We do not have that luxury, but we will allow a pause. A pause to regard a man at the point of greatest optimism about the future, before the forces of history overwhelm him. A man who feels himself to be the most fortunate of men. A man who is exactly where he wishes to be. How many of us can say that, even once in our lives? Lamanon looks out for the green line of the tropic and thinks about the countryside near his home in France. How verdant the rows of healthy bean vines! How marvelous the possibilities of science wed to humanity!
THREE
CONCEPCIÓN
Concepción, Chile, February–March 1786
How strange that the town was not there.
Their maps, freshly minted by the Office of Charts, had guided them safely around the cape, past the eastern side of Quiriquine Island, and into Concepción Bay. They should have been in plain sight of the town of Concepción, a settlement more than two hundred years old, home to ten thousand people. A place they were counting on for fresh food, help with badly needed repairs, the company of other Europeans. They had consulted Frézier’s 1712 drawing of the view from the bay, in which one could make out the whole breadth of the town and the spires of eight churches. Where had it all gone?
Lapérouse lowered his glass. He took in the expanse of shoreline before him, looking for the fort, the cathedral bell tower, some sign of habitation, a wisp of smoke, anything. Five of his officers were doing the same—scanning the coastline with puzzled faces, raising and lowering their own telescopes. Lapérouse handed his glass to his brother-in-law, Frédéric.
“See for yourself, Monsieur Broudou.”
After a moment: “There’s nothing there, sir.”
“Indeed, there is not.”
A voyage of exploration always entailed surprises, of course—interesting ones, like the discovery of new places and specimens and peoples, and vexing ones, like finding that an expensive barrel of wine in the hold had spoiled, or learning, too late, that the chief naturalist on board was an insufferable pedant. But this—the disappearance of an old Spanish town on the coast of Chile, a place that had been visited and mapped and described by other Frenchmen earlier in the century—was so entirely unexpected that it made one question the most basic verities, like whether or not one knew how to read a map or ply a sextant.
Lapérouse turned to look at their sister ship, the Astrolabe. Among the officers crowded at the port-side rail of her quarterdeck, he could make out his friend, Paul-Antoine-Marie Fleuriot de Langle, the captain of the ship. The peculiar way Langle had of moving, graceful and fussy at the same time, head held straight, hands never still, stood out from the other men even at this distance. Lapérouse considered shouting over to him to see what he made of the missing town, but no, better not to. His bewilderment, once expressed, might sow real consternation among the men.
“What has become of our port of call?” he heard, and turned to find Lamanon, the exasperating naturalist himself, climbing heavily up toward the quarterdeck.
Lapérouse made his way to the top of the stairs. “Monsieur de Lamanon.”
“Concepción should be right there,” Lamanon said, pointing to the southeast corner of the bay.
How did he know? He had not been included in any discussions about navigation—he had been specifically excluded from them, in fact. But of course: Lamanon probably had his own set of Frézier’s Voyage to the South-Sea, and Along the Coasts of Chili and Peru. The man had insisted on bringing so many books that the carpenters had had to rebuild his cabin to accommodate them.
“We’re still fixing our location, Monsieur de Lamanon,” Lapérouse said.
“Perhaps we have stumbled upon the Roanoke of the Spanish empire, Commander.”
“Doubtful.”
“Maybe the Araucanians have finally prevailed over their invaders,” Lamanon went on. “They are legendary for their long resistance to the Spaniards.”
Lapérouse inclined his head in acknowledgment, glad he had skimmed enough of Frézier to recognize the name of the local Indians, and determined to avoid an argument. Lamanon was a committed Rousseauist. He had not yet met any natives, but that did not discourage him from holding forth on their superiority over civilized men. Lapérouse was tired of arguing about it.
An officer called from the rail: “Two small boats approaching, sir.”
Lapérouse took his glass back from Frédéric. “Monsieur Broudou,” he said, “please escort Monsieur de Lamanon back to the main deck.”
