Landfalls

by Naomi J. Williams

  “Oh, please, sir,” François said, “may I go with you today?”

  “Go where?”

  “To— to help look.”

  “Don’t you have duties on board?”

  “Yes, sir,” François said. “But I haven’t left the ship forever. Please. I’m about to jump overboard.”

  Langle let go of the boy and sighed. He didn’t want him along. He was likely to chatter inanely, make mistakes, and irritate Lieutenant de Vaujuas, who was joining Langle that morning. But François looked so earnest and desperate that he couldn’t refuse.

  Vaujuas raised an eyebrow in surprise when François climbed down into the small boat, but he was too well-bred to comment in front of the captain. Seated aft, Vaujuas steered the boat away from the Astrolabe and toward the northern side of the bay. Langle and François sat across from him, watching the Astrolabe and Boussole grow smaller then disappear behind the island. Beyond the bay, the sun crested the craggy mountains to the east, revealing a fresh layer of snow on the peaks.

  “It doesn’t feel like summer, does it, sir?” François said. He’d been much quieter than Langle expected.

  They drifted along half a league of shoreline. As had become habitual with all of them when navigating this part of the bay, Langle turned repeatedly to check for breakers near the pass, and also watched their speed relative to the shore, to be sure they weren’t getting caught in a fast current. Meanwhile he let Vaujuas decide where to pull in close, which small coves to explore, how long to examine a spot of beach through his glass before moving on. Of all the men on the Astrolabe, Vaujuas had been the most untiring in his search efforts, insisting on going out every day. The older La Borde had been his cabinmate. And then there was his servant, Jean Le Fol. He’d been ill since leaving France but had fallen into a rapid decline after they’d entered these northern latitudes. Whenever he wasn’t attending to his duties, Vaujuas had been at Le Fol’s side, trying to entice him to eat or carrying him up to the deck for fresh air.

  “I’d like to see what that is, sir,” Vaujuas said now, pointing to a dark mass in the water. They approached the object until the boat bumped bottom. He sighed. “I’ll get out and take a closer look.”

  François stood, jostling the boat. “I’ll go,” he said, then clambered overboard, landing thigh-deep in the water. He gasped at the unexpected cold, but waded out to the object, then placed his hand on it. “It’s just a rock,” he called back.

  Langle puffed out his cheeks. He was growing numb to the demands of the search, the impulse to mistake every rock for a corpse, every piece of driftwood for wreckage from the lost boats, the constant immixture of relief and disappointment. But Vaujuas breathed jaggedly next to him, and Langle realized the younger man was trying to stifle his sobs. Langle laid a hand on his shoulder, at which Vaujuas gave way completely. François stood on the shore, lanky and damp, and looked toward the boat, unsure of what to do. Langle motioned for him to wander off. François walked a few steps away, then picked up some rocks and began tossing them in the water.

  “You’ve done your utmost,” Langle told Vaujuas.

  “We’ve found nothing, sir. Nothing,” Vaujuas said. “How can that be?” He pulled away from Langle, and for a moment Langle thought the lieutenant was calling him to account. For how could it be that twenty-one men should perish on a calm, clear morning? How was it that he and Lapérouse had not foreseen the danger? But Vaujuas went on: “Every night I return to my cabin, and there are all of La Borde’s things, just as he left them.” Another sob overcame him. “He was so untidy,” he finally said, then regarded François, who was now trying to skip the stones. “That boy has no idea how it’s done.”

  Langle watched too as François flicked stone after stone in the water, each one sinking as soon as it struck. “That’s enough, François,” Langle called. “Come on back.”

  * * *

  The next day, Lapérouse ordered the ships back to their anchorage by the island, and required all but a few soldiers ashore for a memorial service.

