Landfalls

by Naomi J. Williams

  Jean-Honoré-Robert de Paul de Lamanon, physicist

  Pierre Talin, master-at-arms

  André Roth, fusilier

  Joseph Rais, soldier

  During the night Le Gobien slips his reply under my door: I can account for only the seven I reported earlier.

  There is nothing for it but to tour the frigates, question every company, account for every person. I leave my cabin with a lead pencil and a piece of paper, and begin at the stern deck, where I write:

  Paul-Antoine-Marie Fleuriot, Viscount de Langle, captain

  Who would have believed, before December 11, that muskets and swivel guns were no match against rocks? But muskets must be understood to be feared, and they must be used to be understood. They must also be dry to be usable, and then must be reloaded, a difficult matter when wading through water, or crouched in a pitching boat filled with bleeding and panicked sailors, or cowering under a hail of rocks.

  Monsieur de Langle was doomed by his moderation. He somehow made it back to our longboat and ordered the grapnel raised, but several of the islanders held the cablet to prevent our leaving. Instead of firing at them, Monsieur de Langle fired in the air, which, rather than frightening the natives, worked like a signal for a general attack. If we had not been the intended target, we should have been most impressed by their surprising skill and strength in throwing rocks. Had he survived, Lamanon would have found a perfect marriage of physics and mineralogy in calculating the velocities and trajectories of the natives’ missiles.

  Monsieur de Langle was knocked over in the first volley, falling across our longboat’s thwart and then into the water on the port side, where the natives set upon him with clubs. A similar fate awaited everyone who remained in the longboats. For every native who fell to a successfully discharged musket, there seemed to be ten to take his place. I got the Astrolabe’s small boat to the reef and, looking back, saw that an officer from the Boussole had command of their small boat. We began dumping the water casks overboard to make room for the men who swam out to us. The last I saw of my captain, the natives had hauled his bloodied body out of the water and were tying one limp arm to a tholepin on the Boussole’s longboat.

  * * *

  I go belowdecks to talk to the seamen. Don’t forget my brother, a man growls from his hammock. I make my way toward him and ask him his name. Jean Hamon, he says. And your brother? Yves, he says. Why aren’t you up, Hamon? I ask. My legs, he replies, they’re swollen. I feel a chill at this revelation. I ask if he has seen Monsieur Lavaux. He doesn’t answer. His friends, who have gathered around, tell me he figures it’s judgment for what happened at the cove. What do you mean? I demand. The men look at one another, then one whispers, Well, sir, some of us who were there, we became friendly with the women, and Jean here thinks we might’ve caused some unpleasantness that led to the fighting that killed his brother. Not one of you is to blame for what happened, do you hear me? I say. I point to one seaman: Go tell Monsieur Lavaux about Hamon’s legs. I ask the others, Who else did you lose down here? They crowd around, watching me write in the dim light.

  Yves Hamon, sailor

  Jean Nedellec, sailor

  François Foret, sailor

  Laurent Robin, sailor

  Next I find the chief gunner. He scowls. It’s been nearly three weeks, he says, you’re only now getting around to figuring out who’s dead? Just tell me who you lost, I say. He walks away as I write:

  Louis David, fusilier

  I then make my way to the galley, where I find Monsieur de Langle’s servant, François, and his suspiciously thin cook, Deveau. Deveau hears my errand and says, Of course you’ve counted our captain, God rest his soul, and François repeats, his voice breaking, God rest his soul. I suspect they’ve been drinking. What about the servants? I ask, returning to the task at hand. Deveau says, There was poor Geraud, and François echoes, Poor Geraud.

  Jean Geraud, servant

  With that I have the seven Le Gobien listed for me. Who else can there be? I wonder, shaking the list in my hand. François says, Sir, didn’t we lose one of the Chinese out there? A Chinese? I say. Yes, a Chinese, Deveau says, nodding with approval at François before saying to me, You forgot about them, didn’t you, sir?

