CHAPTER XXII

Dashed Hopes

In La Trinité, Biff, his uncle, and Derek moved about with haste. Following a speedy lunch, they shopped for enough supplies to last them for their expedition into the interior of Martinique.

“Step lively, boys,” Uncle Charlie urged. “It won’t take Dietz long to find out he’s been fooled. And we don’t want him hounding us on this search.”

“Uncle Charlie,” Biff said, “if Dietz comes into Trinité and finds our boat still moored in Treasure Bay, won’t he know we’re still somewhere nearby?”

“That’s a chance we’ll have to take, Biff.”

“But if we took the boat up the coast—got it away from here—that would cause him further delay, wouldn’t it?”

“You’re right again, Biff.”

“But why would Dietz want to follow us when we’re searching for my father?” Derek asked.

“He wants to know about your father as much as we do. But for different reasons,” Charles Keene replied, a frown darkening his face.

Derek thought this over. “If we learn some bad news about my father—if we should learn he really is gone—” Derek gulped. He couldn’t bring himself to say out loud that they might find out that Brom Zook was dead. “If that is how our search should end, then you mean there could be some doubt as to whether the claim he originally filed is still valid?”

“Afraid so, Derek. I believe your claim would be supported in time. But there would be delay after delay as Dietz went to the courts to try to have it invalidated.”

“I see.”

Biff wanted to get his friend Derek’s mind away from such depressing thoughts.

“About the boat again, Uncle Charlie. Why don’t we go around the point, head north along the coast, and find a sheltered harbor where we could hide the boat? Then we could head inland from there.”

“That’s what we’ll do, Biff. And let’s do it right away,” his uncle agreed.

They made a run of about ten miles along the east coast of Martinique and found a small cove between Ste. Marie and Marigot. They beached the boat and covered it with the lacy leaves of the giant fern trees which grow to a height of twenty feet on Martinique. Over the ferns they spread palm fronds. The boat was completely hidden.

From the beach, they could see the peak of Mt. Pelée, rising nearly five thousand feet in the air.

“Boys, what do you say we make Pelée our first goal?” Charles Keene suggested. “Your searches haven’t brought you that far north and east, have they, Derek?”

“No, sir.”

“Okay. Let’s move out then.”

Each of the three slung a pack over his shoulders, and they plunged into the thick tropical growth.

Biff was enjoying himself. If the object of their search hadn’t been such a serious one, if his feeling that the search might have an unhappy ending hadn’t been so strong, then the exploration would have been even more fun.

Martinique, Biff soon discovered, was truly a beautiful island, one of the most beautiful places in which he had ever been. From the top of steep ridges, the lush, fertile valleys of the island spread out below. Rugged peaks rose like steeples above the ridges.

In the rich valleys, they crossed through sugar-cane fields.

Biff took his knife and slashed a stock down. Its sweet juices oozed out of the slash. Biff pressed the stock to his lips and sucked deeply.

“Try one, Derek. Tastes good,” he said.

Banana trees grew wild almost everywhere they went. Derek shinned up the rough, fat trunk of one tree and yanked down a bunch. He squirreled back down the tree and plopped on the ground to inspect his haul. Derek’s hands were exploring the bunch, trying to select the ripest, fattest banana when Charlie Keene leaped to his side and struck the Dutch boy’s arm a sharp blow.

Derek looked around in amazed alarm.

Charles Keene was stamping on a hairy black spider. He had spotted the ugly insect on Derek’s shoulder and with one swift blow had knocked the spider to the ground.

“What’s the matter, Mr. Keene?” Derek looked frightened.

“Close call, Derek. That spider I just knocked off your arm is called _matoutou falaise_. That’s the local French name for the most poisonous spider on the island. They make their nests in bananas.”

Derek’s face went white.

“It’s all right now. I got him. But after this, be mighty careful when you pick a banana,” Uncle Charlie warned.

Now and again the party would pass a small thatched hut. At each one, they asked questions of the inhabitants.

“A tall man, very thin, with almost white hair,” was the description they gave of Brom Zook. “He’s been missing over three months.”

The natives would only shake their heads. No, they had seen no such man, nor had they heard of such a stranger in these parts.

For three days the party trudged up and down the ridges and peaks of the island. They questioned a hundred or more people. They went to Deux Choux, to Morne Vert, Le Lorrain, Grande Rivière, and towns even smaller. Nowhere did they get any leads to a missing Hollander named Brom Zook.

By the fourth day of the search, it was plain to Biff and his uncle that Derek was becoming more and more discouraged, more and more disheartened. They tried their best to cheer up the Dutch lad.

At the end of the day, they reached the top of Mt. Pelée. Looking down at the sea, they could pick out the ruins of Saint-Pierre. Once, Uncle Charlie told the boys, Saint-Pierre had been the largest city on the island. Then, in the early morning hours, tragedy had struck.

“You know the story about Saint-Pierre and Mt. Pelée, Biff?” Uncle Charlie asked. “You must have heard it, Derek, when you were growing up in Curaçao.”

Derek shook his head. “No, I don’t remember it, Mr. Keene.”

“It was just after the turn of the century, around 1902, I believe. Saint-Pierre then had a population of thirty thousand people. Early one morning, as the city slept, Mt. Pelée erupted. It shot forth a sheet of flame and molten lava. In a matter of only a few seconds, thirty thousand people were dead. Most of them died in their beds.”

“The whole city wiped out? In seconds?” Biff asked incredulously.

“That’s right, Biff,” Charlie Keene said. “There was only one survivor.”

“How could one person survive when thirty thousand others perished?” Biff demanded.

“It’s a most unusual story. This person was a prisoner in Saint-Pierre. He was in solitary confinement. The cell he was in had stone walls several feet thick. That’s what saved him. The walls were so thick they resisted the heat. The prisoner didn’t even know about the catastrophe until several days later when rescue crews explored the prison.”

Biff could only shake his head.

That night they camped on top of the volcano and went into Saint-Pierre the next morning. “As you can see,” Uncle Charlie pointed out, “the town has been partly rebuilt. But today, only six thousand persons live here where, fifty years ago, Saint-Pierre had thirty thousand residents.”

Inquiries were made at the police station. The three searchers could hardly believe their ears. They received their first lead.

“No, I do not know the man’s name,” the police officer said, “but a man of such a description as you give has been staying in a small pension just outside the city for the last few months.”

“Where? Where is it?” Derek cried out.

“I will be only too happy to take you there,” the courteous officer replied.

They rode through the volcanic ruins of Saint-Pierre toward the gentle slope that led toward Mt. Pelée. Although some sections had been built up, there were still plenty of signs of the savage destruction caused by Mt. Pelée’s eruption over half a century before.

Derek was in the front seat with the police officer. Biff and Charles Keene were in the rear seat. Biff had his fingers crossed. Both the boy and his uncle were praying that the man the police officer referred to might be Derek’s father.

The car drew up before a small vine-covered house. Derek leaped out. The police officer led the way. Biff and Charles Keene were right behind.

A broad veranda swept round three sides of the house. The officer made an inquiry, then motioned Derek to follow him.

Biff was a step behind Derek. At the far end of the veranda, they could see a man sitting in a high-backed wicker chair, his back to them.

As they approached the chair, Biff kept his eyes on Derek. The Dutch boy rushed forward and turned to confront the man in the chair. Biff watched the expression on Derek’s face.

Biff read his answer from the disappointment which spread over his friend’s features.

The man was not Brom Zook.