Ten minutes later the boats were alongside. Lapérouse’s officers pointed to where the town was supposed to be. “Concepción?” they asked.
The men in the boats—two in one and three in the other, all of them darker than the average Spaniard but not quite Indian in appearance—nodded. “Sí.”
“Where is Concepción?” the Frenchmen shouted down.
“Sí,” the men repeated, then proceeded with a stream of Spanish none of them understood, accompanied by dramatic but no less incomprehensible gestures.
“Français?”
“Sí!”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Lapérouse cried. “Monsieur Broudou, find someone on board who speaks Spanish.”
Frédéric grimaced apologetically when he returned, as behind him Lamanon made his labored and triumphant way up the steps.
* * *
The men were pilots, and they had been on the lookout for the French ships for the past month, ever since receiving official notice of the expedition from a visiting Spanish ship. As for Concepción—old Concepción, they called it—it had been gone these thirty-five years, destroyed by an earthquake and the enormous wave that followed. The new Concepción was inland, they explained, three leagues away, on the banks of the Bío-Bío River. Once they guided the French ships to safe anchorages in the southwest corner of the bay, they would send word to the governor. To the acting governor, actually, one Señor Quexada. The real governor, Brigadier General Ambrosio O’Higgins, was away subduing the Indians. But Señor Quexada would of course send word to Governor O’Higgins, who in all likelihood would return once he learned of the Frenchmen’s arrival. For everyone in town was looking forward to their visit.
Lapérouse hardly knew whether to credit this story, told by all five men speaking at once while Lamanon gamely tried to interpret, but he allowed the pilots to guide them to a cove deep in the bay and ordered both ships to drop anchor. Through his glass he watched as the pilots landed their boats at a small village on the shore—it was called Talcahuano, according to Lamanon—then followed a figure as he rode off on horseback and disappeared into the hills behind the village.
* * *
“Is it really possible that a town of ten thousand people disappeared, and that a generation later, the best cartographers in France knew nothing about it?” Lapérouse asked.
Langle raised an eyebrow, considering. He had rowed over from the Astrolabe after dropping anchor. “The Spanish empire is well known for its secrecy.”
“But a missing port is not something one simply hides.”
“Perhaps no one outside the empire has visited since Frézier.”
Lapérouse put his glass away. “That would explain their apparent excitement over our arrival.”
The pilots’ account was largely confirmed by Señor Quexada, acting governor of Concepción, who called on the ships the next morning with passable French, official welcome, more baskets of fresh food than could easily be stored on the ships, and a detachment of dragoons who were to camp at Talcahuano and place themselves at Lapérouse’s disposal. A man with a mustache so stiff Lapérouse was tempted to tap it just to see if it moved, Quexada fairly beamed with delight at his good fortune to be the one in charge when the Frenchmen turned up. He pressed upon the expedition’s officers and naturalists an invitation to town for a reception in their honor. “I hope you will come and stay awhile,” he said. “Our best homes will be open to you.”
Lapérouse thanked him. “I understand your governor, General O’Higgins, is at the fron
tier,” he added. “Do you think we may yet have the honor of meeting him?”
Quexada’s smile sagged a little. “I have sent for him, of course,” he said. “He will return as soon as he is able. He is right now finishing a great peace treaty with los Araucanos, our Indians.”
“We have heard something to that effect,” Lapérouse said. He looked across the way and caught Lamanon’s eye. Was it the pilots who had characterized O’Higgins’s mission as “subduing the Indians,” or was it Lamanon? The naturalist looked back at him with an ironic, answering gaze. Lapérouse could predict Lamanon’s scornful reaction: “No doubt peace treaty is a local euphemism for violent subjugation.” Lapérouse looked away. This is what happened after seven months at sea. One began to divine—or imagine one could divine—the very thoughts of the other men on board.
