by Connie Mason
Making his way back to the road, Philippe found it strewn with ashes so hot he could feel the heat of them through the soles of his boots. The trees around him were no longer green and the breadfruit limbs lay on the ground broken by mud and ash, their leaves stripped bare. With each turn Philippe strained for a glimpse of St. Pierre, but could see nothing of the e city. And when he came to the tiny, picturesque village upriver of St. Pierre his heart sank with dread. What had been a beautiful little village where a small mountain stream met the Roxelaine River now lay stripped of all but four or five houses. The rest was a chaos of broken tiles, twisted iron and scorched remains of furniture. Trees had been uprooted, even stone and cement houses had been demolished.
At this point Philippe began to meet vacant-eyed refugees, their hair and faces begrimed with a thick coating of ash. Their clothing was no better. Philippe searched each face carefully before turning away in bitter disappointment. When he tried to question them, they only stumbled past, not answering. Finally, one bleak face turned back when Philippe cried out, “What happened in St. Pierre? Did the lava reach the city?”
“No, not lava,” the man answered, his eyes bleak and lined with ash.
Philippe felt a great weight lift from his shoulders. “Thank le bon dieu the lava didn’t reach the city,” he breathed in an outpouring of relief.
“A cloud of steam. Monsieur,” the man clarified. “There is nothing left of St. Pierre.”
Philippe fought for control. “What about survivors other than yourselves? A woman, young, beautiful, with a child.”
“I saw many such as you describe’ Monsieur. All dead.”
Philippe did not stop him when he turned and continued up the trail after his companions, his hollow eyes filled with horrors enough to last a lifetime.
Suddenly the man stopped, looking back over his shoulder at Philippe. “Turn back! You won’t be able to get near the city. Whoever you have there is sure to be gone!”
But Philippe would not be deterred. Face grim, body taut, he forced his horse onward. Gabby and his son had to be alive! When at last he came to the city, he knew why the man on the road tried to dissuade him. The destruction was almost beyond belief.
Plantations and cane fields were sheets of flames around the city, and every ship that had the misfortune of still being in the harbor was aflame. After a cursory inventory Philippe saw that none of the burning ships belonged to him. The shore was a tangle of wreckage and carnage, afloat with dead bodies. St. Pierre was a wasteland of devastation. The city still blazed, the stench of burning wood and flesh overpowering.
The first corpses to meet Philippe’s eyes, their bodies bloated, skin blistered and blackened, caused him to retch. But he pushed onward until his horse would go no farther. Abandoning his mount, Philippe continued on foot. It wasn’t long before he realized the city would have to cool down before he could begin his search for Gabby. Retreating to the outskirts of the city Philippe began his seemingly interminable wait.
It was two days before the smoldering ruins of St. Pierre had cooled enough for him to enter. Making his way through the all but obliterated streets, he went first to the place where Marcel lived. Nothing remained to show where the townhouse once had been. Tier after tier of broken walls lay all around him. The roads were blocked by corpses of people who had fled into the streets to die in agony. Philippe poked around in a disheartened manner among the bodies but after a while gave up in despair. His only hope now was that somehow Marcel had gotten Gabby and Jean out of the city in time.
Though his eyes stung from the acrid smoke and intense heat he went on scanning the destruction for familiar landmarks. Gone were the twin towers of the cathedral, vanished was the military hospital but for one wall. Most incredible of all was that not even the walls of the fortress were standing.
Philippe wandered over the city, finally finding himself at the harbor. He was surprised to see a ship anchored off shore and a long boat pulling away loaded with marines. He waited until they reached shore. Then he learned that the Windward, his own ship, reached Fort-de-France with news of the destruction and a ship had been dispatched along with a column of marines to search for survivors. Philippe joined the search. The rest of that day and the next the rescuers fanned the city for survivors. They had set up a hospital of sorts against the lone wall of the military hospital and by the second day a disappointing number of people were lined up beneath it, most of them dying. On the second day, Philippe was surprised to see the sun appear through the haze of the smoking mountain. The top of Pelee’s crater had been blown away and the denuded slope below gave mute evidence of the mountain’s destructive power. The lush jungle had become a gray, furrowed desert of ash and mud. And the Roxelaine valley a corridor along which death and destruction had flowed into the city of St. Pierre. Although nothing but ash, stone, scalding steam had reached the town, the devastation had been complete and unbelievable.
