What Became of the White Savage (5 page)

I tried again: “Pol. You hail from Paimpol? You boarded ship in Paimpol?”

He looked blankly at me, and I realised this would not be sufficient. There was no magic wand: the French language would not come back to him in a flash merely because we had exchanged one or two words. It was not a question of turning on a tap. Somewhere, buried in the depths of his memory, was a wellspring of language. We would have to dig for it before we could begin to drink from it, and then, only drop by drop would we sup, over long months of effort. The well might even be completely dried up; he might never speak again.

At that point, the governor invited us to return to his office, indicating that the meeting was at an end. I paid no attention to the ensuing chatter, which consisted mostly of my fellow guests expressing their relief that this was not one of their countrymen in such a base condition. Only a Frenchman could sink so low.

But I too had come to the conclusion that this white savage was indeed French. I wondered what terrible ordeal he had survived. Who was this man Narcisse? How had he come to be in Australia? What torments had he endured? What had happened to the other members of the crew after the shipwreck? My head was spinning with questions.

Seated once again around the vast conference table, we listened as the governor expressed his thanks to all his guests for participating in this experiment. Through the French windows, I could see Narcisse, as I now assumed him to be called, squatting on his haunches at the end of the garden, completely still. The governor announced that the so-called white savage had been shown to be a Frenchman, and hoped that there were no objections to this conclusion.

He went on to stress that we would of course be at liberty to make our own reports to our respective governments. This was a case without precedent, and he would proceed in this manner, provided there was neither conflicting evidence, nor any diplomatic objections. All agreed that this was a satisfactory resolution of the difficulties. Delighted by the charms of this singular episode, the representatives of the various countries took their leave.

As I was about to depart, the governor requested that I remain to speak to him alone. He informed me that he did not know what to do with Narcisse, since there was as yet no French consul in Sydney. After some diplomatic prevarication and circumlocution, he asked me to take responsibility for Narcisse, stressing that the colony would provide funds for the return journey to Europe. In short, he wished to be relieved of responsibility for this case, with my assistance.

The first objection that occurred to me was that I possessed no authority to take responsibility for one of my compatriots. The governor appreciated my concern and assured me that a Sydney judge would confer upon me some form of guardianship for the white savage. This would be done with all due haste.

My second objection was that I was merely a traveller. I had no official function and was in no position to accept responsibility for this unfortunate soul. The governor concurred, but asked what other options he had? To whom might he have recourse? There was no Frenchman in the colony at that time who could fulfil such an official function.

I was loath to tell him that I had undertaken to travel the world alone. I had encountered agreeable companions from time to time, and had enjoyed their company for an evening or a short excursion. One or two had suggested that we travel together, as much for reasons of safety as for the pleasures of conversation. In keeping with another of your invaluable pieces of advice, I had always declined, preferring to remain alone and unfettered. And now I was being asked to take on the burden of this unknown person, a man who could neither speak nor eat like the rest of us, and who would probably require as much care as a helpless infant.

The governor seemed to share my concerns, but skilfully avoided addressing specific questions. Where else could he turn? What would become of the white savage if I were to refuse this request? If he were to be set free, he would surely starve to death here in Sydney. That is, if he were not attacked by convicts or arrested by the police. And how could the governor hold him in prison with no prospect of release, when there was no legal basis for this, no charge against him? Should he order one of the colony’s vessels to take him back to the wilderness where he had been found? This would be a cruel course of action. Such callousness would surely incite protestations from the imperial government and from all respectable individuals, once it was known.

The only solution was to return him to France, and I alone was equipped to accomplish this.

Under the tree, the white savage remained, motionless. I felt somewhat lightheaded and asked the governor to accord me a few days to consider the matter, to which he readily agreed.

