What Became of the White Savage E-Book

François Garde

• Herausgeber: Dedalus
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

What Became of the White Savage enjoyed phenomenal success in France where it won nine literary prizes including the prestigious Goncourt Prize in the first novel category. Some time in the 1840s, Narcisse, a young French sailor is abandoned on the coast of Australia and given up for dead by his shipmates. Seventeen years later he is found living among aboriginal peoples, having apparently forgotten everything of his original identity, including his native French language. Octave de Vallombrun, a well-meaning geographer, takes him under his wing and sets out to bring Narcisse, now known as the 'white savage' back to civilisation and to find out what happened during those seventeen years. Observing Narcisse's struggle to adjust to the ways of the white man, Octave too begins to question his assumptions about what it means to be civilised, and to see in a new light the man known as the 'white savage'. It will appeal to readers interested in the issues of identity, belonging and competing cultural values. Born in 1959, Francois Garde grew up in Aix-en-Provence and studied at the prestigious Ecole Nationale d'Administration before embarking upon a career as a senior civil servant. He worked for many years in the French Overseas Territories in the Southern Pacific and Indian Oceans, before becoming a novelist. Published in 2012, What Became of the White Savage, is Garde's first novel. Winner of nine literary prizes, including the prestigious Prix Goncourt in the first novel category for 2012.

Leseprobe

For Laurence

This book has been selected to receive financial assistance from English PEN’s translation programme. English PEN exists to promote literature and our understanding of it, to uphold writers’ freedoms around the world, to campaign against the persecution and imprisonment of writers for stating their views, and to promote the friendly co-operation of writers and the exchange of ideas.

The Author

Born in 1959, François Garde grew up in Aix-en-Provence and studied at the prestigious Ecole Nationale d’Administration before embarking upon a career as a senior civil servant. He worked for many years in the French Overseas Territories in the Southern Pacific and Indian Oceans, before becoming a novelist.

Published in 2012, What Became of the White Savage, is Garde’s first novel. Inspired by a true story, it won nine literary prizes, including the prestigious Prix Goncourt in the first novel category for 2012.

The Translator

Born in London, Aneesa Abbas Higgins studied Sociology, French and Russian at the University of Sussex and later obtained her MA in Romance Languages and Literatures from the University of London. She taught French for many years before becoming a freelance literary translator.

Contents

Title

Dedication

The Author

The Translator

Chapter 1

Letter I

Chapter 2

Letter II

Chapter 3

Letter III

Chapter 4

Letter IV

Chapter 5

Letter V

Chapter 6

Letter VI

Chapter 7

Letter VII

Chapter 8

Letter VIII

Chapter 9

Letter IX

Chapter 10

Letter X

Chapter 11

Letter XI

Chapter 12

Letter XII

Chapter 13

Letter XIII

Chapter 14

Letter XIV

Chapter 15

Letter XV

Chapter 16

Letter XVI

Chapter 17

Copyright

1

When he reached the top of the small cliff he realised that he was alone. There was no sign of the dinghy drawn up on the beach, no sign of a boat floating on the blue-green water. The schooner lying at anchor in the entrance to the bay was nowhere to be seen, no sails visible on the horizon. He closed his eyes, shook his head. Nothing. They had left.

Absurdly, he felt guilty. When the dinghy had landed on the beach, the second mate had divided the sailors into three groups to increase their chances of finding water. Three men went towards the trees, vaguely outlined at the far end of the beach; three towards the other side of the bay, rocky and uninviting; the rest were sent to search through rock holes and look for a cave at the base of the limestone cliff. At first, he’d turned over coral blocks with his shipmates but soon decided that their efforts were in vain: any rain that fell on this terrain would seep into the sand. Rather than digging at random, surely it would be better to try and find signs of life: men or animals would lead him to water. A light offshore breeze was blowing, softening the burning rays of the tropical sun.

He’d climbed straight up, finding purchase on roots and holes in the rock. Moving with athletic skill, he reached the top within a few minutes. Unnoticed by the crew, he waved his arms in a wide motion, signalling to the boat before heading inland. A vast, almost flat plain spread out before him: a dusty, parched landscape, with tufts of grass and sparse, meagre trees, all of the same metallic green. No buildings. No smoke. In this arid steppe, they would surely search in vain for a spring.

