by Joanna Orwin
To André’s secret satisfaction, the captain of the Castries seemed somewhat ill at ease, despite the elegance of his attire. He barely sipped the excellent Cape Burgundy poured by François, Monsieur Marion’s black Malagasy slave, before putting the glass down on the table. Monsieur Le Corre, the consort ship’s second-in-command, sat beside his captain, his own glass already drained. His massive thighs were spread wide to ease the binding of his tight breeches, and his faded blue Compagnie frockcoat was unbuttoned over his straining waistcoat. André caught him swapping a slight nod and sardonically raised eyebrow with Monsieur Crozet, his opposite number on the Mascarin, as the expedition leader put his own glass down and said briskly, ‘Now, gentlemen, I suggest we begin. Monsieur du Clesmeur, I await your explanation for the unfortunate manoeuvre that has brought our ships to such a sorry state.’
The young captain took his time. He stared down his long nose then took a pinch of snuff from his silver snuff box, ignoring the communal box placed in the centre of the table. When he finally spoke, his tone was haughty. ‘Surely, sir, the fault lies with the clumsy steering of the Mascarin? It’s unreasonable to expect my larger ship to have taken evasive action. We were hove-to, foresails aback…’
Ma fois, what nonsense, thought André, who had seen the Castries’ foresails fill as the ship turned towards the Mascarin.
Monsieur Le Corre intervened as the expedition leader raised his eyebrows. ‘Perhaps, sir, I can supply the explanation? Our captain had gone below at the time.’
Monsieur Crozet snorted, but the second-in-command of the Castries continued smoothly, ‘One of those williwaws swept off the land adjacent—our vessel was closer inshore than yours. We were caught unawares by the sudden violent gust of wind and fell immediately aboard your ship.’
‘So, you’re claiming there was no time to correct?’ Monsieur Marion sounded dubious.
‘In my opinion,’ said Monsieur Le Corre, ‘even a captain of your vast experience could not have averted the collision.’
André knew the Castries’ second-in-command was taking a risk with such a bold statement, even though—like the Mascarin’s Monsieur Crozet—he had known the expedition leader for years. All in their mid- to late forties, the three men had shared ships and experiences in the Compagnie des Indes and then as ‘blue’ merchant officers recruited into the King’s Navy during the recent war against England. The room grew quiet. The ensign could hear the click of Monsieur du Clesmeur’s carefully manicured fingernails as he tapped out an unconscious rhythm on the lid of his snuff box.
Monsieur Marion considered for a moment, then nodded slowly. ‘Fort bien. Very well.’ He looked across at the ensign sitting riveted in the corner. ‘Make a note, Monsieur Tallec, if you please. The incident is to be logged as an accident.’
André dutifully complied, thinking that Monsieur Le Corre’s explanation would seem inadequate even to the most inexperienced sailor. But as he put his pen down, the expedition leader added, ‘Your loyalty towards your captain is commendable, Monsieur Le Corre. Nevertheless, it needs to be said that a captain of my experience—as you put it—would not have taken his ship so close to high land under such circumstances. Unexpected downdrafts off such terrain are commonplace, are they not?’
Before the Castries’ second-in-command could respond, Monsieur Marion took a pinch of snuff himself from the communal box, blew his nose heartily, then pushed the snuff box towards him. ‘Let’s move on. I see you have your list there.’ He nodded to the attentive François to pour more wine.
As the officers helped themselves to snuff, André watched the captain of the Castries out of the corner of his eye. It was slowly dawning on him that the expedition leader had put Monsieur du Clesmeur firmly in his place. At the same time Monsieur Marion had, he now realized, subtly acknowledged the difficult position occupied by the Castries’ far more experienced ‘blue’ officer. For a moment, Monsieur du Clesmeur bristled, then visibly resigned himself to accepting the indirect rebuke without comment. The young aristocrat might be arrogant, but he was far from stupid. Even cousin Jean conceded that.
