Collision Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Historical background

  Maps

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Author’s note and acknowledgements

  Copyright

  Historical background

  In mid-October 1771, two French ships sailed from the French island colony of Mauritius (Île-de-France) in the Indian Ocean, heading for the Pacific on an eighteen-month voyage of exploration and trading.

  The late eighteenth century—the Age of Enlightenment—was an exhilarating time in France. Scientific voyages to the Pacific and the Indian Oceans in 1760 and 1769 to witness transits of Venus rekindled French interest in searching for the elusive Southern Continent and finding new prospects for trade in the Pacific. But the Seven Years’ War (1756–1763) had exhausted Louis XV’s coffers, ensured the naval supremacy of England, and put an end to French imperial aspirations in Canada and India. The associated liquidation of the entrepreneurial French India Company (Compagnie des Indes) in 1769 left many able and experienced ‘blue’ officers of the merchant marine without prospects.

  Amongst these officers was a well-established member of the wealthy Breton merchant classes based in St-Malo, Marc-Joseph Marion du Fresne, who had a brilliant record in both the King’s Navy and the French India Company. Known to his contemporaries as a skilled sailor and navigator, an energetic and honorable man with a sense of adventure and a willingness to take risks, Marion had settled on the Île-de-France in 1766, where he bought land, held the post of harbour master for Port Louis, commanded several scientific voyages in the Indian Ocean and traded on his own account.

  In 1770, the restless and ambitious Marion saw the opportunity he was waiting for when the Tahitian native, Ahu-toru, arrived in Port Louis, seeking repatriation to his homeland after accompanying the French explorer Bougainville to Paris in 1768. Marion promptly proposed a voyage that would combine the return of Ahu-toru to Tahiti with exploration in the southern Pacific Ocean. What was more, he was willing to mortgage his own estates to finance an expedition he hoped would win him glory. In return, the French administrators of the Île-de-France arranged for Marion to have the use of a King’s ship to accompany the larger ship he had already purchased. Both ships were fitted out at the King’s expense, wages and provisions for both crews were advanced, and a substantial trading cargo was provided—the costs to be reimbursed on Marion’s return or his estates forfeited.

  Such willingness to risk personal financial ruin was at least partly driven by Marion’s feelings of social inadequacy and a continuing deep need for approval—despite his undoubted abilities and acclaimed reputation. Like many privileged members of the French bourgeoisie at this time, Marion had aspirations for ennoblement into the aristocracy and the desirable social acceptance that this embodied. These aspirations and the gamble he was taking meant he accepted some less-than-ideal conditions imposed on his expedition. All these factors coloured Marion’s choices and the decisions he made during the voyage, contributing to what eventuated during his stay in the Bay of Islands, New Zealand, in May, June and July 1772.

  Although preceded in northern New Zealand by Cook and another ex-French India Company officer, de Surville (both in 1769), Marion and his men were the first Europeans to spend significant time ashore. During their stay, gaps in understanding and tolerance developed between the French and the local Maori people as a result of language barriers, cultural ignorance, local political upheavals, and the undue pressure imposed on local resources by the sudden and prolonged influx of more than two hundred Frenchmen. That this seminal encounter ended in calamity for both sides was probably inevitable, and the result had ongoing consequences for New Zealand’s later history. Northern Maori allegiances were affected well into the period of European colonization, in turn shaping the relationships between the two peoples that in 1840 led to the unprecedented formal signing of an agreement between indigenous inhabitants and colonists—the Treaty of Waitangi.

  This novel is the story of the events that took place in the Bay of Islands in the winter of 1772 and what precipitated them.