  Langle dressed carefully for the occasion. With no bodies to inter and only a crude stone cenotaph to mark the event, attending the service in full naval splendor was the only thing in his power to do. He called François to help him dress; the boy worked in silence, bringing in warm water for Langle’s shave, laying out his clothes, polishing his shoes. Langle watched as François fussed over his wig on the oak table, and suddenly noticed what was missing from it.

  “What happened to my otter?” he demanded.

  François swung around, his face flushing. But his voice was steady when he replied: “It was beginning to rot, sir, so we had to discard the innards. Also the entire head, I’m afraid. You hadn’t skinned that part yet. But Monsieur Dufresne saved the pelt for you, sir. Minus the head, of course. He said to let him know when you wanted it back.”

  Langle nodded. When had François managed it? The otter was still there when he turned in that first night after the accident, but he had no recollection of it thereafter. Watching—and smelling—it decompose in his cabin would have depressed him extremely. François must have sought out Dufresne’s help to save the pelt. An unhappy member of the expedition, Dufresne wasn’t the most approachable of men. It would have taken courage. Langle buttoned up his crisp white shirt. “Thank you, François.”

  * * *

  “We will call this place Cenotaph Island,” Lapérouse said as he opened the memorial service. His voice shook as he read out the names of the dead. The written notice was placed in a bottle and buried beneath a stone memorial they erected. A small group of natives stood among the trees just outside their circle. Langle found himself scanning their faces in search of the girl he’d met, but only men had come to witness the strangers’ death ritual. They scattered into the trees when the cannons on the ship went off to mark the end of the ceremony.

  And now the expedition could leave, but a gale blew in from the west, preventing their escape. A ship in readiness for departure but not leaving—only a dead calm might be worse for the morale of a ship’s company already affected by grief and fear. Langle himself was hard-pressed to contain his own desperation to be off. All of his old anxieties had returned. Every day he tasted the water from his pitcher, swishing it about in his mouth, testing it. He imagined daily that it declined in quality, yet found himself drinking it from morning till night, as if it were liquor and might help him forget. The pitcher was never empty, and one sleepless night it occurred to him that François was keeping it full, making sure his captain never had to ask for more. The boy deserved an increase in pay. He would remember that in his next dispatches to France, dispatches he would be sending from Monterey in Alta California, their next destination. The crew were relieved to be heading south, to warmer weather, well-charted coastline, and Spanish hospitality. But the prospect of relief eluded Langle. Lapérouse would expect him to arrive in Monterey with completed condolence letters. My Lord, It is with unutterable regret that I write to inform you …

  The wind finally shifted, and at slack water on the afternoon of July 30 the order to weigh anchor was shouted over from the Boussole. More than a fortnight had passed since the tragedy. They had been in the bay almost a month. The crew let out a collectively held breath when the Boussole, going first, passed safely through the narrow entrance. Langle piloted the Astrolabe out himself, grateful for a task to occupy him as they left the bay.

  As they passed the spit on the starboard side, he looked over. He had walked that beach in search of survivors or bodies or wreckage, and found instead a dead gull, a rock for his son, and a girl who stole his canteen. He knew the girl would not be there again but looked for her anyway.

  Of course she was not there. But standing on all fours at the point, facing the ship, was a large brown bear. Many of the men had seen bears onshore, gorging themselves on salmon along the streams, but this was the first one Langle had ever seen. Two weeks earlier the sight would have thrilled him; he would have described it in a
letter home, urging Georgette to tell Charles that his father had seen the greatest beast of North America. But the creature appeared indifferent to the sight of two frigates passing before it, and Langle felt he would like nothing better than to shoot it right there where it stood. He turned back to the wheel to make a small correction, then looked back toward the point again, but they had now passed through, and the bear disappeared from view.

  SIX

  FOG

  North American Coast, August–September 1786

  White everywhere. Mist so thick it obliterates colors and edges. Up on the quarterdeck, our captain looks like an artist’s afterthought. He stands on the port side, gazing out toward the North American coastline. But it’s all one whiteness—sea, sky, and land. We can hear the flagship’s bell but cannot see her.

