by Joanna Orwin
When André nodded, even though he did not find the surgeon particularly reasssuring, Monsieur Thirion made a note then turned to his medicine chest. ‘I have here a mix of anti-scorbutic worts I’m experimenting with.’ He made the ensign open his mouth and take a spoonful of a herbal concoction so foul-tasting it must do him good. ‘It’s most unfortunate we found no suitable greens or spruce at Van Diemen’s Land.’
‘Spruce, sir?’ asked André, curious despite himself.
‘For brewing spruce beer,’ explained Monsieur Thirion. ‘An Indian recipe recently brought back by Frenchmen who served in Canada. Most effective, I’m told.’
The two ships came within sight of the longed-for Three Kings Islands before a severe storm drove them out to sea. When they struggled back a wearisome nine days later, to their disappointment they could not find a suitable landing place. In contrast to Tasman’s description of lush vegetation and a torrent of fresh water, they saw only patchy scrub and a few windswept trees. Although they spotted some men and what looked like houses, there was no sign of fresh water.
As the two ships sailed around the largest island looking for ground where they could anchor, Jean stared in disbelief. ‘That damned Dutchman’s a lying rogue! Sacré Dieu! These islands are nothing more than arid rocks.’
When they found no suitable anchorage, and the weather continued stormy, Monsieur Marion finally decided they had no choice but to abandon their planned landing on the Three Kings and head for the New Zealand mainland. The surgeon was attending new cases of scurvy each day, the worst sufferers now confined below deck and unable to walk, their limbs swollen, their skin blotched and the colour of lead. The stench of their illness added to the general misery they were all experiencing after so long without respite. Although himself still only in the early stages of scurvy, André struggled to roll out of his hammock at the start of a watch, no amount of sleep enough to relieve the lassitude that affected his very bones. His spirits were low. For the first time since he had been a junior apprentice new to the sea, he found he was dreaming of Brittany. Once he woke with tears still wet on his cheeks. Monsieur Thirion assured him such longings for home were part and parcel of the disease. The surgeon dosed him thoroughly once more. ‘You’ll soon recover once we find a good anchorage and get ashore,’ he said firmly.
To add to their woes, the Mascarin was leaking worse than ever. They were forced to man the pumps night and day, further sapping the men’s failing energy. The chief carpenter reported that her bow timbers were now in poor condition, with most of the planking rotted. ‘We also lost the cheeks supporting the bowsprit in that last violent blow. If this weather continues, we risk losing the spar itself.’
It was a few days before their luck at last turned and they were able to approach close to the northern coast of New Zealand. In calm weather, the ships hove-to two leagues or less offshore under small sails while Lieutenant Lehoux took the longboat into a bay where two wooded coves promised much needed firewood and fresh water. He returned at four that afternoon with favourable reports of reasonable ground for anchoring the ships and a stream suitable for watering. Much to Monsieur Marion’s delight, the lieutenant also returned with news of a group of huts in the western bay, well-built and containing evidence their inhabitants had skills far exceeding those of the Diemenlanders who had proved such a disappointment.
‘No sign of any inhabitants, sir,’ he said, regret in his voice. ‘They seem to have abandoned these huts. We did bring back some examples of their industry.’
The members of the landing party spread their spoils on the deck for Monsieur Marion and the other officers to inspect. André picked up a small finely carved wooden box and opened it, full of curiosity. Much to his disappointment, instead of the ornaments he expected, it contained only a handful of white feathers.
‘What’s more,’ said the lieutenant, gratified by the attention his trophies were receiving, ‘we found seine nets and a superbly carved canoe in the other bay.’ He added that he had thought it best to leave them there for collecting after the ships anchored.
Early next morning, under a steel-bright eastern sky and a brisk breeze, Monsieur Marion ordered the ships to sail into the western bay. They followed the longboat into the anchorage Lieutenant Lehoux had buoyed the previous afternoon. A swift current was running, and the expedition leader signalled the Castries to lower the strongest of her two bower anchors. Although the ground seemed firm enough, neither ship could swing head to the wind until the tide changed mid-morning and the current reversed in their favour. By then, the wind had picked up and the sea was becoming rough.
