Landfalls

by Naomi J. Williams

  * * *

  In the morning Pierre Le Gobien comes in reply to my note. He knocks tentatively, and I can hear him breathing on the other side of my cabin door. But I keep very still, and at length he leans over to push a note under the door. The boyishness of his handwriting surprises me. Later, in a more practiced hand, a note from the Boussole, from Boutin. I copy out their figures in my notebook:

  SET OUT FROM THE BOUSSOLE:

  LOSSES, BOUSSOLE:

  1 longboat

  1 longboat

  1 small boat

  —

  13 water casks

  11 water casks

  28 men

  4 men

  SET OUT FROM THE ASTROLABE:

  LOSSES, ASTROLABE:

  1 longboat

  1 longboat

  1 small boat

  —

  15 water casks

  14 water casks

  33 men

  7 men

  There is satisfaction in the making of lists and the doing of sums, a satisfaction that even tragedy cannot quite erase. The numbers impress on me both the enormity of our loss as well as our relative good fortune. Eleven good men gone, our two longboats destroyed, days’ worth of water storage lost—I wonder that the voyage can continue. On the other hand, it could have been worse, much worse. I recall the deafening hail of stones on the beach and am amazed any of us left the cove alive. We managed to hold on to the two small boats, and forty-nine of us lived. Forty-nine out of sixty-one. But wait—wait. Forty-nine and eleven add up to sixty. We left with sixty-one. We have counted someone twice. Or someone among the dead is missing.

  * * *

  Dead calm today. Sweltering belowdecks and sunburn above. Monsieur de Monty, bending his tall frame into my cabin, asks again about the report. I tell him I am still assembling the pertinent facts. I do not mention the discrepancy in the numbers. He says, Bear in mind, Vaujuas, that Monsieur de Lapérouse will include his own account of events in his journal. Yes? I say, not understanding, and Monsieur de Monty says, A man’s account always tends to exonerate him. But the commander wasn’t even there, I say. Monsieur de Monty cocks his head. Vaujuas, he says, as if recalling me to sense. Vaujuas, he repeats, the commander authorized the expedition; he’s undoubtedly wishing he had not. The commander hadn’t liked the idea from the outset, he goes on. He and Monsieur de Langle, they argued about it the night before. The commander only relented after our captain said it would be the commander’s fault if scurvy broke out on the frigates for lack of fresh water. Were they angry? I ask, and Monsieur de Monty says, Oh, yes, voices were raised. You were there? I say, and then he draws his head back and says well, no, he’d heard the story from an officer on the Boussole. He urges me to complete the report as soon as possible, then leaves for his cabin. He still sleeps in his old cabin off the council room. He only uses Monsieur de Langle’s cabin during the day.

  * * *

  I complete the first sentence of my report:

  Tuesday, December 11th, at eleven o’clock in the morning, Monsieur de Lapérouse sent his longboat and his small boat, loaded with water casks, and a detachment of soldiers, to form part of an expedition under the command of Monsieur de Langle.

  The humidity makes writing difficult. The ink grows viscous, the paper sticks to my hand.

  * * *

  I write an entire page of my report and feel pleased by my progress until I review my work and see that all I have done is describe four boats and sixty-one men—or is it sixty?—headed for a watering place in a cove three-quarters of a league from the frigates.

  Was the tragedy already inevitable at that point?

  The only thing I remember from the trip to the cove is Monsieur de Lamanon. He arrived that afternoon in the Boussole’s small boat, wearing a preposterous straw hat he had purchased in Macao, his torso crisscrossed with the straps of leather specimen pouches. When his boat pulled up alongside the Astrolabe, he clambered into our longboat, nearly toppling several crewmen in the process. He declined to help row and spent the trip complaining to Monsieur de Langle about the commander’s lack of sympathy for the Boussole’s savants. He regretted very much that he’d not been assigned to the Astrolabe, with its more sympathetic captain. He regretted too that the commander had not come along today to see for himself how superior these natives were to most so-called civilized men. Monsieur de Langle laughed. You forget, Monsieur de Lamanon, he said, that Monsieur de Lapérouse is not only my commanding officer, but one of my dearest friends. I know, Lamanon said, I swear I cannot account for it at all.

  What I still cannot account for is Monsieur de Langle’s tolerance of Lamanon. The man complained so much the officers on the Boussole called him Monsieur de Lamentation. He would seize any excuse to have himself rowed over to the Astrolabe for dinner with Monsieur de Langle, and then pontificate the evening away while the captain looked on with amused interest. One evening, after Lamanon had intruded on one of our officers-only dinners, Monsieur de Langle laughed at our pique. Of course the man has no manners, he said. He’s a genius, he has no time for manners. One day his journals will make our voyage famous, he added, and you’ll all be claiming him as a friend.

  * * *

  We have sighted a large island. I ask Monsieur de Monty what island it is, but he does not know. I’m not as well-read in the travel accounts as Monsieur de Langle, he adds. The men want to know if they can go ashore, but Monsieur de Monty says the commander will not allow it. Why not? one crewman calls back, and I swat the back of the man’s head. Show some respect, I cry. Monsieur de Monty’s your captain now.

