The poor Montys; their early experiments were the source of much derision. And when you’ve been derided by the French, well… there’re no finer exponents.
Perturbed at the catcalls they were receiving on the streets of Paris, the siblings decided to commit to a public demonstration of their latest invention, ze balloon. Before a crowd of more than four thousand (actually, I have no idea how big the crowd was, and history has failed to record it, so I’m getting all post-modern on your arses and making it up) in a central Parisian square, they prepared their globe of taffeta, alum and sackcloth, lit the burners, and stood back. As this marvel strained at the tie-ropes, the Montgolfiers called for volunteers to man the basket. At that point, each of the more than four thousand French persons muttered something about his/her croissants burning and disappeared into the nearby narrow alleyways.
The king somehow missed the cue and was asked if he would care to take his royal personage up into the air. Non! He promptly ordered that criminals be press-ganged into the role, giving the Montgolfier brothers such a look as to suggest he considered them to fit the description.
Remarkably (this being France), no criminals could be found. In a desperate search to find suitable subjects to take the maiden flight, the Montgolfiers hit upon the idea of putting animals in the basket; to see how they might cope. After much debate on the appropriateness of various critters, they settled upon sending aloft – on the 4th of June, 1783 – a sheep, a rooster, and a duck.
And this is true.
The French wanted to see if living creatures could cope with the rigours of flight, so they sent up a duck.
Thus was born the great age of Enlightenment scientific discovery-through-experiment.
Some two decades on, methods of investigation and reason now dominated the scientific discourse. The thirst for empirical knowledge led to the funding and organisation of great scientific maritime expeditions.
On a calm morning in April 1802, the navigator-scientists Matthew Flinders and Nicolas-Thomas Baudin met along the southern coast of Australia. Legend has it that it was a peaceful encounter – and since, at the time, Britain and France were at war, this was taken as a sure sign of the rationality of men of science in this golden age.
But legend is a capricious dame, not always given to being truthful. Certainly, the meet began well enough. Flinders and Baudin shewed one another their ships and pored over maps together, sharing the benefits of their exploration and acquired knowledge. There were shoals at two fathoms here, averred Baidin, while bountiful fresh water could be found a kilometre in from the shore at this point. Well, Flinders replied, the natives are friendly along this stretch of coast, but much more difficult in their dealings here.
And so it went on. And would have continued, but for a disturbance that broke out among the idle sailors, milling about as they were on first one ship’s deck and then the other. As Baudin and Flinders stood with heads together over a freshly drawn map of the Yorke Peninsula, one particularly bored Jack Tar asked the Frenchy standing next to him, “‘ere, seen any flyin’ ducks lately then, ‘ave you Pierre?” It took a while before the insult was translated through the mass of French enlisted men. The captains remained oblivious to the gradual angry murmuring, but within minutes, there was an almighty stoush afoot.
Of course, official French accounts called it a melee. And it set back Anglo-French relations by, oh, some three minutes.
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