Into the World Page 5

  The longboats were stored in the centre of this space. At its widest point the ship must only be thirty feet in breadth, she estimated. Looking up to the masts, the sky was crisscrossed by taut ropes that felt like a net trapping her within.

  At the stern of the ship were the officers’ cabins, and in the common space outside the officers’ doors, hammocks were hung in the roof space. ‘For the midshipmen,’ Besnard said, waving his hand at them. He pointed out the great cabin at the far end of the ship. ‘The officers’ dining room,’ he said. ‘Twelve officers to feed and half-a-dozen civilians.’ He sniffed. ‘They’ll be expecting fine dining, no doubt. Our grub won’t be good enough for the likes of them.’

  The thought of civilians on board surprised her. So far she had only seen sailors in rough clothes like hers, and officers and soldiers in their naval uniforms. She wanted to ask what the civilians were doing on board but did not yet trust her voice.

  Besnard nodded up the stairs towards the quarterdeck. ‘You’ll be cooking for the commander. And serving him his breakfast, lunch and dinner.’

  She counted the eight steps up to the quarterdeck and estimated the short number of paces to his cabin door, wondering if she would ever have to seek sanctuary behind it.

  They climbed down through the hatch to the orlop deck. Besnard sidled past barrels of salted meat in the passageways and the makeshift storerooms erected in every spare nook and cranny of the ship. He explained the frigate had been transformed from a naval supply vessel to an expedition ship, and this whole deck had been conjured to create more room for the extra crew and stores. He pushed open a door. She was shocked to see the supplies jammed haphazardly inside with barely room to squeeze between them. Behind her, she heard the chef clear his nostrils onto the floor.

  In the middle of the ship was the mess hall for the crew. Men sat on wooden chests at tables made from planks of wood suspended on ropes. They chewed slowly. She felt the men’s eyes follow her and she prayed their curiosity was piqued out of boredom and not by the shape of her figure or the style of her walk. At the end of the mess hall she saw her own cabin with the title of Steward painted on the door. Her hand crept to the key hanging around her neck.

  ‘The sailors eat and sleep here,’ Besnard said. ‘Three watches. We feed them at the end of each watch.’

  Besnard led her past the separate area where the garde marines slept. This small core of soldiers would protect them if force was necessary. ‘Against the savages,’ Besnard said, with a knowing nod.

  They climbed down a rope ladder into the hold. The floor was wet. Besnard swore as the flint he struck refused to spark. Girardin stretched out her arms in the darkness and touched a clammy wall. On the other side of her fingers, through planks of wood, studded nails and copper straps, the ocean pressed against them. Water was now above her head and beneath her feet. How insignificant she felt. How tiny. Like Jonah in the belly of the whale. Sweat beaded her brow. She tried not to breathe, made nauseous by the stinking bilge water swilling around their feet. Below decks, in the dark and foul-smelling air, her seasickness felt worse. She blocked her nose, choking back the urge to heave.

  Finally the tinder flared and Besnard lit the lantern.

  The stores in the hold were a jumbled mess. Sacks of grain spilled on the floor. Ammunition was piled among barrels of water. Boxes with bolts of cloth, beads and mirrors had been opened. As they shuffled forwards, she found room after room filled with unmarked crates of food. She saw Besnard looking at her.

  She threw up her hands, finally incensed enough to speak. ‘How are we supposed to find anything?’

  He shrugged. ‘Not my problem.’

  She clenched her jaw.

  ‘That’s what they pay you “learned” men for.’ The chef did not trouble to disguise the sneer in his voice.

  The ship climbed a wave and the bilge water rushed out like a tide beneath the planks she stood on. Outside, she knew, the waves were growing taller, giving the ship a greater distance to fall.

  ‘High water,’ Besnard said. ‘We’ll have lost sight of land by now.’

  The flicker of candlelight cast grotesque shadows across his face. It was as if the chef knew all her fears and was determined to magnify them. Bile surged into her throat. She had to leave the hold; she could no longer stay in this tight and gasping space. She fumbled for the rope ladder, climbing quickly.

  ‘Take this,’ Besnard called up to her when she reached the deck above. He passed her the lantern as he took his turn on the ladder.

