by Joanna Orwin
Before those ships left our waters, te iwi o Mariou came ashore once more to burn both Te Kuri’s and Pikiorei’s strongholds on Orokawa. Despite all our efforts to ameliorate the harm done to us by the transgressions of those strangers, their atua and their weapons prevailed. Accordingly, with so many fighting men already lost in the revenge wreaked by those strangers, fighting men from Te Rawhiti, from Hokianga, and from Taiamai, we could do no more.
It was only now, at the end of the first week in July, when the ships were almost ready to leave Port Marion that the two commanders took it into their heads to send an armed force to Tacoury’s Cove in an attempt to ascertain what had befallen Monsieur Marion. It was twenty-five days since his disappearance. No one believed such an expedition could achieve anything, it being far too late to save any who might have initially survived.
Monsieur Crozet tried to justify their reasoning to his officers. ‘On our return to the Île-de-France, we’ll need to put in an official report to confirm the death of our leader and his unfortunate companions. I want you to search scrupulously through Tacoury’s village and retrieve any of their belongings, taking careful note of any signs that might tell us what took place.’
‘And if the savages object to our search, sir?’ Jean kept his tone neutral.
Monsieur du Clesmeur looked sharply at him, detecting the sarcasm. ‘You’ll have a well-armed detachment with you, Monsieur Roux,’ he said impatiently. ‘We take it for granted you’ll be only too willing to exterminate any savages you come across.’
Monsieur Crozet told them they were also to search for the boats. ‘Once you’ve completed your searches, gentlemen, you’re to set fire to Tacoury’s village and carry off any war canoes from the landing place—or set fire to them if you can’t remove them.’
Arming the longboat with blunderbusses mounted on swivels and equipping a large detachment of soldiers with muskets and cutlasses, André and Jean set off at eight o’clock the following morning to carry out orders they considered futile. Chevillard accompanied them so he could compile the official report.
Jean was not in a good mood. He grumbled to André, ‘Mortdiable—this is nothing but face-saving. We won’t find anything that’ll tell us more than we already know.’
André shrugged. ‘If we’re lucky, we might retrieve our boats.’
As the boat approached the landing place, they could see savages laden with possessions streaming out of Te Kuri’s village, making their way into the hills beyond. By the time they reached the beach where the ship’s boats had been spotted the day of the massacres, the savages had withdrawn well beyond musket range. They gathered on the hilltops above the cove, some of them still waving items of French clothing.
‘Cowards!’ Jean muttered. ‘Traitors and cowards, all of them—where’s their vaunted courage now?’
They searched the length of the beach, but there was no sign of either boat, no sign of their seine net, and no clue to the fate of Monsieur Marion. It was the first time André had returned. His heart was heavy as he looked around the cove, the gnarled tree hanging over the rippled sand, the oyster-encrusted rocks and the quiet water lapping the shore. It was hard to believe such dreadful events had taken place here, that this peaceful spot was the setting of his continuing nightmarish flash-backs. But he was secretly relieved that they would not be forced to fight their way into the village. His own instinctive urge to avenge Monsieur Marion and their slain people had diminished after the successful rout of the savages on Marion Island.
Now, so long after the event and with many more savages killed in the meantime, he was sickened by the bloodshed. It was not like killing anonymous strangers in sea battles, each ship similarly armed and victory going to the most skilled or the luckiest. Killing savages armed only with wooden weapons and wearing flimsy mats, giving them no quarter despite their undoubted courage and their defencelessness against superior weapons, had soon palled. Besides, many of those killed were savages he knew by name, whose houses he had visited, whose food he had shared. Traitors they might be, their treachery inexplicable and unforgivable, but they had already paid a heavy price for their betrayal of friendship.
Abandoning their fruitless search of the beach, the armed detachment marched with fixed bayonets up to the now-deserted village. At first they did not notice one old man, too feeble to walk, who had been left behind, sitting hunched outside his house. When he jabbed at a passing soldier with his spear, the man rounded on him and slew him before the ensigns could intervene. In the distance, where the rest of the savages had gathered on the hilltop to watch them, they could make out a savage flaunting Monsieur Marion’s distinctive mantle, blue English cloth with a scarlet lining.
