Into the World

by Stephanie Parkyn

  Girardin felt guilty. She had failed Kermadec, unable to carry out his last wishes. But they all knew the search for La Pérouse was over.

  His officers called for the General to split the expedition ships. ‘Go on ahead, sir. For pity’s sake, you must preserve your health!’ said Rossel.

  ‘I will not leave Captain Kermadec!’

  The officers looked to their shoes.

  Girardin felt her heart break apart.

  Relenting at last, he allowed Rossel to give the order for the Recherche to sail ahead. But that morning, as if reprimanded by a vengeful God, the General was seized by a sudden vicious pain in his gut. She watched in horror as he writhed in his chair, face twisted in excruciating pain before he crumpled to the floor in agony. She ran for Renard.

  Renard brought Labillardière.

  They called for Joannet.

  A bilious colic, they all agreed.

  She watched in tortured silence as they lowered the General into a bath of water for treatment. Immediately his body shook with violent convulsions and he fell unconscious. By evening, the General was dead.

  Chapter 54

  Solomon Sea, 21 July 1793

  IT WAS DARK WHEN ROSSEL STEPPED OUT ON THE QUARTERDECK to deliver the news to the crew. Around Girardin there was a deep, profound silence. Disbelief.

  D’Auribeau took command of the expedition. He stepped forwards. ‘We have lost the best of chiefs, the most tender father.’ His voice trailed away.

  Girardin could hear the sobs around her, but her cheeks were dry. It was too soon for tears. It was not real. He could not be gone. How could a being, with all its complexity of thought and mind, that presence, be so instantly taken? No! She clenched her fists. She could not have lost the two men who had loved and protected her. She began to shake. She felt undone, unravelled, as though the ties that bound her to home had finally been severed, leaving her adrift. Looking around she thought she saw the same fear on other faces. A sense of irreparable loss, and of being lost. We are orphaned children, she thought.

  Girardin locked herself in her room. She threw herself into her hammock and cried until her face was hot and her ribs ached. She wept for Kermadec in a way she had never been able to before. The loss of the General gave her permission. She no longer cared what others might think. She howled her grief. For Kermadec and the lost promise of their love. For Bruni d’Entrecasteaux, the father she’d never had.

  At midday of the following day, the cannon shots ripped through her grief and she curled into a ball, cradling her head in her arms. She flinched at each of the thirteen shots as Admiral Antoine-Raymond-Joseph Bruni d’Entrecasteaux was farewelled with full military honours. She heard the weighted splash of his body.

  For three days she remained in her cabin. She did not answer her door. She did not take food, nor care to ensure it was provided for others. The scurvy sickness had returned. She scratched at the black rash spreading on her arms and legs. No matter how much she rubbed, she could no longer see the burn mark on her arm. The black pustules had obliterated it. She attacked the rash, digging her nails into her skin. Even that reminder of her son was lost.

  She keened when she realised she had missed the anniversary of Rémi’s birth. It had passed, lost in the weeks of misery and self-pity. She loathed herself. Her son was now two years old.

  Girardin cradled Passepartout in her arms. The lizard was thin—she had forgotten to feed her in these last days of grief—and her skin was dull brown and paper-dry.

  ‘I have made you wear the drab colours of this ship,’ she whispered. ‘What right did I have to take you from your home?’

  On the third day of her confinement, when her ablutions pail was full, when her cabin smelled of piss and shit, when she had no tears left, she heard a knock at her door.

  ‘You can’t stay in there forever.’

  She recognised the voice at her door. Mérite.

  He knocked again. ‘Let me in!’

  What did he want?

  Cautiously, she unlocked the door. Mérite was alone. She stepped back and let him enter.

  ‘Good God, this place reeks.’ He winced, covering his nose with his arm. ‘It’s not healthy. We have to get you out of here.’

  She closed the door behind him.

  He lit a reed from the lantern he carried and let the flame smoke while he walked around her cabin. When he passed the flame to the wick of her hanging lantern, the golden light swayed. Passepartout watched with a wary eye from her cage.

  ‘What do you want?’ Girardin asked, her voice exhausted.

  ‘Crème anglaise and fresh strawberries fed to me on a grass lawn. Dancing and fireworks.’

