The Discovery Of Slowness

by Sten Nadolny

  The Australians at first talked little among themselves, then more and more, and eventually some of them began to laugh. Soon all of them did except for one; they talked and laughed. Matthew supposed that they had gained some confidence after all. Mr Thistle opined that their present manner was their normal behaviour, which had given way to fearful astonishment only briefly when they saw the white men. Sherard said, ‘They laugh because we’re wearing clothes.’ John stared at them for the longest time before he said anything. His answer came when they all thought the question had been disposed of – so late, as usual, that only Matthew and Sherard were listening. ‘They know by now that we don’t understand their language. That’s why they deliberately talk nonsense and laugh about it.’ Matthew was taken aback and slapped his thigh. ‘Right!’ he shouted, and said the whole thing once again, a little faster for the others. Now they all looked very closely: he was right. Then they all looked at John. Sherard spoke into the silence. ‘John’s clever. I’ve known him for ten years.’

  Meanwhile, Mr Westall had finished drawing his view of the bay. Every hill, every tree was drawn accurately; so was the ship with her anchor ropes, and the open sea. In the foreground stood a gigantic tree that didn’t exist anywhere. Its branches framed everything, and in its shade a young native couple, beautiful to look at, were leaning against it, gazing at the ship with admiration. ‘I’ll paint the girl more exactly once we’ve seen some women,’ remarked Mr Westall. John sensed rising doubt but didn’t know yet how to define it.

  Something was wrong with the whole situation. John felt as though he should shout ‘Stop!’ immediately, but he didn’t know what to stop. Something was out of the ordinary about his own people. What was there in them that had been altered by the natives’ presence? John now observed the Englishmen as closely as he had watched the Australians before.

  The Kirkebys remained silent. They gaped incessantly at the savages and appeared dumb. But others walked over to the natives far too closely, gesticulating far too rapidly. Perhaps they wanted to soothe them, perhaps even only show them that they had new thoughts about the situation, but that did not moderate their obtrusiveness. They wanted to disconcert them, as they all had wanted to disconcert John before they knew him well. The sailors who put their heads together and laughed about the natives were especially embarrassing. ‘Greater respect, gentlemen,’ said Matthew in a dangerously quiet voice. ‘No more jokes; not even good ones, Mr Taylor.’

  Suddenly John knew what it was: they all believed that the natives had not been taught sufficiently whom they were dealing with. The white men believed they were not being given proper respect. They expected the mistake to be corrected.

  When the Englishmen were back in the boats, John was too preoccupied with himself to continue watching the others closely. Then he heard Matthew’s voice saying sharply, ‘I won’t wait for long, Mr Lacy.’ It concerned a rifle that Denis had wanted to fire out of sheer high spirits.

  John noticed that Matthew moved more slowly than usual, more cautiously than anyone else at this landfall. Among the Australians there was also a man who behaved that way. He, too, sat quietly, laughed rarely, and noticed everything – his eyes were constantly in motion.

  Then there was a shot. The brown men fell silent. Nobody had been hit. One of the marines had pulled the trigger of his weapon by mistake.

  But why did this happen just as they were leaving? And why did it happen to a man who had been expertly trained in the use of a rifle?

  After a few more days they met an entire tribe along another section of the coast. This one included women and children, who, however, were soon taken to safety. John could tell the Australians well apart, for he looked at them long enough. Not even Dr Brown could do this equally well, though he was, after all, a scientist, who measured the natives from head to toe. He entered in his log: ‘King George Sound and environs. A. Men. Average samples – 20; Height – 5′7″. Thigh: 1′5″. Shinbone: 1′4″.’

  ‘What’ll we do with those figures? Are we getting them clothes?’ asked Sherard. ‘No, that’s anthropology,’ answered the scientist. John had to write down the names of the body parts they had measured: kaat – head; kobul – belly; maat – leg; waleka – behind; bbeb – nipple. It was a barter: nails and rings in exchange for weights and words.