On that same day Philippe found himself before the ruins of a house whose remaining front entrance he barely recognized. After staring intently at it several minutes, he turned away to continue his search. A moan, soft as a whisper caught his attention. He retraced his steps, listened again, and again the sound, raspy, yet recognizable as human. Galvanized into action, Philippe moved toward the sound, sought and found what he was looking for beneath a broken section of wall. A woman, hardly recognizable as such, alive, barely. Her body was blackened, her face a twisted mass of pain. The fact that she was alive and conscious at all was a miracle. Philippe bent over the woman’s battered body and she opened her eyes. Her voice, when she spoke, was thick and choked, but Philippe had no doubt that the agonizing mewing sound coming from the dying woman belonged to Amalie.
“Monsieur Philippe,” croaked Amalie, clawing at him with blackened hands. “You have come for your Amalie! Ah, but it is too late, too late!”
“Not too late, Amalie,” lied Philippe, feeling nothing but pity and compassion for the pitiful hulk that was once his beautiful mistress.
“Too late, too late,” moaned Amalie again. “Forgive me, mon amour. Forgive me before I die!”
“Later, Amalie, don’t try to talk now,” soothed Philippe.
“There will be no later for me. I cannot face le bon dieu without your forgiveness.”
Philippe nodded his head wearily. He had no choice but to listen to Amalie’s dying words.
“I wanted your wife dead. It was my intense jealousy that killed her and the child she carried when she fell down the stairs. I thought that with her dead you would come back for me.” She paused, swallowed with difficulty, then went on doggedly. “But you did not come, Monsieur Philippe. I waited but you did not come. Did you find another to take my place?”
“Listen, Amalie,” Philippe murmured, placing his mouth close to her ear. “The fall did not kill Gabby. It hastened her labor, but she lived. As did one of the twins she bore. A boy. Only the tiny girl did not live to see the light of day.”
“And… they… have… survived… Pelee?” “I… don’t know,” Philippe admitted, his voice broken with anguish. “I… have not found their bodies.”
With a strength sometimes afforded the dying, Amalie pulled Philippe closer until his face was inches from her own tortured features. “I forgave you long ago for selling me. Now it is your turn to forgive me.”
If forgiving Amalie brought her peace of mind Philippe saw no reason to withhold it from her. Feeling nothing but sadness, he said, “I forgive you, Amalie. The rest is up to le bon dieu.”
Immediately she loosened her hold on him and fell back. Her yellow cat’s eyes gleamed with a strange light. “Now kill me, Monsieur Philippe. Kill me…! For… what… we … once… meant… to… each… other…kill… me.”
Philippe sat back on his haunches staring at the black and blistered face and broken body that once had given him so much pleasure. He never doubted for a moment that she loved him as thoroughly as she was capable. A great and overwhelming sadness came over
him. Her suffering was awesome to watch, her death imminent. But yet, how could he…!
“Kill… me…! I… beg… you!” Amalie implored, her impassioned plea cutting into Philippe like a sword.
Rising, Philippe pulled out the pistol one of the marines had given him to ward off looters, and took deliberate aim at Amalie’s heart.
“Je t’aime,” she mouthed moments before he pulled the trigger.
Philippe doggedly made his way back to the hastily erected hospital. He sank to the ground, resting his back against a large chunk of cement. Someone handed him a cup of coffee and plate of food. Automatically he ate and drank, his emotions masked by extreme weariness. He had found no trace of Gabby or Jean, or even of Marcel. In all likelihood, he surmised, sighing wretchedly, they lay dead beneath the steaming rubble of the city. To add further to his distress, he had just shot his former mistress! Philippe set his plate and cup down and buried his head in his hands, too numb to cry, too dazed to think, too sick at heart to live. Without Gabby life had no meaning. Even his beloved Bellefontaine paled in comparison.
