Landfalls (37 page)

I send a similar note to the
Boussole
for Boutin, asking for an accounting of who went on the expedition from his ship and who returned. I hear that although he is still recovering from his injuries, he insists on aiding me with the report. Do I feel grateful or put upon by his interest? Perhaps he believes he should be writing it instead. I wish to God he were.

*   *   *

We have finally sailed away from the island. Monsieur de Monty says it is called Maouna, but the men are calling it Massacre Island. I hope they are calling it Massacre Island still in a hundred years. Nine leagues away we encounter another island that looks much the same. We are surrounded by canoes that look just like the canoes we scared off two days ago, canoes filled with breadfruit and bananas and natives who look just like the treacherous natives we left behind. Some of our men claim to recognize a few of the murderers and are ready to open fire, but Monsieur de Monty has strict orders from the commander. We are not to fire upon anyone without cause, we are not to allow any natives on board, we are not to anchor till we reach Botany Bay. We trade by raising and lowering a canvas between the deck and the canoes. I see one native attempt to scale the side of the
Boussole
. He is beaten back with a long oar and falls screaming into the sea—a sight and sound that fills me with horror and pleasure both.

*   *   *

In the morning Pierre Le Gobien comes in reply to my note. He knocks tentatively, and I can hear him breathing on the other side of my cabin door. But I keep very still, and at length he leans over to push a note under the door. The boyishness of his handwriting surprises me. Later, in a more practiced hand, a note from the
Boussole
, from Boutin. I copy out their figures in my notebook:

 

There is satisfaction in the making of lists and the doing of sums, a satisfaction that even tragedy cannot quite erase. The numbers impress on me both the enormity of our loss as well as our relative good fortune. Eleven good men gone, our two longboats destroyed, days' worth of water storage lost—I wonder that the voyage can continue. On the other hand, it could have been worse, much worse. I recall the deafening hail of stones on the beach and am amazed any of us left the cove alive. We managed to hold on to the two small boats, and forty-nine of us lived. Forty-nine out of sixty-one. But wait—
wait
. Forty-nine and eleven add up to sixty. We left with sixty-one. We have counted someone twice. Or someone among the dead is missing.

*   *   *

Dead calm today. Sweltering belowdecks and sunburn above. Monsieur de Monty, bending his tall frame into my cabin, asks again about the report. I tell him I am still assembling the pertinent facts. I do not mention the discrepancy in the numbers. He says, Bear in mind, Vaujuas, that Monsieur de Lap
é
rouse will include his own account of events in his journal. Yes? I say, not understanding, and Monsieur de Monty says, A man's account always tends to exonerate him. But the commander wasn't even there, I say. Monsieur de Monty cocks his head. Vaujuas, he says, as if recalling me to sense. Vaujuas, he repeats, the commander authorized the expedition; he's undoubtedly wishing he had not. The commander hadn't liked the idea from the outset, he goes on. He and Monsieur de Langle, they argued about it the night before. The commander only relented after our captain said it would be the commander's fault if scurvy broke out on the frigates for lack of fresh water. Were they angry? I ask, and Monsieur de Monty says, Oh, yes, voices were raised. You were there? I say, and then he draws his head back and says well, no, he'd heard the story from an officer on the
Boussole.
He urges me to complete the report as soon as possible, then leaves for his cabin. He still sleeps in his old cabin off the council room. He only uses Monsieur de Langle's cabin during the day.

*   *   *

I complete the first sentence of my report:

Tuesday, December 11th, at eleven o'clock in the morning, Monsieur de Lapérouse sent his longboat and his small boat, loaded with water casks, and a detachment of soldiers, to form part of an expedition under the command of Monsieur de Langle.

The humidity makes writing difficult. The ink grows viscous, the paper sticks to my hand.

*   *   *

I write an entire page of my report and feel pleased by my progress until I review my work and see that all I have done is describe four boats and sixty-one men—or is it sixty?—headed for a watering place in a cove three-quarters of a league from the frigates.

Was the tragedy already inevitable at that point?

The only thing I remember from the trip to the cove is Monsieur de Lamanon. He arrived that afternoon in the
Boussole
's small boat, wearing a preposterous straw hat he had purchased in Macao, his torso crisscrossed with the straps of leather specimen pouches. When his boat pulled up alongside the
Astrolabe
, he clambered into our longboat, nearly toppling several crewmen in the process. He declined to help row and spent the trip complaining to Monsieur de Langle about the commander's lack of sympathy for the
Boussole
's savants. He regretted very much that he'd not been assigned to the
Astrolabe
, with its more sympathetic captain. He regretted too that the commander had not come along today to see for himself how superior these natives were to most so-called civilized men. Monsieur de Langle laughed. You forget, Monsieur de Lamanon, he said, that Monsieur de Lap
é
rouse is not only my commanding officer, but one of my dearest friends. I know, Lamanon said, I swear I cannot account for it at all.

What
I
still cannot account for is Monsieur de Langle's tolerance of Lamanon. The man complained so much the officers on the
Boussole
called him Monsieur de Lamentation. He would seize any excuse to have himself rowed over to the
Astrolabe
for dinner with Monsieur de Langle, and then pontificate the evening away while the captain looked on with amused interest. One evening, after Lamanon had intruded on one of our officers-only dinners, Monsieur de Langle laughed at our pique. Of course the man has no manners, he said. He's a genius, he has no time for manners. One day his journals will make our voyage famous, he added, and you'll all be claiming him as a friend.

