What Became of the White Savage (28 page)

The officers cast him a dubious look.

“There is no mention of any of this in your ship’s log.”

“It came back to me when I read it. The journal contains all the details required by the regulations, as recorded by the second mate on my instructions. Pelletier’s death is logged on the 5th November 1843.”

“But you had no proof of this! And according to you, it was not until the next morning that you came to this conclusion. Your journal is a fabrication.”

“Forgive me, Admiral. The journal may be rather vague, but it is not false. I had every reason to believe that Pelletier was dead. When a man falls overboard, it’s the same: no one sees his last moments, there is no corpse, but alas, the outcome is never in doubt.”

This astute analogy lent a little more credibility to the captain’s remarks. Not wishing to lose the upper hand, the admiral pointed to Narcisse and asked the captain:

“Do you recognise this man?”

“No, Sir.”

“This man is Narcisse Pelletier.”

The captain stared long and hard at Narcisse. He shook his head: “It was eighteen years ago. A young lad I’d taken on board two months before, one man in a crew of thirty. I don’t know. I don’t recognise him.”

The admiral turned to Narcisse and asked him the same question. It came as no surprise to me that Narcisse did not recognise Captain Porteret either. Then one of the officer’s spoke:

“Well sailor, you have heard the captain’s account. Is this the way things happened?”

“Yes, Monsieur.”

“Can you remember the moment when you were separated from your shipmates?”

“No.”

“Did you look for them?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you hear their shouts, the whistles, the gun shots?”

“Yes… no… I don’t know.”

“Did you find the food supplies left on the beach for you?”

“…”

You remember nothing of that day, the 5th November 1843?”

“No. Nothing… of the time before.”

In the absence of any witnesses, the captain’s account came to be accepted as the truth. At last I knew something of the events that had led to Narcisse’s arrival in Australia, although there remained one mystery: why had he missed the dinghy’s departure? How had he become lost? Had he lost consciousness? Or had the savages captured him and gagged him? We shall never know.

“But, my good fellow,” complained the admiral, “if you no longer remember anything of that day, how can you confirm the truth of the captain’s account?”

This remark implied that the admiral had his doubts, but chose not to express them publicly. He was visibly disappointed: the commission of enquiry was not going to throw any light on this forgotten drama, and there would be no sanctions for an act of deliberate abandonment. The commission’s report would gather dust in a cupboard, the minister would inform Her Majesty in writing of its conclusions and there would be no cause to mention the admiral’s name or his zealous pursuit of the truth. All interest in the case would be lost.

Sitting to the right of the admiral was a ship’s captain, whom I had thought to be dozing until this moment. He spoke up and said in a faint voice:

“There is one thing I do not understand, Captain. You sailed across the Indian Ocean in adverse circumstances, men were dying or injured, your water supplies were low. You sailed along the west coast of Australia as far as the northernmost tip. You were not that far from Java. According to your ship’s log, this was in fact your ship’s destination when you left the Cape. Why then did you never head due north? Why did you sail along the coast of Australia, in the opposite direction from the Dutch East Indies? With every passing day you were going further away from your supposed destination?”

The old captain was visibly embarrassed by this question of geography. He was clearly unsure as to how to reply and eventually mumbled something about his ship being difficult to manoeuvre and his preference for a course with a wind from astern.

“You cannot mean that you were unable to sail on the larboard tack! I’m not talking about sailing upwind…”

“We are straying from the point,” interjected the presiding officer.

“Forgive me, Admiral. One last question. After Pelletier’s disappearance, with sick men on board and water becoming more and more scarce, you continued on to Sydney, the nearest port. After a short stop there, you set sail directly for China. You never went to Java. Why not?”

The captain was utterly at a loss. I was not in a position to appreciate the full import of this question, not having had access to the ship’s log myself.

“Well, you see. The last time I’d stopped in Java, I’d had some trouble with the authorities there. I’d been accused of… of fraud.”

