The young volcano explorers

And now, while Mont Pelee is in full eruption, let us go ashore and learn what was happening in the city of St. Pierre, with its twenty-five thousand inhabitants and its five thousand refugees.

There had been more than one warning that this terrible catastrophe was at hand. For a number of days outbreaks of more or less importance had occurred, which had occasioned the lava dust and the strange condition of the water encountered so far out at sea.

The first intimation that the inhabitants of northern Martinique had that something was wrong was on Friday, April 25, 1902. On that day curious vapors were seen to be rising above Morne Lacroix, the highest summit of Pelee. A number of inhabitants went to investigate and found the water in the lake on the mountain top boiling and throwing off gases.

“We are going to have an eruption,” said some, but the majority laughed and said it would amount to little or nothing.

The water in the lake continued to boil for several days, and then the volcano began to throw up mud and cinders, which fell on all sides of the crater. Still there was but little alarm, until on May 2d, when there came a shower of cinders which completely covered some of the villages near the mountain and even extended to certain portions of St. Pierre.

The alarm was now greater, but still it was argued that St. Pierre was safe. The leading newspaper of St. Pierre, Les Colonies, gave some interesting information about the outbreaks, and spoke about the fine dust which had entered every house and every store. This dust was so obnoxious that some of the places of business had felt compelled to close their doors. The inhabitants of the villages near to the angry mountain were now coming into St. Pierre for protection, and churches and many public buildings had to be opened for their benefit. It was reported that all vegetation around the mountain itself had disappeared and that even the roads and trails could no longer be found, owing to the cinders and mud.

For two days cinders and mud continued to come from the mountain and frequent explosions were heard accompanied by slight earthquakes. The streets of St. Pierre and other towns close to the mountain were covered with several inches of volcanic dust, and business came to a standstill. Many began to leave the northern end of the island, taking passage for Fort de France and other places further southward. But still the majority of the citizens of St. Pierre believed that the eruption would soon cease, and even the governor of the island advised them to remain by their property until the excitement was over.

The River Blanche flows down from Mont Pelee to the sea, midway between St. Pierre and the village of Precheur on the north. Near this stream stood the great Guerin sugar factory, with many valuable plantations around it. On May 5th it was noticed that the river was swelling and that its waters were of a black and gray color. Then the river rose with remarkable rapidity and began to boil, and the terror-stricken people near at hand saw that it was nothing more than a torrent of lava and mud from the mountain sweeping down to engulf them. On and on it came, leaping bridges and low-lying fields, and in a few minutes not only the buildings of the factory, but also the beautiful villas of the owners, the houses of the workmen, and trees and all living things were swallowed up. The ocean went down a distance of thirty or forty feet, leaving parts of the harbor bottom dry at Precheur and at St. Pierre, and then arose with tremendous force, sweeping the shipping about, smashing small craft of all kinds, and causing a rush of people to the hills.

The alarm was now universal, and several meetings were held at St. Pierre and other places, to decide what was best to be done. The French war cruiser Suchet was called into service, to make an examination and give all the relief possible. To add to the horror St. Pierre was plunged into darkness that night, the electric light plant failing to work.

For two days the terror of the people continued, and now they were leaving, or trying to leave, as fast as they could make the necessary arrangements. Those who owned valuable property hated, of course, to give it up, and some said they would remain to the end, no matter what occurred. There were constant showers of dust, and muddy rains, and frequent rumblings as of thunder. Some parties that went out to explore in the vicinity of the mountain reported that all was chaos within three miles of Pelee, and that at some points the lava and mud lay to a depth of ten feet.

The next day was Thursday, May 8th. It was Ascension Day, and early in the morning the cathedral in St. Pierre and the churches were open for divine service. A heavy cloud hung over Mont Pelee, that same cloud which those on board of the Vendee saw and which caused poor Frank and Mark on their raft so much uneasiness.

And then the great eruption.

What the people of St. Pierre thought of that fearful outburst no one can tell, for out of that vast number, estimated at between twenty-five thousand to thirty-one thousand people, not a single person remained alive to tell the tale! Surely such an awful record is enough to sadden the hardest heart.

Having already viewed this scene from the deck of the Vendee we know that there was scant warning of this mighty outburst. From out of the depths of Pelee issued mud, lava, stones, and a gigantic volume of gas that rolled and fell directly down upon the doomed city, cutting off every particle of life-giving air and suffocating and burning wherever it landed. Men, women, and children were struck down where they stood, without being able to do anything to save themselves. The explosions of the gases, and the shock of an earthquake, made hundreds of buildings totter and fall, and the rain of fire, a thousand times thicker here than out on the ocean, soon completed the work of annihilation. St. Pierre, but a short time before so prosperous and so happy, was no longer a city of the living but had become a cemetery of the dead.

