TWENTY-SECOND CHAPTER
CHARTER MAKES A PILGRIMAGE TO THE CRATERS OF _PELEE_--ONE LAST DAYDEVOTED TO THE SPIRIT OF OLD LETTERS
Charter left the _Palms_ early to join his guide at the wine-shop. Hehad kept apart from Peter Stock for two reasons. The old capitalisteasily could have been tempted to accompany him. Personally, Charter didnot consider a strong element of danger, and a glimpse into thevolcano's mouth would give him a grasp and handling of the throes of asick world, around which all natural phenomena would assume thereafteran admirable repression. To Peter Stock it would be an adventure,merely. More than all this, he wanted to go to the mountain alone. Itwas the Skylark's day; and for this reason, he hurried out of the_Palms_ and down to the city without breakfast.... A last look from the_Morne_, as it dipped into the _Rue Victor Hugo_--at a certain upperwindow of the plantation-house, where it seemed he was leaving all thebright valiant prodigies of the future. He turned resolutely towardPelee--but the Skylark's song grew fainter _behind_.
* * * * *
Pere Rabeaut's interest in the venture continued to delight him.Procuring a companion was no common favor, since inquiries in the townproved that the regular guides were in abject dread of approaching theMonster now. Soronia, Pere Rabeaut, and his new servant awaited him inthe _Rue Rivoli_. The latter was a huge Creole, of gloomy visage. Theywould not find any one to accompany them in the lower part of the city,he said, as the fear there was greater than ever since the Guerindisaster. In Morne Rouge, however, they would doubtless be able toprocure mules, food, and other servants if necessary, for a day's tripto the craters. All of which appeared reasonable to Charter, though hewondered again at the vital interest of Pere Rabeaut, and the generaltension of the starting.
The two passed down through the city, and into the crowd of themarket-place, where a blithesome little drama unfolded. Peter Stock hadapparently been talking to the people about their volcano, urging them,no doubt, to take the advice of Father Fontanel and flee to Fort deFrance, when he had perceived M. Mondet passing in his carriage. Chartersaw his friend dart quickly from the crowd and seize the bridle. Despitethe protestations of the driver, the capitalist drew the vehicle intoview of all. His face was red with the heat and ashine with laughter andperspiration. Alarm and merriment mingled in the native throng. All eyesfollowed the towering figure of the American who now swung open the doorof the carriage and bowed low to M. Mondet.
"This, dear friends," Peter Stock announced, as one would produce arabbit from a silk hat,--"this, you all perceive, is your little editorof _Les Colonies_. Is he not bright and clean and pretty? He is veryfond of American humor. See how the little editor laughs!"
M. Mondet's smile was yellowish-gray and of sickly contour. His articlerelative to the American appealed to him now entirely stripped of thehumor with which it was fraught a few days before, as he had composed itin the inner of inner-offices. This demon of crackling French andrestless hands would stop at nothing. M. Mondet pictured himself beingpicked up for dead presently. As the blow did not fall on the instant,the sorry thought tried him that he was to be played with before beingdispatched.
"This is the man who tells you that Saint Pierre is in no danger--whoscoffs at those who have already gone--who inquires in his paper, 'Whereon the Island could a more secure place than Saint Pierre be found inthe event of an earthquake visitation?' M. Mondet advises us to fleewith all dispatch to the live craters of a volcano to escape hishypothetical earthquake." Peter Stock was now holding up the Frenchman'sarm, as a referee upraises the whip of a winning fighter. "He saysthere's no more peril from Pelee than from an old man shaking ashes outof his pipe. I proposed to wager my ship against M. Mondet's rolled-topdesk that he was wrong, but there was a difficulty in the way. Do younot see, my friends of Saint Pierre, that, if I won the wager, I shouldnot be able to distinguish between M. Mondet's rolled-top desk and M.Mondet's cigarette case in the ruins of the city----"
There had been a steady growling from the mountain.
"Ah!" Stock exclaimed after a pause, "Pelee speaks again! 'I willrepay--verily, I will repay!' growls the Monster. Let it be so, then,friends of mine. I will turn over my little account to the bigfire-eater yonder who will collect all debts. I tell you, we who tarrytoo long will be buying political extras and last editions in hell fromthis bit of a newspaper man!"
Charter laughingly turned away to avoid being seen, just as M. Mondetwas chucked like a large, soft bundle into the seat of his carriage andthe door slammed forcibly, corking whatever wrath appertained. In any ofthe red-blooded zones, a foreigner who performed such antics at theexpense of a portly and respected citizen would have encountered aquietus quick and blasting, but the people of Martinique are not swiftto anger nor forward in reprisal.
