What Became of the White Savage (16 page)

Weary of arguing, the captain gave his assent and authorised Narcisse to double up at the helm with the man on watch. He wagered a bottle of port that my friend would not last the hour.

The bosun provided Narcisse with the necessary attire: a jacket and trousers of quilted oilcloth, a hat and some woollen gloves, and a pair of boots which Narcisse declined to wear, preferring to stand and face the snow squalls in his bare feet.

He steered the ship all day. Long forgotten skills came back to him and within a few minutes of taking the helm Narcisse was guiding the ship through the waves as it surged through the troughs and crested the waves. Keeping the stern starboard to the wind, he held the
Strathmore
on course. The crew said nothing to him: their voices would have been drowned by the howling of the wind and the hammering of the rain glancing off the desks. Even the sailor assigned to the helm with Narcisse was satisfied to watch in mystified silence, grateful for the respite from his task.

At the end of the watch, Narcisse refused to be relieved, and declined the food and restorative tea offered to him. The first watch was replaced by a less experienced helmsman who was happy to let Narcisse take command. Towards three o’clock, the man was thrown by a huge wave and banged his head on a piece of copper fitting, gashing his brow and forehead. Blinded by blood and knocked almost senseless, he went inside to have his wounds tended. I do not know if the watch officer was aware of his absence, but in any case, he was not replaced.

After the sun went down, Narcisse finally left his post and went straight to his bunk to go to sleep, without eating or removing his soaking wet clothes. I made the effort to go to dinner with the intention of trying to take a little soup, and the captain acknowledged that he owed me a bottle of port wine. I urged him to give it to the crew once we were out of these treacherous waters.

The next morning, I learned that Narcisse had awoken around midnight and returned to lend a helping hand to the helmsmen on successive watches until dawn – a dawn that in these climes is marked only by the moment when a cold silvery light begins to filter through the dense clouds, revealing the grey foamy seas that soon become one with the clouds.

For the next week, Narcisse would spend eight to ten hours at the helm and only three or four hours sleeping. He ate nothing but a piece of bread, which he kept in his pocket and nibbled slowly. The other passengers were too sick to notice any of this, but the officers and deckhands expressed both their admiration and their appreciation.

Finally, as the
Strathmore
rounded the Horn and set a course for the north, we sailed into the Atlantic. Violent stormy conditions and crashing waves gave way to mere bad weather and deep but regular swells. Narcisse left his post, removed his waterproofs and left them in the gangway, went to bed and slept uninterrupted for three days and nights.

Thus, he who had not sailed since he had been shipwrecked many years before, had recovered the essential skills of his calling during the storm. His memory is coming back in stages: in addition to words, names, and the memory of his place of birth, there are also the innate skills of a sailor secure in his seafaring knowledge.

When he had rested and recovered, I asked him why he had put himself in this position: the ship was not in any danger and he could have stayed in the warm and waited for the storms to abate.

“The men were finding it difficult. I had to help them.”

This was all the response he gave. When the captain came to thank him he was no more successful than I in eliciting a more elaborate response.

Nevertheless I now had three pieces of information about the white savage: his Christian name, Narcisse; his occupation, sailor; and the name of a significant place: Saint-Gilles-sur-Vie. Will this be enough to restore him to his old life? And to ascertain the circumstances of his shipwreck?

A week after the end of the storm, one of the crew of the
Strathmore
came to see me, cap in hand. He informed me that the men were very grateful for the assistance my friend had afforded them and wished to make him a small gift. I translated this for Narcisse, who responded with a broad smile. From his hat, the sailor produced a miniature ship’s hull on which were engraved the words: “Around Cape Horn” and the date of our passage. He proffered it to Narcisse who received it with an air of earnestness and gravity that more than compensated for words. Then he turned to me and said:

“They have given me a gift. I must give them a gift.”