The drone of voices nearby disturbed Philippe’s melancholy. He could not help but overheard the conversation. Raising his head, he saw the doctor sent over with the marines bending over a charred body. Two assistants hovered close by.
“Poor fellow,” said the doctor, shaking his head in commiseration. “I cannot imagine how he survived this long.”
“We found him down by the harbor lying half in, half out of the water,” replied one of the men. “That’s probably why he’s still alive. The water must have protected him from suffering burns serious enough to kill him outright.”
“Will he live?” ask the second man.
“Not a chance,” answered the doctor matter-of-factly, shrugging his shoulders. “Not one survivor among the thousands of people in St. Pierre when Pelee erupted.”
“Listen!” said the first man. “What is he saying?”
“Sounds like he is calling for someone. His wife, probably, and more than likely dead. There! He is calling out again!” said the doctor, cocking his ear closer to the dying man. “Gabby. Yes, that is the name. I’ll give him something to ease his passing.”
Philippe was on his feet instantly, all signs of exhaustion gone from his body. “Wait!” he commanded, startling the doctor by his outburst. “I think I know that man. May I speak with him?”
The doctor shrugged his shoulders and wordlessly moved off to another blackened hulk just brought in to the makeshift hospital.
The moment Philippe looked into Marcel’s blistered face and pain-crazed eyes he knew time was fast running out. Bending close to Marcel’s ear he called out his name. It took a few minutes for the dying man to focus his eyes and when he did recognition was instantaneous.
“Philippe!” he croaked through lips parched and nearly skinless.
“Gabby!” Philippe cried out, his eyes crazed with fear. “Where is Gabby? And… and my son?”
An eternity passed before Marcel answered. And in that eternity Philippe died a thousand deaths.
“Alive! And Jean also. I put them aboard the Windward only moments before she sailed from the harbor.”
“ Merci! Merci, Marcel!” breathed Philippe, suddenly drained of all emotion. Several minutes passed before he gained some semblance of control. Then he said, “No matter what happened in the past you negated it in an instant by that unselfish act. Henceforth I shall always remember you as the man who saved my wife and son.”
“Your son, Philippe?” Marcel was growing weak, yet his tone was rebuking.
“ Oui, my son,” repeated Philippe firmly. “Gabby is still legally my wife and that makes Jean my son no matter who sired him.” Never had Philippe sounded more decisive.
“How could you ever doubt it? I never would have thought you such a fool. Gabby has always been yours. Never mine… never. Jean is your son.”
“Don’t try to talk,” cautioned Philippe as Marcel’s voice seemed to fade away. “I’ll call the doctor.”
“No!” forbade Marcel. “Time is running out for me. Let me talk. But first, water, please!”
Looking around, Philippe spied a crock of water nearby and, using a broken dipper, trickled some into the raw slash that had been Marcel’s mouth. After a few minutes he began speaking again.
“Take care of her, mon ami. I loved her more than I thought possible to love another human. I loved your son, too. I would have been proud to claim him. It’s… it’s better this way. She was… never… mine. Never… loved… me. Yours, Philippe, always… yours.”
Marcel’s eyes were wild now, his pain naked, palpable. Philippe turned to call the doctor.
“No!” rallied Marcel, sensing Philippe’s purpose. “Not through. Hear… me… out.”
Philippe had always heard confession was good for the soul and this day had proved the theory. First Amalie had begged to be heard and now Marcel seemed in need of similar service as he rambled on through cracked lips. 391
“Go to Gabby, Philippe. She and Jean need you. I loved her. Mon dieu, how I loved her!” he mumbled almost incoherently. “My love for her was pure, unsullied. I… I never touched her, though le bon dieu knows I wanted her. Believe me, mon ami, I am a dying man. I would not lie to you.”
Philippe was prepared to go to Gabby whether she had been Marcel’s mistress or not. It just didn’t matter anymore. But Marcel’s dying words filled his heart with joy. “I… I find it hard to believe that in all those months you lived in the same house you and Gabby…”
“Never!” lied Marcel vehemently, knowing in his heart that le bon dieu would forgive him for his falsehood. He discounted that one time Gabby had allowed him to make love to her. In his heart he knew she came to him only out of gratitude. Philippe’s name on her lips at the most intimate of moments proved as much.