Monsieur Le Corre was already itemizing the damage suffered by the Castries, a stubby finger stabbing at each entry as he read out his list. André hastily jotted them down. One man killed on board the Castries when the foremast fell—the lookout—and three with fractures, all hit by debris as the mast fell. Although the ship’s hull had suffered little damage, she had lost two essential spars. Both her bowsprit and foremast and their associated rigging were now nothing but a tangled heap of flotsam, already cut away from the ship and set adrift.
Monsieur Crozet followed with the report for the Mascarin. Although the damage to the smaller ship was mostly confined to her stern superstructure, it was bad enough. ‘Our gallery’s stove in on the starboard side, sir, and the carpenters say our mizzenmast’s splintered beyond salvaging.’
There was silence while the senior officers contemplated their situation. They would need to make urgent repairs before they could risk venturing any further into the turbulent Southern Ocean. At best, both ships would be forced to make do with jury rigs, replacing their lost spars with spare topmasts—smaller and lacking the necessary strength to be effective if the gale-force winds they had already experienced should recur. As the brooding silence wore on, André understood from the glum faces around the table that any loss of sailing efficiency could prove their undoing. He swallowed uneasily. They were already a long way south of frequented waters, and therefore unlikely to encounter other vessels or find anyone to assist them. Even the Marquis de Castries, at seven hundred tons, suddenly seemed too small and too fragile a ship for this venture into a vast and unknown ocean.
From the hastily repaired taffrail of the Mascarin, André looked longingly at the still-visible coastline of the larger of the two islands. The sea was calmer than it had been for days, and this was the first land they had encountered since leaving the Cape of Good Hope a fortnight ago. They were still close enough for the ensign to see the line of bright surf fringing the shore. Whenever the mist cleared, he could make out several tiers of high snow-capped mountains rising behind green lower slopes. With land in view, his qualms about their vulnerability had soon been replaced by his more usual appetite for adventure.
Jean Roux joined him at the taffrail. ‘I was looking forward to being one of the landing party.’ His cousin was in a bad mood. ‘Monsieur Crozet says going ashore’s probably out of the question now.’
André was more optimistic. ‘Don’t lose hope. If the weather holds—’
‘Hope?’ Jean grimaced. ‘Monsieur Marion must regret naming that island Terre d’Espérance, Land of Hope—Land of Hope Dashed would seem more appropriate.’
André crossed himself. ‘Prenez garde, Jean! Take care! Saying such things is asking for more bad luck.’
For the next three days, both ships lay at a safe distance from the islands as the carpenters made what repairs they could. Apart from retaining one topmast to replace their own destroyed mizzenmast, Monsieur Marion sent his other spare spars across to the Castries. Heavy rain set in, making the work more difficult as the men handled the cumbersome spars and wet ropes, their fingers numbed with cold. They were enveloped in thick fog once more, but at least the sea was flattened by the persistent rain. The only sounds were the constant groaning of the ships’ timbers and the creak of gear aloft as they drifted under bare masts, rolling on a long swell.
Work stopped only to commit the unfortunate lookout to the sea, sewn up in his hammock and weighted with shot to prevent his body lingering on the surface as prey for sharks or predatory seabirds. The two ships lay close together in calm seas, their men mustered on the main decks. On board the smaller Mascarin, there was only room for the hundred ship’s people to assemble in the waist of the ship, so the forty-strong company of soldiers lined up on the forecastle. André stood on the quarterdeck with the other officers, their tricorn hats tucked under their arms, as across the water Monsieur d
u Clesmeur conducted the brief Mass for the Dead in front of his own one hundred men.
That evening, the ensigns joined the men gathered on the Mascarin’s forecastle while the musicians played their melancholy Breton tunes, the harsh fluting cry of the double-reed bombarde weaving an octave below the skirling drone of a biniou, the familiar sound eerily intensified by the fog. Monsieur Marion had ordered that the men receive an extra serving of wine, but the mood remained sombre. No one had the heart for their usual singing and dancing, and most of the sailors soon became sullen drunk. It was not long before André retreated to his hammock in the ensigns’ corner of the gunroom. He buried his head in his blankets, waiting for sleep to dispel the unwelcome thoughts Jean had stirred up once more—that Monsieur Marion’s expedition to the Southern Ocean was dogged by misfortune.
