Landfalls by Naomi J. Williams Page A

know the method’s limitations and do not need to be reminded. He also does not write about how he and Mongez tried—and failed—to calculate the height of the mountain trigonometrically, a calculation that could have verified the barometric result. It was a discouraging setback. They had the views they needed—every landmark clear—and had just begun to set up the surveying equipment, when the hired guides refused to remain any longer on the mountain. Their mules were out of food and water, they said, and no amount of money would induce them to stay. So Lamanon and Mongez were obliged to pack up their tools and descend.
    The marquis and the count will not hear about these troubles. Nor will they learn about Lamanon’s altercation with Monsieur de Lap é rouse right before the outing. How was Lamanon to know that the expedition would not cover the cost? He was taken aback when the commander informed him of this, especially as it was one half hour before the climbing party was scheduled to depart. Everything was in readiness—climbers assembled, guides present, mules packed with equipment, supplies, water, wine, bread, bean salad. A line from Candide sprang to Lamanon’s mind at Lap é rouse’s announcement: “My friend,” he wanted to say, quoting Pangloss, “this is not right at all. You go against the universal reason, and your timing is very bad!” But he saw the commander’s round, unliterary face, blotchy with impatience, and thought better of it. “Sir, we were about to leave,” he said instead.
    â€œI am sorry for that,” Lap é rouse said, though he did not look very sorry. “If only you had informed me of your plans in advance, Monsieur de Lamanon.”
    Lamanon sniffed. “I understood this to be a voyage of scientific exploration .”
    Lap é rouse raised his eyebrows and asked what part of their scientific mission required six guides, twenty-five mules, and enough food and supplies for twenty people. “This could come to a hundred louis ,” he said, and when Lamanon began to justify the expense (which, truth to tell, was somewhat more than that estimate), Lap é rouse said, with quiet adamancy, “Monsieur de Lamanon, this island has been colonized for centuries, its every part mapped and explored. This excursion is an indulgence. You may not charge it to the king’s expense.”
    Lamanon shrugged. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll sell my own account of the trip when we return to France, and reimburse myself from the proceeds.”
    At this, the other members of the climbing party, who had been staring at the ground or up at the sky during the uncomfortable exchange, came suddenly to attention. It was customary, and at times a contractual obligation, for members of such expeditions to delay publishing their own accounts of a voyage until after the commander had published his “official” account, a process that could take years. Lamanon’s retort was very like a direct challenge to the commander’s authority.
    Lap é rouse was not one to bristle over fine points of publishing protocol, however. He burst out laughing. “You won’t be the first author ruined by a book,” he said.
    Thus forced to pay for the outing himself, Lamanon waved away two of the guides and half the mules. The rigors and delights of the ascent soon put the unpleasantness with the commander out of Lamanon’s mind, although he was reminded of it three days later, when the guides insisted on leaving. The discomforts of the return trip did not afford Lamanon enough mental freedom to reflect that he was the one who had summarily dismissed the very mules carrying the extra food and water. As he and Mongez huffed their way down the mountain, he blamed Lap é rouse for their misery. “My dear Mongez,” he said at one point, “I could wish for a commander more sympathetic to the