Looking again at this discouraging landscape he noticed a small channel that began near where he was standing and ran towards the interior of the plateau, widening out into a valley. He followed the path of this furrow with his gaze, and realised that it became deeper as well as wider. Trees growing along the side became gradually bigger and greener than the others, eventually forming an emerald green grove that stood out against the muted colours of the forest. When the rains came, water must run into this natural depression. Perhaps there was still a pool somewhere in a shady hollow. The smallest, muddiest pool would be enough to fill a cask, and save the sick on the ship.

He struck out straight ahead towards the hollow, following it to the bottom of the slope. Walking was difficult, the vegetation different from that on the plateau: now he had to make his way through tangled woody scrub, edging his way through the waxy leaves of spindly bushes. He noticed a sort of cress that grew more densely as he advanced. Eventually he came to a small hollow a few metres lower than the plateau. He touched the ground, felt its humidity. No sign of a brooklet, not even a puddle. Crouching down, he used his knife to dig and scrape. The soil was loose and damp and he managed to dig a hole as deep as his forearm. But there was nothing to be found.

Somewhat disappointed at not proving to be the hero of the day, he stood up and headed back along the valley floor towards the beach. This walk through the cool green woods away from the grey forest above would be his secret, one small pleasure derived from their attempt to find water in this nameless bay. He moved unhurriedly and climbed at a leisurely pace back towards the modest hilltop overlooking the bay.

It was then that he realised he was alone. He let out a cry, but no ship could hear him. Frantic, unable to think, he ran like a madman down the cliff, slipping and sliding, the bushes scratching him, twice almost breaking his neck. He leapt onto the sand, raced along the shore and ran into the water up to his chest in an effort to get as close as he could to the vanished ship. Howling with rage, he shouted and cried out for help. His cries were no more audible from the sea than from the cliff. A wave wet his neck and he moved back, staring out to sea.

He had to get up high to survey the horizon. Trembling with confused emotions, he climbed back up the cliff.

What had happened? How long had he been gone on his solitary exploration of the interior? An hour, at the most. Enough time for the dinghy to be called back: he hadn’t seen the flag signalling the order to return to the ship, hadn’t heard the warning gunfire. The Saint-Paul had weighed anchor, cast off and set sail. But why? Why in such a rush? Why had they gone without him?

He sat down in the shade of a scrawny, twisted tree. Memories came back to him: seafaring knowledge, a few phrases exchanged between officers and petty officers. The bosun had reported that the ship was anchored in coarse sand on rock; it wouldn’t hold firm. With the full moon two days before, there would be high waters. The captain had only agreed to enter this unknown bay to seek fresh water for the sick on board. The offshore winds seemed to be picking up.

At the entrance to the bay, he could see the water beginning to swirl and eddy. The sea had been smooth as a lake when they entered the bay. Now he could see what the lookout at the masthead must have spotted earlier: most of the bay was bounded by a coral reef that was gradually becoming visible. There were only two narrow channels. Arriving at high tide, they had entered the bay without incident, passing through the main channel by chance, unaware of the danger now revealed by the ebbing tide. With an unreliable anchorage and this strengthening wind, the captain could not risk getting trapped in the bay. He had to get out as quickly as possible while he could still manoeuvre the ship. Perhaps the second mate had mentioned that there was a man missing. But it could take another hour to return to shore, find the missing man and re-embark. They had to get out to sea and save the ship.

He found some reassurance in picturing the scene, imagining the conversations and the orders being given. The captain was right, he’d made the only choice possible to a sailor. It wasn’t a deliberate abandonment or a personal betrayal, but simply the consequence of a perilous situation. By leaving the group, he had disobeyed orders and deserved to be punished. He wasn’t too worried about a thrashing from the second mate – he’d had plenty of thrashings at school or in his father’s shoe workshop, and then on the ship – but he hoped to avoid being fined. And two or three months from now, they would all be laughing together about the whole episode.