  She stared at him with hollow eyes. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘We all miss him,’ he said. ‘But we have to carry on.’

  Girardin looked to the floor, expecting her eyes to well up with tears. But by now they were empty.

  ‘We must endure,’ he said.

  What did this boy know about endurance? What could he know about bearing impossible pain? She sank down in her hammock. She should be angry with him, but the feeling leached away from her. She simply didn’t have the energy.

  ‘You need to eat.’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘Besnard needs you.’

  She grunted. No surprise.

  ‘The savants miss you.’

  She raised her eyebrow at him.

  ‘Well, Félix is worried about you.’

  She sighed. ‘What are you doing here, Mérite? Why do you care?’

  ‘Haven’t I always been there? In Van Diemen’s Land, New Caledonia? Why would I willingly endure the company of Labillardière?’ He smiled. ‘The General asked me to keep an eye on you. He would not want to see you like this.’

  She narrowed her eyes, wondering how much the General had told him about her. ‘I didn’t ask for his protection.’

  ‘He loved you like a father. He watched over you. He couldn’t help it.’

  ‘Well, the General’s gone,’ she said, dropping her head. ‘Your duty is discharged.’

  ‘I ask you then as a friend. Come, get some fresh air.’ He held out his hand.

  It galled her that he was right. She couldn’t stay in here forever. She could not repeat the same mistakes she had made when Etienne had died. Her grief had cost her everything.

  ‘It’s not raining,’ Mérite said hopefully.

  She let him pull her up. His hand was strong. ‘Thank you,’ she murmured.

  As they left her cabin, she picked up her pail of slops.

  On deck, she gulped at the soggy air. She smelled the salt sea, the tar, the scent of recent rain. The deck had been sluiced and the boards steamed.

  She followed Mérite as he took a turn about the deck, leading her through the knots of men. She saw fat fingers holding grubby cards. Unshaven faces and yellow teeth, chewing on dry biscuit.

  She passed the fishermen smelling of raw bait. They stared at her as she went by. She met their eyes. She held the pail in front of her like a weapon. Let any man come near me and he will wear it, she swore to herself.

  ‘Look there.’ Mérite pointed to the horizon. The skies above her head were obstinately grey, but along the horizon was the barest crack of glowing pink. He smiled at her. ‘Hope.’

  Chapter 55

  Boni Harbour, Waygiou Island, 20 August 1793

  ‘IS THIS NOT THE MOST BEAUTIFUL BLUE YOU HAVE EVER SEEN?’ Mérite asked, coming alongside her at the rail.

  A turtle swam through the azure water, the sunlight shifting across its patterned shell. The sun brightened the bay like a translucent jewel. These colours did not exist in France, she was sure of it—except, perhaps, in church windows. She remembered kneeling in the cathedral of Saint-Louis, staring up at the sunlight shining through the blue glass of Mary’s robe, Jesus held tight against her. But even then there had been something tainted about the colour. Here the colours were crisp and fresh, newborn.


  ‘Have you ever seen so much fruit? Such variety of produce?’ Mérite stared in amazement at the mounds of pumpkin, yam, pawpaw and sweet potato on the deck.

  The trading at Waygiou had been cautious, but friendly and surprisingly abundant. The harbour was a disappointing mangrove swamp with rickety huts standing on stilts above the marsh. But, miraculously, food had appeared. Every day the islanders brought more produce to the ship. She drank lemonade and ate oranges. Besnard made a turtle meat soup. The native turkey was delicious. There was laughter, singing and dancing. Saint-Aignan had picked up his violin with renewed appetite.

  ‘I could live here,’ Mérite said. ‘I could live out my days in an island paradise like this. Remember Tongatabou? Have you ever before seen such lushness, such promise?’

  Mérite offered her a piece of pineapple, but she shook her head, thinking instantly of Kermadec. He too had been an optimist. Someone who thought the best of life, despite evidence to the contrary.

  ‘I have a feeling that in this part of the world,’ Mérite said softly, ‘no one would be left to starve.’

  She gave him a sidelong glance. What had this youth seen of starvation? Mérite de Saint-Méry with his well-muscled chest and shoulders that spoke of fine food and safe shelter. He had most likely been fed by the King’s navy all his life, and no doubt his father and grandfather before that. What did he know of suffering?