“Two weeks ago those words would have been the most welcome words in the world. Today they mean nothing. I love Gabby no matter what has transpired in the past. I only hope my foolish pride hasn’t destroyed whatever feelings she once held for me,” confessed Philippe fervently.
A grimace creased Marcel’s face. “Come closer, mon ami,” he whispered, his voice failing noticeably now. “I beg you not to divulge to Gabby what I am about to reveal to you. After I am gone I want her to know only good of me.” Philippe waited patiently, well aware of what was to come. “I’m glad I didn’t kill you. All those times, in France, aboard the Windward, in New Orleans. I deeply regret Captain Stone’s death. I killed him, too. Found out from Gabby he was on an important mission to obtain war supplies. Had to stop him. Orders.”
“And Captain Giscard’s accident aboard the Windward?” urged Philippe gently. He might as well hear everything.
“Him, too. Sorry. Had to stop documents from reaching General Jackson. Failed. Failed miserably.”
“Why, Marcel? For the love of le bon dieu, why? You with your French heritage. Did you love the English so much?”
“Money, mon ami, money. My father left Le Chateau debt-ridden. Both my sisters needed a dowry to attract husbands worthy of their station. The English money saw both Linette and Honore well and happily wed. Without it they would have had to settle for much less. In the final analysis try not to judge me coo harshly.”
Privately Philippe thought he would have found another way out of financial difficulty. But a dying man deserved some shred of dignity no matter what his sins. Aloud he said, “What you did, Marcel, is now between you and le bon dieu.
“Then… you… won’t… tell… Gabby?”
“No, Marcel, the past is buried.”
“ Merci… mon ami. Tell… her… tell… her… I love…” His voice faltered in mid-sentence. And stopped.
“I believe you did, mon ami,” replied Philippe softly, knowing Marcel was beyond hearing. “I believe you did.”
Philippe started violently when the doctor touched his shoulder. “Your friend?” he asked compassionately, closing the dead man’s eyes.
Philippe hesitated a full minute before answering. “A friend? Yes, Doctor, you might call him that.”
“Sorry, mon ami,” replied the doctor. “Be glad he wasn’t a loved one.” More prophetic words were never spoken.
Five days later the marines left the wasteland of St. Pierre. Not one person discovered alive in the rubble had remained that way for long. When the disheartened men climbed aboard their ship for the trip back to Fort-de-France, Philippe was among them, tired, dirty, but happy beyond belief.
Aboard the Windward, Gabby cradled Jean, let him search for and find her breast, and then let herself relax and enjoy the sensation of watching and feeling him suckle. Jean was all she had left. After word had reached Fort-de-France of the complete devastation wrought by Pelee on St. Pierre, Gabby knew in her heart that Marcel was dead. If he were alive he would have found some way to reach her, or barring that, to send word. A tear slid down her cheek as she silently mourned the only true friend she had ever had. He had loved her more than Philippe had, proving it over and over by word and deed.
Though she was reasonably certain Marcel was dead, Gabby had no way of knowing whether Philippe lived. If he were at Bellefontaine at the time of the eruption he would not have been harmed. But if he happened to be in St. Pierre… Gabby shuddered. Somehow the thought of Philippe’s death affected her in a way Marcel’s demise never could. But whether Philippe was dead or alive made little difference at this point in her life. For all practical purposes she and Jean were alone in the world. She was now forced to make her own way, to forge a life for herself and Jean. No longer did she have Marcel to shelter and protect them. Even his last thoughts had been of her and Jean. Before he had turned back from the Windward he had pressed a sheaf of bills into her hand. At least now she and Jean would not go wanting.
Now she was faced with a dilemma. Captain Bovier had informed her that he planned on sailing back to St. Pierre the next day to see if Philippe had left orders for him. With St. Pierre no longer in existence it seemed likely that a new home port would be established for Philippe’s shipping line. In his own mind the captain had no doubt as to Philippe’s well-being, for if he were in St. Pierre at the time of the eruption he would have met the Windward when she docked.