III.
After our ship’s papers had been duly passed upon, the process of disembarkation began, and although late in the afternoon, we were all most eager to land and see the charms of Martinique at closer range, and, incidentally, to post our letters. We anchored as I said, quite a distance out, which was rather a surprise, for as we approached the shore we saw that sailing craft of all sizes and descriptions, from sloops to full-rigged ships, were moored within a hundred yards or so of the levee, with anchors ahead from each bow, and stern-lines out to shore. This was a most unusual sight in an open roadstead. It was partly accounted for by the fact of there being deep water close up to the shore, but principally because St. Pierre is in the latitude of the true northeast trade-winds, which at this season are as sure as the rising of the sun, and this harbour is on the leeward side of the island, and thus smooth and protected.
We had been sailing under the beneficent care of the trade-wind for many days now, without fully appreciating it, and it was only when the daring of these trading vessels was explained, that we realised why it was that they had nothing to fear from contrary winds, or from the danger of being blown on the rock-paved beach.
Some years ago, at home, I was quarantined with a case of fever, and I recall most vividly my demand for suitable literature, paper bound, something that could be burned up if necessary; and I can yet see the amused expression on my nautical husband’s face as he handed me volume after volume of sea stories. I had no choice in the matter; I read my books and ate my food as it was handed me, and asked no questions. Now, long years after, in the harbour of St. Pierre, with brig and brigantine, and bark and barkentine safely moored to the levee, the charm and fascination of those delightful sea yarns comes stealing over me once again, and I can appreciate how surely the mariners must have counted upon the time when the trade-wind would rise and carry them on their course. Steady and hearty it blows. At ten or eleven o’clock of the morning, the heat of the tropics lifts its hat to the “Doctor” as the natives call the trade-wind. At six o’clock it bids him good night. At eight o’clock, he calls again for the few hours of darkness, so that both day and night are tempered by his salubrious presence.
Our joy would now be complete if we could but see the Southern Cross, for we had felt the rushing hurry and the firm caresses of the Northeast Trades, and despite all our former indifference to the sea, the mariner’s spirit was surely asserting itself.
It was at the close of a long, delicious tropical day that we four stepped from the shore boat to the paved beach of St. Pierre, to the beach where empty the clear streams of mountain water flowing down through the streets of the town above. Had our coming been that of royal guests, our hostess could not have been trimmer or neater. Sister left us at the pretty white lighthouse right on the beach, and ran on ahead to pick up an especially beautiful shell which she could not resist, and we walked on along the street that follows the shore, under the shade of the mangoes, until, when we turned to wait for her, she seemed to have been caught into the very arms of the tower and held there for hostage. To be sure, she was only arranging her shells in the basket, but she was so quiet and the tower beyond was so old, old—so white and so still—that I called to her in a kind of dumb terror at some impending evil: “Sister, come, you must not loiter behind, keep with us!”
It is possible that had our landing in St. Pierre been at noonday it would not have been so ever-memorable. We might have felt industrious, we might have thought we ought to see things and do things. But, ah! we were spared that! It was at the drop of day when men do not work nor women weep; and so we had nothing to do but follow where the people were going, on beyond the little lighthouse tower dozing by the sea.
The bells in the white church under the hill had been ringing as we rowed toward shore, and it was not long before the church emptied itself into the street, nor long before we were part of the happy worshippers who scattered in every direction. St. Pierre arose from the very water’s edge. A row of substantial stone buildings shaded by wide-spreading glossy mangoes stretched as far as I could see in the twilight. The street made a turn away from the beach and the buildings followed after. In the other direction it led to the church and then came to an end.
But St. Pierre couldn’t have built on a straight line had she wished to do so. She has chosen a mountain for her home and she had to plan accordingly. So she builds until her streets become a series of stone steps, up—up—up; and then, when they finally run against a sheer wall of rock, they stop going up and go round, for they seem to go on indefinitely.
But we were not to be baffled by stone steps, we only pushed on a little more vigorously, and started the climb into St. Pierre to post the precious letters which had been written under such stress of circumstances. We went up and about, and found the post-office, just too late to satisfy the demands of Martinique red tape; for the black officials were still redolent of sealing wax as the last sack of outgoing mail was closed; and what were we to do next? We were advised to hunt up the American consul, and possibly he could, by special suasion, find some way of caring for our letters. So we went on through the clean, narrow stone streets, passing many a home which shone out in the early twilight very enticingly, through the high gateways, down to the consul’s house, which we found barred and bolted for the night.
Oh, these comfortable American consuls of the tropics! They live among flowers and palms, arise late and go to their town offices by noon; then “business” grows dull and they bolt the office at three or four o’clock and take flight to a gardened home, in some cool mountain suburb, to rest from the wearisome grind of diplomacy. Would that we all might rise to the dolce far niente of an American consulate! But after all we need them; for if our flag is now seldom seen in out-of-the-way ports, who but the American consul will protect the wandering American?
Two gentlemen, standing in a notary’s office hard by the consulate, explained that the ship Fontabella, which was to carry the mail, had not yet arrived, and that perhaps our letters must go to New York by way of Southampton. Then it was not too late after all. Why not leave them in the box at the consulate? “Would they be sent?” we ask. An affirmative reply decides us. What mattered a short delay? Those letters couldn’t be hurried however urgent their contents. They must wait for the Fontabella until she was ready, and when that time would be none could say. What could be more romantic than to send our letters by this fancifully named ship, however long her voyage, however indolently she loitered in these fair seas; wherever she strayed she was still the Fontabella. Who knows but some of her charms might miraculously sift in through a rent in my package and breathe a spell upon my words? Ah, Fontabella! Heaven bless you; and I stand sighing over the mysterious music of a name!