Monsieur de Monneron—oh, yes, we’ve been friends since Chile. We built that giant tent together—the one for the great dinner on the beach—remember, sir? Of course you do. Anyway, Paul—Monsieur de Monneron—heard me complaining about the wood—meaning no disrespect to the men, sir, but it’s as if I’ve been asking for kindling rather than timber. Anyway, he offered to help me look for better trees. I believe Monsieur de—what’s his name, the Astrolabe’s plant man?—I keep wanting to call him Monsieur de Lamanon, but that was our learned gentleman that was killed at Massacre Island—Lamartinière? right, that’s him—he told us we might find larger mangroves upstream, where the water isn’t as salty, and he was right.
Oh, we’ve been on several such outings now, Monsieur de Monneron and I. Today we were finally ready to fell a tree and drag it back when we found the abbé. I suppose it’s a good thing we were there, sir, or the poor man might have languished in that spot with no proper burial and none of us ever knowing what had become of him.
FRÉDÉRIC BROUDOU, lieutenant on the Boussole and brother-in-law to Commander de Lapérouse:
I know, I know—I wasn’t supposed to be away from the encampment. I’m sorry, brother—Captain. I wanted to be alone for a while, go hunting, bring back something other than kangaroo to eat. Is that so terrible?
I did not shoot the priest. A rifle shot wouldn’t result in anything like what happened to that poor man’s face. I did shoot—once, at a bird. I thought I’d hit it and was looking for it when I heard voices. When I heard French, I made myself known. I’m lucky your dear Monneron didn’t shoot me. He had his pistol out. And the carpenter looked at me like I was Satan’s own son. He probably came in here and said I’d shot the priest, didn’t he?
How long between my shot and when I found them with the priest’s body? I don’t know—maybe fifteen minutes?
Killed by natives: Whose theory is that? Monneron’s? I was in the area all morning and never saw or heard a single native. Oh, come, brother—it’s rubbish, this notion that natives can slink about silently and unseen. Monneron’s just trying to justify his own panic—as we were leaving, he shot his pistol two or three times, firing at phantoms.
Oh, but I didn’t say the priest wasn’t murdered. He was murdered. Just not by natives. Look what I found floating in the water next to the body: a woman’s hair ribbon. Dirty, but recognizably pink and European. I think we can agree it’s an odd thing to find in these parts, especially in the vicinity of a cleric. And it just so happens that this morning, heading out from camp, I saw our dead priest, still alive, talking to a man and a woman, both European. Escaped English convicts, of course.
No, I didn’t approach them. I wasn’t supposed to be there, remember? I slunk off as quietly as I could. As quietly as a native, you might say. Now I see I should have intervened, as I expect they lured him into the woods, then bashed him in the head with a sharp rock and robbed him. The woman probably lost her ribbon in all the excitement.
Where are these convicts now? How should I know? You should send some of your more reliable armed men out there to look.
But if you dislike my theory, Captain—or is it Count these days?—maybe you should look closer to home. Oh, I don’t know—Monneron and that carpenter—they spend an awful lot of time together. “Tree-hunting.” Is that what they call it these days? Maybe our priest surprised them.
Have I been drinking? Yes. Yes, I have. As have you. What other remedy is there while we’re killed off one after another on the far side of the world?
I know, I know—we’ve done this before. You want me back on the ship. I’m going. And there I’ll remain till your shorthandedness inclines you once more to let me ashore.
JOSEPH HUGUES DE BOISSIEU DE LAMARTINIÈRE, botanist on the Astrolabe:
Oh, sir—I cannot believe it! He invited me to go with him today—and I declined. I’ve been unwell. No, nothing like that. Just fatigue. But I should have gone—he shouldn’t have been alone. He’s had terrible headaches and fits of dizziness lately.
I don’t know, sir. He’d sustained that blow over his left eye in the unfortunate incident at Maouna, but he seemed wholly recovered by the time we arrived here. Yet the last few weeks he’s complained of a return of vertigo and of terrible pain on that side of his face. I advised him to consult with Monsieur Lavaux, but I don’t know if he did.