Monsieur Marion spent some time scanning the eastern horizon, then consulted with his second-in-command. The anchorage was not particularly safe, the wind blowing towards a headland where a line of rocks and islets stretched well out to sea to block easy escape, but they decided to take the risk that there was time to go ashore before the weather deteriorated any further. ‘Our water supplies are desperately low,’ the expedition leader pointed out. ‘Return as soon as you’ve secured a watering place, Monsieur Crozet.’
Within a few hours, the wind rose to a gale and the sea was rougher still. It began to rain steadily. There was no sign of the longboat. Concerned about the worsening conditions, Monsieur Marion had the cannon fired, a pre-arranged signal for the second-in-command to return immediately. André was checking the shore for the reappearance of the boat when a sailor came running to report that the Mascarin was dragging her anchor. He was then fully occupied, the men hard at work lowering the other bower anchor. Once they were sure it was holding, they slipped the cable of the dragging anchor, attaching it to a strong line and buoy so it could be retrieved later. At that point, the man on lookout shouted that he could see the boat leaving the beach.
The ensign paused to watch the longboat plunge through the surf, bucking like a bad-tempered horse. It was only with the greatest of skill that Monsieur Crozet was able to bring the boat back up to the ship, battling both the high seas and the gale blowing against them. It was a close call. The expedition leader had ordered a buoy suspended off the stern gallery to assist them. Standing in the stern sheets of the longboat, his feet braced as well as he could, Monsieur Crozet made two attempts before he managed to steer close enough. At his shout, the coxswain leant dangerously far over the side with his boathook. Just as the boat looked to be swept past yet again, he succeeded in hooking the buoy. For a moment, it looked as though the force of their momentum would pluck the boathook from his hands, but he held on grimly as the boat rounded up and was brought to an abrupt standstill against the straining buoy. As soon as the boatmen worked the boat forward to the chains, they fastened and scrambled up the violently swaying rope ladder. Without delay, but with some difficulty, the longboat was hoisted aboard and secured on deck.
The risk taken had been to no avail. The landing party brought back only brackish water. The senior officers gathered on the quarterdeck to discuss their situation. ‘We took the boat well upstream, sir,’ Monsieur Crozet reported, his long face set. ‘Unfortunately, the river remained tidal. No fresh water to be had anywhere.’
At that moment, the Castries signalled that her anchor was dragging. Her captain flew flags to say he intended putting out to sea and safety. André reported the signals to the expedition leader.
‘Diable!’ Monsieur Marion lost his temper. ‘Peste! Bougre!’ He took his hat off and dashed it against the taffrail. ‘How dare he presume? I make the decisions here.’ He told the open-mouthed ensign to fly a signal ordering the Castries to stay where she was. ‘Tell him to lower his other bower anchor. Mordieu!’
But as André scuttled away to do as he was told, he heard his captain give orders—in a more moderate tone—to prepare the small sails and slip stoppers on the second anchor cable in case they did need to set sail in haste. A little later he saw the Castries obediently put out a larboard anchor.
As darkness fell, the gale increased in force. They were in for a
rough night. The ship was now being pounded by violent squalls. Each time a squall struck, André found it impossible to stay upright. Throughout his watch, he clung to a stay as sheets of water were flung over the steeply angled deck. The ship’s timbers groaned and the wind shrieked overhead in the rigging. He could just make out figures on the Castries struggling to pay out a third anchor. She must be dragging again. Their own anchor seemed to be holding, and he prayed aloud that it would continue to do so. Their position was ominously close to the headland and its line of rocks.
Soon after three in the morning, the Castries began drifting downwind towards them. Just as Monsieur Marion was about to signal her to set sail, they saw her get underway, with triple-reefed topsails set. The people on the Mascarin watched anxiously as the other ship clawed a passage out of the bay, then disappeared into the wild night.
