the saragossa encounters the raging fire-mists from pelée eight miles at sea, but lives to send a boat ashore

peter stock stared long into the faint film of smoke, until the launch bearing charter ashore was lost in the shipping. the pale, winding sheet was unwrapped from the beauty of morning. there was an edging of rose and gold on the far dim hills. his eyes smarted from weariness, but his mind, like an automatic thing, swept around the great circle—from the ship to the city, to the plantation-house on the morne and back to the ship again. he was sick of the shore, disgusted with people who would listen to m. mondet and not to him. miss wyndam had refused him so often, that he was half afraid charter would not be successful, but he was willing to wait two hours longer, for he liked the young woman immensely, liked her breeding and her brain.... he joined laird, his first officer, on the bridge. the latter was scrutinizing through the glass a blotch of smoke on the city-front.

"what do you make of it, sir?" laird asked.

the lenses brought to the owner a nucleus of red in the black bank. the rest of saint pierre was a gray, doll-settlement, set in the shelter of little gray hills. he could see the riven and castellated crest of pelée weaving his black ribbon. it was all small, silent, and unearthly.

"that's a fire on the water-front," he said.

"that's what i made of it, sir," laird responded.

shortly afterward the trumpetings of the monster began. the harbor grew yellowish-black. the shore crawled deeper into the shroud, and was lost altogether. the water took on a foul look, as if the bed of the sea were churned with some beastly passion. the anchor-chain grew taught, mysteriously strained, and banged a tattoo against its steel-bound eye. blue peter drooping at the foremast, livened suddenly into a spasm of writhing, like a hooked lizard. the black, quivering columns of smoke from the funnels were fanned down upon the deck, adding soot to the white smear from the volcano.

"better get the natives below—squall coming!" peter stock said, in a low tone to laird, and noted upon the quiet, serious face of this officer, as he obeyed, an expression quite new. it was the look of a man who sees the end, and does not wince.

the women wailed, as the sailors hurried them below and sealed the ways after them. a deep-sea language passed over the ship. there were running feet, bells below, muffled cries from the native-women, quick oaths from the sailors; and then, peter stock felt the iron-fingers of fear about his heart—not for himself and his ship eight miles at sea, but for his good young friend and for the woman who had refused to come.

a hot, fetid breath charged the air. the ship rose and settled like a feather in a breeze; in a queer light way, as though its element were heavily charged with air, the water danced, alive with the yeast of worlds. the disordered sky intoned violence. pelée had set the foundations to trembling. a step upon the bridge-ladder caused the american to turn with a start. father fontanel was coming up.

"oh, this won't do at all," peter stock cried in french. "we're going to catch hell up here, and you don't belong."

he dashed down the ladder, and led the old man swiftly back to the cabin, where he rushed to the ports and screwed them tight with lightning fingers, led the priest to a chair and locked it in its socket. father fontanel spoke for the first time.

"it's very good of you," he said dully, "but what of my people?"

stock did not answer, but rushed forth. six feet from the cabin-door, he met the fiery van of the cataclysm, and found strength to battle his way back into the cabin.... from out the shoreward darkness thundered vibrations which rendered soundless all that had passed before. comets flashed by the port-holes. the saragossa shuddered and fell to her starboard side.

eight bells had just sounded when the great thunder rocked over the gray-black harbor, and the molten vitals of the monster, wrapped in a black cloud, filled the heavens, gathered and plunged down upon the city and the sea. as for the ship, eight miles from the shore and twelve miles from the craters, she seemed to have fallen from a habitable planet into the firemist of an unfinished world. she heeled over like a biscuit-tin, dipping her bridge and gunwales. she was deluged by blasts of steam and molten stone. her anchor-chain gave way, and, burning in a dozen places, she was sucked inshore.

laird was on the bridge. plass, the second officer, on his way to the bridge, to relieve or assist laird as the bell struck, was felled at the door of the chart-room. a sailor trying to drag the body of plass to shelter, was overpowered by the blizzard of steam, gas, and molten stone, falling across the body of his officer. the ship was rolling like a runaway-buoy.