  The air on the orlop deck was stale. The ship was lurching, pulling her stomach with it. Besnard grunted as he followed her through the hatch. Nausea rising, she ran for the stairs and climbed to the deck above. She barely had time to fill her lungs before she was knocked and sent sprawling to the floor.

  ‘I’m so sorry! Excuse me!’

  A concerned face with a head of loosely curling brown hair loomed in front of her. A young man, mid-twenties, in a full-sleeved shirt and waistcoat. She ignored his proffered hand and pushed herself to her feet. Behind him, a taller man wearing a well-cut civilian coat and top hat ran past.

  ‘The lantern, you fools!’ Besnard growled. His disembodied head appeared at the top of the stairs.

  Girardin gasped. She had dropped the lantern when she fell. It now rested on its side, the candle still alight, but as the ship nosed downward, it began to roll.

  The man with the curling hair dashed after it. He had almost corralled it when the ship listed to one side, sending the lantern skidding back towards her. She lunged for it, missed, and watched it plummet past Besnard down the stairs. The glass smashed on the deck below.

  Besnard’s eyes popped wide. ‘Imbecile!’ He leaped with surprising fleetness to the lower deck.

  Girardin sank down to a crouch. She listened as Besnard stomped out the flame. She remembered the burning ship Deux Frères, the sailors screaming to be saved, left with no choice but to leap into the waves to escape the flames. Who would save them here, in the middle of the ocean? She had almost drowned them all.

  ‘Lahaie, come quick, we will miss our chance,’ the tall civilian called back to his companion.

  Girardin turned her head and was startled to see a pistol in the man’s hand.

  ‘Idiot!’ Besnard rose out of the hatch and bore down on her. ‘You could have killed us all.’ He raised his hand, about to cuff her, and she shrank away, feeling suddenly like a child again, grovelling at her father’s feet.

  ‘It was my fault.’ Lahaie stepped between her and the cook.

  Besnard stalled his blow, his face red and round as a boil about to burst. ‘Useless, the lot of you,’ he hissed, spitting at her feet. ‘Noses in books, heads with the fairies.’ He pushed the waistcoated man out of his way.

  Girardin sat upright, shaking.

  ‘Félix Lahaie.’ The man stuck out his hand to her with a bashful grin. ‘Call me Félix.’

  This time she clasped his rough hand in thanks.

  Chapter 9

  Latitude 29°6′ N of the equator, longitude 18°8′ W of Paris, 10 October 1791

  AFTER TWO WEEKS AT SEA, GIRARDIN FELT HER STOMACH BEGIN to settle and grow used to the motion of the ship. At first she survived on diluting liquors, lukewarm water sweetened with sugar, but now she could manage some plain bread and the occasional bowl of soup. In those early days on board, she observed much and said little. In the galley, she feigned a strength she did not feel. She rose early to weigh out the flour and knead the dough for the officers’ loaves, enjoying that quiet time before dawn when the ship was not yet fully awake.

  No one questioned her lack of whiskers. Each morning when she went to serve the commander’s breakfast, she passed the crew shaving each other’s chins and braiding one another’s hair. She ducked her eyes, focusing on the tray in her hands and wishing herself as small and unremarkable as a flea in dog’s fur. No one challenged her. As a week passed, and then two, she grew a little more confident, a little more hopefu
l that her disguise would hold.

  Today was fine and calm and Girardin ventured up onto the gangway. Here she could watch everyone. The sailors, officers and civilians had all come out to enjoy the air. She wished she had learned the knack of smoking so that she might stand against the rail with a clay pipe in her hands and be like any one of them. She kept her back to the open sea, still unsettled by the immensity of blue.

  No man should be idle, the commander had declared, and today the off-duty sailors were fishing. She marvelled at the weird and wondrous creatures dangling on their lines; fish with snouts and spines and sails. An enormous fish with bright yellow belly and blue sail along its back was pulled onto the forecastle deck. Its colour astonished her, its beauty as well as its size drawing a crowd.

