the bombardment continued for several minutes, sending a heavy shower of red-hot cinders and boulders blasting out of the volcano, swirling through the air like massive cannonballs. The eruption rained down on the city of Saint-Pierre like an enemy attack, blasting everything in its path.
Emilie clung to Rémy. She was certain they would die together, buried alive under layers of ash, hot cinders, and rocks. Certainly the odds were against them. But at least they were together. Rémy squeezed her hands. She could feel his love in his grip. It soothed her through all the pain and torment. They spoke not a word as ash and cinders rained down all around, pelting them with fury. Emilie closed her eyes and tried to block out the pain. She was sure the end had come. She mouthed a silent prayer and waited for death to take them.
Chapter 43
Thursday, May 8
Morne-Rouge
At the first explosion, Da Rosette sank to her knees before the statue of the Virgin Mary and prayed with all her might. The house shook, dishes rattled in the cupboard, and glasses smashed to the floor. The servants screeched and ran outside for safety. A loud rumbling noise drowned out all sound, but Da Rosette was sure the Virgin could hear her prayers. It seemed as if the volcano was out for revenge. With her own eyes she had seen a column of smoke pouring out that was bigger and more terrifying than anything she had ever seen. Her only weapon now was repentance; her only shield was faith. She poured her heart out to God and prayed for salvation. She prayed for Emilie’s safety. She prayed that Mme Dujon would be comforted in her widowhood, and she prayed that Maurice would be cured of his consumption. And lastly she prayed for her beloved island, Madinina, l’île aux fleurs, l’île des revenants . . . the island of flowers, the island of ghosts. She could feel the spirits all around her. It seemed as if the Bon Dieu and the spirits were out for revenge. She prayed for forgiveness. She prayed for grace.
The house of Luc Aubéry was thrown into turmoil. Servants ran around picking up broken plates and dishes, while M. Aubéry ran outside to check on the volcano. It was he who came back and reported seeing an immense column of black smoke that rolled upward, forming a gigantic mushroom cloud that darkened the sky while sending forth intermittent bursts of lightning that crackled and danced on the summit like gigantic firecrackers. He described a rush of wind, a mass of smoke, and gases that blew out of the summit and tore through the countryside, wiping out everything in their path. He stared out the window, ashen-faced, and said, “I have witnessed the gates of hell.”
The women listened in horror. Mme Dujon sat huddled on the couch with Mme Aubéry and Da Rosette, while the servants prayed and cried. Mme Dujon looked most shaken up. She wept into a handkerchief. She wailed and cried, wondering what had become of Maurice, who had left the house an hour before and still hadn’t returned. She also cried for Emilie, certain she would never see her beloved daughter again.
Suddenly Maurice burst through the door, seized with terror.
“There’s been a major eruption,” he said. “I think the whole town of Saint-Pierre has been destroyed. Huge ash clouds burst out of the crater. There were at least seven of them, large black columns of twirling ash and smoke hell-bent on destruction. And then, right before my eyes, a massive cluster of rocks shot out of the crater at an enormous speed and hurled toward Saint-Pierre. It was like a thousand cannons blasting at once. I fear everyone in Saint-Pierre may be dead.”
“Mon Dieu,” said Mme Dujon, frantic. “How did you manage to see everything?”
“As soon as I heard the blast, I ran like the devil and took shelter between two houses. Then I saw an enormous reddish-gray cloud shoot out of the crater and rush down the slopes toward the city. It was smoldering and looked alive with lightning flashes. The roar was deafening. Fire, smoke, ash, and gases exploded all at once, burning and scorching everything in their path. My heart was pounding, and I was frantic. Several minutes later, I got a good look at the crater. It was smoking hot and looked like a big black gaping hole in the mountain. There was not a living thing for miles.”
Mme Dujon turned white from shock. Mme Aubéry stared at Maurice with horror-filled eyes. The two women shuddered. Both had family members who were in the path of the volcano and who surely must now be dead. There were probably hundreds if not thousands of people who died from the eruption.