  ‘Have you forgotten the cannibals of New Caledonia?’ She reminded him of the men that had pointed at his thighs and smacked their lips with desire.

  ‘But they welcomed us. They fed us, even though they were starving.’

  She fell silent. At the bow, Saint-Aignan began to play a merry tune. He hoped to bring the canoes out to trade. She watched him move with the notes, so transported by the music that he did not notice the approaching canoes veer away to the Espérance instead.

  Mérite kicked off his shoes and leaped up onto the taffrail, balancing with his arms outspread.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Come in with me!’

  ‘I cannot swim.’

  ‘I will teach you.’

  She waved him off. Foolish boy. Mérite jumped, tucking his knees up to his chest, hitting the water with a massive splash that drenched her and caught Félix and Labillardière as they approached.

  ‘Idiot!’ Labillardière called, wiping his face.

  ‘Watch out for the snakes here,’ said Félix, as he shook the water from his hair. ‘They swim.’

  Mérite kicked out on his back and grinned.

  ‘It is good to see you revived,’ Félix said to her.

  She smiled at him, the movement stiff and unfamiliar. ‘We are on our way home.’

  ‘Yes, home! At last. My hands itch for soil.’ He rubbed them together. ‘They have had their fill of salt.’

  ‘A life of discovery is not for you?’ she asked.

  ‘I belong in a garden. I would rather watch God’s creations grow than squash them flat in dry tomes.’ His voice was tart as he turned his head towards Labillardière.

  ‘What will you do when we return to France?’ she asked Félix.

  ‘I will take back my breadfruit plants to the Jardin du Roi and become a famous man. One day I shall be director of the King’s gardens.’

  She heard Labillardière snort.

  Félix ignored him. ‘And you, Monsieur Girardin?’

  What would she do now? All her thoughts and dreams had involved Kermadec. She would need a living to support her son. ‘Perhaps I would like to be a gardener too,’ she said quietly.

  Félix smiled at her with pure delight.

  An unusual sensation flushed through her. All it took was dressing like them to prove her worth. She touched her chest. In a strange way these bindings have set me free, she thought. If I can be a man here, I can be a man anywhere. I can be a father to my son. She felt her spirits lift. To Java and then home, she thought.

  Shouts rang out from nearby canoes.

  ‘Boayo, boayo!’

  The natives were urging the sailors out of the water. She saw Mérite floating on his back, arms circling like angel wings, oblivious.

  ‘What are they saying?’ she asked Labillardière.

  He flicked through his notebook of the Malay language. ‘They appear to be warning us about a type of Aloe plant.’

  ‘Not boaya,’ said one of the crew, a Malay slave they had taken aboard at Amboyna. He shook his head at Labillardière. ‘They say boayo.’ He gnashed his teeth. ‘Alligators.’

  She gasped. ‘Mérite! Get out of the water!’

  The cry of ‘Alligators!’ rang out as the crew called to the bathing men.

  Mérite splashed his arms and feet in the clear blue water. ‘I am not afraid of alligators,’ he boasted.

  ‘Only because he doesn’t know what they are,’ said Félix.

  ‘Speaking of man-eating beasts,’ Labillardière said, pointing to a boat leaving the Espérance. It was filled with crates and boxes. She shivered as if a cloud had crossed the sun. The new commander of the expedition, Captain d’Auribeau, was returning to the Recherche.

  Girardin loosened one of the coils of rope along the side of the ship and threw it out to Mérite. He caught the end of it and let her pull him back to safety.

  Girardin watched as Raoul welcomed Captain d’Auribeau aboard, knowing that she had never been more at risk on this ship than at this moment. The royalist sympathiser had a new leader now. If Raoul had spied on her at Versailles, if he knew what she had done for Hébert, then he would tell d’Auribeau. She saw it as clear as these waters, as plain as the scallop shells on the ocean floor. The royalist captain would seek retribution. No one would protect her now.

  Captain d’Auribeau’s belongings were transferred to the General’s cabin and he ordered the flag of expedition commander raised once again on the Recherche. Girardin felt hot fury on seeing him take the General’s cabin for his own. No one had set foot in the room since he had died. How dare d’Auribeau think to replace the General?

