Into the World

by Stephanie Parkyn

  She looked across to the Espérance. In the month since leaving Van Diemen’s Land, the General and Captain Kermadec had remained distant. Neither man had set foot on the other’s ship. But at least the General now seemed fully focused on their mission to find La Pérouse. Passing the northernmost tip of New Zealand, he would not let Labillardière go ashore, and the naturalist had to be content with trading flax from a visiting canoe. As they journeyed north, she was heartened to hear the General name a group of islands after Kermadec. Perhaps he felt he had treated his friend poorly after all and meant to make amends. It had dismayed her, though, to learn that Captain d’Auribeau had named one of the islands after Raoul.

  On the quarterdeck, the General gave orders to halt the trading. Amid the mayhem, an important man, a warrior chief, climbed on board the ship. Chief Feenou was the largest man she had ever seen. Great rolls of fat folded over one another around his middle. Scars of battle were inscribed across his broad chest. His woolly hair was dusted white like a European wig.

  Chief Feenou announced the imminent arrival of the supreme chief of the Friendly Isles, King Toobou, and Girardin felt confident a king would know if La Pérouse had been here. She watched in fascination as a retinue of musicians came aboard before the King and set up a drumming beat. One magnificent warrior with an oiled chest put a conch shell to his lips and sent a haunting note across the water.

  King Toobou’s entourage of warriors were astonishing. They stood like trees, so large in every limb, so broad, so tall. Even their hands were enormous. If not for their warm smiles, Girardin would have been terrified of them. The French sailors looked small and poorly fed by comparison, their skin sallow and grey alongside the shining strength of these men.

  King Toobou was even rounder in girth than Chief Feenou, and wore what looked like a straw mat fastened about his waist by a belt of cloth. He brought a gift of the papery tapa cloth decorated with brown inks that, when rolled out, stretched from bow to stern.

  Girardin watched as Toobou presented a crown of brilliant red feathers to the General with great ceremony. In return, the General gave a red coat to Toobou and a blue one to Feenou. The warriors admired the coats and put them on, unperturbed that they could not button them closed. Toobou and his chiefs sat themselves in a circle upon the deck and the General, his crown of feathers perched awkwardly upon his wig, urged his officers to join them.

  At this conference, Girardin hoped the General would begin to question the King about La Pérouse. She wanted to get closer, to hear what was being said. She would bring them refreshments. Wine, perhaps, or some brandy. Turning towards the bow, she slid past the bare arms and breasts of the islanders, smelling the pungent coconut oil smeared over the women’s bodies and through their hair. A mirror flashed sunlight in her eye, gifts used to tempt the women, and she pushed a sailor away from her.

  Blocking her path was a grey-haired islander. He squatted on the deck with a young girl, perhaps his granddaughter, beside him. She looked no more than ten years old. He called out to Girardin, offering her the girl. Girardin paused, shocked, uncertain of his intentions. She thought of her sisters; she thought of herself at that age. The girl looked back at her mildly, continuing to play with a handful of glass beads in front of her.

  Girardin continued to the stairs. Beneath the deck, the darkened mess was crowded with naked limbs. The air was thick with grunting, any thought of privacy abandoned. It smelled of sex and sweat. She made for the stores. Besnard stood with his back against the door, his pants around his ankles. A girl with long black hair tied back with a new red ribbon bobbed at his crotch. Girardin gasped. Besnard’s head was thrown back, his flabby cheeks blowing, breath whinnying through his nose. She fled.

  The sudden call of a conch shell, like a warning, drew her back on deck. Chief Feenou and King Toobou were running along the gangway to the bow of the boat, coat-tails flapping behind. From the shore, a magnificent double-storey canoe had launched and was approaching swiftly. Toobou and Feenou promptly swept up the tails of their new coats and tumbled over the rail into their waiting canoes. Girardin stared in amazement. What did this mean? Had they lost their chance to interview the King of these islands? Was this an attack? The General looked about him in open astonishment. The remaining islanders threw themselves prostrate to the deck as a short, plump woman nearing fifty years of age was helped aboard the ship.

