A Flower for the Queen: A Historical Novel

by Caroline Vermalle

  “Things have changed,” he blustered as he motioned for Masson to join him inside the carriage.

  As he looked around for somewhere to sit, Masson dared to hope that perhaps Banks was here to deliver the news that he was not to be going after all. But before he could even begin to hope, Simmons slammed the carriage door, sending Masson tumbling into the far corner opposite Banks.

  “Lord Sandwich and I were talking last night, Masson,” explained Banks without even looking up. “And you know I think him a man with a supremely scientific mind.”

  “Sir?” Masson stammered, remembering only that the two seemed ready to strangle each other when last he had seen them together.

  Banks, still searching, motioned for Masson to stand up from his seat, whereupon Banks exclaimed, “Ah ha!” He retrieved a document that Masson had been sitting on and opened it out on his lap. It was a map of the Cape of Good Hope.

  “As I was saying, I was talking to Lord Sandwich last night, and we are in full agreement.”

  “Yes, sir,” Masson said, waiting for the news that would send him back to his safe and careful life in fragrant bosom of Kew Gardens.

  “Here. The Dutch colony is here: Cape Town. Here, about a day’s ride, is False Bay. Can you see?” Banks’s finger stabbed at the jagged outline of a deep bay at the tip of the continent.

  “The retrieval of the Queen’s flower is your primary objective, of course, but first I would ask that you take a survey of this area, as soon as you arrive. It should not take you long — a day or two at the most.”

  A beat passed as Masson realised that he was not to be dismissed after all. “Very well, sir,” he said, trying to hide the disappointment from his voice.

  “False Bay,” repeated Banks, as if to be sure that Masson had understood. “Particularly the area around Muyssenberg and Simon’s Town. This is where you must go and explore right away without delay.

  “It is here that there are innumerable species of plants yet to be described, and so you will report to me everything which is useful for the advancement of science. Plant life, of course, but also geography, weather patterns, fauna, hydrology — very important, hydrology, you know, water points, streams, et cetera. And don’t forget to make a note of human habitation, encampments, roads and that sort of thing. Our maps are a bit out of date, and we wouldn’t want to record the location of the Queen’s flower in the wrong place now, would we?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You will be keeping your own journal, of course,” continued Banks, “But you should make copies of your notes and send them to me personally by letter. It is extremely important that no one else sees their contents, and make sure that the letters are sent using only British ships.”

  Boulton’s face appeared at the open window. “Excuse me, sir, but I believe that Captain Cook is keen to depart. He says to tell you that time and tide wait for no man, not even for Sir Joseph Banks.”

  Banks nodded with a grin, and Masson got up to leave, pausing at the door. “Do you think that is where the Queen’s flower can be found?”

  Receiving no reply, Masson repeated his question. “The flower, sir. Do you think—”

  But before he could finish his question, Banks replied with a more than a hint of impatience, “Not a doubt in my mind, Masson. Good luck and travel safely. I look forward to reading your first report. Take the map and take those as well.” Banks gestured to several large volumes entitled Miller’s Gardener’s Dictionary, lying on the seat next to him.

  “Thank you, sir, but I am sure they would not fit in my luggage.” Banks missed the joke and began to protest, but Masson continued, “Besides, I know them all by heart, sir. These and the previous seven editions.”

  Banks’s only reply was a thin, humourless smile as he banged on the roof of the carriage, signalling for the driver to move on.

  Masson watched as the carriage trundled off the dock and then turned to say his perfunctory goodbyes to Simmons and Boulton, who had been standing by the open window and had heard every word.

  Despite their role in Masson’s predicament, the firmness of both men’s handshakes cheered him: if things didn’t work out, perhaps he might at least have someone in his corner. With the goodbyes over, Masson clambered up the gangplank, then leaned against the gunwale and waved farewell as the ship cast off.