  When Matthew discovered the words for fire and arm – and therefore the Australian name for rifle – he ordered drumrolls on the shore, causing both white men and natives to assemble, full of curiosity. He lifted a rifle high in the air and shouted several times in Australian, ‘Fire! Arm!’ Then he fired at a bailing-scoop which he had ordered placed on a rock and hit it so well that it was swept into the water. He had the rifle loaded again and the bailing-scoop put back in place. Now John had to fire. He didn’t understand immediately – this was because he disagreed and didn’t want to do it. For the first time in a long while he moved even more slowly than usual, but he couldn’t help moving. He couldn’t oppose Matthew.

  The tin bailing-scoop made a lot of noise, and John was extremely slow. Matthew wanted to show the natives that even slow-moving Englishmen could produce sudden changes with a firearm. John had a steady hand and knew how to aim. He hit the tin. He didn’t get applause, because Matthew had forbidden it. It was to appear like an everyday thing. The results were odd. The Australians laughed, perhaps in embarrassment. They never used the word ‘firearm’; they had a different word for a rifle. That birds and bailing-scoops keeled over when hit they had seen for themselves. Perhaps they didn’t know yet that it would be exactly the same for people. Anyway, the whites had now arrived at the view that their superiority would be acknowledged by the savages, and so they again had more respect for their captain.

  Since he now had some time, John sat in the top of a tree for a long while, observing both Englishmen and natives. He decided that the Australians, too, were now practising anthropology. Each time a boat came in from the Investigator they eyed and touched the smooth-shaven whites in order to assure each other that, even in the case of these newly arrived specimens, they weren’t dealing with women.

  During their entire trip along the coast, what John Franklin liked best was sitting in the foretop. He could see and hear reefs in time, for he never did or thought about two things simultaneously. It took a little while until he sounded off about surf he had sighted, but it didn’t matter if it was only a few seconds. It was only important that someone did not become absent-minded out of boredom or even start dreaming. ‘It literally smells of sandbanks,’ said Matthew. ‘Have soundings taken, Mr Fowler, and send Franklin to the foretop – nobody else.’

  John himself knew how good he was as a lookout. He was content to take his place. He thought, I’ll be a captain who never goes under. A whole crew will stay afloat with me, whether seventy men or seven hundred. The different tinctures of the water, the scenery of the shore in the background, the endlessly straight horizon – his eyes could never feast long enough on them all. The navigation charts in front of him showed almost nothing but dotted lines or completely uncharted areas in the region of Terra Australis; at most he noted the words ‘Presumed coastline’. John’s fantasy added, Presumed city-to-be, Presumed harbour. Every mountain he saw would some day have a name; roads would surround it. Continuously he spied for what Matthew called ‘the crucial bay’ – a bay which would perhaps lead to a wide passage across the Terra Australis. He, John Franklin, wanted to be the first person to see that passage, even if he had to keep watch on the foretop two or three times in succession. Matthew had said that, too.

  The captain had the power to name everything. Every island, every cape, every inlet, was therefore given one of the dear old names from Lincolnshire: Spilsby Island, Donington Point, and one fine day there was a Franklin Harbour in Spencer Gulf. John and Sherard at once imagined a city of Franklin which would grow there. Sherard sketched the outlines of the place and already knew now what would make the city rich: cattle-and sheep-breeding, slaughterhouses and
wool mills. Sherard’s special ship went to the South Pole every six months to pick up ice for the Lound Cold Store. ‘I freeze the meat and thaw it again when a famine breaks out.’ Sherard’s favourite story was the Feeding of the Five Thousand, and he would supply technical explanations. John agreed. He also remembered the jellied pig’s head. The entire world could be as beautiful as life on a ship if only everyone did something that benefited others, too.

  ‘But you’ve got to be rich,’ Sherard assured him. ‘If you’re not rich you can’t help anyone. I’ll bring my parents over. They’ll learn to read and will go strolling about all day long.’