Jean gritted his teeth. ‘Malheureux! Coquin! Infâme!’ he growled. ‘You villain! You rogue! You traitor!’
‘Is that Tacoury?’ asked Chevillard. ‘Do you recognize him?’
André shook his head. ‘He’s too far away to be sure. That could be anybody.’
Jean agreed. ‘We’ve not seen that double-dyed scoundrel since we shot him down on Marion Island—I’m assuming he died of his wounds, if he wasn’t killed outright.’
André was thinking they had not seen Te Kape either. He could not help hoping that the young savage had escaped unhurt, but doing so felt like a betrayal of his own people. He sighed heavily and involuntarily touched the pendant hidden inside his shirt opening.
Jean looked at him sharply, but made no comment.
Reluctantly and without much expectation, they began a systematic search of the huts in the village, starting with Te Kuri’s large house in the centre of the parade ground. As André stooped to enter, he happened to glance into the lean-to cooking place beside its entrance. He reared back in horror. There, mounted on a stake was a smoke-blackened human head. He pointed it out wordlessly to Jean. Covering their noses with their handkerchiefs, they forced themselves to inspect these gruesome remains. The head had been cooked, and strips of decaying flesh still hung from it. André made out unmistakable human tooth marks before his gorge rose and he was forced to turn aside and vomit.
Grim-faced, they searched all the cooking places and found other evidence of cannibalism; a human thigh-bone still attached to a spit, partially eaten, shreds of cooked and dried-out flesh clinging to the bone. In a house nearby, André found a torn and bloodied shirt he recognized as Monsieur Marion’s. Its neck was saturated with dried blood, and there were several blood-smeared holes in its side. He carried the shirt outside and reported to Chevillard, busy making his inventory. His voice gruff with distress, he said bitterly, ‘Here’s the evidence of our captain’s fate so desired by our new commanders.’
Chevillard merely nodded, then took the shirt from André’s trembling fingers to add to his small pile of pathetic bits and pieces that had once been their companions’ belongings. André was about to abuse him roundly for his callousness when he noticed the clerk’s face was greenish-white, his Adam’s apple jerking as he repeatedly swallowed his revulsion. So he touched him on the shoulder, then left to carry on the search.
By the time they finished, they had added Sub-Lieutenant de Vaudricourt’s silver-mounted pistols and his bloodstained jacket to the pile, as well as a heap of torn rags that were all that remained of the sailors’ clothing. In the armoury, they found the longboat’s oars, darkened with blood, and part of its stem post, as well as a few carefully stacked muskets and iron axes.
Jean said sourly, ‘We know now it’s too late to find our boats—they must’ve destroyed them to get at the iron.’
At Chevillard’s insistence, they carried all these proofs of the fate of their companions outside the village before they set fire to the huts. In silence, they watched as the village blazed, waiting until it was reduced to ashes. As the last hut collapsed into a smouldering heap, the clerk crossed himself, then quietly began reciting an Ave Maria. After a startled glance at him, André joined in. Slowly, other voices took up the familiar words. When the prayer was fi
nished, they all stood for some time, doffed hats clasped to their chests, their heads bowed.
At last, Jean lifted his head and put his hat back on. ‘Thank you for that, Paul,’ he said brusquely.
While they were burning Te Kuri’s village, some of the soldiers had noticed savages fleeing from Pikiorei’s fortified village further along the peninsula. Chevillard suggested their investigation would not be complete without searching it also. ‘We know Piquioré was Tacoury’s henchman,’ he pointed out.
Although Jean and André could see nothing more to be gained, the soldiers were keen to seek vengeance there, too. Without further ado, they marched along the ridge and entered the deserted village. There, the searchers found more evidence of the fate of their companions; torn clothing, personal belongings and articles from the boats. Human remains were scattered around Pikiorei’s kitchen. After adding to Chevillard’s collection, they burned this village, too. The longboat crew then towed two war canoes back to the ships, where they were dismantled for their top planks and any other wood that could be used for firewood. The hulls were burned, being too long at sixty feet to be of any use. When they returned to the ships, Chevillard drew up the formal report requested by their two commanders.