Yes, sir, I have some medical training as well, but— Yes, under duress, I did perform surgery on Monsieur Lavaux. But Monsieur Lavaux is largely recovered now and is by far the more able medical man. But yes—I worried there might be some latent swelling or internal bleeding connected to Father Receveur’s earlier injury. And to be so grievously injured in that exact part of his head— Yes, it could be a coincidence, but a very strange sort of coincidence, is it not?
I did try to dissuade him from the outing, but he insisted. He said he’d heard the same petty confessions from everyone twice over, and it was time to discover some new plants.
Yes, I saw him go, just after dawn. What did he have with him? The usual—walking stick, leather satchel— It’s missing? Oh, no. Well, it’s nothing compared to the loss of his life, of course, but—I’d lent him my handheld microscope. It would have been in a small wooden box—it wasn’t on him?
A hat? Yes, a straw hat he bought in Macao, he and Monsieur de Lamanon both. No, sir, that’s not it. He didn’t have a hat like that. Although I did see that hat today. Not on him. It was on Monsieur Broudou, actually. I—well, no sooner had Father Receveur left the camp than I changed my mind and decided to join him. By the time I was ready, he was gone, of course. But I walked into the woods a little ways to see if I could catch up, and—I thought I saw Monsieur Broudou, in that hat.
Yes, no doubt Monsieur Broudou would normally wear a tricorne. I may be mistaken, of course. Perhaps it was someone else. But the man I saw was wearing a gray felt hat just like this, and appeared to be in conversation with two bedraggled English convicts, a man and a woman. No, I don’t believe they saw me. I couldn’t hear them, not even to determine what language they were speaking. I wished to have nothing to do with it and returned to camp as quickly as I could.
Oh, I’m absolutely certain it wasn’t Father Receveur. The man I saw was too tall to have been the chaplain. And as I said, he didn’t have a hat like this. He was inordinately attached to that straw hat. Lamanon was too. And now both of them—
I just hope the end was quick and painless. Sometimes it feels like we’re each simply waiting our turn, and that a death with little suffering is all we have left to wish for.
SIMON-PIERRE LAVAUX, surgeon on the Astrolabe:
He wasn’t shot, Commander. Of that I’m certain. There’s no exit wound, for one. And the damage to his face—I don’t believe a gunshot caused that. The wound is too—irregular.
I’m not sure of anything else, however.
Yes, I knew about the headaches. He’d come to see me last week. All I had to give him was laudanum, but it seemed to help. I meant to ask him today if he needed more. Yes, I suspect it was connected in some way to the contusion he received in the Navigators. But how, or what his prognosis was, I can’t say.
Certainly if I’d known he was contemplating a trip into the woods alone, I would have forbidden it, sir. What a shame that Monsieur de Lamartinière had neither the good sense nor strength of will to stop him or accompany him. Although if it’s true he was attacked, I suppose we might have lost two men of science today rather than just one.
Well, it does seem most likely, doesn’t it, sir? The missing belongings certainly suggest foul play. Who would want to attack him? Anyone—a native with a spear, an English convict with a knife, one of our own with an unknown grudge. Perhaps even a wild animal.
It’s possible the thefts occurred ex post facto, of course. Perhaps one of his headaches came on while he was out there, and he fell and impaled himself on something. He liked to climb—he might have been up in a tree and lost his balance. I understand he was found fa
cedown in the water—he might even have drowned after the initial injury. Or—this is horrible to contemplate and rather unlikely, but he might have inflicted the injury himself. I once had a patient prone to such agonizing headaches that he tried to scalp himself in a misguided attempt to relieve the pain.
We’ll have to wait till morning to bury him, sir. It’s raining so hard now the men are having trouble digging a proper grave. But Monsieur Charron and his assistant are completing a casket, Father Mongez is inscribing a wooden plaque, and I’ll join his other friends to prepare his body. He’ll be the only one of us—thus far—to have a proper burial, on land.
I’m much improved, sir—thank you for asking. I do wish the Boussole’s surgeon could have performed the surgery rather than a botanist more accustomed to slicing up plants, but it could not be helped. No doubt Monsieur de Lamartinière did his best.
