The Discovery Of Slowness (9 page)

‘What'll we do with those figures? Are we getting them clothes?' asked Sherard. ‘No, that's anthropology,' answered the scientist. John had to write down the names of the body parts they had measured: kaat – head;
kobul
– belly;
maat
– leg;
waleka
– behind;
bbeb
– nipple. It was a barter: nails and rings in exchange for weights and words.

When Matthew discovered the words for fire and arm – and therefore the Australian name for rifle – he ordered drumrolls on the shore, causing both white men and natives to assemble, full of curiosity. He lifted a rifle high in the air and shouted several times in Australian, ‘Fire! Arm!' Then he fired at a bailing-scoop which he had ordered placed on a rock and hit it so well that it was swept into the water. He had the rifle loaded again and the bailing-scoop put back in place. Now John had to fire. He didn't understand immediately – this was because he disagreed and didn't want to do it. For the first time in a long while he moved even more slowly than usual, but he couldn't help moving. He couldn't oppose Matthew.

The tin bailing-scoop made a lot of noise, and John was extremely slow. Matthew wanted to show the natives that even slow-moving Englishmen could produce sudden changes with a firearm. John had a steady hand and knew how to aim. He hit the tin. He didn't get applause, because Matthew had forbidden it. It was to appear like an everyday thing. The results were odd. The Australians laughed, perhaps in embarrassment. They never used the word ‘firearm'; they had a different word for a rifle. That birds and bailing-scoops keeled over when hit they had seen for themselves. Perhaps they didn't know yet that it would be exactly the same for people. Anyway, the whites had now arrived at the view that their superiority would be acknowledged by the savages, and so they again had more respect for their captain.

Since he now had some time, John sat in the top of a tree for a long while, observing both Englishmen and natives. He decided that the Australians, too, were now practising anthropology. Each time a boat came in from the
Investigator
they eyed and touched the smooth-shaven whites in order to assure each other that, even in the case of these newly arrived specimens, they weren't dealing with women.

During their entire trip along the coast, what John Franklin liked best was sitting in the foretop. He could see and hear reefs in time, for he never did or thought about two things simultaneously. It took a little while until he sounded off about surf he had
sighted, but it didn't matter if it was only a few seconds. It was only important that someone did not become absent-minded out of boredom or even start dreaming. ‘It literally smells of sandbanks,' said Matthew. ‘Have soundings taken, Mr Fowler, and send Franklin to the foretop – nobody else.'

John himself knew how good he was as a lookout. He was content to take his place. He thought, I'll be a captain who never goes under. A whole crew will stay afloat with me, whether seventy men or seven hundred. The different tinctures of the water, the scenery of the shore in the background, the endlessly straight horizon – his eyes could never feast long enough on them all. The navigation charts in front of him showed almost nothing but dotted lines or completely uncharted areas in the region of Terra Australis; at most he noted the words ‘Presumed coastline'. John's fantasy added, Presumed city-to-be, Presumed harbour. Every mountain he saw would some day have a name; roads would surround it. Continuously he spied for what Matthew called ‘the crucial bay' – a bay which would perhaps lead to a wide passage across the Terra Australis. He, John Franklin, wanted to be the first person to see that passage, even if he had to keep watch on the foretop two or three times in succession. Matthew had said that, too.

The captain had the power to name everything. Every island, every cape, every inlet, was therefore given one of the dear old names from Lincolnshire: Spilsby Island, Donington Point, and one fine day there was a Franklin Harbour in Spencer Gulf. John and Sherard at once imagined a city of Franklin which would grow there. Sherard sketched the outlines of the place and already knew now what would make the city rich: cattle-and sheep-breeding, slaughterhouses and wool mills. Sherard's special ship went to the South Pole every six months to pick up ice for the Lound Cold Store. ‘I freeze the meat and thaw it again when a famine breaks out.' Sherard's favourite story was the Feeding of the Five Thousand, and he would supply technical explanations. John agreed. He also remembered the jellied pig's head. The entire world could be as beautiful as life on a ship if only everyone did something that benefited others, too.