  The French ships and their

  officers named in the story

  Mascarin

  Ship-rigged, three-masted flute on loan from the King of France, 450 tons, 22 guns; crew 140 men:

  Captain and expedition commander

  Marc-Joseph Marion du Fresne

  2nd-in-command

  Julien Crozet

  2nd Lieutenant

  Lehoux

  Ensign and clerk

  Paul Chevillard de Montaison

  Senior Ensign

  Jean Roux

  Ensign

  André Tallec (fictional)

  Surgeon

  Thirion

  Sub-Lieutenant of the Legion

  de Vaudricourt

  Sergeant-at-arms

  Thomas Ballu

  Ship’s cook

  Anthonie

  Domestic slave

  François (fictional)

  Marquis de Castries

  Ship-rigged, three-masted flute and consort ship owned by Marion du Fresne, 700 tons, 16 guns; crew 100 men:

  Captain

  Ambroise-Bernard-Marie le Jar du Clesmeur

  2nd -in-command

  Josselin Le Corre

  1st Lieutenant

  Le Dez

  Locations mentioned in the story

  French names Modern names

  Île-de-France Mauritius

  Malagasy Madagascar (a native of)

  Terre d’Espérance Marion and Prince Edward Islands

  Prise de Possession Crozet Islands

  New Holland Australia

  Van Diemen’s Land Tasmania

  Pic Mascarin Taranaki/Mt Egmont

  Anchor Bay Spirits Bay

  Rotterdam and Amsterdam Islands Tongan Group (probably)

  Square Cape Cape Brett

  Port Marion Bay of Islands

  Marion Island Moturua

  Cape of Currents Tapeka Point

  Tacoury’s Cove Manawaora

  Maps

  Chapter 1

  14 January–10 February 1772

  Southern Ocean 46° S

  Not more than a musket shot ahead, the Marquis de Castries fell directly across the Mascarin’s path. Ensign André Tallec glanced over, his eye caught by the sudden movement. He stared in disbelief at the rapidly approaching ship. The two sailors casting lead lines from the bow of the Mascarin chanted their next soundings, but the young ensign barely heard them. Ignoring the slate and chalk in his hand, he called urgently to the officer of the watch: ‘Monsieur Crozet!’

  One arm thrust through the foremast shrouds for balance, the collar of his greatcoat turned up around his ears for warmth, the Mascarin’s second-in-command had his eyeglass trained on the two mist-cloaked islands a few leagues distant. Alerted by the urgency in André’s voice, Monsieur Crozet looked towards the consort ship, then barked curses and orders in quick succession. ‘Quel diable? Stand by the topsail braces!’

  As the petty officers relayed his orders and barefooted sailors ran to their stations, André and Monsieur Crozet continued to peer through the drifting veils of mist and sleet that once again obscured the larger ship to starboard. The Castries still bore down on them. She seemed to be making no attempt to alter her course.

  ‘Mort-diable!’ Monsieur Crozet exclaimed. ‘Does that imbecile not see us? Is he mad?’ He raised his voi
ce. ‘Brace the topsails to larboard!’

  André watched helplessly as the men struggled to get their own hove-to ship underway, even simple tasks hindered by ice-swollen ropes that jammed in the blocks and refused to run freely. The backed yards responded only slowly to the men hauling on the braces, but at last they swung across and the topsails started to draw. Above him on the quarterdeck, Monsieur Marion, their captain and the expedition leader, told the men on the wheel to hold steady as the ship began to move through the water, his voice calm as always amidst the shouting and frantic activity.

  A little further along the deck from where he stood, André could hear the senior ensign, his cousin, maître and protector, twenty-five-year-old Jean Roux, muttering, ‘Allons, allons! Come on, come on! Sacré Dieu!’ Impatience darkened his cousin’s already swarthy face.

  But their imperturbable captain waited until the Mascarin had gathered more way before he ordered the wheel thrust hard over. As the ship at last started to turn, André felt a hand grip his shoulder. He glanced at Monsieur Crozet, but the ship’s second-in-command was staring into the mist, seemingly unaware of the youth at his side, his long, angular face taut with tension. Monsieur Marion had judged the manoeuvre well, and their ship was already picking up speed. They could hear shouts from the other ship. On their own deck, men stood momentarily transfixed, gazing towards the mist-blurred menace now less than half a musket shot away. The ensign focused on the narrow wedge of grey water that separated the two ships, willing it to widen as the Mascarin turned away from danger.

