Landfalls (39 page)

*   *   *

New Year's Day, 1788. I have completed the report. Monsieur de Monty insists I deliver it in person, so I put on my dress uniform and am rowed to the
Boussole
, the first time I have left the
Astrolabe
since the disaster. Boutin, his head bald in patches, greets me at the deck with such warmth that I draw away. He sees my embarrassment and steps back. Monsieur de Lap
é
rouse is waiting for you below, he says, his voice now formal.

There are few agonies worse than watching someone read your writing. I stand before the commander as he reads my report and think of a dozen sentences I should have rewritten. I also see how the commander's uniform hangs loose from his shoulders. At the beginning of the voyage, some of the younger officers and I called him Commander de La Paunch. It seems like an ancient memory. At last he looks up and says, It's a good report, Monsieur de Vaujuas; you've been most fair to all concerned. I have been holding my breath, and gasp out, Thank you, sir. I particularly appreciate the ending, he says, then reads aloud:

Everyone who was there can attest, with me, that no violence or imprudence on our part preceded the savages' attack. Monsieur de Langle had given us the strictest orders in this regard, and no one disobeyed them.

I thought it might be important to emphasize that, I say. You can scarcely imagine how important, the commander says, the color rising in his face. Critics at home are always ready to blame the explorer when there's trouble with natives, he adds.

He looks back down at the report, then says, Do you have any idea how many natives died? No, I reply, surprised. There were shots fired, were there not? he says, then presses: You must have seen natives fall during the battle. Who suffered more losses? I take a deep breath before answering. Proportionally, sir, I say, we did, of course, by far. But in total numbers, perhaps they did. I'd like to think we killed at least thirty or forty. But it's only a supposition. Should I have included that in the report?

No, the commander says, shaking his head. Then, his voice low and cold, he adds: How very surprised Lamanon must have been. I have never heard the commander speak with such bitterness before. But his voice breaks as he asks, Did you see—do you remember—how Monsieur de Lamanon fell? Like all of them, sir, I say. He climbed into the
Boussole
's longboat after Captain de Langle and was struck down by rocks, then dragged out of the boat and set upon with clubs. The commander closes his eyes against the words. No one deserves such a death, he finally mutters. No, sir, I say. No one.

He remains silent for so long that I wonder if I should leave. But then he opens his eyes and looks up at me. Do you remember the last thing Monsieur de Langle said to you? he says. Yes, sir, I say, he told me to go back to the boats. I mean before that, the commander says, the last real conversation you had with him. He looks so expectantly at me and so dejected for himself, and I remember that he and Monsieur de Langle argued the last time they saw each other. Yes, I say after a moment, yes, at the cove, he joined me for a time beneath a pine tree— A
pine
tree? the commander asks. A
palm
tree, I correct myself, then go on: Monsieur de Langle turned to me and said, Take a good look, Vaujuas, remember everything—when we get back to Europe this will all seem a dream. The commander nods mournfully, and I want to say, Sir, it's no use dwelling on the last words exchanged. But it is not my place to say so.

*   *   *

Monsieur de Langle did join me once beneath a tree. He said everything I reported to the commander. But it was not at the cove on Massacre Island; it was not in the South Seas at all. It was over a year ago, and we were sitting under a cypress tree, not a palm, on a point overlooking Monterey Bay, in California. Lamanon was arguing in Latin with one of the Spanish priests. Can you understand what they're saying, sir? I asked the captain. I believe Monsieur de Lamanon is trying to persuade our host that there is no God, Monsieur de Langle said, and when I frowned, he laughed. Take a good look around, Monsieur de Vaujuas, he said, Try to remember everything. I did as he bid. The fog was receding. Sea otters played in the water below us. Stretching out into whiteness beyond was the great expanse of the Pacific. When we get back to Europe, Monsieur de Langle added, this will all seem a dream.