Lapérouse agreed to come in three days’ time, once the most urgent shipboard tasks and repairs were under way, and he and Langle could decide who among the ships’ officers and passengers could be spared for the visit. So it was that Monday afternoon, he, Langle, eight officers, Lapérouse’s brother-in-law Frédéric, and all of the savants, engineers, artists, and clergymen, plus servants—twenty-eight men altogether—came ashore, climbed into carriages sent from the town to escort them, and made their way over hot and uncomfortable roads to the new town.
It did not look particularly new, Lapérouse thought when they drove through its dusty outskirts and into its even dustier central plaza. It was a wary place, made up of single-story buildings spread out over a wide area north of the Bío-Bío River. The dwellings were drab, their mud brick exteriors already worn by the elements, thin timber beams supporting faded tile roofs. It all wore an air of resignation, as if the inhabitants, knowing that forces deep within the earth could turn them all out at any moment, had stifled any impulse toward civic beauty or attachment.
They were met in the town square by Quexada and a Major Sabatero, a heavyset Spaniard with a red face whose active military service must have been many years and many meals behind him. The major led them to his house, a structure remarkable only for being wider than most of the other homes they saw. Inside, however, it was surprisingly cheerful, with whitewashed walls and ceilings; natural light from an internal courtyard; wooden furniture, old but solid, edges softened with use; family portraits, somewhat primitive in execution, whose bright colors belied the dour expressions of their subjects; and best of all, delicious aromas from an unseen kitchen. The spare, comfortable elegance of the interior put Lapérouse in mind of the Manoir du Gô, his childhood home outside of Albi, in the south of France. An austere stone house from without, it was, within, appointed with old family tables and settees and draperies that his mother professed to hate, but among which he had played wonderful games with his siblings in the years before he left for the naval school in Brest.
“It is humble, this house,” Sabatero said in heavily accented but comprehensible French. Lapérouse and his men all hastened to exclaim their delight with the place. “Well, you have been at sea a long time,” Sabatero said, laughing. “Any house looks good, yes?”
Five or six servants of uncertain racial extraction came forward, and Sabatero explained that dinner was not for another hour, and that his guests were welcome to make use of the spare bedrooms in the house to rest or tidy up. “My steward, José, will show the two captains to their room,” he said, introducing a short, olive-skinned man to Lapérouse and Langle.
The steward bowed, unsmiling, and led Lapérouse, Langle, and their servants, Pierre and François, down the corridor. They passed several rough-hewn arched doorways, rounded one corner, passed more doorways, then turned again, finally stopping at an open door at which José waved them in. It was an immaculate room bright with sunshine and equipped with two of everything—chairs, beds, mirrors, washstands, wash basins, linens. As soon as José shut the door behind them, Lapérouse threw off his jacket and wig and boots, rebuffing Pierre’s attempts to help him. He lowered himself onto the nearest bed with a groan, feeling at once relieved and repelled by the sensation of cooler air on damp armpits, head, and feet.
“Are you all right, sir?” Langle asked. He was removing his outer clothing, neatly folding each item and handing it to his servant, François.
“I am no longer accustomed to bumping about in a carriage,” Lapérouse replied.
He sat on the bed and watched idly as Pierre and François fussed with their masters’ wigs. Pierre was twenty-one and already a skilled captain’s servant, while François was just a boy, and an awkward one at that. But one would never guess who was more experienced from the wigs they handled. Lapérouse’s wig was in terrible shape, subject as it was to constant ill-treatment by its owner. François scarcely knew what to do with his hands, but it did not matter, as his master’s wig—no doubt one of several Langle had brought with him—looked new. “That’ll do,” Lapérouse finally said, rescuing his wig before Pierre attacked it with another round of expensive powder.
He wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and ask to be wakened for dinner. But here was Langle, sleeves rolled up, bending over a wash basin to rinse his face. It would not do for the commander of the expedition to arrive for dinner unkempt and bleary-eyed. And it would not do at all for Langle, with his patrician bearing and manners and height, to be mistaken for the commander. Lapérouse heaved himself off the bed with a second groan and made his way to the other washstand.
