Mr Darwin's Shooter (14 page)

They sailed through brown Brazilian waters, came about with a wallow, and entered the Bay of All Saints and saw the town of Bahia lying on the slopes and steaming after rain. The crew's jaws hung open at the idea of shoregoing but orders ran contrariwise. FitzRoy strode the quarterdeck, rattled his lid, and bade the sails snap in salute to other vessels, of which there were more than one hundred in the anchorage.

‘Boy!' the cry went up. Covington grabbed the holystone and scampered along the deck. If Capt had his way Covington would spend his time in Brazil caulking and painting and winning Fleet prizes. At least he would not die of fever.

The foretopmen mocked Covington as they dangled across the sky: ‘Pity the poor sailor, there will be no ran-tan-tara for Cobby.' They all had something on their minds to follow from getting their toes on terra firma. MacCurdy yelled he would be taking his pay in Portugee wine; Door bared his front teeth and said he would break curly heads; Robson, Hare and Rensfrey said they all ached for a handful of turf, and would grab it wherever, taking loud wagers on who would be first to harvest a moll. You would think from their bragging there was nothing else for it in Brazil but the breaking open of things.

Covington watched out for their gent, whose mind was
intent on getting ashore as strong as anyone else's. Darwin went below with King and Usborne, his designated companions for the day. Covington heard those midshipmen singing ‘A-Hunting We Shall Go' and wondered, was he wanting too much to have what they had? What law under heaven said no?

On the water a black slave appeared. He poled a tree-trunk with his master in a rowboat alongside, being protected by a gaudy umbrella. Crew hung over the rail appreciating the picture, some of them in thought, while others laughed. A second party of blackies appeared poling a barge carrying a heavy weight of old iron; it was an anchor, and they were in grave danger of sinking. A third boatload was heard keening, and Musters opined it was a happy song, but as for Covington, his heart was made heavy observing such poor niggers at work, because they reminded him of one of the last matters he and Joey ever talked about.

‘I doubt they are joyous,' said Covington, ‘seeing as how they have cramp-rings on their toes.'

‘
I
don't see no chains,' sniffed Musters, looking the other way.

‘An'
I
don't give a damn for anyone,' added King, tossing a plumstone at the unfortunates. When none of them responded, King answered a question that was never posed: ‘I have read all of Lord Byron, that's why.'

Nearby was a vessel of their own, the pride of the South American fleet, the man-of-war
Samarang
under Capt Paget, her sides as high as a golden cliff. Mr Wickham gave a great cheer, ‘God bless old England!' and was answered by the roar of many throats. On their starboard side was a leaky old tub called the
Rio Trader
, a Carolina slaver of ill-repute. Some of the men spat to see her, while others gave the low hurrah as men do when they take sides in an argument. On board the
Beagle
it was often said that slavery was a good thing in the hot countries; how families who
were against slavery at home, such as the Darwins of Derbyshire, would soon change their tune in tropic parts, where slaves could be heard singing at the tops of their voices. Chief of all slave enthusiasts was Volunteer Musters, a very schoolboy in all his virtues, full of facts about men expressed in a voice that belonged in choirs. ‘
I
would have one,' says he, ‘I would have six or seven of the rogues.' Covington gave allowance to Musters as one who had never dirtied his hammock with longing, who knew his fellow-men only as he knew toys. It was in this resemblance to Joey Middleton that Covington liked him; though in his difference from Joey—a want of heart—he itched to set him right.

Bahia made a fine perch for Portuguese men of wealth, with its whitewashed walls of mansions and churches, and palm trees clutching the sky. So bright was the sun that the walls created squared-off shadows in the afterlight of men's stares. The slave-masters lived above the swamps, wherein they tipped their chamber pots and flushed their drains, and if one of their Africans died by breathing the miasma, why then, it little mattered, they would go to the markets and bargain themselves another. Phipps ranted against the practice, speaking from the corner of his mouth as if he would strangle each word. Bahia was ever a place of slavery, he said, where a fellow for a few vintem could have another being for his keeping, and every Man Jack could have for his Miss a chosen black beauty—indeed, as many as his pocket and their jealousy allowed. Until recent times the murderous Portuguese ordered themselves carried in hammocks through the streets, pausing where it pleased them, making conversation while their slaves hung the hammocks on metal spikes, bearing their weight under the blazing sun of twelve degrees south.

Gent with his gear hauled himself on deck and awaited rowing to shore. Capt and the gent kept a distance from each other as was proper in those busy hours. Gent's tools
were a rock hammer and a gun. Under his arm he clutched a spyglass, that the Fuegians with good naval flair called the ‘bring 'em near'. He swept the wooded hillsides with it, capping and uncapping it excitedly, grabbing it to his eye while sweat tickled his cheeks. On his back he carried his rectangular basket slung by a canvas strap. He said he wished to enter the forests and clamber the hills and get himself a paroquet as soon as he could, and Covington caught the coat-tails of a dispute in his peevishness; namely, that Capt would not allow him a boat just yet.