Charter's physical energy was imperious, but the numbness of his scalpwas a pregnant warning against the perils of heat. There were moments inwhich his mind moved in a light, irresponsible fashion, as if obsessedat quick intervals, one after another, by mad kings who dared anything,and whom no one dared refuse. Somehow his brain contrived with strikingartifices to keep the Wyndam-Skylark conflict in the background; yet, asoften as he became aware of old Vulcan muttering his agonies ahead, justso often did the reality rise that the meaning and direction of his lifewas gone, if he was not to see again the woman at the _Palms_.
Jacques, his guide, followed in sullen silence. They crossed theRoxelane, and presently were ascending toward Morne Rouge. Saint Pierrewas just still enough now to act like a vast sounding-board. Remotevoices reached them, even from the harbor-front to the left, and fromshut shops everywhere.... It was nearly mid-day, when he rode out fromMorne Rouge, with three more companions.
The ash-hung valley was far behind, and Charter drank deeply of theclean, east wind from the Atlantic. There was a rush of bitterness, too,because the woman was not there to share these priceless volumes ofsunlit vitality. All the impetus of enterprise was needed now to turnthe point of conflict, and force it into the background again.... Theypushed through Ajoupa Boullion to the gorge of the Falaise, thenorthward bank of which marked the trail which Jacques chose to thesummit.
And now they moved upward in the midst of the old glory of Martinique.The brisk Trades blowing evenly in the heights, wiped the eastern slopeof the mountain clear of stone-dust and whipped the blasts of sulphurdown into the valley toward the shore. Green lakes of cane filled thevalleys behind, and groves of cocoa-palms, so distant and so orderlythat they looked like a city garden set with hen and chickens....Northward, through the rifts, glistened the sea, steel-blue and cool.Before them rose the vast, green-clad mass of the mountain, its coronadim with smoke and lashed by storm. Down in the southwest lay theghastly pall, the hidden, tortured city, tranced under the cobra-head ofthe volcano and already laved in its poison.
The trail became very steep at two thousand feet, and this fact,together with the back-thresh of the summit disturbance, forced Charterto abandon the animals. It transpired that two of the three later guidesfelt it their duty, at this point, to stay behind with the mules. Alittle later, when the growling from the prone, upturned face of theMonster suddenly arose to a roar that twisted the flesh and outraged thesenses of man, Charter looked back and found that only one native wasfaltering behind, instead of two. And this one was Jacques, of thesavage eyes. Pere Rabeaut was praised again.
Fascination for the dying Thing took hold of him now and drew him on.Charter was little conscious of fear for his life, but of a fixed terrorlest he should be unable to go on. He found himself tearing up ahandkerchief and stuffing the shreds in his ears to deaden the hideousvibrations. With the linen remaining, he filled his mouth, shutting hisjaws together upon it, as the wheels of a wagon are blocked on anincline.
The titanic disorder placated his own. He became unconscious of passingtime. From the contour of the slope, remembered from a past visit, hewas aware of nearing the _Lac des Palmists_, which marked thesummit-level. Yet changes, violent changes, w
ere everywhere evidenced.The shoulder of the mountain was smeared with a crust of ash and seamedwith fresh scars. The crust was made by the dry, whirling winds playingupon the paste formed of stone-dust and condensed steam. The clickingwhir, like a clap of wings, heard at intervals, accounted for the scars.Bombs of rock were being hurled from the great tubes. Here he shouted toJacques to stay behind; that he would be back in a few moments. Therewas a nod of assent from the evil head.
That he was in the range of a raking volcano-fire impressed with a sortof laughing awe this ant clinging to the beard of a giant. Up, knees andhands, now, he crawled--up over the throbbing chin, to the black,pounded lip of the Monster. Out of the old lake coiled the furious towerof steam and rock-dust which mushroomed in high heaven, like a primalnebula from which worlds are made. It was this which fell upon the city.Pockets of gas exploded in the heights, rending the periphery, as theveil of the temple was rent. Only this horrible torrent spreading overSaint Pierre to witness, but sounds not meant for the ear of man, soundswhich seemed to saw his skull in twain--the thundering engines of aplanet.
The rocky rim of the lake was hot to his hands and knees, but a momentmore he lingered. A thought in his brain held him there with thrillingbands. It was only a plaything of mind--a vagary of altitude andimmensity. "Did ever the body of a man clog the crater of a livevolcano?" was his irreverent query. "Did ever suicidal genius conceiveof corrupting such majesty of force with his pygmy purpose?"
There he lay, sprawled at the edge of the universal mystery, at thesecret-entrance to the chamber of earth's dynamos. The edge of the pitshook with the frightful work going on below, yet he was not slain. Thetorrent burst past and upward with a southward inclination, clean as amissing bullet. The bombs of rock canted out from sheer weight and fellbehind. That which he comprehended--although his eyes saw only the gray,thundering cataclysm--was never before imagined in the mind of man.