  I am back on duty, my greatly accelerated recovery one strange outcome of the disaster. Perhaps some constant level of energy operates among us, so that when some of us fall others inherit their strength. I do not know whether to credit science or Providence for this. I do know there is comfort in the performance of the myriad duties of shipboard life. I am especially glad to resume the astronomical observations, which I have overseen for most of the voyage, our astronomer having proved too seasick to continue past Tenerife. I am pleased by the reliability of our chronometer, pleased by the smooth workings of our English sextant, pleased by the neatness of my own hand as I take down my readings of the sky.

  * * *

  I have been thinking about Lamanon and what he said in the longboat about wishing the commander could be there to see how delightful the natives were. I remember now what he said next. He smiled under his straw hat, pointed aft, and said, See how their innocent curiosity draws them to us. Monsieur de Langle, who had the tiller, turned around and swore. Scores of canoes were following us into the cove. He gave the order to pull in the sail as we were approaching the reef. There are too many of them, he said, then concentrated on steering us through the narrow channel into the cove.

  Hundreds following us into the cove, hundreds already gathered on the beach when we arrived: I wonder now that we did not take alarm and turn around. Especially when Monsieur de Langle realized that the tide was out. The longboats touched bottom a musket shot away from the watering place. Why did we not turn around then? Why did no one realize that we would have to wade knee-deep through the water to reach the shore? That our weapons would get wet? That the water casks would be heavy after filling and would weigh down the already grounded boats? Some of the natives on the beach threw branches out into the water at our approach, and Lamanon said it was a sign of friendship. Monsieur de Langle said he was heartily glad to know it. But I think friendship may not be possible between three score and a thousand, even when some of the three score are armed with muskets.

  I write:

  When we neared our destination, we saw with concern that a large number of canoes was following us and coming to the same cove.

  Ten days since the massacre. Monsieur de Monty calls me to the captain’s state room. I begin a rehearsed plea for more time for the report, but he raises a hand to silence me and asks me to help him complete a map of the cove.


  The map covers the captain’s table. Fine dots for sand, thick dots for forest, thin lines for elevation, x’s for reef. Monsieur de Monty points to one spot on the map and says, I understand there was only the narrowest channel through the reef. Yes, I say, it complicated our retreat. I assure him the map is fine, better than fine. It conveys everything: the shape of the shoreline, the reef-choked cove and its narrow entrance, the thin slip of beach, the watering place, the hills that blocked the frigates’ view of us.

  Monsieur de Monty clears his throat. We need to draw the boats in as well, he says, then quickly adds, Monsieur de Lapérouse requests it. He opens his hand and holds out two breadfruit seeds and two grains of rice. The seeds are the longboats, he says, and the rice— The small boats, I say, taking the seeds from his palm. His hand is sweaty. I put one seed down on the map, just to the right of where the stream empties into the cove. The longboat from the Boussole, I say. I set the Astrolabe’s longboat next to it, then line the grains of rice under the longboats. I run my finger down the vertical gap between the two sets of boats. Most of the men who managed to get between the longboats had scrambled to the safety of the small boats, even some who had been struck in the head by rocks, like Boutin, whom I dragged bleeding out of the water. This was not true of the men who ended up in or on either side of the longboats. How was it we failed to notice all the natives armed with clubs?

  Excuse me, Monsieur de Vaujuas, Monsieur de Monty says, but which of the small boats is which? I point to the grain of rice on the right. This one is ours, I say. The one you commanded to safety, he says. Yes, I say, the one I brought back.

  * * *

  I have gone over and over the lists from Boutin and Le Gobien, and I still cannot reconcile the numbers: sixty-one men off the frigates, forty-nine returned, eleven dead. I write another note to Boutin and send it to the Boussole by small boat. I slip another note under Le Gobien’s door.

  For two days now I have written nothing. I tell myself I need to be sure of the numbers, but I suspect this is no more than an excuse. The crisis—I have not yet described it, and it looms before me like an impossible thing. I cannot get beyond this, the last line I wrote:

  Among the natives were some women and girls who offered themselves to us in the most indecent manner, and not all of the men rejected their advances.

  I only noticed the women because I was off duty and not part of the line of men busy with the water casks. Light-headed from the heat and lingering illness, I sat down in the shade and hoped I would not be dashed in the head by a falling coconut. I wondered if such things ever occurred. Then I heard the laughter of women behind me and turned to watch as they lured a few of our crewmen into the forest. They disappeared into the undergrowth, but I could hear them well enough, the forced, lewd cries of the women and the men’s piglike grunting.

  I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, and when I opened them I found an older native woman pushing a most reluctant girl toward me. I shook my head but reached into my satchel and handed a glass bead each to the girl and to the woman, whom I supposed to be her mother. The woman began raising up the girl’s skirt while the girl tried to get away, and I shook my head again, trying to explain through gestures that I was sick and unable to do more. I was sorry for it, indeed I was; the girl had lustrous black hair that fell like a silk curtain over her breasts. My spirit was willing, but the flesh was weak, as the apostle says, although I believe he meant it differently.