‘But you've got to be rich,' Sherard assured him. ‘If you're not rich you can't help anyone. I'll bring my parents over. They'll learn to read and will go strolling about all day long.'

John sat in the foretop and petted Trim the tomcat who was stretching out his body along the yardarm, lying at an unusual angle within reach of John's hand, hardly like the beast who had clawed him to get titbits of meat. Born navigators couldn't be separated for ever. For John, like the rest of the crew, believed firmly that Trim had the brains of a sailor. A story was told about him that he could coil the end of a rope, even reef a topsail. Also, he always looked at least half a mile beyond the horizon. Watching him carefully, one might even believe this. Spying through the slits of his pupils, he seemed to see a lot more than Matthew's bulldog eye, John's bird's eyes, or Mockridge's refined, complicated viewing-gear. If Trim looked anywhere with interest, something was up. And it was so now.

Trim looked far into the distance, as though the sea would reveal itself there and the great vortex would appear on the horizon. John followed his gaze but saw nothing. Whatever he could ascertain made a calm, regular impression. The picture was almost too symmetrical: the ship's bow below him, the coast to port, and, stretching out far to starboard, a calm ocean with gentle, distant cloud banks. But still there was something. A white rise above the sea perhaps twelve sea miles ahead – the tip was barely recognisable even through the telescope, possibly a rock. John sang out what he saw. ‘Could also be an iceberg!' he called below. For a good quarter of an hour longer he stared motionlessly. Why did the object come up so fast when they were doing only three knots? ‘A ship!' shouted John, and he stared through the telescope, open-mouthed. At once the deck below was crawling with people. A ship? Here? Matthew came aloft and convinced himself. Yes, it was a ship with square sails. Royal and topgallants were already quite visible; it certainly wasn't a craft manned by natives. ‘Clear the decks for battle!' Matthew shouted, and he collapsed the telescope. On deck there began a fearful scurrying back and forth, a slaving away like dogs with those damned guns,
which had to be heaved into place and cleared of rust with iron scrapers. From above, it looked as though the smooth, curved ship had suddenly burst into a thousand splinters with all the activity. Pulleys crowed, iron screeched, gunmounts thundered. Soon there would be real splinters. That surely was what John had seen in his dreams since the start of the voyage. Now death came and made it all true. Vacantly, John stared at the point on the horizon: with that point commenced all misfortune. Trim had long since gone below again and had crawled into Matthew's cabin, which the cats considered a safe place.

The drumroll began. Mr Colpits was flushed red with all the responsibility, and he roared as loud as he could. He had just two hours' time if the wind held. Numbly, John heard the familiar music: extinguish the fires; spread the sand, bring up the ammunition. It had again come to that.

An hour later he knew even more. The strange ship had two sails below the bowsprit, which John had heard about in stories: they were called the spritsail and the counter-spritsail, and they were used only on French warships. Soon he also saw the French flag waving. On the
Investigator
, Taylor hoisted the Union Jack. The largest sails were furled into bulging rolls of sailcloth to keep them from being shot to tatters – the French were known to aim for the rigging. The fuses were burning. Next to the helmsman already stood his replacement. But we have a pass, thought John. He tried to imagine Matthew's thoughts. They won't ask for a pass, he thought; they'll do away with our discoveries by sinking us. They'll name the land after their revolution; there'll be no Franklin Harbour! The relief man came up the mast. John made room for the sailor, then climbed down. Matthew exhorted the crew: ‘We won't tolerate this. If they try anything we'll teach 'em a lesson.' Of course, it was rather obvious that the enemy ship was better armed than their own. Besides, they hardly needed to shoot at the
Investigator
. The ship already took in eight inches of water per hour on its own account.

John now knew precisely what he had felt at Copenhagen: fear, panic! This time he didn't want to be fearful, although he felt strongly urged that way. He wanted to do the most reasonable
thing after precise observation and logical deliberation. Still half an hour – at most. Now they passed out the rum. Everything was prepared for a catastrophe. Whether they would survive it was another question.

John listened. Quite distinctly, he heard an order. Where it had come from was unclear, but it seemed to be a good order. John acted as fast as he could.

