by Joanna Orwin
‘Surely that’s not a good idea, sir!’ Monsieur Crozet objected. The others all nodded in support.
‘Pourquoi pas?’ Monsieur Marion asked impatiently. ‘I see no reason to continue across those three mountains still to come, not to mention the swamp. Do you wish to negotiate that in the dark?’
‘We’d be across the swamp before dark, if we don’t delay any longer,’ said Monsieur Le Corre. He slapped at his face. ‘I for one have no wish to spend a night in the midst of these gnats.’
‘We have no provisions,’ said Monsieur Crozet. ‘A night in the open might prove more unpleasant than traversing the last of the path in darkness.’
‘We’re virtually unarmed,’ added Monsieur du Clesmeur. ‘Only one musket between us and very little powder. We risk attack.’
Monsieur Marion was now in no mood to be conciliatory. ‘The night’s mild, this spot’s idyllic, and we’ve seen no sign of Zealanders all day. Where’s your spirit of adventure? I intend staying put.’ He sat down on a convenient log and took out his snuff box.
It was clear no amount of argument would change his mind. No one dared voice the unease they felt at this prospect of spending a night in the open, in an unfamiliar forest where who knew what wild animals might emerge with the onset of darkness. André thought he would not be the only one amongst them wondering whether this apparently uninhabited forest harboured the same sort of evil spirits and beings that featured so prominently in tales told by the old wives at home in Brittany. He crossed himself surreptitiously, then as an added precaution made the sign against the evil eye.
Monsieur du Clesmeur sighed. ‘At least let us send back to camp for food and some guards.’
The expedition leader shrugged. ‘As you wish, sir.’ His tone implied he thought the young captain a fusspot. But André noticed his face was white, his cheeks flushed the hectic red that signalled he was in for a bout of fever, despite his earlier insistence he was now in full health. Monsieur Marion made no allowances for his age or his condition, he thought, feeling concerned. Close to fifty, and most of those hard years spent at sea, the expedition leader was an old man who should be taking things easy, not running around in such rough country. None of the others seemed to have noticed his exhaustion. They had no choice but to spend the night here. ‘Some of us’ll go back, sir,’ he said quietly. ‘We could all do with a decent supper.’
Accompanied by the now badly bitten Le Corre, who would stay at the shore camp, the two ensigns made their way back for supplies. By the time they returned with a few blankets, food and three armed soldiers, night had fallen. They lit their passage the way Te Kape had shown André, with torches made from the bundled dry leaves of a curious tufted tree that grew on the edge of swamps. The ensign found it hard not to start at every shifting shadow and determinedly kept his gaze within the area lit by the flaring torches. The journey back seemed to take forever, none of the terrain they were traversing familiar in the dark. The three soldiers kept up a constant cursing as they stumbled behind the ensigns, their rough words a surprising comfort.
At last, they spotted the glow of a fire ahead of them through the forest. When they reached the spot on the stream bank, they found the small party settled in well enough. With a rough shelter made from fallen branches for the two captains, the rest of them had selected suitable spots under the spreading tree. While they sat around the fire, their mud-soaked clothes drying stiff in its heat, the officers ate the welcome supper of cold quail and bread brought from the shore camp. Monsieur Marion then retired to the shelter, rolling himself up in a blanket. Monsieur du Clesmeur reluctantly followed him.
The two ensigns spread armfuls of dry fern out in the open on the stream bank, and lay studying the sky that stretched above them, thickly studded with brilliant stars. The night was calm and surprisingly mild. Soon, only the screeches and whistles of night birds and the occasional cough from the soldiers on guard broke the quiet.
Chapter 8
Late May – early June 1772
Port Marion 35° 15 ′ S
The chief carpenter scratched his head. ‘Mort-diable—if you’ll pardon the expression, sir. It’s a fine stem and well-suited to our purpose, no argument. But you couldn’t have chosen a more difficult position for felling a tree.’
