What Became of the White Savage (24 page)

He felt reassured by the progress he’d made; the day meant something now. Waiakh had decided to build himself a small hut next to his and he helped him with it, after which they went to play in the waves. The child kept on saying: “Waiakh. Amglo” in a sing-song voice, waving his arms in the air and putting his hand to his chest when he said Waiakh. Narcisse realised that the tribe had named him Amglo. He made a funny face and said: “Amglo. Narcisse Pelletier, dubbed Amglo by the savages.”

“Amglo,” Waiakh repeated. He pointed to the sun, and stretching out his arm, made a sweeping circular gesture taking in first the sea, then passing over the top of his head and coming back down towards the tops of the trees. The child was indicating the movement of the sun. Was Amglo the word for the sun? Why had they decided to call him Sun? Because he was taller than they were? Because his white skin seemed dazzling in comparison to theirs? Was it because his ship had come from the east, appearing on the horizon at dawn? Or was it for some other peculiar reason?

“Amglo. You’re calling me Sun…”

So now he knew one word of their language. He would have to learn others, more of their gibberish. How did they say: “Where can I find water? Go and get me something to eat. Are there any other white men around here? Come with me to Sydney…?”

No. It was impossible. It would take him months and months to learn enough to be able to communicate with them. He had no desire to talk to them, and he had no intention of spending several months here. Either the
Saint-Paul
would come back, or he’d escape to the south.

He went back over to his hut, the child trotting along behind him. He found this display of loyalty exasperating: what good was it to him? He kicked at Waiakh’s hut several times and knocked it down. The boy could go and sleep somewhere else! It was spiteful of him, and there was no reason to do it. But it made him feel better.

“What? What is it?”

The child was staring at him uncomprehendingly.

“You think I’m cruel?”

Narcisse laughed sneeringly.

“You’re the cruel ones! The whole lot of you. Much worse than me. You’re filthy, you smell. And look at you, you’re so small! You’re midgets, deformed. You’re dwarves, you’re ugly and horrible. You’re hideous. Even you! You’re like a monkey. Uglier. You’re black. And not that beautiful shiny black of some of the men I’ve seen in Africa. They’re big and strong. Their skin glows. But you, you’re all covered in dust, your skin’s dull, faded. It looks like withered cowhide. The skin of a sickly cow. You don’t talk – you growl. You never smile, you don’t laugh. You can’t sing – you bark and click your teeth. You don’t even walk properly, you scamper along. You’re like, like gnomes, straight out of a nightmare. You’re worse than a man’s worst nightmares – you couldn’t imagine a more horrible creature even in a dream. You’re the devil’s spawn, all of you, and you’re torturing me. The things you eat are revolting, disgusting. You run around stark naked and you’re not at all embarrassed. You’ve stolen my clothes. You ripped off half my ear so you could steal my earring. You’re stupid, greedy, nasty and ugly as sin – uglier than all the seven mortal sins. A dog is capable of more love and affection than you. A pig, even! You’re not men, you’re less than human, there are no words to describe you!

You’ve made my life miserable every moment of every day. And how do you think this is all going to end? I’ll tell you. The
Saint-Paul
will come back, but it won’t be just with a crew of thirty men. There’ll be other ships, merchant ships, fishing boats. And they’ll all be ready to punish you for what you’ve done to me. And then the warships will come, French ones, English ones, Spanish and American. A whole fleet of ships. They’ll seal off your coastline. Whole armies will come ashore and they’ll all be white, like me. And then you’ll really see what it means to be a white man! You won’t act so clever then. You’ll growl and bark and click your teeth and we won’t understand a thing and it’ll be our turn to laugh at your terrified looks. You know nothing about guns, you don’t know what a shot is, but believe me, you’ll learn soon enough. All those angry sailors and soldiers, they’ll chase you into the forest, they’ll trap you, surround you, pen you in, they’ll beat you with cudgels and make you keep walking: you, the men, the women, the old and the children. We won’t need you to find us water, the ships will have enough water for everyone to drink their fill, to wash from head to foot every day if they want to. But there won’t be a drop for you! And then when you’re all rounded up and tied up they’ll start cutting off your left ears, all of you. With billhooks, bayonets, knives, daggers. They’ll pile all those black ears up together and set fire to them. Then they’ll kill you all, slowly, one by one, with no mercy. You’ll get what you deserve, all of you, a hundred times over. They’ll drive knives into your stomachs, and spread your entrails out on the sand and they’ll leave you to bleed to death, and there won’t be a single one of you left on earth, and none of your kind either. You’ll be writhing in agony, you’ll die slowly in the blazing sun! You’ll be crawling and groaning and begging for mercy, and they’ll kick you down. And just to make sure they’ve finished the job, the warships will bombard the forest, you’ll see just how far they can fire, they’ll keep firing right down to their last round of ammunition, until there isn’t a single tree left standing. And when they’ve done that, they’ll set it all on fire, a fire to end all fires, it’ll consume everything in sight and beyond, a great bonfire to celebrate the end of the lot of you…