Sherard stood at one of the port guns and looked over to the French with awe. The beast had at least thirty guns. He turned to John, but he had disappeared. Yet – there he came from the back holding a folded white flag in his right hand. Sherard was confused. Taylor was the signal ensign. Somebody shouted, ‘Hey, Mr Franklin, what the hell …?' But John didn't turn. He seemed not to have heard. Leisurely, he tied up the flag and hoisted it – hand over hand – to the masthead. At that very moment, an explosion: a shell burst in front of the
Investigator
's bow. In the other ship the guns had long since been readied; it looked disastrous. Through all this noise, Sherard heard the second lieutenant say something coldly to John Franklin's face. Taylor came up and hurried to get the white cloth down again. That, however, entailed some difficulties. Any knots John Franklin pulled tight no Taylor could untie.

Then from the quarterdeck sounded Matthew's voice: ‘Leave the rag up there, Mr Taylor. What d'you think I'm giving orders for?'

Someone called from the foredeck, ‘Look at that!' On the French warship's mast a British flag rose high up and joined the Tricolor.

For one moment there was a deep silence. Something was still unclear to Sherard. Why John and not Taylor? Why then had Taylor …? But he couldn't think further. General jubilation broke out.

Le Géographe
was a research ship equipped with a British pass. Both ships now lay alongside each other; there was hardly any doubt left of their peaceful intentions.

‘
Fraternité!
' shouted the French. ‘Nice to meet you!' roared
Mockridge over to the other deck. Someone started a song, clearly in a wrong key; then followed a thunderous song in an amazingly correct harmony. The French weren't at a loss for songs, either. The officers on both ships had trouble making themselves heard even to those standing next to them. Trim appeared on the quarterdeck, testing, blinking his eyes at the scene, then lifting his hind paw languorously and beginning to wash himself. Matthew ordered his boat readied. ‘The captain is leaving the ship, gentlemen!' The midshipmen hurried to the main shrouds and raised their hats. The boatswain blew his regulation whistle. The ritual came off just as it did at home at Spithead, and perhaps that was all to the good in a situation in which one still didn't know how long the peace would last. The
Investigator
was still cleared for battle and had turned her broadside to the other ship. But perhaps this was done only to keep the gunner quiet.

‘What was that a while ago?' Sherard asked his friend, but he didn't know himself. Mockridge only remarked, ‘Mr Franklin has good eyes. He can sense many orders without hearing them – and even through thick walls.'

The ships remained together for the night and half the next day. The captains talked exhaustively, the crews waved at each other. War in Europe, peace south of Terra Australis. For the first time since the beginning of history, two European ships of different nations met in this part of the world – and they did each other no harm. Mr Westall said, ‘This was for the honour of mankind.' John was silent, but Sherard was under the impression that he was secure and lighthearted as never before. He even seemed to understand more swiftly what was said to him. John surely must be in league with a great good power, and above all with Matthew. And he's my friend, too, thought Sherard.

Meanwhile, Trim slept on a tarpaulin and Mr Colpits complained, ‘First all that slaving, then an eternity with the fuse in hand, and finally, like that cat up there, it's all gone to the dogs.'

I
n the captain's cabin of the East India ship
Earl Camden
stood Lieutenant Fowler of the Royal Navy and Captain Dance of the East India Company.

‘You'll have a great deal to tell me, Mr Fowler,' said Dance. ‘But you must first get back to England. Whom do you still have with you of the old
Investigator?
'

‘The painter Westall will be on the
Earl Camden
…'

‘I know his older brother. He paints good pictures on Biblical themes. I know one of them:
Esau Asks Isaac's Blessing
. All right. Go on.'

‘John Franklin. Midshipman. Eighteen years old, more than three years at sea.'

‘Good man?'

‘No complaints, sir. The first impression he makes is, to tell the truth, …'

‘Well?'

‘He's not exactly the quickest kind.'

‘Lead in his arse? Snail's pace?'

‘Perhaps. But of a special kind. No complaints. Without him, we might not have survived.'

‘How's that?'