  I climb partway up the steps and wait until he notices me.

  “Monsieur Lavaux,” he says, inviting me up. When I reach him, I see his face, drawn and thin. François is right: the captain hasn’t been sleeping or eating.

  Of course, all of us have lost sleep and weight since Alaska.

  “How is your patient?” he says.

  I shake my head. “It won’t be long.”

  One year into the campaign, and I have but one patient. That’s never happened to me before. When I served under Admiral d’Orvilliers during the American War, the fleet lost almost a thousand men to dysentery and typhus. A thousand. In less than four months.

  We’ve had no new sickness since leaving France. My current patient, a servant with one of our young lieutenants, was already ill when he joined the expedition. I still don’t know by what subterfuge the lieutenant managed to sneak him aboard. The servant will be our first death from disease. I might reasonably feel proud of this. But twenty-one men drowned three weeks ago—eleven from our ship, ten from the flagship. The calamity has made pride impossible.

  “And the rest of the men?” the captain asks.

  “Minor complaints—a sprained finger, one deeply lodged splinter, a few colds. Their spirits are still subdued, of course.”

  The captain says nothing.

  “Sir,” I finally venture. “May I offer you anything? A sleeping draught, perhaps?”

  The captain turns to me, searches my face for a moment. “No, I thank you, Monsieur Lavaux,” he finally says. He turns back to studying the fog and its phantoms.

  Below, I make my way to the cabin of our chaplain, Father Receveur. He’s waiting with François, who’s stooping awkwardly in a corner.

  “Well?” the priest says.

  “He looks exhausted,” I acknowledge. “But he refused my offer of a sleeping draught.”

  The priest nods, unsurprised. “Look what else François brought,” he says, pointing to papers spread out over his cot.

  He holds up a lantern for me as I look over the crumpled sheets, each containing just one or two lines of writing:

  My Lord—

  My Dear Lord— It is with great regret

  My Dear Lord, it is with the greatest regret that I write to report

  My Lord, it is with a heavy heart that I write to inform you of the death deaths death of your sons.

  I draw back. “We shouldn’t be looking at this.” I turn to François. “Where did you get it?”

  The boy tries to shrink back and hits his head on the shelf over the priest’s bed.

  Father Receveur interjects. “It’s his job to sweep up the captain’s cabin,” he says. “These papers were strewn over the captain’s floor this morning.”

  “Well, he obviously meant to discard them,” I say.

  “He’s writing to the La Borde brothers’ father,” the priest says.

  “I can see that.”

  “The Marquis de La Borde—”

  “Yes.”

  “—one of the richest, most powerful—”

  “I know who he is.”

  “You know about the promise the captain made him?”

  “I do.” I look back at the scraps. “A terrible letter to have to write. No wonder he hasn’t been sleeping.” I turn to François. “Has he finished it?”

  The boy blushes before speaking. “He has some sealed letters on his desk,” he says. “I don’t know who they’re for.” He blushes again, and then I remember: the boy cannot read.

  “What can we do?” I say.

  “I don’t know,” the priest says.

  It’s pleasing to hear the chaplain say for once that he does not know something.

  In the morning I make my daily tour of the ship, greeting the men, looking and listening for signs of illness. On deck, I can’t help but regard the fog as a miasma that might infect us all. The officers murmur that we’ve advanced only sixteen leagues in three days and complain of the worthlessness of the Spanish charts on which they’re obliged to rely. Alas, I have no remedy for frustration. Midafternoon, a break in the mist allows them to get their bearings and observe the lay of the land as it spreads southward before us. But no sooner do we approach the shore than we’re surrounded again—clouds, rain, then a pallid, clinging mist in which we are becalmed for two days.

  The only change is in my dying patient. He wakes in greater pain each morning, his breathing more labored, weeping to discover himself still alive. I administer laudanum—more and more each day—and try to ply him with spoonfuls of beef broth, which he ingests less and less of each day. He asks me to bleed him. In my experience, men who are bled die faster. Perhaps I should accede to his request.