A few hours later, their own situation became perilous. As an imperceptible dawn broke, the wind increased. From where he was clinging once more to the foremast stay, André saw a great wall of water rushing towards them. He tried to shout a warning, but the wind snatched his words away. No one heard. He watched helplessly as the surging wave towered above them. Its crest broke just as it reached the ship and tons of water poured down on them. Its relentless weight pinned the forepart of the ship below the surface for longer than he could hold his breath. Desperate, he gulped in water, sure he was about to drown.
At the last moment, the Mascarin’s bows rose up out of the sea. The ship shook herself free. As the water drained from the waist of the ship, André saw the officers on the quarterdeck stagger to their feet, drenched to the skin, their hats floating in the scuppers and their wigs awry.
There was no time to draw breath—the anchor was dragging. They were already too close for comfort to the line of rocky islets to leeward.
Monsieur Marion decided they had no choice but to try to sail out of the bay. He ordered the men to stand by. ‘Clap a spring on that anchor cable, Monsieur Crozet!’ he shouted into the senior officer’s ear. ‘We need to improve our chances of not being driven to leeward quite so fast once we cut the cable.’
As soon as the second-in-command signalled they were ready, the captain had the inner jib hoisted and sheeted in, then ordered the men to cut the anchor cable inboard of the one now attached as a spring. Despite his precautions, when the ship’s bow immediately fell off the wind, the strain coming onto the end of the spring attached to their stern was so violent that the cable parted. Although the force of the wind drove the lee gunwale under, they were able to sheet the foresail home. With the control provided by jib and foresail, the ship pointed up into the wind and away from the rocks—assisted by the strong offshore current. André crossed himself and muttered a heartfelt prayer of thanks for a captain who knew what he was doing and a ship that was so responsive.
They were not yet out of danger. The Mascarin was still embayed. Monsieur Marion now had the men set as much sail as the ship could carry. They pitched head-on into turbulent seas that threatened to breach their already strained bow timbers, or worse, dismast them. The sails were trimmed so sharp, André thought they would round up into the wind at any moment. Despite the expedition leader’s skill, the wind was forcing the ship sideways, closer and closer to the line of rocky islets blocking their escape to open sea. For two hours they laboured, Monsieur Marion constantly encouraging the exhausted men to haul on sheets and braces as he tried to glean maximum headway against the screaming wind.
The ensign could not take his eyes off the black rocks now less than a musket shot away. Jagged and fanged, they reared above the huge seas breaking on the ship’s sides. His knuckles white, he stared at the fiercest of the rocks as though he could fend them off by the force of his gaze. Just when he thought they were doomed and shipwreck inevitable, the wind shifted direction. Not more than a point or two, but it was enough. The rocks—now only half a musket shot away—came no closer. Holding his breath and hardly daring to believe the change in their fortune, he watched as, imperceptibly at first then more surely, the ship slowly drew away from danger.
They cleared the point and the sea opened out in front of them.
‘Steady as she goes, if you please, gentlemen,’ said Monsieur Marion. He turned away from the binnacle where he had been standing beside the man on the wheel. As he strolled to the weather side of the quarterdeck—the customary place for a commander at ease, the ship’s people turned spontaneously towards him. ‘Vive le Capitaine!’ they shouted. ‘Vive le Roi!’ As André raised his hat in the air and shouted with the men, he felt tears of relief mixing with the saltwater still streaming down his face.
At midday, the gale subsided, the rain eased and the sky cleared. The lookout sighted the faint grey smudge on the horizon that was the sails of the Castries. Late in the afternoon, the two ships came back together, and Monsieur Marion signalled for her captain and senior officers to come aboard.
After the men had been mustered on the deck for the expedition leader to conduct a Te Deum in thanks for the survival of both their ships and not a life lost, the officers assembled in the great cabin to share their news. Unlike the badly battered Mascarin, the Castries had not suffered any damage, although she had been forced to abandon three anchors—possibly with inadequate buoys.