Their axes forgotten in their hands, the small group of men stood looking at the tall cedar marked for the bowsprit. They were almost level with its crown of dense whorls of thick, pointed leaves and could barely make out the tree’s base, rooted far below them down the steep side of the gully. ‘We’ll be forced to balance on the side of that precipice, sir,’ the carpenter said. ‘And that’s just to fell the tree. After that, we’ll have to winch the thing up out of there.’
‘But it is possible?’ Jean looked at him anxiously. ‘It was the most accessible tree we could find, I assure you.’
The petty officer scratched his head again. ‘Oui, oui, it’s possible,’ he said, although his voice and body language signalled exasperation at the unrealistic demands of his officers. ‘Before we even start, we’ll have to rig block and tackle to stop the tree from plunging further down the slope once it’s cut.’
Jean had the sense not to say any more. He and André listened in respectful silence while the carpenter and his offsiders discussed what might be needed. It was not long before the petty officer’s dourness was replaced by interest in the challenge of the task ahead. He asked the ensigns to return to the ships. ‘We’ll need strong ropes, heavy blocks, timber and bolts for constructing shear-legs…and see if the captain’ll let us have one of those three-hundred-pound kedge anchors.’
André opened his mouth to ask what the anchor was for, but hastily shut it again. The petty officer noticed and nodded at him. ‘We need a counterweight for the shear-legs, sir,’ he explained. ‘And it’ll prove useful as a brake once we’re lowering the spars down all those mountains in our way.’
Monsieur du Clesmeur had returned to his ship as soon as the shore camp was completed. It seemed his distaste for straw huts, gnats and black mud outweighed any acceptance of his responsibility for overseeing the work on the spars for his ship. Now he restricted himself to the occasional excursion ashore to hunt for quail with the elegant Lieutenant Le Dez—the only officer who willingly tolerated his company. Jean made no attempt to hide his exasperation. ‘The pair of them ponce about as though they’re enjoying a weekend’s hunting on some aristocratic estate back in Brittany. The man’s a fool, pardieu. Can’t he see such fastidiousness does nothing to endear him to his officers or his men? He seems to be implying that shore work’s fit only for those beneath him.’
André could only agree. ‘They could have the tact to contribute some of their bag for the shore camp’s pot instead of taking it all back for the Castries.’
‘Out of sight, out of mind.’ His cousin shrugged. ‘If he’s not around, at least he can’t keep finding fault.’
While the carpenters were setting up to fell the tree for the bowsprit, the two ensigns continued supervising the widening of the narrow track over the three mountains between them and the coastal plain. Two-thirds of the fit men from both ships—more than a hundred-and-twenty in total—were now deployed for the masting party, most at this stage working on the road. With close to sixty men still ill with scurvy or respiratory ailments of various sorts and bedridden at the hospital camp, only a handful were left to continue the equally essential work on Marion Island. Apart from the carpenters still working on the repairs to the Mascarin, a party was kept busy filling the water casks as the cooper re-assembled them from staves taken ashore to the island, and another was collecting firewood. The blacksmith at the forge, still occupied with heating and fitting hoops for the water casks, was also now starting on the iron bands that would strengthen the new spars. Without the welcome daily supplies of fish and potatoes brought to both camps by Zealanders from the neighbouring villages, the Frenchmen would be hard put to find time to feed themselves.
At Monsieu
r Crozet’s request, Monsieur Marion split the contingent of forty soldiers amongst the two shore camps and the ships—even he conceded this was a necessary precaution against the Naturals stealing valuable goods or essential tools whenever they saw an opportunity. He still insisted that no retaliation be taken in the face of the constant pilfering of lesser items. ‘We can afford to lose the odd handkerchief or offcut of hoop iron, gentlemen. What we cannot afford is being put into the position of having to apprehend and punish more serious offences.’
He did not have to remind them of the cutlass episode, which had shown how punishing any of the Zealanders could risk the good relationships they had established with the local people on whom they were so reliant.