The wind was picking up, and out at sea, beyond the bay, swells were beginning to form, the rollers breaking on the coral reef. He picked up a stone, and without thinking, threw it towards a pile of dead branches, one of which turned out to be a rather large, silvery-coloured lizard. It scurried towards the undergrowth, stopped for a moment nodding its snake-like head, and disappeared.

Only then did he grasp the reality of his situation. He was seized by fear. Abandoned on these barren shores, surrounded perhaps by wild animals or savage cannibals ready to devour him as soon as night fell, he had no food, no water, nothing with which to start a fire. He had nothing in the world but the knife in his belt and the clothes he stood up in.

He would have to prepare to sleep on the ground. The rough seas meant there was little hope of the ship coming back before nightfall, but he was reluctant to leave his lookout point with the clear view of the whole bay. To pass the time, and with a vague idea of defending himself, he cut a few more or less straight branches from a nearby tree, stripped off the bark and shaped the ends to a point. Now he had a bundle of sharp sticks, like short spears or thick arrows; armed with these rather primitive weapons he felt somewhat reassured.

His solitude and growing hunger weighed on him like a heavy tiredness. The sun was sinking and he calculated that he probably had an hour of daylight left, two hours at most of being able to see. He wondered where to settle down for the night. The strengthening wind might be a warning of rain and he decided not to sleep at the top of the cliff. He headed back down towards the valley floor and walked on until he found a sandy spot under the trees where he went about building a shelter. He broke off a few branches, intertwined them and stood them up against two adjoining trees. Then he gathered a few armfuls of tall fern growing nearby to use as walls and bedding. This makeshift hut would afford him some protection from bad weather, and if an animal or a savage were to attack him in the night, the shelter would collapse and alert him to their presence. He’d grab his spears and fight for his life.

Before the light faded completely, he went back again to his lookout point. Huge clouds scudded across the dark sky. The sea was a simmering black mass, silvery waves slicing across its surface. The roar of the surf crashing on the reef was deafening. And out to sea, no sign of a lantern, not a glimmer of light.

This would be his first night on land since they had put in at the Cape. He couldn’t help smiling at the thought of the Cape. They had sailed from Bordeaux without incident, and during their week-long stopover at the Cape he had spent two evenings on shore. He’d explored the cosmopolitan port with three of his shipmates, savouring the white wine from the surrounding hills, doing his best to communicate in garbled English, Dutch and Spanish, and admiring the beads and fabrics that adorned the African women.

They’d spent the first night wandering aimlessly from one tavern to another, downing tankards of the local brew. In the fourth establishment, a fight broke out between some other French seamen and a group of English tars. He and his mates had sided with their compatriots, thrashing the Englishmen before going on to the next tavern with their new friends to celebrate their victory. No one remembered what happened next, and how they managed to get back on board ship remained a mystery.

Two nights later they were in town again. After dining on meat and fresh vegetables, they’d gone to an establishment with a red lantern outside, recommended by the old hands. They went in, sat down at a table and ordered something to drink, trying to look casual and at ease. The girls appeared and paraded across the floor in front of them, swaying their hips. Without too much ado, the four sailors stood up, made their choice and settled the bill.

The girls were half-caste and he ended up with the darkest of them. As she led him towards one of the huts clustered together at the back of the courtyard he made a lewd suggestion with a broad smile on his face. She didn’t understand French, but she murmured something in response as she closed the door. In the half-light he could make out a basin, a mat and a candle. He undressed and lay down beside her. He heard his shipmates’ groans carried on the soft air through the holes in the walls as he turned his attention to his own pleasure.

When he’d finished, he began to doze off, sensing the warmth of her dark skin – when an insistent banging on the doors reminded them that the time paid for was up. He dressed and rejoined his mates and together they drank a last jug, boasting of their prowess.

Now, as the last rays of light faded, he went back to his makeshift shelter. He managed to edge his way in without causing the structure to collapse, and lay down on his bed of ferns. He was used to the swaying of the hammock aboard ship and the hard sand seemed strangely still and flat. He thought of all the times during the voyage when his mind had taken him back to that night with the whore from the Cape. He was sorry he hadn’t asked her name. He couldn’t really remember her delicate face, he had barely glimpsed it. But he could recall the smell and distinctive texture of her skin. His mates had made fun of him and joked about the blackness of her skin. In all his encounters at different ports of call, she was the darkest of the women he’d been with. But so what? It was her dark skin that had filled his thoughts during his nights in the hammock, and now, lying here alone in this alien land, he wrapped himself again in the warmth of those memories.

