What Became of the White Savage (27 page)

Much as I had loved to walk when I was a young man of twenty, I cannot now afford the luxury of accompanying Narcisse on his daily expeditions: I have pressing matters to deal with, all the more so after such a long period of absence. I had seen evidence of Narcisse’s excellent sense of direction in the forests around Sydney and later in the streets of Paris, and was confident that he would not lose his way. I left him to discover the area for himself.

He duly set off one morning at a good pace, only to return that evening with his jacket torn, his trousers spattered with mud, and his cap gone. I feared at first that he may have been involved in an unfortunate encounter, but this was not the case. Two leagues from here, he had come across some peasants unloading a cartload of logs for the winter. Spontaneously, and with barely a word, he “lent them his hand” as they say in these parts. Surprised, and no doubt somewhat scornful at first to see this strapping, well-dressed fellow carrying wood over to the woodshed, his new friends made the most of their good fortune. Narcisse remained indifferent to the fate of his smart new clothes and assisted with the two further cartloads of logs that followed. The peasants shared their bread, cheese and sausage with him, and together they finished stacking all the wood for the winter. Narcisse then returned to the chateau.

Days passed and he continued with his walks. On one occasion, he found himself in the company of a shepherd and his flock as they descended from their mountain pastures. His wanderings led him at other times to work at cleaning out manure from a stable, carrying barrowloads of earth from a building site, and digging out a blocked ditch. You would be mistaken to suppose that he set out in search of employment or physical exertion. He simply goes where his fancy leads him. When he encounters men at work, he acts as he did aboard the
Strathmore
: he cannot but offer his assistance.

I provided him with clothing more suitable for this strange pastime. I have recently become aware that there are mutterings among the villagers: they no longer find his unusual comportment amusing and sometimes take umbrage. They are spontaneously wary of such singular generosity. My staff are no longer certain whether to treat him as a guest or a workman – for Narcisse cannot let the coachman bring the hay out of the barn without assisting him, any more than he can desist from helping the cook to carry a crate of apples. And although my sister says nothing to me, I understand her consternation at having to dine every evening with a guest who remains silent at the table. I myself have learnt absolutely nothing new from him during these last few weeks and I find myself wondering where the limits of my responsibility towards my guest should lie. Narcisse is a fine fellow, but is this enough to entitle him to my hospitality indefinitely?

I also have reason to believe that Narcisse had a dalliance with a girl from the village. Both the father of the girl in question, and the curate have made it clear that they consider his presence undesirable.

In short, if Narcisse is not to live in Saint-Gilles, where is he to reside? Is there any more of a place for him here in Vallombrun?

I was pondering the nature of my relationship with Narcisse when I received a letter from the Minister of the Navy. Her Majesty’s request had not been forgotten. The minister had asked Admiral Jurian de La Gravière to preside over an official enquiry into the events that had led to the sailor Pelletier spending so many years among the Australian savages. How had it come about that his death had been wrongly reported, and thus no search carried out? Behind the scenes, I was assured that disciplinary or penal proceedings had not been ruled out.

The owner and the captain of the
Saint-Paul
were found without any trouble; so too was the ship’s journal. But the second mate, who had countersigned the report of the sailor’s death on the 5th November 1843, had been stabbed in a brawl in Valparaiso in 1855.

The ensuing commission of enquiry convened in the splendour of the naval headquarters in the Hôtel de la Marine. Captain Porteret, who had sustained a wound to the leg and was no longer at sea, had at first pleaded that he no longer clearly remembered this affair of long ago, and that he recalled nothing more than a difficult crossing from the Cape to China, with men falling sick, and an unexpected stopover. The reporting officer of the commission had studied the ship’s log and pressed him with questions on his choice of tactics. Why had he chosen such a southerly route on leaving the Cape? Why had he then persisted on an easterly course, when he had logged the presence of several sick men, and could have made it to Reunion Island, Mauritius or Ceylon? Why this slow cautious course towards the west coast of Australia and thence around the north coast, punctuated with vain and half-hearted attempts to find water? Why had he waited so long to finally decide to make for the nearest port and abandon the effort to replenish the water supply?

With each question, the captain shrank further into his seat, mumbled something, and gradually remembered more details. His fragmentary, at times contradictory answers left one with a baleful impression of incompetence. I found it difficult to imagine that this elderly man had once been in command of a schooner on a long ocean voyage with a crew of thirty men.

A young officer then assailed him with questions about the maps they had been using to navigate in 1843. The captain no longer knew exactly which ones they had used. They were certainly old and of inferior quality: the owner was parsimonious and economised on everything, even on essential navigating equipment. Had they used maps from before the Revolution? Maps that predated Nicolas Baudin’s expedition to Australia? Captain Porteret no longer knew, but he was certain that he had never had any English maps at his disposal.

It was the admiral who delivered the decisive blow: “How many deaths did you sustain after the Cape?”

The captain, ashen-faced, was forced to admit that he no longer remembered.

“In that case I think it is time to adjourn the hearing and let you read your ship’s journal once more. I trust that it will be of assistance to you as we continue.”

A second advocate led the captain to an adjacent office while the admiral came over to us.

“Good morning, Viscount,” he said. “Good morning, sailor. The next encounter promises to be most interesting; I am eager to see what it will reveal. I am not sure that this Captain Porteret has understood why he is here. He certainly made some poor navigational decisions, although for the time being, I cannot see anything improper. On the other hand, abandoning a member of the crew and making a false report of a death are crimes. The minister attaches a high price to the solving of this enigma.” He turned to Narcisse and added: “It will all depend on your testimony, my good fellow.”

The commission of enquiry proceeded to ask me about the circumstances in which the sailor Pelletier had been discovered. I reiterated my account of the events of February and March in Australia. One of the officers then asked me a question that had never occurred to me before: “The bay where the sailor was found by the English ship, the
John Bell
, cannot be described as
terra incognita
. It has been mapped and the anchorage is recorded in the official Sailing Directions. We are told that it is advisable to avoid it in an east wind or at high tide. But, it is the only bay in the sector. In short, this bay is regularly frequented. How can you explain the fact that in eighteen years, no ship noticed anything untoward? Or do you perhaps think it possible that the sailor chose to present himself on that particular day?”

I turned towards Narcisse, little expecting him to speak. He remained silent, and I was obliged to improvise:

“As far as I have been able to understand, the savages who welcomed Pelletier into their midst are nomadic: they divide their time between the coast and the interior, according to the seasons. It would be wrong to suppose that they camp permanently on those shores. I cannot tell you whether Pelletier sought contact with the white man, or if he fled from it. We must not forget that he was scarcely master of his own movements: he may not have been physically bound, but he had little choice but to stay with the tribe. When the English dinghy landed on the beach, Pelletier and a few of the savages continued fishing on the rocks. They neither fled nor tried to hide, and Pelletier made no attempt to single himself out from the others. The Englishmen only realised that there was a white man among the savages when they approached the group. As they drew closer, they could see that one of the men was taller, and clearly of the white race, despite his dark sunburnt skin. He spoke only the language of the savages. They gestured to him, inviting him to get into the dinghy. They did not use force, but when he found himself aboard the
John Bell
as it set sail, it was quite clear that he was greatly distressed.”

“And why does he not tell us this himself?” asked the admiral.

Narcisse was gazing calmly at the uniformed officers, as if all of this was of no particular concern to him. I waited for him to respond. He said nothing. I opened my arms wide, as if to ask them to observe his attitude for themselves:

“I do not know. He has always refused, or I should say he has always refrained from answering my questions about what happened over there. I have of course asked him about the circumstances of his arrival on that coast. On this question, as on all the others, he maintains an absolute silence. I can do nothing about this. Her Majesty the Empress, alone, has been able to draw a few confidences from him.”

I made this last remark with the intention of warding off any further questions about Narcisse’s silence. My strategy was successful and the admiral continued: “Did the existence of this white savage come as a complete surprise to the English?”

“A complete surprise, yes. There had been no talk of it in any quarter: no tall tales told in taverns, no shipboard rumours, no mention anywhere of such a case.”

“And yet,” objected the admiral, “there have been other cases in the South Pacific of sailors who have, as they say ‘gone native’.” The admiral seemed to relish using the expression, commonly heard in those parts of the world, no doubt recalling the voyages of his youth.

“We know of a few similar cases of sailors who have deserted, or been shipwrecked. The Geographical Society gathered information on all such recorded cases, at my request. Of these men, none had remained completely isolated for eighteen years. And we are absolutely certain that none had adopted so completely the ways and language of the natives. This case seems to be wholly without precedent: nowhere in the records is there another account of a young white man forgetting everything of his origins and becoming so completely a savage himself.”

I could have offered a more scientific analysis, one that I had been developing for myself, but I felt it unnecessary to voice my thoughts to the commission. We know of the savages brought to Europe who adapted to our way of life. One thinks of the remarkable case of Aoutourou, from Tahiti who came to France with Bougainville, to the court of Louis XV. Natives from the plains of America, the depths of Africa or the furthest Pacific islands have adapted to life in Paris or London, whether they came of their own accord or were brought by force. And more remarkable yet, missionaries have succeeded in civilising savages in their own lands.

Thus, the savage who lives among white men adapts to our ways, while the white man who finds himself thrown among savages retains the beneficial effects of civilisation for many years. The only known exception to this rule is Narcisse, whose case is all the more fascinating for being unique. In all the other documented examples, we can clearly see the laws of attraction at work, always pulling in the same direction and confirming what common sense would suggest. What better demonstration is there of the superiority of the white man over the savage?

With the exception of Narcisse.

The admiral seated us near the door and called Captain Porteret back in. We were the only civilians in the room and the captain glanced at us as he walked past but did not register any particular interest. Nor did Narcisse seem to recognise him.

“So, Captain, have you remembered what happened on the 5th November 1843?”

“Yes, Sir. We entered the bay, which seemed welcoming enough, and I sent men ashore to search for water. They returned with the dinghy an hour later and informed me that Pelletier had disappeared. I sent them back ashore with arms and reinforcements and ordered them to patrol the coast and the adjacent forest. I instructed them to fire into the air to make their presence known. They walked for two or three leagues in every direction from the point where the sailor had last been seen. They found no footprints, no sign of him. Pelletier had disappeared, as if by magic. Every time I signalled to the dinghy I received the same response: nothing. The ship was not well positioned: the anchorage left much to be desired, the tidal current was strong and a storm was approaching. The sick men were moaning and groaning. The second mate was urging me to abandon the search, but I could not resolve to do this. At dusk however, I had to accept reality and call off the search. Despite the mounting seas, the men ashore managed to re-embark with the dingy and with great difficulty, we sailed out of the bay. I had given orders to leave some food supplies ashore together with a gun and some ammunition. If Pelletier was still alive, I wanted him to have every chance of surviving his night ashore. I was intending to return the next day to continue the search for as long as necessary. Dead or alive, a man does not just disappear without trace. But the storm raged for two days, carrying us a long way from the coast. I had to make a decision: should I turn back against the prevailing winds, or save the ailing men on board? After long discussions with the second mate, I made the decision, with a heavy heart, to head for Sidney. What else could we have done? Searching the bay and the surrounding area over and over again would have achieved nothing. Pelletier had not replied to any of our signals. Both the second mate and I were having second thoughts: he was probably dead, his body lying in some inaccessible place, in a cave or a swamp. What could have killed him so suddenly? A snakebite, heat stroke, a fatal fall? We’d have needed days and days, and a great deal of luck, to find his body. I believed him to be alive when we set sail from the bay, but as the hours passed, I came to the conclusion that he was dead. There were other men in my crew in need of water and medical attention. I made up my mind. Continuing to search in vain would have led to the death of the sick men. And on top of all this, the second mate was now warning me of the possibility of mutiny.”