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  Accordingly, before we approached the new strangers from the sea, the way was cleared by our most senior tohunga, who made offerings to them and placed us under the protection of our atua with many karakia. Even so, those tipua paid no heed to the sacred nature of that tohunga. Instead, he was handled by them and dressed in their garments, yet they suffered no consequences from such violations of tapu. Accordingly, we ventured on board only with caution. Those strangers from the sea were not like us in appearance, having white skin and eyes the colours of the sea and sky, yet they seemed friendly towards us.

  Great was our joy when in response to our placatory gifts of fish, the tipua presented us with small pieces of iron, which had become valued treasures to our people since the visit of that earlier ship. Even though iron was not as sharp as obsidian, it did not shatter, being as tough as pounamu. Accordingly, as no harm seemed to fall upon us, it was not long before all our people went on board to receive pieces of iron in exchange for whatever we brought with us.

  Chapter 5

  3–11 May 1772

  Port Marion 35°15 ′ S

  These savages have experienced musket fire before, sir,’ said Lieutenant Lehoux on his return to the ship late that night. A large number of canoes had come out to surround the Mascarin’s longboat as they approached a deep bay to the southeast of Square Cape. Fearing an attack, he ordered the soldiers to fire a volley over the heads of the occupants. ‘As soon as we took aim, they all lay down in the bottom of their canoes,’ he explained. ‘They sat up only after we’d fired and the shots had passed overhead. Only then did they flee.’

  ‘It’s as I thought, sir,’ said Monsieur Crozet. ‘The chief we have aboard, Tacoury, showed much interest in the muskets carried by the soldiers on the poop—even though they were not displaying them. He ferreted them out, what’s more.’

  ‘Ta-pou,’ said André, suddenly, snapping his fingers. ‘What you say makes sense, sir. He even named them—I’ve just realized. Ta-pou.’

  Monsieur Marion saw all this as a good sign. ‘If these Naturals have indeed encountered Europeans along their coast before, yet still approach us with such familiarity and friendship, even coming on board unarmed, this must give us great confidence, gentlemen.’

  Jean thought the expedition leader was perhaps overly optimistic. He expressed his reservations to his young cousin as they stood at the taffrail early the next morning, while the ships tacked well offshore against a light but contrary breeze. ‘Monsieur Marion forgets the earlier fear shown by these very same people. Even now, that chief—Tacoury—look at him. He becomes uneasy each time we stand off the land.’

  André watched the chief cast anxious glances around him, making gestures back towards the land. ‘He seemed relaxed enough last night. François said both chiefs slept like babies. He probably doesn’t understand that the wind’s unfavourable for an entry into the bay, assuming we can manoeuvre our ships as easily as a canoe.’

  Jean nodded. ‘You’re probably right. Maybe he thinks we’re going to sail off with him—not that he need worry. We’re more anxious than he is to enter this bay and establish a safe anchorage.’

  Although the bay southeast of the Cape explored by the Mascarin’s longboat offered all that the ships needed, it was exposed to the prevailing winds. That and the greater friendliness shown by the inhabitants of the well-populated western side of the Cape were enough for Monsieur Marion to decide to take the ships into the more sheltered western inlet explored by the Castries’ longboat. This boat had not returned until after midnight, locating the ships by the braziers set at stern and bow to guide it. The famished explorers scarcely had time to eat a much-delayed supper before the expedition leader sent orders to Monsieur du Clesmeur, requesting his longboat to set sail again before first light. Both longboats set off, a willing Zealander accompanying them as pilot. They were to take soundings beyond the line of islands that formed a seemingly impenetrable barrier across this western inlet, then lead the ships in.

  In the afternoon, too impatient to wait for the boats to return, Monsieur Marion ordered the ships to approach the inlet as soon as the breeze shifted in their favour. Under reduced sail with two men sounding constantly from their position in the bow, the Mascarin headed towards a channel at the eastern end of the line of islands. A good league behind them, a reluctant Monsieur du Clesmeur followed in the Castries—to Jean’s approval, her captain’s attempt to persuade his superior to delay until the longboats completed their survey had been summarily dismissed.