  The young lieutenant, his master, is busier now than ever, as he must make up for the loss of three officers in Alaska. But he spends a few hours each day by his servant’s side.

  “I think he’s better today, Monsieur Lavaux,” he says, looking at me, eager for confirmation.

  His servant lies insensible on the pallet, his feverish skin looking more like rain-beaded marble than the sheath of a living man. But I don’t disabuse the young lieutenant of his hope.

  François is waiting for me outside of my cabin. “He’s still not sleeping or eating,” he says.

  “Who?”

  “The captain,” he says, eyebrows raised in impatience. “And I found more of these.” He offers me a fistful of wastepaper.

  I uncrumple one. An ashy bootprint over the handwriting:

  Please understand, My Lord, there was no wind that morning, nor a cloud in the sky. The water of the bay was like glass.

  “You shouldn’t be showing these to anyone, François.”

  “I’m not showing them to ‘anyone,’” he cries. “I’m showing them to you.” He bows his head, embarrassed by his own vehemence.

  “What can I do?” I say.

  He bites his lower lip. “I was wondering.” He clears his throat. “Could you give me the sleeping draught—just a little—and— and— I could put a few drops in his water at night.”

  I stare at the boy, horrified and amused and impressed.

  “He always drinks water at night,” he adds.

  When he leaves, he ducks his head to clear the doorway. He’s grown tall in the year since we left France. Someone needs to teach him how to shave.

  At last, a clear day with light, variable winds. I watch our captain and the young lieutenant work together to determine the sun’s altitude then check the ship’s chronometers. Father Receveur, who imagines himself a savant, joins them, but he spends more time looking at the captain than at the sky. Another officer is occupied draughting the contours and visible high points on land. The sailors take advantage of the sun to clean: Some swab the decks while others do laundry. Clothes flutter from the lines like comic signal flags. The flagship is in hailing distance off the starboard bow. Her outlines are so clear now it’s hard to imagine we couldn’t see her this time yesterday.

  Father Receveur joins me on deck.

  “How is he?” I say.

  He nods. “Fine, I think,” he says. “Everyone looks happier today. Even the animals.” He indicates the three sheep we have left from our
time in Chile.

  “Spoken like a true Franciscan.”

  He spreads his arms out before himself. “As you see,” he says, then adds: “I wonder if people recover from grief more quickly in warmer climes.”

  “I was wondering the same.” In fact, I’d been enumerating in my mind the needed elements: light, warmth, visibility, colors.

  “Our captain looks better rested too.”

  “Mm. Yes,” I say. I do not confess to him my arrangement with François.

  Just before nightfall, a strong wind from the west-northwest pushes before it a wall of white that overtakes the ships in minutes. We also encounter strong crosscurrents suggestive of a nearby bay. I’ve sailed enough to know the risks: we may be driven ashore and run aground, or driven into a gulf and embayed. As expected, a hail from the flagship and a command shouted across to veer back out to sea. Before long we are pitching about in the relative safety of the open ocean.

  The servant dies during the night. In the morning, I wake the young lieutenant, who weeps when I tell him. He’d still believed the man might recover. I used to think that people suffered more over sudden, unexpected deaths than over long, protracted ones, but I no longer think so. Grief always lands heavily.

  I make my way to the captain’s cabin. He calls “Come in!” but his face falls when he sees me. “Is he dead?” he asks.

  I ask when we might expect to make landfall for a burial. Not for a month, he tells me. Not till we reach Monterey. He absently places a hand on what looks like a stack of correspondence.

  “I’m afraid it means another condolence letter, sir.”

  He takes his hand back and looks up at me, eyes narrowed. “Not at all,” he says. “This man was not my responsibility.” It’s the young lieutenant, he says, who has the difficult letter to write.