Once word reached the shore camp that the cedar selected for the bowsprit had been chopped through, André and Jean returned to the forest to watch how the men overcame the difficult task of hauling the tree trunk out of the ravine. It had taken the carpenter and his most skilled axemen most of a day to fell the tree, working suspended by harnesses above the drop below. It was to take another whole day to winch the severed trunk up the precipice. Although the carpenter had taken the precaution of clearing the undergrowth from its path, the thickly branched head of the tree constantly snagged as the men on the capstan erected on the ridge slowly wound up the stout cable attached to the trunk. As if clearing the obstructions was not difficult enough on the steep slope, they had to keep stopping to reposition the side ropes that held the tree steady on its path. Sailors agile in the rigging of a ship found themselves less adept at maintaining their footing on the treacherous slopes of a New Zealand forest. To make matters worse, the weather was damp and humid. The gnats soon found them, and they were forced to work amidst clouds of the persistent pests. By the time the tree trunk had been winched successfully to the ridge top, several of the men had joined the unfortunate Le Corre at the hospital camp, so severely bitten that their flesh had swollen and festered until they were unable to work.
While some of the men cut the head off the cedar and began trimming the resulting length of satisfyingly straight timber into the octagonal shape needed for the bowsprit, the carpenter took the rest of them further along the ridge to fell the taller tree selected for the foremast. The work was hard and heavy, and not helped by the need to traipse a good two leagues twice each day to and from the shore camp through the swamp and over the mountains. Each evening, the masting party erected a small tent over their equipment and left the allotted five soldiers on guard. The sailors considered the guard had the easier task—at least they were not forced to wade each morning through waist-deep icy water at one place in the swamp, the more shallow sections of which now often froze overnight.
Once both spars were cut and trimmed, the masting party tackled the even harder task of hauling them out of the forest, across the mountains then through the swamp to the shore. Although the carpenter had considered adapting gun carriages from the ships as trucks to support the logs, the season was so wet that it was soon clear that wheels would be an impediment. Despite their best efforts and the constant cutting and placing of fascines of myrtle over the worst spots, the already slippery track soon became knee-deep in mud throughout its length. Even with rollers under the logs, cleverly rigged blocks and tackle and the help of the capstan, progress was slow. On the wettest days they had to stop work altogether. The carpenter estimated it would be another three weeks before they reached the shore.
Most days some of the Zealanders came to watch the log-hauling, often providing a loud commentary. That was less appreciated than the odd occasion they applied themselves to the ropes, their strength sufficient to make an immediately noticeable difference. Even so, André found it difficult to understand how the Naturals had retrieved the much larger tree used to make the canoe they had been told came from this very same spot. He had seen no sign of sophisticated hauling equipment in any of the villages they visited. When he asked Te Kape, the young savage confirmed that they used only ropes and rollers—and manpower.
After being told of the difference the Zealanders made to the log-hauling, Monsieur Marion tried to persuade several of the chiefs, including Te Kuri, to supply the masting party with labour. They all steadfastly refused. Not even the promise of the more valuable trade goods as payment would change their minds. Finding out why was beyond even André’s best efforts with the Tahitian vocabulary and Te Kape’s skill with gesture and body language.
When he gave up trying, the disappointed Jean shrugged. ‘If you ask me, the few savages who do help have ulterior motives.’
‘Allons, Jean—what makes you think that?’ André thought his cousin’s judgment harsh, considering the good-natured assistance given by the Zealanders in many of their other tasks.
‘Just watch,’ said Jean. ‘They’re putting on a big show for their companions. I think they’re demonstrating their superior strength, emphasizing how easy they find what to our men is considerable effort.’
