by Joanna Orwin
He shared his thoughts with his cousin as they sailed slowly into the entrance of the channel, barely half a league wide, with the sailors casting the lead lines constantly chanting their soundings. The senior ensign said they should take heed. ‘These people might be gentle and affectionate towards us, but don’t forget that well-armed and disciplined war party we encountered. Such men seemed capable of considerable bloodshed.’
‘D’accord,’ said André. ‘But the chiefs who come on board are on good enough terms with each other—and they come unarmed.’
‘That’s as maybe,’ said Jean. ‘We can’t really tell what’s going on further afield. We don’t know where that other lot of armed savages came from, for instance. There might be more waiting in the wings, ready to attack the ones we’ve befriended at any time.’
André recalled the abandoned village they had visited on the northern coast. Although he thought Jean was perhaps right, he echoed what the sergeant-at-arms had said earlier. ‘Such squabbles are surely nothing to do with us? Monsieur Marion takes care to ensure we remain on good terms with the Zealanders.’
They stopped talking to concentrate on keeping a sharp eye out for submerged reefs and rocks as the ship glided on through the passage, steep cliffs and bush-clad slopes rising on both sides. By mid-morning, although the harbour was now opening up ahead, a shoal extending from a nearby island meant the water became too shallow to proceed safely under sail. As soon as they had furled the sails, the men prepared two boats to tow the ship, suspending the light anchors used for kedging from their stern davits. Canoes full of Naturals crowded around them, impeding the work, until Monsieur Marion was forced to have the soldiers fire a short volley over their heads to get them to withdraw out of the way.
‘Just the time when having the Tahitian on board to explain would have been most helpful,’ commented Monsieur Thirion from his vantage point at the taffrail.
‘Needs must,’ said Monsieur Crozet, shrugging. ‘These savages are perceptive enough to realize the nature of our warning.’
It seemed the second-in-command was right, for the Zealanders merely took their canoes to a safe distance, then stayed their paddles to watch.
André supervised the boatmen on the yawl as they alternated with the longboat, where Jean was in charge, laying out the two cables in turn. Each time one anchor was let go, the other boat rowed ahead, ready to let go the second anchor as soon as the men on board the ship heaving away at the capstan had winched the vessel forward until she was directly over the first. Both ensigns prided themselves on their ability to carry out such an operation efficiently—aided by a certain element of competition between the two boats. The Naturals quickly understood their purpose and positioned their canoes to lead the way into the harbour ahead of the boats. It became something of a festive procession, what with the bagpipe and flute music struck up on the ship to set the rhythm for the men on the capstan, their raucous singing of the chorus, the beating of the drums on the boats to set the timing for the men on the oars, and finally, the answering chant from the paddlers on the canoes.
After several hours of hard work, they had kedged the ship to their chosen mooring in the deep waters of Port Marion, a spot with a good sandy bottom at thirteen fathoms, well sheltered by land on all sides. They began laying out fixed moorings, a musket shot northeast of a narrow peninsula that jutted towards them from the mainland and about the same distance southwest of a large island. Monsieur Marion intended setting up a hospital camp on the western side of this island, where two small adjoining coves provided good landing beaches and excellent streams of water.
Monsieur du Clesmeur had returned to his own ship early in the afternoon, as soon as the Mascarin started kedging. They had already laid out their fixed moorings before the Castries came into sight, cautiously sounding her way along the route taken by the smaller ship. Even though there were still several hours of daylight, the larger ship anchored near the island where the water shoaled, more than a league away from the mooring spot. Her captain made no attempt to prepare to kedge.
Showing the first signs of impatience for some days, Monsieur Marion had André signal him to ask why. Apparently, he had left his two kedge anchors behind at the eastern mooring. He intended returning for them at first light and then would be able to begin kedging.
Monsieur Crozet allowed himself to chuckle. ‘Our young friend seems to have ongoing problems with anchors, does he not? He must’ve cast off in too much haste.’
The expedition leader swore an oath under his breath. ‘Send the longboat to assist him to kedge in the morning—as soon as he returns to his ship with his damned anchors.’
Jean turned away to hide his own grin. He whispered to André, ‘Looks like Monsieur du Clesmeur has his wet nurse. Our captain’s no longer leaving him to do anything on his own.’
André hissed back, ‘Hardly surprising—he’d not want to trust his bigger ship to someone so inexperienced in these confined waters.’
The Zealanders had continued to circle the Mascarin while the ship’s boats laid out the moorings, and Monsieur Marion now beckoned them to come on board. ‘We need to make sure the volley we fired hasn’t jeopardized our friendship.’
Monsieur Crozet thought it unlikely. ‘These savages seem so eager to get their hands on any old nails, they’ll forgive us anything.’
‘We must continue to do everything we can to encourage such eagerness to trade, sir,’ said the expedition leader.
He had Anthonie, the cook, bring out platters of buttered pieces of broken and weevil-ridden ship’s biscuit specially for the Naturals while the ship’s people ate their own well-earned supper. He then told André to fetch small trinkets to give to the Naturals when they prepared to leave the ship just before night fell. ‘We should be sparing with nails and pieces of iron from now on, gentlemen. That way we’ll ensure their trade value remains high.’
