‘What’s he doing?’ Girardin cried.
‘Saving our lives,’ Armand grunted. ‘Lend a hand, for God’s sake.’
Girardin took her place among the seamen. She gripped a rope. All around her the sailors and soldiers, civilians and officers stood ready. The carpenters and cooks stood shoulder to shoulder with gunners and sailmakers. All hands. Together.
She licked her dry lips. She felt the wind whisper around her neck, her ears, against her cheek. Her feet were planted and she could feel every movement of the ship through her soles, her knees, her hips, her core, like a message. She felt the skittish mood of the ship as she rode the waves ever faster towards the reef.
‘Ease the foresheet!’ d’Auribeau commanded.
The orders were called and when the men about her hauled, she hauled. When they eased, she eased. When they made fast, she made fast. She had no time to look at the waves crashing on the reef. The ship turned quickly and surely, like an albatross catching the wind, gliding through the gap and out to join the Espérance on the other side.
She looked up in surprise.
‘God has saved us,’ Ventenat said, his pale face sweating.
Armand belayed a rope about a pin, looping and twisting the rope with a flourish. ‘Good ship-handling saved you,’ he said matter-of-factly.
Girardin sank to her knees and turned up her palms. Fat, glowing blisters were beginning to throb. These hands had helped to save them. She unfurled her fingers, feeling them stretch and sting. She had helped to save herself.
Chapter 30
Latitude 17°57′ S, longitude 160°21′ E, 2 July 1792
THE EXPEDITION SAILED ON PAST NEW CALEDONIA. THE REEFS had proved impenetrable and they could not find a way through to reach the coast. They had no fresh supplies of food to sustain them. The crew complained to her of heartburn, pains in their guts and ulcers in their mouths. They blamed the salted provisions. Girardin saw her ankles swell and red pinpricks spread over her lower legs. She told no one. By now, her menses passed with a twist of pain and an ache in her back, but little or no blood. Perhaps it was the poor diet after so many months at sea, but Girardin took it as yet another sign she was not fit to be a mother.
Girardin lit a candle to mark the first birthday of her son. As she replaced the glass to shield the naked flame, it stuttered as if she was starving it of air. The thin flame was all she had to offer him. She regretted fleeing from Raoul in Tenerife before she had found some small trinket to spend her first wages on. It would have cheered her to pretend she had a present for him. Instead, her son would spend his first anniversary of life in a foundling hospital or in the basement of a church. In her nightmares, the children lay in darkness on sour mattresses, forbidden to get up, pressed tight against one another. A slant of grey light filtered through a high window. She imagined them fed only on thin oat water. The nuns’ hands were kept tucked away beneath grey robes, never touching the babies, as if they carried sin on their skin. She tortured herself with these visions, rubbing her thumb across the burn on her forearm.
But was Rémi still with the nuns? Perhaps he had been sent to the countryside, as Olympe had hoped. When the winds were blowing fair and strong and the sails were full, she allowed herself these fancies. Olympe had said there were women who were so well fed they had breast milk to spare for foundlings. The church paid these women, the nourrices, to nurse the babies. It must be in their interests to keep the babies well fed and healthy, to keep them alive. Yes, in the country there would be more food than the city. Surely no one would die of hunger in the country. The fullness of the sails reminded her of milk-white breasts.
This thought sustained her, but it terrified her also. How would she ever find him again? Even if they found La Pérouse’s ships in these islands and turned for home, where would she begin? One son dead and the other abandoned, sneered a voice in her head. Better left with those who know how to mother an infant. Girardin had no answer for the needling voice. She didn’t know how she would keep her son alive.
By late July the ships had found anchorage in Carteret Harbour in New Ireland, close to the Admiralty Islands, where they would begin their search for La Pérouse.
Girardin pressed her swollen gums. The pressure relieved the pain momentarily, but it did nothing to stop them bleeding. She swilled water around her mouth and spat over the side. It tasted foul.
‘Can they not collect it further upstream?’ she asked one sailor as he rolled a barrel along the deck.
