Speaking of which, he must write to Gallatin before he sets sail, to let him know the latest twist and to tell him to send his letters henceforth to Thomas at Louisbourg. Gallatin will be pleased for Thomas, he will. As will Hélène, perhaps. Though a part of him wants her to feel regret, regret about the mistaken choice she once made. Thomas briefly closes his eyes. There really is no point to hanging on to bitterness, is there? If Reason tells us anything, it is that what is done cannot be changed.
Thomas feels his eyes leap open as he recalls their boy. The godson is not likely called little Tommy anymore. Thomas’s namesake must be fifteen by now. No, that was last year, so he will be sixteen. Thomas supposes the young man will soon be going out on his own into the world. He would be like to hear how and what the fellow makes of himself. The letters Thomas exchanges with Gallatin do not really well informed about the lad. He would like to know more about how he is making his way in the world.
Thomas swings his gaze back to the sleeping Jean-Louis Raymond. He really does have a nose worthy of a Roman, an emperor even. Or is that assessment influenced by Thomas knowing what a glorious military career this man has already achieved? Service in some of France’s finest regiments, those of the Troupes de Terre. Lieutenant de roi of Angoulême and recently promoted to the elevated rank of major general. And asked to take over the command of the colony of Isle Royale, so important to France’s economic and strategic interests over the sea. And to do so with Thomas as his trusted secretary.
Thomas and the count have at least that much in common, the climb they have both made. The one sleeping comes from a noble family, and thus born rather high up on the ladder. Yet the comte did not stay where he was born. He went higher still. Ambition truly is the noblest virtue. Thomas’s single advantage in life was and is his wits. Though long stymied, he has now had ten years of gradual rising. He takes the opportunities when they come, regardless of where they transport him on the map. He has already been – and is now en route to yet another – to some places he would never select. But then choices are not given to people like him. He has had to take – and accept – what he can get.
Thomas regrets that distant Louisbourg, capital of Isle Royale, for which he is heading now, requires him to go upon the sea. He hates the stomach-turning element as much as he hates anything. Twice he endured the Manche, and that was a short traverse. The upcoming crossing of the Atlantic Ocean, sailing from La Rochelle in a few short days, is said to typically take seven to eight weeks. Longer, which means worse, if the winds insist. Whatever it takes, Thomas asks only that he make it there alive. For it will be at Louisbourg, but recently returned to France by the treaty in 1748, that the comte de Raymond will be the commandant, with an indispensable scribe and organizer, none other than Thomas Pichon, at his side.
“One rung after another,” comes again from the coach.
That’s right. That is how it has been, and will be yet.
Thomas’s climb started in Bohemia and Bavaria, where he brought a clear-eyed efficiency to the hospital service of the French armies to which he was attached. A decade ago that was. It did not hurt – quite the contrary, it made all the difference in the world – that his appointment letter bore the imprimatur of none other than the principal secretary to Louis XV. All were duly impressed. No one needed to know that Thomas owed his position to a woman born in Martinique who had influence over said aristocrat. Thomas never asked Madame de la Rose for details on how she wielded her power, for none of his business was it. The beautiful lady could have intimate relations with whoever she wanted, especially when the resulting oohs and ahs were to his benefit. He has not seen the dear soul since he left Paris, but he misses their conversations. And what came after the talk. Each year on her birthday, for ten years now, he sends her a small gift to express his thankfulness. She gave him the sine qua non of life’s ladder climb, the first step. He will send her something before he sails, so she knows he has not forgotten what she did for him.
After Bavaria and Bohemia came an appointment as Forage Inspector in Upper Alsace. The title was dull, but it came with a huge responsibility and a higher salary. Success breeds success, that is how it works.
Through tact, hard work, discretion and a skill with words, Thomas has impressed those above him. More than that, those same men have all come to rely on him. His words become their words. He makes any document they put their names to better than if it were composed by their quills alone. They know it, and appreciate the talent he possesses.
Next came the challenge of organizing the French hospitals on the lower Rhine and in the Low Countries. There were a few hiccups in that effort, but none he needs to dwell upon. Or ever tell anyone about. Anything less than success is best put out of mind.
What is amusing about the past decade, though it’s a joke he can never repeat to anyone, is that his appointments have been the real-life realization of a joke he once made. Way back when in London he told Gallatin that he had a cover story should anyone ask if he had ever left France. Instead of admitting he’d been to perfidious England he would say he was a commis with the French army in the Low Countries and the German States. How fortuitous is that! The truth came to mirror a story he once made up.
Thomas leans forward, to within an arm’s reach of the count. Was that a snore? Or did the comte break wind while deeply asleep? No matter, the secrets of what goes on with Jean-Louis Raymond when he is resting are safe with Thomas Pichon. Keeping confidences comes easily to him. It fills his chest to know something about a great man that no one else will ever learn.
