by Amitav Ghosh
‘For me, Madame?’ said Paulette in alarm, rising to her feet.
‘Yes indeed – and here he is.’ Mrs Burnham took a half-step aside, bringing Paulette face-to-face with the Captain.
‘Captain Chillingworth, may I present Mademoiselle Paulette Lambert?’
Mrs Burnham was gone almost as soon as she had said the words, and Paulette was now alone with the Captain who was breathing rather heavily as he bowed.
‘. . . Honoured, Miss Lambert.’
His voice was low, she noticed, and it had the crunching sound of conkers rattling beneath the wheel of a carriage. Even if he had not been so visibly short of wind, it would have been clear at a glance that he was not in the best of health: the colour of his face was a mottled red, and his figure seemed oddly bloated. Like his body, his face seemed to sag upon a frame that had once been large, square and confident of its power; its lines drooped in apparent exhaustion – the fleshy jowls, the watery eyes and the deep dark pouches beneath them. When he raised his hat, his head was revealed to be almost completely bald, except for a tattered ring of hair that hung down from its edges, like a fringe of peeling bark.
Mopping the sweat from his face, the Captain said: ‘I noticed a row of lataniers on the drive. I’m told they were your doing, Miss Lambert.’
‘That is true, sir,’ Paulette replied, ‘it was indeed I who planted them. But they are still so small! I am surprised you noticed them.’
‘Pretty plants, latanias,’ he said. ‘Don’t see them much in these parts.’
‘I have a great fondness for them,’ said Paulette, ‘especially the Latania commersonii.’
‘Oh?’ said the Captain. ‘May I ask why?’
Paulette was embarrassed now, and she looked down at her shoes. ‘The plant was identified, you see, by Philippe and Jeanne Commerson.’
‘And who, pray, were they?’
‘My grand-uncle and grand-aunt. They were botanists, both of them and lived many years in the Mauritius.’
‘Ah!’ His frown deepened, and he began to ask another question – but the query was lost on Paulette who had just caught sight of Zachary, coming through the door. Like the other men, he was in his shirtsleeves, having handed his coat to a khidmutgar before stepping into the shishmull. His hair was neatly tied, with a black ribbon, and his Dosootie shirt and nainsook trowsers were the plainest in the room – yet he looked improbably elegant, mainly because he was the only man present who was not dripping with sweat.
After Zachary’s arrival, Paulette was unable to summon much more than a monosyllable or two in response to the Captain’s inquiries, and she scarcely noticed when Mr Justice Kendalbushe frowned disapprovingly at her finery and murmured: ‘ “Hell is naked and destruction hath no covering.” ’
To add to her trials, when it came time to go in to dinner, Mr Doughty began to compliment her effusively on her appearance. ‘’Pon my sivvy, Miss Lambert! Aren’t you quite the dandyzette today? Fit to knock a feller oolter-poolter on his beam ends!’ Then, fortunately, he caught sight of the dinner-table and forgot about Paulette.
The table for the evening was of modest size, having been fitted with only two of its six leaves, but what it lacked in length, it more than made up for in the height and weight of its fare, which was laid out in a single spectacular service, with platters and dishes arranged in a spiralling ziggurat of comestibles. There was green turtle soup, served artfully in the animals’ shells, a Bobotie pie, a dumbpoke of muttongosht, a tureen of Burdwaun stew, concocted from boiled hens and pickled oysters, a foogath of venison, a dish of pomfrets, soused in vinegar and sprinkled with petersilly, a Vinthaleaux of beef, with all the accompaniments, and platters of tiny roasted ortolans and pigeons, with the birds set out in the arrowhead shapes of flocks in flight. The table’s centrepiece was a favourite of the Bethel bobachee-connah: a stuffed roast peacock, mounted upon a silver stand, with its tail outspread as if for an imminent mating.
The spectacle briefly deprived Mr Doughty of his breath: ‘I say,’ he muttered at last, wiping his forehead, which was already streaming in anticipation of the feast, ‘now here’s a sight for Chinnery’s paintbrush!’