It was after the Cape that things had started to go wrong. The captain had chosen a southerly route to make the most of the easterly winds. They’d come up against the storm, with heavy, cross seas and snow squalls. For six days, they’d tried night and day to force a passage before finally abandoning the attempt and heading back to calmer latitudes. The ship and the crew had taken a beating: broken rigging, ripped sails, numerous bruises. One fellow, a topman from the Vendée, had broken his shoulder after falling from a topsail and the second mate had done what he could to repair the broken bone. The ship had sustained damage to the hold with several water barrels rendered useless.

In the Cape they’d taken on a man from Brittany, from Guilvinec, who claimed to be a deserter from an English ship. He didn’t look too healthy, but the captain was always short of hands and had agreed to take him on. The man had ignored the abuse hurled at him by the crew and had sat out most of the storm trying to find shelter before finally declaring himself sick. The rumour was that he hadn’t jumped ship but had been put ashore on account of his weakened state. The second mate tried some of his remedies, but the Breton faded away before their eyes and died ten days after they set sail. No one had taken the time to get to know him: they hadn’t really felt any inclination to. But the death of a man aboard ship always leaves a lasting impression.

Their maps showed an island, Saint-Paul, in the middle of the Indian Ocean. The captain hoped they’d be able to take on some fresh water there and do something to help the injured man. From that point on, the sea was calm, occasionally disturbed by a long swell. Banks of mist drifted under a milky sky. They found the island of Saint-Paul and sailed around it: an extinct volcano, no sign of a river or a stream, nowhere to put in, nowhere to drop anchor.

They were left with no choice but to continue towards Australia. According to the second mate, the vast west coast was treacherous and sandy, with no shelter or fresh water anywhere. The south coast was virtually unknown. On the east coast, there was the penal colony founded by the English in Sydney, with another one at Hobart Town in Tasmania. They decided to try the north coast, and from there, continue towards Java or one of the Dutch colonies in the Sunda Islands.

After the island of Saint-Paul, the wind dropped almost completely. They could go no further south in the light breeze. The sails shivered and rustled silkily as the heat and humidity became oppressive. The injured man lay on the bridge in agony. And then a cabin boy and the carpenter fell ill and took to calling incessantly for water to drink. The captain decided to ration the water. It was now two months since they had set sail from Bordeaux.

The wind picked up again but now it was a facing wind. For five days they plied windward only to realise that a reverse current was hindering their meagre progress. The seawater was warm, the air stifling; an oppressive humidity engulfed the ship. The wounded sailor and the two sick men lay groaning at the foot of the mainmast. The captain wore a grim expression on his face. In the forecastle, men talked in hushed voices, recounting earlier voyages to China and the dangers they had faced. There was no more singing in the evenings.

The cabin boy died. He was a good lad, a Breton, from Quimper. The crew were deeply affected by his suffering. Squalls streaked the horizon, but no rain came their way. And then another man fell ill, a fellow from Sète. The captain seemed more and more at a loss. Shouts were heard, angry words exchanged between the captain and the second mate. After two weeks with no wind at all, followed by a period of foul wind, a good breeze from the south finally set in and they were able to breathe again. But then, two more men fell ill; no one could understand why. Two deaths, one wounded man, three sick: there weren’t enough hands to hoist full sail and the captain had no choice but to go on under reduced sail even though the winds were favourable. Water rations were reduced.

They sailed well clear of the west coast and the north-western tip of Australia. Coming into the Gulf of Carpentaria they followed the coastline at a distance. With the aid of a telescope, they could make out nothing but inhospitable mangrove swamps and long stretches of sand. The captain never dared to give the order to take a closer look, sailing further from the coast in the evening, and only approaching again in the morning. The Arafura Sea seemed to go on for ever. They spent a week navigating in this cautious manner. The islands of the Torres Strait came into view, but the captain did not want to make landfall there for fear of being attacked by savages. The heat had once more become intolerable. There was no improvement in the sick men’s condition.