  John sat in the foretop and petted Trim the tomcat who was stretching out his body along the yardarm, lying at an unusual angle within reach of John’s hand, hardly like the beast who had clawed him to get titbits of meat. Born navigators couldn’t be separated for ever. For John, like the rest of the crew, believed firmly that Trim had the brains of a sailor. A story was told about him that he could coil the end of a rope, even reef a topsail. Also, he always looked at least half a mile beyond the horizon. Watching him carefully, one might even believe this. Spying through the slits of his pupils, he seemed to see a lot more than Matthew’s bulldog eye, John’s bird’s eyes, or Mockridge’s refined, complicated viewing-gear. If Trim looked anywhere with interest, something was up. And it was so now.

  Trim looked far into the distance, as though the sea would reveal itself there and the great vortex would appear on the horizon. John followed his gaze but saw nothing. Whatever he could ascertain made a calm, regular impression. The picture was almost too symmetrical: the ship’s bow below him, the coast to port, and, stretching out far to starboard, a calm ocean with gentle, distant cloud banks. But still there was something. A white rise above the sea perhaps twelve sea miles ahead – the tip was barely recognisable even through the telescope, possibly a rock. John sang out what he saw. ‘Could also be an iceberg!’ he called below. For a good quarter of an hour longer he stared motionlessly. Why did the object come up so fast when they were doing only three knots? ‘A ship!’ shouted John, and he stared through the telescope, open-mouthed. At once the deck below was crawling with people. A ship? Here? Matthew came aloft and convinced himself. Yes, it was a ship with square sails. Royal and topgallants were already quite visible; it certainly wasn’t a craft manned by natives. ‘Clear the decks for battle!’ Matthew shouted, and he collapsed the telescope. On deck there began a fearful scurrying back and forth, a slaving away like dogs with those damned guns, which had to be heaved into place and cleared of rust with iron scrapers. From above, it looked as though the smooth, curved ship had suddenly burst into a thousand splinters with all the activity. Pulleys crowed, iron screeched, gunmounts thundered. Soon there would be real splinters. That surely was what John had seen in his dreams since the start of the voyage. Now death came and made it all true. Vacantly, John stared at the point on the horizon: with that point commenced all misfortune. Trim had long since gone below again and had crawled into Matthew’s cabin, which the cats considered a safe place.

  The drumroll began. Mr Colpits was flushed red with all the responsibility, and he roared as loud as he could. He had just two hours’ time if the wind held. Numbly, John heard the familiar music: extinguish the fires; spread the sand, bring up the ammunition. It had again come to that.

  An hour later he knew even more. The strange ship had two sails below the bowsprit, which John had heard about in stories: they were called the spritsail and the counter-spritsail, and they were used only on French warships. Soon he also saw the French flag waving. On the Investigator, Taylor hoisted the Union Jack. The largest sails were furled into bulging rolls of sailcloth to keep them from being shot to tatters – the French were known to aim for the rigging. The fuses were burning. Next to the helmsman already stood his replacement. But we have a pass, thought John. He tried to imagine Matthew’s thoughts. They won’t ask for a pass, he thought; they’ll do away with our discoveries by sinking us. They’ll name the land after their revolution; there’ll be no Franklin Harbour! The relief man came up the mast. John made room for the sailor, then climbed down. Matthew exhorted the crew: ‘We won’t tolerate this. If they try anything we’ll teach ’em a lesson.’ Of course, it was rather obvious that the enemy ship was better armed than their own. Besides, they hardly needed to shoot at the Investigator. The ship already took in eight inches of water per hour on its own account.

  John now knew precisely what he had felt at Copenhagen: fear, panic! This time he didn’t want to be fearful, although he felt strongly urged that way. He wanted to do the most reasonable thing after precise observation and logical deliberation. Still half an hour – at most. Now they passed out the rum. Everything was prepared for a catastrophe. Whether they would survive it was another question.

  John listened. Quite distinctly, he heard an order. Where it had come from was unclear, but it seemed to be a good order. John acted as fast as he could.

