Mérite rushed to her side and pressed a hand to her wound. She saw blood gush between his fingers. Armand charged at Raoul and knocked his sword from his hand.
Mérite whispered, ‘We’ll get you to the surgeon.’
‘No,’ she gasped. ‘Félix, take me to Félix.’ Then the pain tore across her arm and she began to scream.
Chapter 26
‘WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?’ FÉLIX HISSED AT MÉRITE. GIRARDIN was draped across his shoulder. ‘How could you let this happen?’
Mérite had bound her arm with fabric torn from his own shirt. ‘Can you fix the wound?’
Together they carried Girardin between them. Her head lolled forwards. She clenched her teeth against the pain. At the door of Labillardière’s cabin she heard Félix send Mérite away before he dragged her inside.
‘Quick, he has lost a lot of blood.’
Girardin noticed the whole right side of her shirt and trousers were soaked in blood.
Labillardière demanded to know what had happened.
‘A duel,’ Félix spat in distaste. He rounded on her. ‘Do you know how foolish you have been? Do you know how many men die in useless contests of honour?’
‘I think he is well aware,’ Labillardière said, pulling Félix out of the way. He removed the bandage Mérite had tied around her wound. ‘We must take your shirt off.’
‘No!’ Girardin pleaded, her mouth dry. ‘Cut the sleeve.’
Labillardière reached to take a blade from his desk. With two neat incisions, he tore the sleeve away from her arm. Looking down, she saw the wound gape open. It didn’t look real, this pulpy mess with dark oozing liquid, the flesh so vivid red. The workings of her body were laid bare. She could see through to the bone. This is all we are, she thought while panting at the pain, no different from any other beast. She closed her eyes. Gently, Labillardière’s fingers pressed the sides of the wound together. She cried out. The pain felt like a jabbing knife.
‘It will have to be stitched.’
Girardin’s eyes snapped open. She saw a puckered water vessel made of dried kelp on Labillardière’s desk. The seaweed had been punctured by some sharp implement and sewn into a carrier. The folds had hardened into ridges. She groaned.
‘Here, take this.’ He thrust a bottle of brandy beneath her nose. ‘Drink one mouthful now and two after.’
Labillardière gathered a long needle and some waxed thread. ‘Look away,’ he commanded.
Girardin felt his fingers gently pressing her skin and then she jerked forwards at the first bite of the needle. Labillardière pushed her back against the wall. She gritted her teeth and thought of the white-hot pain of childbirth. The pain could not be worse than that and she had survived. She had survived a lot of things.
When he was finished, he handed her the bottle again and she gulped and coughed. She felt tears leak from the corners of her eyes without permission. She cradled her arm. She was safe now, she told herself. She had survived.
Labillardière lifted her thin arm and wrapped a bandage around the wound. ‘It will scar.’
Girardin lay back on the bed. The brandy burned in her stomach and her arm throbbed. Beads of sweat dripped from her forehead. Labillardière stood with his arms folded, staring down at her.
‘You won’t say anything?’ she grunted, breathing heavily.
‘Duelling is punishable by court martial.’
She closed her eyes.
She woke hours later with a sharp stench in her nostrils. Confused, she registered the strange surroundings, feeling the ache in her arm, and remembered she was in Labillardière’s cabin. The botanist had gone but Félix sat at his desk, pouring yellow powder into small vials. Girardin struggled upright. ‘What is that smell?’
Félix turned towards her in surprise. ‘You’re awake. Good. It’s seal excrement.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘The pigments can be used in painting. Labillardière’s idea.’
‘It stinks.’
‘Indeed, that’s why I’m doing it here in his cabin and not mine.’ Félix smiled. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Terrible.’
‘Naturally.’
Suddenly she remembered her duties. ‘What time is it?’ Girardin swung her legs over the side of the bed. ‘The General’s meals!’
‘All taken care of,’ Félix said, pushing her back down on the bunk. ‘We have told him you are ill with fever.’