‘When the
Investigator
eventually had to be junked, we left Sydney and continued our voyage on the
Porpoise
and the
Cato
. But two weeks later we ran aground on a reef. We saved ourselves in a single boat and reached a small sandbank with few provisions. The mainland was a good two hundred miles away.'

‘Most regrettable.'

‘When the captain took off in the boat for Sydney to get help, the first of the crew began to give up hope. The sandbank was no more than just a few feet above water level. Provisions were scarce. No one counted on the captain's possibly getting through. We waited for fifty-three days.'

‘And Franklin?'

‘He never gave up hope. He's probably incapable of doing that. He seemed to get things organised to last for years. We elected him to the Sandbank Council.'

‘What does that mean?'

‘The men were close to mutiny. Franklin convinced the most desperate among them that there was time and that a slow mutiny was better than a quick one. The Sandbank Council was the government of all for all.'

‘Sounds very French. But perhaps appropriate for sandbanks. Now, what special things did this Franklin accomplish?'

‘Right from the start he began building a scaffold on which to store the provisions high above ground. When we were done with that after three days, a storm came and flooded the sandbank but not the scaffolding. Because Franklin is so slow, he never loses time.'

‘Good. I'll take a look at him. And you, Mr Fowler? Could you perhaps train our guncrews? Peace is over again. We have to count on French capers.'

‘You'll let yourself be drawn into combat, sir?'

‘Possibly. My squadron will consist of sixteen ships, and none of them unarmed. Well, then?'

Formally, Fowler was a passenger. But he gladly took this opportunity to get in a few licks at Napoleon Bonaparte. He agreed.

Since the
Earl Camden
was not due to leave for a few more days, John Franklin sat idly next to the painter William Westall in the harbour of Whampoa watching what was being loaded. Ships with a draft of more than eight feet were not permitted upstream to Canton. They were waiting for their cargo here in Whampoa: copper, tea, nutmeg, cinnamon, cotton and more. Just now the
port officer asked for a sample from a bag of spices. John had heard that a lot of opium was shipped here, too – many thousands of cases a year. People who smoked opium saw colourful images and didn't think of how things might be improved. But in this bag there was only agar-agar – sea algae pressed into the shape of rods to be used to jell the juice of English pig's heads to make head cheese.

John also knew now what homesickness meant.

In the warm spring sun, the wall they sat on smelled exactly like the gravestones at St James's in Spilsby.

‘I've been painting the wrong pictures. This won't do any more. One has to paint differently,' Westall said in a low voice, with a furrowed forehead. ‘All I've done is describe everything in exact detail – forms of the earth, plant growth, human figures, exactly as in nature – to be recognised.'

‘But that's good, isn't it?' John remarked.

‘No, it's deceptive. We don't see the world as a botanist who is at the same time an architect, a physician, a geologist and a ship's captain. Recognising isn't at all like seeing; the two often don't even agree, and it's sometimes a less effective way of determining what is. A painter shouldn't know; he should only see.'

‘But then what does he paint?' John asked after extensive reflection. ‘He already knows a lot.'

Westall replied, ‘His impression. What is strange, or at least what is strange within the familiar.'

John Franklin, always looking on with a friendly and faintly surprised expression, was an ideal listener for relentless thinkers. Therefore he heard many phrases no one else wanted to hear. And he remained curious even when he hadn't understood. Thoughts strange to him filled him with respect. Naturally, he had become cautious. Ideas could go too far. Boatswain Douglas had announced shortly before his death that in infinity all parallel lines came together at a right angle. He had maintained this entirely without teeth and then died immediately – scurvy. John also recalled Burnaby, how he had talked about equality, smiling with wide-open eyes, yet at the same time often so confused. Caution could do no harm.

‘From now on I'll ask all possible questions,' said Westall. ‘Anyone who refuses to ask questions will do nothing right one day, not to mention painting.' He started on it at once: ‘For example, we think we know what's permanent in this world and what's changeable. We know nothing! Only at our best moments do we have an inkling, a presentiment. And good pictures contain that presentiment.'