An hour later, José announced them into the dining room: “Jean-François de Galaup, Count de Lapérouse, commander of the French expedition and captain of His Majesty’s ship the Boussole, and Paul-Antoine-Marie Fleuriot, Viscount de Langle, captain of His Majesty’s ship the Astrolabe.” Or that was what he was supposed to say. He had obviously been taught the French names and phrases by rote that afternoon. Unfortunately, he had not first been taught any French.
Lapérouse looked over at Langle. “Did he just call me ‘count’?”
Langle smiled. “It suits you.”
Lapérouse shrugged. In truth, he was likely to be awarded the appellation when he completed the voyage, but officially he had no such title. He could hardly correct his hosts, however. Perhaps the Spaniards, unable to imagine a man in command over a viscount unless he was himself of higher rank, had supplied the title to preserve their own sense of social order.
The only lady present was a woman so much younger than Sabatero and coiffed so outlandishly that Lapérouse assumed Sabatero was widowed and the woman an unmarried daughter whose sartorial excess there was no mother to check. “My wife, Eleonora,” Sabatero said, and Lapérouse had to stifle his surprise, not only at his mistake, but because of the resemblance to his own wife’s name, Éléonore. The young woman curtsied, then sat at the opposite end of the long pine table, flanked by—how had this happened?—the least charming of the Frenchmen present: Lamanon and Frédéric on one side, and a glum naturalist from the Astrolabe called Dufresne on the other. Poor woman: accosted by excess of learning and false gallantry to her right, and an aggravated sense of personal suffering on the left. The more amiable Frenchmen present were all seated in a convivial group in the middle of the table. During the meal Lapérouse caught occasional bits of speech from the far end, all of it hyperbole—Dufresne exaggerating the discomforts of the journey, Frédéric exaggerating its dangers and his bravery in the face of them, and Lamanon declaiming—of course—on the splendidness of savages. Lapérouse wondered if Doña Eleonora understood a word of it. He rather hoped she did not.
At his end, Lapérouse sat between his host and Quexada and across from Langle, and enjoyed platefuls of seafood delicacies and glass after glass of surprisingly good local wine. He nodded politely through Sabatero’s own version of the 1751 disaster and apologies for O’Higgins. “But it is your voyage we wish to know about,” Sabatero said, so Lapérouse obliged him. The expedition just begun, of course, but a great success thus far: happy ships, the finest officers, the ablest crew, the savants both brilliant an
d personable; the passage out uneventful; rounding Cape Horn not nearly the navigational horror he had been led to believe; his men healthier now than when they left Brest, not one man sick. “We are truly the most fortunate of navigators,” Lapérouse concluded. Langle raised his glass in concurrence.
“Not one man sick after so long?” Sabatero asked in surprise.
“Not one,” Lapérouse repeated.
“Then you are indeed fortunate,” Quexada said, raising his own glass.
Lapérouse nodded. It was true—everything he said—and yet he had a misgiving that he was not being sincere, as if he were reciting a prepared statement, or rehearsing a missive for the minister of marine.
After dinner, Sabatero invited his guests to enjoy more wine and refreshment in the courtyard while the dining room was cleared for the ball. “Count,” he said—that title again!—“you will allow my wife to show you out?”
Up close, Doña Eleonora looked even younger than she had from the other end of the table. Her clothes and hair both seemed designed to distract the viewer from the real woman underneath. Tight black plaits of hair coiled around her head, giving her height she did not have; the striped silk mantle added width to her shoulders and the billowy skirt to her hips. But the hand she placed in the crook of his arm was tiny and soft, the stockinged calves that peeked out from under the skirt were the thin legs of a girl, and the serious face she turned up to him was round and pink with youth, though not, he observed, happiness. She was not yet twenty, perhaps not even seventeen. Young enough to be his own daughter. She smiled at him, then tipped a Chinese fan she was holding toward a set of open doors.
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