Landfalls Page 4
He can never sleep when he has to be up before dawn. He spends a few hours wondering if the stain above his head has grown, then gets up. By four o’clock, when Mrs. Towe knocks on his door, he’s already dressed. The journey proceeds with clockwork precision: The stagecoach departs on time from the Golden Cross. They stop in Rochester for dinner, spend the night in Canterbury, reach Dover Saturday morning. He takes possession of his many purchases from the storehouse at the dock, pays the fees, watches everything stowed safely aboard the French mail boat, then takes his place on deck just as the right tide and a favorable wind arrive to speed the packet across the Channel.
In the past he’s delighted in watching the approach of home. But today he keeps looking back at the receding white cliffs, fighting the sensation that he’s left something undone. When England disappears in a veil of mist, the French coast comes at him too quickly, and he’s astonished to find himself staggering on deck, dizzy and sick. A kindly crewman takes him below, murmuring that it’s almost over, sir, some people are more sensitive than others, and Monneron cannot, dare not, open his mouth to put the man in his place, to tell him he’s a naval officer, that he’s about to circumnavigate the world, that he’s never been seasick in his life.
TWO
LAMANON AT SEA
Tenerife, August 1785
It is the afternoon of August 26, 1785, and Jean-Honoré-Robert de Paul, Chevalier de Lamanon, has just returned to the Boussole, exhilarated and exhausted after a successful ascent of the Peak of Tenerife. Lamanon has two years, three months, and fifteen days left to live. He does not know this, of course. He has no inkling of what is to come: an uncharted cove in Samoa, an ill-conceived watering party, the misunderstanding over beads, stones overpowering muskets. Right now it is just three weeks into the voyage. The Boussole and her sister ship, the Astrolabe, are lying at anchor in the port of Tenerife. In two days the expedition will set sail across the Atlantic, away from the Old World and toward they know not what for certain. At the moment, however, Lamanon’s chief concern is the safe retrieval of his supplies and equipment, which two crewmen are hauling up the side with altogether too much dispatch. The same two men just brought him up in the bosun’s chair, and if their cheerful mishandling of his person is any indication—
“Do be careful,” Lamanon cries. “There’s a Fortin barometer there, a gift from Monsieur de Lavoisier himself! Not to mention…” And then he goes on to mention the tripod and theodolite and glass sample bottles and his notebooks—oh, the loss to science if they should be dropped in the sea!
The crewmen do not know who Lavoisier is or why his barometer is so special, but they have safely delivered such objects before, to say nothing of frightened livestock and sick passengers, or water barrels and carronades that might kill a man if mishandled. “Your things, Chevalier,” they say with exaggerated flourish, placing everything on the deck.
Lamanon takes no notice of their flippancy. He likes to be called “chevalier.” He is thirty-two but looks fifteen years older. He has the longest official title of anyone on the expedition: Physicist, Geologist, Botanist, and Meteorologist. “Four men of science for the price of one!” he is wont to say, unaware that the comment does not endear him to his shipmates.
He walks with labored steps toward the companionway. Every part of him aches with the effort of three days of climbing followed by two days descending. He can look across to the island and see the mountain that required so much of him. It looks so near, so gently sloped, so brown and barren. It was none of these things. He would like to tell someone about it—about the surprising ruggedness of the trail, the blue lizard he spotted halfway up, and the clusters of violets and daisies he found at the summit, right next to a patch of snow. And most of all, the important scientific tasks he was able to carry out on the excursion. “I was just there!” he says aloud, pointing at the peak. But no one is looking his way; they are all busy with shipboard duties. No matter. He will have ample time to record all of his observations tomorrow. Right now he wants nothing more than to retire to his cabin and indulge in some reflective and self-satisfied languor.
This is not to be, however, for here is the captain, Monsieur de Lapérouse, informing him that a boat will be leaving the Boussole at five o’clock, bearing letters for France. There will be no other opportunity to send letters before they set sail, the captain adds; in fact, it may be three months before they can send letters again. If Monsieur de Lamanon has any letters to write, the time to do so is now.