The schooner headed full south and tried to find a passage through the maze of sandy islands and coral reefs that rose out of the water and threatened constantly to rip open the ship’s hull. On the third day, they managed to get reasonably close to shore and found a welcoming bay, bordered by a ring of trees, behind a rocky peninsular. The captain decided to explore it, telling the men that if this area proved to be as arid as the others, they would abandon Australia and head for Java. The dinghy was launched, the larboard watch called; they rowed to shore, pulling hard on the oars and landed on the beach with four empty barrels to be filled with fresh water.

Yes, it was after the Cape that things had gone from bad to worse. Now, lying on his bed of ferns, he thought longingly of water: a great jug of fresh water.

He went to sleep, forgetting his hunger. Several times in the night, he woke up with a start, expecting to be roused by an order for more sails, with the reassuring sound of bare feet on the boards and the snoring of his shipmates. But no, there was only the silence of this alien land, a bed of leaves instead of his hammock. He closed his eyes again, amazed that he was still alive.

In the morning, it took him a few moments to recall the previous day’s events. He leapt up, knocking down his makeshift hut. The sun had just risen, but no birdsong had announced the dawn. He headed back along the wooded valley towards his lookout point at the top of the cliff. One glance was enough for him to realise there would be no rescue that day: heavy clouds were scudding across a lowering sky, the sea was flecked with white horses, huge rollers were breaking on the reef that bounded the bay, the surface of the water alive with waves criss-crossing it. No mariner would risk sailing his ship into this.

He felt crushed by the physical sensation of his solitude. Letting himself slide to the ground, he put his head on his knees and fought back the tears of rage that engulfed him. Thirst made his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth. On the ridge, the sand blew up in whirls, whipped up by gusts of wind into short-lived tornadoes.

He went back down to the beach and followed the bay towards the south. The trees he’d guessed at in vague outline the day before became a forest, and by the time he reached them, he realised he was in a mangrove swamp. Trunks rose out of the muddy, murky water, where there lurked God knows what kind of creatures. Turning away from the sea, he began to walk along the side of the gully. The plateau dropped down into a vague plain, the swamp stretching inland as far as the eye could see. Discouraged, he turned back and retraced his steps. Even if he had found a way through, what would he have done? Crossed the mangrove swamp to get to the next beach? The only European settlement he knew of was Sydney and that was hundreds of leagues away. Without food or water, with no map, he’d have no chance of surviving. And the rescue party would only look for him where they had last seen him.

The wind grew stronger, cracking the branches. Black clouds gathered, squalls forming somewhere out on the horizon. Long strands of seaweed littered the beach, thrown up by the roiling seas. The tide was drawing out, and he waded into the water to examine the coral blocks revealed by the receding waters. He found five shells that looked like mussels and wondered if they were edible. Without a second thought he consumed them, but these few grammes of tender salty flesh only sharpened his growing hunger and intensified his thirst.

A feeling of dizziness overcame him and he went to sit in the shade of a eucalyptus tree. To avoid thinking of his misfortunes, he slept, unperturbed by thoughts of protecting himself from danger: there were no wild beasts, no human beings living in this place.

When he awoke, the worst of the bad weather seemed to have past, leaving only the leaden skies and oppressive heat. Feeling despondent, he walked to pass the time; without any particular plan in mind, he headed for the rocky point that bounded the bay to the north, with little hope of finding anything that might be of use in this chaotic pile of sterile coral blocks. Heaving himself up to the top, he looked out at the coastline of steep cliffs and sheer drops, intercut by creeks that would be impossible to penetrate from the coast. And beyond stretched the plateau with its endless monotony of dusty green vegetation.

The tide seemed to be out and it occurred to him to build a fish trap; he’d heard talk of them and would lose nothing by trying. He spent the next hour shifting rocks and stones around, erecting a sort of low curved wall turned towards the beach. At high tide, some of the less agile fish would obligingly linger there and he’d be able to catch them with his bare hands once the tide went out.

