HAVING TO DO ESPECIALLY WITH THE MORNING OF THE ASCENSION, WHEN THE
MONSTER, _PELEE_, GIVES BIRTH TO DEATH
The old servant met them at the door with uplifted finger. Father
Fontanel was sleeping. They did not wish to disturb him but sat down to
wait in the anteroom, which seemed to breathe of little tragedies of
Saint Pierre. On one side of the room was the door that was never
locked; on the other, the entrance to the sleeping-room of the priest.
Thus he kept his ear to the city's pulse. Peter Stock drowsed in the
suffocating air. Charter's mind slowly revolved and fitted to the great
concept.... The woman was drawn to him, and there had been no need of
words.... Each moment she was more wonderful and radiant. There had not
been a glance, a word, a movement, a moment, a breath, an aspiration, a
lift of brow or shoulder or thought, that had not more dearly charmed
his conception of her triune beauty.
The day had left in his brain a crowd of unassimilated actions, and into
this formless company came the thrilling mystery of his last moment with
her--a shining cord of happiness for the labyrinth of the late days....
There had been so much _beyond words_ between them--an overtone of
singing. He had seen in her eyes all the eager treasure of brimming
womanhood, rising to burst the bonds of repression for the first time.
Dawn was a far voyage, but he settled himself to wait with the will of a
weathered voyager whose heart feels the hungry arms upon the waiting
shore.
The volcano lost its monstrous rhythm again, and was ripping forth
irregular crashes. Father Fontanel awoke and the _Rue Victor Hugo_
became alive with voices, aroused by the rattling in the throat of the
mountain. Charter went into the room where the priest lay.
"Come, Father," he said, "We have waited long for you. I want you to go
out to the ship for the rest of the night. You must breathe true air for
an hour. Do this for me."
"Ah, my son!" the old man murmured, drawing Charter's head down to his
breast. "My mind was clouded, and I could not see you clearly in the
travail of yesterday."
"Many of your people are in Fort de France, Father," the young man
added. "They will be glad to see you. Then you may come back here--even
to-morrow, if you are stronger. Besides, the stalwart friend who has
done so much for your people, wants you one night on his ship."
"Yes, my son.... I was waiting for you. I shall be glad to breathe the
dawn at sea."
Peter Stock pressed Charter's hand as they led Father Fontanel forth.
The mountain was quieter again. The bells of Saint Pierre rang the hour
of two.... The three reached the Sugar Landing where the _Saragossa's_
launch lay.
"Hello, Ernst," Stock called to his man. "I've kept you waiting long,
but top-speed to the ship--deep water and ocean air!"
The launch sped across the smoky harbor, riding down little isles of
flotsam, dead birds from the sky and nameless mysteries from the roiled
bed of the harbor. The wind was hot in their faces, like a stoke-hold
blast. Often they heard a hissing in the water, like the sound of a wet
finger touching hot iron. A burning cinder fell upon Charter's hand, a
messenger from Pelee. He could not feel fire that night.... He was
living over that last moment with her--gazing into her eyes as one who
seeks to penetrate the mystery of creation, as if it were any clearer in
a woman's eyes than in a Nile night, a Venetian song, or in the flow of
gasolene to the spark, which filled the contemplation of Ernst.... He
remembered the swift intaking of her breath at the last, and knew that
she was close to tears.
The launch was swinging around to the _Saragossa's_ ladder. Father
Fontanel had not spoken. Wherever the ship-lights fell, the sheeting of
ash could be seen--upon mast and railing and plates. They helped the
good man up the ladder, and Stock ordered Laird, his first officer, to
steam out of the blizzard, a dozen miles if necessary. The anchor chain
began to grind at once, and three minutes later, the _Saragossa's_
screws were kicking the ugly harbor tide. Charter watched, strangely
disconcerted, until only the dull red of Pelee pierced the thick veil
behind. A star, and another, pricked the blue vault ahead, and the air
blew in fragrant as wine from the rolling Caribbean, but each moment was
an arraignment now.... He wanted none of the clean sea; and the mere
fact that he would not rouse her before daylight, even if he were at the
_Palms_, did not lessen the savage pressure of the time.... Father
Fontanel would not sleep, but moved among his people on deck. The
natives refused to stay below, now that the defiled harbor was behind.
There was a humming of old French lullabies to the little ones. Cool air
had brought back the songs of peace and summer to the lowly hearts. It
was an hour before dawn, and the _Saragossa_ was already putting back
toward the roadstead, when Father Fontanel called Charter suddenly.
"Make haste and go to the woman, my son," he said strangely.