“Of contraband?”

“It was a long time ago.”

“Of smuggling?”

“Of leaving without paying all the customs duties… some bills… I preferred to avoid Java. The Dutch don’t forget. They give no quarter with matters of that nature.”

“So, you showed no hesitation in choosing between the life of one of your sailors, and a fine?”

Captain Porteret bowed his head.

“If you had made a stop in Java, Pelletier would never have ended up alone on a beach in Australia.”

The admiral was clearly losing interest. He left it to one of the officers to give the captain a lecture about keeping the ship’s log and to raise the question of some form of censure. And with that, he brought the hearing to a close.

Two days later, I was received by Her Majesty’s aide-de-camp. We had been corresponding on the subject of Narcisse’s employment in accordance with the Empress’ wish that a post should be found for Narcisse in government service. I had insisted upon the post being close to the sea, not too far from Saint-Gilles and had already refused a situation mending roads in Burgundy and one as gamekeeper in the Landes. But after all, who was I to make such decisions about his future? On whose authority? I could not refuse the third offer, which was probably the last before the officer of the Hussars ran out of patience. The candidate himself had no objections; as with all such matters, he left it up to me. The affair was concluded, the documents signed and Narcisse Pelletier was appointed storekeeper third class in the Lighthouse Service, for the Baleines Lighthouse on the Île de Ré. He was to take up his post on the first of the month. This left us sufficient time to thank the aide-de-camp and to go back once more to Saint-Gilles before settling Narcisse into his new life.

You will no doubt ask me if it is right to send him to the lighthouse at the furthest outpost of such a remote, impoverished island. Is this not just another prison, no bigger than that of the governor of New South Wales, and within three leagues of the infamous prison of Saint-Martin-de-Ré? His sole distractions will be shell gathering and walks along the shore. With the tedious nature of the work and only the monotony of the sea to gaze at, will he not tire of this existence? To this I reply that it is surely time for this fellow to find a stable situation, and that to this date I have found nothing more suitable.

His family seem only too happy with the arrangement. Our second visit to Saint-Gilles was shorter and less extravagant than the first. The family congratulated Narcisse on being appointed by imperial decree, privately nursing the unspoken jealousy felt by those whose future is always uncertain towards aristocrats and bureaucrats – whose privileged positions were being confirmed before their very eyes. All things considered however, Narcisse has been fortunate: his lodging is guaranteed, he will receive a monthly income, and at the age of thirty-six he finds himself in a position that many sailors of his age would envy. “All’s well that ends well,” is the conclusion expressed to me by the mayor and the curate. And as old Pelletier said, Ré is not too far and the family will be able to go and see him often, although one suspects that they will do nothing of the kind.

During a brief sojourn in La Rochelle I was able to call on the subdivisional engineer and introduce him to his new subaltern and explain to him why the appointment of a mere storekeeper third class had been signed by the minister himself and not by a divisional officer. Without going into unnecessary details, I explained something of Narcisse’s life and of his singular character. The engineer discerned my meaning and assured me that he would faithfully maintain the interest taken by Paris towards this fellow.

We then embarked on a ferry to the Île de Ré, where a horse-drawn cariole took us to the lighthouse. The weather was calm and the landscape serene, but I thought how terrible it must be when storms move in from the Atlantic. The engineer’s instructions to the chief officer of the station facilitated the process of installing Narcisse. He was given a room in the keepers’ quarters, where he set out the few effects I had purchased for him, and affixed the model of the
Strathmore
to the wall.

His duties are simple: he is responsible for cleaning, oiling and maintaining the lighthouse equipment; for sweeping, tidying and maintaining the buildings; tending the garden, the vegetable plot and the stable, and helping in the kitchen as required.

