by Joanna Orwin
‘Keeping up appearances,’ said Jean. ‘He won’t risk getting offside completely with our fine-feathered aristocrat. This way, he can’t say he wasn’t consulted.’
After several days’ sailing in good conditions, they reached Anchor Bay late in the afternoon. The Mascarin spotted their two buoys before nightfall, but there was no sign of any buoys for the Castries. Monsieur Marion had the boats lowered to retrieve the buoyed bower anchors, the men working all night to raise and stow them. The weather still held the next morning, so he sent his own men to help in the search for the three anchors abandoned by the Castries. All they found was one frayed buoy rope.
‘No wonder Monsieur du Clesmeur didn’t want to come back,’ said Jean, sniggering. ‘He obviously failed to buoy the others! Ma fois, his foolishness knows no bounds.’
Chapter 4
26 April–3 May 1772
Northern New Zealand coast 34°25 ′–35°15 ′ S
The old man stood his ground. At first, he did not respond as Jean beckoned him from the stern sheets of the boat, smiling and spreading his arms wide in a gesture of friendship. After some moments of hesitation, the ancient turned his spear downwards and stepped forward. Behind him, the other three Zealanders, who had now pulled their small canoe up the beach, drew together and watched anxiously. Their glance shifted constantly, from the old man to the Frenchmen in the boat, then back again. André could see they were poised on the balls of their bare feet, ready to run. Behind them, a narrow path led to safety in the small palisaded village on the hill. Unlike the Diemenlanders, these men were clothed, or at least had some sort of matting fastened around their waists. The old man was covered in skins from shoulder to below the knee. His dark eyes took in everything aboard the boat. He began making emphatic gestures, all the time speaking in an unknown tongue. He then stood there waiting, his face expectant, before turning aside.
‘Mort-diable!’ muttered Jean between his teeth, his mouth still stretched wide. ‘Keep smiling!’ He called and gestured to the old man again.
André realized the ancient was fetching something from the canoe. He came back towards them, carrying a large fish. He held it out towards them, then, once he was within throwing distance, tossed it into their boat.
‘Vite, vite!’ said Jean. ‘Show him the handkerchiefs and the knife.’ He beckoned the old man to come closer.
André held up the red handkerchiefs, then the knife, nodding and smiling. He felt as though he should be shouting his wares like the women in the markets at home, not miming friendship. But when the old man nodded back, speaking a string of words and gesturing back, he felt a flush of triumph. He threw the trinkets ashore, taking aim carefully so they fell at the ancient’s feet. But he ignored them, standing there solemnly until one of the other Zealanders rushed forward and picked them up, then presented them to him.
‘Ma fois—he could teach Monsieur du Clesmeur a thing or two about dignity,’ said Jean. ‘He’s clearly some sort of chief.’
Looking at the ancient, his cloak of skins drawn around him, his upright stance and proud bearing, André agreed. ‘Oui, oui, a fine specimen. These people do seem more like the gentle Naturals of the Pacific we were led to expect.’
When the French boat made no attempt to land, but stayed just off the shore, the other Zealanders slowly ventured back down the beach. They clustered around the ancient, examining the trinkets. One of them tried the knife on the edge of a paddle, then called out his approval at its sharpness. The old man left them to it. He stood on the edge of the water, calling constantly to Jean and André. He pointed out to sea, to the hills and the village behind him, then spread his arms wide. He stood there like that for some time, before beckoning them to come ashore.
‘Let’s go in—he’s obviously friendly.’ Jean was keen to comply.
‘Monsieur Marion gave us strict instructions not to land,’ André demurred. ‘We don’t want to risk them becoming frightened and attacking us.’
‘The ancient’s totally in charge,’ said Jean. ‘Those others will do nothing without his approval. I see no problem.’
‘Prenez garde, gentlemen,’ cautioned the coxswain. ‘None of us is armed. We wouldn’t be able to come to your assistance if things go wrong.’