‘Good thinking, sir,’ said Monsieur Crozet. ‘Apart from keeping the savages friendly, we want all the fish and vegetables they’ll bring us.’
André would not have thought of rationing the articles the Zealanders desired most. He was full of admiration for such astuteness.
But Jean laughed. ‘True to form, pardieu!’
Something in his voice made André ask him what he meant.
‘Oh, our captain had the reputation of being the sharpest trader in the Compagnie des Indes. He’s always been very good at making a profit, and not just for the Compagnie—he was known for taking the right to private trading to extremes.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’ André frowned.
‘Why, one voyage they say he had almost as much tonnage of his own private goods on board as those for the Compagnie! What’s more, he diverted the ship to an unscheduled port to discharge them.’ Jean laughed again. ‘Diable! What a rogue—he’d some explaining to do that time, apparently.’
Not liking the senior ensign’s lack of respect, André leapt to his captain’s defence. ‘Surely his trading expertise is to our advantage, cousin?’
Jean grinned at him. ‘Toutàfait! There’s no point paying out more than we need to provision our ships.’
Chapter 6
12–21 May 1772
Port Marion 35°15 ′ S
On deck at first light, André leant on the dew-wet rail and absorbed their surroundings. He took in a deep breath of the crisp autumnal air, savouring the mixture of smells coming off the land—damp earth, rotting leaves and pungent wood smoke, sharpened by the rich iodine scent of the seaweed piled along the beaches. He was at last feeling well again, his scurvy quite defeated by fresh air, exercise and a diet of fresh fish and potatoes. Monsieur Thirion had already brewed spruce beer from the aromatic grey-green tips of some myrtle-like shrub that grew prolifically on all the islands, adding malt to enhance its flavour and efficacy. The surgeon also insisted that scurvy sufferers take a good daily dose of the wildgrown celery gathered fresh from the nearby shore. His efforts were paying dividends. On
ly the worst afflicted, men who could no longer walk, were not yet recovering their strength.
Monsieur Marion and the Mascarin’s senior officers had chosen their mooring well. The Zealanders had several villages on the nearby large island—although there were no major settlements in the immediate vicinity of the coves where they planned to land their sick. Only a few people seemed to live there, apparently for the purposes of cultivating the gardens on the slopes rising behind the beach. The young ensign could see smoke drifting above a copse of trees where a few small reed huts crouched on a levelled terrace. He thought most of the island’s inhabitants must live in the big fortified village visible from the ship, strategically sited on a narrow peninsula. From where he was standing, he could pick out the palisades and the steep cliffs that surrounded this village on its seaward sides. From what he could see, the narrow ridge linking the peninsula to the island would make any ascent from the landward side impossibly steep. He could not make out any path from this angle. As he watched, some Naturals launched their canoes from the bay below the village and began paddling towards the ship.
By the time Monsieur du Clesmeur had brought the Castries to join them, they were once more surrounded by canoes wanting to trade. Keeping Monsieur Marion’s directive in mind, the ship’s people offered only small numbers of old nails, broken knives or pieces of the most weevil-ridden biscuit in return for baskets of fish and well-worked examples of the local axes and weapons.
This time, the Zealanders brought their women with them. The chiefs handed them all up onto the deck, and then made it clear by gestures that the Frenchmen were welcome to pay their attentions to the unmarried ones—recognizable by their unbound hair, worn at shoulder length. They indicated that their wives were out of bounds, pointing to the few women present who wore their hair on top of their heads, fixed by a woven fillet.
Monsieur Crozet asked, ‘What are your instructions for our people, sir? Under such provocation, they’ll succumb sooner rather than later.’
The expedition leader nodded. ‘D’accord. We can’t expect too much of them. But make sure they understand the distinction between these females, and order them to be discreet. These Zealanders have a certain dignity that should be respected.’
One of the chiefs, who had been on board several times, led a young woman towards the quarterdeck where the senior officers of both ships were gathered. He was followed by several of his people carrying large baskets of various foods, which they deposited near the officers. The chief greeted Monsieur Marion warmly, then indicated the young woman accompanying him. The intention was unmistakable. The embarrassed expedition leader mumbled something, then allowed her to stand beside him. The chief nodded vigorously, then made a long speech before he turned and left the quarterdeck to supervise trading the baskets of fish he had also brought with him.
‘Fi, fi, sir!’ Monsieur du Clesmeur murmured when the expedition leader studiously ignored the young woman hovering at his side. ‘These savages obviously well understand that such ploys are the most effective way of bringing together two such different peoples. Are you not going to rise to the occasion?’
André choked back his laugh when none of the other officers so much as smiled.
‘Enough, sir!’ Monsieur Marion was in no mood for jokes. He glared at the Castries’ captain, then unceremoniously pushed the young woman aside. ‘I expect all of you to retain some semblance of restraint, gentlemen.’