*   *   *

A dream: native girls crowd around me, their brown fingers reaching for my pouch, calling out for beads. Word has spread, apparently, of a man who will give you a bead for nothing. I get to my feet when they will not leave, and waver where I stand, lightheaded from hunger and fever. No more, I say to them, holding the pouch over my head, beyond their reach. One girl jumps up and snatches off my hat, and another grabs at my jacket, trying to twist off the buttons. Stop! I shout, trying to shake them off. I slap at one with my free arm and she jumps back with a cry into the arms of a naked, tattooed man who might be her father. He growls in my direction, and several other native men come forward. An older woman appears and orders the girls away. They slink off, pouting and grumbling, a few stopping to shout back an insult. The men begin to circle me.
What are you doing, Vaujuas?
Monsieur de Langle cries, leaving the watering line and advancing toward me. He grabs the pouch from my hand.
Get back to the boats!
I do as he bids, I hurry to the water's edge and walk in up to my knees, then turn back. He is trying to distribute what is left of my beads. I see our unattended launch, and plunge into the water after it.

 

ELEVEN

AMONG THE MANGROVES

Botany Bay, New Holland, February 17, 1788

Midafternoon, but looks later. Heavy rain with occasional thunder and lightning. In the bay, two frigates at anchor. On the northern shore, near a place the inhabitants of the area call Kooriwall but that the English will call “Frenchman's Gardens,” a hectic, temporary settlement: makeshift tents, an observatory, a palisade, dozens of men hunched over against the rain, working, trying to work, giving up on work. In one tent, Jean-François de Galaup de Lapérouse, captain and commander, sits on a rough wooden bench, as individuals are brought before him to tell him what they know. Everyone shouts to be heard over the rain and thunder.

P
AUL-
M
ÉRAULT DE
M
ONNERON,
chief engineer of the
Boussole
:

Yes, sir, I found the body. Monsieur Charron and I had taken a boat a few leagues west to look for trees to fell, and— Sir, I've never believed in premonitions, but perhaps our misfortunes have made me superstitious, for I felt a kind of cold misgiving all morning. We entered a small inlet with particularly large mangroves when we found him lying facedown in a shallow pool below a cluster of trees. I thought at first it must be one of the English convicts, escaped from their settlement and come to grief in the wild. But we turned him over and could see straightaway that it was the
Astrolabe
's chaplain, Father Receveur.

I immediately surmised that he'd been killed by the savages—struck by one of their barbed spears. No, there was no spear—they must have taken it. But it's the only thing that could explain the damage to his head. And why most of his belongings were missing—food, water, tools. They'd even taken his shoes. No, he was otherwise still clothed. They also left his hat. I found it hanging on a low branch above his body.

He hadn't been dead very long. His limbs were still pliable. He wasn't yet cold. I feared the savages might still be nearby, ready to attack again, so I drew out my pistol. Then Monsieur Broudou suddenly appeared, which startled us extremely. Yes, alone and on foot, soaked to the knees. You'll have to ask him, sir, but I believe he was hunting—he had a rifle. And about half an hour earlier, Monsieur Charron and I had heard a gunshot. I asked Monsieur Broudou if he had discharged his weapon, but—well, he said it was none of my concern.

Could Father Receveur have been
shot
? I suppose so. Accidentally, of course. But—that wouldn't explain the missing belongings. Surely Monsieur Broudou wouldn't have—of course not.

We
had
seen a few of the savages when we set out this morning—mostly women fishing from canoes. But none after we found the body. It was as if they knew to keep out of sight. And it's just as well they did, sir. I can no longer promise to behave with moderation toward them. What kind of men attack an unarmed man peaceably studying
plants
? Can such men even be called human?

Monsieur Charron? Yes, we're friendly enough, I suppose. He's nearly completed a new longboat. He was dissatisfied with the quality of wood he's had to work with, however, and asked me to accompany him upstream to see if we could locate more suitable trees—which I'm pleased to report we did. My task was to figure out how to fell them and float them back here. We obviously abandoned that part of the mission when we found Father Receveur.

P
IERRE
C
HARRON,
head carpenter on the
Boussole
:

I actually saw him first, sir, meaning no disrespect to Monsieur de Monneron.

