Piranha (Oregon Files 10)

“Ants and centipedes?”

Plessoneau made a face. “I will not miss them once I return to France. We call the ants fourmis-fous—crazy ants. They swarm over everything, biting in a frenzy. The centipedes are even worse. One foot long and black, a few bites will kill a man. It took every mill worker to save the horses. Then the snakes arrived.”

Scott’s eyes widened at the mention of snakes. Insects were one thing, but he could not bear the idea of facing a snake.

Plessoneau nodded in return. “Hundreds of fer-de-lances—pit vipers—suddenly appeared four days ago out of the forest in northern Saint-Pierre. Fifty people and hundreds of animals died. Then a day later a mud slide destroyed the mill. Fortunately, it happened at night, but we still lost many men.”

This was sounding more like the coming of the Apocalypse that Scott had imagined as they sailed into the harbor.

“Perhaps we should leave and stop here on our return trip instead,” he said.

Plessoneau shrugged. “I was going to suggest that since it is a holiday, many of our men won’t work, and you might continue on to Fort-de-France and come back tomorrow. You will need the harbormaster to give permission, though, and he may not let you.”

“Why not?”

“Because the governor has ordered troops to keep people from fleeing the city. There is an election in three days, and he is worried that it will not happen if everyone leaves. Some got out, but peasants are coming to Saint-Pierre from farms on the mountain slopes, so it’s as crowded as I’ve ever seen it.”

“Suppose we leave anyway?”

“Only one ship has so far, an Italian barque called Orsolina that had loaded only half its sugar cargo yesterday. The harbormaster refused permission to depart until they’d finished loading, and he threatened the captain, Marino Leboffe, with arrest. Supposedly, Leboffe, who is from Naples, told the harbormaster, ‘I know nothing about Mont Pelée, but if Vesuvius were acting the way your volcano is this morning, I’d get out of Naples.’”

“He might be right.”

“It is your captain’s ship, but another leaving without permission may cause a panic with the others. A French cruiser just arrived in Fort-de-France, the Suchet. She might be called on to stop you.”

“Let’s see what Captain Muggah thinks,” Scott said, and led Plessoneau to the bridge.

The captain listened to the agent’s tales but was unmoved. He waved a copy of Les Colonies, the city’s newspaper, which the doctor had left with him.

“The editorial in here says the mountain is safe. That’s good enough for me. Now, prepare the ship for unloading.”

There was no arguing with the captain. His decision was final. Scott gave him a curt, “Aye, Captain,” and escorted Plessoneau back to his launch.

Scott bade him adieu and made his way back to the quarterdeck, where he found the third mate gazing at the city in rapt silence.

“Mr. Havers,” Scott said, “what’s caught your eye?”

“Well, it’s a peaceful sight, isn’t it, Mr. Scott? Gray, but bathed in a bright sunshine.”

Scott grudgingly agreed that the sight was mesmerizing. But “peaceful” was not the word he would have chosen. To him it still seemed ominous. “We have work to do. The captain wants this deck to sparkle by the time we leave.”

“Aye, sir. But do you mind if I take just one photo before we get started? My camera is on my bunk.”

Scott took out his pocket watch. 7:49. What with the dockhands

at Mass, a few minutes wouldn’t hurt.

He smiled and nodded. “But hop to it.”

“Thank you, sir,” Havers said with glee, and ran toward the crew’s quarters.

Scott had moved only two steps toward the bridge when it seemed as if the sun had been extinguished. With dread, he looked toward Pelée. The sight that met his eyes caused him to be rooted in place as if his feet were trapped in cement.

A massive plume of black smoke and ash shot straight up into the sky like the expulsion from a battleship’s cannon. The side of the mountain blew apart, and a second mass of ash churned down the slopes of Pelée in a glowing avalanche of superheated gas. The deadly flow was aimed directly at the city of Saint-Pierre. At the rate it was going, it would engulf the town in little more than a minute.

Still, Scott couldn’t move. He was mesmerized by the appalling view, which was silent until the deafening shock wave arrived and blasted him backward. He would have remained pressed against the bulkhead until he was taken by the deadly cloud if not for that unholy sound. Thrown off his mark, Scott came to his senses. His first impulse was to get the ship to safety, so he sprinted toward the bow.

As Scott came amidships, he met Captain Muggah running in the other direction. The captain must have had the same idea as Scott.