By the time the ships were seaworthy, they had drifted far from the islands. Rain and fog continued to beset them, and the weather remained bitter. Before they set sail, André was called again to the great cabin when the expedition leader met with the senior officers of both ships to decide how best to progress.
The captain of the Castries wanted to return to the islands and continue their interrupted survey. ‘We neglect our duty if we do otherwise, gentlemen. We’ve not truly ascertained the nature of the larger island. It may well be a promontory extending from the Southern Continent we seek.’ His fingers tapped once more on the lid of his silver snuff box.
Monsieur Crozet disagreed. ‘Returning would mean tacking closehauled to windward, Monsieur du Clesmeur. I’m far from convinced your ship’s makeshift masts would withstand the strain. That westerly is picking up strength.’
They listened to the whine of the rising wind in the rigging. Already, the sea visible through the stern windows was white-capped and rough, and the ship was beginning to pitch uncomfortably.
The expedition leader shook his head. ‘Monsieur Crozet’s right, sir—we can’t risk the stress to your ship of tacking against such a wind.’
Monsieur du Clesmeur was inclined to argue, somehow managing to imply by his over-polite language that such pragmatism—to be expected of unimaginative ‘blue’ officers—was in danger of impeding their ultimate goal; that only a ‘red’ officer of aristocratic birth could possibly understand the far-reaching implications of any decision they made.
Ignoring both the young aristocrat’s posturing and the responding bristling of his fellow ‘blue’ officers, Monsieur Marion made up his mind. ‘If we’re indeed off the coast of the Southern Continent, no doubt we’ll encounter land again by continuing eastwards along this forty-sixth parallel. These currents will carry us further into the Southern Ocean anyway.’ His tone becoming steely, he added, ‘Return immediately to your ship, Monsieur du Clesmeur, and prepare to set sail.’
André ducked his head to his paper and pen to hide his satisfaction as the captain of the Castries and his visibly smirking officers rose to their feet and prepared to leave the great cabin.
Over the next few days, the ships were driven south-eastwards under shortened sail. It soon became clear that the jury-rigged Castries, previously the faster of the two ships, could no longer keep up with the Mascarin. Progress was slow. When it was not blowing a gale, dense fog enveloped the ships and they had to fire the guns night and day to signal their respective positions—both to remain in contact and to avoid any further collision. Even at noon, André could not see the bow of the Mascarin from the quarterdeck, where he met with the other ensigns and Monsieur Crozet in mostly thwarted attempts to take sightings. As he fumbled with his sextant, chilled to the bone, the ensign was secretly relieved the horizon was usually too obscure for accurate sightings. His figures would fall far short of the standard expected by the second-in-command, who was known to be an excellent navigator, as good as Monsieur Marion himself. The difficulties of navigating in such weather added to the frustration of seeing almost daily the banks of seaweed, seabirds and seals that indicated they were not far from land. At night, their sleep was often disturbed by the shrill, unnerving cries of penguins swimming near the ship, sounding more like fractious infants than seabirds.
The only real excitement came late one afternoon when André, on watch in the mainmast top, noticed a wedge of brilliant whiteness on the horizon, gleaming under the lowering sky. In response to his holler, Monsieur Marion joined him in the top with his eyeglass.
‘Well spotted, Monsieur Tallec—it’s an iceberg, and a large one,’ the captain confirmed after examining the distant object. He handed André the eyeglass. ‘From its size, I’d conclude it’s been ejected from a substantial river.’
‘Meaning substantial land—the Southern Continent, sir?’ André asked, his excitement growing as he reluctantly returned the eyeglass.
‘D’accord,’ said Monsieur Marion. ‘But don’t get too excited. Such a large iceberg could’ve drifted many hundreds of leagues from its source.’
By seven that evening, the ships were within a league of the iceberg. Everyone crowded the rails as they sailed past. The descending sun suddenly emerged below the layer of grey cloud. The western side of the iceberg blazed a white so dazzling that André’s eyes watered whenever he tried to look at it directly. Huge caverns worn at sea level glowed a cold turquoise, which darkened to blue below the surface. Long after they had sailed on, and the iceberg’s silhouette had merged into the darkening night, he could hear the hollow boom of the waves as they rolled steadily into these caverns.