  For a brief moment, he thought they would make it; that the two ships would scrape by each other and avert disaster. But even as the thought formed, the beakhead of the Castries loomed out of the mist alongside them. Her long bowsprit swept along their starboard side like a jouster’s lance. Men scattered in all directions. Timbers graunched and squealed. Ropes parted and heavy blocks plummeted to the deck as the bowsprit cut through their mizzen rigging, then snapped off the Mascarin’s mizzenmast at deck level. The Castries’ bowsprit itself splintered into a jagged stump. Her foremast started to sway dangerously as its supporting stays parted—one severed by the loss of her bowsprit, the others torn away by the Mascarin’s falling mizzenmast.

  The collision scarcely slowed the momentum of the larger ship. Flung to the Mascarin’s deck by the impact, the two ensigns and the second-in-command instinctively rolled into the larboard scuppers. André covered his head with his arms as the Castries’ bower anchor crushed part of the Mascarin’s starboard gallery, swept away the officers’ latrine, then demolished the poop taffrail. Amidst the chaos and the cries of the men, he distinctly heard the indignant cackle of the hens as several chicken coops disappeared over the side.

  Almost before he had time to draw breath, the Castries shook herself free of the smaller ship and dropped astern. On board the Mascarin, men slowly picked themselves up from where they had fallen, checking themselves and their companions for injury. André untangled his long legs from the stockier ones belonging to his cousin Jean and scrambled awkwardly to his feet. He rubbed the knee that had taken the brunt of his fall. Only minutes had passed since his first shout of warning.

  Beside him, Jean cursed quietly, a purple bruise spreading on his forehead, then asked, ‘Are you hurt?’

  André shook his head, not ungrateful that the senior ensign still looked out for him, having taken him under his wing as his fidèle when he joined the Compagnie des Indes six years ago as an eleven-year-old apprentice. Jean clapped him on the shoulder affectionately, then picked his way after Monsieur Crozet, who was already crossing the cluttered deck towards the steps up to the quarterdeck.

  A sudden shout drew André’s attention back to the Castries, now drifting astern. As he turned to look, the other ship’s unsupported foremast toppled. The man on lookout was flung from his perch in the foremast top. André watched in horror as he fell in an arc of flailing limbs, his thin scream cut off abruptly as he disappeared amidst the tangled heap of yards, sails and tackle that cascaded onto the deck. The ensign hastily crossed himself and muttered a brief prayer. Surely no one could survive such a fall?

  For a long moment, the two ships seemed suspended in time, held motionless on the sullen sea. Then from their quarterdeck, the expedition leader took up his speaking trumpet and hailed the captain of the consort ship. ‘Monsieur du Clesmeur, report on board the Mascarin as soon as you have secured your ship.’

  André was glad not to be in the shoes of the Castries’ young captain. Even before the collision, the expedition leader had commented unfavourably on various manoeuvres undertaken by the consort ship. The ensign thought it must be all the more galling for Monsieur Marion, as the owner of the Castries, to see his precious ship so mishandled. Their own vessel, the much smaller Mascarin, belonged to the King, on lease for this eighteen-month expedition that would take them from the Île-de-France off the African coast deep into the unknown Southern Ocean. It made little sense to him that the inexperienced twenty-year-old du Clesmeur could be entrusted with the command of any ship. But André’s more worldly cousin reasoned that being lumbered with Monsieur du Clesmeur was the price Monsieur Marion paid for the use of the King’s ship, and the young captain’s promotion was the result of the patronage and undeniable influence of his uncle, Governor of the Île-de-France and one of the expedition’s sponsors. No doubt, Jean added, the captain of the Castries considered himself the equal of any of their older and more experienced ex-Compagnie des Indes officers, being of aristocratic birth with a pedigree as long as his pompous name—Ambroise-Bernard-Marie le Jar du Clesmeur. The cynical Jean thought Monsieur Marion would have willingly made any concession necessary to get his expedition underway, the promise of fame and fortune accompanying the discovery of new lands and new outlets for trade in the Southern Ocean being sufficient recompense for any such imposition. The expedition leader must have decided that giving the young aristocrat the charge of his own ship, the Castries, was the lesser evil, seeing she was more seaworthy and less temperamental under sail than the King’s somewhat dilapidated smaller ship.