We found these great mangrove trees, just the thing for our purpose—the wood is dense and doesn't rot in saltwater, you see—and I'd climbed out of our boat onto the lower-down branches of one specimen and was making my way round it when I saw the poor abb
é
, God rest his soul, lying there dead. I called to Paul—Monsieur de Monneron, that is—who tied up the boat and joined me.

What a shock, the sight of the abb
é
's mangled face! I'll never forget it, sir. What was he doing out there all by himself—botanizing? It's just my opinion, sir, but he should've stuck to his priestly duties and left the botanizing alone. He'd still be alive, wouldn't he? Yes, sir, I know it's not my place, but—

Oh, I expect he was shot by mistake. We heard the shot—
two
, I think—only a few minutes before. And then Monsieur Broudou shows up, panting and pale, with a hot rifle over his shoulder. How he frightened us—and we him! I expect he was looking for his quarry and found he'd shot a priest instead. He didn't say a word all the way back in the boat. Nor did we, of course, we were that distressed.

As for the abb
é
's belongings, I don't know, sir. Maybe someone else found the body before us and took them. Maybe that someone was someone who'd shot a priest by mistake and wanted it to
look
like an attack, then hid in the underbrush till he heard our voices. No, sir, I'm not accusing Monsieur Broudou of anything—I speak only of possibilities.

Killed by a native? I don't think so. We didn't see any. I expect they've mostly fled well inland now that the English have dumped all their undesirables on the continent.

Monsieur de Monneron—oh, yes, we've been friends since Chile. We built that giant tent together—the one for the great dinner on the beach—remember, sir? Of course you do. Anyway, Paul—Monsieur de Monneron—heard me complaining about the wood—meaning no disrespect to the men, sir, but it's as if I've been asking for kindling rather than timber. Anyway, he offered to help me look for better trees. I believe Monsieur de—what's his name, the
Astrolabe
's plant man?—I keep wanting to call him Monsieur de Lamanon, but that was
our
learned gentleman that was killed at Massacre Island—Lamartini
è
re? right, that's him—he told us we might find larger mangroves upstream, where the water isn't as salty, and he was right.

Oh, we've been on several such outings now, Monsieur de Monneron and I. Today we were finally ready to fell a tree and drag it back when we found the abb
é
. I suppose it's a good thing we were there, sir, or the poor man might have languished in that spot with no proper burial and none of us ever knowing what had become of him.

F
RÉDÉRIC
B
ROUDOU,
lieutenant on the
Boussole
and brother-in-law to Commander de Lap
é
rouse:

I know, I
know
—I wasn't supposed to be away from the encampment. I'm sorry, brother—
Captain.
I wanted to be alone for a while, go hunting, bring back something other than kangaroo to eat. Is that so terrible?

I did
not
shoot the priest. A rifle shot wouldn't result in anything like what happened to that poor man's face. I did shoot—once, at a bird. I thought I'd hit it and was looking for it when I heard voices. When I heard French, I made myself known. I'm lucky your dear Monneron didn't shoot
me
. He had his pistol out. And the carpenter looked at me like I was Satan's own son. He probably came in here and said
I'd
shot the priest, didn't he?

How long between my shot and when I found them with the priest's body? I don't know—maybe fifteen minutes?

Killed by natives: Whose theory is that? Monneron's? I was in the area all morning and never saw or heard a single native. Oh, come, brother—it's rubbish, this notion that natives can slink about silently and unseen. Monneron's just trying to justify his own panic—as we were leaving, he shot his pistol two or three times, firing at phantoms.

Oh, but I didn't say the priest wasn't murdered. He was murdered. Just not by natives. Look what I found floating in the water next to the body: a woman's hair ribbon. Dirty, but recognizably pink and European. I think we can agree it's an odd thing to find in these parts, especially in the vicinity of a cleric. And it just so happens that this morning, heading out from camp, I saw our dead priest, still alive, talking to a man and a woman, both European. Escaped English convicts, of course.