What Became of the White Savage (8 page)

The remaining volume offered a selection of extracts from the works of Racine, and I decided to avail myself of this. I spent the afternoons declaiming great speeches to Narcisse: the tragic death of Hyppolytus; the dream of Athalie; the sufferings of Berenice; the premonitions of Agrippina. Narcisse seemed to respond, if not to the torments of these heroic characters, at least to the rhythm of the alexandrines and the nobility of the language.

Every time I addressed him, I would say our names, Narcisse and Octave, to help him absorb them. On the first morning in our new abode, I greeted him as usual with the words: “Good morning, Narcisse.”

He swallowed, looked at me at length, and muttered with great difficulty: “Tave.”

To hear at last this word, “Tave”, to hear this as testament to my endeavours in his regard, this was for me a precious reward. I might have included Bill in this gallery of names, but prudence restrained me. Bill did not speak a word of French. I was afraid that the two languages might confuse Narcisse who was not yet ready for the Tower of Babel. I told the convict that from then on, he must communicate with Narcisse by gestures only; he should never address him in English.

Narcisse had been able to repeat my name, not in imitation like a parrot, but because he had understood this to be my name. I then tried to show him concrete objects, naming them and encouraging him to imitate me: sky, sea, water, grass, rock. To no avail. He watched attentively, following my finger as I pointed to the items in question, and said not a word.

After lunch, the lesson resumed. What should I suggest? I uttered our names, he repeated them. This was scarcely progress. A further attempt with different aspects of our surroundings yielded no more success. Discouraged, convinced that I was talking to myself, I sighed, and in a theatrical gesture, brought my hand to my lips: “Narcisse, my poor boy, I despair of ever hearing a sentence from your mouth.”

“Mouth,” he said, mimicking my gesture. In the same way, he repeated: “Head” and “Arm”, and with less success, “Back” and “Belly”. All these details of his daily progress are recorded in the notebooks that I have been assiduously maintaining. Within a week he had uttered about twenty words.

I give you these details, Monsieur le Président, to persuade you of the worthiness of this young man. He is certainly no imbecile, of that I am now convinced. He is learning our language, not as an infant or a foreigner would: rather, he is rediscovering it within himself. He is relearning something that he always knew, but had forgotten on the Australian beaches. I am at a loss to know what conclusions to draw from all this. So singular is this case that I have wished to spare no pains. Scholars will construct theories; my role is merely to relay to them the bare facts of the case, with you as my intermediary.

I would like to believe that in a few weeks, his language and memory will have been almost completely restored, and that he will be able to tell us his tale and the story of his shipwreck. In this way, he will enable us to learn all about the life of the tribes that took him in. Here, in the tranquil setting of my study, through my unrelenting questioning, I shall be transported, without exertion or distress, to the scenes of his exile whence I shall return with a host of curious and hitherto unheard observations.

There is a further mystery confronting me. Apart from his lamentations while aboard the
John Bell
, Narcisse has not yet uttered a word in the language of the savages. And yet, during all these past years, he communicated in that language alone. He must have learnt the rudiments at least, and yet he utters not a word of it now, not even inadvertently. He either remains mute, or rediscovers a few words of French with me. Without his assistance, how shall I be able to create a dictionary of the language of the north east Australian savages? Such a project would be of use to missionaries and sailors; I had thought that it would be a simple task to accomplish, and yet I find that I cannot take the first steps.

I beg you to forgive me for the disorder of these reflections. The dinghy leaves in an hour, and a mail ship departs for Europe this very evening. I trust that I do not prevail upon you unduly in sending you this latest report; you may imagine how anxiously I await a missive from you, with perhaps some advice or instructions for the correct way to procede. You will no doubt have realised that this adventure occupies me more than I had at first envisaged.

