See there, on our right, that granite peak towering ten thousand feet into the clouds? Look, in such transparent water even its mighty roots are visible. It is Tenerife, the ancient Nivaria, rendezvous point for the eagles that swoop and glide around its crest, looking as small as doves from this great distance. This, however, is not our destination; it’s simply a stray bit of Spain, and I’ve promised you the garden of the world.
Look, on the left—that barren rock, burning in the tropical sun? Our modern Prometheus spent six years chained there. England chose that wasted islet to erect a monument to its own shame, to the stake where Joan of Arc burned and the scaffold where Mary Stuart died. It is a political Golgotha, and for eighteen years it was the pious rendezvous point where all ships converged. But—enough of the regicide St. Helena, we will have nothing more to do with her, now that the martyr is gone.
We’ve reached the Cape of Storms now. See the towering peak in front of us, its summit lost in the mists? This is the giant Adamastor, who appeared to the author of The Lusiads. It marks the very end of the earth—the prow of that great green vessel on which we are all passengers. How the waves crash with furious impotence against its rocky face! It is impervious, invincible, forever anchored here in the port of eternity with God himself as captain. Let us keep on. Beyond these verdant mountains lies nothing but barren stone and sun-scorched desert. I promised you pure water, gentle shade, succulent fruit, and radiant blooms, did I not?
Ah, the westerly wind has finally brought us to our destination—the Indian Ocean, theater of the Arabian Nights! There is grim Mont Bourbon, with its sulfurous, eternally flaming volcano. Spare a glance at its fiery maw and smell its fumes. Just a few knots more now; we pass between île Plate and Coin-de-Mire and round pointe-aux-Cannoniers, and we drop anchor at last. Our trusty brigantine has earned a rest. We have arrived! This is the blessed island itself, hidden away in this far-flung corner of the world like some virginal maiden whose mother jealously guards her beauty from covetous suitors’ eyes. This is the Promised Land—the pearl of the Indian Ocean. This is île de France.
Now, chaste daughter of the seas, twin sister of Bourbon, blessed rival of Ceylon, let me raise a corner of your veil so that I may introduce you to a foreign friend, my fellow traveler here. Let me just loosen your sash—there! Ah, beautiful captive! We are two poor pilgrims from France—France, who will, perhaps, arrive one day to reclaim you at last, rich daughter of India, for the bride-price of some poor European realm…
As for you, dear readers, who have followed our eyes and our thoughts this far, let me bid you a very hearty welcome to this land of fertile fields, bountiful harvests, and endless springs and summers bursting with flowers and fruit. Let me wax poetic for a moment and tell you of the wonders of this place. It is a veritable Aphrodite, born of sea foam to reign over a celestial empire, her toes in the sea and her head in the clouds, crowned with golden days and crystalline nights, eternal jewels gifted by God himself—which the English have never yet managed to take from her. Come, then—air travel doesn’t bother you any more than sea travel, does it? Good! Grab hold of my coattails, then, you new Cléofas, and fly with me to the peak of Pieterboot, almost the highest mountain on the island. We can see everything from there!
The sky is always clear, as you see, and thickly clustered with stars; it is a blue carpet where God left behind gold dust in each of his footsteps, and where each atom is a world in itself. The whole island is laid out at our feet like an enormous map, 145 leagues around. Its sixty rivers look like silver threads winding their way to the sea, and its thirty mountains are thickly forested with takamaka, palm, and basket trees. See, among all those rivers, the great waterfalls of le Réduit and la Fontaine, rushing wildly from deep in the woods to crash thunderously into the ocean below—the mighty ocean that, calm or stormy, will always defeat the fury of the cascades. There, too, is the mighty rivière Noire, flowing majestically, shaping everything in its path and showing how time and tranquility always conquer unbridled rage. Gloomy Brabant stands among the other peaks like a giant sentinel keeping watch for enemy attacks. There is the crest of TroisMamelles, around whose base curl the Tamarin and Rempart rivers, as if the Indian goddess Isis wished to leave her mark. Gaze, finally, at the towering summit of le Pouce, near Pieterboot, for it is the highest point on the island; it seems to touch the very heavens, reminding us of the celestial court that will eventually render judgment on us all.