  “False Bay?” asked Simmons, still waving. “Isn’t that the part of the coast where the Royal Navy plans to—”

  “Indeed,” replied Boulton, “but I am sure that Sir Joseph and Lord Sandwich know what is best. As long as Mr Masson believes he is looking for the Queen’s flower, he should be fine.”

  “Of course,” replied Simmons. “Although I can’t help but think we’re sending him straight into the lion’s den, so to speak.”

  Without another word, Simmons and Boulton carried on smiling and waving until the Resolution had passed from the safety of the harbour and into the vast expanse of open water, taking Francis Masson with it.

  CHAPTER 8

  14° LATITUDE, -24° LONGITUDE,

  OFF THE COAST OF THE CAPE VERDE ISLANDS,

  AUGUST 1772

  “Catch that monkey!”

  Masson, seated at his desk, looked up from trimming the nib of his reed pen, unsure that he had heard correctly.

  The Resolution rocked gently from side to side, its rigging creaking in time with the gentle groaning of the timbers as it made way from its anchorage at the Cape Verde Islands. Hearing no further shouting from above deck, Masson frowned and crumpled up yet another failed attempt at a letter to Constance. Fixed to one end of the table was a hemp sack that served as a waste-paper basket. Masson tossed the paper towards it, missing the sack and adding to the growing collection of screwed up sheets on the lime-washed floor.

  In writing to Constance, he tried to describe the ship’s daily routine, rambling on about the food and reassuring her that it was not as bad as he had feared. He scribbled about the Captain’s obsession with cleanliness and how from hands to gunwales, there was nothing that escaped his inspection. He wrote about his cabin, which had a ceiling so low that he was unable to stand upright, but which had a porthole so that at least he could get fresh air and a glimpse of the sky. He even wrote about the trivial spats between the officers at the dining table and how it was clear that whilst he sat at the Captain’s table, there were definitely those amongst his fellow diners who resented his presence and wondered why he wasn’t messing with the midshipmen or the marines.

  He seemed to write endlessly and yet to say nothing at all. By contrast, he had managed to produce a set of drawings and sketches so precise that it was as if his new garden had been planted and already grown to maturity, each tree and shrub carefully drawn and each area of planting carefully measured out. Why, he wondered, was writing to Constance so much more difficult than describing his imaginary garden?

  He dipped his reed pen into the bottle of ink one more time and pulled out a fresh page, intent on finding the words that would at least ease the worry that he knew she would be feeling.

  Just as Masson finished sealing the letter with wax, there was a knock at his cabin door. He stood up, bumping his head for the hundredth time, and pulled back the latch to find the rotund frame of Mr Reinhold Forster, the ship’s chief scientist, filling the opening.

  Forster was travelling with his son Georg, who seemed bright and decent. But the older man compensated for his son’s good nature by being condescending, accusatory and patronising all at the same time, amounting to quite an achievement in unpleasantness that had already earned him the reputation as the least liked person on-board. Compounding his surly personality was a pronounced body odour noticeable even on the decks of the common sailors. Despite Captain Cook’s orders for all aboard to wash regularly with cold water, Forster felt that, as with many of the ship’s regulations, he was exempt. Masson had tried to steer clear of him, but there was no escaping him now.

  “Mr Masson.” Forster stood a full foot-and-a-half
shorter than Masson with his head tilted back so that he was still able to look down his nose at the taller man opposite. “I was wondering if you could spare a moment?”

  Forster did not wait for Masson’s reply before barging into the cabin. It was barely big enough for Masson by himself, let alone a companion with a girth as generous as Forster’s, and so Masson stepped back onto the threshold, with one foot in the cabin and one foot in the midshipmen’s mess, only just saving himself from being crushed but grateful that his nostrils were spared the full force of the smell that was so thick, Masson was surprised it did not colour the air. Forster looked around him, unashamedly inspecting Masson’s belongings, clearly in no hurry to share whatever it was that was on his mind. He examined the drawings of Masson’s garden with academic interest but when his eyes came to rest on the letter, the extinguished wick of the sealing wax still smoking, they lingered longer than was warranted.

