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.”

“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.