usually expected to act as prison guards. The next day, a detachment of soldiers came to take him off my hands.”
That was all I could extract from this unpleasant man. The governor dismissed him and he left without bidding me farewell.
It was also on this occasion of my brief visit to Sydney that I was to appear before the Colonial Court judge in order for him to give me official responsibility for Narcisse.
I was ushered into the chamber where the portly bewigged judge was seated at his dark wooden bench, ostensibly asleep. I can make no sense of English law at the best of times, and in the colonies it seems to be even more incomprehensible. I was expecting to find advocates, witnesses, a prosecutor and court officers, but of these there were none. The affair was concluded in a matter of minutes. The judge gave the official report a cursory reading, after which he asked me to give my name and confirm that I agreed to become Narcisse’s guarantor. Without even listening to my answers, he signed the document drawn up in advance, handed me a copy, and left.
In the dinghy on the way back, I read through the ten pages of script, written no doubt in the hand of a convict employed as a clerk, and understood more or less that I was now the guardian of the “unidentified person known as the ‘white savage’, who disembarked in Sydney on the 25th February 1861”. The governor had kept his promise.
When I arrived back at the residence, Bill was waiting for me at the landing stage with the news that Narcisse had disappeared. It seemed that on the day of my departure, he and Bill had dined together, or rather side by side, and since then, Narcisse had not been seen. There had been no sign of him the next morning. Bill claimed to have become more and more concerned with every hour that passed, although I found this difficult to believe. Anxious to avoid a reprimand, he insisted that I had not asked him to guard Narcisse, and I reassured him on this point and told him he had done well not to inform the guard at the gate.
Narcisse must have been gone for several hours: I surmised that he had left at dawn, or perhaps even the night before. Why had he fled? Where had he gone? I was at a loss to explain this mysterious turn of events.
I wondered what course of action to take. Should I raise the alarm, call the soldiers camped at the end of the road and send them to patrol the area? I had no reason to assume they would do as I requested, and I doubted they would be able to catch up with an experienced bushman like Narcisse. A thorough and widespread search, possibly lasting several days would be required. Narcisse already had a considerable lead, and he was surely capable of concealing himself. The soldiers could walk right by without seeing him. And when convicts escaped, dogs were employed, animals trained to hunt down runaways and attack them with great savagery. Was this the price I wanted to pay to see Narcisse brought back?
No, he has returned to the forest. I feel strangely hurt by this departure and realise that I am beginning to become attached to this young man. But what right do I have to prevent him from doing as he wishes? Bill has been nosing around everywhere and informs me that Narcisse discarded his clothing before disappearing. By running off completely naked into the wild, has he not indicated his desire to return to whence he came? Could he make it any clearer that he does not wish to live as we do?
His family have long believed him to be dead, I have no means of finding them without a surname, they will never know that he is alive and has no wish to return to them. What purpose would it serve to search for him at great expense?
Narcisse is a free man, at liberty to do according to his will. He disappeared while I was absent. Is it possible that my absence was a cause of his departure? Did he think I would not come back? Does he feel any friendship or affection for me?
My only obligation is to the governor
That was all I could extract from this unpleasant man. The governor dismissed him and he left without bidding me farewell.
It was also on this occasion of my brief visit to Sydney that I was to appear before the Colonial Court judge in order for him to give me official responsibility for Narcisse.
I was ushered into the chamber where the portly bewigged judge was seated at his dark wooden bench, ostensibly asleep. I can make no sense of English law at the best of times, and in the colonies it seems to be even more incomprehensible. I was expecting to find advocates, witnesses, a prosecutor and court officers, but of these there were none. The affair was concluded in a matter of minutes. The judge gave the official report a cursory reading, after which he asked me to give my name and confirm that I agreed to become Narcisse’s guarantor. Without even listening to my answers, he signed the document drawn up in advance, handed me a copy, and left.
In the dinghy on the way back, I read through the ten pages of script, written no doubt in the hand of a convict employed as a clerk, and understood more or less that I was now the guardian of the “unidentified person known as the ‘white savage’, who disembarked in Sydney on the 25th February 1861”. The governor had kept his promise.
When I arrived back at the residence, Bill was waiting for me at the landing stage with the news that Narcisse had disappeared. It seemed that on the day of my departure, he and Bill had dined together, or rather side by side, and since then, Narcisse had not been seen. There had been no sign of him the next morning. Bill claimed to have become more and more concerned with every hour that passed, although I found this difficult to believe. Anxious to avoid a reprimand, he insisted that I had not asked him to guard Narcisse, and I reassured him on this point and told him he had done well not to inform the guard at the gate.
Narcisse must have been gone for several hours: I surmised that he had left at dawn, or perhaps even the night before. Why had he fled? Where had he gone? I was at a loss to explain this mysterious turn of events.
I wondered what course of action to take. Should I raise the alarm, call the soldiers camped at the end of the road and send them to patrol the area? I had no reason to assume they would do as I requested, and I doubted they would be able to catch up with an experienced bushman like Narcisse. A thorough and widespread search, possibly lasting several days would be required. Narcisse already had a considerable lead, and he was surely capable of concealing himself. The soldiers could walk right by without seeing him. And when convicts escaped, dogs were employed, animals trained to hunt down runaways and attack them with great savagery. Was this the price I wanted to pay to see Narcisse brought back?
No, he has returned to the forest. I feel strangely hurt by this departure and realise that I am beginning to become attached to this young man. But what right do I have to prevent him from doing as he wishes? Bill has been nosing around everywhere and informs me that Narcisse discarded his clothing before disappearing. By running off completely naked into the wild, has he not indicated his desire to return to whence he came? Could he make it any clearer that he does not wish to live as we do?
His family have long believed him to be dead, I have no means of finding them without a surname, they will never know that he is alive and has no wish to return to them. What purpose would it serve to search for him at great expense?
Narcisse is a free man, at liberty to do according to his will. He disappeared while I was absent. Is it possible that my absence was a cause of his departure? Did he think I would not come back? Does he feel any friendship or affection for me?
My only obligation is to the governor
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