Collision Read online

  As the crestfallen lieutenant subsided, the expedition leader continued, ‘I intend taking my yawl direct to the middle of the cove, where you’ll meet me in due course.’

  Monsieur Le Corre of the Castries looked dubious. ‘The middle of the cove? Is that wise, sir? That’s where those savages have congregated.’

  ‘Toutàfait—the sooner we establish contact and assure them we mean no harm, the better.’ The expedition leader turned to Monsieur du Clesmeur. ‘Would you care to accompany me in the yawl, sir?’

  The Castries’ captain looked less than enthused about directly encountering such uncouth beings as the waiting primitives, but answered, ‘Fort bien, sir—as you wish.’

  The young ensign was detailed to accompany the two captains in the yawl. Somewhat to his relief—and no doubt Monsieur du Clesmeur’s—it was to be armed with a detachment of eight soldiers and six swivel-mounted blunderbusses. De Vaudricourt, the Sub-Lieutenant of the Legion detachment on board, was also to accompany them. Quiet to the point of taciturnity, the experienced military commander was punctilious with his duties, and his soldiers were well-drilled, despite the difficult conditions of the voyage. They would be in good hands if trouble developed.

  Monsieur Marion then suggested his personal slave should go with them. As Monsieur du Clesmeur raised his eyebrows, he calmly explained. ‘François’ black skin will give us the advantage of familiarity. These Naturals will recognize him as similar to themselves. That should ease any apprehension.’

  François, dressed in his master’s cast-off finery and accustomed to a comfortable life in the great cabin, had none of his master’s faith in primitives. André was close enough to hear him muttering protests in the officers’ pantry.

  When the yawl set out for the shore, the slave was on board, still grumbling. Monsieur Marion took no notice, being well-used to François. Jean believed the only reason the captain tolerated such insubordination was the slave’s extraordinary ability to make the ship’s food edible. Although the best chunks of salt beef in each cask were of course put aside for the captain’s table, as well as the fresh meat butchered from the livestock pens once a week, the officers still received the same basic rations as the ship’s people. Dried vegetables, salted meat and ship’s biscuit with a little butter were eaten on flesh days; rice, dried or fresh fish and cheese replacing the meat on fast days—monotonous fare at best. But François could work magic with a splash of Burgundy and his private supply of spices. All the ensigns looked forward to their weekly supper with the senior officers in the great cabin, Jean allowing that he would tolerate any amount of theorizing from Monsieur Thirion so long as he had his spoon deep into a plateful of François’ rich beef and bean cassoulet.

  Once the yawl reached the breaker line, the Diemenlanders began calling to them and gesturing with their spears. ‘They seem to think we speak their language,’ André said as an old man launched into a long speech. ‘Quelle folie! That’s as crazy as us expecting them to speak French.’ He laughed to hide his sudden attack of nerves.

  ‘Think before you speak, Monsieur Tallec!’ said Monsieur Marion. ‘These simple people know nothing of any other world but their own. Of course they assume we understand their language.’ He stood up in the stern sheets, doffed his hat, and called a greeting to the old man, smiling broadly to show friendship.

  The boatmen took the yawl in closer, but the undertow was too strong for them to beach the boat. As they rowed along the breaker line, looking for a more suitable landing place, the Diemenlanders followed them on the edge of the water. One even ventured into the waves up to his knees, waving his spear, in what Monsieur Marion said was an invitation to join them.

  ‘An invitation to join the contents of their pot, more like,’ a sceptical Sub-Lieutenant de Vaudricourt muttered, thinking the gesture more threatening than friendly, earning another mild rebuke.

  ‘They have sent their women and children away,’ demurred Monsieur du Clesmeur. ‘We should remain vigilant.’

  ‘D’accord, Monsieur du Clesmeur,’ said the expedition leader. ‘Nevertheless, I see no signs of aggression.’

  André looked cautiously at the Diemenlanders. They were now close enough for him to see their woolly heads, deep-set eyes and prominent cheekbones. He noticed the lines of raised scars on their broad yet bony chests. They were small-boned but tall—about the same height as him. They looked decidedly uncivilized. Monsieur Thirion’s philosophy of equating primitiveness with natural nobility was fast losing its appeal. He exchanged glances with the lieutenant, but decided it wiser to keep such opinions to himself.