John nodded and looked at the gigantic city built on water, a compound of junks and landing platforms. He listened within himself to see whether he had understood Westall's statement. Thousands of people moved and traded before his eyes – hungry as well as rich people. Everything John saw served trade: mat sails, parasols, walls with undulating ramparts, raftlike barges unloading, and the long poles used to punt them toward the larger ships. For days he had watched business life around him: grass mats being exchanged for copper coins, silk for gold, pieces of lacquered wood, or fragile things made of glass. What was truly significant was not immediately apparent. It's an element that is always present, an element not perceived the way a painter sees things but known by logical reflection: without patience no trade could be trade. Without patience, merchants were just robbers. Patience functioned like the escapement in a clock.

‘I'd certainly like to know what's permanent,' John told Westall, who had expected no answer and so had long since gone on talking. John felt related to the unchangeable, but it was difficult to grasp.

By now he had come to know so many different places; still, he had found no greater certainty among them. In fact, it was always questionable why the unchanging did not change. Why did the ostrich have feathers yet not fly? Why did the turtle wear heavy armour, whereas not a single fish did? Why did stallions grow no horns whereas roebucks did? ‘There's simply no certainty,' insisted Westall.

Almost more disquieting was the dissimilarity among human races, especially since opposites clashed in each one of them. Australian people supported themselves on canes and gazed slowly, but they could also grab fish out of a stream with their
bare hands as quick as lightning. The Chinese held their bodies upright with effortless tension; they appeared so proud. Yet if one spoke to them they made many bows one after the other. The French were solemn and enthusiastic and wanted to change everything, yet they used an infinite amount of time preparing and consuming their meals. They loathed English cooking even when they were on the point of starving. John had seen this himself in Sydney. As for the Portuguese, they always thought of the next earthquake and built their houses accordingly. But their churches were constantly rebuilt in the greatest splendour in just the places where they had collapsed. And the English! They were full of love for their country, yet liked to travel as far away from it as possible.

Westall nodded. ‘Nothing can be predicted. Nobody can give a reason why something happened in this way and not in another. Stronger than all predictions are coincidence and contradiction.'

John admired the painter. He was only five years older than John, yet had the strength to take up the challenge of things and to ask whether they really were as they appeared. For him, John, this wasn't the point at all. People who asked a lot of questions had to do it fast. Everyone tries to shake a questioner as quickly as possible. Moreover, John knew very well that one could not always agree with the answers. After an out-of-place answer one also had a sense of disquiet.

He would have liked to hear more about coincidences, especially about accidental death.

Denis Lacy was stretched out again before his inner eye. He had crashed down upon the deck from the topgallant, fifty feet up. Why did the quickest plunge down and not the slowest? Why did it happen after they had won through, and the remaining crew was on its way to Canton? John again saw the dreadful picture with precision. The entire city on the water could not cover it over. He saw the pool of blood Denis lay in with his smashed skull: bone splinters stuck through the cloth of his shirt like long spokes; his chest still heaved and sank; foam oozed out of his mouth and nose, then his heart stopped beating. To get away from this image, John recalled Stanley Kirkeby, how his backside
was bitten by a seal on Kangaroo Island, quite painfully, to be sure. But even here, why did something like this happen? Why didn't it fail to happen? Or the cargo officer being pitifully stung by a red jellyfish when he fell from the boat. The rash could be seen for weeks, and it had been the only jellyfish far and wide. Or Master Sailmaker Thistle and Midshipman Taylor, eaten by sharks when their boat capsized in the surf – why only they? Why not Mr Colpits, for whom this would have been at least no surprise? But he was the sort who didn't get lost. On the contrary. He now sat in Sydney, administering a warehouse by order of the governor, and ate regularly and well.

‘One should work out tables on how people live and die,' said John. ‘A kind of geometry.' He already knew how to do it. With constant measurements for all imaginable speeds. He involuntarily thought of the ‘time guardians' and of Matthew, who was now on his way to England with those invaluable charts, with the mail, and with Trim the tomcat. He'd see Matthew again in Spilsby. Sherard, on the other hand, had stayed in Terra Australis in order to settle and perhaps build a harbour. Nothing could keep him from it.

