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I ducked, but not fast enough. Lukas caught my jaw with his fat right hand and made stars shoot out of my eyes. My tongue dangled for a second and the blood in my cheek tasted like a rusty nail. I fell on one knee and tried to catch my breath. Someone, Lukas most likely, tried to kick me, but this time he missed. Another guy shoved Lukas so hard he knocked him over. Next thing I knew it was all feet and elbows, kicking and punching and shouting all at the same time. It was wild and crazy! I tell you bar fights are the worst. They are really a terrible way to have fun on a Saturday night.
Then I heard the whistles of the gendarmes. I stood up and looked round for my friend, Daniel. Daniel had some guy in a headlock, punching his face. I reached over and pulled on his shirt to make him stop. The police cut a path through the fight with their batons like they were cutting down sugar cane. Things went quiet very fast. Guys at the back of the crowd disappeared. I pushed Daniel and told him, Go, you idiot!
It wasn’t my fault that fool Lukas started fighting me. All I said was he should watch after that ugly wife of his. The next thing I know is he is coming after me. Then his friends and my friends and pretty much the entire bar started swinging. Probably the mountain was causing a lot of tension.
Naturally, they had to arrest someone. That gendarme, number 526, I had met him a couple of times before in similar situations. It was just my luck he recognized me that night. For no reason he whipped his baton across my knees and I fell down again – in real pain this time. Two other police came behind him and punched my kidneys and then they dragged me out of the bar. To the prison.
They tossed me, threw me in a tiny cell with no windows. There was a big iron door that swung shut. Above the door and on the opposite wall there was a space for air to get in. Everything smelled like piss and sweat. My cell was in the darkest corner of the prison with the rats. I could hear them scratching around in the dark. There was no light in that cell. Nothing to see. Nothing would change for at least a couple of days – that much I knew from my last time in prison. There’s no hurry on this island for a man under arrest. Especially a black man. Besides, the next day was Sunday and everything would be closed.
Man my head hurt! Worse than my knees, and they hurt a lot. A whole lot. I sat down on the bench and leaned against the back wall. I heard little scratching noises – those bastard rats! My head dropped. I was still a bit drunk, I think. Then I fell asleep for a few hours.
When I woke up there was a light under my door. It must have been early, maybe about breakfast time, or a little later. Probably time for church. I hadn’t been there in a long, long time. To church. A part of me wondered if I should be going more often. If it might help. Just as I thought that, I hear an awful loud noise, like thunder, only even louder. I see smoke coming under my door. Lots of it.
I always hated fire. Fire scares me like nothing else. When they burned the cane fields as a kid I’d hide at home behind my mother. The smoke and the ash getting everywhere, blowing around in the heat and cooking the sun.
Now the smoke was coming through the door at me. I started to cough and choke. The roaring outside got louder and the air got hotter. I took off my shirt and my trousers and stuffed them under the door to try and stop the smoke coming in. I wasn’t about to use what little water I had, so I pissed on my clothes to make them wet. It helped some. Then the whole room felt like it was on fire. I felt my flesh burning, my hair burning. I dropped to the ground and crawled under the bench. I curled up into a ball praying like hell for the heat and the noise to go away. Then when it did there was no sound, nothing for a while. Silence. Like before a storm. Not even the rats were scratching.
Slowly I got up on my feet. I still couldn’t feel the burns on my back and my shoulders. Not really painful then, not like it was later. Strange thing was my clothes never burned. Must be that good strong pee of mine, no?
I looked at the door and it was bent out of shape, like someone had punched it in. I called out, but no one was there. I called again, louder. Nothing. Nothing. There was dust and ash floating in the air. Then the sound of things falling, crashing down outside. Even though I tried as hard as possible, I still couldn’t get through the door or see much of anything.
I stayed there for four days like that. Calling out, waiting to hear back. No one came. No guards. No gendarmes. Nobody brought food or checked in. Nobody. Nothing.
I was very careful with my water. Once the cell cooled off I didn’t need much, anyway. It wasn’t like I was outside working. I sipped now and then to fight off the hunger pains. But I’d been hungry before and knew what to expect. I called out again and again. Then I’d sleep some and then try again. I even prayed a little. I asked God what was going on. By the third day my back and arms started hurting so badly I forgot about most everything else. It got so bad I even promised God that I’d quit fighting if he’d find a way of getting me out of my dungeon.
Like I said, I don’t believe that strongly, but if miracles occur, then hearing those voices was a miracle. Either that or I’m one lucky sonofabitch. On the morning of the fourth day I woke a little dizzy and tried yelling out again – just in case. Only this time somebody answered me. I yelled again and in a few hours they’d dug me out of my hole. The look on the military officer’s face when he shined a light on me was nothing other than disbelief. He couldn’t understand how I was still alive. Which I barely was by then. I smiled at him and passed out. I woke up two days later in a hospital bed down in Fort de France.
What I hadn’t known then was that everybody else was dead. I mean everybody. There wasn’t another living soul in St. Pierre. Not a lawyer, a banker, a plantation owner, a worker, nor any women, any kids. Everyone was dead. Every one of them. I guess that’s why that officer looked so damned surprised that I was alive. After a while I was surprised myself. If I hadn’t got Lukas all wound up like that in the bar, I guess I’d be dead like him and everybody else. And if I’d gone to church that Sunday morning, hell I’d be dead now, too. I thought about it for a bit and then didn’t dwell on it too much longer.
About a year after the explosion they pardoned me of my crimes. Not that a bar fight is the worst thing a man can do in his life. And not long after that an American gentleman name Mr. Barnum asked if I’d be interested in joining his traveling show. He said he’d bill me as ‘The Man That Lived Through Doomsday’ and ‘The Most Marvelous Man in the World’. All I had to do was tell my story – and he said he’d help me do that. He said he’d pay me and that I was bound to meet some nice ladies along the way. So I said, Yes. I traveled for many years with Mr. Barnum and Mr. Bailey. I saw a lot of interesting places and met a lot of very pretty women. I even went to church every eighth of May to thank God for saving my life, just in case he was still listening.
who knew cool story