  As Monsieur Crozet’s longboat was now approaching not far along the shore, Monsieur Marion ordered the yawl to anchor just beyond the breaker line. ‘I need two volunteers to strip naked and swim ashore,’ he said. ‘This would be the best way of showing these Diemenlanders we’re men like them.’

  André’s jaw dropped at such an unorthodox suggestion. Equally disapproving, Monsieur du Clesmeur raised his eyebrows to a supercilious height. When none of the startled officers or sailors rushed to volunteer, Monsieur Marion told the coxswain to point out two men who could swim.

  Joking nervously, the two well-built young Bretons chosen took off their clothes and plunged over the side. As they clung to the sides of the boat while they adjusted to the cold water, the expedition leader handed them some trinkets and a mirror as gifts for the primitives. André watched them swim ashore, his heart beating faster than usual. When the two men waded onto the beach unmolested, he heard Monsieur Marion let out his pent-up breath. For all his expressed confidence, he was obviously aware that such a tactic had its risks.

  The Frenchmen watched from the boat as the Breton sailors stood on the edge of the sand, water streaming off their white bodies. For a long moment, the Diemenlanders stared at them, then huddled together conversing amongst themselves, some gesticulating with their spears. At last they put their weapons down and started capering about, singing some sort of song. The tension broke. Monsieur Marion called to the sailors and waved them up the beach. As they cautiously moved towards the prancing primitives, the old man who had earlier spoken so vehemently stepped forward and presented one of them with a burning stick. He gestured towards a pile of driftwood his companions had created above the tide line, indicating that the sailor should light it.

  ‘Some sort of welcome ceremony, wouldn’t you agree?’ said Monsieur Marion, well satisfied. As the primitives continued to dance and sing, it would seem he was right.

  ‘Dieu soit loué!’ André heard the Castries’ captain mutter his thanks to God, and looked up to see him cross himself. Hastily, he followed suit, then turned his attention back to the beach, anxious not to miss a moment of the encounter.

  ‘You see, gentlemen,’ Monsieur Marion could not help remarking, ‘my strategy has proved successful.’

  Monsieur du Clesmeur merely shrugged. It seemed he was not interested in the wooing of such uncivilized creatures. No doubt, André thought, he put them in a category below that of peasants and therefore quite beneath his consideration.

  Those on board the yawl watched as the primitives gathered close around the two sailors, examining their white skin and cautiously poking at them. The Bretons presented their gifts. Only the mirror aroused any interest. The Diemenlanders grabbed it from one another, peering at their reflection and exclaiming. After some time, the old man stepped into the water and gestured at Monsieur Marion to take the boats further along the beach to a suitable landing place. With the two sailors gathered up amongst them, the primitives followed on foot. When they landed at the place indicated, Monsieur du Clesmeur insisted the boatmen and soldiers stay with the boats, ready to come to their assistance at a moment’s notice. In his eagerness to meet the Diemenlanders, the expedition leader failed to notice that his black ambassador, François, resolutely stayed with the yawl.

  André hung back to join his cousin, then followed the senior officers up the beach. They were soon surrounded
by a milling crowd. The ensign tried not to flinch as one of the naked men plucked at his jacket sleeve then thrust his face close to his own. Somewhat disconcerted, he realized the man’s woolly hair was a dusty ginger—much the same colour as his own when he attempted to tone down its flamboyant red with powder. The primitive’s skin was filthy, smeared with dust or ashes and stinking of fish. When he opened his mouth and jabbered something incomprehensible, André just shook his head, unable to think of anything sensible to say in response. The man gave him a powerful punch on the arm, then turned away. The ensign broke out in a sweat despite the chill in the air. This rough encounter bore no relationship to the meeting with friendly Naturals he had anticipated.

  The senior officers now approached the old man who seemed to be the leader or chief of the Diemenlanders, making gestures to indicate that they sought fresh food and water. Monsieur Crozet broke a piece off a flat round of ship’s biscuit and ate it, then presented the rest to the old man. He sniffed cautiously at it, then threw it down, his lips drawn back in obvious disgust.

