having to do especially with the morning of the ascension, when the monster, pelée, 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 pelée. 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 pelée 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 pelée 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 pelée 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.
pelée 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 pelée was giving birth to death.