Girardin wiped sweat from her brow. The pain eased when she raised her arm. She lay back and let the ship rock her gently from side to side.
Waking some time later, she heard voices arguing in whispers. ‘We cannot leave her here. One of us will have to stay.’
In her groggy state, Girardin thought they had said ‘her’.
Labillardière continued. ‘I cannot pass up this opportunity to go ashore. You will have to be the one to stay. I will be gone for five days, maybe more.’
Félix mumbled something that she couldn’t hear.
‘Go plant a garden, then! Always blathering about your precious collections of seeds—ask if you may take the steward for an assistant.’
‘Won’t she need the dressing changed?’ Félix asked.
That time she was sure Félix had said ‘she’.
Girardin felt an urgent need to urinate. She had to return to her cabin. Getting unsteadily to her feet, she launched herself at the door before either man could stop her.
Chapter 27
THE MORNING WAS GENTLE AND THE WATER PLACID BENEATH the rowers’ oars as Girardin returned to shore. On her lap she carried a bag of laundry, hoping to find a private moment to wash her bloodied trousers in the sea. The shirt she had worn was ruined, already torn up into bandages. A week had passed since the duel and her wound still ached, but the seepage was mostly clear and free of blood and there was no sign of infection.
Beside her, Félix held his satchel of seeds on his knees. His gardening implements were stowed between their feet. Félix had treated her no differently after she left Labillardière’s cabin, and she began to wonder if she had imagined the words between the naturalists, imagined they had guessed her sex. Perhaps her fevered state had made her paranoid. Perhaps. When Félix asked her to help him plant his garden she had not hesitated. She wanted to repay him for the friendship he had shown her.
A large bird with a long curling neck and black plumage glided beside them, keeping pace with the boat. It looked identical to the white swans that had graced the canals at Versailles, but here at the bottom of the world everything was the opposite. Black instead of white. She watched it turn towards their boat, dip its regal orange beak and stare at her, before a loud boom shattered the morning stillness. She jerked back in her seat, knocking her bad arm against Félix.
Joannet stood in the longboat from the Espérance with a musket raised. The swan bobbed in a pool of spreading blood.
As the boat drew closer to the shore, she could hear the blacksmith at the forge and she scanned the men at work along the beach. Thankfully, Raoul was not among them. He knew her name. As impossible as it seemed, he knew her. His smugness made sense to her now. She had scoured her memories, turning them over and over. Had he seen her at Etienne’s café? But that was so long ago, why would he remember her? Then after Etienne died she had rarely appeared in public. Had she met him at the salon of Sophie de Condorcet, perhaps? But what would a sailor in the King’s navy be doing at a meeting of revolutionaries? At her father’s house, then? Had he once known Jean Girardin?
Regardless of how he knew her name, his face that day had told her everything she needed to know. She had shamed him. What had begun as a game for him, taunting her for his amusement, had now become a matter of retribution. She would need to be more wary than ever before.
Coming into shore, she heard the thudding of an axe, the rhythmic screeching of the saw. Over in the laundry yards, the men were standing naked in the waves, singing as they scrubbed themselves clean. Who would be next to challenge
her? she wondered. Would her defiance be enough?
As she stepped onto this beach for a second time, the sand squeaked beneath her feet. Before, she had not noticed this strange squawking when she walked. She knelt and dug her fingers into the fine white sand, wondering at the life of each grain, where it had come from and what tides had carried it to this shore.
Her previous landfalls at the ports of Santa Cruz and Cape Town had not prepared her for this moment. Here there was no reassuring mark of a European hand: no wharves, no homes, no streets, no order that she recognised—only the wall of forest, looking down on her.
At a shout behind her, she turned to see a gigantic tree felled. The vibration as it struck the earth travelled through all the bones of her body.
Ahead, Félix had disappeared into the undergrowth.
‘Wait!’ she called, hurrying after him.
