THE FATE OF CAPTAIN SUDLIP
By the time the small native craft reached the vicinity of St. Pierre
the great eruption was at an end, and Pelee had once more resumed its
normal condition, saving for the cloud of black smoke and the strange
vapor still clinging to its lofty top. Even from a great distance,
however, it could be noticed that the top of the grand old mountain was
split into several parts.
In the harbor of St. Pierre were collected a dozen or more steamers
sent from various ports to give aid to the sufferers who were flocking
in from many of the outlying districts. Provisions were to be had
in plenty, and also clothing, while a score or more of surgeons and
physicians stood ready to care for the sick, the wounded and the dying.
“What an awful scene of desolation!” remarked Sam, as they gazed at
the distant ruin of the once prosperous city. “Everything seems to be
buried under the fall of lava and mud.”
“Yes, and the lava has turned to stone,” added Mark. “I don’t believe
they will ever rebuild this place.”
“It is not likely,” said Professor Strong. “Or, if they do, it will not
be for many years. In my opinion the whole north end of Martinique will
be abandoned, for there is no telling how soon Mont Pelee will belch
forth again.”
It was not long after this that they passed the wreckage of a French
sailing vessel which had been burnt near to the north shore of St.
Pierre. Another boat was at hand, transferring such of the cargo as
remained undamaged.
“I wonder what craft that is?” said Frank. “It looks something like a
boat we saw in the harbor of Havana.”
“She is from Havana,” said a Frenchman, who was at hand, working. “The
_Raven_, Captain Sudlip.”
“Captain Sudlip!” came from several of the boys.
“Was his full name Jason Sudlip?” questioned Professor Strong, with
equal interest.
“Yes. Then you knew him?”
“We did. But we didn’t know he was captain of a schooner like this.”
“It was a new command for him. At the last moment the regular captain
of the _Raven_ was taken sick and Captain Sudlip took his place. Poor
fellow, it was a fatal trip for him.”
“Is Captain Sudlip dead?” questioned Darry.
“Not dead, but horribly burnt. They have taken him to the hospital at
Roseau, on the island of Dominica, but the doctors say he cannot live.”
The Frenchman resumed his work, and the craft containing our friends
moved off down the coast. For some minutes nobody spoke. Then Darry
heaved a long sigh.
“It’s horrible!” he murmured. “Horrible! Captain Sudlip wasn’t our
friend, but I pity him.”
“And so do I pity him,” put in Sam. “I trust his case isn’t as bad as
reported.”
This was all that was said, but nobody forgot the matter until a long
time after. It may be as well to state here that the captain was in a
very bad way and that he died inside of the week.
It was utterly impossible to think of going ashore at St. Pierre,
and fearful of another eruption which might cost them their lives,
Professor Strong procured passage on a little ferry steamer which had
formerly run regularly between the fallen city and Fort de France.
Turning southward again made the hearts of Mark and Frank sink like
lead within their bosoms. Their thoughts were constantly on their
parents.
“I can’t give my father up--I simply can’t!” said Frank to his chum, in
a choking voice. “It’s too awful to think of!”
“I feel exactly the same, Frank,” answered the older youth. “But what
more can we do?”
“I am going to make more inquiries when we reach Fort de France.”
“Oh, I shall do that, too.”
On the way down the coast they fell in with many vessels, all going to
St. Pierre to give aid to those who, alas, were beyond human needs.
These craft moved along silently, nobody feeling in the humor to even
discuss the situation.
As soon as they landed at the capital city they started for the
post-office, to learn if anything in the shape of a letter had been
left for one or another of the party. They found the streets crowded
with people of all nationalities and for the first time learned how
Fort de France had received a shower of dust and stones, and how
everybody had been terrorized and business brought to a standstill.
“It’s a fearful state of affairs,” said Sam. “They won’t recover from
this for years.”