‘This whole place is a swamp,’ he grunted.
The wood that was brought on board was infested with scorpions, the water was putrid and the supply of coconuts meagre. When Labillardière found the trees had been cut down to claim the nuts he was furious. ‘This is short-sighted insanity! If I hadn’t intervened they would have cut down all the palms along the shore.’
Girardin shrugged, holding the strange fruit in her hands. ‘The men are lethargic, sickly. The coconut water will revive them.’ She spoke more confidently than she felt. ‘Joannet says so.’
‘Do you know how long a palm tree takes to grow?’
‘Of course not.’
‘How can we destroy its potential to feed so many without knowledge of what we are doing?’
She had no answer. All she knew was that they needed fresh food urgently. She tapped at the the coconut’s outer casing, wondering how to break it.
‘For pity’s sake, give me that!’ Labillardière took out his machete and sliced clean through the base of the husk, nicking a hole in the hard inner nut and splashing water onto the deck. He held it up to her. ‘There. But it will take more than a few coconuts to save us.’
He was right of course, but it was something to sustain them while they searched the Admiralties. The General had told her that they could resupply fully at the port of Amboyna in the Dutch East Indies. By then, we will have rescued La Pérouse and his men, she thought, her mood lifting. By then, we will be preparing for the journey home.
She tipped the coconut towards her lips and tasted coconut water for the first time. It was sweet, surprising and delicious. The juice splashed down her chin. It had been so long since she had tasted sweetness.
‘Refreshing, isn’t it?’
Kermadec was watching her. It was a shock to see him after so many weeks and she felt unmasked. She remembered her weakness at Recherche Bay, and his kindness. It meant nothing, she had told herself many times; he meant only to reassure you.
‘Wait until you taste papaya, melon and bananas. Pineapple! I have so much to show you yet. We cannot turn for home until I have seen you taste pineapple. It would be good for my soul.’
His smile was broad and his cheeks glowed. It was impossible not to be uplifted by his presence. She offered him a cautious smile in return.
‘I wanted to give you something,’ he said, pulling a cylindrical object from beneath his vest. ‘My father gave it to me when I was a boy. It’s a Dutch telescope.’ He held it out to her, balanced in the palm of his hand. The telescope was just four inches long and made of tin with gilt decoration.
‘For me?’ she said. ‘But your father gave it to you.’
‘He regretted that when I ran away to sea! Take it. It would give me pleasure to know you have it with you.’
She lifted it to her eye. The palm trees along the shore blurred and jumped before her, their coconuts close enough to reach out and touch. She drew back, amazed. She imagined showing it to her son, letting him have this same feeling of elation. Magical.
‘I cannot accept this.’ She handed it back. ‘I have nothing to give you in return.’ She could not be beholden to him. She could not let herself be in his debt.
‘Take it,’ he urged, pressing it into her palm. ‘For our search.’
She studied his earnest face. Did he mean for La Pérouse or something more?
‘It catches the light,’ Kermadec said, ‘to bring things that are far away closer to you.’
Chapter 31
T
he Admiralty Islands, 28 July 1792
UNDER LEADEN SKIES, THE SHIPS BEGAN THEIR SEARCH OF THE Admiralty Islands, setting a course for Vendola Island. The atmosphere crackled with expectation. Before long, they came upon an archipelago of tiny islands, dots of white sand with few palms, each one circled by a reef. When Girardin looked over the side of the ship the clear blue water seemed bottomless.
Hopes were high among the crew. Wagers were being laid. She was tempted to lay her own bet, as if putting her coins down would tilt the odds in favour of La Pérouse’s rescue. The telescope pressed against her thigh in a pocket she had sewn to hold the cherished gift. Looking through its eyepiece gave her a pulse of sacrilegious joy. She had the feeling of besting God, of seeing further than he intended her to.
‘Where did you get that?’
She turned to see Félix watching her. It startled her to find him suddenly so close.
‘A friend,’ she said, slipping the telescope back into her pocket.
He raised his eyebrows.