Here the forest seemed less dark than down by the forge, the trees less thick around the middle, their roots less sprawling. The forest floor was dry and patterned with long thin leaves in colours of peach and apricot. A strong scent filled her nose, like walking into a perfumerie. It was so different from anything she had experienced before. The hard leaves scratched against her as she followed after Félix.
‘Watch out for snakes,’ he said over his shoulder. She froze. Strewn around her were thin branches and long strips of bark curled across the ground. She placed her feet cautiously, flinching at every crackle beneath the dried leaves.
High overhead a creature screamed. Girardin twirled about, searching for the source of the fearful noise. Its cry leaped through the branches, never staying still long enough for her to see what manner of creature made the harsh call. Sometimes ahead, sometimes behind, the creature stayed with them as they walked, while Girardin tried not to imagine talons sinking into the flesh of her shoulders.
It was a relief to finally reach the clearing Félix had made for his garden. Girardin threw her bag of laundry to the ground. He had cleared an area of roughly twenty feet long and wide, scraping the dry topsoil, leaves and small plants to the sides. She dug her toe into the hard clay base. ‘You mean to get vegetables to grow in this?’ she said incredulously.
Félix looked miffed. ‘I am the top student of the Jardin le Roi, recommended by André Thouin himself. I can make a garden anywhere.’
She screwed up her nose doubtfully and spat into the dust.
But when Félix picked up his hoe and sank it into the dry earth, she did too. Together they set about loosening the soil. Each time she hit a hard patch of earth the vibration tore at the stitches in her arm. Soon, she was sweating hard despite the cool air.
By the afternoon they had separated the garden into four beds, and her sleeve was now soaked with fresh blood.
As Félix sprinkled his chervil, parsley and chicory seeds into the plots, Girardin stood back and wiped the sweat from her forehead. She was glad to help him. If he knew she was a woman, he gave no sign. Even alone in the forest with him, she felt safe.
Behind her, she heard the thump of footsteps. Quickly, Girardin brought her hoe in front of her. A fern frond shook. She ducked down and saw a, thick-furred animal watching her, its nostrils quivering in its pointed face. It was the size of a small dog, but it reminded her of a squirrel with its small chest, forearms and large round end. Suddenly it bounced. She fell back, amazed to see the creature spring from its cord-like tail. Each quick hop sounded like a heavy man’s footfall. She stood up, about to call out to Félix, when another bounding creature crashed into the back of the first, clutching it beneath its arms. The male began thrusting with its strong hind limbs. Girardin covered her mouth. The thrusting continued, with the female looking warily at Girardin, holding her gaze.
She turned to Félix. She knew he would be excited to see these unusual creatures. He was bent over his plot, scattering potato seeds. Beside her, the thrusting continued. Tiny black fingers dug into the fur of the female, holding her firm. Girardin saw Félix stand and brush the dirt from his hands. She walked towards him and said nothing.
When they returned to shore to meet the boat later that afternoon, the beach was deserted. The forge was still. The carpenters and the laundrymen had already returned to the ship. Only two figures were waiting on the sand. As they drew closer she was surprised to see Labillardière and Ventenat returned from their explorations. Ventenat sat among the bags of plant specimens, his clothes unkempt and dirty, scratching at red welts on his face and arms. He looked up and grimaced at Girardin, and she noticed one of his teeth was missing.
‘What happened to you?’ she asked.
Labillardière answered for him. ‘He fell into an ants’ nest.’
‘They were very large ants,’ said Ventenat.
A light rain began to fall. Girardin walked down to the water’s edge and crouched in the shallows. She splashed salt water over the fresh blood on her sleeve and clenched her jaw against the sting. The skin had swelled and closed around the stitches and she would have to ask Labillardière to cut them free. She took to the bloodstains in her clothing with soap and a stiff-bristled brush. In the failing light she couldn’t tell if it made any difference. Perhaps the stain, like her scar, would stay with her as a mark of remembrance. A reminder of what she had overcome.
Looking up, she saw lanterns floating across the still water, solemn beacons in the grey mist. The sailors were rowing out to collect them.
