Piranha (Oregon Files 10)

PROLOGUE

Martinique

May 8, 1902

The steamer SS Roraima was sailing toward the Apocalypse.

From the bridge of the Canadian cargo and passenger ship, First Officer Ellery Scott peered through a gray snowfall dirtier than anything he’d seen during a sooty London winter. Although it was 6:30 in the morning, the light from the rising sun could do little to penetrate the ash drifting over Saint-Pierre’s harbor. The outline of “The Little Paris of the West Indies,” as Martinique’s commercial center was known, resembled less a thriving city of thirty thousand and more a blurred Impressionist watercolor recently fashionable in the Caribbean town’s namesake.

Scott absentmindedly stroked his silver whiskers as he turned toward Mont Pelée, the volcano looming above the harbor. Although he normally bore a jovial demeanor that made him well liked by officers, crew, and passengers alike, today he could manage nothing better than a wary frown. He’d been a sailor for twenty years, aboard every kind of cargo vessel, at sea through murderous gales and towering rogue waves, but the stout old sea dog had never seen anything as ominous and foreboding as the mountain only three miles to the north.

Rolling thunder pealed from beneath its depths at regular intervals, as if a great roaring beast lay within. Darkness shrouded the peak, and a sulfurous odor permeated the air. Scott could imagine the Devil himself taking up residence in such a place.

“What do you think of this weather, sir?” Scott asked with a casualness he hoped did not betray his apprehension.

Captain George Muggah, his face etched with lines carved by years of salt and sun, and his upper lip hidden by a bushy mustache, glanced up fr

om his log and squinted at the otherworldly tableau.

“Stay the course, Mr. Scott,” he said, his voice steadfast. “Unless I hear different from the harbormaster, we’re going to drop anchor.”

“This ash might foul our equipment. It could delay our sailing this evening.”

“Then I leave it to you to make sure the crew sweeps the decks and keeps our machinery clean. There are eighteen other ships at anchor. If it weren’t safe, they’d be long gone.”

The thick coat of ash floating on the water made it look as though the ships to either side were moored on dry land. At the risk of seeming impertinent, Scott persisted. “What of the explosion we heard two nights ago?”

They had been at anchor off Dominica fifty miles north when a blast at four in the morning rocked the ship so vigorously that cups and dishes crashed to the deck.

Captain Muggah went back to scribbling in the log. “I’m inclined to agree with the Portsmouth telegraph operator, that it relieved the pressure inside the volcano. It may continue to belch, but I’m sure nothing will come of it.”

Scott wasn’t as sure, but he kept his tongue still.

After they found their berth and dropped anchor, the harbormaster and doctor came aboard to check the ship and make sure the crew and passengers carried no contagious diseases that might infect the island. Both of them downplayed the continuing volcanic activity and bolstered Muggah’s supposition that Pelée’s growl wasn’t dangerous. The current activity was nothing more than the mountain’s last gasp.

Because it was Ascension Day, all the laborers would be at morning Mass, so Scott and Muggah headed down to the officers’ mess for breakfast. They discussed the day’s lading schedule—unloading lumber and potassium from New Brunswick, loading rum and sugar bound for Boston—but nary a syllable was spoken of the volcano, even though its rumblings continued to make it impossible to ignore.

After finishing breakfast, Scott went up on deck to receive the local agent who would be supervising the stevedores.

The 340-foot cargo vessel was a simple design, with holds fore and aft of the midship bridge topped with a single funnel. Masts equidistant toward each end were used for lifting heavy cargo. Every inch was dusted with Pelée’s bountiful output. As Scott walked, his treads left prints on the deck.

Passengers crowded the railings for a view of Saint-Pierre’s menacing backdrop. Some of them were sweeping ashes into envelopes and tobacco tins as souvenirs. Two women raised parasols to keep their dresses from being dirtied.

One man Scott recognized, a meek German named Gunther Lutzen, was even setting up a tripod so that he could photograph the scene. He’d boarded two days before in Guadeloupe, and Scott had rarely seen the man without his camera.

“A fine day for pictures, Mr. Lutzen,” Scott said.

“Yes, I am very interested,” Lutzen replied in halting English.

“Is this for your scientific expedition?”

“No, that is complete. But I will be pleased to add this photo to my . . .” He paused and pulled a German–English dictionary from his pocket. “Ach, what is word for Sammlung?” He leafed through the pages.

“‘Collection’?” Scott offered.

Lutzen smiled and nodded vigorously. “Yes, of course. ‘Collection.’ English is my new language. I learn still. My sister in New York gives me child’s books to read.”

Scott patted him on the shoulder. “You’re doing well. It’s better than my German.”

Lutzen laughed and put away the dictionary so he could jot in his ever-present notebook. Scott went on, nodding greetings to other passengers as he passed.

When he reached the forecastle, he saw Monsieur Plessoneau, the local agent, coming up the gangway that had been lowered to his boat. Plessoneau, a gaunt man dressed in a white suit and straw hat, shook hands with Scott.

“Good to see you again, monsieur,” Scott said. “I see that your angry mountain hasn’t hurt business.” He nodded to the other ships stretched out across the crescent-shaped harbor.

The Frenchman pursed his lips and blew through them. “Oui, but we are hoping the worst is over.”

Scott frowned. “What’s happened?”

The comment elicited a rueful chuckle from the agent. “We have been hearing from Pelée for over a month now. The ants and centipedes at the sugar mill in Usine Guérin were the start of our troubles.”