by Karen Zelas
1841. 5 June. Jules Etienne Dujardin. Father: Claude Robert
Dujardin. Mother: Brigitte Marie Dujardin (née Clémence). Akaroa.
Sue could have jumped up and cheered. She let out a squeal, only to be shushed by a man on her left.
Two years (and half an hour) later, she found Marie Suzanne Dujardin; eighteen months after that, Cathérine Marie Dujardin. She searched on through another ten years of records, but found nothing more.
Three children: a son and two daughters.
Jules, Marie and Cathérine. Three children under four, and in those precarious conditions. Sue was full of admiration.
By this time, her head was spinning and her stomach turning from the movement of the script across the screen. Sitting back in her chair, she breathed slowly and deeply. The small, darkened room closed in around her. Her head crowding with people, Sue experienced herself being drawn back through the intervening years. She could almost see these people, feel their joy and despair, hear the first cries of the newborn. She had not anticipated such strength of feeling. Scooping the film off the tray, she returned it to its place in the file. The connecting links would have to be explored another time – or times; she could see she had committed herself to a large undertaking.
She slipped out of the room.
‘Done so soon?’ she heard the veteran genealogist call after her.
Akaroa,
17th November, 1840.
Ma chère Maman,
Our settlement is starting to look like a village, with cottages and gardens scattered about in varying stages of construction. Food is scarce and we have little flesh other than wood pigeons and occasional fish. Jacques and Pierre went into the bush shooting pigeons yesterday. Big, beautiful birds. It seems a sacrilege, but we have to eat. It is ironic that we have the bountiful sea at our doorstep, but as yet no boat or nets to enable us to fish. Today two whales, a mother and calf, were to be seen frolicking in the harbour. What a sight! I did not know whether to stay and watch, or run and call Rose. Fortunately the “Comte de Paris” was still undergoing repairs and there was no other whaling ship in port, so the whales were safe. I am told the whalers arrive in late summer, and I dearly hope, Maman, that one of our French ships will bear news from you.
Our cottage is now ready for habitation! Tonight we will sleep there for the first time. I have moved our palliasses from the tent, along with our meagre possessions. Tonight we will eat alone and I wanted to cook something different to mark the occasion. We have heard that the Maoris eat fern roots. So I ventured into the bush to dig some roots and carry them home. I was uncertain which roots were edible and was wandering aimlessly, digging here, digging there, when who should appear from the opposite direction but Tay Marama, the Maori woman I met some time ago. We recognised each other instantly. She seemed as pleased to see me as I was her. She chuckled when I remembered to say “Kee-ora” and startled me by taking me by both shoulders and pressing her broad, brown nose against mine in greeting. She quickly grasped what I was doing and instructed her son, Tama, to help me. Eyes lowered, he led me in swift, darting movements through the bush, pausing and pointing to where I should dig, while Tay Marama, sleeping baby on her back, vanished through the trees.
Digging was hard work. After a time, moved by my grunting and puffing, Tama was bold enough to glance at me with eyes like dark pools, and take the spade from my hands. He made the digging seem effortless and I was so grateful. By the time we had as many fern roots as I could carry, we were friends and he could look in my face and smile. What a smile!
I boiled the fern roots, not knowing how else to prepare them. They were a welcome addition to the evening meal, since we have little now but very old potatoes, but I fancy a little butter would have improved them. Claude was impressed by my ingenuity, although I have to confess to not giving him a full account of my adventure!
Some two weeks ago, when Bishop Pompallier returned from his journey south, he celebrated Mass on the foreshore. It was a festive occasion, with the area decorated by flags from “L’Aube” and an orchestra and choir supplied from the ship also, F. Tripe conducting. The Bishop confirmed four of our company, a mix of children and adults. It is good to see our community strengthening and its people committing themselves to the good Lord.
5th December
The “Comte de Paris” took to sea yesterday looking very spic and span. We were sorry to see Captain Langlois go. Rose, with her sweet babe in arms, and I stood on the point with Madeleine Libeau and her young Cathérine and Joseph to watch the ship’s progress up the harbour. Its sails were full and a line of white foam stretched behind, ever longer, across the blue surface of the water.