Before us is Port Louis, formerly Port Napoleon, the island’s capital city, protected from invaders by île des Tonneliers. See its many wooden houses and the two rivers running among them, which turn into veritable torrents after every storm. Its population holds a sample of every race of Earth. There are Creoles being carried about in palanquins, so indolent that their slaves are trained to respond to gestures rather than words; then there are the blacks, for whom the sun rises and sets by the lash of a whip. Falling somewhere between these two extremes are the Lascars, faces tanned under their green and red turbans. There are the Yoloffs of Senegambia, tall and handsome, with skin dark as ebony, sparkling eyes, and teeth like pearls; there are the short Chinese, flat-chested and wide-shouldered, with their bare heads and drooping mustaches. No one understands their language, yet they are masters of trade; there is no profession they do not practice; no merchandise they do not sell; no service they will not provide. They are the Jews of the colony. Gaze at the Malays, small, cunning, copper-skinned, and vindictive, who will forget a kindness in the blink of an eye but bear a grudge forever; the gentle giants of Mozambique; the Malgaches, slim, ruddy, and clever; the tall, proud Namaquois, trained to hunt tigers and elephants from earliest childhood. And there, in the midst of this teeming mass of humanity, are the English officers stationed on the island or in the port, proud in their scarlet jackets, black helmets, and white trousers. They look around them with supreme disdain, dismissing Creole and mulatto, master and slave, native and colonist with equal scorn; they speak only of London, of dear old England, and of themselves.
Behind us bustles Grand Port, formerly Port Imperial, established originally by the Dutch and then abandoned, for the same strong breezes that bring vessels so easily into the harbor too often prevent them from leaving as well. After years of neglect and decay, it is only today that houses are beginning to rise anew from the old ruins—a town once more, with a bay in which schooners seek refuge from pirates against a backdrop of green-forested hills where slaves hide from their tyrannical masters. Just behind those emerald peaks, almost under our very feet, you will find the region of Moka, lying on the slopes that face away from the port, perfumed with the scents of aloe, pomegranates, and cassis. It is a garden within a garden, the garden of the world; always festive and beautiful, the most breathtaking spot on the island.
Let’s face Madagascar again. To our left, beyond le Réduit, are the beautiful plains of Williams and Saint-Pierre, then Moka, the loveliest part of the island, divided by the rounded bulk of Mont Corps-de-Garde, shaped like a horse’s rump. Farther on, past the Great Woods, is the savanna, with its winding rivers called Citronniers, Bain-de-Négresses, and l’Arcade, and its well-defended port, so perfectly protected by steep hills that only friends may enter. Its pastures are as fertile as those of the Saint-Pierre Plains, its soil as virgin and untouched as that of the American wilderness. Farther inland there is an enormous lake filled with moray eels large and savage enough to devour live deer and even runaway slaves foolish enough to attempt a swim.
Finally, we turn to our right. Here is the Rempart district, dominated by the peak of Mont Découverte, beyond whose summit the ships’ masts rise like so many delicate willow branches. There are Cape Malheureux, the Bay of Tombeaux, and the Church of Pamplemousses. Here, too, are the two side-by-side huts of Madame de la Tour and Marguerite. It was at Cape Malheureux where the Saint-Géran sank, and in the Bay of Tombeaux that the corpse of a young woman was found, a torn portrait clutched in her hand. She was laid to rest in the Church of
Pamplemousses, and just two months later a boy of the same age was buried beside her. You may have already guessed it: They were the tragic young Paul and Virginie, star-crossed tropical lovers buried in a single crypt, whose deaths are still mourned in the sighing rise and fall of the waves as a tigress might mourn the cubs she herself destroyed in a momentary fit of rage or jealousy.