  Before Monsieur Marion was rash enough to commit the ships to the uncharted channel, they saw the two boats returning. They were flying the agreed signals for a safe harbour, clean water, wood and friendly people. On board they had several casks filled with sweettasting water from one of the many streams they had been shown by their obliging pilot.

  As darkness fell, the Mascarin anchored at the entrance to the eastern channel between two islands where every headland seemed occupied by a fortified village. Unable to catch up before darkness made navigation dangerous, the Castries anchored in open sea a league further north. The ship’s people were in high spirits. It was 4 May, a month since they had left Van Diemen’s Land, a month of increasing deprivation and sickness, their water rationed for most of that time to three-quarters of a scum-tainted pint per man per day. For the past week, the Mascarin’s cook had served a hot meal only every second day, their supplies of firewood close to running out. But now it seemed their fortunes were indeed changing for the better.

  All the next day, in light airs and a calm sea, canoes from the nearby islands and the more distant mainland surrounded the ships—at one stage André counted more than a hundred. First aboard the Mascarin at dawn, bringing more baskets of fish, Te Kuri’s people greeted their chief with cries of gladness, clearly wanting him to return immediately to the mainland with them. The chief waved them away, not showing any signs of the anxiety over the ship’s manoeuvres of the day before. He stood at ease with Monsieur Marion on the quarterdeck, bending his head towards the expedition leader as though he understood every word being spoken. He was once again wrapped in a full-length cloak, brought aboard for him by his companions.

  ‘He’s as vain of the trappings of rank as Monsieur du Clesmeur,’ said Jean, piqued that the chief had shown no further interest in him after their exchange of gifts. ‘Pardieu, will you look at him, giving himself airs. Another popinjay! Who’d have thought we’d find such pretensions to grandeur amongst savages?’

  André watched Te Kuri out of the corner of his eye. The chief certainly had a proud bearing, but the young ensign saw no pretension. He thought him impressive, a full head taller than the expedition leader and well-built, a man in the prime of life. Like the other chief who had stayed on board for the night, he wore his thick, dark hair bound up in a tuft on top of his head, fastened with a wooden comb and adorned with a fan of white feathers—like those André had found in the small carved container souvenired from the abandoned village to the north. Despite the full tattoo distorting the chief’s features, André found him handsome. His intelligent, sharp eyes darted everywhere, absorbing what he saw. Yet—unlike most of the Zealanders swarming over the ship, who expressed great curiosity and childlike delight in everything—there was nothing of the child about this man. Perhaps it was the deference shown him by the others, who took care not to get in his way, that singled him out.

  Before the ensign could speculate further, he heard a great cry of joy behind him. He turned to find his young friend of the day before scrambling aboard from a canoe laden with baskets of dark-skinned, knobbly sweet potatoes.

  ‘Tareka!’ the young man shouted, grasping him by the shoulders and embracing him, his nose pressed so firmly to André’s that the ensign thought he would suffocate from want of air. When he was at last able to extricate himself, he realized he could not reciprocate the greeting. Embarrassed, he had to ask the youth’s name once more. The smiling Zealander seemed unfazed. He repeated his name
until André could say ‘Ta-Capaye’ without hesitation, then accompanied him to supervise the unloading of baskets from the canoe.

  Most of the Naturals who came aboard were young men and women, all of them daubed with red pigment from head to foot and glistening with reeking fish oil. The entire deck was soon covered with baskets of fish and various kinds of potatoes. It was not long before all the Frenchmen, sailors and officers, were conducting a brisk trade. The Zealanders seemed only too happy to be offered an old nail or two in return, or some trinkets.

