Crossings, A Thomas Pichon Novel

by A. J. B. Johnston

  “A lesson? What officer is that?” Raymond’s brow was deeply knit.

  “Montalembert. I hear he wants to marry a girl less than half his age.”

  “Who doesn’t?” the commandant said, with an actual laugh. It was like a caw from a crow. “Where did you hear that, Pichon?”

  “I’m not sure, Commandant. It must be in one of the reports.”

  “We don’t recall. But in any case, there’s no need to meddle with that. There are enough more important matters to take up our time. Here,” he said, handing Thomas a new sheath of papers, “let’s go over the troop roles again. We need to grasp the degree to which desertion is a problem.”

  Thomas cannot see how he will ever bring the subject of Montalembert up again. It is a lost cause. The problem is, how can he break that to Mademoiselle?

  ——

  Nearly six weeks now the ship has been at sea. Where exactly they are in terms of longitude Thomas knows no one can tell with certainty. But he was encouraged to hear from Raymond that the captain thinks they are nearing the Grand Banks. Apparently some sea birds were spotted late yesterday. And the sails of two or three distant ships. Fishing boats is the guess. When Thomas goes to the rail to verify the rumours, he spies nothing but rolling troughs of grey. But then he is not at the top of any of the masts, nor does he have a telescope.

  He does, however, agree the weather has changed. He overheard a sailor this morning describe the breeze as fresh. That is certainly how it feels. “Light air and variable” was how a midshipman put it in another conversation. That too sounds good to Thomas. He doubts he will ever fully grasp all the nuances of the language the men at sea use to describe their world. But then he has no need. He is a man of the land, of the quill. He wants nothing more than to see the end of this voyage.

  “Sails!” comes the shout from high up above.

  Thomas finds the sailor in the crow’s nest and follows where his arm points. Sure enough he does see something this time. A sail. No, two. And there is a flock of gulls wheeling over the ocean in between here and there. The Heureux truly must be on the edge of the banks.

  ——

  “Weakness,” mutters Marie-Louise as she comes out on the deck into the sun. To her surprise, it is a pleasant breeze. She notices a couple of sailors have lines over the side, and there are already a few fish flopping in the wicker basket at their feet. So it is true, she says to herself. There is the proof. They really are on the banks. Fresh fish will be a great change for everyone, especially the poor sailors who have dined on their hardtack and salted meats for nearly seven weeks.

  The lightening of her mood, however, does not last long. She is too deeply frustrated. Monsieur Pichon promised he would intervene with his superior to have her would-be aged husband’s permission to marry her declined. Yet he has not. It is always “soon.” Well, she is running out of soon. Soon will soon be too late. The ship will be in port. No date for the wedding has been set, as far as she knows, but the opportunity to convince Raymond of its sheer folly is slipping away.

  “Weakness,” she whispers to herself yet again. That must be what it is. Despite his assurances, the secretary must be too afraid of jeopardizing his own position by pleading her case. If it is to be done – and because it is her life, it is to be done – apparently she will have to do it herself. It makes her shake her head.

  There is a great boom, which shakes the ship. She sees the puff of smoke rise up from the port side. The sea birds who were on the water are alarmed and take flight.

  “What is it?” she asks the closest sailor, he with the skin of an African.

  “A bit of fun,” he says. “Time for the baptisms.”

  “The what?”

  “That’s right.” The sailor is grinning like he has just been made a knight. “Even you.”

  ——

  Thomas is found up as close to the bow as he can get. He is found by a sailor wearing a grotesque mask and an unruly wig that lwas once the floppy head of a mop. He also has a staff in one hand. The fellow pantomimes an invitation, but Thomas knows it is no invitation. It is an order he cannot refuse.

