Twenty-four hours after my nomination as surgeon I went and offered my services to a ship-owner who was about freighting a vessel to the East Indies. We were not long in arranging terms, and, at forty francs per month, I engaged myself for the voyage.
Within twelve months afterwards I returned home. Who can depict the sweet emotions which, as a young man, I felt on again beholding my native land? I stayed a month on shore, surrounded by the affectionate attentions of my mother and sisters. Despite their assiduities I was seized with ennui. I made a second and a third voyage; then, after having rounded the Cape of Good Hope half-a-dozen times, I undertook one which separated me from my country during twenty years.
On the 9th October, 1819, I embarked on board the Cultivateur, an old half-rotten three-masted vessel, commanded by an equally old captain, who, long ashore, had given up navigating for many years. An old captain with an old ship! Such were the conditions in which I undertook this voyage. I ought, however, to add, that I obtained an increase of pay.
We touched at Bourbon; we ran along the entire coast of Sumatra, a part of Java, the isles of Sonde, and that of Banca; and at last, towards the end of May, eight months after our departure from Nantes, we arrived in the magnificent bay of Manilla.
The Cultivateur anchored near the little town of Cavite. I obtained leave to reside on shore, and took lodgings in Cavite, which is situate about five or six leagues from Manilla.
To make up for my long inactivity on board ship, I eagerly engaged in my favourite exercises, exploring the country in all directions with my gun upon my shoulder. Taking for a guide the first Indian whom I met, I made long excursions, less occupied in shooting than in admiring the magnificent scenery. I knew a little Spanish, and soon acquired a few Tagaloc words. Whether it was for excitement’s sake, or from a vague desire of braving danger, I know not, but I was particularly fond of wandering in remote places, said to be frequented by robbers. With these I occasionally fell in, but the sight of my gun kept them in check. I may say, with truth, that at that period of my life I had so little sense of danger, that I was always ready to put myself forward when there was an enemy to fight or a peril to be encountered.
I had only resided a short time at Cavite when that terrible scourge, the cholera, broke out at Manilla, in September, 1820, and quickly ravaged the whole island. Within a few days of its first appearance the epidemic spread rapidly; the Indians succumbed by thousands; at all hours of the day and of the night the streets were crowded with the dead-carts. Next to the fright occasioned by the epidemic, quickly succeeded rage and despair. The Indians said, one to another, that the strangers poisoned the rivers and the fountains, in order to destroy the native population and possess themselves of the Philippines.
On the 9th October, 1820, the anniversary of my departure from France, a dreadful massacre commenced at Manilla and at Cavite. Poor Dibard, the captain of the Cultivateur, was one of the first victims. Almost all the French who resided at Manilla were slain, and their houses pillaged and destroyed. The carnage only ceased when there were no longer any victims. One eye-witness escaped this butchery, namely, M. Gautrin, a captain of the merchant service, who, at the moment I am writing, happens to be residing in Paris. He saved his life by his courage and his muscular strength. After seeing one of his friends mercilessly cut to pieces, he precipitated himself into the midst of the assassins, with no other means of defence than his fists. He succeeded in fighting his way through the crowd, but shortly afterwards fell exhausted, having received three sabre-cuts upon his head, and a lance-thrust in his body. Fortunately, some soldiers happened to pass by at the time, who picked him up and carried him to a guard-house, where his wounds were quickly attended to.
I myself was dodged about Cavite, but I contrived to escape, and to reach a pirogue, into which I jumped, and took refuge on board the Cultivateur. I had scarcely been there ten minutes when I was requested to attend the mate of an American vessel, who had just been stabbed on board his ship by some custom-house guards. When I had finished dressing the wound, several officers, belonging to the different French vessels lying in the bay, acquainted me that one of their brethren, Captain Drouant, of Marseilles, was still ashore, and that there might yet be time to save him. There was not a moment to lose; night was approaching, and it was necessary to profit by the last half-hour of daylight. I set off in a cutter, and, on nearing the land, I directed my men to keep the boat afloat, in order to prevent a surprise on the part of the Indians, but yet to hug the shore sufficiently close to land promptly, in case the captain or myself signaled them. I then quickly set about searching for Drouant.
On reaching a small square, called Puerta Baga, I observed a group of three or four hundred Indians. I had a presentiment that it was in that direction I ought to prosecute my search. I approached, and beheld the unfortunate Drouant, pale as a corpse. A furious Indian was on the point of plunging his kreese into his breast. I threw myself between the captain and the poignard, violently pushing on either side the murderer and his victim, so as to separate them. “Run!” I cried in French; “a boat awaits you.” So great was the stupefaction of the Indians that the captain escaped unpursued.