At that moment, another canoe landed further along the shore, and its five occupants came towards them. Seeing they were now outnumbered, Jean reluctantly decided discretion should prevail. He shook his head at the old man, who was now indicating they should accompany him to the village on the hill.
After asking numerous questions, all of which they could only answer with a shrug and a smile, the old man gave up, clearly disappointed at their refusal to come ashore. He sent some of the men back to the newly landed canoe. They launched it and paddled towards the French boat, staying their paddles a short distance away to hold up many large fish. Ashore, the old man called again, then waved towards the fish.
‘No mistaking what he means this time—he’s offering us more fish!’ The delighted Jean beckoned the canoe to come closer.
When the French officers began selecting the fish they wanted, the old man turned his back and walked slowly towards the path leading to the village. Once the Zealanders had offloaded their fish and André had handed over some more trinkets, the canoe returned to shore. Within moments, they had all vanished up the path to the village.
Jean gave the order to return to the Mascarin, around the headland in the other bay where the ship’s people were still searching for the missing anchors. As they sailed out of the cove, André looked back at the tidy little village perched on the hilltop, surrounded by its palisades. They were not far offshore before its reed-thatched roofs merged into the background and he could no longer pick it out. The ships could have sailed past many such villages without him noticing them, even a mere league or two out to sea.
Beside him in the stern sheets, Jean expressed his satisfaction at this first encounter with Zealanders. ‘They do seem to be natural Men of the Woods far superior to the Diemenlanders. We shouldn’t encounter any problems dealing with them.’
Extract from the Te Kape manuscript, 1841
I well remember that time. Word of te iwi o Mariou—Marion’s people—first came to us from our relatives to the north. Messengers brought word of two apparitions appearing out of the sea mist. With stacked clouds, high wooden sides taller than any building known, and the presence of strange, pale-complexioned beings, many thought those ships were floating islands sent down from the heavens. Accordingly, those beings were thought to be tipua—ancestral spirits. Others thought they could instead be shape-changing demons or the malign ghosts of strangers, because it was not the first time such manifestations had been seen in the north. We all knew that a similar floating island had appeared off Oruru [Doubtless Bay] not long before, swallowed up a chief from there, destroyed his entire village—for no justifiable reason that those people could determine—and then disappeared.
Accordingly, when part of Mariou’s floating islands detached itself and brought some of the tipua close to shore, those people conferred, and, they agreed a tohunga should go down to the beach to examine the nature of those beings, to determine whether the strangers from the sea intended harm or came in peace.
Accordingly, those tipua were challenged by that tohunga, who asked the customary questions. Who were they? Where had they come from? Who had sent them? Why had they come? They made no reply, and, that tohunga thought it wise to placate them with offerings of fish. Those strangers from the sea accepted the offerings, then beckoned him closer, with all the appearance of friendliness, and gave him appropriate gifts of sacred red. The exchanges being completed, that tohunga returned to his village, and, those strangers went away.
[Editor’s note: The Te Kape manuscript was found during restoration work at Pompallier House, Bay of Islands, in the early 1990s. It consists of a series of short items in French, seemingly translated from Maori (genealogical material is included), that relate to the vi
sit to New Zealand of Marion du Fresne in 1772. The narrator, Te Kape, is identified by the translator as a man of eighty-odd who had been a youth living in the Bay at the time of that visit. Unfortunately, the original, dictated Maori document has not been found, and the identity of the Marist brother who translated it remains unknown. Because of its undoubted relevance to the story being told here, I have taken the liberty of including extracts from the Te Kape manuscript (further translated into English) wherever they might add illumination to the French account.]
The next day, as the work of trying to find and retrieve the Castries’ three anchors continued in calm weather, Jean persuaded Monsieur Marion to let him and André go ashore, this time in Anchor Bay itself, to explore Lieutenant Lehoux’s abandoned village. He pointed out there was still no sign of inhabitants in this bay. ‘This would be a good opportunity to take more extensive notes about the nature of their habitations and lifestyle without interference,’ he said, blatantly appealing to the expedition leader’s interest in scientific activity.