*   *   *

We have sighted a large island. I ask Monsieur de Monty what island it is, but he does not know. I'm not as well-read in the travel accounts as Monsieur de Langle, he adds. The men want to know if they can go ashore, but Monsieur de Monty says the commander will not allow it. Why not? one crewman calls back, and I swat the back of the man's head. Show some respect, I cry. Monsieur de Monty's your captain now.

I am back on duty, my greatly accelerated recovery one strange outcome of the disaster. Perhaps some constant level of energy operates among us, so that when some of us fall others inherit their strength. I do not know whether to credit science or Providence for this. I do know there is comfort in the performance of the myriad duties of shipboard life. I am especially glad to resume the astronomical observations, which I have overseen for most of the voyage, our astronomer having proved too seasick to continue past Tenerife. I am pleased by the reliability of our chronometer, pleased by the smooth workings of our English sextant, pleased by the neatness of my own hand as I take down my readings of the sky.

*   *   *

I have been thinking about Lamanon and what he said in the longboat about wishing the commander could be there to see how delightful the natives were. I remember now what he said next. He smiled under his straw hat, pointed aft, and said, See how their innocent curiosity draws them to us. Monsieur de Langle, who had the tiller, turned around and swore. Scores of canoes were following us into the cove. He gave the order to pull in the sail as we were approaching the reef. There are too many of them, he said, then concentrated on steering us through the narrow channel into the cove.

Hundreds following us into the cove, hundreds already gathered on the beach when we arrived: I wonder now that we did not take alarm and turn around. Especially when Monsieur de Langle realized that the tide was out. The longboats touched bottom a musket shot away from the watering place. Why did we not turn around then? Why did no one realize that we would have to wade knee-deep through the water to reach the shore? That our weapons would get wet? That the water casks would be heavy after filling and would weigh down the already grounded boats? Some of the natives on the beach threw branches out into the water at our approach, and Lamanon said it was a sign of friendship. Monsieur de Langle said he was heartily glad to know it. But I think friendship may not be possible between three score and a thousand, even when some of the three score are armed with muskets.

I write:

When we neared our destination, we saw with concern that a large number of canoes was following us and coming to the same cove.

Ten days since the massacre. Monsieur de Monty calls me to the captain's state room. I begin a rehearsed plea for more time for the report, but he raises a hand to silence me and asks me to help him complete a map of the cove.

The map covers the captain's table. Fine dots for sand, thick dots for forest, thin lines for elevation,
x
's for reef. Monsieur de Monty points to one spot on the map and says, I understand there was only the narrowest channel through the reef. Yes, I say, it complicated our retreat. I assure him the map is fine, better than fine. It conveys everything: the shape of the shoreline, the reef-choked cove and its narrow entrance, the thin slip of beach, the watering place, the hills that blocked the frigates' view of us.

Monsieur de Monty clears his throat. We need to draw the boats in as well, he says, then quickly adds, Monsieur de Lap
é
rouse requests it. He opens his hand and holds out two breadfruit seeds and two grains of rice. The seeds are the longboats, he says, and the rice— The small boats, I say, taking the seeds from his palm. His hand is sweaty. I put one seed down on the map, just to the right of where the stream empties into the cove. The longboat from the
Boussole
, I say. I set the
Astrolabe
's longboat next to it, then line the grains of rice under the longboats. I run my finger down the vertical gap between the two sets of boats. Most of the men who managed to get between the longboats had scrambled to the safety of the small boats, even some who had been struck in the head by rocks, like Boutin, whom I dragged bleeding out of the water. This was not true of the men who ended up in or on either side of the longboats. How was it we failed to notice all the natives armed with clubs?

Excuse me, Monsieur de Vaujuas, Monsieur de Monty says, but which of the small boats is which? I point to the grain of rice on the right. This one is ours, I say. The one you commanded to safety, he says. Yes, I say, the one I brought back.

*   *   *

I have gone over and over the lists from Boutin and Le Gobien, and I still cannot reconcile the numbers: sixty-one men off the frigates, forty-nine returned, eleven dead. I write another note to Boutin and send it to the
Boussole
by small boat. I slip another note under Le Gobien's door.

For two days now I have written nothing. I tell myself I need to be sure of the numbers, but I suspect this is no more than an excuse. The crisis—I have not yet described it, and it looms before me like an impossible thing. I cannot get beyond this, the last line I wrote:

Among the natives were some women and girls who offered themselves to us in the most indecent manner, and not all of the men rejected their advances.

I only noticed the women because I was off duty and not part of the line of men busy with the water casks. Light-headed from the heat and lingering illness, I sat down in the shade and hoped I would not be dashed in the head by a falling coconut. I wondered if such things ever occurred. Then I heard the laughter of women behind me and turned to watch as they lured a few of our crewmen into the forest. They disappeared into the undergrowth, but I could hear them well enough, the forced, lewd cries of the women and the men's piglike grunting.

I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, and when I opened them I found an older native woman pushing a most reluctant girl toward me. I shook my head but reached into my satchel and handed a glass bead each to the girl and to the woman, whom I supposed to be her mother. The woman began raising up the girl's skirt while the girl tried to get away, and I shook my head again, trying to explain through gestures that I was sick and unable to do more. I was sorry for it, indeed I was; the girl had lustrous black hair that fell like a silk curtain over her breasts. My spirit was willing, but the flesh was weak, as the apostle says, although I believe he meant it differently.