Da Rosette clutched her chest and cried out, fearing for Emilie’s safety. She did not know how much longer her heart would hold out. She tried to be strong for Madame’s sake, but with this news, she had lost all hope. She was sure her heart had broken the day M. Monplaisir had taken Emilie away to the lunatic asylum. That day she had cried an ocean of tears. And the gruesome death of her patron, M. Georges Dujon, was also a great shock to her system. Tall, strong, kind, and gallant, his death was horrid and unnatural. Surely it was the work of the devil! She was sure the Bon Dieu wept on his throne the day M. Dujon was buried alive, but the news that Emilie was caught in the burning clouds from Mount Pelée, this news was too much to bear!
She loved that child as if she were her own flesh. As if they were mother and daughter. For as long as she lived, she would never forget the moment they put the squalling baby in her arms, with her amber eyes and soft auburn curls. Emilie was the most beautiful baby she had ever seen. She thanked the Bon Dieu for giving her this beautiful child to care for as if she were her own. Mme Dujon had no patience for children. She was melancholic and brooding, spending most of her days locked in her room, unable to bond with her own children. Emilie needed Da Rosette’s constant care and attention, and she rewarded her with her undying love and affection. How Da Rosette had loved that child! How she had sacrificed for that child! Surely the Bon Dieu would not take her away now . . .
She wailed and cried. Where was her beloved Emilie?
Da Rosette got up from the couch and began to pace about the room. She fretted and wrung her hands, praying to the Bon Dieu for one last chance to see her beloved Emilie again before she was called up to heaven. She couldn’t bear the thought of leaving this world without seeing her baby girl one last time. The thought caused an ache in her heart that would not go away.
Sainte Vierge, I would give anything to see my Emilie again, she prayed. I would give a mountain of gold. I would give my very soul. Take me instead!
Tears ran down Da Rosette’s cheeks, creating glistening rivulets that moistened her silk foulard. She glanced at Mme Dujon. She was being comforted by Mme Aubéry, while Maurice and M. Luc Aubéry stood by the window with a pair of binoculars, surveying the devastation wrought by the volcano. There was the terrible whiff of death in the air. Surely thousands of souls were now ascending to heaven. The smell was oppressive, almost choking her. Grasping her cane, she shuffled off to the kitchen for a soothing cup of coffee. Luckily M. Aubéry had opened his home to Mme Dujon and her entourage during this trying time. He had paid the doctor’s bills for Maurice and bought sedatives for Madame so she could sleep through the night. He had even given Da Rosette her own guest cottage on his large estate.
The coffee was soothing. It revived her along with a few bites of cassava bread. She had no appetite, but she knew she had to keep her strength up for appearances’ sake. It wouldn’t do for her to get weak and sick, leaving Madame all alone in her time of need. But without her doudou Emilie, Da Rosette had no reason to go on living. For the
sake of Maurice and Madame, she would will herself to live a little longer. Now was not the time for goodbye with Madame so out of sorts. But oh, she was so tired! Her limbs ached, and her knees weren’t getting any younger. The thought of dying before seeing Emilie’s beautiful face again was almost too much to bear. She felt her heart shattering into a thousand pieces.
She put down the coffee mug and shuffled outside to see what had become of her beloved island. “Bon Dieu,” she prayed. “I have served you faithfully all these years. Please don’t take away my beloved Emilie. She’s all I have left in the world. Take pity on your humble servant! Bring her back home to me!”
Outside the street was in chaos. People were running from their houses in search of loved ones. Most had gathered near the cathedral as soon as the rumbling started. They held on to each other as the volcano disgorged its fiery contents, spewing forth black clouds and cinders in the direction of Saint-Pierre. Through the rumbling and ash clouds, all eyes were focused on the summit of Mount Pelée, which looked like the smoking barrel of an enormous cannon.