  “What seems to be the trouble, Mr Forster?” Masson prompted.

  Forster kept his eyes on the letter for a moment longer before looking up at Masson to reply. “Would you mind telling me what it is that you are doing here, Mr Masson? Other, that is, than drawing pictures of gardens and writing letters to young ladies in the English countryside?”

  “I’m to collect flowers for the King’s Gardens at Kew,” Masson replied simply, folding his arms across his chest.

  A predatory light flickered behind Forster’s beady eyes. “Really? The last that I heard was that Lord Sandwich had changed his mind. He made it very clear to me that neither Sir Joseph nor any of his flunkies should take any part in this expedition, and yet here you are.”

  “Well,” Masson replied uneasily, “I cannot speak for Lord Sandwich, but my instructions from Sir Joseph were also very clear — I am to go to False Bay to make a study of the surroundings whilst looking for a particular flower.”

  “False Bay, you say?” With a final look around the cabin, Forster seemed to lose interest and pushed his way out of the cabin and back into the officer’s mess, a condescending smile creeping from ear to ear. “That would explain it, I suppose. Well, good luck with your flower and I do apologise for taking up your precious time. I suppose I should have known better than to suspect that a mere under-gardener could be entrusted with anything of real, scientific importance.”

  Masson was too relieved to see Forster go to entertain any notion of returning the jibe and was about to close the door when Forster stopped and turned back to face Masson again.

  “Just one more thing,” Forster said, as if caught by an afterthought. “I stepped ashore at the Cape Verde Islands to undertake some observations and brought back a rather fabulous specimen that I would very much like to keep in your cabin, just so that it is out of the Captain’s gaze until we reach Cape Town, where I can make arrangements for its onward journey. You could think of it as your own small contribution to the science of the voyage, your important and so very secret work in the Cape notwithstanding, of course.”

  Before Masson could utter a word in argument, Forster turned and walked out of the mess. “Excellent. I knew we could count on you.”

  As Masson watched him waddle off, he tried to calculate the risk of crossing someone as captious as Forster. Besides, what could possibly be so bad about giving up the space under his bunk for a fossil or some other such ancient artefact? Although why the Captain would object, Masson could not imagine.

  The younger Forster arrived moments later looking sheepish and apologetic and clearly expecting Masson to refuse. He was carrying a medium-sized bag, the contents of which were moving a great deal more than any fossil should. “I am sorry, Mr Masson,” he said looking at the floor. “If you would prefer not to be involved, then please just say the word. I am sure I can make other arrangements.”

  “Absolute nonsense!” boomed his father as he came up from behind, grabbing the sack before pushing past Masson aside and slinging it, still moving, under Masson’s bed. “Mr Masson knows his duty to science and also knows his place in the order of things, Georg. Of course he will oblige us.”

  Forster came out of the cabin closing the door behind him, leaving all three men outside. Almost immediately, an almighty crash sounded from within the cabin, suggesting that whatever had been in the bag had managed to escape and was not pleased.

  “What the devil?” began Masson as he moved to open the door.

  “Now, now, Mr Masson,” the elder Forster blocked Masson’s path, his head once again tilted back so as to give Masson the full benefit of a view of his nasal cavities. “Don’t be alarmed. As I said, think of this as your little contribution. You wouldn’t want me to give Sir Joseph the impression that you were standing in the way of science, would you?”

  A series of bangs and crashes now came from the cabin, and the door began to vibrate as if a heavy object was being slammed against it, causing all three men to retreat slightly. Whatever was in there, displeasure had given way to blind fury.

  But it was nothing as compared to the anger exuding from Captain Cook, who burst into the midshipmen’s mess with a number of his junior officers in tow, a look of absolute thunder on his face.

  “Mr Foster! I have been given to understand that despite my specific orders to the contrary, you have brought a live specimen onto the ship. Is this correct?”