André watched for a while. It was hard to argue with Jean’s interpretation, although unlike him he saw nothing sinister in it. Then he realized something else was going on, at least some of the time. A group of young men had just taken their places amongst the Frenchmen. As he watched, he realized each of them was subtly mimicking the unaware sailor in front. He found it hard not to smile at their clever antics. ‘Ma fois, Jean—they’re putting on a show all right, but it’s for their own amusement, that’s all.’
Whatever their motives, the Zealanders seldom joined in the hauling for long, preferring to watch from the sidelines. It was also hard not to suspect that their commentary was far from complimentary. Before long, the two ensigns found excuses to be elsewhere, both suddenly uncomfortable at their suspicion that the ship’s people had become the butt of local humour.
Extract from the Te Kape manuscript, 1841
As winter approached closer, te iwi o Mariou showed no sign of returning to their ships and leaving our waters. Instead, those strangers moved ashore at Manawa-ora and set up yet another of their villages, expelling those who lived there and taking over their houses as they had done before. We thought they intended staying forever.
As we grew more familiar with those strangers from the sea, we realized they observed none of the restrictions or obligations—practical or spiritual—that reinforce and nurture our essential relationship with the land itself and with all other forms of life, of which we are an inseparable part. Although those strangers themselves suffered no consequences, confirming that indeed they were not like us, we feared their continuing trespasses would threaten our own physical and spiritual wellbeing.
Accordingly, our concern was great when the two kauri gifted from the forest of Tane were felled by te iwi o Mariou without ceremony or offerings of any sort. Accordingly, those strangers were avoided by many of our people when they began hauling those mistreated kauri to the sea, as they feared grave repercussions from such lack of respect. Those few who dared join them in that work protected themselves from harm by mocking those strangers as a way of placating the forest atua thus offended.
Once the ship’s people were settled into their new routines and working willingly enough despite the heaviness of the work, the cold and wet and the occasional heckling from local onlookers, all the officers had time on their hands. Only two were needed to supervise the work at each of the shore camps—officers from the two ships usually alternating at each location. The ship fitting-out required only the presence of the petty officers. Like the other officers, the ensigns now found they had whole days off to fill as they saw fit.
Some of the time, they accompanied Monsieur Marion on his explorations of the villages and various bays around Port Marion. He seemed fully recovered from his tiredness, the onset of a bout of fever stemmed by the surgeon bleeding and purging him, then dosing him with vile herbal mixtures. After ensuring his daily instructions were being carried out, the expedition leader liked nothing better than to take one of the Zealanders as a guide and spend
each afternoon walking on the narrow tracks that formed a network throughout the hills and plains behind the port.
Content to leave any further survey work around the harbour to Monsieur du Clesmeur and his much-vaunted Gardes de la Marine training in such matters as detailed charting, the expedition leader was indefatigable in his own efforts to record everything he saw in the way of human endeavours, trees and plants, animals and birds of all kinds, potentially useful mineral deposits and soil types. ‘Although these people seem quite knowledgeable in their treatment of their garden patches, with drainage and the use of sand to ameliorate the soil, for example, they grow nothing but roots and gourds,’ he commented. ‘I’m quite convinced many of these soils would be well-suited to cereal crops.’
Monsieur Marion’s main motive was the discovery of useful products for trade purposes, both human-made and natural. He was also greatly interested in having the opportunity to apply modern scientific method. Monsieur Thirion told André that a few years earlier their expedition leader had succumbed to scurvy before he could complete his well-organized strategic and commercial exploratory voyage to the Seychelles archipelago in the Indian Ocean. Apparently his planning was still seen as a model of scientific exactitude. Monsieur Marion had been most frustrated at having to hand over his command to a proxy in the final stages and himself remain convalescent at the Île-de-France. ‘Indeed, the experience made him all the more determined that nothing would prevent him carrying out our present enterprise.’
Always anxious to view his captain in a good light, André reported this comment to his cousin. ‘Surely this, rather than mere commercial interest, explains why Monsieur Marion was so fixed on continuing our voyage after the Tahitian died of smallpox?’