‘Your impertinence,’ Félix said forlornly, waving the brand above his head.
Girardin moved closer to the fire. She peered out through the holes in the blackened trunk to the dark forest. Surely the General would not leave them to the mercy of whatever strange creatures lurked here? Eyes were watching them from the bush, she was convinced of it. Were they animal or human? Threatening or wary? She remembered the face of the girl hiding in the shadows of the trees. Had she imagined her?
Labillardière rummaged in his bag and produced a large skull. ‘Some sort of carnivore,’ he said to her, pointing to its teeth. ‘We heard the cry of a leopard-like creature one night.’ He seemed not to notice her petrified expression. ‘How is your wound?’ he asked.
‘Sore.’
‘Good. You only have yourself to blame for such foolishness.’ He stabbed at the coals. ‘We have no food left to share. For the last two days we have had nothing but four mealy biscuits to sustain ourselves.’
She drew her legs up towards her chest and wrapped her arms around her knees. The fierce ants that Ventenat had disturbed crawled all around her feet, as long as her thumbnail and with giant jaws.
‘I see the boat!’ Félix cried, running down to greet it.
‘You took your time,’ Labillardière sniped as he climbed into the pinnace, setting it rocking. The men rowed in silence, ignoring the naturalists as the rain dripped from their ears.
The General and Captain d’Auribeau were waiting on deck when they returned. The sight of the two men looking down from the ship as she climbed the rope ladder made her unaccountably nervous. She felt like a child with something to hide. The General’s face was stern.
‘Citizen d’Entrecasteaux!’ Labillardière cried out as he climbed aboard. ‘The treatment we have received at the hands of this captain is deplorable. Once again the needs of the savants on this expedition are relegated to that of mere civilian passengers on a joy ride around the world. Our rights as integral members of this mission have been completely ignored.’
‘Monsieur!’ The General’s voice cut through the tirade. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes livid. ‘Monsieur! You think yourself above your own democratic ideals! I have tolerated quite enough of your self-importance. The needs of the crew are paramount. They must have their dinner. There was no conspiracy. I will not allow their health to be affected by ungrateful spoiled children! You, sir, should be ashamed of your behaviour.’
Labillardière was stunned into silence. The General was breathing hard, his nostrils sucking air. Girardin had never seen him so out of temper and it scared her. D’Auribeau had clasped his twitching arm behind his back and his smile was smug.
Then she saw the plant presses lined up along the deck. Girardin stared at them, confused. The edges of the papers were wet from the rain and already the ink had begun to run, blurring the carefully transcribed names of thousands of specimens.
‘Oh no,’ she murmured.
Labillardière followed her gaze. ‘What have you done?’ He turned on d’Auribeau.
‘The great cabin has been returned to the sole use of the officers.’
The naturalists rushed to drag the presses beneath cover.
‘Imbecile,’ Labillardière fumed. ‘Our collections will rot away before we even return to France!’
The General caught Girardin’s arm, holding her back from helping them. She winced as the stitches pulled across her wound. He narrowed his eyes at her. ‘You should be careful spending time with those men,’ he warned. ‘Their ideals, their passions, are dangerous.’
She knew he did not mean their collecting of flowers and beetles. They were republicans, supporters of the revolution, and they were not afraid who knew it. She saw concern as well as anger in his eyes. It shamed her. After all she had done in the name of the revolution, the General was afraid she would be led astray by botanists.
Félix called to her. ‘Help us!’ He struggled to pull the presses into the dry bread rooms.
Her eyes followed the General as he climbed the stairs to his cabin.
‘Be careful whose side you choose,’ Captain d’Auribeau hissed in her ear as he left.
The naturalists tugged at the sodden presses. Her friends needed her help. Félix stared at her, rain dripping from the curls of his hair, his arms cradling his treasured box of seeds. She saw his wide-eyed dismay as she slowly backed away.
Chapter 28
GIRARDIN PLUCKED FEATHERS FROM A PARTRIDGE. SHE WRENCHED the feathers from the bird’s pimpled skin, holding it up by its feet. The ship was ready to depart and she was eager to leave this bay.