peter stock had been hurled across the cabin, but clutched the chair in which the priest was sitting, and clung to an arm of it, pinning the other to his seat. several moments may have passed before he regained his feet. though badly burned, he felt pain only in his throat and lungs, from that awful, outer breath as he regained the cabin. firebrands still screamed into the sea outside, but the saragossa was steadying a trifle, and vague day returned. stock was first to reach the deck, the woodwork of which was burning everywhere. he tried to shout, but his throat was closed by the hot dust. the body of a man was hanging over the railing of the bridge. it was laird, with his face burned away. there were others fallen.

the shock of his burns and the terrible outer heat was beginning to overpower the commander when pugh, the third officer, untouched by fire, appeared from below. in a horrid, tongueless way, stock fired the other to act, and staggered back into the cabin. pugh shrieked up the hands, and set to the fires and the ship's course. out of two officers and three sailors on deck when pelée struck, none had lived. peter stock owed his life to the mute and momentary appearance of father fontanel.

the screaming of the native-women reached his ears from the hold. father fontanel stared at him with the most pitiful eyes ever seen in child or woman. black clouds were rolling out to sea. deep thunder of a righteous source answered pelée's lamentations. the sailors were fighting fire and carrying the dead. the thin shaken voice of pugh came from the bridge. the engines were throbbing. macready, stock's personal servant, entered with a blast of heat.

"thank god, you're alive, sir!" he said, with the little roll of ireland on his tongue. "i was below, where better men were not.... eight miles at sea—the long-armed divil av a mountain—what must the infightin' have been!"

peter stock beckoned him close and called huskily for lint and oils. macready was back in a moment from the store-room, removed the cracked and twisted boots; cleansed the ashes from the face and ears of his chief; administered stimulant and talked incessantly.

"it's rainin' evenchooalities out.... ha, thim burns is not so bad, though your shoes were pretty thin, an' the deck's smeared with red-hot paste. it's no bit of a geyser in a dirt-pile, sure, can tell misther stock whin to come and whin to go."

the cabin filled with the odor of burnt flesh as he stripped the coat from stock's shoulder, where an incandescent pebble had fallen and burned through the cloth. ointments and bandages were applied before the owner said:

"we must be getting pretty close in the harbor?"

this corked macready's effervescence. pugh had been putting the saragossa out to sea, since he assumed control. it hadn't occurred to the little irishman that mr. stock would put back into the harbor of an island freshly-exploded.

"i dunno, sir. it's hard to see for the rain."

"go to the door and find out".

the rain fell in sheets. big seas were driving past, and the steady beat of the engines was audible. there was no smoke, no familiar shadow of hills, but a leaden tumult of sky, and the rollers of open sea beaten by a cloudburst. the commander did not need to be told. it all came back to him—laird's body hanging over the railing of the bridge; plass down; pugh, a new man, in command.

"up to the bridge, macready, and tell pugh for me not to be in such a damned hurry—running away from a stricken town. tell him to put back in the roadstead where we belong."

macready was gone several moments, and reported, "pugh says we're short-handed; that the ship's badly-charred, but worth savin'; in short, sir, that he's not takin' orders from no valet—meanin' me."

nature was righting herself in the brain of the american, but the problems of time and space still were mountains to him. macready saw the gray eye harden, and knew what the next words would be before they were spoken.

"bring pugh here!"

it was rather a sweet duty for macready, whose colors had been lowered by the untried officer. the latter was in a funk, if ever a seaman had such a seizure. pugh gave an order to the man at the wheel and followed the irishman below, where he encountered the gray eye, and felt macready behind him at the door.

"turn back to harbor at once—full speed!"

pugh hesitated, his small black eyes burning with terror.

"turn back, i say! get to hell out of here!"