Before the expedition leader could take him to task, Monsieur du Clesmeur went on the offensive. The captain had regained his earlier arrogance. He sat back in his chair, his legs stretched out before him and his head thrust back so he could look down his nose. His voice almost a drawl, he said, ‘I was most surprised at your initial decision to anchor in such an exposed bay, sir, then send your boat ashore with the wind already rising.’ He took a pinch of snuff, then continued speaking just as the expedition leader opened his mouth to respond. André had seen that the captain was watching Monsieur Marion out of the corner of his eye, so his timing was deliberate. ‘I was even more surprised, sir, when you did not accede to my suggestion that we set sail before dark. Our anchors were already beginning to drag.’
Under such provocation, André thought the expedition leader would lose his temper—it did not take much these days. But he merely looked at Monsieur du Clesmeur, allowing the tension to build for a moment before replying. ‘It’s a matter of weighing risks, sir, not anchors…as you may one day learn.’ As the officers hid their grins, he went on. ‘Your first point. Our need for water is urgent. Monsieur Crozet’s skills in small-boat handling are more than sufficient to deal with any likely contingency.’
None of the Mascarin’s officers dared comment that Monsieur Crozet’s skills had been sorely tested. Nor did anyone note that the second-in-command’s language, once he had regained the ship, had left a lot to be desired. They studiously looked anywhere but at the senior officer, who sat there, a blank expression on his long face.
Monsieur Marion raised his eyebrows at the silence, then continued. ‘As for your wish to set sail before dark, I would point out that you failed to take the contrary current into account. It’s my considered opinion, sir, that if you had set sail then, your ship would’ve been driven onto the rocks.’
No one could argue he was wrong; the strong current in the bay had indeed been unfavourable. But even André, whose faith in his captain was unquestioning, knew full well that currents, favourable or otherwise, had not been mentioned at the time.
‘You had no trouble clearing the bay when you did sail later—after the current reversed.’ Monsieur Marion said nothing of the grave peril they had experienced on board the Mascarin, nothing of how close they had come themselves to being wrecked on those very same rocks. He merely mentioned the huge wave that had pinned them down, then gave a brief account of how they were forced to abandon their own two anchors. ‘Securely buoyed, however—that risk having been anticipated.’
The other captain had been outplayed. Visibly fuming, his high cheekbones flushed red, he sat silent.
Well satisfied and in better humour than for some time, the expedi
tion leader had François serve wine before he sent the Castries’ officers back to their ship. ‘We’ll return tomorrow in the hope of retrieving the five anchors we’ve left behind. Be ready for my signal, Monsieur du Clesmeur.’
But it was the best part of another week before the two ships could return to the cove they had appropriately named Anchor Bay. Further gales and heavy rain drove them offshore far from the coastline. When at last the weather abated, and the ships could lie to safely, Monsieur Marion sent his second-in-command across to the Castries. This time he had no wish to speak with Monsieur du Clesmeur. Instead, he consulted with his own officers, then had his clerk pen a letter: the delay now posed them considerable difficulty; their need for water was urgent; their abandoned five anchors were an irreparable loss—both financial (borne by Monsieur Marion himself) and in terms of their continuing safety in the likelihood of further storms; and their ships badly needed attention. Should they return and retrieve the anchors, then hope to find resources on the unknown eastern coast of New Zealand? Or should they risk that Tasman’s account of the now closer islands of Rotterdam and Amsterdam was more accurate than the one he had given for the Three Kings?
In response, Monsieur du Clesmeur opted for abandoning their anchors, considering it too dangerous a risk to return to the exposed bay. The boat had barely returned to the Mascarin with his written reply when the expedition leader picked up his speaking trumpet and ordered him to return immediately to Anchor Bay.
André joined Jean at the taffrail as their own ship set sail. ‘So what was that all about?’ the ensign asked his cousin. ‘Monsieur Marion took no heed of his opinion.’