The weaknesses of the new commandant are minor. His eyebrows sometimes look like ears of wheat and could do with a trim. And he can be a little vainglorious by times, though that is to be expected of someone with his rank and authority. What matters is that when the comte de Raymond is awake and upright he is impressive. He holds himself like a prince, dominating any room or public square. Thomas merely wishes that he had but a smidgeon of the count’s confidence. It seems, alas, this is not something those born in the lower orders can put on. It’s not an auction-purchased coat or wig.
Oh, there’s a hint of drool at the corner of the commandant’s lips. That is unfortunate. As is the all-too-wide splay of his legs. It is as if the man’s body is betraying the poor fellow while he sleeps. Luckily, Thomas knows better than to tidy what he sees. The comte will wake up soon enough and ably correct himself. Until then, the good secretary shall do the only thing he can. He will look away, back to his book, until the man he admires returns from the realm of sleep.
——
The last time Thomas stuck his head all the way out the window to suck in some fresh air, something different than the heavy, oily scent the comte de Raymond wears, the road was running between fieldstone walls. Before that, there was a forest, a palette of springtime greens and yellows. Now the route is cutting across open fields, with a flurry of black birds circling a solitary tree. Thomas cannot see the sun in the sky but it is obvious it is lower than it was. The shadows are lengthening and the barley and distant forest are a richer green than they were before. The earthen road has begun to glow like it’s ablaze.
Seated again, retrieving his book, Thomas tries to read. However, as good as Montesquieu can be, Thomas has read enough pages for one day. Besides, he knows Raymond disapproves of all the philosophers. Yesterday Thomas was glancing through the young Denis Diderot’s prospectus for a series of books touching on all subjects knowable, an encyclopaedia with engravings as well as texts.
“What do you have there?” asked the comte.
“It is for a new encyclopedia,” Thomas replied. “The word comes from the Greek.”
The curl on the commandant’s lips was pronounced. “We know what an encyclopedia is, Pichon. But why on earth do we need more than we already have?”
“Let me read to you from what the authors write. They say—”
“What are their
names, the authors?”
“They are the editors. There will be many authors. But the names of the principals are D’Alembert and Diderot. Two young Frenchmen.” Thomas could see Raymond was not impressed, but he decided to continue on. “The editors write that the purpose of their Encyclopédie is, and I quote: to collect knowledge disseminated around the globe; to set forth its general system to the men with whom we live, and transmit it—”
“Enough of that,” said the comte, turning to look out the window. “That Diderot spent time in a prison in Vincennes for what he wrote in some other book of his.”
“But that was—”
Raymond’s hand was up. “We do not need anything further from him.”
And that was that. The only reading Raymond apparently wants to see Thomas doing is to be about the destination to which they are sailing so very soon.
Thomas glances at the count. As is often the case when the man is going through the documents from the box beside him on the seat, he is showing a scowl. Thomas takes it to mean that the new commandant disapproves of something – maybe everything – the governors of Isle Royale before him over the past nearly forty years have done. Confidence in his own instant assessments is the first rule of the comte. Thomas supposes that’s the way it must be for all of those in command. To show any doubt about themselves and their judgement would undermine their position at the top of the pyramid. Thomas is eager to see how things will play out when Raymond steps ashore in the colony in a few weeks time, his loyal secretary at his side.
The secretary certainly hopes Raymond is right about when the coach will be arriving in La Rochelle. He said it would be around dusk, which cannot be far off. With such a long voyage ahead, Thomas would be smart to visit a lady of pleasure before they set sail. He imagines he will find a willing gentle companion somewhere under La Rochelle’s renowned arcades. Likely wrapped in a cape or cloak to keep away the chill. She will be standing on the pavé of rounded beach stones, which Thomas has read have been brought back by the port city’s merchant fleet as ballast from the New World. The evening’s lover will have kind eyes, a soft voice and a curving form. And when she takes him to her room, there will be the scent and taste of salt on her skin, from the ocean air that swirls up and down that coast of France. His imaginings conjure a memory of a time with Hélène. Or was it Élisabeth or La Beaumont? Thomas cannot recall, but whoever it was they were near a sea and she was salty. Thomas liked it.
“Pichon, what are you about?”
Thomas snaps to meet the gaze of the comte de Raymond. “Monsieur le commandant?”
“Dreaming of somewhere else?”
“Of course not. This—”
“We are not finding it.”
“Monsieur?”
“The bordereau. For last year. Certain it was—”
“Ah, the bordereau. There, right there.” Thomas leans forward to grab hold of the lengthy document that has slipped off the top of the box and fallen behind the seat, out of the comte’s sight.
“Thought so,” Raymond says, shaking his head, beginning to run his index finger down a column looking for some detail.
Thomas slides fully back onto his seat and finds himself staring momentarily at the commandant. He understands they cannot be friends, for they are not equals. Yet could the one not be a little less chilly with the other? Thomas is an efficient secretary, a willing confidant. If not an outright thank you then at least the Seigneur d’Oye could offer an occasional appreciative nod. Or a gesture of the hand to show gratitude.
“Better things to do than explore idleness, we think.”
The comte is speaking without looking up from the document in his hands. The tone of voice makes Thomas feel like an errant child.