With the trap completed he was overcome by obsessive hunger, and by an even stronger, all-consuming thirst. Water had been rationed on the ship for more than two weeks. And he hadn’t passed water for more than a day now; he knew this was a bad sign. There was no fruit on the trees, no hidden reserves of moisture to be sucked from the woody branches of the bushes. He went back to sit at his lookout post at the top of the small cliff, in the shade. Dusk was gathering. Out beyond the bay, the sea seemed to be gradually smoothing out, a long swell the only remaining sign of the storm’s passage. Aboard the Saint-Paul it would be time for the evening meal, for tales and songs after a day’s work and before the night. Was there talk of him? Had the captain made known his intentions with regard to him? With water supplies low, one crew member injured and three sick men on board, the captain would surely be in a hurry to pick up the missing man, and continue the voyage to Java and China. Two days ashore without food, water or any means of communication would surely be punishment enough for his foolishness. A fitting price to pay for thinking he could flout orders and strike out alone to explore beyond the cliff. Dawn would bring high tide, the ship would be there, lying-to beyond the bay while the dinghy came ashore. The oarsmen would be worried at first, unsparing in their sarcasm when they found him, but they’d give him water to drink and offer him a biscuit to eat.

What was he thinking? With water supplies low, one wounded man and three ailing, would the captain waste precious time searching for one foolhardy individual who’d got himself left behind on shore? He would first have to think of getting help for the injured and wounded. What chance was there that he’d opt to wait out the storm, tacking into the wind until they could come ashore again. And for what? To find that the lost man had been devoured by wild beasts or eaten by savages? Four lives against one. Why try to rescue one man who was in all probability already dead? Who would take such a risk? The only reasonable choice would be to set sail for Java without delay as soon as the dinghy returned. They’d try to get ahead of the storm. By now the Saint-Paul had probably been heading due north for two days. And here he was, watching out for the ship from the top of his perch. No. There would be no rescue party.

But then again. Even if the captain had taken the heartless decision to abandon a man, the entire crew would have mutinied, wouldn’t they? Forced the captain to let them come to his rescue? All of the men? Who would actually have spoken up in his favour? Pierre? Joseph? Yvon? He started to count off on his fingers the men who might stick up for him, hesitated, started again, and finally gave up.

Such speculations were unhealthy. They served no purpose. His only concern must be to stay alive, and first of all to find water. That was the only thing that mattered.

He stood up quickly. Dizziness overcame him again and he had to lean against the tree to regain his balance and stop himself falling to his knees. Hunger continued to gnaw away at him. He went to the edge of the cliff, faced the hard blue darkening sea, cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted:

“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.

LETTER I

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.

One evening, sitting on the terrace at the house of Mr. Wilton-Smith, a respectable merchant, I was approached by the captain of the ship that had brought me back from Fiji fifteen months earlier. He asked me for my opinion, as an explorer, on the subject of the white savage. Believing I had misunderstood him, or that this was said in jest, I asked him to forgive the inadequacy of my English and to repeat what he had said.

The captain replied, in short, that an armed ketch had happened upon a white savage while trepang fishing. The savage spoke only gibberish and was found running about on the beach, naked and tattooed from head to foot. The man was clearly European: his hair, his height and the colour of his skin, burnt as it was by the sun, all confirmed that he was a white man. The crew had taken him by force and brought him on board, but had soon grown tired of this singular being. In Sydney, the governor had seized the man and thrown him into the city’s gaol, where he had languished for the last week.

Like me, you will often have heard tales in various ports of women with the body of a fish, or men with three heads. Thinking this was just such a rumour from the taverns, I accorded the captain’s remarks no more than polite attention. I replied only that I believed explorers had quite enough to do studying black savages without having to deal with a white savage. At that moment, the music struck up and put an end to our exchange.

I could not have been more mistaken, my witty riposte more misguided.

Three days later I was called to a meeting in the governor’s office. I recognised some of the others present: a German merchant, an Italian priest, a Russian baron, a Dutch captain and a swarthy Hidalgo with the arrogant look of Spaniards the world over. All the principal nations of Europe, or at least speakers of all its main languages, were seated around the table.

