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“Heave up, Mr. Scott!” the captain yelled as he raced past toward the bridge.
“Weighing anchor, aye!” Scott yelled back. The third mate who’d gone off to get his camera joined the captain on the bridge, ordering the boilers up to full steam.
Scott reached the anchor chain and engaged the steam-powered donkey engine to raise the anchor. Passengers around him screamed in terror and ran in every direction, unaware of how to protect themselves from the coming rain of fire. Most of the crew fared no better, and despite Scott’s shouts for help, none came to his aid.
He counted fifteen fathoms of chain retrieved when the lethal cloud of ash rolled over the northern edge of Saint-Pierre, setting everything it touched aflame and blowing apart stone structures as if they were made of matchsticks.
The cloud continued to roll out over the harbor, where it met the cable-laying ship Grappler. She did not have time to catch fire before she was capsized by a wall of water. The tsunami swept toward them, smashing one ship after the other.
With fifteen fathoms of chain still to go, Scott knew getting the Roraima out of the harbor in time was hopeless. He scrambled to find shelter. With only seconds until the fire reached him, all he could do was snatch a large tarpaulin from one of the ventilator covers, flip it over to create multiple layers, and pull it over his head. He threw himself to the deck and huddled beneath the tarp, with only a tiny hole to see through. He could see Captain Muggah barking out orders on the bridge, defiantly trying to save his doomed ship.
Scott felt the heat before the blast wave. It rose to such a degree that he thought he would be cooler inside one of the ship’s boilers. The layered tarp deflected the worst of the heat; without it, Scott was sure he would not survive. It was confirmed when he watched in horror as the captain’s mustache, hair, and clothes were set on fire. The captain wailed in unbearable agony, and Scott was spared from seeing more when Muggah dropped from view.
Hot stones and mud pelted the tarp, some of them smaller than buckshot, others as big as a pigeon’s egg. None of them were traveling at a speed that would injure Scott, so he simply endured the hail of stones, listening to them hiss as they splashed into the water beside the ship.
A moment later, the blast wave reached the Roraima, causing the tarp to be nearly ripped from Scott’s hands. Both masts were sheared off two feet above the deck as cleanly as if they’d been cut by a saw, and the smokestack snapped in half. The tidal wave struck the side of the ship, initially tilting her to port before jerking her so hard to starboard that the ship’s ice rail dipped into the sea.
Fearing that he’d be pitched into the water, Scott cried out and scrabbled to find a handhold. He slid down the ash-covered deck, still under the tarpaulin, until his feet slammed into a cargo latch. For a second he thought the ship would capsize like the Grappler, but the old girl held strong and bobbed back up, though she still carried a heavy list.
Scott opened his eyes, peeked through the tarp’s hole to get his bearings, and saw that he was just opposite the forecastle. He was about to make a try for it when the door swung wide and two sailors, Taylor and Quashey, reached out and dragged him inside.
They closed the door and covered the portholes with mattresses, trunks, anything they could find. When the room was sealed, they huddled beneath the tarp and blankets, waiting for the end—either of the firestorm or their lives.
After what seemed like an hour but could have been no more than ten minutes, Scott felt the heat abate. Hoping the worst to be over, he stood and opened the door.
With one look, he realized that the worst was just beginning.
The deck was littered with charred corpses. Men, women, and children were burned horribly or coated with enough ash that they appeared to be frozen in concrete. He could not tell passenger from crew.
He stepped gingerly around them, searching for any signs of life, when he found someone facedown, the back of the clothing burned away. The poor wretch was moaning in pain. Scott gently turned the person over and reeled backward when he saw the awful visage.
The man’s hair was gone completely, his skin blackened and his nose and ears misshapen and melted to his face. The only reason Scott knew it was a man and not a woman was because of the remnants of coat and tie that were still intact beneath his folded arms. His lower half was burned to a cinder. Scott figured the man must have been lying on his stomach when the fire scorched him.
“Help me, Mr. Scott,” the man sputtered through cracked lips.
Scott looked at the man in confusion. “Do I know you, sir?”
“Don’t you know me, Mr. Scott?” he croaked, every word an excruciating effort. “I am Lutzen.”
Scott gaped at Gunther Lutzen. He would never have recognized the German.
Lutzen trembled as he raised his arms toward Scott, who thought the man was reaching out for aid. Instead, he lifted his precious notebook and held it toward Scott. Now he realized that Lutzen must have thrown himself on the notebook to protect it from the flames.
“I’m dying. Give this to my sister.”
Scott did not want to see another man die, so he desperately searched for any signs of help coming to them. A cargo vessel he recognized as the Roddam was turning to port to head out to open sea, and he could see that the entire stern was on fire.
“Please, Mr. Scott,” Lutzen said, drawing Scott’s gaze back to him. “Ingrid Lutzen, New York City.”
Seeing that there was nothing more to do for the man, Scott nodded and carefully took the notebook and tucked it into his waistband. “Of course, Mr. Lutzen. I’ll see to it.”
Lutzen couldn’t smile, but he nodded in understanding. “Tell her I was there,” he said with a pitiful wheeze. “I made the breakthrough. It will change everything. They shined like emeralds, as large as tree trunks.”
He coughed violently, his body shaking from the strain. Scott tried to stand to go find him water, but Lutzen grabbed his sleeve and pulled him close so that Scott’s ear hovered over his mouth. He whispered three words, then his hand fell away from Scott’s coat. Lutzen became mercifully still, finally free from his pain.
Scott remained kneeling for a moment, confused by what he’d heard. Then more groans caught his attention, and he was on his feet. With the captain dead or mortally wounded, he was now in charge.
Scott gathered as many survivors as he could find, a total of only thirty out of the sixty-eight on board, and half of those would likely not make it through the night. Scott and three other crew members were the only ones not badly injured. They set about constructing a raft out of the remains of a lifeboat, but their efforts were rendered moot when the French cruiser Suchet arrived in the afternoon and took them aboard, leaving the Roraima behind to sink. The officer who gave him coffee told him that they feared not a single soul in Saint-Pierre had lived through the holocaust.