The General’s words of warning had remained with her. She was afraid to disappoint him, so when the naturalists came to ask if they might leave the presses near the oven to dry, she let Besnard refuse them. When they asked for her help with their researches in the forest, she was too busy. She pulled the stitches from her arm herself. She must distance herself from the naturalists. The General would protect her on this ship, not them. She could not risk being labelled a revolutionary; her position here was precarious enough. She had her son to think of, she told herself, swallowing her guilt. She avoided Félix, knowing she could not bear the look of betrayal in his gaze.
Word of her duel had spread throughout the ship just as Mérite had said, and some measure of grudging admiration was now afforded to Louis Girardin. Armand beamed and winked whenever she came near. Raoul had been sent ashore, first to aid the carpenters in felling trees and then to join the hunting parties. She hid when the hunters arrived back, bringing their partridges, ducks, parrots, turtle doves and swans for her to pluck and salt. He had not confronted her again in the four weeks it took to repair the ship.
The ships’ departure had been delayed as the General sent exploration parties on ahead. There was talk of an undiscovered channel to the north, and the thought of a virgin strait conquered by the passage of a ship between two shores had excited all the men. Olympe would be amused, Girardin thought, with a sad smile.
Girardin stroked the snowy plumage of a heron, lying with neck bent on her workbench. Olympe would not abandon her friends to save herself. She had no fear of what others thought of her. Girardin pictured her friend, her white wig lending her height among the black hats. Olympe de Gouges had stood to face the National Assembly in a gallery crowded with men.
‘Man, are you capable of being just?’ Olympe cried out.
‘Giving rights of citizenhood to a man’s wife?’ replied one of the assembly. ‘What next, an education for the man’s hound?’
Laughter filled the chamber. They warmed their throats at her expense! Marie-Louise’s cheeks flamed on behalf of her friend. They thought her mad. She had yanked on Olympe’s arm, urging her to sit. ‘What are they afraid of?’ Olympe had whispered into her ear.
Girardin knew Olympe would still be fighting now. The revolution was just the beginning. Olympe was determined that not just men but women too would be treated as equal citizens in the new regime. Olympe fought for everyone. She fought for slaves, for peasants, for whores, even for bastard children, when no one else thought to question the right of a man to deny the existence of his child, without blame, without consequence. A bastard child was worthless. Gutter-born. Waste.
The sudden welling of emotion threatened to swallow her. The yearning when it came to her was utterly debilitating. She dropped onto her hands and knees. She was panting, a keening sound, like a freshening squall, building in her throat. Would she ever hold her child again? Would she ever hear her son’s footsteps? Feel him wrap his arms around her?
It will pass, she told herself. It will pass.
She was alone in the galley. The floor was littered with feathers. All morning she had been preserving fish and fowls. Among the soft feathers, she knelt on grains of hard white salt that had spilled over the floorboards, like frozen salty tears.
Distantly, she wondered if anyone would find her like this, but she was incapable of moving. Of caring. She presse
d the heels of her hands into the sharp lumps of salt. She felt the stabs of pain and was glad of it.
There were no tears with this pain, no release. It closed her over like a clam. It stayed within her, like a hard, pearlescent tumour.
Kermadec found her. She heard him cry out, felt his arms wrap around her and lift her to her feet. Girardin pushed away from him, using the barrel of salted fish to hold herself upright. She waited for the numbness to seep back into her. It always did. The fish stared back at her, their eyes already beginning to cloud.
‘I’m alright,’ she said, gesturing for him to back away.
‘What has happened?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Tell me.’
She shook her head. ‘You won’t understand.’
‘Has someone hurt you?’
She drew a deep breath and held it, on the brink of confession. Her breath rushed out. ‘I miss my son.’
Kermadec fell silent. She closed her eyes, letting her head sag. She heard him step back, retreating. He would go now. He would leave her be.
‘Let me show you this,’ he said.
She raised her head.