  Raoul climbed the quarterdeck carrying a bucket of sea water.

  Labillardière cried out, already running, ‘Keep away from my breadfruit plants!’

  The captain’s face boiled red. ‘The General tolerated your disrespect, but I shall not!’ He flicked his hand to Raoul.

  Raoul upended the bucket of sea water over the plants.

  ‘No!’ Labillardière dragged him away. ‘Imbecile! You are poisoning them.’

  ‘Things will change!’ d’Auribeau thundered. ‘The new order will not be so lenient. Get those boxes off my quarterdeck.’

  Félix groaned and rushed below deck to protect his own plants. She knew he saw his future withering.

  Raoul sauntered towards her, confident in his position as overseer of this new order.

  Girardin stood her ground. She met his gaze, determined not to flinch. He smirked as he stopped before her. ‘The whore,’ he said into her ear. She pulled back, eyes wide, searching his face. Raoul leaned forwards and with his warm breath stroking her neck, whispered, ‘Who might be next to take their pleasure with you now that the General is dead?’

  Her nostrils flared.

  ‘The General gone—’ he snapped his fingers ‘—your Captain Kermadec, too.’ He shook his head in mock sadness. ‘No one for you to run to. Only me.’

  ‘Never,’ she growled.

  ‘I offered you my protection once and I will do so again, for a price. I am a reasonable man.’

  If he knew the truth of what she had done for Hébert, for the revolution, Raoul would already have told Captain d’Auribeau. Unless, she reasoned, he thinks only of his profit. Perhaps he thinks his secret knowledge could be turned to his advantage.

  ‘I’m curious,’ Raoul said in a low voice. ‘Why did Hébert send you here? What does he hope to gain from your charade?’

  Ha! He still thinks I am Hébert’s cuckoo. He thinks I am in disguise on this ship to serve Hébert.

  ‘Keep aw
ay from me,’ she hissed. ‘Or I will split you from breast to pubis and throw your innards to the fish.’

  She saw his surprise as he looked down at the sharpened blade. She pressed the tip of her knife above his groin. It was the tarnished knife with the stag-horn handle she had traded for in Tongatabou. She had spent hours with the whetstone, sharpening the blade.

  A hand on her shoulder dragged her back.

  ‘Get about your work, Raoul,’ Mérite said.

  Raoul looked him up and down dismissively. He mock saluted the younger man and whistled as he sauntered away.

  Both Mérite and Girardin were silent, breathing heavily. They shared a look of perfect understanding.

  ‘I can protect you,’ he said softly.

  She shook her head. ‘I can protect myself.’

  ‘The people are starving,’ Hébert had said to her. ‘Louis has had enough chances, someone must act!’

  At last, she thought. At last. Her days whispering in the corridors of Versailles would mean something. This was her moment. Olympe would be proud.

  Hébert had Marie-Louise walk along the garden walls every evening. ‘Pick an ugly one,’ Hébert told her. ‘Pick a guard whose head will be turned by a plain girl.’ She had not even been incensed by his insult.

  The King had sided with the nobles once again. Successive ministers—Turgot, Necker, even Calonne—had all told him he must tax the aristocracy or France would be bankrupt. Each time he tried to change the law the nobles resisted him. She did not trust the nobles; they cared for nothing except defending their privileges.

  Something big was planned—Marie-Louise could sense Hébert’s excitement.

  ‘He has made a mistake, we have him now!’ Hébert meant the banquet for the new troops, brought in to support the King’s bodyguard. The banquet was lavish. The soldiers drunk. They danced upon the tricolour cockade. Hébert wrote of the gluttonous orgy while the nobility stockpiled grain to starve the outspoken poor.

  When the market women of Paris rallied at the palace gates, Marie-Louise pressed herself to the palace windows along with all the other servants. The women at the gates were a ragged crowd, brandishing their knives and stolen weapons and dragging a cannon among them. They had marched thirteen miles from Paris in the pouring rain, ransacking armouries and gathering thousands in their mob. Whispers went through the galleries. ‘They strung up the Abbé Lefèvre because he would not open the stores!’