"but a firefly couldn't live in there, sir——"

"call two sailors, macready!" stock commanded, and when they came, added, "put him in irons, you men!... macready, help me to the bridge."

it was after eleven when the saragossa regained the harbor. the terrific cloudburst had spent itself. out from the land rolled an unctuous smudge, which bore suggestions of the heinous impartiality of a great conflagration. the harbor was cluttered with wreckage, a doom picture for the eyes of the seaman. dimly, fitfully, through the pall, they began to see the ghosts of the shipping—black hulls without helm or hope. the saragossa vented a deep-toned roar, but no answer was returned, save a wailing echo—not a voice from the wreckage, not even the scream of a gull. a sailor heaved the lead, and the scathed steamer bore into the rising heat.

ahead was emptiness. peter stock, reclining upon the bridge, and suffering martyrdoms from his burns, gave up his last hope that the guns of pelée had been turned straight seaward, sparing the city or a portion of it. rough winds tunnelling through the smoke revealed a hint of hills shorn of saint pierre. a cry was wrung from the american's breast, and macready hastened to his side with a glass of spirits.

"i want a boat made ready—food, medicines, bandages, two or three hundred pounds of ice covered with blankets and a tarpaulin," stock said. "you are to take a couple of men and get in there. get the steward started fitting the boat, and see that the natives are kept a bit quieter. make 'em see the other side—if they hadn't come aboard."

"mother av god," macready muttered as he went about these affairs. "i could bake a potatie here, sure, in the holla av my hand. what, thin, must it be in that pit of destruction?" he feared pelée less, however, than the gray eye, and the fate of pugh.

the launch had not returned from taking charter ashore, so one of the life-boats was put into commission. the german, ernst, and another sailor of macready's choice, were shortly ready to set out.

"you know why i'm not with you, men," the commander told them at the last moment. "it isn't that i couldn't stand it in the boat, but there's a trip ashore for you to make, and there's no walking for me on these puff-balls for weeks to come. macready, you know mr. charter. he had time to reach the palms before hell broke loose. i want you to go there and bring him back alive—and a woman who'll be with him! also report to me regarding conditions in the city. that's all. lower away."

a half-hour later, the little boat was forced to return to the ship. the sailor was whimpering at the oars; the lips of ernst were twisted in agony; while macready was silent, sign enough of his failing endurance. human vitality could not withstand the withering draughts of heat. at noon, another amazing downpour of rain came to the aid of peter stock who, granting that the little party had encountered conditions which flesh could not conquer, had, nevertheless, been chafing furiously. at two in the afternoon, a second start was made.

deeper and deeper in toward the gray low beach the little boat was pulled, its occupants the first to look upon the heaped and over-running measure of saint pierre's destruction. the three took turns at the oars. fear and suffering brought out a strange feminine quality in the sailor, not of cowardice; rather he seemed beset by visionary terrors. rare running-mates were macready and ernst, odd as two white men can be, but matched to a hair in courage. the german bent to his work, a grim stolid mechanism. macready jerked at the oars, and found breath and energy remaining to assail the world, the flesh and the devil, which was pugh, with his barbed and invariably glib tongue. how many times the blue eyes of the german rolled back under the lids, and his grip relaxed upon the oars; how many times the whipping tongue of macready mumbled, forgetting its object, while his senses reeled against the burning walls of his brain; how many times the sailor hoarsely commanded them to look through the fog for figures which alone he saw—only god and these knew. but the little boat held its prow to the desolate shore.

they gained the sugar landing at last, or the place where it had been, and strange sounds came from the lips of ernst, as he pointed to the hulk of the saragossa's launch, burned to the water-line. it had been in his care steadily until its last trip. gray-covered heaps were sprawled upon the shore, some half-covered by the incoming tide, others entirely awash. pelée had brought down the city; and the fire-tiger had rushed in at the kill. he was hissing and crunching still, under the ruins. the sailor moaned and covered his face.

"there's nothing alive!" he repeated with dreadful stress.