  I go up on deck and find Le Gobien. I have so successfully avoided seeing him that I am shocked by the large scab on his forehead and his still blackened eye. He had been the last to leave our longboat alive. What is it, sir? he says, looking at the list in my hand. Is it possible, I ask, that one of the Chinese was killed in that cove? He clicks his tongue and draws in a long breath. Yes, he says, we did lose one of them, now that you mention it. Had he a name? I ask. No doubt he did, Le Gobien says, but I’m damned if I know it. I stare hard at him, and he adds, Sir. I complete my list as he walks away:

  a Chinese

  Next I find Monsieur de Monty. We may have scurvy aboard, I say, then tell him about Hamon’s legs. Also, I suggest, we should assign some meaningful tasks to François. Like what? Monsieur de Monty asks. Anything, I say. Deveau is turning the lad into a drunkard. And then I return to the council room, where I am now, where I am prepared to stay till I have written my way through the disaster. I thought I had only been pretending that the discrepancy in the numbers was an obstacle to completing the report, but the freedom I feel now is not imaginary. My mind is easier. The missing man was not even French.

  * * *

  It is nearly dawn before I finish describing our retreat from the cove and our arrival back at the frigates, and I am wondering again why the natives did not massacre all of us. Their canoes were faster than our small boats under any conditions, much less laden, as we were with forty-nine men, only a few of us uninjured enough to work the oars. They could easily have prevented our leaving the cove, but they did not. We rowed back through the channel in the reef and only a few canoes followed us, heckling us but careful to keep a safe distance from our muskets, whose power they now understood.

  When we came in sight of the frigates it was as though nothing had happened, as if we had passed through a nightmare world and would now wake to the safety of our lives aboard the ships. Scores of canoes still surrounded the frigates, and we could see natives on deck visiting and trading with our people. No one on board even noticed us or our distress till we were quite close. We reached the Astrolabe first and delivered the injured, then made our way to the Boussole. Boutin and I fairly crawled up the side. At any moment I feared one or the other of us might faint and plunge into the sea. He was bleeding from the head and very pale. Later I would discover a gash on my own head, but whether the injury was caused by one of the native’s rocks or sustained during our frantic escape, I cannot say.

  Once on deck, Boutin saw the commander and cried out, We were attacked, then dropped to his knees. I tried to hold him up, but he is larger than I am and dragged me to the deck with him. An angry cry came from the men, and they ran for their weapons—soldiers for muskets, gunners to their cannons. The commander stood in shocked silence for a moment, then called out, No! Do not fire! Seeing one of the men grab a native on deck, he shouted to let him go, whereupon the frightened native leaped overboard and swam away, followed by the other natives on board. The commander took his trumpet and called over to the Astrolabe: Do not fire! I repeat, do not fire! He ordered the survivors brought up from the boats below, had Boutin taken to the sick bay, then turned to me and fixed my face between his hands. What happened? he said. They killed him, I cried. Who? the commander said. The captain, I said, it was the beads, he was trying to help. The commander shook me. Where is Monsieur de Langle? he shouted. He told me to go back to the boats, I said, so I did. Then the commander’s face crumpled in grief. No, he said, no, not him, not like this, and I cannot say now whether he held me or I held him, and whether the sobs I heard were mine alone.

  * * *

  New Year’s Day, 1788. I have completed the report. Monsieur de Monty insists I deliver it in person, so I put on my dress uniform and am rowed to the
Boussole, the first time I have left the Astrolabe since the disaster. Boutin, his head bald in patches, greets me at the deck with such warmth that I draw away. He sees my embarrassment and steps back. Monsieur de Lapérouse is waiting for you below, he says, his voice now formal.

  There are few agonies worse than watching someone read your writing. I stand before the commander as he reads my report and think of a dozen sentences I should have rewritten. I also see how the commander’s uniform hangs loose from his shoulders. At the beginning of the voyage, some of the younger officers and I called him Commander de La Paunch. It seems like an ancient memory. At last he looks up and says, It’s a good report, Monsieur de Vaujuas; you’ve been most fair to all concerned. I have been holding my breath, and gasp out, Thank you, sir. I particularly appreciate the ending, he says, then reads aloud:

  Everyone who was there can attest, with me, that no violence or imprudence on our part preceded the savages’ attack. Monsieur de Langle had given us the strictest orders in this regard, and no one disobeyed them.