Down the street she caught sight of two straggling figures making their way toward the cathedral. They were covered in soot and ash, their clothes in tatters. There was a young woman astride a horse and a man covered in ashes, blood trickling down his soot-covered face. He was staggering, as if returning from the battlefield. The young woman’s hair lay in clumps about her face, her eyes hollow and her hands clutching a sooty shawl around her shoulders. They looked like they had wandered from far away and were on their last legs. They looked near to collapse. When they reached the church, the man helped the young woman off the horse, and she crumpled to the ground, panting and gasping. The man stood beside her on trembling legs, as if keeping vigil over her. Their faces looked battle-scarred and haunted; their eyes looked half-dead. Yet something about the young lady looked familiar.
Da Rosette let out a cry of shock, raced toward them, and then flung herself on the young woman. She hugged her with all her might, tears streaming down her face. Bon Dieu, it was a miracle! Her beloved doudou was alive! People began crowding around; they pointed at the young couple, who looked like they had escaped the gates of hell. For the longest time, Da Rosette clutched Emilie in an embrace of thanksgiving, while Lieutenant Rémy stood by watching them as if in a state of shock. Of the three figures in the town square of Morne-Rouge, the officer looked the most overcome with emotion. While the women cried and hugged each other and thanked God for the miracle, he stared at the smoldering volcano in bewilderment and raised his fist in defiance. He had fought his greatest battle and won.
Chapter 44
Over the next few days, news began to trickle up to Morne-Rouge that the entire town of Saint-Pierre was obliterated by the volcano. All that remained of the glittering city of rum, music, and culture was a smoldering ruin. Empty shells of buildings and thousands of corpses. Around thirty thousand people were asphyxiated from the clouds of hot gases that raced down from the mountain at enormous speeds. The buildings and almost all the ships in the harbor were demolished by fiery hot gases and incandescent volcanic bombs, some of which weighed several tons. The destruction was massive. Even the fort was reduced to a smoldering ruin. There was not a trace of the theater, and the churches were reduced to rubble. Word spread quickly that one soul was discovered alive among the wreckage: August Cyparis, a convict who was being held in the dungeon. When the volcano began its final eruption, he grew desperate and begged for last rites from the prison chaplain. From the stories that were passed down, Abbé Morel stayed by his side throughout the eruption, which filled the desperate prisoner with an enormous sense of peace and calm. As he sat in his dark cell praying for salvation, he knew the priest was nearby, praying alongside him. Several days later, when rescuers dug through the ruins, they found Cyparis near death. He was burnt, starving, and delirious. Sprawled nearby was the corpse of Abbé Morel, his hand gripping his rosary. Like all the others, he had been incinerated. The mourning for the dead went on for days and days.
A week later, Rémy lathered his face and brought the razor to his cheek. He winced at the pain. It still stung under his bandages where the hot cinders had lacerated his flesh. But every day he was improving. M. Aubéry was kind enough to have given him use of one of his guest cottages. It was comfortable and quiet, the perfect place to recuperate from the most trying ordeal of his life. A doctor and a nurse came every day to check on their progress and change the bandages. As he shaved, it dawned on him that to the entire world, Lt. Denis Rémy was dead. As far as anyone knew, he had died alongside his comrades in Saint-Pierre during the catastrophic eruption of May 8. He realized he had been given an extraordinary opportunity to start his life over. Under the circumstances, a new start was just what he needed.
But what he most needed was redemption.
In many ways he felt he had redeemed himself when he saved the life of Emilie Dujon. Through an extraordinary set of circumstances, he had rescued her from the jaws of death. She was young and innocent, a victim of incredibly cruel circumstances. She deserved a new life, a second chance as well. And he had given it to her by spiriting her out of Saint-Pierre. In that regard he felt as if he had restored his sacred honor. He took a deep breath and stared at his image in the mirror. The lines looked deeper and the scars were still painful, but he was a survivor. Yes, he had survived two attempts on his life and a volcanic eruption the likes of which the world had never seen before. What were the odds of that? His brow furrowed. He knew they were infinitesimal, but he was living proof that one human could beat the odds.