Charter could not answer. The priest had spoken little more than this,
since they led him from the parish-house. The _Saragossa_ crept into the
edge of the smoke. The gray ghost of morning was stealing into the
hateful haze. They found anchorage. The launch was in readiness below.
It was not yet six. Ernst was off duty, and another sailor,--one whose
room was prepared in the dim pavilion--waited at the tiller. Charter
waved at the pale mute face of the priest, leaning overside, and the fog
rushed in between.
The launch gained the inner harbor, and the white ships at anchor were
vague as phantoms in the vapor--French steamers, Italian barques, and
the smaller West Indian craft--all with their work to do and their way
to win. Charter heard one officer shout to another a whimsical
inquiry--if Saint Pierre were in her usual place or had switched sites
with hell. The day was clearing rapidly, however, and before the launch
reached shore, the haze so lifted that Pelee could be seen, floating a
pennant of black out to sea. In the city, a large frame warehouse was
ablaze. The tinder-dry structure was being destroyed with almost
explosive speed.
A blistering heat rushed down from the expiring building to the edge of
the land. Crowds watched the destruction. Many of the people were in
holiday attire. This was the Day of Ascension, and Saint Pierre would
shortly pray and praise at the cathedral; and at _Notre Dame des
Lourdes_, where Father Fontanel would be missed quite the same as if
they had taken the figure of Saint Anne from the altar.... Even now the
cathedral bells were calling, and there was low laughter from a group of
Creole maidens. Was it not good to live, since the sun was trying to
shine again and the mountain did not answer the ringing of the bells? It
was true that Pelee poured forth a black streamer with lightning in its
folds; true that the people trod upon the hot, gray dust of the
volcano's waste; that the heat was such as no man had ever felt before,
and many sat in misery upon the ground; true, indeed, that voices of
hysteria came from the hovels, and the weaker were dying too swiftly for
the priests to attend them all--but the gala-spirit was not dead. The
bells were calling, the mountain was still, bright dresses were
abroad--for the torrid children of France must laugh.
A carriage was not procurable, so Charter fell in with the procession on
the way to the cathedral. Many of the natives nodded to him; and may
have wondered at the color in his skin, the fire in his eyes, and the
glad ring of his voice. Standing for a moment before the church, he
hurled over the little gathering the germ of flight; told them of the
food and shelter in Fort de France, begged them laughingly to take their
women and children out of this killing air.... It was nearly
eight--eight on the morning of Ascension Day.... She would be ready. He
hoped to find a carriage at the hotel.... At nine they would be in the
launch again, speeding out toward the _Saragossa_.
Twenty times a minute she recurred to him as he walked. There was no
waning nor wearing--save a wearing brighter, perhaps--of the images she
had put in his mind. Palaces, gardens, treasure-houses--with the turn of
every thought, new riches of possibility identified with her, were
revealed. Thoughts of her, winged in and out his mind like bright birds
that had a cote within--until he was lifted to heights of gladness which
seemed to shatter the dome of human limitations--and leave him crown and
shoulders emerged into illimitable ether.
The road up the _Morne_ stretched blinding white before him. The sun was
braver. Panting and spent not a little, he strode upward through the
vicious pressure of heat, holding his helmet free from his head, that
air might circulate under the rim. Upon the crest of the _Morne_, he
perceived the gables of the old plantation-house, above the palms and
mangoes, strangely yellowed in the ashen haze.
Pelee roared. Sullen and dreadful out of the silence voiced the Monster
roused to his labor afresh. Charter darted a glance back at the
darkening North, and began to run.... The crisis was not past; the
holiday darkened. The ship would fill with refugees now, and the road to
Fort de France turn black with flight. These were his thoughts as he
ran.
The lights of the day burned out one by one. The crust of the earth
stretched to a cracking tension. The air was beetling with strange
concussions. In the clutch of realization, Charter turned one shining
look toward the woman hurrying forward on the veranda of the _Palms_....
Detonations accumulated into the crash of a thousand navies.
She halted, her eyes fascinated, lost in the North. He caught her up
like a child. Across the lawn, through the roaring black, he bore her,
brushing her fingers and her fallen hair from his eyes. He reached the
curbing of the old well with his burden, crawled over and caught the
rusty chain. Incandescent tongues lapped the cistern's raised coping.
There was a scream as from the souls of Night and Storm and Chaos
triumphant--a mighty planetary madness--shocking magnitudes from the
very core of sound! Air was sucked from the vault, from their ears and
lungs by the shrieking vacuums, burned through the cushion of atmosphere
by the league-long lanes of electric fire.... Running streams of red
dust filtered down.
It was eight on the morning of Ascension Day. _La Montagne Pelee_ was
giving birth to death.