During their waiting little Musters sped at Mr D, pretending to wield his Do-Little Sword, and the gent got his spirits up and played along, crying ‘
Allons!
' and praising Musters's swordplay as he slumped against the mainmast: ‘
Un petit morceau de tout droit, monsieur, au revoir.
'

Covington turned his back on them, tears pricking his eyes. He had the feeling of the boy who shambles through the schoolyard alone, too old for play, too young for mastery of his fellows; or mastery of himself, either, if the truth be told: the one left out of company who plots his victories thro' jealousy. He hoped Capt would relent his passions and give him leave to range about with his pocket-violin, as when he played in parks and along seawalls in Monte Video del Mar under Capt King. Covington appealed to Capt FitzRoy with a damp eye. Capt saw him not.

‘Tar bucket!' called Mr Wickham.

 

Covington worked around the foremast on his knees, caulking away to the strains of squeaky music. It was Carnival time ashore and the noise of it crossed the water and tickled the ear. He wanted to be gone from his duties, clicking his heels on cobblestones. He saw that Miss Basket was in the same mood. In her shoregoing finery she timed a jig with her rump and leaned over the rail, where her eyes
tangled with Covington's. You could almost say she chanced a smile; or as close to a smile as those gloomy Patagonians allowed. Down the back of her neck hung her ‘follow-me-lads', curls and ribbons gracing a plump shoulder. ‘Whoa!' Covington cried, in a show of high spirits, while Revd Matthews warned him with a hand gesture to bear away. ‘Boo!' Covington told him, and Fuegia poked out her tongue. Matthews said, ‘I w-warn you, Master Covington. I mean to reach Chapel without splashes of tar on her p-p-person.' So Covington set the tar bucket down, and Yorker being nowhere around, and Capt barking orders over the side, and Matthews thus blathering, he grabbed Fuegia's elbow and juggled her into his arms, whirling her behind the yawl amidships.

Matthews tapped his shoulder trepidatiously as he let her go: ‘I say, Master Covington, what's this?'

‘Wouldn't ye like to know.'

It was not until smoky sunset the next day that Covington won his ship's leave to go ashore. Mr Earle sat in their boat with his knapsack of paints. Door manned the sweep oar and contrived to bang Covington's shoulder with every pull. Covington wore white dimity trowsers fringed at the bottom, a muslin blouse with loose folds wherein he wrapped his Polly Pochette, and low on his eyes a straw hat bargained from John Phipps. He was easy and independent in his humour.

When Mr Earle turned his grin on Covington and asked if he would carry his load when they got to shore, Covington answered, ‘Carry your load yourself, sir,' and Earle much liked him for his cheek. ‘Anyways,' Covington added confidingly, ‘there are little boys for that purpose on the dockside.' Then, more loudly, he boasted past knowledge of Bahia's putrid alleyways, inventing jolly inns and pockmarked beauties standing in every
Door
. Mr Earle choked: ‘I hope you have brought presents for all your little bastards, Syms Covington,' thus making the lads howl.

‘I keep no count of my by-blows,' Covington answered, with Door knocking him sideways again. Thus his good spirits made play. Door stood in the stern, monument to a sailor's vanity, making Covington full proud to know him as one of their bark's finest; wearing a scarlet waistcoat tied with black ribbon, white dimity trowsers ditto unto
Covington's, his black hair oiled and tied in a pigtail, and, kept handy, a smart switch fashioned from the backbone of a shark.

Door leaned at Covington, and sang, ‘Be cheery, dear Cobby, let your heart never fail, while the bold
harpooneer
is striking the
whale
.'

Aye, Door was a rare lad. He stood ready, at last, to admit Covington into the charmed company of devils, which name Covington gave to the foretopmen ashore.

The
Samarang
's lads spotted them from the man-of-war's high decks. The
Beagle
's boat replied in like spirit, ‘Huzzah!' as they dipped under her bows. From aboard that great vessel came a buzz of activity that was like a beehive; it made Covington feel he lived in a walnut shell with hydrographic survey poor cousin to battle orders. But even so, England's navy ruled the waves. Light shone from the
Samarang
's gunports and tickled the water, mixing the colour of honey. Wee Volunteer Musters was drawn to the scene most keenly, the glory of battle as fought in Nelson's time being his greatest hope.

As they pulled across the bay Mr Earle reclined easy as an admiral, and continued philosophical: ‘Why,' he spouted, ‘the children of Love are more naturally and properly the heirs of a man's inheritance than the unwished-for consequence of dull conjugal duty.' Hrrumph to that, noted Covington, knowing it was Earle's way of saying he would spike a maid ere midnight, and damn the consequences.

As they docked Covington asked Musters if he was a-coming with him, but Musters bade him curt farewell in his piping voice, and leapt into the
Samarang
's boat among other boys, and was forthwith taken over to mingle with his gods.