  He had hoped he might be able to go unobserved. He would prefer to miss the ceremony. But no, the ship is too small to hide away. He will have to play along. A few days ago the comte warned him and Surlaville, the two of them together at the same time, that when they reached the Grand Banks there would be a custom they would have to endure. According to the commandant, something similar happens at other “crossing points” around the globe, like the Equator, the Tropics and the Dardanelles. When it is someone’s first time across, he has to sit upon a pole balanced over a barrel filled with seawater. He has to give a few coins to the crew, or else they dump him into the barrel.

  “You too, Commandant?” Thomas asked before he realized what he was saying.

  It drew a look, well, two looks. One from Raymond and another from Surlaville. Thomas shrugged an apology. No, the comte would not be placed upon a pole above a barrel.

  “Because you want to hide,” says the young face beneath the mop-top, “you go first.”

  “No need to push,” Thomas says.

  ——

  Marie-Louise is at the end of the line of four, right behind Surlaville. In front of him are the two Récollets. There are at least five dozen sailors crowding close, close enough that the scent of the crowd is filling her nostrils. The smell of wine, undiluted, thickens the air. However much drink has been consumed, it is making the sailors bold. They are not shy about giving the passengers an occasional shove or tug.

  Her father told her about times like this. Not the this of a mock baptism at sea, but the this of those on the lower rungs getting a chance to kick the ladder over once in a while. It is a vent that is best allowed, though only once in a long while.

  No doubt her father was right, but that does not mean it has to be her out on the wobbly pole the way the secretary is now. She does not want to look as bewildered as Thomas Pichon does. That pole could turn on her, and she has on her last decent dress.

  “Is there a way for me to avoid that?” she asks the sailor closest to her. His face looks kindly enough, though she can see by his eyes that he too has had quite a lot to drink.

  “Indeed there is.”

  “Does it involve me giving you a coin?”

  “You guessed it.” The sailor holds out his hand.

  “But I don’t have any with me.”

  “Pity.”

  “That’s right. Pity, lady,” chimes in another sailor listening in. “No tribute? Into the font.”

  Marie-Louise searches for someone to help. “Major de place Surlaville,” she says, reaching to tap his shoulder.

  ——

  Thomas does not understand. He slipped one of the sailors a coin before two others strong-armed him out onto the pole. The soles of his shoes are now well into the water of the barrel and he has his two hands firmly clasped around the pole. He can feel its stickiness. Spruce or some other type of gum. The traces of where he is sitting will be all over the seat of his pants. From time to time, as the ship sways, he feels the water in the barrel lap onto his socks.

  The only thing he can think of is that the coin he gave was kept by that sailor for himself. The others do not know about it.

  “Might I pay a tribute,” Thomas says in a loud voice, “to avoid this rough baptism?”

  That draws huzzas from the sailors pressing close. “Indeed” and “Pay up,” he hears. He lifts his right hand off the pole, adjusting his balance point. One shoe goes in the water up to his ankle. Steady again, he wiggles two fingers into the right pocket of his breeches. They find two coins. Out they slowly come.

  “Here you go.” He tosses his payment in the air, quickly grabbing hold of the pole again.

  “Paid up,” a voice calls out.

  Thomas slides over to th
e barrel’s edge. Four strong arms lift him up and then down onto the deck.

  ——

  It is when Surlaville says for the second time that he requires neither the coin back nor any further thanks – it is a question of honour to help a lady such as herself – that Marie-Louise realizes this might just be the opportunity she has been waiting for. If the secretary has been too overawed to ask the commandant on her behalf, perhaps this senior military officer will serve that purpose instead.

  “Monsieur major de place,” she says the instant they are away from the throng around the barrel, who are in high spirits now that the first Récollet is out above the water.

  “Yes, Mademoiselle.”

  “I have a favour to ask.”

  “It would be my pleasure.”

  Marie-Louise takes a breath. “There is an officer in the Louisbourg garrison whom my mother has—”

  Surlaville raises a hand. “Ah, I am sorry. Is this about a marriage that is arranged? Involving one Montalembert?”

  Marie-Louise leans back. Her eyes go wide.