May I take the liberty of making one final request? I find this case unique and know of no other tale, no adventure on any ocean that resembles the story of Narcisse. But perhaps it is not unique. It is possible that you, or the Council of the Geographical Society have identified a case in the archives, which could serve as a precedent or a point of reference. The smallest scrap of information, the slightest hint of a rumour pertaining to such a case would be of great value to me. How did these castaways survive? By what means did they come back to life? And with what form of assistance? Were they then able to resume the normal course of their lives or did they remain affected by their sojourns among the savages? And what became of them later? Some knowledge of their stories would assuredly be of assistance to me in my efforts to help Narcisse.

I await the results of any research you may have the kindness to see conducted; in the meantime I shall continue the lessons in manners and the French language, in the hopes of presenting my protégé to you before the end of the summer.

I remain your faithful servant…

The sight of the fire burning at the other side of the clearing was almost too much to bear. Weakened more by the crushing sense of isolation than by physical exhaustion, he was overcome with emotion at the promise offered by those flames.

He knelt down beside the pool, not noticing the figures gathered around the fire, and tumbled head first into the green water. Long feathery weeds caressed his sun-scorched face as he drank and drank until he was gasping for breath.

The second mate’s warnings echoed in his head: use only water from a stream to fill the water barrels; if you have to use stagnant water, wait until you’re back on board and be sure to boil it for a long time before you drink it. He wondered as he gulped this rank, murky water what creatures and diseases lurked in the mire. He went on drinking, beyond caring.

Finally he stood up and looked around. No sign of a village, no huts or cabins. About thirty naked savages were gathered around the area. Naked women played with babies under the trees. The men were naked too, standing around the fire, where an animal was cooking under the coals, giving off a pleasant odour of grilled fat and skin. The sun had gone down, taking the heat out of the day. Three naked children were playing in the bushes. The old woman was scuttling about seemingly at random.

He walked slowly around the stagnant pond and approached the group, keeping what he considered to be a respectful distance. He went up to an old man whom he took to be the chief, and spoke to him in what he hoped was a voice full of self-assurance:

“I am a seaman on the schooner
Saint-Paul
. My ship is coming back to find me. If you give me something to eat and take me back to the beach, you will be given gifts: necklaces, mirrors, nails, axes. And I will tell people that you are an intelligent and reasonable leader.”

He knew no one would understand his little compliment, but he hoped that his bearing and tone of voice would impress them. The old man looked at him for a moment, then sat down and set to work stripping a piece of wood. People went on with their conversations and games, they seemed uninterested in him. He walked around in their midst, trying to familiarise himself with these faces, their heavy brows, and greyish black skin, their bodies naked and tattooed. The smell of grime and dust.

The natives were all smaller than him, the men by at least a head. They were solid and stocky and looked strong. The women showed no modesty and made no attempt to cover any part of their anatomy. He thought briefly of the whore from the Cape who now seemed dazzlingly beautiful in comparison. These women wore no ornaments except for a piece of bone or shell in the nose. Their tattoos were confined to arms and legs, while the men had markings all over their bodies.

Slowly, trying to appear more confident than he felt, he walked around the encampment. Here and there, in the shade of some of the sturdier trees, he could see makeshift sleeping areas. There was no apparent order to these shelters, each of which was covered by a rudimentary roof made of sticks leaning up against the trunk. Was he looking at a temporary bivouac, a stopover at a hunting ground? Or were these what passed for houses among these people? Various objects lay scattered around on the sand: gourds, green stones, sticks shaped into assegais, the tanned hide of a small animal, strings of rolled up vine. Anxious to avoid any misunderstanding, he kept his distance from the women and children, and carefully avoided touching any of the objects lying on the sand .

But no one paid him any attention: none of them came over to touch him or talk to him. Even the children had gone back to their games and seemed indifferent to his presence. He imagined what an uproar would ensue if one of these savages were to appear in his home village, in the street, in front of his house, on the way to the washhouse or the church. Was he so invisible to them? Or had they been watching him since the moment he came ashore and simply become used to his presence?