Her cheeks felt hot. She had spent so little time with the naturalists since leaving Recherche Bay. They must know she had been avoiding them. The General’s warning had frightened her and she could not risk falling from his favour. Yet she felt guilty, remembering the naturalists’ care of her when she had been wounded. Few others had shown her friendship. She looked for Félix again, but he had moved away.
A cry from the tops brought men running to the bow.
‘Wreckage!’ She heard the word repeated down through the ship. She took out her telescope, but the image in her eyepiece leaped about. Perhaps there, on the beach, was the eviscerated hull of a ship? The men pressed around her, leaning over the rail, but she could not imagine how these islands, with their barren white-hot sand and few coconut palms, could sustain a shipload of men. If this wreckage was one of La Pérouse’s ships, the Astrolabe or the Boussole, would they find only bones remaining?
They sailed closer to the island and the men fell silent. She held her breath. Was rescue truly possible? Would they soon be going home? She could see spars of wood rising from the sand, half sunken in the ocean. The wood was bare and bleached, picked clean. But as they inched closer still, the hull of the supposed wreckage became clear. Drowned trees had beached upon the reefs and their branches protruded from the ocean like the ribs of fallen frigates. She watched the illusion shatter as they sailed past.
Many times that afternoon, she saw the spectre of these ghost ships stranded on the reefs. As the sky blackened and a downpour of lukewarm water doused the decks, Girardin gave up hope and went back to her duties.
When Vendola Island was finally sighted it was not at all what she expected. The hillside slopes were cultivated with coconut plantations and terraced root crops. Smoke rose from fires in thatched huts. Here there was a village. Here there was hope of survival, she thought with growing excitement. With food and shelter the men might still be alive.
Two young officers rushed past Girardin, elbowing one another as they raced for the glory of rescue. She recognised Mérite who was first to reach the rail, and Saint-Aignan, holding his violin high above his head. Stout Lieutenant Rossel followed behind, pushing aside Mérite and choosing only Saint-Aignan to accompany him into the pinnace. The rowers took up the oars. Mérite slapped the rail in annoyance as the boat rowed off to shore without him.
Her first glimpse of the natives was terrifying. The islanders of Vendola surged across the reefs and launched their canoes. Girardin was shocked at their speed; she imagined the ships being invaded by these fearsome men.
‘They know of European ships,’ Labillardière said, coming to stand beside her.
The Espérance lowered a boat and she identified the tall frame of Captain Kermadec stepping into it. Soon both boats were trapped in a flotilla of canoes and unable to reach the shore. Trading began in earnest. She could see coconuts and spears tossed into the boats. Girardin winced as some of the islanders beat others with cudgels and forced them to relinquish the traded nails and axes to their chiefs.
‘Even among the noble savage,’ Labillardière said sadly, ‘taxes leave the poor with nothing and their chiefs with all.’
The rowers set to the oars once again and pushed through the entourage of canoes, heading for the shore. Girardin took up her telescope. The boats landed on the beach and the islanders swarmed around them. Did she see a flash of blue? A red cloth? A stumbling man dash out and fall upon the sands? She found the women, standing back beneath the coconut palms, holding their children behind them. Then Kermadec loomed in and out of her wavering gaze, speaking with a group of the woolly-haired men.
‘Give me that,’ ordered Labillardière. He plucked the telescope from her hand and put it to his eye. Without it she could only see dark shapes.
‘Fools!’ Labillardière cried. ‘They are coming back. Why would they return so soon when the islanders still have coconuts to trade?’
‘They return because we all want to know what has become of La Pérouse!’ Girardin snapped at him, frustrated by his lack of sympathy. ‘Can you not see how important this is?’
Labillardière tilted his head as he looked down at her. ‘You really think there is a chance La Pérouse can be found?’ He barked out a laugh, casting his eyes around the anxious faces of the men about them. ‘Oh, this is precious.’
‘You are impossible!’ she cried. ‘We are on a rescue mission. We have to find La Pérouse and go home!’ She felt the men beside them turn to stare. Her voice sounded high and screeching, like a market woman selling cod. She could not afford to lose her temper.