I had spent enough time in the South Pacific to know something of this form of courtesy. Turning my mind to the question of what we could give in exchange, I decided to send for another bottle of port wine. Narcisse presented the gift to the English sailor with an air of grave solemnity. Indeed one might almost have thought one was observing two ambassadors in the Sublime Porte of the Ottomans or the Imperial Court of the Emperor of China, so great was the seriousness with which the gifts were exchanged.

Since that moment, Narcisse has kept this small wooden token with him at all times.

I watch Narcisse as he gazes at the sea. We have now spent four months constantly in one another’s company. No longer the terrified, mute white savage, the once alarming figure has become a smiling, reserved travelling companion who attracts little attention.

And I wonder if I too have been transformed by this adventure. The observations that I have made have begun to undermine the certainty of my beliefs. What exactly does it mean to be a savage? Had Narcisse indeed become truly savage and if so when exactly did he become civilised once again? At what time, and on what date? What does the manner of his learning teach us about the very act of learning itself? And which of us is the pupil, which the teacher?

I have no answers for these questions. I can only be sure that Narcisse’s story is more than a mere footnote in history. I have learned much in the course of my life. I studied at the lycée in Grenoble, I have read widely, I have made visits to the Geographical Society, and my travels in Iceland and in the Pacific granted me insights into myself. All this has been a preparation for my encounter with Narcisse, but no part of it has given me the means to understand him. I have no tools with which to analyse what his transformation teaches us. And so, I am beginning to understand that I will have to forge those tools myself.

When we arrive in France, my mission will not be complete. How could I just abandon him on the quay? If I am successful in finding his parents, Narcisse will continue with his life in the bosom of his family. And if not, he will be settled by me in a place where his future will be assured. But my notes from months of continuous observation of him must form the basis of a vast enquiry of which I can scarcely yet discern the rudiments. I do not know if I will have the strength or the courage to bring this to fruition. The tale of Narcisse is more than the story of the man himself: any theories derived from his experiences will extend beyond his own personal story. And the anecdotes generated by his eventual return to France, the variety and appeal of which I can well imagine, will not be mere distractions. They will be obstacles in my path to understanding. I must not forget this.

I shall require your assistance, Sir, in attaining my lofty ambition. I can sense, at last, the direction that my life may take, if I do indeed manage to keep myself on this course. I wonder what Narcisse’s future will be. Will the coming years be any more remarkable for him than for me?

I look forward with great anticipation to reading your wise counsel in the letters which I hope will await me upon my arrival in the Azores.

I remain your faithful servant…

After the day’s long march, he awoke the next morning to renewed pangs of hunger.

Something had changed in the life of the tribe: no more laughter and games, no more wandering about in groups. The natives were muttering and seemed worried. At first he was afraid it might have been because of him and his escapade to the Bay of Abandon, but their indifference towards him remained unchanged.

The pregnant woman was lying on the ground a short distance from the group, moaning. The old woman squatted at her head, burning herbs. Scarface sat at her feet. Narcisse supposed he must be the father of the child.

No one was preparing any food. He walked down to the sea and since he still could not see any signs of a fire being lit, decided to eat as many mussels as he could find, right then and there. He thought he heard a dull, low sound, like a canon being fired in the distance. The
Saint-Paul
? Or was it just a tree falling in the forest? With great difficulty he resolved not to let himself give way to hope, and returned to his meal. There was no repeat of the sound and he found this strangely reassuring.

All day long, the pregnant woman writhed in agony, by turns groaning, crying out in pain and moaning. Around her sat all the mothers, softly intoning an ominous-sounding chant. The men and boys kept their distance, conscious of their inability to help. Chief went back and forth between the two groups, making brief speeches and waving his arms about.

She died as the sun sank behind the trees. Her departure was hailed with cries and sobs from the women, while Scarface rejoined the men, devastated. The mothers collected up the children and headed into the forest a few minutes later. Waiakh, followed by the old woman, and lastly Quartermaster came and signalled emphatically to Narcisse to follow the group. He did as he was told.