Over the next few days, disregarding the ensigns’ conclusions about the fate of their boats, Monsieur du Clesmeur insisted the longboat continue its tardy search of the coastline whenever the weather allowed. Although the savages mostly kept their distance, on one such occasion a crowd of several hundred followed the Mascarin’s boat along the shore, yelling abuse. The officer in charge reported his chagrin at being mocked by one of these savages, who came right down to the water’s edge. When they fired at him several times, he merely flung himself down on the beach, then stood up again once the shot had passed overhead. ‘He pranced about opening that mat they wear as if to show us he’d not been hurt.’
Jean did not like the sound of this. ‘The savages grow bold again,’ he said to André. ‘If we’re not careful they may at last realize they have the numbers to overwhelm us regardless of our superior weapons.’
‘D’accord, just what I was thinking.’ André listened to the distant shouts of the savages’ sentries, still keeping close watch on all their activities. ‘We’re almost ready to leave, though.’
‘Then pray to God we do so in time,’ said Jean, crossing himself. ‘Despite everything that’s happened, our new commanders won’t perceive any threat.’
On 11 July, Monsieur du Clesmeur summonsed all the officers to his great cabin. Although he was now ostensibly the leader of the expedition, to Jean’s surprise the young aristocrat had constantly deferred to Monsieur Crozet and the other more experienced officers during the month they were preparing to leave. Now, he made it clear he wished to hear their opinions before he decided what action and course they should take.
While they waited to board the longboat to cross to the Castries, the senior ensign commented to André, ‘He’s merely showing his true colours—he’s no idea what we should do. He needs some options having come up with none of his own.’
‘A bit harsh, cousin,’ said André. ‘Maybe he’s learned some humility after all that’s happened.’
It still seemed strange to be gathering in the other ship’s great cabin, not on the Mascarin. Although Monsieur du Clesmeur’s officers made them welcome around the handsome table, and his servants were punctilious in pouring them wine in crystal goblets, André could not help noticing that, despite his undoubted belief in his own superiority, the captain lacked the easy authority shown by Monsieur Marion. He fussed too much. Jean scarcely lowered his voice in remarking, ‘Who’s the toady now?’
That the captain overheard was clear from the flush that rose up his neck. He rapped his silver snuff box nervously for a moment or two, then cleared his throat. ‘Gentlemen, I’ve called you here because as you know we’ve found no specific instructions amongst Monsieur Marion’s papers to determine how we should proceed.’ He nodded at Monsieur Le Corre. ‘My second-in-command has drawn up some reckoning of our position to guide what decisions we now make.’
When the beefy senior officer finished speaking, they looked at each other bleakly. Their situation was not good. Both ships had lost their best sailors—amongst them the Castries’ entire gang of tops men. Of those left, many were still suffering from scurvy. Their dry provisions were sufficient for only another eight or nine months, and that on the assumption they were still in reasonable condition. Not only would the Castries be sailing under jury rig, but she was also without the three anchors and cables lost when they first made landfall on the New Zealand coast.
Monsieur Crozet pulled no punches. ‘Considering the state of your ship, sir, we’ve no choice but to head back to the Île-de-France by the shortest and easiest route possible.’
Monsieur du Clesmeur flushed again. ‘You’re suggesting we abandon any further explorations?’
‘No question of continuing exploration—sir,’ Monsieur Crozet added a little late. ‘Manila it is, then. With that letter of recommendation from the Court of Spain you found amongst Monsieur Marion’s papers, we should get assistance there to affect better repairs to the ships. We can go via Guam, pick up a pilot there and re-provision.’
‘Not Chile?’ Monsieur du Clesmeur tried to regain some semblance of control.
‘We certainly shouldn’t risk staying any longer in these stormridden southern waters,’ Monsieur Le Corre pointed out. ‘Winter’s not yet over. Who knows what tempests would befall us.’
‘Fort bien,’ said the discomfited captain. ‘I take your reasoning, gentlemen.’
‘Beyond any other considerations, Manila would give us reasonable opportunities to get some return for our cargoes,’ said Monsieur Crozet in conciliatory tones.