  Sherard stood at one of the port guns and looked over to the French with awe. The beast had at least thirty guns. He turned to John, but he had disappeared. Yet – there he came from the back holding a folded white flag in his right hand. Sherard was confused. Taylor was the signal ensign. Somebody shouted, ‘Hey, Mr Franklin, what the hell …?’ But John didn’t turn. He seemed not to have heard. Leisurely, he tied up the flag and hoisted it – hand over hand – to the masthead. At that very moment, an explosion: a shell burst in front of the Investigator’s bow. In the other ship the guns had long since been readied; it looked disastrous. Through all this noise, Sherard heard the second lieutenant say something coldly to John Franklin’s face. Taylor came up and hurried to get the white cloth down again. That, however, entailed some difficulties. Any knots John Franklin pulled tight no Taylor could untie.

  Then from the quarterdeck sounded Matthew’s voice: ‘Leave the rag up there, Mr Taylor. What d’you think I’m giving orders for?’

  Someone called from the foredeck, ‘Look at that!’ On the French warship’s mast a British flag rose high up and joined the Tricolor.

  For one moment there was a deep silence. Something was still unclear to Sherard. Why John and not Taylor? Why then had Taylor …? But he couldn’t think further. General jubilation broke out.

  Le Géographe was a research ship equipped with a British pass. Both ships now lay alongside each other; there was hardly any doubt left of their peaceful intentions.

  ‘Fraternité!’ shouted the French. ‘Nice to meet you!’ roared Mockridge over to the other deck. Someone started a song, clearly in a wrong key; then followed a thunderous song in an amazingly correct harmony. The French weren’t at a loss for songs, either. The officers on both ships had trouble making themselves heard even to those standing next to them. Trim appeared on the quarterdeck, testing, blinking his eyes at the scene, then lifting his hind paw languorously and beginning to wash himself. Matthew ordered his boat readied. ‘The captain is leaving the ship, gentlemen!’ The midshipmen hurried to the main shrouds and raised their hats. The boatswain blew his regulation whistle. The ritual came off just as it did at home at Spithead, and perhaps that was all to the good in a situation in which one still didn’t know how long the peace would last. The Investigator was still cleared for battle and had turned her broadside to the other ship. But perhaps this was done only to keep the gunner quiet.

  ‘What was that a while ago?’ Sherard asked his friend, but he didn’t know himself. Mockridge only remarked, ‘Mr Franklin has good eyes. He can sense many orders without hearing them – and even through thick walls.’

  The ships remained together for the night and half the next day. The captains talked exhaustively, the crews waved at each other. War in Europe, peace south of Terra Australis. For the first time since the beginning of history, two European ships of different nations met in this part of the world – and they did each other no harm. Mr Westall said, ‘This was for the honour of mankind.’ John was silent, but Sherard was under the
impression that he was secure and lighthearted as never before. He even seemed to understand more swiftly what was said to him. John surely must be in league with a great good power, and above all with Matthew. And he’s my friend, too, thought Sherard.

  Meanwhile, Trim slept on a tarpaulin and Mr Colpits complained, ‘First all that slaving, then an eternity with the fuse in hand, and finally, like that cat up there, it’s all gone to the dogs.’

  8

  The Long Voyage Home

  In the captain’s cabin of the East India ship Earl Camden stood Lieutenant Fowler of the Royal Navy and Captain Dance of the East India Company.

  ‘You’ll have a great deal to tell me, Mr Fowler,’ said Dance. ‘But you must first get back to England. Whom do you still have with you of the old Investigator?’

  ‘The painter Westall will be on the Earl Camden …’

  ‘I know his older brother. He paints good pictures on Biblical themes. I know one of them: Esau Asks Isaac’s Blessing. All right. Go on.’

  ‘John Franklin. Midshipman. Eighteen years old, more than three years at sea.’

  ‘Good man?’

  ‘No complaints, sir. The first impression he makes is, to tell the truth, …’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘He’s not exactly the quickest kind.’

  ‘Lead in his arse? Snail’s pace?’

  ‘Perhaps. But of a special kind. No complaints. Without him, we might not have survived.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘When the Investigator eventually had to be junked, we left Sydney and continued our voyage on the Porpoise and the Cato. But two weeks later we ran aground on a reef. We saved ourselves in a single boat and reached a small sandbank with few provisions. The mainland was a good two hundred miles away.’