Landfalls (2 page)

At this, the men from the
Boussole
burst into laughter. Of
course
their captain was in command—he was in daily communication with the minister, and Monsieur de Langle answered to him, not the other way around—had they not noticed? But
their
captain was a viscount, the
Astrolabe
's carpenters said. Surely that still meant something. The debate threatened to become unfriendly till they spied a junior officer from the
Astrolabe
walking by and persuaded him to come in and settle the argument. The young officer diplomatically refrained from mentioning either captain by name and simply confirmed that, yes, the
Boussole
was to be the flagship and the
Astrolabe
her consort. By declining the drinks offered him by the
Boussole
's men and instead treating the whole table to several jugs of the establishment's better wine, he also maintained harmony with his own shipmates and restored good cheer to the entire group.

“Can you also tell us where the expedition's going?” one of the men asked.

“
That
I'm not allowed to say,” the officer said before heading out.

Rowing back to their ships that night, the carpenters found their way lit by an enormous full moon sinking into the ocean beyond the port. It cast a wide white ribbon of light across the water like a beacon. “One almost wants to row out forever,” one man said, and they all felt it—that strange pull of the sublime inviting them into the unknown, into oblivion. But they were practical men who could recognize a poetic impulse without acting on it. Tomorrow would bring another round of orders and dilemmas that demanded their attention and good sense. So they parted company from one another and from the beckoning light and returned to their ships.

 

ONE

ITEMS FOR EXCHANGE

London, April 1785

Plausibility

He always forgets how unpleasant the crossing from Calais is. He's never once made the trip without encountering inclement weather, contrary winds and tides, unexplained delays, seasick fellow travelers, surly packet captains, or dishonest boatmen waiting to extort the passengers ashore. This time it's all of the above. By the time he reaches Dover, he has, of course, missed the stagecoach to London. He spends the night at the Ship Hotel, where he endures a hard, flea-ridden bed and a neighbor with a wet, defeated cough.

It's not an auspicious start to the journey. But Paul-M
é
rault de Monneron is not given to superstition. The next day brings springlike weather, a passable meal from the hotel kitchen, the stagecoach ready to leave on time, and an unsmiling but efficient coachman who gives the correct change. The only other passenger inside the coach is a man Monneron recognizes from the packet; the poor man had been gray-skinned with nausea most of the way from France. “Well, I daresay we are being compensated for yesterday's horrors,” the man says. Monneron nods politely, although he doesn't agree. For him, the universe is not given to compensating one for past miseries any more than it exacts payment for one's successes. But he is not immune to the pleasures of a smooth ride on a lovely day. The Kentish countryside, or such of it as he can see through the coach window, is charming. Once he points out the window at a large bird, white-breasted with black and white wings, perched atop a post. “Please—what do you call that?” he asks. “I do not know the word in English.”

The man leans over. “That would be an osprey, I think,” he says.

“Osprey.” It's rare that he learns a word in English he finds nicer than its counterpart in French. But “osprey” is undoubtedly lovelier than “
balbuzard
.”

The brief exchange leads inevitably to an inquiry about Monneron's trip to London. Almost everything he says by way of reply is true: That he's a naval engineer, that he's leaving soon for the South Seas, that he's going to London to make some purchases for the voyage, that he was tasked with the errand because he speaks English—“Not that my English is so good,” he adds, to which the man says, “Nonsense! You've hardly any accent at all.” But part of Monneron's account is
not
true: that he's in England at the behest of a Spanish merchant, Don Inigo Alvarez, with whom he'll be sailing to the South Seas. Monneron will be sailing with neither Spaniards nor merchants. There is, in fact, no Don Inigo.

It's a French naval expedition he represents, a voyage of exploration meant to compete with the accomplishments of the late Captain Cook, a voyage that is supposed to be secret until it departs. This excursion to London is not just a shopping trip for books and instruments. He's supposed to find out the latest on antiscorbutics—scurvy-prevention measures—and on what items work best for trading with natives in the South Seas. For this he needs to find someone who sailed with Cook—someone both knowledgeable and willing to talk.