Lamanon is displeased; this does not suit him at all. Not that he isn’t eager to depart. He cannot wait to see a place and a people untouched by Europeans and their pernicious influence. Tenerife, for all it has been a diverting and profitable port of call, is just another outpost of Spain, its native people and culture and innocence erased. But writing a good letter takes time, and naturally, he has several to complete (“If Monsieur de Lamanon has any letters to write”? What an idea—so typical of the low regard in which the expedition’s savants are held!). They are not leaving till the day after tomorrow. Why is this afternoon the last opportunity to send letters?
“Because I say so,” Lapérouse tells Lamanon. A most peremptory and unsatisfactory reply, but this appears to be one of the many prerogatives of command. After three weeks at sea, Lamanon is learning that his preferences count for very little. He might not mind this so much if he could feel that logic and good sense prevailed on board. They do not. But there is nothing to be done, so he shrugs and makes his way down the companionway. He winces with every step, shins aching. Ducking his head to enter his room, he curses the poor light and bends over the slab of wood that passes for his work table. He assembles inkstand, paper, candle, sealing wax, and seal; they vie for space with one another and with the specimen jars, notebooks, and rocks that clutter the surface. Then there is Lamanon himself, not a small person (though he will steadily lose weight during the time left to him), with hands and elbows that must perforce be placed somewhere among these objects.
One of the items he must clear from the table is a small bag of white beans. Ah, yes, he thinks. He must not forget the beans. The beans are an achievement. In fact, his first letter ought to be the one that accompanies this bag back to France. The thought rallies him, and he picks up his quill to begin. Easily nettled, but almost as easily cheered. That is our Lamanon.
The letter is for the minister of marine, the bewigged and bemedaled Marshal de Castries. Lamanon writes to beg a favor of the minister, but it is the sort of favor calculated to impress more than impose. He asks the minister to send a bag of white beans, enclosed herewith, to his hometown of Salon-de-Provence. He reminds the minister that he, Lamanon, had been mayor of Salon-de-Provence before the expedition. (He does not mention that he had been so unsuited to the post that there was almost no complaint when he announced he was leaving after only four months in office.) Beans, he goes on to explain, are vital to the well-being of the peasants of lower Provence. The peasants satisfy their hunger with bean salads, which they carry with them into the fields. The beans not only strengthen them for their labors, but counteract the inebriating effects of the strong local wine, which they also tend to carry about with them.
In recent years, however, the bean crops of Provence have fallen prey to an infestation of rust, a problem he attributes to the “dry fog” of the summer of 1783. (This persistent haze, caused by a volcanic eruption in Iceland, had so darkened the daytime sky that for a few days Lamanon had been able to look at the sun through a telescope without a filtering lens. He does not clutter his letter with this detail, of course, but he does linger for a moment with the memory, feeling some nostalgia for that strange time.) At any rate, the fog and the resulting rust have rendered Provençal beans scarce and expensive. And no, he writes, anticipating an objection, potatoes are not a good substitute. Potatoes are bland. The peasants are not fond of potatoes. Potatoes do not go well with the local wine. “But I have had the good fortune to discover an excellent whit
e bean in Tenerife,” Lamanon writes. “With the introduction of this variety, it is hoped we may revive the cultivation of beans in southern France.”
The ringing of the ship’s bell reminds Lamanon that the afternoon is waning, although exactly how far gone it is he cannot tell. He is not yet used to naval timekeeping, to counting how many times the bell is struck or to listening for the helmsman’s call. It amazes him, the way the common seamen can sleep through any bell except the one that announces their watch or summons them to dinner. His own pocket watch stopped working within days of leaving Brest, and he has not been sure of the time since. Now, wondering if it is two o’clock or three, or, God forbid, four, he hurries through the rest of his missive, describing briefly—too briefly—his just-completed trip to the peak. He concludes by assuring the minister of everyone’s health and happiness. “We are as one big family,” he writes, then remembering the captain’s “Because I say so,” adds: “Monsieur de Lapérouse is like our father.” He likes this sentiment, and will repeat it in each of the letters that follow. He signs off in his usual fashion—“Chev er de Lamanon”—and reaches for a fresh sheet of paper.