  André traded some nails with Te Kape for a basket of sweet potatoes, then gave him a red handkerchief. He was delighted when the Zealander in return gave him a handsome necklace threaded with dark, round seeds or kernels. He took the youth to the forecastle where the enterprising carpenter was setting up his grinding wheel. Te Kape soon understood the carpenter’s mimed actions and handed over his nails for sharpening into small chisels and cutting tools. It was not long before the other Naturals on board were crowding around the carpenter to similarly get their traded nails shaped and sharpened—the carpenter gleaning extra fish or examples of handiwork for his trouble. The ensign thought the good-natured scene had much in common with a village market day. Unlike the difficulties of communication experienced with the Diemenlanders, neither side was having any trouble expressing what they wanted. Laughter and shouts of glee accompanying gestures and torrents of speech on both sides seemed well enough understood. Monsieur Marion and his senior officers watched indulgently from the quarterdeck, the chief Te Kuri still at their side.

  Much to Monsieur Thirion’s approval, some of the Naturals wanted to trade baskets of fresh greens, some sort of pungent celery, for which the surgeon handed over several small, glass mirrors. He reported his purchase to the quarterdeck. ‘These intelligent people seem to know we’re in dire need of anti-scorbutic greens for our scurvy sufferers.’

  ‘Yet more confirmation they must have had dealings with European ships before.’ Monsieur Marion bowed to his second-in-command. ‘I should know better than to doubt your always considered opinions, sir.’

  ‘No matter,’ Monsieur Crozet waved his hand, dismissing the acknowledgement. ‘It pays to be cautious when dealing with savages.’

  At dinner time, the cook brought on deck several great cauldrons of boiled fresh fish and sweet potatoes, made even tastier with the celery. Washed down with all the fresh water they desired, as well as their ration of wine, it was the best meal the ship’s people had eaten for weeks. They ate their fill then handed their platters to the nearest Zealanders, who squatted on the deck to devour the leavings with every sign of relish. What the Naturals favoured most was ship’s biscuit, which they seemed to recognize, giving it the name ‘taro’. Regardless of how small a fragment they were given or how riddled it was with weevils, they ate the biscuit with enthusiasm, especially if it were buttered. Jean said the entire supply would disappear down their gullets if they were not careful. ‘These savages have the appetites of gluttons.’

  Monsieur Crozet evidently agreed with him, because the order soon went out that only the officers were to offer biscuit, and then sparingly, only to chiefs. ‘We still have months at sea ahead of us.’

  Communicating with the Zealanders became even easier when both Messieurs Crozet and du Clesmeur independently realized their language seemed to have something in common with that spoken by Ahu-toru, the Tahitian who had died on board before they reached the Cape of Good Hope. As it happened, Monsieur Thirion had a copy of explorer Bougainville’s Tahitian vocabulary amongst his collection of books and papers. The surgeon hunted it out, and the officers perused the list of words while they enjoyed a glass or two of Burgundy in the great cabin after the midday meal. Like the men, they had dined on a simple thick soup of fish, sweet potatoes and celery accompanied by newly baked bread—François said he saw no need to embellish such good fresh fare.

  They tested the word list on Te Kuri, who had dined in the great cabin again with both captains and all the Mascarin’s officers. Much to their satisfaction, he understood most of the words they tried. When the list passed to André, he read the words with interest, looking forward to trying them out later on Te Kape. But he soon realized that apart from useful words like wood, water and food, most of the list focused on words for different parts of the body—and he saw little scope for conversation based on these.

  After his initial enthusiasm, Monsieur Thirion came to the same conclusion. ‘Tant pis, it’s a great pity that poor unfortunate Tahitian is not still with us,’ he said, sighing heavily. ‘Imagine how much his help would’ve improved our ability to communicate with these good people.’

  They were all silent for a moment, once more regretting the death of the affable Tahitian. Then Monsieur Marion shrugged. ‘Tant mieux—it’s not as though we wish to attempt philosophical discussions with these Zealanders, gentlemen. What we have on this list covers our immediate needs.’

  As they left the great cabin, Jean said to André that their captain had the right idea. ‘These savages do seem highly intelligent. Unlike those wretched Diemenlanders, they certainly understand whatever we want them to.’