This is the first time he's tried the Don Inigo story on anyone. He's surprised by the fluency and ease with which he spouts the commingled lies and truths. He hadn't liked the idea of traveling under a pretext—had, in fact, challenged the need for secrecy at all, and when the minister of marine dismissed his query with an impatient wave of his beruffled hand, had considered turning the mission down.
Considered
it, but not seriously or for very long. There was no question of jeopardizing his place on the expedition. He would have stood on his head before the court of Versailles if required. Still, when the Spanish merchant ruse was first concocted, he'd burst out laughing.
“Don Inigo Alvarez?”
he'd cried. “It's like something out of a play.” But the minister held firm: “People are inclined to believe what they hear,” he said. “Speak with assurance, and no one will question you.” So far, at least, he has proved right: Monneron's companion nods, interested, impressed, and apparently convinced.

Five Nights' Advance

The stagecoach arrives in London the following evening, and Monneron secures lodgings with a Mrs. Towe, recommended to him by his brother Louis, who often travels to London on business. The house smells unaccountably of stale cider, but it meets Monneron's most basic requirements—clean bed, convenient location, quiet landlady—and a couple of unusual ones—first, the absence of other lodgers, and second, a windowless storage room to which only he and Mrs. Towe will have a key.

Before going to sleep, he calculates his expenses since landing in Dover: a night's stay and meals at the Ship Hotel, then sixteen shillings and eight pence for the stagecoach, plus the fee for his baggage and a tip for the driver, not to mention a half crown for every meal and one night's lodging en route, and now, five nights paid in advance to Mrs. Towe. He's spent almost all of the English currency the minister gave him before he left. His first task the next day will be to go to the bank. So far he's had few choices about his expenditures, but now that he's in London, he'll be faced with myriad decisions, most of which will involve money. He can't spend too much, of course. But it might be worse to spend too little. He doesn't wish to squander the ministry's faith in him, of course. Above all, he doesn't wish to disappoint Monsieur de Lap
é
rouse, the commander of the expedition. Staring up at Mrs. Towe's water-stained ceiling, Monneron reflects that there's still time to appoint another engineer—and plenty of ambitious young men of good family eager to take his place.

Costume

He wakes early, consumes without enjoyment Mrs. Towe's weak tea and cold toast, then faces the delicate task of getting dressed. For the past three days he's been hidden under an overcoat and top boots, but now he'll be entering establishments and homes, making impressions, gathering information. He doesn't wish to call attention to himself by looking too French, too naval, too fashionable, or not fashionable enough. Louis has advised him to dress more soberly than a gentleman his age in Paris might, but Monneron's not sure what that means. With all his years at sea, he's quite used to dressing himself—in uniform. Civilian clothes are another matter altogether. In the end, he puts on the plainest linen shirt he owns and a pair of ribbed white stockings, and over them a suit he's borrowed from Antoine, another brother who is the same height as he. The waistcoat, breeches, and frock coat are all of the same, dark-blue woven silk—even the buttons are covered. Then he dons wig, shoes, and overcoat, in that order. He hesitates before picking up the thin, tasseled cane that Louis had pressed him to take instead of his sword. “Don't carry a sword or a hat,” his brother had told him. “They will mark you as a Frenchman and an effeminate.”

On his way out, Monneron appraises himself in the smoky mirror in Mrs. Towe's entrance hall. He looks like a Frenchman who is trying not to look French, he thinks. And he hates the cane. What an absurd country, in which wearing a
sword
makes one effeminate but carrying a beribboned walking stick does not.

Letters

He steps out into the fetid, fog-drizzled streets and makes his way to the Bank of England, where he exchanges letters of credit for more cash than he's ever seen in one place, much less carried upon his person. He's grateful for Antoine's tailor, who's adopted the innovation of interior pockets in frock coats. It's a place to stow the money. Still, he hurries into a cab, afraid the smell of so many bank bills will attract every pickpocket in London, and asks to be taken to an address on Oxford Street.

