The whaleboat approaches, rowed by Yankee sailors, the same sailors who delivered a calling card only an hour previously. He has it now in his breast pocket. It is a most unusual card, bearing the stamp of a Wild Turkey and the motto “America my country.” It has the name Audubon on it; the sailors will deliver the man himself, who stands in the bow in a rough wool jacket and fisherman’s trousers baggy with damp, his head covered with a sou’wester, out of which streams a tangled mane of chestnut hair.

Augustus Bowen steps up to Bayfield’s side; the lieutenant is a contained and dapper man, tall, lean, with pale lips. He and the captain have come through rough weather relying on one another. Bowen is perhaps less robust than his superior officer; he has had a cold since May. But it has not diminished his eagerness. This summer he expects a promotion.

“I’ve heard tell of the man in London,” says Bowen. “Have you?” “No, I’m afraid not.” Bayfield has not been in London for many years. His work keeps him in the Gulf of St. Lawrence five months of every spring and summer, and he spends the winter at the garrison in Quebec.

“A colourful character, sir. He stalks through London like a Chinese coolie with his immense portfolio strapped to his back, smelling of bear grease.”

“Bear grease? Has your godfather told you this?”

Bowen’s godfather is the Duke of Sussex, a fact seldom forgotten by the young man.

“Yes, sir. You see, Audubon calls on the wealthy to raise money for his book on birds.”

“I imagine that is what artists must do.”

“There is much controversy about the merits of the birds he paints. Enormous, slatternly, violent creatures.”

Bayfield removes his eyes for one instant from the approaching boat. “Is that intended to be a recommendation?”

“Opinion is divided, sir. Some call him a genius and are reminded of Byron. Others —”

“We shall put that aside while he is my guest onboard,” says the captain. Byron indeed. The poet’s work, despite or perhaps because of the scandal associated with his name, is a favourite with Captain Bayfield, although he is loath to declare his affection at the moment.

The artist swings himself onto the rope ladder, which has been lowered over the side. When he reaches the top rung, the captain steps forward, mild, tenacious, authoritative. As he holds out his hand in greeting, the three white stripes around his sleeve flash.

The artist sweeps off his sou’wester with the woollen flaps hanging down and performs a courtly bow.

“Good evening. This meeting is propitious.”

“Welcome on board. What a coincidence that we should arrive at Little Natashquan on the same day!”

“I come to beg your assistance.”

Bayfield is a good judge of men; he’s had to be. Within seconds he has recognized the case. Here is one of God’s blessed, gifted with elegance, charisma, and no small sense of theatre. The man before him is long-legged and still strong, although his waving shoulder-length hair greys at the temples. The eyes are soulful. The peaked face, with something of the child in it, beguiles. A restless energy manifests in his hands with their prominent knuckles, veins and sinews. He is brimful of himself and perhaps not to be trusted. But no, there is the gaze, full of candour; the handshake, sincere; the earnest spirit yearning to conquer a stranger.

Audubon meets the captain’s eyes but withdraws his hand quickly, and, putting his own two together, rubs them. “I have been very cold,” he says.

“The temperature is forty-one degrees. A little lower than normal, and somewhat difficult weather for surveying, with all the wind and rain,” says Bayfield.

“Desperate for painting birds. My hands grow quite numb as I sit at my table. And it’s no better for finding specimens; when the fog comes, as it has these last three weeks, you can rarely walk nor sail.”

“Desperate for painting birds. My hands grow quite numb as I sit at my table. And it’s no better for finding specimens; when the fog comes, as it has these last three weeks, you can rarely walk nor sail.”

“On shore you will be driven mad by moschettoes and blackflies,” says the captain. “The men working at the rigging smear themselves with paint, oil and tar. It helps a little. But — I suppose the weather suits the birds.”

“The birds, but not those who pursue them.”

“You count yourself amongst their predators?”

“I am afraid I must.” The artist smiles. “But I prey on them out of love.”

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Excerpted from Creation by Katherine Govier Copyright© 2002 by Katherine Govier. Excerpted by permission of Random House of Canada, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

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