Read What Became of the White Savage Online
Authors: Francois Garde
What Became of the White Savage
For Laurence
This book has been selected to receive financial assistance from English PEN’s translation programme. English PEN exists to promote literature and our understanding of it, to uphold writers’ freedoms around the world, to campaign against the persecution and imprisonment of writers for stating their views, and to promote the friendly co-operation of writers and the exchange of ideas.
Born in 1959, François Garde grew up in Aix-en-Provence and studied at the prestigious Ecole Nationale d’Administration before embarking upon a career as a senior civil servant. He worked for many years in the French Overseas Territories in the Southern Pacific and Indian Oceans, before becoming a novelist.
Published in 2012,
What Became of the White Savage
, is Garde’s first novel. Inspired by a true story, it won nine literary prizes, including the prestigious Prix Goncourt in the first novel category for 2012.
Born in London, Aneesa Abbas Higgins studied Sociology, French and Russian at the University of Sussex and later obtained her MA in Romance Languages and Literatures from the University of London. She taught French for many years before becoming a freelance literary translator.
1
When he reached the top of the small cliff he realised that he was alone. There was no sign of the dinghy drawn up on the beach, no sign of a boat floating on the blue-green water. The schooner lying at anchor in the entrance to the bay was nowhere to be seen, no sails visible on the horizon. He closed his eyes, shook his head. Nothing. They had left.
Absurdly, he felt guilty. When the dinghy had landed on the beach, the second mate had divided the sailors into three groups to increase their chances of finding water. Three men went towards the trees, vaguely outlined at the far end of the beach; three towards the other side of the bay, rocky and uninviting; the rest were sent to search through rock holes and look for a cave at the base of the limestone cliff. At first, he’d turned over coral blocks with his shipmates but soon decided that their efforts were in vain: any rain that fell on this terrain would seep into the sand. Rather than digging at random, surely it would be better to try and find signs of life: men or animals would lead him to water. A light offshore breeze was blowing, softening the burning rays of the tropical sun.
He’d climbed straight up, finding purchase on roots and holes in the rock. Moving with athletic skill, he reached the top within a few minutes. Unnoticed by the crew, he waved his arms in a wide motion, signalling to the boat before heading inland. A vast, almost flat plain spread out before him: a dusty, parched landscape, with tufts of grass and sparse, meagre trees, all of the same metallic green. No buildings. No smoke. In this arid steppe, they would surely search in vain for a spring.
Looking again at this discouraging landscape he noticed a small channel that began near where he was standing and ran towards the interior of the plateau, widening out into a valley. He followed the path of this furrow with his gaze, and realised that it became deeper as well as wider. Trees growing along the side became gradually bigger and greener than the others, eventually forming an emerald green grove that stood out against the muted colours of the forest. When the rains came, water must run into this natural depression. Perhaps there was still a pool somewhere in a shady hollow. The smallest, muddiest pool would be enough to fill a cask, and save the sick on the ship.
He struck out straight ahead towards the hollow, following it to the bottom of the slope. Walking was difficult, the vegetation different from that on the plateau: now he had to make his way through tangled woody scrub, edging his way through the waxy leaves of spindly bushes. He noticed a sort of cress that grew more densely as he advanced. Eventually he came to a small hollow a few metres lower than the plateau. He touched the ground, felt its humidity. No sign of a brooklet, not even a puddle. Crouching down, he used his knife to dig and scrape. The soil was loose and damp and he managed to dig a hole as deep as his forearm. But there was nothing to be found.
Somewhat disappointed at not proving to be the hero of the day, he stood up and headed back along the valley floor towards the beach. This walk through the cool green woods away from the grey forest above would be his secret, one small pleasure derived from their attempt to find water in this nameless bay. He moved unhurriedly and climbed at a leisurely pace back towards the modest hilltop overlooking the bay.
It was then that he realised he was alone. He let out a cry, but no ship could hear him. Frantic, unable to think, he ran like a madman down the cliff, slipping and sliding, the bushes scratching him, twice almost breaking his neck. He leapt onto the sand, raced along the shore and ran into the water up to his chest in an effort to get as close as he could to the vanished ship. Howling with rage, he shouted and cried out for help. His cries were no more audible from the sea than from the cliff. A wave wet his neck and he moved back, staring out to sea.
He had to get up high to survey the horizon. Trembling with confused emotions, he climbed back up the cliff.
What had happened? How long had he been gone on his solitary exploration of the interior? An hour, at the most. Enough time for the dinghy to be called back: he hadn’t seen the flag signalling the order to return to the ship, hadn’t heard the warning gunfire. The
Saint-Paul
had weighed anchor, cast off and set sail. But why? Why in such a rush? Why had they gone without him?
