Free Landfalls by Naomi J. Williams

é ric.
    â€œSee for yourself, Monsieur Broudou.”
    After a moment: “There’s nothing there, sir.”
    â€œIndeed, there is not.”
    A voyage of exploration always entailed surprises, of course—interesting ones, like the discovery of new places and specimens and peoples, and vexing ones, like finding that an expensive barrel of wine in the hold had spoiled, or learning, too late, that the chief naturalist on board was an insufferable pedant. But this—the disappearance of an old Spanish town on the coast of Chile, a place that had been visited and mapped and described by other Frenchmen earlier in the century—was so entirely unexpected that it made one question the most basic verities, like whether or not one knew how to read a map or ply a sextant.
    Lap é rouse turned to look at their sister ship , the Astrolabe . Among the officers crowded at the port-side rail of her quarterdeck, he could make out his friend, Paul-Antoine-Marie Fleuriot de Langle, the captain of the ship. The peculiar way Langle had of moving, graceful and fussy at the same time, head held straight, hands never still, stood out from the other men even at this distance. Lap é rouse considered shouting over to him to see what he made of the missing town, but no, better not to. His bewilderment, once expressed, might sow real consternation among the men.
    â€œWhat has become of our port of call?” he heard, and turned to find Lamanon, the exasperating naturalist himself, climbing heavily up toward the quarterdeck.
    Lap é rouse made his way to the top of the stairs. “Monsieur de Lamanon.”
    â€œConcepci ó n should be right there ,” Lamanon said, pointing to the southeast corner of the bay.
    How did he know? He had not been included in any discussions about navigation—he had been specifically ex cluded from them, in fact. But of course: Lamanon probably had his own set of Fr é zier’s Voyage to the South-Sea, and Along the Coasts of Chili and Peru . The man had insisted on bringing so many books that the carpenters had had to rebuild his cabin to accommodate them.
    â€œWe’re still fixing our location, Monsieur de Lamanon,” Lap é rouse said.
    â€œPerhaps we have stumbled upon the Roanoke of the Spanish empire, Commander.”
    â€œDoubtful.”
    â€œMaybe the Araucanians have finally prevailed over their invaders,” Lamanon went on. “They are legendary for their long resistance to the Spaniards.”
    Lap é rouse inclined his head in acknowledgment, glad he had skimmed enough of Fr é zier to recognize the name of the local Indians, and determined to avoid an argument. Lamanon was a committed Rousseauist. He had not yet met any natives, but that did not discourage him from holding forth on their superiority over civilized men. Lap é rouse was tired of arguing about it.
    An officer called from the rail: “Two small boats approaching, sir.”
    Lap é rouse took his glass back from Fr é d é ric. “Monsieur Broudou,” he said, “please escort Monsieur de Lamanon back to the main deck.”
    Ten minutes later the boats were alongside. Lap é rouse’s officers pointed to where the town was supposed to be. “Concepci ó n?” they asked.
    The men in the boats—two in one and three in the other, all of them darker than the average Spaniard but not quite Indian in appearance—nodded. “S í .”
    â€œWhere is Concepci ó n?” the Frenchmen shouted down.
    â€œS í ,” the men repeated, then proceeded with a stream of Spanish none of them understood, accompanied by dramatic but no less incomprehensible gestures.
    â€œFran ç ais?”
    â€œS í !”
    â€œOh, for God’s sake,” Lap é rouse cried. “Monsieur Broudou, find someone on board who speaks Spanish.”
    Fr é d é ric grimaced apologetically when he returned, as behind him Lamanon