Letters sent to their close relations by pierrotins at the beginning of May 1902.

Here are some letters carried by Saint-Germain, last steamer to have left Martinique before the eruption of Mount-Pelé :

Letter of a young girl. Saint-Pierre, May 3, 1902.

"Great general agitation: we have been under ash for this night. The detonations which started, dully initially, are accentuated since midnight. The volcano smokes more and more; one would say an immense fire, some even saw the flames. This night, the spectacle was beautiful, appears it, I regret of having enjoyed;

it is only this morning, at one hour and half, that attracted by the sulphur odor, I approached the window. In spite of the darkness, I realized that ash had very invaded; the interior of the apartments, cloths of the beds were covered with it. The inhabitants heights have a terrible fun, they flee with an admirable spirit. It appears that this night, the prêchotins (inhabitants of the Preacher), came in great number to ask asylum the church of the Fort, in Saint-Pierre.

The college gave leave this morning; it appears that many parents made claim their children. All the families which were in the countryside regain the city. The city is of a sadness without equal, covered thus this immense gray coat; all is uniform, the streets, our houses, the trees, the horses, the cars, our clothing, all is powdered with white. If that increases further, we will not be able to breathe perhaps any more.

It is said that the district of the Preacher is not livable. One speaks already about mortality, but it is necessary to take account of the exaggeration and the fear especially which enlarges all. I am of calms who astonish me, I await the events quietly, annoyed only by this dust which penetrates everywhere, though all is closed.

Many people are thrown into a panic; around us one is rather calm; mom not anxious of the whole. Edith alone is worried until now. If death awaits us, we will spin all in many company. Will this be by fire or asphyxiation? It will be what God will want. You will have our last thought. Give our news to Robert; say to him that we are still of this world; that will not be perhaps exact any more when my letter arrives to you."


Letter of Mr Roger Portel to his brother. Saint-Pierre, May 3, 1902.

"I awake; it is five hours and half. The streets, the houses are covered with a layer of ash similar to Portland cement cement. The Pelée mountain, which had awaked for eight days of its long one half-century sleep, appears surrounded of a very black smoke.

Saint-Pierre, spectacle unknown factor with the natives, is a city powdered with a gray snow. I say to my knowledge: Hold! here an effect of snow. It is a landscape of winter minus the cold. On the way of the White River, I cannot push beyond the Ex-voto; a rain of dust plugs me, penetrates me in the nostrils; and, in this natural fog not very, one does not distinguish a man with 30 meters, at seven o'clock in the morning. The inhabitants of the Mountain Garland, the Preacher, the Large Savanna, the Céron beach... give up their houses, their villas, their cottages, their huts, their straw huts and flee towards the city.

It is a rout of frightened people, ...odd women, naked children, feet, country-women with the small plaits powdered without their knowledge like the marchionesses of the XVIII century, of black strapping fellows folded under the mattresses necessary for the next night, while good old women, with the windows, are in interminable prayers. There were, around ten hours, 3 centimetres of ash in the streets of the Fort. The stores are closed.

The schools were laid off. The Governor, Mr. Mouttet descended from Fort-de-France by the Ruby. The streets are dull; the paving stones do not resound any more under the hasty heels of busy people. It would be said that a wood paving stone was abruptly put at the place stones our pavements. Midday, the newspaper the Colonies has just opened a subscription for the inhabitants of the Pelé Mountain and the Preacher.

The firemen, thanks to the fire hydrants of our principal ways, flood the streets. In the high districts and the lanes, a policeman, accompanied by a man agitating a bell, orders watering. I am oppressed and the nose burns me. Will we all die asphyxiated? The priests made open the churches, last night, and while the volcano, by its two craters, launched a column of fire, the faithful ones requested, confessed, listened to the exhortations of their pastors, anxious among the rumblings of the volcano. Unloading dock of the Government in the place Bertin, one does not see the top of the street Isambert, the bed of Roxelane, the slope of the College of the Fathers of the Holy Spirit. School of Mouillage, beyond the pinnacles of the cathedral, a thick layer of smoke makes invisible the mass even of the Dull-Abel.

What holds for us tomorrow? A lava flow? A stone rain? An asphyxiating gas jet? Some cataclysm of immersion? No one does not know it. The excursion that we had organized for tomorrow with the assistance of the Company of Gymnastics is returned on a later date. I kiss you, my dear brother, and I will give you my last thought if I must die. Be not afflicted too much for us.

Roger Portel