It was something of this last outburst that reached Mark and Frank and the Norwegian sailor, as they clung fast to the lumber raft as it whirled and rocked in the boiling sea that raged on all sides of them. Then a cloud as black as night swept over them, so that they could scarcely see each other.

“What can it be?” murmured Mark. “Is it the end of the world?”

“The world is on fire!” shrieked Sven Orlaff, in his native tongue. “The Lord God have mercy on us!” And he began to pray earnestly. The boys did not understand him, but in the mind of each was likewise a prayer, that God would bring them through that terrible experience in safety.

At last the cloud lifted a bit and the sea became somewhat calmer. Part of the lumber had become loosened and drifted off, so that the raft was scarcely half as big as before. In the excitement Mark had had his leg severely bruised and Frank’s left hand was much scratched and was bleeding, but neither paid attention to the hurts.

“The boats—where are they?” questioned Mark, trying to clear his eyes that he might see. All had drifted out of sight but one, a craft with a single sail, which the strange current had sent close beside them. This boat was filled to overflowing with people, Frenchmen and negroes, all as terror-stricken as themselves.

“Help! Help us!” called the boys, and Sven Orlaff added a similar appeal. But no help could be given—the boat was already overloaded—and soon wind and current carried her out of sight through the smoke and dust and the rolling sea.

Slowly the hours passed and gradually the sky cleared, although over Mont Pelee still hung that threatening cloud of death. The sea remained hot, and as the lumber raft drifted southward it encountered numerous heaps of wreckage. Far off could be seen the ruins of buildings which still smoked and occasionally blazed up.

“It’s a tremendous volcanic explosion,” said Mark, at last. “I believe Mont Pelee has blown its head off.”

“Look! Look!” cried Sven Orlaff. “Da boat! We git da boat!”

He pointed but a short distance away. A boat was drifting toward them, a craft probably twenty-five feet in length and correspondingly broad of beam. The boat had had a mast but this was broken off short and hung, with the sail, over the side.

Soon the boat bumped up against the lumber raft and they caught hold of the wreckage and held fast. The body of the craft was in good condition and they immediately leaped into the boat and began to clear away the fallen mast and the sail with its ropes. There were some signs of fire both at the bow and the stern but this had done little but char the seats and gunwale. In the bottom of the boat rested a keg and several boxes.

“This is much better than the lumber,” observed Frank, when they were safely on board and had saved part of the mast and the sail. “I suppose this boat either went adrift or the persons in her were drowned. What do you suppose is in the keg and in the boxes?”

“Water in da keg,” announced the sailor, after an examination. He took a long drink and the boys did the same. The water was very warm but to their parched throats it was like nectar.

On breaking open the boxes they were found to contain eatables of various kinds, evidently packed for a trip of several days. At once all fell to, eating the first “square” meal they had had since drifting around.

“There, that puts new life into a fellow,” exclaimed Mark, when he had finished. “Now let us hoist that mast and sail and steer for St. Pierre.”

“Do you believe this eruption reached that city?” questioned Frank, with a look of new alarm suddenly showing itself on his worn face.

Mark gazed back blankly for an instant. “Great Cæsar, Frank! If it did, and your father and mine were there——” Mark could not finish.

With sober faces the two boys assisted Sven Orlaff to hoist the broken mast and fix it in place with ropes, of which, fortunately there were plenty, they having been dragging in the water, thus escaping the fire. Then the sail was hoisted, and they began a slow journey southward, in the direction of St. Pierre harbor.

As the boat advanced more wreckage was encountered, and once they passed a small raft filled with household goods. On top of the goods lay the half burnt bodies of several people. Then they passed the bodies of several cows and of a horse, and the wreckage became thicker and thicker. The sights made them shudder and grow sick at heart.

Night found them still on the sea, some distance west of St. Pierre, for they had missed their reckoning by over a mile, Sven Orlaff being but a common sailor and understanding little more of steering than themselves. A horrible smell reached them, coming from the distant shore.

When day dawned, it found them somewhat rested and eager to get closer to land, although they determined not to go ashore until they felt it would be safe to do so. Each of the boys was thinking of his father. Was it possible that St. Pierre had been overcome and were their parents dead?

As last they made out the distant city, and the harbor dotted here and there with the burnt shipping. Directly in the roadstead rested the wrecked and burnt hulk of a big steamship, the Roraima, of the Quebec line. The Roraima had been caught with twenty-one passengers and a crew of forty-seven on board, and of that number less than a third were saved and many of these were horribly crippled for life.

“Another ship! A man-of-war!” cried Frank, and he was right. Close at hand was the big warship, the Suchet, sent north once more from Fort de France to investigate the happenings of St. Pierre. The captain of the warship had just taken on board the survivors from the Roraima, and now a hail was sent to our friends and they too were assisted to the deck.