‘Exactly, sir,’ said Paulette, although she had not quite heard what he had said – for her attention, if not her gaze, was focused upon the place to her left, where Zachary had now appeared. Yet she dared not turn away from the pilot, for she had more than once been reprimanded by Mrs Burnham for the solecism of speaking with a left-hand neighbour out of turn.
Mr Doughty was still exclaiming over the fare when Mr Burnham cleared his throat in preparation for the saying of grace: ‘We thank you Lord . . .’ In emulation of the others, Paulette held her clasped hands to her chin and shut her eyes – but she couldn’t resist stealing a surreptitious glance at her neighbour, and was greatly discomposed when her eyes encountered Zachary’s, who was also peering sideways, over his fingertips. They both flushed and looked hurriedly away, and were just in time to echo Mr Burnham’s sonorous ‘Amen’.
Mr Doughty wasted no time in spearing an ortalan. ‘Tantivy, Miss Lambert!’ he whispered to Paulette, as he dropped the bird on her plate. ‘Take it from an old hand: have to be jildee with the ortolans. They’re always the first to go.’
‘Why thank you.’ Paulette’s words were lost on the pilot, whose attention was now focused on the dumbpoke. With her senior dinner-partner thus distracted, Paulette was free at last to turn to Zachary.
‘I am glad, Mr Reid,’ she said formally, ‘that you could spare an evening for us.’
‘Not as glad as I am, Miss Lambert,’ said Zachary. ‘It’s not often that I’m invited to such a feast.’
‘But Mr Reid,’ said Paulette, ‘my little finger has told me that you have been sortieing a great deal of late!’
‘Sort . . . sortieing?’ said Zachary in surprise. ‘And what might you mean by that, Miss Lambert?’
‘Forgive me,’ she said. ‘I mean dining out – you have been doing so a great deal, no, of late?’
‘Mr Doughty and his wife have been very kind,’ said Zachary. ‘They’ve taken me with them to a few places.’
‘You are lucky,’ said Paulette, with a conspiratorial smile. ‘I believe your colleague, Mr Crowle, is not so fortunate?’
‘Wouldn’t know about that, Miss.’
Paulette lowered her voice: ‘You know, you must be careful with Mr Crowle. Mrs Burnham says he is an awful thug.’
Zachary stiffened. ‘I’m not a’feared of Mr Crowle.’
‘But have a care, Mr Reid: Mrs Burnham says she will not have him in the house. You must not tell him you were here tonight.’
‘Don’t worry, Miss,’ said Zachary smiling. ‘Mr Crowle’s not a man I’m likely to be sharing confidences with.’
‘Is he not on the ship then?’
‘No,’ said Zachary. ‘None of us are. The Ibis is in dry dock and we’re all liberty-men in the meantime. I’ve moved into a boarding house.’
‘Really? Where?’
‘In Kidderpore – Watsongunge Lane. Jodu found it for me.’
‘Oh?’ Paulette glanced over her shoulder to make sure that no one else had heard Jodu’s name, and turned back to Zachary reassured.
Recently, Mr Burnham had installed a new fixture to cool the dining room. Known as a Thermantidote, the device was a winnowing machine that had been fitted with a propeller and a thick mat of fragrant khus-khus. The men who had once pulled the ropes of the overhead punkahs were now employed in operating the Thermantidote: while one wetted the machine’s rush screen the other turned the propeller by means of a handle, forcing a constant stream of air through the dampened mat. Thus, by means of evaporation, the machine was supposed to create a wonderfully cooling breeze. Such at least was the theory – but in rainy weather the Thermantidote added greatly to the humidity, making everyone sweat even more than usual, and it also produced a loud, grinding noise that often drowned the conversation. Mr Burnham and Mr Doughty were among the few who could
make themselves heard effortlessly, above the machine – but those with feebler voices often had to shout, which only added to the prevailing sweatiness. In the past, when seated beside deaf colonels and infirm accountants, Paulette had often had cause to regret the introduction of the new machine – but today she was unreservedly glad of its presence, since it allowed her to speak with Zachary without fear of being overheard.
‘If I may ask, Mr Reid,’ she said, ‘where is Jodu now? What has become of him?’
