The sun in the east became far advanced
When a convict came to the Isle of France,
And around his leg was a ring and chain,
And his ship was the Shamrock Green.1
So goes an Australian folk song about an Irish convict, sentenced to transportation to New South Wales for seven years. Shipwrecked, it’s his good fortune to be washed ashore on Isle de France, where he is made welcome and his freedom secured.
Not so fortunate are the thousands of African and Indian slaves on this beautiful island east of Madagascar. Originally named Mauritius by Dutch colonists after a prince of the Netherlands, and renamed Isle de France when seized by the French in 1715, it is a strategic French naval base and an erstwhile indigent outpost grown fat and sleek on shipbuilding, sugar cane and the slave trade.
Picture Captain Nicolas Baudin is standing on the deck of his ship in the sheltered, deepwater harbour of Port Napoleon – formerly Port Louis – with Le Pouce Mountain, named for its thumb-shaped peak, in the distance. The splendid panorama is a welcome distraction from the gritty scene on the docks. The captain is no doubt aware that slavery was abolished in the French colonies almost a decade ago, yet here they are, human chattel, toiling on the wharves and out in the cane fields, under the lash and in constant threat of branding, having their ears cut off, and death by hanging, all at the whim of a master.
The reason this highly profitable abomination survives and thrives on Isle de France is that the colonists – who were so outraged by abolition that the government officials who brought the news from Paris barely escaped with their lives – simply chose to flout the law and carry on regardless, while corrupt colonial authorities turn a blind eye.
Of course, all this might not even be of fleeting concern to Captain Baudin, given that he has a more immediate problem on his mind. One he didn’t see coming.
No sooner did the French ships tie up in Port Napoleon than dozens of sailors deserted. But that’s not the pressing problem. In more than 30 years at sea Baudin has seen this happen more times than he can recall – it’s more or less expected. He knows men who jump ship can easily be replaced, or flushed from their hiding places in the usual haunts, and on this occasion he has done just that. The crews of both vessels are back to full strength.
The matter that has left him gasping is a mass defection of officers and scientists – a conspiracy, no less. Four officers and six midshipmen have defected, including lieutenants Bonnié, Gicquel and Baudin (no relation), who admitted that the plot had been hatched at the very beginning of the voyage, born of animosity towards the captain.
Of the scientists, Michaux the senior botanist was first to quit the expedition. After bluntly informing Baudin that he had decided to stay in Isle de France and write the natural history of Madagascar, he went ashore, with the zoologist Dumont, the botanist Delisse, the artist Garnier and two gardeners at his heels. The naturalist Bory de Saint-Vincent left without explanation, and the artists Milbert and Lebrun claimed to be abandoning the expedition due to ill health. One has taken a position as a doctor, another has married a local woman, some cannot bear the thought of another voyage under Baudin, and others are simply homesick.
To compound his woes, while on Timor his old friend Anselme Riedlé, the chief gardener, was suddenly taken ill and died.
So on departing Timor, bound for Van Diemen’s Land, Baudin might well be thinking things could not possibly get worse. They do.
The zoologist Stanislas Levillain dies at sea from a fever contracted on Timor. Then, at Maria Island, off the west coast of Van Diemen’s Land, Baudin loses zoologist René Maugé, the second to die of only two men aboard he counted as friends – the other being Anselme Riedlé.
Grief-stricken, he notes in his journal: ‘Citizen Maugé was on the brink of death all day and ended his life at about 11 o’clock at night.
‘At daybreak I gave orders for the yards to be cock-billed [tilted almost vertically as a sign of mourning] and the flag to be half-masted in order to inform Captain Hamelin of our loss. I also sent him a note asking him to arrange for those officers and naturalists who wished to attend the internment of our unfortunate companion to leave from the ship when our boat set off.
‘At nine o’clock I departed for the burial of a man whose death and dying words filled me with sorrow. A few moments before the end, he said to me, “I am dying because I was too devoted to you and scorned my friends’ advice. But at least remember me in return for the sacrifice that I have made for you.”
‘As we left the ship, all the guns fired a salute. When we were halfway to shore, a second was fired and a third just as we landed. The body of this naturalist was buried between two casuarinas and two eucalypts. On one of the former we placed a lead plaque upon which was engraved the following inscription:
“Here lies Citizen René Maugé, zoologist on the expedition of discovery commanded by Captain Baudin, 3 Ventrôse, year 10 of the French Republic.” [21 February 1802]
‘Citizen Maugé’s death is an irreparable loss for the expedition. This naturalist did not have the title of scientist but, alone, he did more than all the scientists put together. Occupied solely with his work, he thought of nothing but performing his duties well, and I was never in a position to remonstrate with him in this regard.
‘I realise with pain that he and Citizen Riedlé, the only two genuine friends that I had on board, have fallen victim to their friendship for me, this having been their sole motive in undertaking a voyage so fatal to them.’2
Mourning the loss of his friends, Baudin must find it truly galling that because of their deaths, and the mass desertions, the man he considers his nemesis, François Péron, is now chief zoologist. Quel dommage!