  Jean suppressed a snort of laughter, then said quietly to André, ‘Monsieur Crozet’s taking a risk—a gift of ship’s biscuit could be seen as an insult! We can hardly stomach it ourselves, and we’re hungry enough to eat anything.’

  André was too apprehensive to raise a smile, unable to make up his mind whether the expedition leader was being brave or foolhardy in taking them unarmed amongst these primitives. The soldiers left guarding the boats were a long way away, and the surgeon’s philosophies seemed less robust by the minute.

  Monsieur Marion’s sharp ears picked up their whispered comments, but he did not rebuke his junior officers. Obviously relishing the encounter, his tone light-hearted, he said, ‘Perhaps Monsieur Crozet’s demonstrating just that—how desperate we are for fresh food!’

  The expedition leader showed the old man a bottle with some water, then drank some, hoping his action would explain they were seeking water. But the man upended the proffered bottle and poured out its contents. After sniffing cautiously at the bottle, he gave it to one of his companions, who ran off. When the man did not come back, Monsieur Marion shrugged and gave up. They would have to find their own source of fresh water to replenish the ships’ dwindling supplies.

  Offering the Diemenlanders two of the last ducks and hens from the quarterdeck coops was no more successful as a bid to gain fresh food. The primitives fought over who was to have the hen, snatching the bird from each other and laughing at its increasingly outraged squawks. Eventually, they tore the unfortunate bird to pieces and flung it aside. André shifted uncomfortably. How could Monsieur Marion expect good treatment from people who behaved so barbarously? His unease grew when the Diemenlanders threw the hapless wing-clipped duck into the sea, then amused themselves by driving the bird in front of them, hurling spears until it was killed.

  Monsieur du Clesmeur was also perturbed. André heard him mutter an aside to Lieutenant Le Dez from the Castries. ‘What are these savages telling us—that they’re capable of killing us in the same way?’

  His lieutenant shrugged, then fastidiously brushed a smear of dust from his sleeve where one of the primitives had clutched at him. ‘Who could account for such bizarre behaviour?’

  Before long, several of the Diemenlanders approached the boats, apparently wanting to exchange their spears for the soldiers’ muskets. It was Monsieur Crozet’s turn to become concerned. ‘They obviously recognize the muskets as weapons,’ the second-in-command of the Mascarin said to his captain.

  ‘They may be somewhat uncouth, but they’re not fools,’ replied Monsieur Marion. ‘Our men can take care of themselves.’

  Once they realized the soldiers would not relinquish their muskets, the primitives turned their attention to the officers’ clothing. Anything coloured excited them, particularly scarlet jackets or capes. Elegant Lieutenant Le Dez had to fend off a man who tried to remove his velvet frockcoat. As he firmly buttoned the coat, he said to Monsieur Marion, ‘If we stay much longer, they’ll have their way with us. We’ll soon all be reduced to their standard of dress!’

  Although the other officers laughed, their unease was growing. Despite Monsieur Marion’s belief that the increased jostling was nothing but good-natured excitement, Monsieur du Clesmeur now insisted that things were getting out of hand. ‘These are not playful children, but rude primitives with no inkling of what constitutes civilized behaviour. It’s only a matter of time before some of our people are hurt.’

  Distracted by the old man, who offered him another burning firebrand and pushed him towards a small pile of driftwood, Monsieur Marion made no reply. He had just lit the fire with a flourish when the Castries’ boat approached, coming from the other end of the beach. As the longboat made to land, its contingent of soldiers fixed their bayonets. The atmosphere suddenly changed. A small group of the Diemenlanders who had been keeping watch on the crest of the sand dunes nearby set up a caterwauling. They began throwing stones down at the Frenchmen already on the beach.

  Hastily, Monsieur Marion ordered the longboat’s commander to retreat. ‘We become too many for them to be comfortable. Take your men back offshore.’

  Although the longboat was immediately rowed back out beyond the breaker line, it made no difference. The Diemenlanders’ excitement had turned to fear. Those on the beach started to shout angrily at the Frenchmen and wave their spears as they retreated to join their fellows on the sand dunes.