  I thought it might be important to emphasize that, I say. You can scarcely imagine how important, the commander says, the color rising in his face. Critics at home are always ready to blame the explorer when there’s trouble with natives, he adds.

  He looks back down at the report, then says, Do you have any idea how many natives died? No, I reply, surprised. There were shots fired, were there not? he says, then presses: You must have seen natives fall during the battle. Who suffered more losses? I take a deep breath before answering. Proportionally, sir, I say, we did, of course, by far. But in total numbers, perhaps they did. I’d like to think we killed at least thirty or forty. But it’s only a supposition. Should I have included that in the report?

  No, the commander says, shaking his head. Then, his voice low and cold, he adds: How very surprised Lamanon must have been. I have never heard the commander speak with such bitterness before. But his voice breaks as he asks, Did you see—do you remember—how Monsieur de Lamanon fell? Like all of them, sir, I say. He climbed into the Boussole’s longboat after Captain de Langle and was struck down by rocks, then dragged out of the boat and set upon with clubs. The commander closes his eyes against the words. No one deserves such a death, he finally mutters. No, sir, I say. No one.

  He remains silent for so long that I wonder if I should leave. But then he opens his eyes and looks up at me. Do you remember the last thing Monsieur de Langle said to you? he says. Yes, sir, I say, he told me to go back to the boats. I mean before that, the commander says, the last real conversation you had with him. He looks so expectantly at me and so dejected for himself, and I remember that he and Monsieur de Langle argued the last time they saw each other. Yes, I say after a moment, yes, at the cove, he joined me for a time beneath a pine tree— A pine tree? the commander asks. A palm tree, I correct myself, then go on: Monsieur de Langle turned to me and said, Take a good look, Vaujuas, remember everything—when we get back to Europe this will all seem a dream. The commander nods mournfully, and I want to say, Sir, it’s no use dwelling on the last words exchanged. But it is not my place to say so.

  * * *

  Monsieur de Langle did join me once beneath a tree. He said everything I reported to the commander. But it was not at the cove on Massacre Island; it was not in the South Seas at all. It was over a year ago, and we were sitting under a cypress tree, not a palm, on a point overlooking Monterey Bay, in California. Lamanon was arguing in Latin with one of the Spanish priests. Can you understand what they’re saying, sir? I asked the captain. I believe Monsieur de Lamanon is trying to persuade our host that there is no God, Monsieur de Langle said, and when I frowned, he laughed. Take a good look around, Monsieur de Vaujuas, he said, Try to remember everything. I did as he bid. The fog was receding. Sea otters played in the water below us. Stretching out into whiteness beyond was the great expanse of the Pacific. When we get back to Europe, Monsieur de Langle added, this will all seem a dream.

  * * *

  A dream: native girls crowd around me, their brown fingers reaching for my pouch, calling out for beads. Word has spread, apparently, of a man who will give you a bead for nothing. I get to my feet when they will not leave, and waver where I stand, lightheaded from hunger and fever. No more, I say to them, holding the pouch over my head, beyond their reach. One girl jumps up and snatches off my hat, and another grabs at my jacket, trying to twist off the buttons. Stop! I shout, trying to shake them off. I slap at one with my free arm and she jumps back with a cry into the arms of a naked, tattooed man who might be her father. He growls in my direction, and several other native men come forward. An older woman appears and orders the girls away. They slink off, pouting and grumbling, a few stopping to shout back an insult. The men begin to circle me. What are you doing, Vaujuas? Monsieur de Langle cries, leaving the watering line and advancing toward me. He grabs the pouch from my hand. Get back to the boats! I do as he bids, I hurry to the water’s edge and walk in up to my knees, then turn back. He is trying to distribute what is left of my beads. I see our unattended launch, and plunge into the water after it.

  ELEVEN

  AMONG THE MANGROVES

  Botany Bay, New Holland, February 17, 1788

  Midafternoon, but looks later. Heavy rain with occasional thunder and lightning. In the bay, two frigates at anchor. On the northern shore, near a place the inhabitants of the area call Kooriwall but that the English will call “Frenchman’s Gardens,” a hectic, temporary settlement: makeshift tents, an observatory, a palisade, dozens of men hunched over against the rain, working, trying to work, giving up on work. In one tent, Jean-François de Galaup de Lapérouse, captain and commander, sits on a rough wooden bench, as individuals are brought before him to tell him what they know. Everyone shouts to be heard over the rain and thunder.

