What Became of the White Savage Read Free Page A

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