  ‘Gentlemen, we should return to our boats,’ Monsieur Marion said quietly. ‘Fall back gradually. We don’t want to alarm them further or be forced to retaliate.’

  But as soon as they began to re-embark, the primitives hurled their spears towards them. A barrage of rocks then found targets, and both captains were hit. Rubbing his bruised upper arm, Monsieur Marion reluctantly ordered the soldiers to fire a volley. ‘Aim away from them, Monsieur de Vaudricourt. A warning only. I don’t want them hurt.’

  At the sharp sound of the musket volley, the Diemenlanders ran off into the sand dunes, uttering howls of terror. But once they realized none of them was wounded, they returned to the water’s edge. By then all the ship’s people were safely back in the boats and out of their reach.

  Monsieur Marion had the boatmen row further along the beach to find a place where they could land without interference. To their dismay, the primitives followed along the shore, continuing to shout abuse and wave their spears. When the boatmen turned the boats to try to land again, the primitives gathered at the landing place. ‘Another volley,’ the expedition leader ordered. ‘Warn them off.’

  This time the volley fired into the air had no effect. The Diemenlanders held their ground.

  ‘Mordieu, they think our muskets merely mimic thunder or some such noise!’ Monsieur du Clesmeur exclaimed. ‘We must fire directly amongst them.’

  Reluctant to do so, the expedition leader asked the boatmen to hold the boats beyond the breaker line. But now several of the primitives were wading out into the water and hurling their spears into the yawl. One hit François. The slave cowered in the well of the boat, blood oozing from a jagged wound in his leg, squealing like a cornered pig. André saw that the spear had broken off, leaving its tip in the wound. As he tried to assist the wailing slave, the rest of the Diemenlanders began wading towards the boats, their spears raised ready to throw.

  ‘Fire immediately, Monsieur de Vaudricourt!’ Monsieur Marion now had no choice. ‘Aim directly at them this time.’

  The volley of musket balls scattered the primitives, and some of them fell wounded. This had the desired result, as the Diemenlanders fled into the forest, carrying their injured.

  When they did not return, Monsieur Marion decided it was now safe to land. As the boats crunched on the sand and the boatmen hauled them ashore, André kept an anxious eye on the line of sparse, grey-leaved trees behind the sand dunes. He was sure he could see people lurking in the flickering shadows. His skin crawled at the thought of one of those spears f
inding him as its target. But nothing human moved amongst the trees, and the beach remained deserted.

  Although Monsieur Marion insisted his shoulder was merely bruised, his second-in-command advised both captains to return to their ships with the wounded slave. ‘I’ll take an armed landing party and pursue the primitives. We’ll make sure they don’t intend returning.’

  Not wishing to risk further injury, Monsieur du Clesmeur was only too happy to take this advice, but the expedition leader agreed reluctantly, not liking to miss any of the action. He looked unwell, two patches of red flamed on his cheekbones and his face was white. ‘Try not to kill any of them, Monsieur Crozet, but disperse them sufficiently to allow us an unimpeded search for water.’

  As well as the soldiers from the yawl, Monsieur Crozet selected the fittest officers to accompany him, the three ensigns from the Mascarin amongst them. After being equipped with muskets, the landing party picked their way through the sand dunes, following a trail of drying blood. Although André was preoccupied with looking out for stealthily approaching Diemenlanders, he could not help noticing that the sandy ground was everywhere covered with ash and the bases of most trees were scorched black—presumably burnt by the inhabitants for some inexplicable reason. Van Diemen’s Land was far from the verdant paradise he had anticipated. Overhead, raucous black crow-like birds cawed and screeched, a hideous noise that served to underline the harshness of the country they were traversing. After an hour of steady walking, they emerged on the edge of a large, swampy plain. By then they had lost sight of the trail of blood. They saw no other sign of the primitives they were pursuing.

  ‘We’ll follow around the edges of this swamp before returning to the shore,’ Monsieur Crozet decided. ‘Keep a sharp eye out for Diemenlanders, gentlemen, but focus on finding water.’