grew almost loquacious when she asked him to tell her about the island that would soon be her home. For the first time since their marriage, except when he was making love to her, the harshness of his face gave was to a soft, wistful look.
“First you must know that Martinique is one of the Windward Islands in the Lesser Antilles,” Philippe informed her in a voice that showed excitement for the first time since she had known him. “The Antilles chain stretches across the Caribbean Sea from the eastern reach of the chain between the islands of Dominica and St. Lucie. It is approximately 431 square miles in size and very mountainous.”
“Is it dry like a desert?”
“Just the opposite,” laughed Philippe, showing her dimples she never knew existed. “It is mostly a jungle. Mount Pelee, an active volcano, rises four thousand five hundred fifty-four feet on the northern shores. In the south, low hills rise one thousand to two thousand feet. There are numerous streams and several large rivers.”
“An active volcano!” Gabby repeated with awe. “Is there much danger?”
“None whatsoever, else a city such as St. Pierre would not thrive. The city is located at the foot of Mount Pelee. Although it periodically belches smoke and ash, there has not been a major eruption for years. Of greater danger are the hurricanes that occasionally batter the island, and, of course, the fer-de-lance.”
Gabby shuddered, “Hurricanes? Fer-de-lance?” It was clear she knew practically nothing about either.
“Hurricanes are winds that sometimes reach one hundred miles per hour, accompanied by drenching rains that strike during the months of July through November. In fact, I’m surprised we haven’t encountered one since entering southern waters. The havoc they wreak is indescribable. Huge waves can destroy entire cities with great loss of life.”
Gabby prayed that she would never experience a hurricane. “And the fer-de-lance?” she asked.
“A deadly snake whose bite is sure death,” Philippe answered grimly. “They are everywhere, in the jungle, in the cane fields, in trees, in grass, in bushes. They can be any color or hue. There are eight varieties on Martinique alone, and it has the unpleasant habit of hiding in the roots of trees or in a stalk of bananas. Now is as good a time as any, Gabby, to warn you of the danger. Never, never, put your hand on a tree or your foot anywhere you aren’t sure is safe. Once a ferdelance strikes, you are as good as dead.”
Gabby listened with quiet horror while Philippe explained about the deadly snake. When he finished, she shuddered in revulsion and promised never to venture anywhere on her own. She vaguely wondered if he weren’t exaggerating in hopes of frightening her so she would be afraid to leave the plantation. Did he mean to terrorize her into submission?
As the days drifted endlessly into one another, Gabby learned more about Martinique and Bellefontaine, Philippe’s plantation on the slopes of Mt. Pelee above St. Pierre. He told her he kept a townhouse in St. Pierre as did most of the other planters on the island because of the active social life in that city, especially at Carnival, and a much more popular business and cultural center flourished there than at Fort-de-France, the seat of government.
Gabby found herself eagerly looking forward to reaching Martinique, for she felt stifled by Philippe’s constant attendance. The days were bad enough with his changing moods, but the nights were agony and ecstasy at the same time. To her horror she found that her body was responding to his skills, even while her mind rejected him utterly. And always, his words came back to haunt her. “I killed my wife.”
One particularly warm afternoon, Gabby decided to abandon the sun-washed deck in favor of the dim coolness of her cabin. She removed her dress and stretched lazily on the bunk, drifting almost immediately into a light sleep. She awoke with a start to the sound of
“First you must know that Martinique is one of the Windward Islands in the Lesser Antilles,” Philippe informed her in a voice that showed excitement for the first time since she had known him. “The Antilles chain stretches across the Caribbean Sea from the eastern reach of the chain between the islands of Dominica and St. Lucie. It is approximately 431 square miles in size and very mountainous.”
“Is it dry like a desert?”
“Just the opposite,” laughed Philippe, showing her dimples she never knew existed. “It is mostly a jungle. Mount Pelee, an active volcano, rises four thousand five hundred fifty-four feet on the northern shores. In the south, low hills rise one thousand to two thousand feet. There are numerous streams and several large rivers.”
“An active volcano!” Gabby repeated with awe. “Is there much danger?”
“None whatsoever, else a city such as St. Pierre would not thrive. The city is located at the foot of Mount Pelee. Although it periodically belches smoke and ash, there has not been a major eruption for years. Of greater danger are the hurricanes that occasionally batter the island, and, of course, the fer-de-lance.”
Gabby shuddered, “Hurricanes? Fer-de-lance?” It was clear she knew practically nothing about either.
“Hurricanes are winds that sometimes reach one hundred miles per hour, accompanied by drenching rains that strike during the months of July through November. In fact, I’m surprised we haven’t encountered one since entering southern waters. The havoc they wreak is indescribable. Huge waves can destroy entire cities with great loss of life.”
Gabby prayed that she would never experience a hurricane. “And the fer-de-lance?” she asked.
“A deadly snake whose bite is sure death,” Philippe answered grimly. “They are everywhere, in the jungle, in the cane fields, in trees, in grass, in bushes. They can be any color or hue. There are eight varieties on Martinique alone, and it has the unpleasant habit of hiding in the roots of trees or in a stalk of bananas. Now is as good a time as any, Gabby, to warn you of the danger. Never, never, put your hand on a tree or your foot anywhere you aren’t sure is safe. Once a ferdelance strikes, you are as good as dead.”
Gabby listened with quiet horror while Philippe explained about the deadly snake. When he finished, she shuddered in revulsion and promised never to venture anywhere on her own. She vaguely wondered if he weren’t exaggerating in hopes of frightening her so she would be afraid to leave the plantation. Did he mean to terrorize her into submission?
As the days drifted endlessly into one another, Gabby learned more about Martinique and Bellefontaine, Philippe’s plantation on the slopes of Mt. Pelee above St. Pierre. He told her he kept a townhouse in St. Pierre as did most of the other planters on the island because of the active social life in that city, especially at Carnival, and a much more popular business and cultural center flourished there than at Fort-de-France, the seat of government.
Gabby found herself eagerly looking forward to reaching Martinique, for she felt stifled by Philippe’s constant attendance. The days were bad enough with his changing moods, but the nights were agony and ecstasy at the same time. To her horror she found that her body was responding to his skills, even while her mind rejected him utterly. And always, his words came back to haunt her. “I killed my wife.”
One particularly warm afternoon, Gabby decided to abandon the sun-washed deck in favor of the dim coolness of her cabin. She removed her dress and stretched lazily on the bunk, drifting almost immediately into a light sleep. She awoke with a start to the sound of
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