Although the weather did not improve and conditions remained foggy, they continued to catch tantalizing glimpses of land. Six days after leaving the collision site, they approached another island, large and mountainous. For the best part of a day and a night, the two ships tried to tack closer in a wind that blew offshore directly against them. Poorly clad in what was meant to be summer in the Southern Hemisphere, the ship’s people froze in their loose kneelength cotton trousers and inadequate short jackets. Although most had woollen bonnets and Monsieur Marion had them issued with knitted Guernsey frocks from the slop chest, few owned shoes or stockings. The men’s fingers were so numb with cold and their bodies wracked with shivering that their sluggish efforts meant the ships often missed stays and fell back onto the previous tack. Even when they succeeded in bringing the ships onto the opposite tack, they found it difficult to trim the sails to Monsieur Marion’s liking. The limitations of their adapted sailing rigs became only too obvious, and the shoreline remained stubbornly distant.
At the end of his deck watches, André stumbled below. By day’s close, he was too tired to eat the pannikin of lukewarm soup thickened with dried peas and crumbled ship’s biscuit that constituted supper. Even drinking his ration of wine seemed almost too much trouble. He draped his sodden outer clothing from the ropes of his hammock, although he knew it would not dry. The deck-head oozed damp and the floor was puddled wet from the moisture they inevitably tracked into the gunroom. Sleep overwhelmed him almost before he had time to wrap himself tightly in his musty blankets and roll into bed. His four hours below passed too quickly to bring much respite.
Dawn at last brought clear bright skies. Sunlight coloured the great waves that rolled endlessly to the horizon. A deep indigo overall, each white-capped wave glowed translucent green at its crest, deepening through blue to violet in its trough. By mid-morning, they had succeeded in bringing the ships close enough to land for Monsieur Marion to order his second-in-command to row ashore and claim possession of the large island for the King.
André and his cousin Jean accompanied their senior officer in the yawl. They landed in a small cove backed by a steep boulder beach, the sole break in a line of stern black cliffs. As the three officers made their way up the beach, the ensign staggered on rough boulders that did not yield under his feet the way the deck of the ship did, then stumbled amongst the thick strands of dried brown seaweed piled at the high tide line, cursing his clumsiness after so long at sea.
Monsieur Crozet indicated a natural cairn at the en
d of the beach, maybe fifty feet high, built from large chunks of rock tumbled from the sea-eroded cliffs. ‘Up you go, Monsieur Roux,’ he said, handing the senior ensign the bottle containing the deed André had cleancopied before they left the ship, claiming the island for France and the King and naming it Prise de Possession. ‘Your young muscles should be more agile than mine.’
After Jean had lodged the bottle in a cranny at the top of the pyramid, Monsieur Crozet told both ensigns to remove their tricorns. When the second-in-command finished intoning the words of possession, the two young men spontaneously shouted ‘Vive le Roi!’ and tossed their hats high into the air. André’s chest swelled with pride at participating in the first of perhaps many new discoveries for France. There was no sign other men had ever come ashore on this island. Neither the seabirds sitting on nests scattered in the rushes nor the seals gambolling on the beach showed any fear at their presence. He was able to walk right up to the penguins standing around on large clumsy feet, bright eyes examining him back with equal curiosity.
The expedition leader had given them only an hour or two ashore, barely time to climb the hill behind the beach and glimpse the island’s interior. From the hill’s summit, André took in the desolate snowpatched valleys below the mountain range they had seen emerging from the sea. If there were streams in the valleys, they were too distant to be of any use for replenishing the ships’ water supplies, foul-tasting and getting low after nearly four weeks at sea. No trees or even shrubby plants softened the barren landscape before them. Yellow-green lichen studded the black rocks, and a brown, tussocky grass provided the only other colour.
‘This is truly the most inhospitable place,’ muttered Jean as they slowly made their way back to the beach, leg muscles already weary after the unaccustomed exercise.