ANNE GEORGES AUGUSTIN DE MONTY, lieutenant, lately transferred to the Boussole:
Sir, we just apprehended two escaped English convicts a half league west of here, a man and a woman. We discovered them in possession of a straw hat, a pair of boots, a walking stick, a canteen, and a partially consumed loaf of bread. Monsieur de Lamartinière has identified several of these as belonging to Father Receveur. No, no satchel. Monsieur de Lamartinière asked as well—no microscopes or scientific tools of any kind, no journal.
Sir, I believe these two individuals approached our men a week ago seeking passage on our ships. They look very much worse for wear, sir—my guess is they’ve been hiding in the woods since we turned them away. Nevertheless, they were recognized by several men, including Monsieur de Lamartinière, who said he saw them outside the camp just this morning.
It’s my belief, sir, that after more than a week in the woods without food or shelter, they grew desperate, and when they saw Father Receveur venturing out alone this morning, they set upon him in order to rob him of food and clothing.
We did find a large hunting knife on the man. Neither Monsieur de Lamartinière nor Monsieur Lavaux recognized it as belonging to Father Receveur. It’s very clean, sir—as if it were recently cleaned, if you understand me.
They refuse to answer our questions. The sailors who recognized them from last week say the man could speak French when he was here before. Shall I find someone who speaks English? Monsieur de Monneron? Yes, sir, I’ll ask him in. And Monsieur Broudou as well? He’s returned to the Boussole, sir. Shall I—? No? Very well, sir.
MONSIEUR DE MONNERON, interpreting for the escaped English convicts:
Sir, this man calls himself Peter Paris. The woman claims to be his wife, Ann, but Mr. Paris insists that they aren’t married and that her name is Ann Smith. He says that his father was French and a rogue, and that we’ve proven ourselves no better, so he’d prefer to speak his adopted language.
They admit that they came here eight days ago to seek passage back to Europe and were turned away. They were loath to return to the English settlement—sir, I’ll spare you the invective Mr. Paris uses in referring to his English masters. They apparently remained nearby, hoping to find a sympathetic crew member to ferry them to one of our ships after nightfall. Obviously they did not, and the state you see them in now is the result of a week spent out of doors.
This morning they met Father Receveur as he left the encampment. He told them that he couldn’t sneak them on board, but they claim that he gave them his bread. They also say that they then met another Frenchman whose name they don’t know but who was wearing a gray hat. Yes—just like that one, apparently. This man offered to help them, but only if the woman would submit to certain … favors. They—well, she’s saying that she refused, while he says she was willing enough—
Marine—separate them and keep them apart, please.
Sir—whatever transpired with this man they claim to have met, they then hid in the woods for some time before hearing a gunshot. Afraid they were being hunted by the English, they went deeper into the woods, where, they say, they found the priest they’d met earlier, fallen among a clump of trees and being preyed upon by a wild dog. They threw rocks at the dog to scare it away, but the priest was already dead. They insist they would never have taken anything off a dead man’s body, especially a man who had been kind to them in life. They claim, rather improbably, sir, that the boots Mr. Paris was caught wearing they found resting in a crook of the tree.
They’re emphatic that there was no leather satchel—and point out that if they’d seen one, they certainly would have taken it. They didn’t return to report the priest’s death because they feared they would be blamed for it. They then left the area and saw no one until they met Lieutenant de Monty and his men just now. They didn’t venture farther into the woods because they were afraid of being set upon by wild dogs.
The woman denies any knowledge of the ribbon, but Mr. Paris is shouting that she knows very well it’s hers and that the man in the gray hat pulled it out of her hair during—during their “encounter.” She says if that’s so, he placed it in the water himself in order to lay the blame for the priest’s death upon them. As for the gray hat, she’s quite sure it wasn’t in the tree when they found the body. But sir—I’m quite sure it was in the tree when I found the body.
Monsieur Broudou? No—he arrived bareheaded.
Sorry, sir? Did I discharge my weapon? Well, yes, but only after we found Father Receveur. As we were preparing to carry his body to the boat, I shot once into the woods to warn any savages against approaching. And a second time, from our boat—I thought I heard a dog bark onshore, and I know the savages travel with dogs. I didn’t want one of their spears flying at us through the woods, sir.