  A very loud thump from the other side of the cabin door, followed by several high-pitched screams, provided the answer.

  “Mr Masson, would you please care to explain what is in your cabin?” Cook asked, looking at the cabin door, which continued to be hammered from within and which seemed about to be torn from its hinges.

  Masson looked from a nervous and sweating Reinhold Forster to Captain Cook. He was torn between two equally awful fates: having his name rubbished to Sir Joseph Banks, or suffering the notorious temper of the Captain. It didn’t take him long to decide that the present danger far outweighed any future one. “I am not entirely sure, Captain. Mr Forster asked if I would give up some space under my bunk for one of his specimens. I admit that I did not have the opportunity to look at it before—” He gestured towards the cabin as another clatter and series of screams erupted. All eyes turned to Reinhold Forster.

  Forster cleared his throat and, with as much condescension as he could muster, replied, “Are we not entitled to collect specimens, Captain?”

  Cook’s countenance grew so dark that it appeared to Masson that he might very well explode. With no small effort, he turned to Masson and said in a very slow and measured voice, full of menace, “Mr Masson, as it is your cabin, I would normally hold you and you alone responsible for its contents. However, given the circumstances, I sense that would be unjust.” He gave Forster a withering look. “Mr Forster, please recapture the beast immediately and then bring it up to the foredeck where Lieutenant Clerke will have assembled the entire ship’s crew, so that I may explain a few things.”

  As swiftly as he had arrived, Captain Cook turned on his heel and left the three men alone at the door as his lieutenants began shouting instructions.

  ***

  The assembled group left a clear space in the centre of the deck around the capstan, where Forster and Masson now stood, looking up at Cook who glared down at them from behind the wheel on the quarterdeck. Forster had recaptured the monkey, which was once again in a sack hanging from his hand. In the melee and in an attempt to resist capture, the animal had grabbed hold of Forster’s wig, leaving the scientist scratched and dishevelled, his bald and sweating pate glimmering in the sun.

  Cook began his lecture. “Some older men amongst you will remember a time when a ship was lucky to reach port with only half her crew dead or suffering from some dreaded disease. Fortunately, it is now the case that Royal Navy ships lose fewer men to sickness than any other naval fighting force in the world. But decks must be scrubbed, clothes and bodies washed and ruthless discipline applied to all matters pertaining to hygiene.” At this point, Cook pointed to the still-moving sack. “We will be
facing dangers enough from the elements without creating unnecessary risks for ourselves, and I expect that once an order is given, it is followed to the letter. If any man doubts my resolve, then I will be happy to demonstrate the point by setting an example here today.” Cook turned his gaze to Forster. “Mr Forster, would you please advise us, from a scientific point of view, what the most suitable course of action should now be to remove any threat of contagion?”

  Forster, looking wretched, mumbled an inaudible reply whilst staring at the planks beneath his feet.

  “I am afraid I did not catch that, Mr Forster. Could you please repeat it for the benefit of all the men whose lives have been put at risk today?”

  “Throw it overboard!” Forster shouted back.

  “Mr Masson, would you please do the honours?” Cook asked. Masson turned to Forster and held out his hand for the bag.

  “In your own time, Mr Forster,” Cook said, with a look that implied otherwise.

  Like a small child relinquishing a stolen sweet, Forster gave up the bag to Masson, who walked to the gunwale railing and, with the entire crew looking on, flung the sack over the side and into the passing waves.

  The crew cheered as it hit the water with a muffled splash and as every pair of eyes was watched on, Forster’s wig then floated to the surface, resulting in a further round of guffaws and rough laughter as it tumbled amongst the froth of the ship’s wake. Masson saw Forster steeped over in wretched humiliation and almost felt sorry for him — until he saw that unlike the rest of the crew, who craned to see any last sign of the monkey, Forster’s gaze was fixed on Masson, and carried with it a current of pure and undisguised hatred.

  ***