They marched on through the forest, joylessly and in silence until the dead of night. Then, their bellies empty, they all simply stopped where they were and went to sleep. At daybreak, they took up their march again, arriving around midday at a new bay that Narcisse decided to call Round Bay. Walking at a good pace in a straight line, it couldn’t be more than three hours from Round Bay to North Bay. This meant that it was nine or ten hours to the Bay of Abandon. But what good did it do to draw maps in his head? It had been easy to escape the first time, but in the end, he’d had to go back. Did he really want to set off again on an even more back-breaking walk, and risk having to turn round and come back once he reached the Bay of Abandon?

Waiakh came back over to him and said the two words again: “Waiakh. Amglo.” But Narcisse did not respond to his overture. To keep himself busy, he set about building a shelter out of branches wedged between two bushes and a rock. Tonight, instead of digging himself into the sand like a dog, he’d sleep in his make-shift little house.

Constructing this shelter gave him another idea: perhaps he could build a raft, a canoe, or a crude skiff and escape by sea. Staying close to the coast he’d probably be able to get to Sydney in two weeks. Why two? He didn’t really know but he stuck to this estimate. At sea, he might encounter a ship that could rescue him.

He was completely naked of course and he didn’t have his knife. What exactly would he need to build a boat? Wood, and fire to harden the logs, binding to secure them together. He had none of these things, and no idea how to go about building a vessel, but just having a plan filled him with joy. He wouldn’t get any help from the natives, but they paid no attention to him anyway and wouldn’t stand in his way. Their constant moving about would be a problem, but perhaps they would camp for more than just a few nights by the sea. When that happened, he’d have to be ready.

What sort of wood should he use? The trees in the sandy forest were all of the same kind. But there were the mangroves too with their twisted trunks. He broke off a few branches of different sizes, and picked up some fallen branches. Choosing a rock that jutted out, he set out his selection of sticks and hurled them one by one into the sea. The green and grey branches sank quickly and were soon dispersed by the current. But he wasn’t discouraged: he’d need to try other things, char some of the branches over a flame. By experimenting like this, he’d find the best material.

But building some kind of floating vessel was only the first hurdle.

He’d have to find a way of propelling the boat, by sail or by rowing. He’d have to navigate carefully, hugging the coast, and come back to land at night. The greatest danger was of being carried out to sea and having no more landmarks. And he’d have to watch out for sheer cliffs, tidal streams, wind shifts, powerful waves and other hazards.

What would he live on? He knew he wouldn’t be able to go more than four or five days without eating, and given the way the tribe seemed to live, he couldn’t see any way he’d be able to build up a supply of food. And what about water? It hadn’t been hard to steal one or two of the drinking gourds, but to take the tribe’s whole stock?

His skiff would have to be equipped with some sort of chest for supplies. And a keel of sorts to be able to steer a steady course. With a paddle to propel the boat, a pole to use in the shallows and a stone to act as an anchor. Bit by bit, a basic canoe was beginning to take shape in his mind.

If he were to leave, it would be all or nothing. There would be no turning back – who knows what the tribe would do if his attempt were to fail? His plan would be to head south, towards Sydney or the first white settlement he came to.

Of course, he was without any of the things he needed for his escape, and he had no idea how to go about making them. But rather than just waiting to be rescued by a passing ship, or helped by the natives themselves, he would concentrate on patiently learning how to do what he needed. He would devote himself to making preparations, to tirelessly checking every detail. When the opportunity arose, he’d be ready to take his chances.

He knew what dangers awaited him at sea, but on dry land there were hidden dangers that he knew little about. Wild animals, impenetrable swamps, poisonous insects, tribes more savage than the one he was with. Escape by land or by sea? Which should he choose?

There was no reason to make a rushed decision. No reason at all.

He had plenty of time. Coming back to the group of women, he saw that the men and boys had still not joined them. They had probably stayed behind at North Bay for some kind of funeral ritual. He was alone with all the women of the tribe.