Monsieur Marion hid a smile. ‘You have a persuasive tongue, Monsieur Roux,’ he said. ‘I’d not realized you were so interested in such studies—I’d have thought the prospect of shooting some game would be more to your liking?’
When Jean had the grace to blush, then try to justify himself, the expedition leader stopped him. ‘Fi, fi, sir. Enough. You may make up a party and take my yawl ashore. I see no useful tasks for you on board. We’ll signal when we’re ready to sail.’ He turned to the hovering André. ‘I don’t want you overdoing things. Check with the surgeon before accompanying Monsieur Roux.’
The surgeon examined André’s gums and prodded at his sore joints, but saw no reason for the ensign to stay behind. ‘Fresh air and exercise will do you more good than languishing on board, young man.’
The expedition leader sent them off with detailed instructions about what he wanted them to record. ‘We must make the most of this new interest of yours, gentlemen. However, you may also take muskets and birdshot—for your protection.’
In high spirits, like boys let out of school, the two ensigns set off on their explorations, accompanied by some of the soldiers. Taking pot shots at the quail-like birds they found in marshy ground behind the beach, they walked inland along the river.
‘We should go far enough to reach fresh water,’ André suggested. ‘At least make some attempt at being serious.’
Jean pretended indignation. ‘You question my motives, cousin?’
It soon became apparent that the river remained tidal for at least a league upstream, well beyond any point of use to them for watering. So they left the river and pushed their way up the bank through a border of tall sword-grasses, which André thought might be some type of pandanus. They emerged onto a plain that had obviously once been cultivated. Every ten paces or so, they found small canals linking with the river, though they could not tell whether these were for drainage or irrigation. André recognized some of the plants, including daisies and some sort of gourd, growing wild in what seemed fertile soil. Not far away, on the edge of the plain, they spotted the abandoned village that was their destination.
On the outskirts of the village, the party paused for some moments and looked around, alert for any sign or sound of Zealanders. The day was still and clear. They could see rounded forested hills stretching inland beyond the swampy plain. All they could hear was the faint hum of insects. Jean sighed. ‘This is more like it.’
‘These people certainly choose agreeable places to live,’ André agreed, looking at the compact group of low houses standing on a terrace of higher ground above the plain, with the sheltering hills behind. He was remembering the other small village they had seen the day before on its palisaded hilltop. Neither village bore any comparison to the skimpy bark shelters of the Diemenlanders, randomly scattered on fire-ravaged ground. He could feel the sun warm on his back and stretched, feeling better than he had for some time. Monsieur Thirion was right about land air being a curative.
Jean ordered the soldiers to wait where they could see anyone approach across the plain, then he and André ventured into the village. They were soon absorbed. On either side were low buildings of various sizes, some fully enclosed with small square doorways, others open-sided. They walked slowly through the whole village until they came across several burnt huts on the far side. Jean sniffed the air. ‘Ma fois, you can still smell the smoke!’
The timbers of the burnt huts retained the pungent acrid scent that lingers for days. A shiver ran down André’s spine. The stillness suddenly seemed ominous. ‘It can’t be long since they were burnt,’ he said, looking around apprehensively.
‘Long enough for everybody to disappear,’ said Jean, not concerned.
André forced a laugh. ‘D’accord! I’m being foolish, thinking I sense the presence of ghosts.’
His cousin put an arm around his shoulders, embracing him briefly. ‘Always the sensitive one, André! Look around you—there’s no sign of anybody having been here for days.’ He crouched and sifted through the ashes in one of the small stone hearths located just outside each doorway. ‘Voilà—stone cold.’
They retraced their steps, stopping to examine anything that aroused their interest. Not far from the burnt huts was a series of low platforms, each thatched with thick layers of the pandanus, or sword-grass, they had seen on the river bank. Underneath were the seine nets mentioned by Lieutenant Lehoux. André helped Jean drag one out and spread it on the ground. It was five to six feet wide and all of eighty to one hundred fathoms long—they paced it out, two hundred of André’s long strides. Just as the lieutenant had described, a finely woven pouch formed one of the net’s borders, filled with stones to act as sinkers. Attached to the other border were rounds of some very light wood, like balsa, presumably acting as floats.