  “Secretary Pichon spoke to me about this a couple of weeks ago, after the commandant gave his opinion. No, it is not a matter I or anyone else will involve ourselves in.”

  Marie-Louise is speechless.

  “If there is nothing else.” Surlaville waits, rising on the balls of his feet. “Good day, Mademoiselle.”

  Marie-Louise can only stand and watch the major stride away.

  ——

  There comes a stillness to the sound and motion of the ship that rouses Thomas from his bunk. He hasn’t been able to sleep for at least an hour, so the change in the motion – no swaying or rocking now at all – is odd. As is the absence of the grinding of the rudder tiller. Since he is already awake, he might as well go up top and see what is going on.

  Down from his bunk he climbs, carefully avoiding stepping where he imagines in the darkness Surlaville’s shoulder or leg might be on the bunk below. Safely on the floor, in the dim light he glimpses the missionaries nearby. One has a gaping mouth, the other is curled like a child.

  He sees the door to Mademoiselle’s small space is pulled tightly shut. Of course it is, but he wonders if she might be awake. Thomas knows that she found out that she is not going to get any help from anyone on this ship to alter her fate, a marriage to a man she detests but who brings advantages to the family. At least she gave Thomas a half-hearted thanks for trying to help.

  “Though it does mean,” she concluded, “that my life is over.”

  “Hardly,” he replied, but she would not let him say any more.

  Since then she has chosen mostly silence in her dealings, including with him when they are side-by-side at the captain’s table. Thomas would like to get through to her before they reach port, if she will let them have a conversation. He would tell her to concentrate on what is positive. That her lot in life remains well above so many others’. That she is fortunate to be marrying someone with a good rank. And, perhaps, he might even tell her that marriage is simply an arrangement the Church insists upon. It is not a physical cloister that actually locks her in. Yes, it may be complicated, but she should still be able to have a true lover if that is what she wants. If she doubts him, he could tell her about certain times in his own life. Those times were not perfect, but they were better than bad. Such a talk, however, is not for right now. Now he has to go up on deck to see what is going on to make the ship so still.

  He advances through the dark, arms reaching out blindly in front of him to lead the way. At last he finds the first of the narrow staircases that lead out of the hold.

  At the top Thomas pushes up the hatch that gives on to the deck. In the east he sees a hint of lightening of the sky. Dawn must not be far off. The deck itself is aglow from the floor boards up. There are a half dozen lanterns and a great many sailors milling about. A few are running, others are lifting and moving things around like Thomas has not seen before. Some are tying down cases, bales and the large coils of rope. Up in the rigging he can make out rows of men starting to take down the sails. What is going on? Everyone’s face is fierce, as if in anger. Is the ship under attack?

  “What is it?” Thomas asks.

  No one answers because no one hears. There is a hum of hurried talk and the shouts of the officers above the drone. No one has taken any notice of him. So Thomas grabs a sailor rushing by.

  “What is it?”

  The man shakes his head and pushes past. Then he halts and waves vaguely above the rail. “Look! Just look!” The sailor hurries away.

  Thomas does as he is told. He goes to the rail and leans out. But there is nothing, nothing he can see. It is simply the end of night. The sky is lightening along the horizon to the east. He sees no enemy ship, no ship at all. Nor any iceberg, which he knows is sometimes a threat. It is only the start of the peep of day.

  He swings his gaze back to the swirl of activity all over the deck. There has to be something he missed. Once more he peers out over the water, scanning the horizon, far right to far left.

  “Oh.”

  Looking directly ahead, through the web of masts and rigging to where the bow of the ship points, he sees what the sailor must have been waving at. There is a ridge, an almost purple dark that is different from the rest of the night sky. It reminds Thomas of a bank of fog, only it is apparent it is no idle cloud of mist. It is moving, it is coming fast toward the ship. And below it, he can see now, the surface of the water is trembling. It is some kind of great wind, a dark wind as foreboding as any Thomas has ever seen.