‘At last!’ Ventenat stood up and stamped his feet to warm himself.
Behind them, a party of officers emerged from the bush with Captain d’Auribeau at their head. She quickly wrung her bloodstained trousers and returned them to her bag. The officers stood together in neat formation, spaced as regularly as the gold buttons on their blue coats. Despite the dense bush they had pushed through, their white breeches were clean and their tricorn hats firmly placed. Girardin recognised the observatory trio, Rossel, Saint-Aignan and Beautemps-Beaupré. Standing in the rear was the midshipman Mérite. She hadn’t seen him since the duel. Protectively, she crossed her arms, covering her wound with her palm.
The naturalists sprawled on the beach, their clothing smeared with dirt, their shirts untucked. She inched towards them.
Labillardière called to Rossel, ‘I hear you failed to get your instruments ready in time to see the eclipse of Jupiter’s satellites.’
The group ignored his taunt.
‘Shame. Such a rare phenomenon. One would have thought it worthy of better preparation.’
‘The weather was cloudy,’ snapped Rossel.
Girardin helped the naturalists gather up their collections and move to greet the boat as it landed. She did not look at Mérite.
‘Not so fast,’ d’Auribeau called out. ‘Officers have right of passage before civilians.’
‘We were here first,’ Labillardière exclaimed.
‘Shame,’ replied d’Auribeau, ‘hope your wait was not too long.’
‘You know very well that we have been on an arduous trek for many days with poor provisions while you and your officers have dined on freshly caught fish and the sea parsley that we have collected for you!’
‘No need to lose your temper with me, Monsieur. It is the natural order of things that needs to be upheld. Where would we be if our betters were not afforded the privileges that their rank demands?’
‘We would have revolution, Citizen d’Auribeau!’
The word churned her stomach. There was no escape from it, she thought, watching the two men face off. Even here, so many miles from home, the revolution had followed them.
‘On this ship naval discipline must prevail, not your revolutionary fantasies, Monsieur Labillardière.’ D’Auribeau pushed past the naturalist.
The officers began to board the pinnace and she stepped back to let them pass. Only Beautemps-Beaupré had the good grace to look ashamed.
A hand clasped her elbow and Mérite pulled her to one side. ‘I am relieved to see you recovered,’ he said in a low voice.
&nbs
p; He searched her face intently. She was close enough to see the beginnings of a moustache growing above his top lip. She made no reply.
‘Word has spread and your bravery is known. Raoul has accepted defeat. Do not expect harm from him.’
She saw the earnest look on his young face. My God, he believed it.
‘I hope our General would not hear of this,’ he paused, his voice dropping lower still. ‘Of my part in this incident.’
She shook her elbow free. His concern was not for her but for his own career. She saw Félix watching them, alert.
‘Your boat is leaving,’ she said.
‘You can come with us.’
‘There are injured men here.’ She pointed to the chaplain, whose lip had swelled to twice its natural size.
Mérite glanced at d’Auribeau and looked pained. His face told her he would not disobey.
She turned her back on him.
Girardin sank down to her haunches alongside the naturalists as they sat among their collections, the rain falling on their shoulders. The boat launched and she watched the dark shapes of the officers’ tricorn hats vanish into the mist. She felt her flare of temper slowly dampen.
‘It won’t be long,’ Félix said, nodding to himself.
But hours passed and there was still no sign of a return boat. Once again, her swollen knee had stiffened in the cold. Her arm throbbed. Behind her, Labillardière paced the shore and cursed d’Auribeau for holding the sailors back from returning to collect them.
As the rain grew heavier, Girardin helped the men drag their bags and bundles into the base of a burnt-out tree. Inside she found it larger than it looked, at least four feet wide with the remains of a cooking fire at the centre. She helped Labillardière urge it into life.
Félix made fire brands to signal the ship.
‘It is no use, they mean to keep us here overnight for our impertinence,’ said Labillardière.
Into the World Page 15