“Of course,” he says, reaching toward the box of documents.
Out comes the first sheath his right hand finds, and when Thomas turns its title page his way he feels his shoulders slump. It’s the very list of colonists he looked at earlier in the day. The census that gives the names and other details about all the households who returned to Isle Royale in 1749, after the place was returned to France by the peace signed at Aix-la-Chapelle. Thomas sighs. He’ll have to give it another scan because he’s not about to put it back and show the count he selected poorly the first time.
“Idleness does not serve anyone,” purrs the comte. Still not so much as a glance Thomas’s way.
The secretary pauses, then sits as upright as he can. “You are right.”
“Hmph,” grunts the count.
Yes, Thomas will have to find a way to excuse himself this evening from Jean-Louis Raymond. The secretary will not be deterred, no matter what the commandant insists upon. He needs to clear his head. And everything else. He needs to unite with a salty woman. But he’d best keep that longing to himself. The count is so unfathomably serious and apparently does not need companionship of any sort. From neither women nor men. No, Raymond would almost certainly not grasp the virtues of night-time wandering under arcades.
——
The clumpity clump of the horses on a beaten earth road switches to the clatter of hooves and wheels on cobbles. Thomas turns to look out the window to his left. Sure enough, they have entered a town. Daylight is draining away but he can see stone buildings rising on both sides. He looks at the comte de Raymond, who in return gives him something like a smile.
“La Rochelle,” he says. The commandant’s expression suggests he too is relieved.
“Oh, I am glad. I am eager to see a bit of the town.” Thomas feels he has to plant the seed right away.
“No time,” says the comte with a shake of his head. “We leave tomorrow at first light. The Heureux is to have been readied at Rochefort this past week and been towed down the Charente this morning to the roadstead. All crew, provisions and passengers are aboard, save us. It was to sail up to just off the harbour of La Rochelle this afternoon. Tomorrow, its captain will welcome aboard Isle Royale’s new commandant.”
And its new secretary, Thomas thinks to himself. “Oh yes, I know,” he says, “but I will have time for a quick look. You’ll not even know I’m gone.”
“You think so?” Raymond’s head tilts quizzically. It looks like he is actually interested in what Thomas’s answer will be.
“To be sure.” Thomas makes sure his posture is erect, his voice firm. Yet with no hint of disrespect. “It will not take me long. I want to see the old towers. The great clock gate. The arcades as well.”
“The arcades?” The comte’s face is bewildered.
“Yes, I read they are worth seeing. Shops below, residences above.”
Raymond narrows his gaze, unwavering, unblinking, firmly on Thomas’s eyes. “No,” he says at last.
Thomas hears himself snort. “No?” He forces a smile. The commandant surely jests. “What no is that, Monsieur?” Thomas is annoyed to hear his voice has come out an octave higher than usual.
“Are there different nos? We don’t think so. Noooo,” he says again, elongating the word.
Thomas holds out a beseeching left hand.
Raymond lifts his bushy eyebrows. “Pichon, you will not be leaving my side. Not to take a walk nor for anything else. We know where trouble lies.”
“But I shall be quick, Monsieur, I shall.”
“Not tonight you shall not.”
“Perhaps you do not understand.”
Raymond’s lips turn down.
“You see, commandant, once the trunks and boxes are unloaded … organized … protected. Readied for our departure tomorrow. Then, only then, I’ll hurry away. An hour. No, not even. You will not notice that I am gone.” Thomas’s upraised hands offer the final convincing touch.
“No.”
“But this does not—”
“Secretary, you forget yourself. We tell you the what, the where and the when.”
Thomas does not reply, not with words. For the words that come to mind would harm only himself. So he allows his silence, along with an inclination of his head, to show he acquiesces to the commandant’s wishes.
“We are glad,” says Raymond, “that you are wise. Tonight, once our meal is past, we are going over the Louisbourg military establishment. To arrive in the colony without being fully informed is a weakness we must avoid.”
“But we do have a long sail ahead,” Thomas observes with a soft voice. “Six weeks. Longer perhaps.”
“Our habits define us, Pichon. Do you hear that?”
“I do.”
“Tonight, you will bring us all there is on the different units. We begin with the regiments, the Artois and the Bourgogne. After that, the Marine troops. Lastly, if there is time, the artillery specialists. We will be reading late.”
Thomas does not say a thing.
“Ah, there you go.” Raymond is gesturing toward the window on Thomas’s left. “There is the port you want to see. The sun is still on the tops of the towers. Have a look.”
Thomas tilts forward. All he sees are boats and small ships and a forest of masts and rigging. Then beyond, through the jumble, yes, he does spy the towers of La Rochelle. He recognizes them from the engravings he has seen. They are even more striking in person, with the crests of their rounded forms seeming to glow in the setting sun.
“And if memory serves,” continues the count, “just ahead we are about to pass through the old clock gate. Have an eye.”
Thomas sits back against his seat. He will not look out of the coach again. His gaze is on his hands, clasped on his knees.
Crossings, A Thomas Pichon Novel Page 20