  “Here! Over here.”

  Thomas turns round, toward the centre of the ship. There is a man, in nightclothes, waving like a windmill. The face beneath the cap, the voice as well, they are vaguely familiar.

  “Now, Pichon, now! We need a hand.”

  To hear his name makes Thomas take two steps in the man’s direction.

  “Monsieur le Commandant,” Thomas says. He has never before seen the comte in a state of undress.

  “Come. Hurry now.”

  “What do you want?” Thomas yells.

  “Just come.”

  “But there’s a wind, a storm.” Thomas points to where the dark ridge is churning toward the ship. He cannot believe how much closer it now is. It is nearly upon them. He feels his body want to crouch.

  “Now, Pichon! We need to pack the papers and maps. They must be—”

  A force of wind, such as Thomas has never felt before sends him to his knees, then flattens him spread-eagle on the deck trying to grasp the smooth boards that have no grip. The ship lurches, tipping like God himself is playing with it. Raymond is lifted up off the deck and seems to fly. His cap is gone and his nightshirt rides up to his waist. But then the airborne comte is sent against the pump beside the mast. His eyes close as he slumps to the deck. He is sprawled where he falls, dead to the chaos all round.

  Thomas feels the entire ship shake and quiver. The wind is swirling in no way he has ever seen or felt before. It is coming from all compass points at the same time. The masts and booms, the ropes and lines, everything is crying out. He hears cracks coming from wood somewhere. Then there are shouts. Thomas glances up. God forbid, there are still men aloft. They are hanging on for dear life. How will they ever get down?

  The roar of the storm fills his ears. It is impossible to think.

  From sloping steeply up the deck is now sloping down. The sprawled, unmoving commandant comes back into Thomas’s sightline. He starts to claw at the planking, staying out of the wind, pulling himself forward to where the comte lies. There must be something he can do. Cradle the man until he comes round. Or, if he is expiring, comfort him as best he can. Could that be? Raymond, to whom Thomas’s career is attached, could he perish just like that?

  Thomas momentarily closes his eyes. This is not the time for such a thought. He has to go t
o the commandant. Though not a man he has much affection for, he is a man nonetheless. Thomas goes back to his crawl, like a salamander.

  The ship tosses again, up the other way, and then tips farther still. Thomas cannot maintain his hold if it keeps up. He rubs and presses his fingers to the boards. Another moment and he will slide down, into the rail or over top and out to sea. The waves are a seething cauldron, but of cold not boiling water. He would not last a minute.

  “Pater Noster,” comes off Thomas’s lips, “qui es in caelis—”

  The ship suddenly rights itself, then begins a slow tilt the other way. Thomas stops the prayer that has come up from somewhere deep within him. He has not said the words since he was a boy, but they cannot hurt. Words are all he has against the onslaught of wind and toss of waves.

  Suddenly, sheets of rain descend. They look like curtains and feel like nails. Thomas stares numbly at the water dancing on the decking. Though the rain is chilled his hands feel hot. Thomas lifts each hand in turn. He has splinters in most fingers, so hard was he grasping to stay where he was on the deck.

  He hears a shout, then another. Up he looks. One of the sailors is flying through the air. He is off into the night, out where the sea awaits. The others still aloft look like bugs in a web. All that is keeping them in place are arms or legs crimped over spars or tangled in lines and cords. Thomas watches one struggle to right himself, but when he does, he comes loose. His arms and legs whir as he plummets. His body bounces like baggage on the deck. There he lies, not six feet from where the commandant is either unconscious or dead.

  Thomas exhales deeply. “Pater Noster,” he mutters through clenched teeth. It really has become every man for himself.

  His eyes go wide. Every man? What of the woman, the only one aboard this ship? Thomas does not want Mademoiselle to be trapped below. If she has to die, along with him and everyone else, she should at least be out of that damned hold. She is the only one on this ship he truly cares about.