‘He’s trying to earn a little money while the Ibis is being refitted,’ said Zachary. ‘He asked me for a small loan so he could rent a little ferry-boat. He’ll be back on board when we’re ready to sail.’
Paulette thought back to the lazy days when she and Jodu had sat in the trees of the Botanical Gardens, watching the ships on the Hooghly. ‘So he is to have his wish then? He will be on your crew?’
‘That’s right: just as you wanted. He will be going to Port Louis with us when we sail in September.’
‘Oh? He will go to the Mauritius?’
‘Yes,’ said Zachary. ‘Do you know the islands?’
‘No,’ said Paulette, ‘I have never been there, although it was once my family’s home. My father was a botanist, you see, and in the Mauritius there is a very famous botanical garden. It was there that my father and mother were married. That is why I have a great envy to go there . . .’ She broke off: suddenly it seemed intolerably unjust that Jodu should be able to go to this island while she, Paulette, with all her prior claims, could not.
‘Is something the matter?’ Zachary said, alarmed by her pallor. ‘Are you all right, Miss Lambert?’
‘An idee came to my mind,’ said Paulette, trying to make light of her sudden turn of thought. ‘It struck me that I too would love to go to the Mauritius on the Ibis. Just like Jodu, working on a ship.’
Zachary laughed. ‘Believe me, Miss Lambert, a schooner’s no place for a woman – lady, I mean, begging your pardon. Especially not someone who is accustomed to living like this . . .’ He made a gesture in the direction of the loaded table.
‘Is that indeed so, Mr Reid?’ said Paulette, raising her eyebrows. ‘So it is not possible, according to you, for a woman to be a marin?’
Often, when at a loss for a word, Paulette would borrow a term from the French, trusting that it would pass for English if pronounced exactly as it was spelled. This strategy worked well enough to provide reason to persist, but every once in a while it produced unexpected results: from the look on Zachary’s face, Paulette knew that this was one such occasion.
‘Marine?’ he said in surprise. ‘No, Miss Lambert, there sure aren’t any woman marines that I ever heard of.’
‘ “Sailor”,’ said Paulette triumphantly. ‘That is what I meant. You think it is not possible for a woman to sail under a mast?’
‘As a captain’s wife, perhaps,’ said Zachary, shaking his head. ‘But never as a member of the crew: not a sailor worth his salt would put up with that. Why, there’s many a sailor won’t so much as utter the word “woman” at sea, for fear of bad luck.’
‘Ah!’ said Paulette. ‘But then it is clear, Mr Reid, that you have never heard of the famous Madame Commerson!’
‘Can’t say as I have, Miss Lambert,’ said Zachary with a frown. ‘What flag does she fly?’
‘Madame Commerson was not a ship, Mr Reid,’ said Paulette. ‘She was a scientist: to be precise, she was my own grand-aunt. And I beg to inform you that she was but a young woman when she joined a ship and sailed all around the world.’
‘Is that a fact?’ said Zachary sceptically.
‘Yes, indeed it is,’ said Paulette. ‘You see, before she was married, my grand-aunt’s name was Jeanne Baret. Even as a girl, she had a passion most heated for science. She read about Linnaeus, and the many new species of plants and animals that were being named and discovered. These diverse facts made her burn with the volontee to see for herself the riches of the earth. What should happen then, Mr Reid, but that she should learn of a great expedition, being organized by Monsieur de Bougainville, with the intention of doing exactly that which she wished? This idee set her afire and she decided that she too, by all hasard, would be an expeditionnaire. But of course it was not to be expected that the men would permit a woman to join the ship . . . so can you imagine, Mr Reid, what my grand-aunt did?’
‘No.’
‘She did the simplest thing, Mr Reid. She tied up her hair like a man and applied to join under the name of Jean Bart. And what is more, she was accepted – by none other than the great Bougainville himself! And it was none too hard, Mr Reid – this I would have you know: it was no more than a matter of wearing a tight band over her chest and lengthening her stride when she walked. Thus she set sail, wearing trowsers, just like you, and not one of the sailors or scientists guessed her secret. Can you but imagine, Mr Reid, all those savants, so knowledgeable about the anatomy of animals and plants? – not one of them knew that there was a fillie among them, so completely was she male? It was only after two years that she was undone, and do you know how, Mr Reid?’