  Now, as his heart rate slowed to normal, André gazed around him at the wreckage-strewn deck, realizing the young captain’s ineptitude had inflicted considerable damage on the King’s ship. He looked across at the disabled Marquis de Castries, drifting without its most essential spars. Monsieur Marion would not be appreciating the irony of his decision.

  A few hours later, when some order had been restored to both ships, the consort’s yawl brought her captain and second-in-command across to the Mascarin. As the two officers came aboard, Monsieur Crozet beckoned André. ‘Vite, vite!’ he said. ‘Quickly now—go and tidy yourself, Monsieur Tallec. The captain needs you in the great cabin to take notes.’ He explained that the captain’s clerk, Paul Chevillard, had severely sprained his right wrist when the ships collided and could not hold a pen.

  Below deck in the cramped gunroom, André changed into his spare pair of slightly cleaner breeches and the merchant seaman’s blue jacket he had already outgrown. He tried in vain to tug the sleeves down over his protruding knobbly wrists. Giving up, he ran his fingers through his unruly russet-red hair then retied the queue at the nape of his neck. The disconsolate Chevillard sat on the bench at the gunroom table, nursing his strapped wrist.

  ‘You lucky young pup, Tallec, I’d give anything to see Monsieur du Clesmeur try and explain this one away.’ He paused, then could not resist adding, ‘Mind you take particular care with your lettering.’

  André held his tongue. Even if he were the best calligrapher in all of France, the captain’s clerk would find fault with his work. Of similar age and experience to Jean Roux, Chevillard jealously guarded his role. What was more, as a native of Poitou, he considered himself superior to Bretons—most of the men on board both ships—and was quick to criticize. It did not endear him to his two Breton fellow ensigns.

  By the time the young ensign reported for duty, the senior officers of both
ships were already seated on either side of the great cabin table. Monsieur Crozet, the Mascarin’s second-in-command, glanced up as André hovered in the doorway, then nodded towards a small side desk equipped with paper, inkwell and pens. The ensign settled down as unobtrusively as he could, then took in the scene as he sharpened a couple of quills.

  Subdued light filtered through the wide stern windows of the great cabin. Its shifting patterns glimmered on the low deck-head above them, slid across the polished table then glinted briefly on the silver-chased hilt of Monsieur Marion’s dress sword. The two captains had dressed formally for the occasion, the expedition leader in his favourite blue velvet frockcoat with the matching waistcoat and breeches. The coveted gold cross of the Order of St Louis, awarded in recognition of his many exploits in the Seven Years’ War against England, hung on its red ribbon from his top buttonhole. Monsieur du Clesmeur, slighter in build than the expedition leader and fineboned, was of course wearing the splendid scarlet and gold uniform that gave the nickname of ‘red’ officers to the aristocrats who formed the Gardes de la Marine, the élite training corps for the King’s Navy. The ruffles of his fine linen shirt were on show at collar and cuffs, and he sported large gold buckles on his black shoes, gold lace on the three-cornered black beaver hat now laid carelessly on the table, and enough gold braid elsewhere on his person to rig an entire ship. Unlike Monsieur Marion and the other senior officers, who always wore the stiff wool wig favoured by sailors because its side rolls did not need constant attention, the young aristocrat had taken the time to have his wig of human hair freshly curled, pomaded and powdered.