Landfalls Read Free

altogether. In the end, he puts on the plainest linen shirt he owns and a pair of ribbed white stockings, and over them a suit he’s borrowed from Antoine, another brother who is the same height as he. The waistcoat, breeches, and frock coat are all of the same, dark-blue woven silk—even the buttons are covered. Then he dons wig, shoes, and overcoat, in that order. He hesitates before picking up the thin, tasseled cane that Louis had pressed him to take instead of his sword. “Don’t carry a sword or a hat,” his brother had told him. “They will mark you as a Frenchman and an effeminate.”
    On his way out, Monneron appraises himself in the smoky mirror in Mrs. Towe’s entrance hall. He looks like a Frenchman who is trying not to look French, he thinks. And he hates the cane. What an absurd country, in which wearing a sword makes one effeminate but carrying a beribboned walking stick does not.
    Letters
    He steps out into the fetid, fog-drizzled streets and makes his way to the Bank of England, where he exchanges letters of credit for more cash than he’s ever seen in one place, much less carried upon his person. He’s grateful for Antoine’s tailor, who’s adopted the innovation of interior pockets in frock coats. It’s a place to stow the money. Still, he hurries into a cab, afraid the smell of so many bank bills will attract every pickpocket in London, and asks to be taken to an address on Oxford Street.
    Monneron has another letter with him that morning—a letter of introduction to John Webber, a painter who was the official artist on Cook’s last voyage. Monneron would have preferred an introduction to officers who’d served with Cook, but according to the minister, most of the officers who aren’t dead are at sea, and of the small number who are neither dead nor at sea, two live too far outside London and the others are too highly placed to approach without arousing suspicion. “What about Cook’s naturalists?” Monsieur de Lap é rouse had asked. “Can’t we approach one of them?” No, the minister said. Solander was dead. The Forsters were both in Prussia. Only Sir Joseph Banks, the famous naturalist from the first Cook expedition, was still alive and in London, but he was now president of the Royal Society and close to both the Admiralty and the king. “Don’t underestimate the usefulness of an artist as a source,” the minister said. Monneron and Lap é rouse had exchanged a glance, neither man convinced. What would a draughtsman know of antiscorbutics or appropriate items for exchange?
    The cab deposits him before a narrow, dignified residence on Oxford Street. The door is opened by a narrow, dignified servant. The man takes Monneron’s letter of introduction and soon after escorts him into a parlor where a man in a silk damask morning gown with a matching cap is finishing breakfast. When he looks up, Monneron is shocked by his youth.
    â€œYou expected an old man,” Webber says.
    Monneron cannot deny it. It’s been only five years since Cook’s third and final voyage returned to England without him, but it has already achieved the status of legend, and yes, one expects those who sailed with him to be grizzled old men.
    â€œI was only twenty-four when the expedition began,” Webber explains. Monneron makes some mental calculations: Webber is younger than he is.
    The artist invites his guest to sit down, then has his manservant bring another place setting. Monneron puts up only a nominal protest before making quick work of strong, hot tea, smoked herring, a slice of cold veal pie, and a roll with marmalade.
    â€œSo,” Webber says, “you’re going to the South Seas.”
    Monneron nods through a mouthful, then tells him about Don Inigo and the need for scientific books and instruments. Also, information on antiscorbutics. And advice about appropriate items for exchange with