So! Now that I have acquainted you with our fair island, with her inlets and shores, her rivers and hills, you may go wherever you like, day or night—to the île de la passe de Descorne in the southwest, or to Mahebourg on Petit-Malabar; along the coasts or deep in the interior; you may swim the rivers or climb the mountains, or watch the blazing disk of the setting sun light up the plains as if they were afire or the moon cast her melancholy light on the peaks, and if you are lulled by the afternoon heat, the Chinese rose water, or the Spanish jasmine, if you feel as lazy as if you had taken opium, you may stretch yourself on the soft green grass and abandon yourself without fear to the voluptous pleasures of sleep. If you are wakened, though, by a gentle rustle of leaves, be assured that it’s no Jamaican beast nor Bengal tiger; there are no reptilian hisses to be heard on île de France, nor the nocturnal roars of any predatory animals. No; it is only a bright-eyed young black girl gazing curiously through the bamboo stalks at this new European visitor. Simply smile at her and she will gather you a feast of ripe bananas, mangoes, and tamarinds. Say but one word to her, and she will reply, in her low and wistful voice, “I slave; I do what you want.” Shining with pride and satisfaction at your kind looks or tolerant words, she will refuse all pay and offer to lead you to her master’s house. Follow her down a tree-lined avenue to a pretty home with a flower-filled garden. Here lives the planter—he may be a benevolent father to his slaves or he may be a tyrant, but then, that has nothing to do with you. Enter and sit at the family table, and you—the honored guest—will be served from dishes of fine china and goblets of clearest crystal, endlessly refilled with the island’s best ale. Hunt in your host’s fields as much as you like; fish in his rivers; dine on his fattest calf. Here, the arrival of a guest is cause for celebration, like the return of a prodigal son to Paradise.
The English have long coveted this beloved daughter of France. They have hovered around her, attempting to seduce her first with rich gifts, then threats, and finally by force. She met every approach with supreme disdain, this lovely Creole of ours; she acquitted herself so well, in fact, that the men who desired her were so anxious to possess her that she had to be guarded as one might keep watch over a fragile Spanish nun. For a time it seemed that she would be left in peace, that she would be able to fend off any aggressors—but England launched a final, impassioned attack, and one morning île de France learned the terrible news that her sister island Bourbon had been taken. Sharpening their knives and polishing their guns, the defenders waited for the enemy to appear—and on August 23, 1810, accompanied by the deafening thunder of cannon fire, they came.
II
LIONS AND LEOPARDS
It began at five o’clock in the evening. Half the inhabitants of île de France gathered on the hillsides around Grand Port, transfixed by the spectacle unfolding below them, just as the ancient Romans once watched gladiators fight to the death. The vast harbor, walled by reefs and shoals, served as the arena; the combatants were French and English ships.
On the morning of the twentieth, five French ships coming from Madagascar neared île de France, led by Captain Duperré of the Bellone. They had recently engaged in a string of skirmishes; they had won battles, but these had left them damaged, and Duperré hoped to refit his battered fleet at Grand Port. At that time, the region was entirely French, and the tricolor fluttered from both the fort at île de la Passe and the schooner anchored below it—so, naturally, the brave captain believed himself among friends. Accordingly, he ordered the rest of the fleet to bypass île de la Passe and make directly for Grand Port. The corvette Victor struck out in front, followed by the Minerva, the Ceylon, and the Bellone, with the Windham bringing up the rear.
As the Victor passed the anchored schooner, the latter signaled that English ships had been sighted off île de la Passe. Captain Duperré replied that he was perfectly aware of it; there were four English vessels, to be sure—the Magician, the Nereid, the Sirius, and the Iphigenia, commanded by Commodore Lambert—but since Captain Hamelin was also near the island with a second French fleet consisting of the Entreprenant, the Manche, and the Astrée, he felt sure that the enemy would be considerably outgunned if hostilities were to erupt.
A moment later Captain Bouvet, second in the convoy, was surprised to see signs of suspicious activity aboard the schooner. Studying the other ship with a seaman’s unfailing eye for detail, he saw that it was missing the marks normally distinguishable on a French vessel. He immediately shared his observations with Captain Duperré, who told Bouvet to take precautions and that he would do likewise—but, alas, they could not warn the Victor; she was too far ahead. It was a horrific shock for her crew, then, when cannon fire erupted from both the schooner and the fort, ripping through the corvette’s sails and shattering her decks! English flags speedily replaced the tricolors. It was a trap!
Rather than retreating, the wounded Victor returned the English schooner’s fire—but weakly. Captain Duperré, aboard the Bellone, signaled the Windham to go for reinforcements and ordered the Minerva and the Ceylon to follow him. The three ships advanced in the thick silence that often precedes a raging storm. The Minerva was soon exchanging artillery fire with the enemy. The Ceylon, a swift and lovely brigantine recently captured from the English, wasted no time in joining the fray. Meanwhile the Bellone dropped anchor between île aux Singes and pointe de la Colonie. Captain Duperré, receiving word that île Bourbon had been taken, sent word to Governor-General Decaen that he and his fleet had been engaged at Grand Port. By noon on the twenty-first, Decaen had infantrymen en route to assist the defenders.