  When the girl realized she would not have to go through with what had been expected of her, she smiled and ran off. But a few minutes later she returned with a friend, and I was obliged to give her a bead as well. And not ten minutes later three more girls appeared.

  * * *

  I am mindful of what Monsieur de Monty said—how my account will stand next to the commander’s. I remember too his story about the disagreement between the commander and Monsieur de Langle the night before the watering expedition. I wonder what the commander has written in his journal. Would I write differently if I knew? Perhaps it does not matter what I write. I have been given an order, that is all. Completion is the thing.

  I need say no more about the island women, but the beads I cannot ignore:

  As we filled up the water casks, more natives arrived, and the crowd grew restless. Monsieur de Langle abandoned his plan to trade with them and gave the order to return to the boats. But first, and this, I believe, to be the primary cause of our misfortune, he gave beads to some of the chiefs. These gifts, distributed to five or six individuals, provoked the others.

  We left France with a million glass beads. They are not Venetian beads, nor even the finest French beads, but they are pretty, with smooth, milky surfaces—milky blue, milky green, milky white. They are supposed to help us establish friendly relations with the natives.

  * * *

  Yesterday we sighted Traitors Island, and today we are hove to outside a large bay on its west side. Why is it called Traitors Island? I ask. Monsieur de Monty shrugs. When we get to Botany Bay, he says, I’m transferring to the Boussole. I am surprised, and for one dizzying moment I imagine myself captain of the Astrolabe, until he says, quite evenly, Monsieur de Clonard will be transferred from the Boussole to assume command. Ah, I say, that makes sense, he is senior to you. And then I should have said, I’ll miss you, sir, or It’s been a pleasure to serve under you, sir, or almost anything at all, but I say nothing, and Monsieur de Monty says, It’s time you finished that report of yours, Vaujuas, and walks away.

  The natives of Traitors Island come out in their canoes and trade with us in good faith, apparently unaware of the name given them by a previous explorer. They do not have much to trade, but we procure coconuts, bananas, some yams and grapefruit, a pig, and three hens. They like the beads but are also interested in our iron, which bespeaks a better breed of native, more practical and hardworking. Still, we never let down our guard and not one is allowed on board. One of our men notices that nearly all of them have one or two joints of the little finger of their left hand cut off. We have not seen this before.

  * * *

  Tonight Monsieur de Monty and our savants are having dinner on the Boussole with the commander and their savants. I have assigned Le Gobien to the watch and now sit at the council room table to work uninterrupted on my report. Reviewing the completed pages, I come to the point where I left off: These gifts, distributed to five or six individuals, provoked the others.

  Somehow I have to get from gift beads to rocks being thrown; from an orderly line of sailors to dozens of men flailing and screaming in the water; from a beach full of curious natives to a mob of deadly savages. I write:

  There arose at that point a general murmur, and we were no longer able to control the islanders.

  This will not do at all. But from this point I can only remember my own actions, and I cannot—must not—write of myself. I could say that I stayed by Monsieur de Langle as he tried to distribute the beads. That when he saw me, he shouted, What are you doing, Vaujuas? and ordered me back to the boats. That rushing across the beach and into the water, weaving my way through the natives, I felt a surge of panicked vitality that was the first sign I had of a return to health. That I saw that the Astrolabe’s small boat had no officer aboard, and decided to wade toward it. But no—this is not a personal account. I write:

  Although they let us return to our boats, one group of islanders followed us into the water, while others gathered stones from the shore.

  Monsieur de Monty returns from dinner flushed with wine. I learned why it’s called Traitors Island, he says. Schouten and Le Maire were attacked by the islanders here one hundred and fifty years ago. It had to be something like that, I say. He also learned about the islanders’ strange habit of severing their fingertips. They cut them off to pray for an ailing friend or relative, or grieve a lost one, he tells me. I look up from my report. You and I should have no fingers left at all, then, should we? I say. Monsieur de Monty smiles sadly. I’m not sure Monsieur de L
apérouse will recover from this, he says. I look down, remembering again my last sight of the commander in his cabin. He blames Lamanon, Monsieur de Monty adds. He says Lamanon’s absurd ideas about savages caused Monsieur de Langle to let go his customary caution. I’m not sure that’s what happened, I say. The lieutenant strides to the doorway as if suddenly aware that such informality is no longer appropriate between us. Finish the report, Monsieur de Vaujuas, he says, then perhaps we can all learn what did happen. But a moment later he is back, embarrassed, an envelope in his hand. I forgot, he says. From Monsieur de Boutin.

  * * *

  Thank you for asking after me, M. de Vaujuas, Boutin writes. I am very nearly recovered, and the rest of our injured are mending as well. Lieutenant Colinet, who was unconscious by the time we brought him back to the Boussole, sustained a broken arm and several gashes on his head but is already back at work … I shut my eyes, oppressed by these confidences. I asked about the dead, not the living. I turn the page to read the end: As I said in my first note, we lost four from the Boussole. And then a list, very neat, in rank order, with names in full: