What Became of the White Savage (3 page)

“I am Narcisse Pelletier, sailor on the schooner
Saint-Paul
.”

He heard no echo, only his words fading to nothing on the boundless horizon. But the act of proclaiming them made him feel that some of his dignity had been restored.

An idea came to him as he looked at the rocks that lay scattered around on the beach. He went back down to the beach and started to arrange the bits of rock and stone to trace the outline of an arrow pointing towards the cliff and the hollow where he slept. That way, if he wasn’t to be seen on the beach when his shipmates arrived, they’d know that he was alive and where to look for him. He became engrossed in the task and hauled the biggest boulders he could lift, lining them up and filling in the gaps with smaller rocks, even clearing away all the other stones around his handiwork to make it stand out from the background of pristine sand. For two hours he toiled, eager to prove to himself that he could lift these great blocks in spite of his thirst.

He looked down at his creation from the top of the cliff. The arrow was five metres long, its tip clearly shaped. It would be impossible to miss: a call for help, a sign to be followed. What ship could resist such a message? It might even point to a hidden treasure.

On the way back to his hut he broke off some branches to mark his path, no longer concerned about revealing his presence to potential attackers. And as for the rescuers, their arrival was beginning to seem more and more unlikely.

Back at his makeshift shelter, he moved the toppled sticks away from his bed making no attempt to reconstruct his would-be fortification. He lay down on his bed of ferns, his tongue dry as a stone, clinging to the roof of his mouth. His throat filled with the taste of bile. He began to feel pains in the muscles of his arms and legs. Lying there, half buried beneath the leaves, he began to weep, gently at first, silently and without tears. Racked by muffled sobs, he went to sleep.

The third day was worse. He woke up feeling weak, his mind blank, his legs shaking. The sky was blue, and although there was a light breeze, it did nothing to ease the oppressive weight of the heat and humidity. He went back up to the ridge: no sign of a ship, no sail on the horizon. He slept again, this time in the dirt, or perhaps he passed out. When he came to, the sun was high in the sky and the tide was out. He walked along the burning sand to gather his catch, but the fish trap was empty. He’d run out of ideas for finding food or water. This alien land seemed as arid and desolate as all the deserts of Arabia. He began to hallucinate, and thought he saw an enormous red rabbit bounding along on its hind legs, up there on the cliff. He blinked and it was gone.

He went back up to lie down under his tree, facing the empty bay. Incapable of making any plans, he found he could no longer even remember the faces of his shipmates on the
Saint-Paul
.

A vision appeared to him and he saw clearly his own tomb in the village church. The news of his disappearance wouldn’t reach his parents for several months. They would hold mass for him. Once, in his days as a choirboy, he’d attended the mass for a young fisherman from the village who was lost at sea. He’d seen the parents’ distress; the absence of a coffin made it even more poignant. In his vision, he saw his own mass. His little sister Emilie, would be there; she always loved his rare visits home and the little trinkets he brought for her. He saw his brother Lucien, the apprentice shoemaker, next to her. It was the older brother’s responsibility to take over their father’s workshop, and as the youngest, he’d had to try his luck elsewhere. At the age of fifteen he’d embarked as a cabin boy and had grown accustomed to life at sea. No one could have imagined that it would end like this, with a stroke of bad luck, alone and cut off from any living soul, utterly abandoned. He would leave nothing behind him. These bleak thoughts did nothing to lessen the raging thirst that scoured his throat. He felt feverish and was seized by fits of trembling.

The idea of ending it all began to torment him, of leaping head first from the top of the cliff. Was this the only choice left to him? Death by his own hand, or waiting for death to come to him? He found no solace in his memories of catechism. All that was left to him was the freedom to choose his own death. He clung to this certainty: he could choose to get up, to stand and look down on the piles of rock and coral, and then…

Sleep crept over him again with its temporary respite from anguish and suffering.

He woke up feeling a chill. The wind had picked up again and was sweeping across the ridge where he was lying. The sun was sinking, the horizon streaked with orange and red above the colourless forest. The hunger tearing at his entrails paled beside his piercing thirst. Cautiously, he stood up and made his way back to his shelter of the previous nights. His head was spinning, each flagging step demanding an effort of will. How simple it would be to just drop to the ground where he was and wait for the end. But he had to get back to his hut and his bed of ferns. He staggered on, swaying drunkenly, his mind a blank. Reaching the valley, he walked along the seemingly endless sandy path between the tree trunks and collapsed in front of his shelter. Protected from the wind, he curled up on himself, and lost consciousness.

The fourth day’s travails were one long agony. Without the strength to walk back to the beach or to the cliff, he stayed where he was, lying motionless. As the cool of the evening set in, he gave himself up to the idea of dying: death would come to him there, on the sand, far away from everyone else.

Sydney, 5th March 1861

To the President of the Geographical Society

Monsieur le Président,

It is now more than four years since I wrote to you for the first time, expressing my desire to serve the cause of science and to make a contribution to the study of geography. Knowing nothing of me other than this wish, you did me the honour of welcoming me into your presence.

In that great hall, the birthplace of so many expeditions, I spoke to you of my plans. I informed you of my intention to use my inheritance, the fruit of two generations of frugal living by members of my family, to advance the cause of progress. I chose not to live the honourable but idle life of a country gentleman, preferring to serve science for the glory of France.

You listened with fatherly solicitude as I described my ambitions, which were at the time somewhat vague. The answer you gave was twofold. You began with the adage that travel is a full-time occupation, not a diversion. I did not then grasp the truth of this remark, and only later appreciated the extent of its significance. I had yet to learn how to travel with open eyes, to understand that one can often be mistaken, that time wasted can be time gained, and that one must sometimes remain still to observe the movement of life. All these lessons were humbly learnt. You, who have travelled so well and so much more widely than I, know too that every traveller must begin as an apprentice: that this period of initiation is of fundamental importance.

You then counselled me on my choice of destination, and whether I should journey towards Africa, the Poles, or the Pacific. These observations were to be of great importance to me then, and have been a cornerstone of all my travels.

You have no doubt forgotten this exchange, no different from those you must have had with many a young upstart. I, however, remember it with absolute clarity: your words for me were as the Ten Commandments. I can even recall perceiving a hint of irony in your kindly regard. At that time, you no doubt believed me to be another of those who would venture no further than the station at the end of the line, or the ship’s last port of call. You went so far as to set before me the dangers of each of the three destinations: the cold and isolation of the Poles and the difficulties of navigating through ice; warring among African kings, Arab merchants, English adventurers and missionaries of all persuasions; the great distances across the Pacific and the realities of voyaging into the unknown.

Armed with this wisdom, I went away and weighed up the three horizons before me. For reasons I shall not dwell upon here, and which later turned out to be unfounded, I chose a polar route and began preparations for an expedition to Iceland.

I was to spend ten months on the eastern coast of Iceland, in a village of about fifty souls. I was able to explore this little known area although I did not draw up as many maps as I would have liked: my efforts were hampered by the early onset of winter, frequent storms and the difficulties of transportation. I was nevertheless able to make some progress in another area of enquiry and to give a detailed description of the way of life of these fishermen-farmers. My report on this, which I submitted to your Society, was considered worthy of forming the basis of a public lecture in a plenary session of the Society. Artefacts I brought back from Iceland, such as maps, sketches, clothing, toys and pottery, are now deposited in your archives. You graciously accorded me the title of associate member, an honour of which I was then scarcely worthy.

Some time later, you were good enough to welcome me once again into your presence and make enquiries about my projects. I informed you of my desire to continue my travels, but was wary of telling you the full truth, which was that I had discovered in Iceland that I am completely unable to tolerate cold. It robs me of the ability to think clearly and I find myself utterly at a loss, devoid of will, unable to take pleasure in life. I am content to concede the privilege of polar exploration to those who are better equipped than I to withstand the blizzards and snowstorms swirling around the cliffs, the icy winds that cut through one like a knife. The polar route is not for me.

For several months, I hesitated between Africa and the Pacific. Libraries, journals, generals and ministers alike all spoke only of Africa. I therefore determined to head for the Pacific, and one year after my return from Iceland, I set off once again.

The journey from Bordeaux to Sydney, although long, was without incident. We disembarked here in this English town built by convicts, and I made enquiries about continuing my journey towards the unexplored islands. I was both astonished and disappointed to learn that there are no longer any
terrae incognitae
yet to be charted in those regions. Moreover, one can readily obtain transport with the shipping companies to any point in the Pacific. I was thus able to journey to Lifou Island, Fiji, Espiritu Santo and Auckland. Everywhere, I found consuls, shipping companies and their agents, missionaries and even European settlers.

I did not fail to send you brief missives from each of these ports of call. My reports were later redrafted and were published last year under the title of
Scenes from the Pacific
. I spent many an evening on my terrace, writing these travel memoirs, while the eternal tropical rain drummed ceaselessly on the roof.

Every destination revealed a similar history. European presence had made its mark in the harbour with houses all around. But beyond this at a distance of two or three leagues, behind a range of hills, native tribes lived as they had always done. Making contact with them was more difficult than I had envisaged. As a Frenchman, I was regarded with suspicion by Protestant missionaries, and the rare Catholic missions I encountered were reluctant to burden themselves with the presence of a stranger. The practice of religion left little room for scientific observation. Whereas my aim was to give an account of naked savages going about their lives, the holy fathers thought only of urging them to cover their nakedness and teaching them to invoke the Holy Spirit.

My efforts invariably came to an end after several weeks or months, with very little to show. I obtained, at great cost, a modicum of information describing tribal practices, and accomplished very little mapping. Sometimes, as I walked on the beach in the morning watching the canoes depart, I found myself longing for Iceland and my conversations in German with the pastor who housed me there in his modest dwelling. It was apparent that my two years in the Pacific had yielded no tangible results; I could see this quite clearly, and harboured neither bitterness nor vain regrets.

I have of course no reason to reproach you, Monsieur le Président, on this matter. I went to the Pacific at your suggestion and found these islands and their peoples to be indeed exotic and undocumented. There is much for geographers to study here and a wealth of material yet to be discovered. But little remains for navigators of uncharted waters. Those who wish to study these lands will have to spend long periods living here, familiarising themselves with the savages’ way of life. It will take time to gain the trust of the native tribes, to learn their languages and, with their assistance, to reveal the mysteries of these archipelagos. I am, alas, not equal to the rigours of this task and cannot undertake to embark upon it. Your assessment of the destination was indeed accurate; it is I who am not as you supposed.

Weary of my adventures, I decided to spend some time in Sydney to reflect upon the direction I wished my life to take. Australia may hold few charms for me as an explorer, but this new city is not without its attractions. My status as associate member of your Society opened doors for me: everywhere I went, I was welcomed by those few suitable individuals who were in a position to assist me. They all encouraged my efforts and not once reproached me for my failures. Through these contacts, I kept in touch with new developments in the wider world. At one such gathering, I met a young woman who seemed to share my inchoate notions and I believed she might become my future wife. But when, beneath her father’s disdainful gaze, I declared my intentions, she informed me drily that she would never marry either a Frenchman or a Catholic. Until this moment, I had enjoyed the pleasant conversation to be had in Sydney, but this harsh rejection made me think that I should once more take to the seas. My tormentor, the lady in question, would have been amused at having chased me away. I decided to stay for a few more weeks and enable myself to leave with dignity.