Monneron has another letter with him that morning—a letter of introduction to John Webber, a painter who was the official artist on Cook's last voyage. Monneron would have preferred an introduction to
officers
who'd served with Cook, but according to the minister, most of the officers who aren't dead are at sea, and of the small number who are neither dead nor at sea, two live too far outside London and the others are too highly placed to approach without arousing suspicion. “What about Cook's naturalists?” Monsieur de Lap
é
rouse had asked. “Can't we approach one of them?” No, the minister said. Solander was dead. The Forsters were both in Prussia. Only Sir Joseph Banks, the famous naturalist from the first Cook expedition, was still alive and in London, but he was now president of the Royal Society and close to both the Admiralty and the king. “Don't underestimate the usefulness of an artist as a source,” the minister said. Monneron and Lap
é
rouse had exchanged a glance, neither man convinced. What would a draughtsman know of antiscorbutics or appropriate items for exchange?

The cab deposits him before a narrow, dignified residence on Oxford Street. The door is opened by a narrow, dignified servant. The man takes Monneron's letter of introduction and soon after escorts him into a parlor where a man in a silk damask morning gown with a matching cap is finishing breakfast. When he looks up, Monneron is shocked by his youth.

“You expected an old man,” Webber says.

Monneron cannot deny it. It's been only five years since Cook's third and final voyage returned to England without him, but it has already achieved the status of legend, and yes, one expects those who sailed with him to be grizzled old men.

“I was only twenty-four when the expedition began,” Webber explains. Monneron makes some mental calculations: Webber is younger than he is.

The artist invites his guest to sit down, then has his manservant bring another place setting. Monneron puts up only a nominal protest before making quick work of strong, hot tea, smoked herring, a slice of cold veal pie, and a roll with marmalade.

“So,” Webber says, “you're going to the South Seas.”

Monneron nods through a mouthful, then tells him about Don Inigo and the need for scientific books and instruments. Also, information on antiscorbutics.
And
advice about appropriate items for exchange with natives.

Webber nods. “How long are you here?”

“Till Friday.”

“Friday?” The artist sets his teacup down before laughing. “You're going to be rather busy, Mr. Monneron.” He meets Monneron's eyes with a look at once frank and challenging. “I'm not sure how useful I can be to you. I'm no sailor.”

Monneron is inclined to agree, but doesn't say so. “I know you returned from the voyage with hundreds of paintings,” he says, remembering what the minister said about artists. “You cannot have done so without learning many things.”

Webber holds his gaze for a moment, then pushes back from the table. “Come with me,” he says.

Knife

Webber's library is high-ceilinged, white-walled, lit by small windows above the bookcases. Books occupy the upper shelves; the lower shelves are filled with art and objects. “It's all from the voyage,” he says. The drawings are his, he explains, sketches and paintings executed during the voyage; the rest are items he found, purchased, or was given.

Monneron steps forward to examine the drawings. They include landscapes and topographical views, botanical drawings and sketches of birds and lizards, portraits of natives and studies of their homes and canoes, and numerous scenes—natives dancing, feasting, receiving Cook, burying their dead. The drawings are of various sizes, but many are larger than Monneron expected, some an arm's length across. He tries to imagine his silk-gowned young host working on the busy deck of the
Resolution
, or pitching about in one of its smaller boats, or walking around a newly discovered island, all the while managing these large sheets of paper and drawing supplies, perhaps an easel as well, and it seems at once impossible, comic, and noble. “They're marvelous,” he says.

“You're very kind,” Webber says. They're standing before a portrait of a native man. The man has something long and thin thrust through his upper ear. His hair is up in a sort of topknot tied with string, and he has copious, though close-shaved, facial hair; he looks like a pleasant creature, except for the odd ear ornament. “He was from Mangea,” Webber says. The expedition didn't land on the island, he goes on to explain, but men came out in canoes to trade with the ships, and this man—“his name was Mourua”—had been persuaded to come on board. “He was shaking with fright. I thought any moment he might fling himself overboard.”