Two days later, I accepted. I cannot hide the fact that you played a part in this decision. The governor’s arguments were reasonable enough and I felt compelled to look after my fellow countryman both for reasons of common decency and from a sense of patriotism. I could quite easily have ignored these scruples and declined, without making any attempt to justify my decision. I might also have pointed to the responsibilities I bear to you, sir, in travelling as I do under your aegis.

But I did not wish to delude myself any longer. Alone on the balcony of the hotel, looking out at the bay of Sydney in the gentle evening breeze, I contemplated my situation, and realised that I would never become the explorer I dreamt of being. The meagre spoils and written accounts from my time in Iceland and my forays in the Pacific could have been produced by any literate sailor, and no doubt with more alacrity. Becoming a great geographer would involve making sacrifices, facing greater perils. If I wished to make a significant discovery I would have to venture further afield, run greater risks. I knew I would not measure up to the task. I had put myself to the test and it was clear to me that the dream I had been pursuing for five years had evaporated. Here, in the antipodes, I knew that I must accept this reality. I shall aspire to no title more prestigious than that of Associate Member of the Society of Geographers. I shall make no great geographical discoveries.

My parting gift to the study of geography will be the case of the white savage. I shall seek to learn more about his singular adventures. My goal will be to help him rediscover our language so that he may tell us about his exile among the savages. This extraordinary story must not be lost to scholarship.

I shall chart the progress of this man Narcisse, if that is indeed his name. I hope to follow this letter with two or three further missives in which I shall recount that progress and any colourful details he may reveal to me of the customs and practices of the people amongst whom he lived. I do not know what will become of him in the long run. For myself, I have no intention of writing a book, but I trust that you will permit me the liberty of writing these letters to you. They will provide you with a record of the various stages of Narcisse’s progress, and of the nature of my investigations.

When I beheld him in the garden that afternoon, something in his attitude, in the way he looked, expressed what I believed to be more than mere curiosity or surprise. I understood this only later, when I was deliberating over what to do. Looking deep into his eyes, I saw fear, a terror akin to that of a hunted animal. I wished to allay that fear, and this no doubt influenced my decision to accept the governor’s proposition.

I trust you will approach this matter with the same benevolent goodwill you have shown towards all my endeavours, and that you will regard it as worthy of your interest. Any advice you may wish to give me will be invaluable, and I shall follow it to the letter. In the meantime, I herewith convey to you what I have perceived, and leave it to those better versed in these matters than I to sort through my observations and separate the wheat from the chaff.

I remain your faithful servant…

Water. Water on his cracked, parted lips. Water flowing into his mouth, running down his throat. A cascade of earthy-tasting water. Instinctively his lips sought the spout of the gourd and attached themselves to it. He didn’t think to open his eyes to find out who was bringing him succour, he wanted only to drink, to drink his fill, drink and never stop, drink as he had not done since leaving the Cape. Water coursed through his body, flooding every channel, bringing life back to his burning torso, his throbbing head, his weary legs and lifeless arms. It rushed down his cheeks, his chin, along his neck, seeking out the parched recesses of his body.

He would have gone on drinking for ever, he would never have stopped, when all of a sudden, his thirst still not slaked, the gourd was wrenched from him. He blinked with difficulty, trying to see who his benefactor might be.

A black, wrinkled face, leaning over him. Greying, frizzy hair, streaks of red earth on the cheeks and the bridge of the nose. A searching look, no hint of a smile. Not a word. A woman, an old woman. He sank back onto his bed of leaves to get a better look at her. Yes, a woman, completely naked, black as coal, her skin leathery and wrinkled like cowhide, breasts limp and drooping. She was squatting next to him, heedless of the countless flies buzzing around her, settling in the corners of her eyes. And in her hands a water pouch made from animal hide. They looked long and hard at each other, he not knowing what to do or say, returning her enigmatic gaze. She held out the gourd to him again and he grabbed it and drank, in long gulps to the last drop, little minding the bitter, dusty, animal taste.