  A group of civilians had gathered on the forecastle deck, conspicuous by their gentleman’s attire and by the way they clung to one another, moving as a cohesive shoal between each fisherman to inspect his catch. These men were savants, she had been told, engaged to make scientific discoveries in the lands the expedition visited. Among them were naturalists, an astronomer, and an artist. Even the chaplain, Louis Ventenat, appeared to be an enthusiast of the natural world. Dressed in a black cassock with a silver cross hanging from his neck, he was wrestling a curiously shaped fish into a jar of spirit. The two men she had met on her first day were now dissecting the stomach contents of a large tunny. She had learned the tall man in his tailored coat was the botanist Labillardière and his companion, Félix Lahaie, was a gardener.

  The gardener was not considered equal to the other savants, so he was not permitted his own quarters. ‘Head pupil at the Jardin du Roi,’ Félix had grumbled to her when she chanced upon him one day in the great cabin. ‘Recommended by André Thouin himself, and reduced to slinging a hammock with the crew.’ She had said nothing, terrified he would ask to share her own sliver of space. As a form of protest, Félix had commandeered one end of the dining table in the great cabin, his packets of seeds spread about him. ‘They need constant care,’ he said, laying each seed on a linen bandage to dry and painstakingly turning them one by one. ‘To protect against decay.’

  The commander strolled among the crew. Girardin saw the men sit up straighter and stand taller in his presence. They beamed when he touched a hand to their shoulder or took an interest in their fishing prowess. She watched him compliment a drawing made by a young ship’s boy. On the journey, he had encouraged feats of strength and sprint races along the gangways that spooked the animals into bleating terror at the pounding above their heads. The men now called him ‘the General’ after his promotion to rear-admiral in the King’s sealed orders. He did not appear to mind the title, taking the greeting in the spirit intended, as a mark of affection.

  As promised, the General treated her no differently from the other men. He expected her to provide the same standard of duty as any male steward. But when she delivered his breakfast and he asked her to drink coffee with him, she could not be sure if this was a pleasure that had been extended to the previous steward. The General asked no questions about her past; he preferred to tell her stories, and Girardin was more than content to sit and listen.

  Gradually, she began to relax in his presence. From his maps, she saw their two ships had already sailed past Spain and were now off the coast of the great continent of Africa. To Girardin, the General’s careful plotting of their course seemed miraculous. Outside, the flat blue ocean stretched to the horizon in all directions, interrupted only by the distant shape of the Espérance trailing behind. How did the General know, with his instruments and tables, where in the world they were?

  The General had shared with her his high hopes for the expedition. ‘We shall open up the waters for generations of mariners to follow in our wake.’ He meant to survey the unknown southern coast of New Holland and explore the archipelago of islands that were scattered through the Pacific. She had looked at the map pinned to his cabin wall, thinking of La Pérouse and his two ships lost somewhere in that expanse of emptiness.

  While the General was well respected by the crew, the same could not be said of their ship’s captain, Alexandre d’Auribeau. She saw men scowl as he walked past, his tricorn hat pushed low on his brow. Once she saw his face bewitched by strange tics and spasms, and his voice when giving orders was feeble and prone to being taken by the wind. He spent little time among the crew, preferring to cloister himself inside his cabin, but today he strutted along the gangway opposite her. There was a coldness in his gaze and Girardin found herself wishing that Captain Kermadec had been assigned to the Recherche instead of the Espérance. Even from their brief acquaintance, she sensed how much safer she would feel if he were on this ship.

  She was thinking of Huon de Kermadec when she noticed a wizened sailor sitting amid a coil of rope splicing two lengths into one. She recognised the tooth through his earlobe and the tattoos on his arms. A demon-faced monkey perched on his shoulders. He was the sailor who had dragged her from the burning Deux Frères, the one who had delivered her to Kermadec’s house. Her breath quickened. What had Kermadec told him? Did he know her sex? The sailor did not look up. Both man and monkey were intent on their work, fingers quick and deft, the monkey parting the roots of the sailor’s hair and nibbling at the roving lice. It made her head itch to watch. As Captain d’Auribeau passed by them, she saw the old sailor make a sign to ward off evil. Even the monkey bared its teeth at the captain. It seemed she was not the only one to consider him a poor choice of man in whom to entrust all the souls on this ship.