Alas, poor Lamanon! He does not know that the Marshal de Castries, minister of marine, will regard this letter with bemusement. Why, he will wonder, has Lapérouse’s naturalist written such a long letter to him, a letter that sounds like a report to the provincial intendant or even the Academy of Sciences? And what is all this about a “dry fog”? The minister will not remember any such fog, although he should. Gray and malodorous and leaving a trail of fine ash in its wake, it had greatly aggravated his sensitive lungs through that unusually warm summer. What he will remember is meeting Lamanon, once, right before the expedition left, and how very loquacious the naturalist was. At the time, the minister had attributed it to a younger man’s understandable excitement on being introduced to important people in Versailles. Now he will suspect that Lamanon is one of those people who will talk (or write) forever if you let them. The minister will especially puzzle over this passage on the culinary habits of Provençal peasants. What is it to him if peasants turn up their noses at potatoes, or need beans with which to balance their liberal consumption of wine? And this claim Lamanon makes, that the wine, thus paired, does not cause drunkenness: it is preposterous.
The minister does not know that Lamanon loves beans, that he has always loved beans. Lamanon’s mother, who implored him not to leave on the expedition and whose heart will break when she hears about the uncharted cove and the troublesome beads, can attest to this. Even as a child, Robert was a great favorite with their cook, as he preferred the simple bean dishes she made for her own family to the more complicated dishes she prepared for the Lamanons. There was also their gardener, Jerôme, whom the young Robert liked to follow about the property. Jerôme knew a great deal about plants and insects and rocks and weather, and many afternoons he would take Master Robert along when he went to meet his own brothers and cousins out in the fields or orchards. The farmhands could always be counted on to share a bean salad in the shade of the olive grove, and they also thought it good fun to ply the future chevalier with wine. The minister does not know any of this, of course. Indeed, Lamanon’s mother does not know all of this either.
And what of these beans from Tenerife? They are, simply put, the best beans Lamanon has ever tasted. Fat and meaty, they keep their shape when cooked and provide just a hint of resistance when bitten into. Redolent of butter and chestnuts, they are so flavorful they scarcely need any seasoning. After eating them one night at an inn in the port city of Santa Cruz de Tenerife, Lamanon pestered the innkeeper, and then the inkeeper’s wife, and then the man at the market, until he was standing on a hillside verdant with vining legumes, persuading himself that the climate at that altitude was comparable to the climate in Provence, and then persuading the farmer he was with to part with a sack of beans for planting. This sack he is now preparing to send to the Marshal de Castries.
The minister is busy. He is trying to reform the French Navy during a time of shrinking resources and escalating court intrigue. He will pass Lamanon’s letter and the sack to an underling, who in turn will pass the letter and beans to someone else. By the time the beans reach Salon-de-Provence, many months will have passed. It will be past planting season for beans. The man in the mayor’s office who opens the sack will wrinkle his nose at the ammoniac smell that wafts out. He will inform the mayor that Monsieur de Lamanon has sent them a sack of moldy beans from Tenerife by way of the naval office in Paris. “What shall I do with it, sir?” he will ask.
“Get rid of it,” the mayor will say. “I can smell it from here.”
The mayor’s name is Auguste de Paul de Lamanon. He is tall like his younger brother, Robert, but thin where Robert tends to fat, and bald where Robert tends to hair. The arrival of the moldy beans will vex him extremely. First, he does not share his brother’s alarm over the state of Provençal bean production. Second, why did Robert not send all the beans directly to Salon-de-Provence by way of Marseilles? Several months earlier, a letter from Robert arrived for their mother, a letter that contained some beans that their mother and Jerôme have planted against a south-facing stone wall outside of the kitchen. Something small and green is now struggling there; his mother weeps every time she looks at it. Auguste has had to remain behind in Salon-de-Provence in order to comfort her. He also felt honor-bound to finish out his brother’s term as mayor. Most of the time Auguste does not mind. But sometimes he remembers his resentment. This will be one of those times.