‘Where to now?' the shipmates asked, jostling each other, singing, ‘
Once before we fill, and once before we light
,' and telling each other, ‘Long may your big jib draw,' and other low boasts about the night they had coming upon them,
when they would get themselves drunk and dance the matrimonial polka. They knocked Covington around the head and called him a dog's pizzle, but he allowed them to do as they wished, even to lifting him up and tossing him in the air while Augustus Earle paced alongside making his gap-toothed grin. They linked arms and hauled through crowds that were busy tossing bladders filled with water, which hit them, not Covington, putting the lads and Earle in a foul temper with all natives. It was there, between the water-front and the upper town, that Covington contrived to lose them at a wrong turn, and found himself alone with his Polly. ‘Seek and thou shalt find,' said the scriptures. So Covington set forth on the next adventure of his life, from which there would be no turning back.

He was not alone, exactly, for this was a night when slaves ran free all over the town. As Covington slipped between hosts of shadows he was grabbed by strangers whose fingers traced the lumpy ridge of his nose and whose thumbs dented the dimple of his chin in wondrous regard. Once, easy friendship would have grown from such prods. But Covington had no patience that evening. None either for the pleasures advertised dog-cheap at the door of every cunney-warren, where maids stood ‘
in cuerpo
' as was said, with their gowns falling open. Any foreign sailor they enticed was called John, and so Covington was called John Corona, meaning Crown, for his big pleasant head.

He lowered his chin and passed into the night. The air was thick as smoke. Lightning lit the heavens. At the far back of the town (high above a wild forest, as he was to learn) he was sent cowering into a stone doorway by a great rainstorm. The drops were big as silver eggs, breaking with a splash. There was nowhere else to go. Covington heard rapid guitar sounds, and found that where he stood was entrance to a donkey stable. Within, a quick-time was made that dinned his ears, out-sounding the deluge and setting his pulse racing.

The place was lit by lanterns. All around, some standing, some with legs up on rough benches, were gangs of mulatto
youths wearing bandannas, loose shirts and piratical pantaloons. They bade Covington welcome, and one he saw played a small four-stringed guitar like a ukulele, and one rattled a hand drum, and one tapped with a stick, and one had the face of a pug-dog: and that was the one who sang; and she was the ugliest wench Covington ever saw; but he must have been bewitched, because the voice that welled from her made his chest swell and his eyes water as if he knew all love in that instant, and would every time she groaned her passion. She was a dwarf who minted gold with every hard note she pushed with her breath, and between rounds drank from a goatskin of
vinho sangorino
. She said that her name was Leza, meaning beauty, a word Covington knew from
belleza
in the Español; and cocked her nose in the air with proud and ridiculous defiance as she spoke, for a beauty she was not, and never had been. Her ankles were thick and her bare feet stood flat on the floor like a hippopotamus's, and her thumbs were double-jointed and very long-nailed.

Covington experienced a longing to dance, to forget his life in its former part, and give welcome to the next, yet he soon found, if he dared essay a step with any but her, that this Leza came seeking him out, calling him John Corona— and grumbling at him as if he had done her special injury. She drew him to her side as if she would own him; and he swore from the way she looked at him that her songs had grown to be about him.

Covington did not like her game. It made him combative. One of the youths began to glare at him and mutter harm. It seemed Covington had displaced a favourite, the boy who played the
cava-quin-ho
, which name they gave to their wailing ukulele.

Some time in the night Covington pulled his Polly Pochette from under a bench and played English airs. The gang laughed at his music and Leza spat. He found resin
for his bow. He blew up a storm of notes to tempt their regard, and still they laughed, and rudely talked among themselves. But in a short while Covington hit upon a tender note; Leza made response with her vocal cords and sounded it too; it seemed they made it together; she rolled an eye, her throat shook like a string, and Covington's Polly pierced the gloom with a note she had never made before. Here was a strange coupling for you, as in like manner they played one instrument, Her Ugliness with her voice, Covington with his Polly-Meow. Dancers went past in close embrace; Leza moaned; there were shadows against the walls, and the
vinho
went round more times than Covington remembered. Then he knew not who he was, nor where, nor what hour it was.

Except that when, with a clatter, his Polly fell loose from his arms, he knew himself drunk as a rolling fart. He had had his fill of the fetid air and wanted to clear his nostrils, but was he allowed to leave? Ninepence to nothing he was. The singing showed him love, both sides of the coin. Leza had a grip on his waist like a bear's, and a breath as bad. Covington had scant Portuguese but understood the words of her songs too well: they spoke of jealousy and rage, and
he
was her chosen one, and
he
would have none of it, and so
he
gave her a kick in the haunch that daresay inflamed her passion to hatred. ‘
Lua na testy munha
,' she sang, which meant the moon was her only companion.

Covington saw the glint of a cutlass and was flung from the donkey palace, marched to the head of a ravine and bucketed in a tremendous roaring rainstorm. From there he was given a push. A pit opened under him. Struck a farewell blow of metal he went sliding down a muddy slope. Broken-toothed laughter followed, then faded.

For now, the town of Bahia was gone, swallowed into the no-place above. A bolt of lightning hissed. Covington's
legs jerked and his arms flailed, and he swallowed much mud. He tumbled one hundred feet.

To his surprise, when he stopped rolling, he heard small birds twittering in a forest, and saw through the mist the greyness of morning.