The gray blackened. The roar dwindled, and his senses reeled. With arush of saliva, the linen dropped from his open mouth. Charter was surethere was a gaping cleft in his skull, for he could feel the air blowingin and out, cold and colder. He tried to lift his hands to cover thesensitive wound, but they groped in vain for his head. With the icydraughts of air, he seemed to hear faintly his name falling upon bareganglia. For a second he feared that the lower part of his body wouldnot respond; that he was uncoupled like a beast whose spine isbroken.... It was only a momentary overcoming of the gas, or altitude,or the dreadful disorder, or all three. Yet he knew how he must turnback if he lived.... His name was called again. He thought it was theReaper, calling forth his ghost.
"Quentin Charter! Quentin Charter!"
Then he saw the Wyndam woman on the veranda of the _Palms_, her facewhite with agony, her eyes straining toward him.... Turning hastily--hemissed death in a savage, sordid reality. Jacques had crept upon him, amaniac in his eyes, dog's slaver on his lips. A rock twice as large ashis head was upraised in both arms. With a muscular spasm one knows in adream, Charter's whole body united in a spring to the side--escaping therock. Jacques turned and fled like a goat, leaping from level to level.
Charter managed to follow. He felt weak and ill for the time, as thoughPelee had punished him for peering into matters which Nature does notthank man for endeavoring to understand.... The three natives pressedabout him far down on the slope. Jacques had vanished. The sun wassinking seaward. Charter mounted his mule, turning the recent incidentover in his mind for the manieth time. His first thought had been thatthe indescribable gripping of the mountain had turned mad a decentservant, but this did not stand when he recalled how Pere Rabeaut hadimportuned him to accept Jacques, and how the latter had fled from his_failure_. Yet, so far as he could see, there was no reason in the worldwhy a conspiracy to murder him should have origin in the littlewine-shop of _Rue Rivoli_. It was all baffling even at first, that arock had been chosen, when a knife or a pistol would have beeneffective. This latter, he explained presently. There was a possibilityof his body being found; a smashed head would fall to the blame of _PerePelee_, who was casting bombs of rock upon the slopes; while a knife ora bullet-wound on his body would start the hounds indeed.
He rode down the winding trail apart from the guides. Darkness wasbeginning, and the lights of Ajoupa Boullion showed ahead. The mountaincarried on a frightful drumming behind. Coiling masses of volcanicspume, miles above the craters, generated their own fire; and lit in theflashes, looked like billows of boiling steel. Charter rode upon sheernerve--nerve at which men had often wondered. At length a full-riggedthought sprang into his mind, which had known but the passing ofhopeless derelicts since the first moment of descent. It was she who hadcalled to save him. The woman of flesh had become a vision indeed. Thelittle Island mule felt the heel that moment.... Charter turned back tothe red moiled sky--a rolling, roaring Hades in the North.
"I can't help it, Skylark," he murmured, "if you _will_ merge into thiswoman. She may never know that a man fled from her to the mountainto-day, and is hurrying back--as to the source of all beauty!...Charter, Charter, your thoughts are boiling over----"
He rode into the streets of Morne Rouge, so over-crowded now with thefrightened from the lower city, that many were huddled upon the highwaywhere they would be forced to sleep. Here he paid the three guides, butretained his mule.... On the down trail again, he re-entered the bank offalling ash and the sulphurous desolation. Evil as it was, the taintbrought a sense of proximity to the _Morne_ and the _Palms_. SaintPierre was dark and harrowingly still under the throbbing volcano. Thehoof-beats of the mule were muffled in ash, as if he pounded along asandy beach. Often a rousing fetor reached the nostrils of the rider,above the drying, cutting vapor from Pelee, and the little beast shiedand snorted at untoward humps on the highway. War and pestilence,seemingly, had stalked through Saint Pierre that day and a winter stormhad tried to cover the aftermath.... He passed through _Rue Rivoli_, butwas far too eager to reach the _Palms_ to stop at the wine-shop. Theugly mystery there could be penetrated afterward. Downward, he turnedtoward the next terrace, where the solitary figure of a woman confrontedhim.
"Mr. Charter!" she cried. "And--you are able to ride?"
"Why, what do you mean, Miss Wyndam?" he said, swiftly dismounting."What are you doing 'way up here alone--in this dreadful suffocation?"
"I was looking for a little stone wine-shop----" She checked herself, ascroll of horrors spreading open in her brain.
"It's just a little way back," he said, in a repressed tone. "I have anerrand there, too. Shall I show you?"
"No," she answered shuddering. "I'll walk with you back to the _Palms_.I must think.... Oh, let us hurry!"
He lifted her to the saddle, and took the bridle-rein.