Mérite had stayed behind in Java. They had made their way, dripping wet, to the captain of the Swaan, a man disinclined to ask questions. The crew of the spice ship was as exotic as its cargo. There were sailors of all colours and creeds—Dutch, Portuguese, Chinese and slaves from the islands—so the arrival of a waif-like Frenchman raised no eyebrows. She said farewell to Mérite with a torn heart. It had felt wrong to leave him behind. But he had gained a position with the Dutch East India Company and could not be convinced to sail home with her. She had made this final journey alone.
A fortune in spices lay in the bales at her back. Corruption was as rife in the Dutch East India Company as syphilis in the navy. She had split the hem of her tunic and bribed the officer in charge of the smuggled shipment. Now his greed was about to deliver her home. She kept her eye on the blinking light. When the rowers leaped out to heave the boat through the mud, she slipped over the side without a backward glance.
Each step through the chilling mud was treacherous. It dragged at her. She heard the wet suck of the tidal mud each time she lifted a foot. She knew there was quicksand along this coast but, strangely, she was not afraid. No alligators lurked in this marsh mud. With each step, the mud became firmer. Each step brought her closer to land.
The grunts of the men grew fainter as she veered away from them. In the grainy light of dawn, she saw the twisted forms of dark trees showing her the way to shore. She tripped as the tidal mud clutched her ankles and fell face first into the slime. It stank like bilge water. She crawled on her hands and knees. She did not stop. The silt turned coarse in her hands. The sharp edges of broken shells pricked her palms. When she stood, cockles crunched beneath her feet. The wet sand was firm as she tottered forwards onto the beach. Land. After so many years at sea. After all she had seen and done. All those she had lost. Home.
Tears ran down her face as she collapsed to her knees.
She felt the release like the crash of a wave upon her back. She crumpled over, letting the relief swirl around her, feeling its foaming embrace. As the wave receded, she wiped her face. She smeared the mud from her skin and breathed deep. She still had a long way to go.
The thought of the journey ahead did not scare her. She was calm as she listened to the birds waking from the darkness. The cove with its low hills of tussock, white rock and trees bent by the wind seemed unusually still. She got to her feet. She would follow the shoreline until she reached a river; it was what the naturalists would do. On her back she carried a knapsack with pies and bread she had baked, just as Etienne had taught her. In her pocket, she carried the telescope that Kermadec had given her. Both men travelled with her.
Her gait was rolling when she set off, her legs unused to solid land after seven months at sea. Her trousers and tunic were caked with wet mud. But it felt good to stretch her legs. Soon she was striding along the beach, confident she would find water. The thought of Labillardière and Félix setting off into unknown forests cheered her. Their courage buoyed her spirits. She hoped that, by now, they had escaped their jungle prison.
At the river mouth she knew she had found her signpost, her marker of the way home. This tranquil seam of water would lead her to a village, and then a town, and then a coach. And she would take the coach to Paris. She pulled back her sleeve. The round welt was vivid red against her pale skin. Not long now, she promised her son.
She followed the river until she was beyond the reach of the tide, and plunged into the water. She scrubbed at herself vigorously, washing the salt and silt from her clothes and ducking her head beneath the water to scratch the dirt from her hair. She scooped up mouthfuls of the fresh water. It was cold and free of salt taint. Even the smell of it was delicious. Climbing out onto the bank, she felt renewed.
Already a breeze was blowing down the valley, pushing the sea mist away. She turned her face to it and held up her arms, waiting for the sun to warm her and the wind to blow the moisture from her. On a distant hill, she saw a line of clothes dancing on a washing line. A dress flapped in the freshening breeze, waving like a signal flag. As she picked her way along the riverbank, she kept her eye on the dress. It strained against its pegs. She imagined the wind might whip it free, let it float on the eddies of air.
The farmhouse was nestled beneath the crest of the hill. She lay down in the long grass, her heart thumping a steady beat against the earth, watching. A girl came out to milk a cow, pulling the teats with practised ease. The girl’s head was pressed against the belly of the cow. The yard was empty.
When she took the dress from the line, she left a pile of coins behind.
It was almost evening when she found a barn. No one saw her slip inside and climb up into the rafters. The last shafts of sunlight pierced through knotholes and cracks in the wood. The hay was dusty and made her sneeze, but it was warm.
Stripping off her sailor’s clothes, she stared down at her wasted body. It bore the scars of her voyage. The scurvy rash, the protruding ribs, the bruises. She touched the ragged scar across her arm, her rite of passage. She peeled the bindings from her breasts to free her inflamed skin. The flesh beneath the bandages was as soft and translucent as raw fish, and her nipples pressed inwards. She shook her shoulders and felt the air against her skin, the slight sway of her breasts as blood filled them. She flapped her arms like the wings of a bird. Pumping her muscles, thumping her elbows against her ribs, squeezing life into her chest.
The pile of stained clothes lay at her feet. She had shed Louis Girardin as easily as a lizard steps out of its skin. Now she pulled the dress over her head. It was too big for her, but she didn’t care. She smiled, stroking the coarse linen, running her fingers along the handstitched seams, admiring the tough and sturdy fabric. It was the colour of a trusted sail. Twirling, she felt air fill her skirt. She laughed with the delight of it, not caring who might hear. A startled mouse sprinted from the hay.