Meanwhile, back on the Boussole, on that warm August afternoon, Lamanon is writing a second letter, this one to the Marquis de Condorcet, the famous mathematician, philosopher, and soon-to-be revolutionary leader, who is, moreover, permanent secretary to the Academy of Sciences. Condorcet was the first to recommend Lamanon for the expedition, though it must be acknowledged that Lamanon asked him for the recommendation, and that Condorcet agreed to the request with some reluctance. It is not that Condorcet dislikes Lamanon; on the contrary, he is fond of the younger man and believes him to be a gifted natural philosopher. But appreciating the abilities of a fellow savant is different from believing that same man to be suited to life at sea. Who among us does not have the odd friend whose virtues we admire, but whom we do not wish to impose on others? Lamanon has no idea when he is giving offense and too little regard for authority. A few years ago, for instance, he began an argument with Buffon over the origin of fossils. Surely it was enough to publish his controversial ideas in the Journal de physique—that is what journals are for, after all. But what was he thinking, showing up at the salon of Madame Necker right afterward, knowing Buffon would be there, then heading straight for the old man and asking, “My dear Count, what did you make of my new piece in the Journal?”
Madame Necker, pale, powdered, and dressed in ivory, had turned to Condorcet and said, “Has your friend come simply to provoke my most distinguished guest into losing his temper?”
“No, madame,” Condorcet replied. “He suffers only from an excess of enthusiasm.”
Condorcet remembered this, and other instances like it, when Lamanon asked him to put his name forward for the Lapérouse expedition. But put him forward he did, because it is difficult to refuse a man who has eaten so much at one’s table. Then it irked him—irked him exceedingly—to discover that Lamanon had also solicited a recommendation from the Duke de La Rochefoucauld, president of the academy and friend of Benjamin Franklin. It suggested, uncomfortably, that for all his apparent lack of social acumen, Lamanon had somehow sensed the halfheartedness of his friend’s support. But worse, it suggested that Condorcet’s influence in these matters might not be as great as he imagined it to be.
Perhaps this explains why Lamanon’s letters will receive such scant attention from Condorcet when they arrive. Not only this letter from Tenerife, but the others—one from Santa Catarina Island in three months’ time and another, much longer, written two years hence, from Macao—
will elicit a slight frown, an impatient perusal, then consignment to a large pile of documents that the mathematician intends, one day soon, to go through with more care.
Condorcet’s wife, Sophie, a beautiful and intelligent woman whose love for him will amaze him until the day he dies, will ask, “What news from the great expedition, Nicolas?”
Condorcet will reply, “Oh, it is all barometric readings and magnetic intensities mixed up with Lamanon’s bombast.”
“Just the thing to be read at the next meeting of the academy.”
Condorcet will snort. “I would not dream of denying Lamanon that pleasure when he returns,” he will say. And so Lamanon’s letters and reports will remain on Condorcet’s desk, read but not shared, and there they will remain until the Revolution upends everything, even mathematicians and their piles of paper.
This is all most unfortunate, as Condorcet’s neglect will forever diminish Lamanon’s scientific legacy. It is also too bad because Lamanon would be shocked to learn there might be cause for reserve between them. On the contrary, it pleases him to imagine Condorcet reading his letter. He can see the great man’s distinctive dark eyebrows relaxing with delight when he sees who the letter is from, then contracting again with serious intent as he unfolds the pages and begins to read. Lamanon smiles as he leans over to conclude the letter: “We are like a big family on board, with Monsieur de Lapérouse as our father,” he repeats. Then he folds the letter and affixes his seal to the back—he loves this part, the smell of the molten wax and its satisfying displacement under the weight of the seal—and moves on to write a very similar letter to the Count de Buffon. Yes, the same Buffon he provoked, first, with his disputatious paleontological mémoire, and then with his bad manners at Madame Necker’s. But Lamanon does not worry if the count is still displeased, if, indeed, he ever noticed the count’s displeasure at all; nor does he wonder if his letter will be welcome. He has an irrepressible faith in his own value as a man of science. And it is not always misplaced. Let us be clear about that. Lamanon will never know it, of course, but Buffon, still writing in his late seventies, will, in his monumental Histoire naturelle, refer to findings reported in this very letter from Tenerife.