The chief officer and his crew are all former sailors. Men of few words, they know that Narcisse has had some unfortunate experiences, and they have accepted him as one of their own. The novice storekeeper third class set to work immediately under the supervision of an old hand, and seems happy to be of use. I asked the chief officer to send me a monthly report on Pelletier. This good fellow agreed and refused the payment that I offered. He also offered to manage Narcisse’s salary for him and make it available to him in a sensible and timely manner.

I took leave of Narcisse, wished him good fortune and assured him that I would come and see him once or twice a year. I have fulfilled my obligations towards him. He displayed no particular emotion when we parted; perhaps he had not fully understood.

On the way back to my inn at Saint-Martin-de-Ré, it became clear to me that I still do not understand Narcisse Pelletier. I know him no better today than I did on the first day of this strange adventure.

I remain your faithful servant…

The men were back.

For three days, the tribe did nothing but eat, drink and sleep, feasting on the small game brought back by the hunters. Instead of the usual mealtime rituals there was a continuous procession back and forth to the fire and hot stones, everyone helping themselves to as much as they wanted, relishing the change from their usual diet of fish and shellfish. Narcisse had no scruples about going back for more over and over again.

His belly full, he gave himself up to bitter-sweet nostalgia: he was alive, to be sure, just as he had promised himself he would be; he wasn’t condemned to die of hunger. But was this to be his fate: weeks, months, years spent sleeping and eating on one beach or another?

On the third evening he noticed that the old man had gone. There was no sign of the one he called Wanderer either. He’d probably gone with the old man to some other family group. Narcisse was not exactly upset to see him gone. Wanderer was the one who never missed a chance to look at him askance and express his barely disguised hostility. Why did he hate him so? To hell with them, he thought, the pair of them. They could rot in hell for all he cared.

Dawn the next morning saw the return of a period of frenetic activity. Just as when they’d left the encampment by the water hole, the tribe were gathering up the few belongings they would take with them. The women set off at a steady pace, followed by the children and finally the men. Narcisse picked up the two water pouches the old woman had entrusted to him and followed the tribe into the forest.

The march was long and the smallest children found it difficult to keep up. It wasn’t long before he worked out that they were walking almost due west, away from the coast: he knew they weren’t far from the equator and he realised he was walking on his shadow in the morning with the afternoon sun in his eyes until sunset. How far had they gone? Three leagues, maybe four. Far enough to be out of sight of any rescue party that might come for him.

If the
Saint-Paul
did come back, or if another ship were to sail into the Bay of Abandon, they would find his message and head north. But there would be no more clues to point them in the right direction. Nothing to indicate what had happened to Narcisse Pelletier. They’d go back to their ship empty-handed, knowing he’d survived until the 21st November, the date he’d written on the beach with the rocks. But of what had happened after that, they would know nothing at all. What would the captain decide? If he were to spend a few more days searching the area, he would lose more time and risk the disapproval of the ship owner. And there was virtually no possibility of a team setting out in the right direction, venturing deeper into unknown country and ending up coming upon the tribe. It would be a big risk to take and the chances of success would be minimal. When they found no one on the beach, the captain would give the signal to set sail. No, it would be better if no one came looking for him now. He’d been concentrating all his energy on hoping for a ship to arrive, but now he focussed that same energy on wishing for a delay. And he had definitely given up the idea of striking out on his own, away from the tribe: he knew he wouldn’t survive here.

They walked on all day through the barely changing landscape: the same colourless forest, the same eternally flat plateau, the limitless horizon. Sometimes the trees grew more sparsely on soil that was no more than sand and dust. In the still air, the day grew hotter. Clouds of flies, gnats and mosquitoes attacked him constantly, feasting on his pale flesh. He was completely exposed, his body naked and defenceless as he waved his arms about and slapped at himself in a vain attempt to disperse the insects. There was no offer of ointment from the old woman; the insects showed no interest in her. His only protection came from the layer of mingled sweat and dust on his skin that had formed a crust here and there. Realising this, he sprinkled handfuls of sand on himself in an effort to shield himself from the insects. But there was still not enough dirt on his body to ward them all off.