She hardly recognised herself. She was a new person. Free of shame. She believed in herself, she believed she would find her son. And it suddenly occurred to her that she need not wear her father’s name. She wondered why she hadn’t thought of this before. A rush of effervescence burst through her. She felt lighter. She would take a new name for her family. She was smiling as she pictured them together, mother and son. A warmth spread from her belly as she realised the name had been with her all along. The name her mother gave her. Her middle name.
Victoire.
Author’s note
THE MYSTERY OF THE WHEREABOUTS OF LA PÉROUSE AND HIS crew was not solved until 1827, when the wrecks of the ships Astrolabe and Boussole were discovered at Vanikoro Island in the Santa Cruz Islands between the Vanuatu and Solomon Island groups. This island was sighted by the Bruni d’Entrecasteaux expedition twice, but not explored. Ironically, they named the island after the General’s ship—Recherche, the French word for search. It is thought that survivors would have been present at the time of the rescue mission.
Acknowledgements
MARIE-LOUISE LEFT NO WRITTEN RECORD OF HER OWN, HER PRESENCE was barely mentioned in published records of the voyage, and we learn of her through the impressions of others in private journals. Throughout the writing process I felt a strong sense of doing her story justice. I offer a possible version of her life and I hope this goes some way to bringing her back into the world.
To give her a voice, I chose to tell her story exclusively from her point of view. And in writing from the perspective of the French explorers, I am aware that the voices of the indigenous inhabitants of the countries they visited are missing. I want to acknowledge the limitations of representing contact between cultures from this one-sided viewpoint, and hope that others more qualified than I will share the stories of those cultures.
The characters in this novel are based on real people and I thank them for their stories. I have enjoyed reading the translated journals of the expeditioners and seeing personality revealed by their written words, but in transforming their accounts into story, inevitably they
have become my fictional characters. I have relied heavily on the published journal of Jacques-Julien Labillardière, Voyage in Search of La Pérouse, as translated by John Stockdale in 1800, and the spelling of names of plants, animals, people and places of the era have come from that source.
This novel would not be possible without the non-fiction works of historians and translators, in particular: Frank Horner, Looking for La Pérouse: D’Entrecasteaux in Australia and the South Pacific 1792–1793; Edward Duyker and Maryse Duyker, Bruny d’Entrecasteaux: Voyage to Australia and the Pacific 1791–1793; and Lucy Moore, Liberty: The Lives and Times of Six Women in Revolutionary France.
There are many people who have supported me on this journey who I want to thank. Firstly, my agent, Gaby Naher, who took me on and gave me the boost I needed to believe in myself. Her skilful advice and advocacy were invaluable. Then the insightful and enthusiastic team at Allen & Unwin: my publisher, Annette Barlow, and editors Christa Munns, Ali Lavau and Genevieve Buzo. It has been a joy to have them care about these characters as much as I do. And thanks to Nada Backovic for creating a beautiful cover.
I am immensely grateful to the readers who gave me encouragement and feedback on early drafts: Lynette Willshire, Shirley Patton, Michael Fletcher, Wendy Newton, Phoebe Reszke, Nelli Parkyn and Barbara Johnson. Writing friends have inspired me: Lillian Hankel, Briony Kidd, Rachel Edwards, Gina Mercer, and I am particularly grateful for the support of the Launceston Nano crew and Gunnabees. Feedback on earlier work helped make me a better writer—thank you John and Shardell Quinn, Sue Clearwater, Jo Ward, Janice Meadows and Rosie Dub. I thank the Tasmanian Writers’ Centre for the opportunities to learn from several magnificent authors through their workshops.
In researching this novel I have had some amazing experiences. In Hobart, I had the opportunity to sail on the Lady Nelson, where the crew generously gave me a copy of their ship’s manual, and to tour visiting ships: the replica Endeavour and the Bark Europa, where the female crew members were kind enough to speak to me about their experiences. Thank you Chloe Rudkin and Stu Gibson for your warmth and hospitality on my trips back to Hobart. I thank my French language teacher, Peta Frost, at Alliance Française Launceston for being so enthusiastic about this book, Lee and Louise Kingma for being excellent hosts in New Caledonia, and La Muse Artists and Writers Retreat for gathering creative people together, sharing tales and being an inspirational place to spend time revising in a twelfth-century manor in a tiny French village.
Friends and extended family have always been enthusiastic and supportive throughout the many years that it took to write this novel. Please know that I remember your words of kindness and encouragement. I grew up in a family of avid readers where books were the things my sister, Joanna, and I saved up to buy. My parents, Nelli and Vincent Parkyn, created the best sort of start a hopeful writer could have.
To my husband, Paul Johnson, thank you for giving me the space to learn to write and for lifting me up during the inevitable lows. You have been just the sort of pedantic reader, trusted advisor and beloved hand holder I needed. Thank you for sharing my joy.
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