  Queen Tineh sat beside the General at his table, nibbling sugared bananas. Girardin took a place close behind. The Queen’s hair was cut short and rubbed all over with a reddish powder. By contrast, her attendants had flowing black hair, thick and shining. These women were even more beautiful than the islanders who had first come aboard the ship, and were not tempted by beads and baubles. They had ignored the sailors’ lewd suggestions, their expressions calm and regal as they were shown about the ship. The sailors had been shamed into silence.

  All the officers of the Recherche had crammed into the General’s cabin with the Queen’s warriors and her ladies-in-waiting. Labillardière had spread a vocabulary list from Cook’s journal across his lap. The Queen and the General communicated in a hybrid mix of English, Tongan and French.

  When Queen Tineh was told of King Toobou’s ungracious exit, she snorted. ‘They owe their positions to me. They hate to show their subservience.’

  ‘King Toobou is your husband?’ the General asked.

  She looked revolted. ‘My mother’s brother.’

  Girardin itched to know when the General would ask about La Pérouse. She had stood for hours through this dinner and he had not mentioned their lost compatriot once. They had been entertained by a song from the Queen’s beautiful ladies-in-waiting that had lasted half an hour and consisted of only two words. The men had been captivated by the sensual movements of their arms. Girardin had stifled her yawns. Not to be outdone, Saint-Aignan then played tunes on both the German guitar and bird organ, both of which, she was surprised to find, he could play passably.

  The General turned to the Queen. ‘Do you remember the visits of the English navigators?’ he asked her.

  Girardin sharpened her attention.

  Queen Tineh seemed to indicate she did, mentioning the names of Cook and Bligh.

  ‘Have you seen any other ships, any Europeans dressed like us, in the French manner?’

  Girardin wished she could see the Queen’s face. La Pérouse had to have come here. If not, then where else could they look?

  The Queen shook her head.

  The General picked up a knife. ‘Any cutlery marked like this?’ he pressed.

  Queen Tineh stood abruptly and Girardin leaped back. Had she taken offence?

  The Queen wrapped her empty plate in a napkin and gestured to her ladies to gather the presents she had been given. Girardin watched as they also stowed the plates and cutlery in their belts. She turned to the General. He looked as shocked as her, but he stood and bowed deeply.

  The Queen said, ‘We will host a feast in your honour in five days’ time on my island of Pangaïmatoo. If you wish, you may sleep with me.’

  Stammering his thanks, the General managed to nod and shake his head simultaneously. Girardin saw Lieutenant Rossel stifle a grin with his hand.

  ‘You offer me great kindness. Your accommodation is, no doubt, far more comfortable than this ship, but I am afraid I cannot leave my men. I hope you understand?’

  The Queen shrugged, cast a glance over the assembled press of men, and turned her back.

  Girardin waited till all the Queen’s retinue and the officers had filed out from the cabin and she was alone. The table had been stripped not only of food but also of plates and cutlery. Not even the salt and pepper shakers remained. They had taken everything. She sank into a chair. She had hoped to hear news of survivors, imagined their countrymen building a ship from their wreckage on some nearby shore, intending to sail home. But the General’s cautious questioning had been fruitless.

  She had expected too much. She had let herself imagine
their quest would end here. Her son would be a toddler now, perhaps even walking if someone—she hoped—had taken the time to encourage him. The fantasy of her reunion with her son came uninvited to her mind, Kermadec by her side, Rémi running across a field towards her.

  So much depended on them finding La Pérouse. She could not rely on the General’s hesitant interviews with the Queen.

  She spread her hands across the empty table. A spark of excitement propelled her forwards. If La Pérouse had been here, there must surely be objects of French design left on these islands. Whether by trade or theft, there would some item—a plate, a cup—by which to identify the presence of Frenchmen among the islanders. Here was her chance to act. She would find these men. And she would take them home.