And I’ll be aboard the
Saint-Paul
, standing on the poopdeck. I’ll be dressed in linen trousers, a cotton shirt, a silk scarf, a felt hat – linen, cotton, silk, felt, you don’t know what any of it is do you, little monster, son of a stinking black dwarf – and I’ll be drinking good Cape white wine, wearing my smart new clothes, watching the soldiers kill you and set everything on fire, and I’ll be applauding them and shouting ‘hooray’ at the top of my voice and I’ll cheer them, I’ll shout: ‘Go on, lads! More! Don’t let a single one get away! Don’t give them an inch!’And when after three days the fire finally dies down and the smoke settles on your accursed land, it’ll be burnt to a cinder and no one will ever know that anyone lived here, and we’ll be able to leave in peace and we won’t look back.

I’ll go back to France and I’ll never go to sea again. I’ll go back home, I’ll see my parents again, I’ll look for work, and you’ll see just how hard I can work! I’ll settle down, I’ll meet a pretty girl and I’ll take her to the dance and I’ll marry her in church – you have no idea what a church is, do you, you little black goblin – and we’ll have a baby in no time at all, a little boy and he’ll be all pink and plump, and I’ll cradle him in my arms whenever she’s not nursing him, and then we’ll have more children, two or three at least. I’ll play with them in the evenings when I get home, they’ll come and jump into bed with us, and I’ll tell them about my travels all over the world, but I’ll never, ever tell them what’s happened here. Never.

And the day I get home, you know what I want? I want my mother to make me my favourite stew. You obviously don’t know what that is, you filthy little monkey. I’ll go and get some of the best new potatoes from the cellar: I’ll choose a nice crunchy green cabbage in the garden, a big firm cabbage; turnips, white and purple, sticks of celery, leeks. I’ll get some nice fat round sausages from the salting tub, a hunk of lard, a pig’s trotter, some bacon. I’ll put it all out on the table, I’ll help my mother chop the vegetables, and she’ll put it all in the pot and stew it all afternoon on a slow fire. The whole house will be filled with the delicious smell and the neighbours will know what’s simmering on the stove, and they’ll stop in to say hello. And in the evening, I’ll sit down to eat it, at the table in the garden if the weather’s nice, and if not in the kitchen near the stove. And there’ll be cheese too, several different kinds, and bunches of grapes, nuts, a jug of wine. And then when we’ve eaten all we possibly can, she’ll produce a plum tart from the oven.”

He’d never uttered such a long speech in his whole life. He’d spoken to hear the sound of his own voice, intoxicated by his own words, astonished at what he heard himself saying. And Waiakh had stood there, not moving, listening intently, not saying a word, watching with obvious interest, somewhat intimidated by the outburst. Narcisse took a deep breath. What was he doing, talking about plum tart to this boy, this black lizard-eating child?

Vallombrun, 25th September 1861

Monsieur le Président,

Who could have imagined that this adventure would lead to our being received at Court?

Upon his request, I went to see Count Marsigny, the Imperial Grand Chamberlain, who informed me that Her Majesty Empress Eugénie had learnt of the presence of a white savage and had expressed a wish to meet him. Rumours circulating around the city had reached her, as had the press reports although the Count made no mention of our Society and did not allude to the heated meeting of which I have already spoken. I bowed and assured him that Narcisse and I were entirely at Her Majesty’s disposal.

“He is not,” he hesitated, “shall we say, dangerous, is he?”