"what else would you look for—here at the very fut av the mountain?" macready demanded. "wait till we get over the hill, and you'll hear the birds singin' an' the naygurs laughin' in the fields an' wonderin' why the milkman don't come."

the market-place near the shore was filled with the stones from the surrounding buildings, hurled there as dice from a box. smoke and steam oozed from every ruin. the silence was awful as the sight of death. the streets of the city were effaced. saint pierre had been felled and altered, as the sioux women once altered the corpses of the slain whites. there was no discernible way up the morne. breathing piles of debris barred every passage. under one of these, a clock suddenly struck three—an irreverent survival carrying on its shocking business beneath the collapsed walls of a burned and beaten city, frightening them hideously. it would have been impossible to traverse rue victor hugo had the way been clear, since a hundred feet from the shore or less, they encountered a zone of unendurable heat.

"i could die happy holdin' pugh here," macready gasped. "do you think hell is worse than this, ernst, barrin' the effrontery of the question? ha—don't step there!"

he yanked the german away from a puddle of uncongealed stuff, hot as running metal.... the sailor screamed. he had stepped upon what seemed to be an ash-covered stone. it was soft, springy, and vented a wheezy sigh. rain and rock-dust had smeared all things alike in this gray roasting shambles.

"won't somebody say something?" the sailor cried in a momentary silence.

"it looks like rain, ma'm," macready offered.

they had been forced back into the boat, and were skirting the shore around by the morne. saint pierre had rushed to the sea—at the last. the volcano had found the women with the children, as all manner of visitations find them—and the men a little apart. pelée had not faltered. there was nothing to do by the way, no lips to moisten, no voice of pain to hush, no dying thing to ease. there was not an insect-murmur in the air, nor a crawling thing upon the beach, not a moving wing in the hot, gray sky—a necropolis, shore of death absolute.

they climbed the cliffs to the north of the palms, glanced down through the smoke at the city—sunken like a toothless mouth. even the morne was a husk divested of its fruit. pelée had cut the cane-fields, sucked the juices and left the blasted stalks in his paste. the old plantation-house pushed forth no shadow of an outline. it might be felled or lost in the smoky distance. the nearer landmarks were gone—homes that had brightened the heights in their day, whose windows had flashed the rays of the afternoon sun as it rode down oversea—levelled like the fields of cane. pelée had swept far and left only his shroud, and the heaps upon the way, to show that the old sea-road, so white, so beautiful, had been the haunt of man. the mangoes had lost their vesture; the palms were gnarled and naked fingers pointing to the pitiless sky.

macready had known this highway in the mornings, when joy was not dead, when the songs of the toilers and the laughter of children glorified the fields; in the white moonlight, when the sea-winds met and mingled with the spice from tropic hills, and the fragrance from the jasmine and rose-gardens.... he stared ahead now, wetting his puffed and tortured lips. they had passed the radius of terrific heat, but he was thinking of the waiting gray eye, when he returned without the man and the woman.

"it'll be back to the bunkers for dinny," he muttered.... "ernst, ye goat, you're intertainin', you're loquenchus."

they stepped forward swiftly now. there was not a hope that the mountain had shown mercy at the journey's end.... they would find whom they sought down like the others, and the great house about them. still, there was a vague god to whom macready had prayed once or twice in his life—a god who had the power to strike blasphemers dead, to still tempests, light volcanic fuses and fell babylons. to this god he muttered a prayer now....

the ruins of the plantation house wavered forth from the fog. the sailor plucked at macready's sleeve, and ernst mumbled thickly that they might as well get back aboard.... but the irishman stood forth from them; and in that smoky gloom, desolate as the first day, before light was turned upon the formless void, bayed the names of charter and the woman.

then the answer:

"in the cistern—in the old cistern!"

macready made a mental appointment with his god, and yelled presently: "didn't i tell you 'twould take more than the sphit of a mountain to singe the hair of him?... are you hurted, sir?"