270 The National Geographic Magazine 



IN THE RUINS OF ST PIERRE 



The day was yet young when the 

 Dixie paused in her rapid flight and 

 dropped an anchor in the spacious har- 

 bor of Fort de France, ready to send 

 her relief store to the sufferers on shore. 

 Salutes were fired, official calls made by 

 the commanders of the several warships 

 at anchor in the harbor, and in an hour 

 your commission was on the U. S. dis- 

 patch boat Potomac, traveling rapidly 

 northward along the beautiful western 

 shore of Martinique toward St Pierre. 



But slight evidence of the consider- 

 able showers of dust and lapilli that 

 had fallen on the island during the pre- 

 vious day was visible. Headland after 

 headland was passed, each the truncated 

 end of a sharp-crested ridge leading up 

 to the vapor - enshrouded summit of 

 Mont Carbet. At the mouths of the 

 narrow, high-grade valleys red-roofed 

 houses, villages with tapering church 

 spires, and thrifty plantations were em- 

 bowered in palms and other trees which 

 grow densely and fail to reveal their 

 identity at a distance. 



On nearing the now widely known 

 village of Carbet a distinct gray tone 

 to the previously universal green of the 

 hills told that we were nearing the 

 source from which came the showers of 

 dust that had fallen on the island. Soon 

 the withered and yellow crowns of palms 

 revealed the touch of the hot breath of 

 Mont Pelee. Beyond a desolate ridge, 

 steam in large volumes was rolling up- 

 ward in fleecy wreaths, and beyond could 

 be seen the gray, blasted western slope 

 of the dreaded volcano. Rounding a 

 promontory, the desolate, silent shore 

 was in sight, where St Pierre but a few 

 days before was embowered in beauty;, 

 but the eye must needs be strained or 

 field glasses used in order to distinguish 

 the outlines of gray ruins against the 

 neutral background of barren cliffs 

 where once grew the fairest gardens of 

 the West Indies. 



The Potomac steamed into the road- 

 stead in front of St Pierre and was made 

 fast to a buoy. Boats were lowered and 

 quickly filled with men eager to study 

 in various ways the evidences of dis- 

 aster. The gallant commander of the 

 Potomac, Lieutenant McCormick, every 

 inch a sailor of the new school, gave 

 command that all who went ashore 

 should return to the boats when a blast 

 from the tug's whistle should summon 

 them, and that no one should bring off 

 objects of value from the ruined city. 

 I take pleasure in recording that the 

 second of these commands was obe3'ed 

 as thoroughly as the first, and, as sub- 

 sequent experience demonstrated, the 

 first command was obeyed with alacrity. 

 Our visit to St Pierre was repeated and 

 our exploration of the ruins extended 

 the subsequent day, but it is not neces- 

 sary at present to be precise as to dates. 



While rowing from the Potomac to the 

 stone quays along the water front of the 

 dead city, we passed the indefinite spars 

 and some of the vessels that went down 

 on the terrible morning of May 8. No 

 attempt had then been made to raise the 

 sunken ships, some eighteen in number. 

 The ruined city lay before us — silent, 

 desolate, and gray with volcanic dust. 

 Not a person was in sight, and not a 

 living thing was seen during our clamber 

 over ruined walls and through deeply 

 debris-filled streets except the members 

 of our own company. 



It is unnecessary at this time to at- 

 tempt to describe in detail the scenes 

 that met our view as we passed in si- 

 lence over the dust and rubbish beneath 

 which thousands of human beings lay 

 buried, as this has already been well 

 told in the daily press. We glanced 

 aside on passing the grim remnants of 

 what on the fair morning of May 8 

 were living men and women. We could 

 not aid in the work of cremation, sud- 

 denly abandoned the day preceding our 

 visit, by the second great eruption of 

 Mont Pelee, and avoided, so far as pos- 