He stood up and felt dizzy, the gnawing hunger in his belly asserting itself now that his thirst was appeased. The woman stayed where she was, squatting on her haunches, watching him as he struggled to his feet, staggered and righted himself again. He took a few steps, trying to look composed and take in his surroundings. Not another soul in sight. Surely this old woman must live with her family, her tribe. Now that this ancient grandmother was here to help him, the feeling of being completely alone should have abated. And yet, something in her manner, her silence perhaps, left him feeling no less alone than before. Looking at her, he thought how different her world must be, how far removed from all that was familiar to him. The schooner, his shipmates, the stopovers yet to come on the voyage to China. These were the only things that could put an end to his loneliness and make up for being abandoned. This black woman and her ministrations changed nothing.

He walked back over to her, put his hand to his lips, pointed to his belly, and pretended to chew on an imaginary piece of meat. She showed no reaction, did not even look at him, as if she had lost all interest in him.

“I’m hungry. Please. I’m hungry.”

He didn’t expect her to understand. His voice echoed strangely inside his head, his ears unused to hearing its sound in the silence of this desolate forest. Still, the woman did not move. Now that she’d given him water and saved his life, was she going to just ignore him and leave him to die?

“I’m hungry, you old hag! Give me something to eat!”

The change in his tone was clear and unambiguous, but still she did not react. Raising his hand to the woman who’d helped him was out of the question. And resorting to violence would not make food appear out of thin air. He went back up to the edge of the plateau, expecting to encounter more savages, but there was no one. Not knowing what else to do, he came back to the motionless old woman, sat down beside her and said, more calmly this time:

“My name is Narcisse Pelletier. I’m from Saint-Gilles, in the Vendée. Over there, in France. I’m a sailor on the schooner
Saint-Paul
. My ship left without me four days ago. It’ll come back, I know it will, and you’ll be well rewarded for helping me. But you must give me something to eat.”

This speech proved no more successful; still the woman did not respond. She seemed not to realise that he was speaking to her. At a loss to know what to do, and not knowing where else to go, he stayed where he was, at her side. At some point during the day or that evening, he reasoned, she would have to get herself something to eat. Then he’d be able to seize his chance and make sure she gave him some of her meal, by force if necessary.

The sun was at its highest. In the moist, still air the heat was once again becoming unbearable. He dozed off for a while, and woke up to find her still in the same position.

He had never seen anyone with skin so black. And yet he’d encountered many different faces on his travels, from the Cape to the quays of Saint-Louis in Senegal. Perhaps these black skinned Australians were entirely different from the African natives.

All of a sudden, the woman made an abrupt gesture in his direction, the palm of her hand turned up vertically towards him, her eyes fixed on him, staring intensely. He responded to her command and kept still. In her other hand she held a stone, which he hadn’t noticed her pick up. Raising it to shoulder level, she threw the stone sharply at a bush twenty paces away, leapt up, grabbed a fallen branch and used it to strike the bush, whacking it hard several times. Finally, she bent down, pushed aside the leaves and grabbed hold of a lizard the size of her forearm. Then she broke the beast’s neck and came back carrying her trophy, its grey scales glistening. She dropped it in the dirt and went back to her old position, squatting on the ground. She made no move to gut or begin to cook her prey.

So great was his hunger he would have eaten the repellent beast raw. He could see that the woman wasn’t going to make a move and decided to take matters into his own hands. He took hold of his knife, thinking he would skin the lizard, then cut off its head and legs. But just as he was about to grab it, the woman leapt up, seized the lizard and placed it behind her back, making it quite clear that he had no right to touch it.

Should he fight her for it? He was bigger, stronger, younger. He had his knife. She wouldn’t stand a chance. But then what? If she ran off, if he killed her or wounded her, what would he do for water? How would he find anything to eat in this alien land? The woman had hunted and killed this lizard. Sooner or later, she would eat it. Better to wait. His physical strength was of no use to him. He had no choice but to put away his knife and lie down again on the sand.