God created man with nimble hands, sturdy little legs, a brain capable of tenacity, and the irrepressible desire to reach the horizon. Here it was on the battered deck of an old caravel that the Marquis François-Henri de Salis-Viracalas tested the limits of his body’s endurance.
The ocean thrust up each of its waves like so many obstacles to be overcome in order to reach America. A violent wind swelled even the smallest clouds. From high above, needle-sharp flashes of electricity speared the heavy cumulus billows, forcing them to dump their cargoes of freezing water.
François-Henri found the danger and the terrible weather thrilling.
In his eyes, the ocean was the darkroom for a symbolic revelation. By crossing it, he would finally be able to observe and immortalize what he believed to be the first humans created by God. Bloodthirsty and heavily made up with war paint, the Indians were more than screaming savages bristling with feathers. In their own primitive and impious way, the Redskins were closer to the Creator, to his first desires.
In his sweet delirium, the marquis was certain that in photographing them and studying their features, he would have a clearer vision of the image of God, of his designs and intentions. The Creator had made Man in his image, as the Holy Scriptures said; so it was enough to reverse the proposition—taking care, of course, to select the chosen ones intelligently.
Marquis François-Henri de Salis-Viracalas did not have the slightest idea then of the horde of murders his little idea would generate.
An even higher wave broke over the parapet, drenching him from head to foot. Even with his gloves soaked through and his boots full of seawater, the marquis was exultant. He readjusted his wig smoothly and settled his bicorn hat more firmly over his forehead. Above him, hanging in the rigging, drunk sailors struggled to reef the sails.
Though weighed down by its sixty thirty-pounder long guns, the first-class frigate Stella Maris, twin sister of La Boudeuse, fought valiantly. The marquis of Salis-Viracalas was only afraid of one thing: seeing his precious cameras damaged during the crossing.
For the plates, he used a pioneering technique that had yet to be officially invented at the time.14 Potato starch fixed by resin gave particularly accurate results, which was essential if all the faces were to be harvested. There was only one pitfall, one weakness in their invention: the gaps between the grains of starch being filled with soot. This natural filter had the effect of limiting the effective sensitivity of the plates, which increased the length of posing time required when the photo was taken, and which often resulted in movement effects. Then there was also the tendency of reds to saturate.
The solution, a very simple one as it turned out, was found by the Marquis Viracalas, and he resolved to keep it a secret. All you had to do was knock out the model you wanted to photograph, drain him of his blood, put makeup on him, and wait for the final instant of death to press the shutter release. To perfect his clever system, François-Henri also used a sturdy tripod and a remote shutter release mechanism.
Before leaving for the Americas, just to be sure, he had tested his system on a couple of village peasants and a distant cousin visiting for Christmas. The results obtained with the emulsion and the whole shooting sequence had exceeded all his hopes. The victims’ features were astonishingly clear.
But he had said that this voyage would be one of great revelations, as if God above had decided to come personally to his aid.
On this 8-8-1888, as François-Henri prepared to leave the deck of the Stella Maris and take refuge in his cabin, the prow of the caravel was suddenly thrust into the trough of a wave. Salis-Viracalas was thrown a full thirty feet, and two sailors fell from the rigging, shrieking like seagulls. One of them ended up in the sea, while the other was impaled on a metal rod used to coil fishing net.
He began to scream, trying to tear himself away from the trap. The rod had entered through his lower back and come out just under his neck, ripping through his lungs and intestines as it went. Pink foam bubbled out of his mouth and was blown away by the ferocious wind. His howls of pain coupled with the noise of the storm and the roaring of the waves were, for the marquis, a revelation.
Nature, God, the Devil, and the cry of men were all one and the same entity, a single mystical body. In the midst of this fury of nature, François-Henri de Salis-Viracalas gained a full understanding of the redemptive virtue of suffering.
It only made his quest more meaningful.