An intense sense of loneliness swept over me, Maman. The vessel that brought us safely to these shores was departing; our last link with home severed. The fact that the ship will return at some time for water and fuel and whatever food may be available is little consolation. Our welfare is no longer the concern of the good captain and his crew. A few have remained, including M. Belligny and M. Aimable Langlois, the Captain’s brother, though they were never whalers.
Perhaps it might have been better if M. Belligny had left. There is mounting discontent about the prices the Company is charging us for goods. We are all becoming more and more indebted. Yet to have any chance of eventually repaying the debt, not to mention establishing a reasonable way of life, we are obliged to continue purchasing from them: implements, tools, nails, household chattels and other necessities. We were allowed to bring nothing with us and there is no other source of supply.
M. Belligny stands staunch in representing the Company’s interests and I can see this is his duty. But we hear that their prices are higher than those in Sydney or Hobart Town or even Port Nicholson in the North Island of New Zealand. This seems at best unnecessary. I would have thought our own countrymen would want to help us succeed, not place a yoke around our necks. The men, spurred on by Claude, are talking about appealing to Captain Lavaud, as the King’s Commissioner, but they are understandably uncertain of their reception after their previous approach to him and, although he is the one with authority here, he may not be willing or able to interfere in the business affairs of a private company. I agree with Claude and say they should speak to Lavaud whatever the outcome.
You may think it is not a woman’s place to speak out on such matters, but this is such a new country that the usual rules of etiquette do not apply.
25th December
We did take our grievance to Captain Lavaud four days ago. We met late in the day on the foreshore where the longboats from “L’Aube” come ashore. The sun was sinking towards the western hills, making them appear silhouettes cut from black paper. Long shadows from the masts of “L’Aube” sliced swathes through our company as we assembled. We were all somewhat apprehensive but, to our surprise, the Captain was sympathetic to our cause. Whether he is able to persuade the Company to lighten our burden is yet to be seen. Claude took the lead in putting our case. My cheeks glowed with pride at his eloquence and I was pleased to be his wife.
But I have other news, chère Maman. I believe I am now with child – a Christmas blessing, a sign that God has not forsaken us. But I am still fearful of being a mother in this raw country. I pray to the Virgin Mother to support me and I know that your prayers will be with me, too.
I think of you all together at this joyous time of year and send you my blessings. The thought makes me feel a very long, long way away. It is hard to believe, Maman, that it is only a year since we knelt together at Mass, at midnight on the night of Our Lord’s birth. I can still feel the hard cold of the flagstones on my knees and your warmth beside me.
My love to you all,
Bibi
Satisfied that the connection between Brigitte and Claude Dujardin and herself would eventually be verified through the genealogical research she had begun, Sue decided the paper trail could wait for now. Today, she had told Annie, she wanted to try to gain a glimpse of the world through Brigit
te’s eyes. She would wander the French-named streets of Akaroa, explore the old cemetery and spend time in the museum. She had asked Annie to accompany her. She supposed Charlie would have come if invited, but Charlie was too high energy. Annie would tolerate her going off into a muse without either taking offence or trying to shake her out of it.
The morning had dawned chill but fine. A touch of autumn. Sue and Annie had set off early in an effort to beat the tourist buses. During the drive over the hills, Sue brought Annie up to date with what was happening with Ben. Her anger, her sadness, her determination not to be outdone by some pencil-streak of a girl. Her growing bravery in confronting Ben, and his rather pathetic but loving responses.
‘He hasn’t outright denied having a sexual relationship with Alisha,’ Sue said.
‘Have you asked him?’ Good old Annie – always practical.
Sue had to concede she had not. ‘I’m still afraid of making things worse,’ she said, then admitted, ‘To tell you the truth, if they have been having sex, I don’t want to know.’
The brief southerly front which had swept through in the early hours had left the air clear and crisp, not a vestige of haze or sea fog. The spicy smell of damp grass wafted through the open car windows. Sue pulled the car off the road, into The Hilltop car park. High tide at Duvauchelle, the head of the harbour. Ben had been right: the day would be perfect.