If he thought Monsieur du Clesmeur would be mollified by this observation, he was much mistaken. The aristocrat drew himself together and said haughtily, ‘I’ve no desire to be mixed up in trade, sir. Naturally I’ve had no involvement in such matters.’ He took snuff, and stared down his nose at the commander of the Mascarin.
‘Be that as it may,’ Monsieur Crozet became a little terse, ‘at the very least we owe it to Monsieur Marion to reduce the burden on his estate. You’ve surely not forgotten that he took on the expenses of this voyage himself? We need to recoup what we can to offset them.’
‘Oui, oui!’ The captain waved his hand in dismissal. ‘But I’m happy to leave such matters to you.’
For a few moments there was silence, an unmistakable atmosphere of dislike thickening in the room. André was left wondering whether the captain was in any way aware that his own ineptitude had triggered the long sequence of events leading to their present predicament. If he did, he was certainly showing no signs of it. Ruefully, the ensign recalled his earlier attempts to stick up for him. He would not bother again.
Paul Chevillard hastened to divert their attention onto other things. ‘We’ve yet to formally claim these territories for the King,’ he pointed out. ‘What are your intentions, sir?’
‘These matters I do have in hand,’ said Monsieur du Clesmeur. ‘At first light tomorrow morning I intend sending men ashore on Marion Island to bury the usual documents.’ He turned to Jean. ‘I thought it might be appropriate for you and the other ensigns from the Mascarin to do this, Monsieur Roux, in honour of your unfortunate captain.’
Jean nodded. ‘That would seem fitting,’ he said quietly, his tone neutral. He was not about to make any concessions to Monsieur du Clesmeur, regardless of this unexpected consideration.
So, in the grey chill of a windy dawn, the three ensigns from the Mascarin found themselves standing on the terrace behind the watering place on Marion Island. They waited in silence while two burly sailors dug a four-foot deep hole fifty paces from the water’s edge and ten from the bank of the stream. Chevillard held the sealed bottle containing the declaration the two commanders had drawn up and which they had all signed, claiming possession of the ha
rbour and all the coastline from here to the far north and Cape Maria. Monsieur Marion had called this tract of land France Australe—Southern France, and that was the name they gave it in the document.
As they doffed their hats and intoned the necessary words claiming possession, André’s thoughts could not help returning to that earlier occasion, on the island they named Prise de Possession. Now he wondered how he could have been so excited, so full of hope for the success of their ill-fated expedition. He wondered how he could have taken it so for granted that his superior officers would make the right decisions no matter what befell them. It seemed a long time since he was such a naïve youth.
Soon after sunrise on the morning of 13 July, more than two long months since they had first anchored in Port Marion, the two ships slowly sailed out of the western passage. Once they cleared the line of islands that protected the inner harbour, they set sail to the northeast. As the range of blue mountains, the line of rocky forest-clad islands and the shimmering waters of the inner harbour receded behind them, Ensign André Tallec resolutely kept his eyes on the sea opening out ahead. He did not once look back.
Extract from the Te Kape manuscript, 1841
Before their departure from Tokerau, those strangers buried on Moturua a container in which they enclosed an item of power, by which action it was understood they intended us further harm. Accordingly, that container was dug up by our tohunga, and, its contents were rendered harmless by being eaten. Even today, our children still go up the stream on Moturua to search for that container out of innocent curiosity. Despite its power being so dissipated, the atua of those strangers from the sea continued to assail us long after their departure from Tokerau, and, many of our people sickened and died, their guts gnawed by ngarara, the lizards sent by those atua. Accordingly, the tides and currents flowing in Tokerau became ever more turbulent as compensation was sought for the calamities that had befallen us. First, those Ngati Pou people were driven out of Tokerau for their failure to prevent those strangers from violating the tapu at Manawa-ora. Those people fled to Whangaroa where they were given land for living. Some time later, those people were in turn pushed out of Whangaroa, and, they returned to Hokianga to their ancestral stronghold at Rangiahua, near Okaihau, many of them dying in their attempt to reach safety. Over the years, after many battles and changing alliances, the descent lines of incomers from the west have become ever more closely intermingled with those of Tokerau, so that today our children often share ancestors with their children, and, those links will persist into the future.