What shall we do with the captives, sir?
Sir, if I may—if we take them aboard our ship, we’ll be acquiescing to their original request, a request they may now have achieved by killing one of our men. Yes, sir. Very well. I’ll call Monsieur de Monty to take them.
Meanwhile, on a wooded path near the village of the Kameygal (Spear Clan), two young men, running from opposite directions, stop short when they see each other. They are both out of breath. The men are brothers. Both bear symmetrical white markings on their faces and chests, although the older brother’s are more elaborate. The younger one carries a leather satchel. The older brother draws his brother toward a shallow cave to get out of the downpour. “Where have you been?” he demands.
Nowhere. I was just out looking for eggs. No, I didn’t find any. I found this instead.
No, I didn’t steal it. What? No! I didn’t kill anyone for it. And I didn’t go into their camp either. I’m not stupid.
I wouldn’t call it a gift exactly. But the man who had it doesn’t need it anymore. How do I know? Because … he’s dead. No! I did not kill him. He was already dead, all right? I was out hunting for eggs, and I found a dead man. And I brought this with me because it’s useful and he doesn’t need it anymore. That’s the whole story.
Yes, I’m sure. He was facedown in the water by a clump of mangroves. I don’t know. Back there somewhere, by the bay.
How did he die? How would I know? There was blood in the water around his head, but I didn’t roll him over to see. No, of course I didn’t touch him. You really think I’m stupid, don’t you?
I don’t know. Maybe his own people killed him. I heard their weapons a couple of times before I found him. Maybe they knocked him right out of a tree. No, I don’t know that he was up in a tree. But you’ve seen those coverings they wear on their feet? Well, this man didn’t have any. I found something that might have been his foot coverings in the crotch of the tree he was under. My guess is he took them off to climb. No! I didn’t take them. They stank.
Maybe his people mistook him for a possum or something. Of course people don’t look or sound like possums. You and I know that. But it wouldn’t be the first stupid thing they’ve done.
What stupid thing did I do? Taking this? That wasn’t stupid; it was smart. Look—you can carry whatever you need for the whole da
y, and the inside stays dry. Put your hand in and see. What’s inside? I haven’t really had a chance to look till now, but it’s all harmless. Look—I think this might be a drawing stick. Because here’s something with pictures of trees and birds inside. Go ahead, take it. It’s not going to bite you. What are you afraid of? How could it be dangerous? They’re not going to come looking for it. Oh! Now it’s in the mud. What did you do that for?
What? Why was I running just now? Because after I left the dead man, I heard their weapons again, and I didn’t want to get hit.
You still think I did it, don’t you? Why would I kill one of them? To take their things? You’re the one who wants to drive them away. Why were you running? In fact, you were supposed to be hunting today. Where’s your spear? And where’s the dog? She ran away when the weapon went off? Oh, so you heard that too.
Why didn’t you say so?
Maybe you’re trying to blame me for something you did.
I did not kill him.
I didn’t.
Did you?
Final page of the journal of Claude-François-Joseph de Receveur, chaplain of the Astrolabe:
… from Lavaux does alleviate the pain, but I distrust how much I enjoy the stupefaction. I begin almost to long for the first twinge of pain so I can indulge in its remedy. I am afraid to ask him for more—and afraid not to.
I invited Lamartinière to accompany me today, but could not persuade him. Poor anxious man. Exploring in the wild like this is, I suppose, an act of faith. I mean to enjoy it. And to find something new. Sir Joseph Banks discovered a hundred plants when he came to this place with Cook—is it vain to hope he left one or two species for me?
On my way, I met an Englishman and woman, two wretched souls who had run away from the convicts’ settlement just north of here. Her name was Ann Smith; he called himself Peter Paris and spoke a very odd sort of French. He said they didn’t know where to go, as they had been rejected by us some days before but hated the colony and feared the natives. When I told them I could not possibly help them aboard, they asked me to marry them. “So we may finish whatever life we have left with God’s blessing,” the man said.
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