‘Look around you. Do you see space set aside for bringing men home? Even if half the complement of La Pérouse’s crew had survived, where do you think we would put them?’
Girardin snatched her telescope back from him, her hands shaking too much to put it to her eye.
‘This is not a rescue mission,’ continued Labillardière. ‘Not even the National Assembly thinks that. This is a scientific expedition. I just wish the General would stop this foolishness and admit it.’
As she watched the boats returning from the shore, she saw Kermadec turn to her and shake his head.
For weeks they searched the Admiralty Islands. At each new island encounter, Saint-Aignan would play his violin, hoping to draw the natives out to meet them. As the days passed without success, even his more buoyant tunes had a note of despair. Girardin could no longer bear to watch him standing tall in the bow, his fiddle cradled against his cheek.
The trading too had been a disappointment. The islanders would only part with a few coconuts and the sailors grumbled at the lack of fresh food. The rash on her lower legs had turned black, like a sooty mould creeping on her skin. The sailors did not like to mention the scurvy sickness, but she knew they all suffered. On Armand’s arm she had seen a pus-coloured lump the size of a pullet’s egg. Labillardière blamed the torrential rains. Joannet urged her to dose the wine and brandy with preparations of cinchona bark. The General assured her that rest would revive them all, once they reached the Moluccas, the Spice Islands.
Everyone aboard felt subdued by the failure here. She had pinned her hopes on finding La Pérouse and returning home, but now she felt disillusioned, uncertain of their future. She had no opportunity to speak with Kermadec, but she imagined he felt this disappointment as keenly as she did. She turned the telescope over and over in her hands, wondering at the meaning of his gift.
In the falling light, the ships anchored at the last island of the Admiralties. Here the islanders were fishing offshore and would not come out to meet them. She watched with little expectation as the General launched a paper lantern on a floating plank to arouse their curiosity. The weather was so calm and the sea so smooth that the lantern remained alight, floating on the dark water. The islanders seemed spooked by the ghostly apparition; they chanted loudly and quit their fishing grounds.
The candle glowed for many hours in the still night, while Saint-Aignan played his
soulful chords. It reminded her of the candle she had lit to mark her son’s birthday. To Girardin, it seemed to be a message, a final goodbye.
La Pérouse was not here. They had gambled on a rumour and lost.
Chapter 32
Amboyna, Molucca Islands, 6 September 1792
THE PORT OF AMBOYNA IN THE HEART OF THE SPICE ISLANDS WAS a jolt to her senses. The scent of cloves and wood smoke drifted in the still morning air. Wooden crates, stamped with the insignia of the Dutch East India Company, were stacked on the wharves. Malaysian fishing junks and canoes jostled for space among the Dutch ships. Trading had begun and voices yelped in strange, high-pitched languages. Fish were being smoked and dried. Exotic fruits of brilliant yellows and bright crimson were piled on mats. Armand pointed to the cartload of yams being tipped onto the wharf, while his monkey hopped up and down on his shoulders and screeched. Here at long last, she thought, they would be able to rest and restock.
The little colonial town was encircled by gardens of fruit trees. High on a hill, a crumbling Dutch fort looked down over the pointed roofs of huts and solid wooden homes. In the centre of the town she saw a Calvinist chapel, and in the western quarter the sweeping bird-wing shape of a Chinese pagoda. To the north she glimpsed the tiered pyramid roof of a Malay mosque. The scene was like a painting on a decorative panel, like something she had once seen on a noblewoman’s dressing screen.
‘Cloves and nutmeg,’ the General said as they watched the bales being loaded onto a ship. ‘The Dutch have monopoly on trade. We must persuade them we are not here to steal their precious spice plants.’
It had been a shock to learn that foreign ships were not permitted to dock here. She counted eighteen brigs and sloops in the port, all under Dutch colours. The General prepared to set off to persuade the governor that their mission was not a commercial voyage. Girardin chewed her thumbnail.
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