The men were all sitting around the fire engaged in animated conversation. They must be talking about him, he thought. What else could have happened that would be so worthy of discussion? He moved closer to listen to them speak, to try and make out something in their language he might recognise, some basic words. But their talk was like nothing he had ever heard before: voices rising and falling, syllables punctuated with clicks of the tongue or rasping guttural sounds.

He crouched down next to them and placing his hand on his chest said slowly:

“Good evening. I’m Narcisse. My name is Narcisse.”

He wondered if he might have interrupted someone. They all turned to look at him, but he could read no emotion in their faces. They showed no surprise, no sign of curiosity or displeasure, nothing that he could recognise. They went back to their conversation.

His thoughts turned to the
Saint-Paul
and he wondered where it was now. About ten days from now, it would come back. He calculated that the march through the forest had gone on for at least four hours, which meant that they were too far away from the coast for a ship to see the light-coloured smoke from the fire. Not even the lookout at the top of the mast would be able to make it out. He would just about be able to retrace his steps and get back to the shore but he’d have to have it all worked out with everything properly organised before he left. And he’d have to time his escape carefully to get back to the beach at the right time. He’d get his strength back living with these savages, he’d steal a water gourde and some scraps of meat and he’d be there for the pick-up. Their indifference was a good sign. It meant they wouldn’t stop him from leaving. A plan was forming in his mind.

Scraps of meat? He’d eaten nothing since the few mouthfuls of lizard and the tubers the night before. Pangs of hunger began to grip him again now that his thirst was quenched.

He wasn’t being treated as a guest – they hadn’t offered him a meal or a place to sleep. The worst thing would have been to be a prisoner, under constant surveillance, his hands tied. But even prisoners were given their mess of food by their gaoler, morning and evening. So what was he to these people?

After dark, there was a commotion in the group of men. Two of the younger men were using sticks to push away the embers and rocks in the fire. Clearing away the sand they revealed the opening to a pit, covered with charred leaves. They made the opening bigger, almost burning their fingers, and removed the leaves. Inside the oven a good-sized animal had been cooking and now it released rich odours of braised meat. Using two sticks as forks, they lifted the beast out of the pit and flopped it down on the earth.

The old man that Narcisse had spoken to picked up a sharpened stone and with a few deft movements, cut off some pieces of meat. The other men came up one by one to take a piece and went back to sit down around the fire to eat it. When all the men had been served, Narcisse stepped up to get his share. The old man looked shocked and signalled him to keep away. Seeing Narcisse hesitate, he barked an order, its meaning clear, just as the old woman had done when he had tried to help himself. The younger men had stood up, ready to intervene. He knew he didn’t stand a chance against them, and left it at that.

The men chewed their food tranquilly, coming back for more meat until they’d eaten their fill. Someone called out and a group of youths, fifteen to twenty-year-olds, came over to take their turn. As they mingled with the adults, Narcisse decided to try his chances with the boys, but again he was met with the same rebuff.

Next came the women’s turn. By now there was not much meat left on the carcass, but he made no attempt to put himself forward. Was he supposed to wait until all the others had eaten their fill? Would he have to be satisfied with what was left at the very end? The women claimed their share and went back to sit on the sand, where they fed the waiting children. The men had finished eating and were listening as one of them recounted a story in hushed tones. He wandered around among the diners and found himself once more next to the old woman, the oldest in the tribe as it now seemed. He felt no pleasure at seeing her again and had nothing to say to her, but as he approached, she offered him a piece of meat, a good-sized hunk with a bone and well-browned skin on one side. Grabbing the meat, he devoured it, sinking his teeth into the flesh. It tasted like an overcooked cheap cut of mutton, but feeling the grease run down his chin, he felt a thrill of intense pleasure that served only to stoke his appetite. He consumed the whole thing in a few mouthfuls, chewing at length, sucking on the bone, crunching the cartilage between his teeth.