  Back on deck, where the domestic slaves had cleared the empty platters and returned the cauldrons to the galley, Monsieur Marion had the musicians strike up their instruments and play a few of the more cheerful Breton tunes for the crowd of Naturals still on board. Some of the younger sailors got to their feet at their captain’s request and danced a round or two.

  Much to Jean’s amusement, André’s new friend Te Kape clearly disliked both the sharp wail of the bagpipes and the underlying notes of the flute. He sat there with his hands clapped firmly over his ears. No sooner had the musicians finished, than he moved around the deck, urging some of his companions onto their feet—young women as well as men—then lined them up to face the quarterdeck where the senior officers and Te Kuri were watching proceedings. ‘He’s making quite sure our musicians don’t subject them to any further torture.’

  Although up until then the Zealanders had shown nothing but their gentle side, they now set about a vigorous performance full of ferocious gesture and hideous grimace. They showed the whites of their eyes and stuck out their tongues, at the same time making bestial grunts. Only the rhythmic stamp of their broad, bare feet on the deck and the apparent co-ordination of their arm movements gave any clue that this was indeed some sort of dance. When they had finished and sat down again, to somewhat disconcerted applause from the watching Frenchmen, André heard Monsieur Crozet comment to the expedition leader, ‘Prenez garde, sir—these people may have just shown us their true nature.’

  The expedition leader shrugged. ‘Our ways are not theirs, obviously. You have to admire the vigour of such a performance.’

  Even more disconcerting was the increasing vigour of the embraces with which the Naturals now greeted the French sailors. André himself was more than once subjected not only to the forceful pressing of noses favoured by Te Kape, but also, whenever he was caught unawares, to a curious prolonged sucking of his skin—face or hands. Swapping notes with Jean later, when the expedition leader had at last ordered all the Zealanders off the ship for the night, he found his cousin had also experienced such uncomfortable displays. Neither of them knew quite what to make of such ferocity. ‘However gentle and affectionate these savages appear,’ said a sobered Jean, his words echoing those of the second-in-command earlier, ‘they’re primitives at heart. We’d do well to remember that.’

  Extract from the Te Kape manuscript, 1841

  At that time, I was a youth recently become of age to wield the weapons of war, a foster son to the principal fighting chief, Te Kuri. He was the first to visit the new strangers from the sea, and, he received red garments from them. At first we were wary, for they carried the guns we had named pu for the sound they made, and the sides of their ship gaped with the mouths that emit thunder and throw boulders, the weapons we later came to know as cannon. Nevertheless, we urged tho
se tipua to bring their ships into our waters so we could exchange gifts with them in the hope of receiving more iron. Instead they went back out to sea, taking some of our people with them, Te Kuri amongst those taken. We knew of the chief Ranginui of Oruru taken captive by tipua, who then sailed away with him far out to sea so he was thereafter lost to his people, even though that chief offered great friendship to those tipua and looked after their sick when they were stranded ashore. Accordingly, when the ships returned with our people, we took great care to supply those tipua with all they asked for so we should not anger them, for such capricious behaviour led us to believe they could prove to be vengeful beings despite their apparently benign appearance and smiling ways.

  As the days passed, the tipua showed us nothing but friendliness, and, although Tokerau remained on alert, some of our concerns were set aside. Indeed, we gradually became more accustomed to their pale skins and strange eyes and to their babbling tongues that sounded like the chirrup and trill of small birds. They had with them many wondrous things whose purpose remained a mystery to us. They allowed us to explore all those things, and, they showed us how to sharpen pieces of iron into useful small tools, then willingly gave those to us in response to our gifts of fish. They shared their meals with us as is customary, and accordingly we grew to relish some of their strange foods. Amongst them were rounds that had the appearance of pumice stone but proved to be a sustaining starch somewhat like our taro, its taste much improved by the yellow grease they applied to it. Also acceptable to us was a sand that dissolved to sweetness on the tongue, and we sometimes drank warmed liquids well sweetened in that way. But those tipua were mostly given to drinking a sour red liquid that was bitter on the tongue, which we soon learned to avoid.