  To Girardin, the second-in-command, Lieutenant Rossel, would have made a more robust choice of captain. With his ruddy cheeks, port barrel stomach and sturdy stance, he gave the impression of a man prepared to meet all weathers. On the quarterdeck, opposite to the savants and fishermen, the officers had gathered for lessons in navigation. Their white breeches, shined boots and gold buttons flashed in the sunlight. Lieutenant Rossel held an instrument they called the Borda Circle. From a distance, it looked like a brass wheel with a small telescope attached. When the General joined his navigators, he took the instrument in his hands with great care and put the telescope to his eye. How did this Borda Circle tell them where they were? she wondered. Perhaps one day she would be brave enough to ask.

  The General passed the instrument to Beautemps-Beaupré. ‘The boy is a brilliant cartographer,’ the General had told her proudly. ‘Been in the map business since the age of ten. Draws exquisite charts.’

  Girardin looked doubtfully at the narrow-shouldered young man, the only civilian standing with the officers. Of a slight build and not much taller than herself, he looked insubstantial next to the stout Lieutenant Rossel. He maintained a meticulous care about his dress. Instead of a wig, his dark hair was curled about his temples and lacquered down so that even in a brisk breeze not one hair stirred out of place. He had the mannerisms of a sparrow, she thought, watching the precise movements of his small head. His nose was hooked and narrow and when he turned in profile she had the distinct impression of a beak.

  To complete the trio of navigators was the lanky Lieutenant Saint-Aignan. In the evenings, this officer liked to practise his violin, his angular form silhouetted against the colours of the sunset, knee raised, elbows pointed, chasing the sailors from the deck with his endless scales. Now without his violin, she noticed his hands fidgeted. He shifted from foot to foot waiting for his chance to hold the navigation instrument. Beautemps-Beaupré seemed reluctant to relinquish control.

  Girardin lingered on the gangway, in no hurry to return to the galley, even though she knew she must. Soon there would be fish to prepare for the sailors’ dinner and she would need to warn the cook. The duties of a steward were diverse, she had discovered. Not only was she required to take charge of the stores, plan the meals, bake bread for the officers and serve the General, but she had come to realise that the chef and all the commis staff reported to her. She was to be the leader of these men. The prospect terrified her.

/>   These past two weeks had confirmed her suspicions: Thomas Besnard was a pig of a man. She had watched him sniggering and whispering to his sous chef, Luc, only to fall silent when she walked into the galley. He left vegetable peelings and spilt sauce on the floor and benches. She was forced to trail in his wake, sweeping and mopping up his mess. His bulk seemed to take up the space of two men in their narrow enclave around the oven. His bowels rumbled and filled the air with the reek of rotting cabbages. And after each trumpeting release, Besnard would lean back, rub his rotund stomach and sigh with contentment. Girardin despised him. With heavy heart, she pushed herself out of the sunlight and down to the galley.

  ‘Fuck me, this stings worse than my cock after a week in port! Fuck it.’ Besnard sucked his finger. Girardin raised an eyebrow at the cook as she entered the galley. He held up his finger to display a splinter. The coarseness of the language had shocked her at first, but she had learned to regard the constant swearing as mere punctuation of the men’s speech. No simple statement should start or end without reference to fornication.

  Worst of all, she thought, observing the slovenly cook, he made her think of Etienne. The contrast was extreme. Her husband had been careful, deliberate, and had created beautiful food. People would travel from far and wide to visit the Café Lesserteur and taste Etienne’s famous leek-and-salmon pies. Girardin remembered the scent of sautéed leeks and herbs and the hot puff of buttery air when the oven door was opened. In the mornings, the sun would stroke their café with warm lemon light. She heard Etienne singing from the kitchen, while her son, Jojo, crawled across the black-and-white tiles towards her.

  Her father hadn’t wanted her to marry Etienne. Marie-Louise would’ve gladly left home at age fourteen like her sisters, but she had been repulsed by the men he chose for her—all of them lecherous, bulbous-nosed, claret-cheeked members of the guild. She watched as each of her sisters was sacrificed, while the colour and quality of her father’s wine grew richer.