“St. Pierre will never recover, Samuel,” returned the professor. “The
eruption has----”
Professor Strong stopped short, for a cry from Mark had interrupted
him. The youth was pointing up a street to their left.
“See! see! There is a crowd of negroes and they are beating a white
man! If somebody don’t help the white fellow they will kill him!”
They started forward, and were soon on the edge of the crowd which
numbered fully a dozen colored men. In the very midst was the white
man Mark had mentioned. His hat was off, his collar and tie loose, his
shirt torn, and he was fighting desperately. One cheek was bleeding
from a long cut and his left arm hung limply at his side.
“It is Dan Markel!” ejaculated Darry. “Dan Markel, the fellow who once
swindled Hockley!”
The crowd around the man was yelling fiercely and striking at every
available opportunity. Dan Markel was yelling in return, but nobody
appeared to listen to him.
“We must do something, or he’ll surely be killed,” said Frank.
By this time Professor Strong was close to the crowd. “Stop!” he called
out, in French. “Stop! What does this mean?”
“He is a rascal!” said one native, wrathfully. “He is not fit to live!”
“He robbed the dead,” said another. “We saw him doing it--up at the
Ladarosa plantation.”
“Let me go!” screamed Markel, in English. “It’s all a mistake.”
By this time the crowd was growing larger, and the shouting continued,
until to make out what one individual was saying was impossible. Those
nearest to Markel continued to strike at the man from Baltimore, until
he went down from a blow on the head, and several in the crowd fell on
top of him.
It was at this critical moment that several gens-d’armes appeared. They
were doing police duty in that neighborhood, and at once set to work
to restore peace. But it was not without great difficulty that they
succeeded in quieting the negroes, who insisted upon it that Dan Markel
be arrested.
“He is a looter--a robber of the dead,” said one of the natives. And
then he explained that he was an assistant foreman on the Ladarosa
plantation not far from St. Pierre. The master of the plantation had
been killed, along with several others of the household, while the
negroes had fled to a rocky cave for safety. On returning to the house
two days after the first eruption they had found Dan Markel there and
in the act of stealing the silverware and jewelry. Markel had escaped
them but they remembered his face well.
The man from Baltimore tried to deny this story, saying he had reached
Fort de France from La Guayra that morning, but on being searched some
jewelry which the negroes identified was found in his pockets. He
was at once marched off to the local jail, there to await trial, the
natives following the gens-d’armes to see that the prisoner did not get
away.
“It will go hard with Markel,” said Darry. “Robbery under such
circumstances becomes a double crime.”
“In some countries such looters would be hung,” answered Professor
Strong. “You may depend upon it that Markel will get the full penalty
of the law.”
“This will please Hockley,” came from Sam. “He was always sorry the
rascal got away. I wonder if Hockley is still up at the hotel?” he
continued.
“I shouldn’t be surprised if he got out of Fort de France when that
shower of dust and stones came,” returned Mark. “He was scared to death
as it was.”
A short while later found them at the post-office asking for letters.
Owing to the general disorder it was half an hour before any mail was
handed out.
The first communication proved to be from Hockley, and was addressed to
Professor Strong. It was short, and had evidently been written while
the youth was in an excited frame of mind. It ran as follows:
“DEAR PROFESSOR: It looks now as if this island was doomed and I
don’t propose to be burnt up or be drowned. There is a steamer
sailing from here to Port-of-Spain, Trinidad, and other ports
in South America, and I have secured passage. If I stop off at
Port-of-Spain you can look for me at the hotel at which we stopped
before, and if I go further I will leave word in a letter at the
post-office. Have cabled my father to send necessary money.”
“I knew Hockley wouldn’t stay,” said Darry. “I’ll wager he was almost
paralyzed with terror.” And he was right. Hockley had acted so
thoroughly scared that he had made himself the laughing stock of all,
both at the hotel and on board the steamer on which he had secured
passage. It was to be some time before they would see their tall
traveling companion again.