‘Wouldn’t like to guess, Miss,’ said Zachary.
‘In Tahiti, when the expeditionnaires went ashore, the people took but one look and they knew! The secret that no Frenchman had guessed through two years of living on the same ship, day in, day out, the Tahitians knew tootsweet. But now it did not matter, for of course, Monsieur de Bougainville could not abandonne her so he agreed to let her come along. They say it was she who, out of gratitude, named the flower that is called after the admiral: bougainvillea. This was how it happened that Jeanne Baret, my grand-aunt, became the first woman to sail around the earth. And this too was how she found her husband, my grand-uncle, Philippe Commerson, who was among the expeditionnaires and a great savant himself.’
Pleased to have trumped Zachary, Paulette treated him to a beaming smile. ‘So you see, Mr Reid, sometimes it happens after all that a woman does indeed join a crew.’
Zachary took a long sip from his wineglass, but the claret was not of much help in digesting Paulette’s tale: he tried to think of a woman attempting a similar impersonation on the Ibis and was certain that she would be detected within days if not hours. He remembered the hammocks, hung so close that one man’s tossing would set the whole fo’c’sle astir and a-shake; he thought of the boredom of the small hours, and those contests where the men of the watch would open their trowsers to leeward to see how much of the sea’s phosphorescence they could light up; he thought of the ritual of the weekly bath, on deck, by the lee scuppers, with every tar’s body bared to the waist and many having to strip naked to wash their one pair of underclothes. How could a woman join in any of this? Perhaps on a shipful of frog-eating crappos – who knew what devilment they got up to? – but a Baltimore clipper was a man’s world and no true salt would want it otherwise, no matter how great his love of women.
Noting his silence, Paulette asked: ‘Do you not believe me, Mr Reid?’
‘Well, Miss Lambert, I’ll believe it could happen on a French ship,’ he said grudgingly. He couldn’t resist adding: ‘Tisn’t the easiest thing anyway to tell a Mamzelle from a Monsoo.’
‘Mr Reid . . . !’
‘No offence meant . . .’
As Zachary was making his apologies, a tiny pellet of bread came flying over the table and struck Paulette on the chin. She glanced across to find Mrs Doughty smiling and rolling her eyes as if to indicate that some matter of great significance had just transpired. Paulette looked around, nonplussed, and could see nothing of note, except Mrs Doughty herself: the pilot’s wife was extremely stout, with a round face that hung, like a setting moon, under a great cloud of henna-red hair; now, with her gestures and grimaces, she appeared to be undergoing some kind of planetary convulsion. Paulette looked quickly away, for she harboured a great dread of attracting the attention of Mrs Doughty, who tended to speak, at length and with exceptional rapidity, about matters she could not quite comprehend.
Fortunately, Mr Doughty saved her the trouble of having to respond to his wife. ‘Shahbash dear!’ he exclaimed. ‘Perfect shot!’ Then, turning to Paulette, he said: ‘Tell me, Miss Lambert, have I ever told you how Mrs Doughty once pelleted me with an ortolan?’
‘Why no, sir,’ said Paulette.
‘Happened at Government House,’ the pilot continued. ‘Right under the Lat-Sahib’s eye. Bird caught me smack on my nose. Must have been a good twenty paces. Knew right then she was the woman for me – eyes like a shoe-goose.’ Here, having speared the last ortolan with his fork, he waved it in the direction of his wife.
Paulette seized the opportunity to turn her attention back to Zachary: ‘But tell me, Mr Reid, how is it that you communicate with your lascars? Do they speak English?’
‘They know the commands,’ said Zachary. ‘And sometimes, when it’s needed, Serang Ali translates.’
‘And how do you hold converse with Serang Ali?’ Paulette asked.
‘He speaks a little English,’ said Zachary. ‘We manage to make ourselves understood. Odd thing is, he can’t even say my name.’
‘What does he call you then?’
‘Malum Zikri.’