I had become accustomed to this question and replied by assuring him that Narcisse was the gentlest and most devoted of Their Majesties’ subjects. Indeed the first word he had pronounced in Sydney, the word that had enabled him to be identified as French, was none other than the name of the noble founder of the royal dynasty. And furthermore, the Pelletier family were united in their reverence for Narcisse’s uncle, a veteran of the Grande Armée, wounded at Eylau. The Grand Chamberlain looked at me as if to say he would like to take me at my word but that further guarantees would be required to secure Her Majesty’s safety. I did indeed receive a letter from my brother a few days later informing me that the Prefect of the Isère had been instructed to gather information about me and our family, and moreover that this had been carried out without excessive regard for discretion. I can only assume that the enquiry had yielded results that were not deemed too negative.

The Grand Chamberlain continued to question me: “Where, in your opinion, should the audience take place? And how should it be conducted?”

“I would not presume to offer advice to either Her Majesty or her courtiers. I can only stress that Monsieur Pelletier is still somewhat shy and impressionable.”

Never before had I, nor anyone else, referred to Narcisse as Monsieur. It was a strange sensation to hear this formal title coming from my own lips, as if a new being – no longer the white savage, no longer just Narcisse – was beginning to emerge.

“I fear that the pomp and ceremony of the court might intimidate him or render him completely mute. If he could be presented to Her Majesty in a more intimate setting with a small number of participants and a minimum of protocol, he would be more comfortable and better able to answer her questions.”

“The rose garden in the Palais de Compiègne would perhaps be a more suitable setting than the state rooms of the Palais des Tuilieries?” suggested the Grand Chamberlain. “And you say that he is capable of recounting his tale?”

“Monsieur Pelletier will be only too happy to satisfy Her Majesty’s curiosity. He expresses himself in very simple language, and still sometimes struggles to find his words; I believe he has not yet fully grasped the extraordinary nature of his adventure. He does not speak of his experiences in the most skilful fashion, but he will answer all questions.”

“And will his tales be of an appropriate nature to be recounted in the presence of Her Majesty and the ladies of the Court?”

“Monsieur Pelletier is no mere common seaman. He has returned from his ordeal with an astonishing simplicity of soul, a complete absence of malice or irony that is almost childlike. He is deeply honoured to be received by Her Majesty ”

Narcisse is certainly not an accomplished storyteller: in six months I have learnt nothing about his sojourn in Australia. But how could I admit that his reticence might result in an audience that could well prove to be dull and uninteresting?

Our exchange was being recorded by a secretary seated at a table. After a few more questions, the Grand Chamberlain concluded: “We shall receive this Monsieur Pelletier.”

One week later, we travelled by railway to Compiègne. A carriage transported us from the station to the château: we entered directly into the gardens without stopping at the main gate, and travelled along the alleyways to an elegant wooden lodge. It was a lovely early autumn afternoon. We were offered refreshments by a valet and as I sipped a glass of orangeade, I repeated my advice to Narcisse one last time on how to conduct himself, advice that I had not ceased to repeat throughout the journey.

I had been much exercised by the question of how he should dress for the occasion. Style and elegance mean nothing to him: he prefers to wear garments that do not bind around the neck or the waist, with ample sleeves. He would have been most uncomfortable dressed as I was in jacket, waistcoat and silk neck-tie. After having sought advice as to acceptable attire for an afternoon in Compiègne, I purchased a pair of white canvas trousers for him, a loose linen shirt with a scarf at the neck, a grey untailored jacket, and a black broad-brimmed hat. Thus attired, he could have passed for a gentleman with a taste for boating, a trader returning from a horse fair perhaps, or even a Balkan aristocrat.

We were greeted by an officer of the Hussars, a broad-shouldered giant of a man, who escorted us through the gardens. Narcisse walked along at a good pace, smiling as he is wont to do when he is surrounded by nature. Neither the hussar nor I paid any attention to the first of the autumn leaves underfoot, but Narcisse managed, without looking at the ground, to effortlessly avoid stepping on them.

The hussar led us to a copse, where the Empress was seated on a bench behind which two more powerfully-built hussars stood sentinel – the Grand Chamberlain had not wished to take any risks. Her Majesty greeted us with a smile. She was dressed in a green silk gown, a fine white shawl, and a charming ivory coloured cap. I came within three steps of her and bowed respectfully. Narcisse bowed too, but towards the lady seated on Her Majesty’s right, whose blue dress embroidered in gold thread and wide-brimmed hat decorated with a pheasant feather had seemed to him to be the sign of a higher rank.