Dashed Hopes
In La Trinité, Biff, his uncle, and Derek moved about with haste.
Following a speedy lunch, they shopped for enough supplies to last them
for their expedition into the interior of Martinique.
“Step lively, boys,” Uncle Charlie urged. “It won’t take Dietz long to
find out he’s been fooled. And we don’t want him hounding us on this
search.”
“Uncle Charlie,” Biff said, “if Dietz comes into Trinité and finds our
boat still moored in Treasure Bay, won’t he know we’re still somewhere
nearby?”
“That’s a chance we’ll have to take, Biff.”
“But if we took the boat up the coast—got it away from here—that would
cause him further delay, wouldn’t it?”
“You’re right again, Biff.”
“But why would Dietz want to follow us when we’re searching for my
father?” Derek asked.
“He wants to know about your father as much as we do. But for different
reasons,” Charles Keene replied, a frown darkening his face.
Derek thought this over. “If we learn some bad news about my father—if
we should learn he really is gone—” Derek gulped. He couldn’t bring
himself to say out loud that they might find out that Brom Zook was
dead. “If that is how our search should end, then you mean there could
be some doubt as to whether the claim he originally filed is still
valid?”
“Afraid so, Derek. I believe your claim would be supported in time. But
there would be delay after delay as Dietz went to the courts to try to
have it invalidated.”
“I see.”
Biff wanted to get his friend Derek’s mind away from such depressing
thoughts.
“About the boat again, Uncle Charlie. Why don’t we go around the point,
head north along the coast, and find a sheltered harbor where we could
hide the boat? Then we could head inland from there.”
“That’s what we’ll do, Biff. And let’s do it right away,” his uncle
agreed.
They made a run of about ten miles along the east coast of Martinique
and found a small cove between Ste. Marie and Marigot. They beached the
boat and covered it with the lacy leaves of the giant fern trees which
grow to a height of twenty feet on Martinique. Over the ferns they
spread palm fronds. The boat was completely hidden.
From the beach, they could see the peak of Mt. Pelée, rising nearly five
thousand feet in the air.
“Boys, what do you say we make Pelée our first goal?” Charles Keene
suggested. “Your searches haven’t brought you that far north and east,
have they, Derek?”
“No, sir.”
“Okay. Let’s move out then.”
Each of the three slung a pack over his shoulders, and they plunged into
the thick tropical growth.
Biff was enjoying himself. If the object of their search hadn’t been
such a serious one, if his feeling that the search might have an unhappy
ending hadn’t been so strong, then the exploration would have been even
more fun.
Martinique, Biff soon discovered, was truly a beautiful island, one of
the most beautiful places in which he had ever been. From the top of
steep ridges, the lush, fertile valleys of the island spread out below.
Rugged peaks rose like steeples above the ridges.
In the rich valleys, they crossed through sugar-cane fields.
Biff took his knife and slashed a stock down. Its sweet juices oozed out
of the slash. Biff pressed the stock to his lips and sucked deeply.
“Try one, Derek. Tastes good,” he said.
Banana trees grew wild almost everywhere they went. Derek shinned up the
rough, fat trunk of one tree and yanked down a bunch. He squirreled back
down the tree and plopped on the ground to inspect his haul. Derek’s
hands were exploring the bunch, trying to select the ripest, fattest
banana when Charlie Keene leaped to his side and struck the Dutch boy’s
arm a sharp blow.
Derek looked around in amazed alarm.
Charles Keene was stamping on a hairy black spider. He had spotted the
ugly insect on Derek’s shoulder and with one swift blow had knocked the
spider to the ground.
“What’s the matter, Mr. Keene?” Derek looked frightened.
“Close call, Derek. That spider I just knocked off your arm is called
_matoutou falaise_. That’s the local French name for the most poisonous
spider on the island. They make their nests in bananas.”
Derek’s face went white.
“It’s all right now. I got him. But after this, be mighty careful when
you pick a banana,” Uncle Charlie warned.
Now and again the party would pass a small thatched hut. At each one,
they asked questions of the inhabitants.
“A tall man, very thin, with almost white hair,” was the description
they gave of Brom Zook. “He’s been missing over three months.”
The natives would only shake their heads. No, they had seen no such man,
nor had they heard of such a stranger in these parts.
For three days the party trudged up and down the ridges and peaks of the
island. They questioned a hundred or more people. They went to Deux
Choux, to Morne Vert, Le Lorrain, Grande Rivière, and towns even
smaller. Nowhere did they get any leads to a missing Hollander named
Brom Zook.
By the fourth day of the search, it was plain to Biff and his uncle that
Derek was becoming more and more discouraged, more and more
disheartened. They tried their best to cheer up the Dutch lad.
At the end of the day, they reached the top of Mt. Pelée. Looking down
at the sea, they could pick out the ruins of Saint-Pierre. Once, Uncle
Charlie told the boys, Saint-Pierre had been the largest city on the
island. Then, in the early morning hours, tragedy had struck.
“You know the story about Saint-Pierre and Mt. Pelée, Biff?” Uncle
Charlie asked. “You must have heard it, Derek, when you were growing up
in Curaçao.”
Derek shook his head. “No, I don’t remember it, Mr. Keene.”
“It was just after the turn of the century, around 1902, I believe.
Saint-Pierre then had a population of thirty thousand people. Early one
morning, as the city slept, Mt. Pelée erupted. It shot forth a sheet of
flame and molten lava. In a matter of only a few seconds, thirty
thousand people were dead. Most of them died in their beds.”
“The whole city wiped out? In seconds?” Biff asked incredulously.
“That’s right, Biff,” Charlie Keene said. “There was only one survivor.”
“How could one person survive when thirty thousand others perished?”
Biff demanded.
“It’s a most unusual story. This person was a prisoner in Saint-Pierre.
He was in solitary confinement. The cell he was in had stone walls
several feet thick. That’s what saved him. The walls were so thick they
resisted the heat. The prisoner didn’t even know about the catastrophe
until several days later when rescue crews explored the prison.”
Biff could only shake his head.
That night they camped on top of the volcano and went into Saint-Pierre
the next morning. “As you can see,” Uncle Charlie pointed out, “the town
has been partly rebuilt. But today, only six thousand persons live here
where, fifty years ago, Saint-Pierre had thirty thousand residents.”
Inquiries were made at the police station. The three searchers could
hardly believe their ears. They received their first lead.
“No, I do not know the man’s name,” the police officer said, “but a man
of such a description as you give has been staying in a small pension
just outside the city for the last few months.”
“Where? Where is it?” Derek cried out.
“I will be only too happy to take you there,” the courteous officer
replied.
They rode through the volcanic ruins of Saint-Pierre toward the gentle
slope that led toward Mt. Pelée. Although some sections had been built
up, there were still plenty of signs of the savage destruction caused by
Mt. Pelée’s eruption over half a century before.
Derek was in the front seat with the police officer. Biff and Charles
Keene were in the rear seat. Biff had his fingers crossed. Both the boy
and his uncle were praying that the man the police officer referred to
might be Derek’s father.
The car drew up before a small vine-covered house. Derek leaped out. The
police officer led the way. Biff and Charles Keene were right behind.
A broad veranda swept round three sides of the house. The officer made
an inquiry, then motioned Derek to follow him.
Biff was a step behind Derek. At the far end of the veranda, they could
see a man sitting in a high-backed wicker chair, his back to them.
As they approached the chair, Biff kept his eyes on Derek. The Dutch boy
rushed forward and turned to confront the man in the chair. Biff watched
the expression on Derek’s face.
Biff read his answer from the disappointment which spread over his
friend’s features.
The man was not Brom Zook.