‘I found it in my library.’ He unrolled a map along the bench. ‘It’s of the Admiralty Islands,’ he said, his voice rising in excitement. ‘There is Vendola Island.’ He stabbed his finger at the island above New Guinea. ‘Where Captain Hunter said he saw La Pérouse.’
‘Rumours,’ she said softly.
‘We will make a stop in New Caledonia to resupply, and then continue onwards to the Admiralties. It will not be long now.’
Suddenly he reached for her hand. She was startled, but did not draw away. His grip was warm and firm.
‘We will find him,’ Kermadec assured her.
He meant La Pérouse, but she thought only of her son.
The ships left Recherche Bay in late May, passing through the newly discovered strait and out to the open sea. The breeze was fresh on her face as the ship surged ahead towards the islands of the Pacific. Gannets reeled overhead and dolphins played in the waves alongside the ship. Yet she could not shake a feeling of dread. When she looked up, Raoul lay stretched out on the spars like a panther content to wait.
Chapter 29
New Caledonia, 20 June 1792
GIRARDIN HEARD GUNSHOTS. SHE WAS IN A MOB OF WOMEN. THEY carried pitchforks and splintered brooms. She was pushed and elbowed and she tried to move her feet but they were stuck. She looked down and saw the hands of a palace guard around her ankles.
She woke at the sound of cannon fire. It took her a moment to orientate herself. Her bed was swinging. The nightmare was a familiar one, but it always left her nauseous and confused. The cannon boomed. The signal cannon. Warning shots! She swung her legs to the floor, dressing quickly. The dregs of her dream, horror and guilt, swilled in her stomach.
Outside, a bell began to clang. ‘All hands on deck!’
She looked at her hands. What use was she on deck? What did she know of sailing? A fist thudded on her door. She left her cabin and followed the men as they scrambled up the stairs.
The wind battered her face. She narrowed her eyes against its sting. Looking down, the waves swirled and foamed like washing waters. All about the ship, wave-beaten rock circled them. To the north, south, east and west, the reefs had drawn a noose around them.
‘Welcome to New Caledonia,’ said Labillardière. She looked about for Félix, realising now how much she needed his gentle, reassuring smile. But with a hundred men on deck, she caught no glimpse of him. She stayed close by the naturalist’s side.
The wind whistled through the masts, snapping the sheets against the wood. Ventenat appeared on deck wearing his black cassock. He tripped and sprawled on the wet deck. She stuck out her hand to help him upright. He thanked her with his gaze, and she felt ashamed once again at how she had avoided these men during the past weeks. He clasped the cross around his neck, chanting loudly for their safe deliverance. She hoped God would listen to him, as she could not pray for herself.
‘Chaplain, be quiet, for heaven’s sake!’ cried Lieutenant Rossel from the helm. He ordered the crew to trim the sails on the starboard tack. Ventenat silently crossed himself.
The sails went slack and Lieutenant Rossel swore.
‘What’s happening?’ she asked.
‘The tack failed,’ said Labillardière.
‘Where is Captain d’Auribeau?’
‘Where do you think? Incapacitated. Under the care of the surgeon’s opiates.’
Their captain had been in bed since the previous day, suffering with his spasms and delirium, a frequent affliction that she knew Labillardière suspected was an addiction to laudanum. At the helm, Rossel’s wig had been snatched by the wind and tendrils of his curling dark hair flew upright. His face was blotched red. He began to call the manoeuvre again.
Ahead the Espérance was caught within the same reefs. From this distance it looked as though the ship was almost upon the rocks. She gripped the rail, taut with fear for Kermadec. She imagined the ship listing, picked up by a freak wave and dashed upon the reef. Like a painting of a shipwreck, she saw the men falling from the rigging, pictured the captain remaining at the helm.
Beside her Ventenat whispered his prayers. He smiled grimly at her. ‘God will save us.’
She thought of La Pérouse and his ships. He was supposed to have sailed this same route past the reefs of New Caledonia. Had they become stranded here? Had they too prayed to God to save them?