‘Breathtaking,’ Sue whispered.
‘Isn’t it?’ Annie replied.
‘Every time,’ said Sue.
Akaroa Harbour was the same as always, yet also it was different: Sue thought of the drawing she had seen in the Christchurch Art Gallery, and imagined the hills covered in bush with just a sprinkling of rudimentary huts in the foreground on the far shore, in her mind painting the hills dark forest-green instead of burnt yellow. One bay to the north of Akaroa township was what had been called German Bay. The view to the south was obstructed by the folded hills above French Farm. It was like being in a survey plane, up here; she wanted to see more.
‘Bear with me,’ she said to Annie. ‘A diversion,’ and she swung the car around. She wanted to see everything, identify all the bays and promontories.
They headed back onto the Summit Road, continuing towards Okains Bay with the Harbour opening to their right. Gingerly, Sue pulled in on the narrow shoulder high above Duvauchelle and the Onawe Peninsula, where Te Rauparaha’s rout of peninsular Maori had taken place before European settlement. Even as a child, Sue had known there had been a pa there. Now she knew it was tapu land, a graveyard, and the thought saddened her. As the sun caught the rippled surface of the surrounding water, it was as if a lapidary had tossed a handful of diamonds amongst turquoise.
In the distance, at the end of the long, curving harbour, the narrow Heads rose steeply. Sue could see how a lingering southerly swell would rise as a wall at the entrance. She shuddered. ‘Imagine bringing a square-rigger through that gap.’
‘It looks impossible from here,’ Annie said.
Sue’s gaze followed the shoreline towards Akaroa township, stopping a few bays to the south at Onuku. She knew it had been a thriving Maori settlement when the Comte de Paris arrived, but that now only the marae and a few houses remained. She thought about the change in balance that had occurred between Maori and Pakeha in the course of a little over one hundred and fifty years, and for the first time felt that the Europeans had wrested the land from the Maori. It was an uncomfortable feeling. The struggle for possession of the land in 1840 was not merely about the French and the English, but about Maori, too. She had known this intellectually, of course, but now it had gained meaning.
Sue tried to imagine the feelings of Brigitte and Claude Dujardin as their ship dropped anchor in a safe anchorage after months of turbulence, sickness and, no doubt, fear; relief and hope must have flooded them. She thought of their bravery and stoicism, and the daunting prospect of survival in a virtually unpopulated, bush-clad land on the opposite side of the globe from their home. ‘I wonder if they would’ve come, had they known what lay before them,’ she mused. She doubted that she could have done so.
Visually sated, Sue drew the car back onto the road and they wound their way slowly downhill. At the bottom, she noted the signpost to French Farm. Her previous associations to French Farm had been the winery and long summer luncheons. Now she knew it as the bay in which Captain Lavaud’s sailors from L’Aube established vegetable gardens. Sue experienced a sense of familiarity, of ownership, of place, and a peacefulness washed over her which left no space for doubts. The car swooped left onto flat land and she and Annie drove in silence through Duvauchelle, Robinson’s Bay, over the hill into Takamatua – German Town – and on to Akaroa. All now place names that signified real people and real lives.
8.
Sue parked on the grassy verge beside the stream that had marked the southern end of old French Town. Directly across the road was a string of pseudo-colonial motel units, while uphill on the far side of the tiny Y-intersection were examples of the real thing – picturesque two-storey cottages set on the road frontage, shrouded by foliage, dormer windows peeping below arched brows. Sue wondered if Brigitte and Claude had ever lived in a cottage like these. She felt slightly detached and drifting, as if in the company of ghosts; as if she might round a corner and come face to face with the past.
The temperature in the car was climbing rapidly. Annie flung her door wide, giving entry to the tinkling of the stream and the sweet, clear notes of a bellbird, invisible in the tree above. ‘So, where do we start?’ she asked.
‘Hm?’ Sue had almost forgotten Annie was with her.