‘Ingenious!’ André fingered a float. ‘It’s as Monsieur Thirion says: no matter what their circumstances, people everywhere find ways to improve their means of living. Make good use of whatever materials are available to them.’
Jean snorted. ‘That hardly applied to primitives like those Diemenlanders.’ He had little time for the surgeon’s philosophies.
André changed the subject, knowing he would not win a debate with his quick-witted cousin. ‘Some of these nets look brand-new. They must’ve spent days making them. Why would they abandon them?’
Jean shrugged. ‘Looks like they were forced out of here in a hurry. Some tribal squabble perhaps—that village we saw yesterday was fortified, remember.’ He looked at André’s anxious face and laughed. ‘Allons donc, cousin! Come on—it means they’re unlikely to come back in any hurry.’
Nevertheless, André insisted they bundle the net back into its shelter. ‘Someone could intend coming back in the summer to fish here. What would a Breton fisherman think if he found his nets tampered with?’
They walked on back through the group of undamaged reed-thatched houses. They proved well-made and sophisticated enough to arouse Jean’s admiration. He stopped outside one of the larger huts and pried apart the woven lattice of staves forming its outer walls. ‘Look at this! The whole thing’s lined with moss of some sort. It must be absolutely waterproof. Let’s go inside.’
André watched his cousin push open the sliding panel of the low doorway and crawl in. While he hesitated, thinking how easily they could be trapped inside if the inhabitants returned unexpectedly, the impatient Jean poked his head back out. ‘What are you waiting for? It’s fascinating!’
Knowing Monsieur Marion would expect a full account, the young ensign reluctantly crawled in after him. It was high enough inside to stand up. He got to his feet, then waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim light filtering through two small latticed windows above the doorway. He had to admit Jean was right; there was plenty of interest to look at. The interior walls were lined with woven mats made from some sort of finer sword-grass. At intervals along these walls, wide planks carved with incised patterns supported th
e ends of the rafters. The only furniture was a crudely made cot along one wall, filled with dry straw—evidently some sort of sleeping space. The interior was kept dry by an external drain dug along the walls; it smelt no worse than their own gunroom, and certainly not as bad as the below-deck space where the men slung their hammocks.
Jean was gazing up at the main ridge pole that ran between stout posts at each end of the house, with another larger carved post supporting it midway. ‘De par tous les diables!’ he exclaimed. ‘Who would have thought savages capable of such fine work? These joints are all morticed, and the whole framework is strengthened with rope bindings.’ He leant heavily on one of the end posts, trying to shake it. ‘Solid as a rock.’
André’s eye was drawn to a grotesque figure carved at the base of the central support post. He moved closer to examine it. ‘Come and look at this, Jean!’
A distorted image of a human face with a long, projecting tongue and large eyes made of inset, glistening shell leered at them from the top of a sinuous body carved with overlapping scales, like those of a lizard. Painted a dark red, the whole figure was almost as tall as André. Although he thought it repulsive, he had to admire the skill with which it was carved. ‘Some sort of household god, do you think?’
‘Maybe,’ said Jean, fingering the carving. ‘They’re fishermen, so maybe it’s a merman or sea god. Handsome work, isn’t it! Smell this wood—it’s fragrant like sassafras. I’d like to take this back to the ship for Monsieur Marion.’
‘But that post holds up the entire hut,’ André objected.
‘Ma fois, what does that matter?’ asked Jean. ‘It’s been abandoned.’
Before they left to return to the ship, he enlisted some of the soldiers to help him wrench the post out of the house. They had found similar carved posts in other huts, but none so fine as the first one, and the senior ensign was determined to souvenir it. Leaving the ridge pole cracked and the roof sagging, they triumphantly lugged the post with them.