She could imagine now the fate of La Pérouse and his crew. She saw their ships splintered on these reefs, the men forced to bake in the tropical sun, their skin peeling from them, their lips caked in salt. How long would their provisions have lasted, their water? Would they have risked swimming to shore and been plucked off by sharks or other monstrous creatures?
Rossel called the commands to complete the tack. She gripped the rail. It was taking forever to execute this turn. The wind snapped at the loosened sails and a rope flew free. Rossel swore again and sent for the General. For a second time, the tack had failed. Girardin felt the waves lift them ever closer to the reefs.
She did not want to die here. The realisation startled her. She wanted to live. Only a matter of weeks ago she had been prepared to sacrifice her life to God if it would help to save her son. What had changed? Did she not trust God to uphold his side of the bargain?
As soon as the General emerged from his cabin, Rossel called for another officer to take his place at the helm. ‘I have an appalling headache,’ he declared by way of excuse.
‘He cannot handle the ship in these conditions,’ said Labillardière, realisation dawning. ‘He doesn’t know what to do.’
Lieutenant Saint-Aignan looked up in terror when he heard his name called. Girardin had rarely seen him at the wheel. Did he have sufficient experience with ship-handling? He climbed the quarterdeck slowly and took his place beside the General. All the crew were silent, waiting for his commands. Girardin held her breath.
‘Look about for something to cling on to when we go down,’ observed Labillardière. Girardin had not missed his mordant wit in the weeks she had been avoiding him. She wished that she had Félix at her side now.
‘What are your instructions for the crew, Lieutenant Saint-Agnan?’ the General asked calmly.
Saint-Aignan’s long face was pale. He cleared his throat. Then he began to shout.
Girardin heard the litany of orders and watched in horror as the ship swung about, but stalled before they had fully turned. The sails went slack.
‘He has forgotten to have the jibs brought down,’ Armand muttered from behind her.
‘I cannot watch,’ said Ventenat. ‘We surely don’t have room to fail again.’
Girardin kept her eye trained on the Espérance ahead. She remembered the feel of Kermadec’s arms around her waist, lifting her from the floor. He would not let his men die on these reefs. The Espérance tacked.
A cheer rang out from the crew.
‘She has found a passage through!’
Girardin watched as Kermadec’s ship slipped through the jaws of the reef and ran clear into the open ocean. She felt a burst of exhilaration. He had survived. Tears welled in her eyes. All they had to do was follow his lead.
At the helm of the Recherche, Lieutenant Saint-Aignan doubled over, clutching his stomach, assailed by a sudden malaise.
‘The depth of talent on this ship seems woefully inadequate,’ Labillardière noted.
‘Save your low-flying knives,’ Armand spat. ‘We’re not dead yet.’
The General called to the surgeon. ‘Monsieur Renard, kindly fetch our captain from his bedchamber; Lieutenant Saint-Aignan has been struck ill and must be relieved from his post.’
Girardin turned to Armand. ‘What’s happening?’ she demanded. ‘Why does the General not take the helm?’
The General stood impassive, no sign of emotion in his countenance. Did he not see the deadly peril they were facing?
Armand snorted. ‘There are proper ways of doing things.’
‘But we could be wrecked!’
Armand looked at her with ill-disguised contempt. ‘If he makes every decision for them, they’ll never learn to use their wings.’
The rolling waves lifted and dropped the ship, nudging them ever closer to the reef. Once again, she felt the power of God in each swell, like a boy slapping the surface of a puddle to overturn a walnut shell. He could sink them, or save them. She looked towards the Espérance in despair. Whatever we do now will make no difference, she thought. We are in God’s hands.
Captain d’Auribeau staggered to the quarterdeck. For once, she felt sorry for him, pulled from his sickbed only to face certain death. He looked dazed. Palsy crippled the whole left side of his body.
Labillardière scowled. ‘The General will let us all perish at the hands of this drug addict.’
‘Seems to me he wants to teach you a lesson in respect,’ growled Armand.
D’Auribeau took the helm. He spun the wheel and turned their bow towards the reef. The Recherche picked up speed. They surged at the reef.
Into the World Page 16