‘We’re here. Now what? Do you want me to make myself scarce?’ Annie reached into the back seat for her commodious bag.
‘No. No. I … Shall we walk? Let’s walk.’
They strolled north along Beach Road, the dying south-erly taking the sting from the sun’s rays, pleasantly cooling. On their left, the water lapped gently against the sea wall. On their right, modern motel units gave way to old wooden shops and cafés with corrugated iron verandas. Sue and Annie peered into the general store, floor-to-ceiling shelving crammed with every imaginable product, from bread to shovels. It reminded them of their childhoods, an era preserved now as a curiosity.
‘Did you know that Jules Duvauchelle established the first store here? 1842.’
‘Duvauchelle? I’ve never really thought about the people behind the names,’ Annie reflected.
‘Neither had I till lately. Duvauchelle wasn’t one of the settlers. He arrived from Australia a couple of months later. The first bakery was set up by Pierre and Hippolyte Gend-rot the same year, probably with a butchery attached.’ Sue was pleased to display her newly acquired knowledge. ‘The old names are all around us’ – she had a proprietorial feeling as she gestured widely – ‘in the street signs, the bays, the points, the mountains and valleys. Finding out who these people were starts to bring the place to life.’ She could hear the excited note in her own voice; she felt she was coming to life, too.
‘I said you needed a passion.’ Annie grinned at Sue as she put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed.
‘Yes. You always seem to know what I need. How is it I don’t know myself?’ But, even as she said it, Sue became aware that this was no longer entirely true.
In the bay, the yellow and red floats of empty moorings lay on the water like balloons. Small fishing boats and a few yachts, sails furled and canvas-covered, rocked gently, bows to the wind. They were pointing the opposite way to when she had last been here. They crossed the road and stood on the edge of the sea wall gazing across at the Onawe Peninsula, Duvauchelle and Robinson’s Bay.
They sauntered over to two stone memorials standing side by side. The first read:
THIS STONE IS ERECTED
TO COMMEMORATE THE 100TH ANNIVERSARY OF THE ARRIVAL OF THE FRENCH SETTLERS WHO LANDED NEAR THIS SPOT
ON 16TH AUGUST 1840
Sue ran her fingers over the embossed br
onze. ‘I must have walked past this so many times without noticing.’ It was embarrassing to have been so unobservant.
‘Look,’ said Annie, pointing to the second monument. ‘This one is in French and English. April 1991. Laid by the French Prime Minister. I bet his feelings were mixed.’ Annie stood with her hands on her hips, a cynical expression on her face. ‘It’s like making a defeat appear a victory. I thought that was the forte of the English.’
Sue laughed. ‘But it was a victory. A personal victory for every settler.’ She paused, imagining again the hardships of establishing themselves in competition with the terrain, the weather, other peoples, lack of food.
‘Come on,’ she said, abruptly. ‘Let’s head to the cemetery.’
They strolled up Rue Jolie, past a mixture of quaint restored cottages interspersed with ugly modern bungalows, and entered the Garden of Tane, above the lighthouse. Cool shade enveloped the women as they walked briskly in single file along the narrow winding track bisecting the reserve. The air was redolent with birdsong and the trees whispered softly.
‘So peaceful.’ Annie spoke Sue’s thoughts aloud. ‘Like being in a church.’
They craned their necks to gaze into the canopy above. Segments of pale-blue light were visible between the branches and leaves, like stained glass, creating intricate patterns on the forest floor. They emerged onto a grassy slope ringed by tall trees, mostly deciduous – no doubt grown from seeds from “home”. The air was still, the light green. They had reached the cemetery. It was from here that William Howard Hughes had looked back at the settlement to paint his picture, Sue thought, not that they could see with his eyes today.
‘I don’t see the point of siting a cemetery on the best piece of real estate in town and then obscuring the view with huge trees,’ she said.
They worked their way systematically through the mossy and weather-worn headstones, exclaiming over familiar names. The older graves were at the bottom of the slope but none seemed to date before the 1870s. Sue could barely contain her disappointment at not finding the graves of Brigitte and Claude.