The Windham had been taken by the English frigate Sirius in the early hours of the twenty-first as she attempted to drop anchor in the rivière Noire. The frigate’s commander, Captain Pym, then made for Grand Port, flanked by the Magician and the Iphigenia. The second French fleet—the Entreprenant, the Manche, and the Astrée—pursued them hotly, but they could not overtake the English ships before they reached the harbor.
At midday on August 22, the Sirius reached Grand Port and joined the schooner—now known to be the Nereid, under the command of Captain Willoughby. The two ships advanced on the French, intent on destruction—but the Sirius caught bottom, and her crew was occupied for the rest of the day in setting her afloat once more. The reinforcements arrived that night, giving the French a total of fourteen hundred men and 142 guns.
At two o’clock the following afternoon, the English frigates Magician and Iphigenia arrived in the harbor. The enemy forces were now seventeen hundred men and two hundred cannons strong.
A terrible silence prevailed as the ten thousand mountainside spectators watched the four enemy frigates advance with grim confidence, sails lowered, toward the French defenders. It would be a battle between lions and leopards, a fight to the death.
Our sailors fired the first shot. A burning hail of bullets and cannonballs soon engulfed both groups of combatants. The skirmish was fierce—at first it seemed that the enemy might prevail, for the English quickly crippled both the Minerva and the Ceylon. The Bellone, captained by the courageous Duperré, faced all four foes at once, spewing fire like an erupting volcano for better than two hours while her sister ships repaired their damage enough to reenter the fray.
The Nereid was the first to tire, and the French forces concentrated their fury on her. For more than an hour she was bombarded with shot, but the white flag of surrender did not appear. Her masts splintered and fell; great holes gaped in her hull; finally she lapsed into immobility.
A moment later Captain Duperré was hit as he turned to give an order to his lieutenant. Knowing himself to be seriously—perhap
s mortally—wounded, he turned command of the Bellone over to Captain Bouvet with the order that the French ships should be destroyed rather than surrendered. Night had fallen, and combat ceased until one o’clock the next morning, when the moon illuminated the battleground with its pale rays.
Captain Bouvet, on the Bellone, instructed Lieutenant Roussin to take the helm of the Victor in its wounded commander’s stead and ensure that the Nereid was completely out of commission. Only an occasional musket shot still echoed now and then from the battered English ship, but Roussin followed Bouvet’s orders to the letter and fired on the Nereid until she was silent as a tomb. Still the white flag did not appear. Suddenly cries of “Vive l’empereur!” were heard among the ruins, and seventeen French prisoners taken at île de la Passe emerged from belowdecks. The British standard was lowered and the tricolor of France hoisted. Roussin gave the order to board the crippled ship, but at that moment the English turned their own guns on the lost prize, and in the end the Victor simply collected the French refugees and left the devastated hulk of the Nereid to float.
The French fleet now concentrated its fire on the Magician. Captain Bouvet was resolved to destroy the enemy frigates one by one, and the bombardment did not cease even as the English ship, battered and listing, was abandoned by her few surviving crew members. The lifeboats, too, were soon downed; wounded men could be seen in the water, struggling to reach the two remaining frigates—but plumes of smoke issued from the Magician’s portholes, and in an instant the entire ship was engulfed in flames. Scant moments later there was a frightful explosion, like a volcano erupting, and the vessel was no more. Nothing was left: no debris, no wounded men, not even any floating corpses. Only a large empty space between the Nereid and the Iphigenia indicated the place where the Magician had been.
As if exhausted, both the French and English fleets left off their fire. The rest of the night passed in repose. The next morning, however, combat began anew. The Sirius was chosen as France’s next victim. After two hours the English ship was in ruins; her masts had been completely obliterated, and her hull was in tatters. She could do nothing but sink. Her remaining crew rigged her with bombs before they abandoned ship—the captain, of course, was the last to leave—and, at eleven o’clock in the morning, like the Magician before her, she exploded and was gone to keep her rendezvous with Saint Barbara.
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