He dried his face with a towel and put on the civilian clothes that M. Aubéry was kind enough to lend him. Inside, he had the nagging feeling there was still some unfinished business to attend to. There was the matter of Emilie. He had saved her from her abusive fiancé, but she was all alone in the world. Her father was dead and her plantation in ruins. Their money was all gone: obliterated in the ruined banks. She was probably penniless. And now homeless. He knew the only honorable thing to do was to marry her. That is, if she would have him. Yes, he would marry that beautiful béké girl, and they would start over together. They would rebuild Domaine Solitude on the wreckage of the plantation and build a future together. He would cast aside his identity of a soldier and take on the new identity of planter, and together they would build a family and a future. The past would stay buried forever. That thought filled him with hope.
Over in the Aubéry villa, Emilie was recuperating in the salon. While Da Rosette patiently dressed her wounds, she sipped herbal tea and listened to Cousin Rose play the harp. The music soothed her. It helped her to forget the ordeal they had overcome. With each passing day, she was feeling stronger and more resilient. She knew the city of Saint-Pierre had been destroyed, but she was lucky to be alive, to have escaped a veritable inferno by a hair’s breadth. She would never forget the horrifying explosion and the sight of the gigantic black mass that had rolled down toward Saint-Pierre, as if the mountain itself were bearing down upon the city. After the volcano had vomited out a dark cloud, a shower of hot mud and glowing rocks rained down on the countryside, obliterating everything in its reach. She had felt as if they had entered the gates of hell. At that point, the horse was near collapse. The poor wretch was bleeding profusely, laboring for each breath. She did not know how much longer it would last, but the brave beast would not give up. And then, to their horror, the blast caused a terrifying displacement of air that sent the branches of the trees spinning out of control, like a tornado. The force seemed to almost pull them up into the air. That is when Emilie had screamed and nearly passed out. All the vegetation around them was burning out of control. The heat was unbearable. They were in mortal danger of asphyxiation. They did their best to protect their noses and eyes from the ashes and volcanic mud that assaulted them, but it soon became unbearable. Just then, a sudden gust of wind blew the glowing cloud from over their heads, sending it rushing toward Saint-Pierre. That’s when she knew s
alvation was at hand. She had hugged Rémy with all her might and then fainted from exhaustion.
And now, a week later, it was all like a bad dream. She closed her eyes and listened to the soothing music, trying to push aside the memory. Over and over she saw the terrifying black cloud wreaking havoc on the land. She knew the beautiful city of Saint-Pierre was gone forever. From now on, it would exist only in their memories.
She set aside the teacup and brushed a tear from her eye. Thank God we made it. Thank God we escaped that terrible ordeal! Poor Tonton Abbé. How I will miss him! He was brave right up until the end. Cher Tonton Abbé, que Dieu t'accueille dans son paradis avec ses saints anges. Dear Tonton Abbot, may God welcome you to his paradise with his holy angels. Searing pain gripped her heart.
Just then Rémy entered the salon, and their eyes met. In an instant he was by her side, and her heart was at peace. He caressed her cheek, and she kissed his hand. No words passed between them. Everything they felt was in their eyes. Together they strolled outside arm in arm, still haunted by the catastrophe they had witnessed and narrowly escaped. They held on to each other and looked down at the smoldering ruins of Saint-Pierre. The buildings were hollowed-out shells; the entire town had been reduced to rubble. The ships in the harbor were bobbing bits of driftwood or completely sunk. There was no movement at all, no life anywhere. The entire town was dead. The only sound they heard was the wind blowing over the blackened massif of Mount Pelée.
But they were alive and free. Their hearts were beating, and their eyes were aglow. Yes, they had suffered a terrible trauma, but they were free. Free. The word sounded beautiful to Emilie. Rémy took her in his arms and kissed her. She felt his warmth envelop her, like a soothing glass of rum. She gazed into his eyes and knew his unspoken thoughts. Her heart swelled with love. They had come through so much together in so short a time. Now all she wanted to do was forget the past and forge a new destiny. The island of Martinique would recover from this catastrophe, and one day, if they were lucky, the beautiful city of Saint-Pierre would recover as well. She laid her head against Rémy’s chest and felt the beating of his heart. And if she was even luckier, this beautiful man would join her in the task of rebuilding. Side by side they would start over. She could think of no greater happiness in the world.
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