  PAUL-MÉRAULT DE MONNERON, chief engineer of the Boussole:

  Yes, sir, I found the body. Monsieur Charron and I had taken a boat a few leagues west to look for trees to fell, and— Sir, I’ve never believed in premonitions, but perhaps our misfortunes have made me superstitious, for I felt a kind of cold misgiving all morning. We entered a small inlet with particularly large mangroves when we found him lying facedown in a shallow pool below a cluster of trees. I thought at first it must be one of the English convicts, escaped from their settlement and come to grief in the wild. But we turned him over and could see straightaway that it was the Astrolabe’s chaplain, Father Receveur.

  I immediately surmised that he’d been killed by the savages—struck by one of their barbed spears. No, there was no spear—they must have taken it. But it’s the only thing that could explain the damage to his head. And why most of his belongings were missing—food, water, tools. They’d even taken his shoes. No, he was otherwise still clothed. They also left his hat. I found it hanging on a low branch above his body.

  He hadn’t been dead very long. His limbs were still pliable. He wasn’t yet cold. I feared the savages might still be nearby, ready to attack again, so I drew out my pistol. Then Monsieur Broudou suddenly appeared, which startled us extremely. Yes, alone and on foot, soaked to the knees. You’ll have to ask him, sir, but I believe he was hunting—he had a rifle. And about half an hour earlier, Monsieur Charron and I had heard a gunshot. I asked Monsieur Broudou if he had discharged his weapon, but—well, he said it was none of my concern.

  Could Father Receveur have been shot? I suppose so. Accidentally, of course. But—that wouldn’t explain the missing belongings. Surely Monsieur Broudou wouldn’t have—of course not.

  We had seen a few of the savages when we set out this morning—mostly women fishing from canoes. But none after we found the body. It was as if they knew to keep out of sight. And it’s just as well they did, sir. I can no longer promise to behave with moderation toward them. What kind of men attack an unarmed man peaceably studying plants? Can such men even be called human?

  Monsieur Charron? Yes, we’re friendly enough, I suppose. He’s nearly completed a new lon
gboat. He was dissatisfied with the quality of wood he’s had to work with, however, and asked me to accompany him upstream to see if we could locate more suitable trees—which I’m pleased to report we did. My task was to figure out how to fell them and float them back here. We obviously abandoned that part of the mission when we found Father Receveur.

  PIERRE CHARRON, head carpenter on the Boussole:

  I actually saw him first, sir, meaning no disrespect to Monsieur de Monneron.

  We found these great mangrove trees, just the thing for our purpose—the wood is dense and doesn’t rot in saltwater, you see—and I’d climbed out of our boat onto the lower-down branches of one specimen and was making my way round it when I saw the poor abbé, God rest his soul, lying there dead. I called to Paul—Monsieur de Monneron, that is—who tied up the boat and joined me.

  What a shock, the sight of the abbé’s mangled face! I’ll never forget it, sir. What was he doing out there all by himself—botanizing? It’s just my opinion, sir, but he should’ve stuck to his priestly duties and left the botanizing alone. He’d still be alive, wouldn’t he? Yes, sir, I know it’s not my place, but—

  Oh, I expect he was shot by mistake. We heard the shot—two, I think—only a few minutes before. And then Monsieur Broudou shows up, panting and pale, with a hot rifle over his shoulder. How he frightened us—and we him! I expect he was looking for his quarry and found he’d shot a priest instead. He didn’t say a word all the way back in the boat. Nor did we, of course, we were that distressed.

  As for the abbé’s belongings, I don’t know, sir. Maybe someone else found the body before us and took them. Maybe that someone was someone who’d shot a priest by mistake and wanted it to look like an attack, then hid in the underbrush till he heard our voices. No, sir, I’m not accusing Monsieur Broudou of anything—I speak only of possibilities.

  Killed by a native? I don’t think so. We didn’t see any. I expect they’ve mostly fled well inland now that the English have dumped all their undesirables on the continent.