  Chapter 48

  WHEN THE DAY OF THE QUEEN’S FEAST CAME, GIRARDIN TOOK her chance to go ashore with the naturalists. She sat beside Félix in the boat, leaning out over the gunwale to marvel at the colourful fish darting away from the oars. The sea was so clear she could see down to the great gardens of coral branching out in magnificent shapes beneath them. Like trees crystallised in coloured sugar, she thought, as their boat passed above. Along the beach, palm trees waved their fronds in a beckoning rhythm with the wind, enticing her ashore.

  A trading tent had been erected and thousands of islanders came to barter. They were taking on board more than six hundred coconuts a day. The butcher strung up the carcasses of the hogs almost as soon as they were traded. This truly was a kingdom of plenty, she thought, seeing the islanders queuing patiently with their produce. If La Pérouse and his men had been marooned somewhere in these islands, there would surely be survivors.

  The rowers pulled the boat up on mudflats. Piglets snuffled in the mud, munching on seaweed and rooting out crabs and shellfish. Here, the native chickens were a novelty; skinny blue hens with orange feet strutted past her. She felt something crawl across her bare foot. Looking closely, she realised the beach was alive with walking shells.

  ‘A hermit crab,’ Labillardière told her, plucking the shell from the sand and overturning it in her hand. The protruding legs quickly disappeared and then some moments later re-emerged to flip itself over. Amazed, Girardin repeated the trick. ‘They use discarded shells to make their homes.’

  She placed the crab gently on the wet sand. Motionless, it looked the same as all the other abandoned shells. If only it were so easy to disappear. She thought of her own disguises, the cloaks she had worn, the houses she had lived in. She was still looking for the shell that fitted her so completely.

  Preparations for the feast in the General’s honour were well underway. There was music and laughter. Islanders carried long bamboo poles across their shoulders with fish and fruits dangling from each end. The mounds of food were stacked into pyramids. Smoke from cooking fires drifted lazily through the palms.

  ‘Citizen Riche!’ called Ventenat, waving. The naturalist stood amid a pile of collecting cages in the shade of a palm tree with his servant, Michel. So a party from the Espérance had already landed. She craned her neck to see if she could recognise Kermadec among the men.

  ‘Monsieur Riche, is your captain coming to the feast today?’ she asked, contriving to walk beside him along the beach.

  ‘He has not been well.’

  ‘Not well?’ She hoped her voice did not betray her emotion.

  ‘Bedridden.’ Riche sniffed. ‘We both suffer from consumption, yet I am able to continue my researches.’

  Consumption.

  What did she know of consumption? The diseases of the lungs were not helped by this hot and moist air, she knew that much. His health would surely improve if they turned for home. She felt even more anxious to begin her search for evidence of La Pérouse.

  She went with the naturalists as they set off on their explorations, hoping to find a village in which to look for items that might have come from a French ship. Labillardière led them away from the feast intending to circle the island. As the morning grew older, the sun hotter and her throat drier, they crossed beaches of burning white sand and waded through waist-deep tidal channels. Riche, who had boasted of his fortitude, began to tire and his cough returned. He trailed behind the group with his servant scolding him for his stubbornness.

  Up ahead, Girardin heard laughter and voices warbling over one another. She quickened her step. Circular huts made of woven and thatched fronds were dotted in clearings through the palms. A group of women sat outside a large hut, shaded by the coconut palms. Excited, Girardin approached the women and saw they were grinding coconut flesh into paste on a large flat stone.

  Labillardière halted before the open doorway of the largest hut.

  ‘Surely the basic laws of hospitality will extend to foreigners?’ Riche said hopefully.

  The sand radiated heat all around her. From the cool shade of the hut, a chief welcomed them with a broad smile and gestured for them to enter. The respite from the beating sun was immediate. As her eyes grew accustomed to the shade, Girardin looked up to admire the intricate ceiling of woven palm fronds. She collided with Félix who had stopped, staring at the back of the hut. She heard grunting. There on the mud floor was one of their crew, his hips thrusting, his body pinning a woman to the ground. The man looked up and tossed his fringe from his face. She recognised Raoul.