Mockridge was dead. Three men had drowned when the
Cato
had been smashed on the cliff, only three, and one of them had to be Mockridge. One could accept that people were different and that one liked some and not others. But that chance did as it pleased in these things, that was bitter. John pulled himself together and returned to his conversation with Westall. ‘That stuff about precision and presentiment – I still have to think about it,' he said. ‘I can't paint pictures. I want to become a captain. For that reason, I'd rather know as much as possible.'

‘And now let's hear what you've been through, Mr Franklin,' said Captain Dance. ‘Please give me a comprehensive report.' John had expected that. Dance wanted to form a picture of him. As far as the voyage itself was concerned, he had undoubtedly heard it all from Lieutenant Fowler. John was prepared. He had considered what would be pertinent in his summary.

Every report had its external aspect, which hung together
logically and was easy to grasp, and an internal one, which would light up only inside the speaker's head. What he had to suppress was that inner aspect, which would only have caused irksome stuttering and all kinds of mistakes in delivery. John therefore had to allow time for it without allowing it to affect the outer aspect. Only a few months ago he would have been inclined to repeat the last word of each passage for the sake of those inner pictures, before he would go on with his story. Now he knew how to make pauses. Cold-bloodedly, he took the risk that the other person might interrupt him and be offended if John didn't let himself be stopped.

He began with a well-rehearsed sentence. It contained the names of the ship and captain, the size of the crew, the number of guns aboard, the time and date of departure from Sheerness. From then on: key words, dates, positions, everything in as regular a sequence as possible. The information fixed in this way appeared generally valid as properly reported. Up to the encounter of the
Investigator
and the
Géographe
– thirty-six, Captain Nicholas Baudin – Dance had accepted his pauses patiently. At that point, however, he said: ‘Faster, Mr Franklin. What's there to think about? You were there, weren't you?' For that, too, John was prepared.

‘When I tell something, sir, I use my own rhythm.'

Dance swung around and stared at him with astonishment. ‘I've heard something like this only once. From a Scottish church elder. Go on.'

John reported on their two-year voyage round Terra Australis – or Australia, as Matthew would call it for the sake of simplicity. He spoke of Port Jackson, of their stay at Kupang on Timor, of the dreadful outbreak of just that disease which Matthew had sought to conquer. Numbers of losses. The ship almost sinking, kept above water only by the backbreaking pumping of the few healthy men left. What had happened, the dying, the pumping, the dread of falling ill – all that John packed into his pauses. Dance heard only numbers, geographical terms, and pauses. Port Jackson for the second time. The governor declared the ship no longer seaworthy, a wreck. For the voyage home via
Singapore the crew was distributed among the ships
Porpoise
,
Cato
and
Bridgewater
. Those who wanted to remain in the colony in order to settle there would receive permission. Long pause for Sherard Lound. A quarrel had not been in question – Sherard simply had his own dreams. ‘This pause is becoming too long,' Dance reminded him sternly. He feared the young man would be even more halting when they got to the first shipwreck:
Porpoise
and
Cato
at the same time in the middle of the night. No help at all from the
Bridgewater
, sailing in the immediate vicinity. Captain Palmer! East India Company man like Dance himself. He knew him from the early days. A miserable whist player; now, too, a sailor who neglected his duty. Ugh! Dance noticed, with amazement, that he had raced ahead of John's report and had therefore not been able to follow him. While he had exercised himself about Palmer, the midshipman had clearly overtaken him, and despite a long pause for the shipwreck, the noise of bursting planks, the screams of the helpless, the bleeding cuts from coral, and the dead Mockridge, Franklin was already on the sandbank with the provisions they had managed to save. Hunger and waiting. An officer shoots two men dead in self-defence. Fowler hadn't reported that at all. Franklin didn't say a word about the mutiny. He talked around it. The proposal to build rafts from the remaining wood and to paddle west was discarded. He talked more extensively about Flinders, their captain: ‘He sailed a good nine hundred miles in an open boat back to Port Jackson in order to return with three ships and save his crew. Matthew Flinders – an extraordinary navigator!' The midshipman concluded with a single sentence: ‘The people on the sandbank went on to Canton in the
Rolla
; only the captain' – here a small pause for Trim – ‘went directly to England on the schooner
Cumberland
.'