Ignored by all the senior officers, the young woman stood about disconsolately until the ensigns took pity on her and led her into the gunroom, where they plied her with biscuit and glass beads. Her appearance was pleasant enough, her features well-formed and her skin clear of blemishes. Her short mantle and skirt were better fashioned than most, and she was wearing a finely worked jade ornament on a cord around her neck. Paul Chevillard thought she might be the chief’s own daughter. She seemed shy, hanging her head so her thick unbound hair hid her face. She made no attempt to answer their questions, even though she accepted the biscuit and beads eagerly enough. Like all the women, she was plastered from head to foot with red pigment, but she did not stink of fish oil. Jean again voiced his opinion that the ship’s people would not have any problem keeping their lust under control. ‘It’s peculiar that these savages are for the most part so robust and handsome, yet their women are so small and ill-made.’
‘Monsieur Thirion has a theory about that,’ André ventured. ‘He says primitive peoples often expect their women to do all the hard physical work and feed them only scraps, so they don’t thrive.’
‘Mort-diable!’ Jean shrugged. ‘So much for our surgeon’s insistence that such people live amiable lives. From what you’re saying, they treat their women no better than our aristocrats treat their peasants—all work and no play.’
When the Zealanders left the ship at the end of the day, they seemed disappointed that, unlike the sailors, none of the officers had accepted the attentions of their women. Scowling, they pushed them aboard the canoes and paddled off, shouting back at the ship in tones that were unmistakably derogatory.
‘Apparently we’ve caused offence, sir,’ observed Monsieur Crozet. ‘We might have to compensate for our lack of manhood—give them more iron and trinkets for their goods.’
Monsieur Marion was unmoved. ‘All we have to do is continue to show them respect. They’ll soon accept their women are beneath the attention of our officers.’
‘He speaks for himself,’ Jean muttered, his hopes that the chiefs were keeping the best-lookers ashore boosted by the more comely appearance of the young woman they had entertained in the gunroom.
Monsieur Marion heard him and glared. ‘I insist all officers maintain their distance, Monsieur Roux. It’s a matter of discipline.’
Extract from the Te Kape manuscript, 1841
As day followed day, we continued to bring baskets of fish, potted birds, potatoes and kumara to the ships. Mariou’s people received all those gifts eagerly, but responded only with small pieces of iron and other items we soon realized were of little value to them. This they did even when gifts of great value were offered to them, well-worked weapons and finely woven mats. As time passed, it became clear those tipua might have no intention of reciprocating with equivalent gifts, perhaps thinking we remained ignorant of what they valued. Our chiefs conferred, and, they agreed that perhaps even our most precious taonga were not deemed sufficient by a people of such wealth as te iwi o Mariou. Accordingly, the chiefs decided to send the most beautiful and prestigious of our young unmarried women out to the ships to attend Mariou and his senior men, a gesture of hospitality reserved for the most important of guests. Of those young women, the most beautiful and prestigious was a chief’s daughter presented to Mariou—the woman Miki, whose name has been handed down amongst our people in songs from that time.
Accordingly, when that prestigious woman was spurned by Mariou, the insult to her tapu status was grievous. At the same time, our other valued women were rejected by Mariou’s subordinate chiefs, who instead sent them below with men who were clearly of no account. Great was the chagrin of our chiefs at such breaches of hospitality and good manners. To relieve their feelings, many ribald jokes were made about the boorishness of Mariou’s subordinate chiefs, and our laughter was loud, but Te Kuri vowed that retaliation would be sought to compensate for the unacceptable behaviour of those strangers from the sea, whom he had claimed as his particular guests.
They were soon too busy for the embargo to bother Jean. Sent ashore onto the newly named Marion Island to set up the hospital camp, the two ensigns selected a suitable site on a triangular terrace behind the beach where nearby steep hills provided shelter. They set some men to cut poles from the myrtle-like trees that grew on the rocky headland. While others cleared lank grass from the site, André and Jean explored the small curve of beach and ventured around the rocks separating it from the adjacent cove. Extensive bands of oysters grew on these rocks, and they vowed to return as soon as their tasks
were completed.
Once the spare main sails were stretched securely over a framework of poles to form a large tent, they sent men to cut armfuls of the coarse bracken fern that grew prolifically on the slopes behind the beach. Jean had got the idea from the abandoned huts they had visited on the northern coast. ‘Fasten some of those poles along the ground to make compartments on either side of the tent,’ he ordered. Filled with the dry fern, they would make adequate beds for the sick sailors.
‘Ingenious, cousin,’ said the admiring André as they stood back to survey the finished camp. ‘Monsieur Thirion should be well satisfied.’
‘Oui, oui,’ said Jean. Energized by the physical activity ashore, he was eager to get on. ‘There’s plenty of room here to set up the forge for the blacksmith and the cooper on the other side of this stream, but I think the adjacent cove’s best suited as our watering place, don’t you? The stream’s deeper for one thing.’
‘But that’s where those savages have their huts,’ André pointed out. ‘They might object.’
‘Why would that be a problem?’ asked Jean. ‘There’re not that many of them and we’ll keep our distance from their huts. But if you like, we’ll set up a small guard-post on the far side of the stream. Monsieur Marion would want a contingent of soldiers ashore here anyway. The savages won’t bother us when they see our men have muskets.’