  Unconcerned, the chief stood and gestured with cupped hands towards his mouth, offering them a drink of coconut water.

  The sound of Raoul’s grunting on top of the girl continued.

  Horrified, Girardin backed away then turned and ran from the hut.

  Outside, the women stopped pounding the coconut flesh to stare at her.

  Girardin reeled about. She could not return to the ship; Raoul might follow her. I must pull myself together, she thought. I cannot let them see me like this. She remembered the pain of Raoul’s knee on her back. She heard his words in her ear: Hébert’s bitch. He could ruin everything for her if he chose. Turning towards the ocean she let the slight breeze cool her face.

  She heard the naturalists talking as they too left the hut.

  ‘One of the prettiest girls on the island,’ Ventenat was saying.

  ‘Is she his daughter or his wife?’

  The women called to the naturalists to sit with them. They offered coconut water to drink. Félix brought her some of the pudding that the women had been preparing on a hot stone. Even though her throat burned with bile, she took it. The pudding was soft and sweet and delicious. She followed Félix back to the group, but sat apart from them, her back against a palm tree. She kept her eyes on the women as they mixed breadfruit with the coconut flesh, grinding it against the stone.

  The women began to question Labillardière using explicit gestures and Girardin watched him squirm as he attempted to answer their queries.

  ‘Are French women not taboo mitzi mitzi?’ one woman asked. She seemed to be wondering if French men could sleep with other men’s women at home as they did here.

  ‘Our women would not give their favours so freely,’ Labillardière spluttered.

  Ventenat put a hand on his arm, urging him not to cause offence.

  ‘How many wives does a man have?’ another woman asked.

  ‘Only one.’

  The women laughed.

  ‘What about eguis, chiefs?’

  ‘Still only one. Marriage is between one man and one woman.’

  They screamed with laughter.

  Affronted, Labillardière began to explain that even the kings of Europe, the egui lais, had just one wife apiece.

  ‘Imagine if Louis had more than one woman to meddle in the affairs of state,’ Riche muttered.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Girardin saw Raoul strut out from the hut. She tensed. The chief followed him out and a transaction occurred. Was it the knife he had held to her throat in Van Diemen’s Land that he now gave to the chief? She forced herself to meet his eye. He flicked his greasy swatch of hair from his forehead. Raising his chin, he sucked a d
eep breath through his nostrils, as though smelling her out, just as he had done in Tenerife. She jerked back. He laughed and sauntered along the beach away from them.

  The young woman came out of the chief ’s hut and took her place around the fire with the others. Girardin studied her face. She looked younger than the other women, but whether she was the daughter or wife of the chief, Girardin could not say. She seemed unconcerned by what had happened in the hut. Did she mind that she could be gifted to a sailor for the price of a knife? The woman picked up her coconut shell and resumed scraping it, the blade making a hollow scratching sound. Are they as free as they seem? Girardin wondered. She watched them laugh as they worked. Do these women choose their lovers? Or are they traded between families, just the same as French women?

  She listened to the rhythmic scrape of knife blade on stone as the women worked. She watched the knives moving with their hands, seeing the tarnished blades from this wet heat. The stag-horn handles.

  ‘The knives!’ she shouted, leaping to her feet.

  Félix fell back, startled.

  ‘Trade something for them.’

  She held out a handkerchief and gestured to a knife, but the women drew back, tucking the knives away beneath their thighs. The steel was too valuable to them.

  ‘Where did you get them?’ she demanded. There were no deer in these isles. These were knives of French manufacture.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Félix asked her. ‘You’re scaring them.’

  ‘The knives could be from La Pérouse. Don’t you see? Some French sailors have been here before.’ She turned back to the women. ‘Who gave you these knives?’

  The women started to call out in frightened voices.

  ‘Sit down!’ Labillardière growled at her. ‘Do you mean to get us killed?’