He sat down in the shade of a scrawny, twisted tree. Memories came back to him: seafaring knowledge, a few phrases exchanged between officers and petty officers. The bosun had reported that the ship was anchored in coarse sand on rock; it wouldn’t hold firm. With the full moon two days before, there would be high waters. The captain had only agreed to enter this unknown bay to seek fresh water for the sick on board. The offshore winds seemed to be picking up.
At the entrance to the bay, he could see the water beginning to swirl and eddy. The sea had been smooth as a lake when they entered the bay. Now he could see what the lookout at the masthead must have spotted earlier: most of the bay was bounded by a coral reef that was gradually becoming visible. There were only two narrow channels. Arriving at high tide, they had entered the bay without incident, passing through the main channel by chance, unaware of the danger now revealed by the ebbing tide. With an unreliable anchorage and this strengthening wind, the captain could not risk getting trapped in the bay. He had to get out as quickly as possible while he could still manoeuvre the ship. Perhaps the second mate had mentioned that there was a man missing. But it could take another hour to return to shore, find the missing man and re-embark. They had to get out to sea and save the ship.
He found some reassurance in picturing the scene, imagining the conversations and the orders being given. The captain was right, he’d made the only choice possible to a sailor. It wasn’t a deliberate abandonment or a personal betrayal, but simply the consequence of a perilous situation. By leaving the group, he had disobeyed orders and deserved to be punished. He wasn’t too worried about a thrashing from the second mate – he’d had plenty of thrashings at school or in his father’s shoe workshop, and then on the ship – but he hoped to avoid being fined. And two or three months from now, they would all be laughing together about the whole episode.
The wind was picking up, and out at sea, beyond the bay, swells were beginning to form, the rollers breaking on the coral reef. He picked up a stone, and without thinking, threw it towards a pile of dead branches, one of which turned out to be a rather large, silvery-coloured lizard. It scurried towards the undergrowth, stopped for a moment nodding its snake-like head, and disappeared.
Only then did he grasp the reality of his situation. He was seized by fear. Abandoned on these barren shores, surrounded perhaps by wild animals or savage cannibals ready to devour him as soon as night fell, he had no food, no water, nothing with which to start a fire. He had nothing in the world but the knife in his belt and the clothes he stood up in.
He would have to prepare to sleep on the ground. The rough seas meant there was little hope of the ship coming back before nightfall, but he was reluctant to leave his lookout point with the clear view of the whole bay. To pass the time, and with a vague idea of defending himself, he cut a few more or less straight branches from a nearby tree, stripped off the bark and shaped the ends to a point. Now he had a bundle of sharp sticks, like short spears or thick arrows; armed with these rather primitive weapons he felt somewhat reassured.
His solitude and growing hunger weighed on him like a heavy tiredness. The sun was sinking and he calculated that he probably had an hour of daylight left, two hours at most of being able to see. He wondered where to settle down for the night. The strengthening wind might be a warning of rain and he decided not to sleep at the top of the cliff. He headed back down towards the valley floor and walked on until he found a sandy spot under the trees where he went about building a shelter. He broke off a few branches, intertwined them and stood them up against two adjoining trees. Then he gathered a few armfuls of tall fern growing nearby to use as walls and bedding. This makeshift hut would afford him some protection from bad weather, and if an animal or a savage were to attack him in the night, the shelter would collapse and alert him to their presence. He’d grab his spears and fight for his life.
Before the light faded completely, he went back again to his lookout point. Huge clouds scudded across the dark sky. The sea was a simmering black mass, silvery waves slicing across its surface. The roar of the surf crashing on the reef was deafening. And out to sea, no sign of a lantern, not a glimmer of light.
This would be his first night on land since they had put in at the Cape. He couldn’t help smiling at the thought of the Cape. They had sailed from Bordeaux without incident, and during their week-long stopover at the Cape he had spent two evenings on shore. He’d explored the cosmopolitan port with three of his shipmates, savouring the white wine from the surrounding hills, doing his best to communicate in garbled English, Dutch and Spanish, and admiring the beads and fabrics that adorned the African women.
They’d spent the first night wandering aimlessly from one tavern to another, downing tankards of the local brew. In the fourth establishment, a fight broke out between some other French seamen and a group of English tars. He and his mates had sided with their compatriots, thrashing the Englishmen before going on to the next tavern with their new friends to celebrate their victory. No one remembered what happened next, and how they managed to get back on board ship remained a mystery.
Two nights later they were in town again. After dining on meat and fresh vegetables, they’d gone to an establishment with a red lantern outside, recommended by the old hands. They went in, sat down at a table and ordered something to drink, trying to look casual and at ease. The girls appeared and paraded across the floor in front of them, swaying their hips. Without too much ado, the four sailors stood up, made their choice and settled the bill.