The governor explained his difficulty to us. He had put the aforementioned white savage in his gaol and now did not know what to do with him. Having examined the man, the governor too was convinced that this man was European, that he was of white parentage and not of native or mixed blood. But where did he come from? He spoke only in gibberish and had about his person no object or symbol that might indicate his origins.

A convict dressed in servants’ livery brought us some port, no doubt to lighten our spirits. The governor then set out his plan: each of us would address the savage in our own language to see if he recognised one as his mother tongue. We discussed this ingenious plan for a while. The priest then declared that he would only address the man in the Neapolitan dialect if this could be followed by some phrases in Latin. This was agreed to and the Spaniard muttered that he could also say a few words in Portuguese.

The businessman from Königsberg objected, asking why the consuls from our respective countries could not be contacted? Only an official representative of His Prussian Majesty could recognise a subject as one of his own.

The governor sighed in agreement. He could only address the consuls in an official capacity. What would happen if two of the consuls were to disagree over the white savage? Or if one of them were to take offence at the suggestion that this naked, tattooed individual were a compatriot of his. This could give rise to diplomatic embarrassment, protestations, official despatches and reports in every capital. The confusion might continue for years, perhaps even become a subject of conflict between powers. Who knows where it might end? Mindful of these potential complications, he had invited the cream of the colony’s foreigners to this unofficial audience, in the hope of finding a satisfactory way of proceeding.

Aside from a certain admiration for our host’s acute political sensitivity, I will admit that I felt at the time no more than a passing curiosity towards the man they called the white savage. Sitting at the governor’s table, I understood that this was not merely a fanciful hoax; I was intrigued to set eyes upon this person, and to learn a little more about him. Perhaps his story would form the subject of an entertaining anecdote in a Parisian salon at a later date. Ladies are invariably charmed by travellers’ tales, and the strange tale of the white savage would be sure to amuse the gentlemen and set the ladies aquiver.

We were then introduced to a tall, somewhat shy young man, who seemed intimidated by the prospect of addressing us. The governor identified him as the assistant medical officer of the garrison and asked him to read us his report, which he proceeded to do.

“In accordance with your instructions, I have examined the stranger known as the white savage. This man is aged about fifty years and is five feet, six inches in height. He seems to be in good health, although he is somewhat thin. His chest, shoulders, arms and legs are covered in tattoos and scarrings. I observed two scars which had apparently not been properly treated: one on the left ear, where the lower part of the lobe was torn and partly ripped away, and the other on the right thigh, which could have been made from a knife or the tip of an arrow.”

The young doctor seemed to gain in confidence as he progressed with his account and continued without looking at his notes:

“He belongs to neither the black nor the yellow races. This is evident from the colour of his skin, his build and the texture of his hair. Nor is he of the semitic races. This can be seen from his high forehead, straight nose, straight brown hair and full beard. I must also point out that he is circumcised, not in the way that Jews and Muslims are, but rather in the manner of the natives of this country.”

This rather disconcerting detail was greeted with a few discreet coughs.

“His appearance therefore strongly suggests, indeed confirms, that this man belongs to the white race. He seems to have some intelligence: he listens when spoken to, uses gestures to express simple wishes, and obeys when given orders such as, get up, come, do not go beyond a certain point. He is very sensitive to emotion conveyed by inflections of the voice: friendship, anger, fear and pain arouse in him both interest and compassion.

He does not say a word and does not understand English. He has been heard by the crew of the John Bell, the ship that brought him back, lamenting in incoherent gibberish. He is dressed only in a loincloth given to him by the sailors, and spends his days squatting on his heels, knees apart, with his elbows pressed to the insides of his thighs.

He does not like our food and accepts it only to avoid starving, eating it with obvious disgust. He eats with his hands and drinks from his cupped palms, not knowing what to do with a cup or a spoon. He is not repelled by brackish water, but when a sailor gave him some wine in a spirit of jest, he spat it out.”

This was the first report I heard on the subject of the white savage and I have presented it to you in its entirety, in the belief that you will find it useful. The Dutch captain objected, muttering that this could not be a portrait of a subject of His Majesty the King of the Netherlands. I found myself wondering for the first time about the life of this unfortunate soul. Others in the group saw in him a fairground oddity or a subject of controversy, but I began to think of him as someone to be pitied.