This Thing Of Darkness (109 page)

‘Good morning, gentlemen. May I speak with you?’

FitzRoy looked up, pleased to hear his friend’s kindly voice, but one glance at Sulivan’s face told him that all was not well. His superior addressed the room. ‘You might as well all hear what I have to say.’

Three expectant faces stared at him, like seals waiting to be dispatched.

‘The Board of Trade has announced on behalf of the government that, as of Monday, the practice of issuing storm warnings and daily weather forecasts is to be discontinued.’

‘But... ?’

‘What ... ?’

FitzRoy and his two assistants looked at each other, bewildered, disbelieving, aghast.

‘It seems that the government has recently commissioned a report into the efficacy of weather forecasting from Francis Galton, the secretary of the British Academy. I have it here.’

‘Francis Galton?
Francis Galton?
But he is ... he is ...’

FitzRoy left the sentence unfinished. Francis Galton was Charles Darwin’s cousin.

‘His conclusions are as follows.’ Sulivan’s tone was funereal. ‘“That there is no scientific basis for weather forecasting, which is therefore of no value whatsoever. That the forecasts and storm warnings have not been shown to be generally correct, because of which there is no evidence of their practical utility. That the work of Vice-Admiral FitzRoy’s department has been prejudicial to the advancement of science, and has led the public to confuse real knowledge with unfounded pretences, and, in the end, to despise the former because the latter have proved to be unfounded. Finally, that there is no good reason for a government to continue to undertake the responsibility of issuing weather forecasts, or gale warnings to shipping.”’ Sulivan put down the report. This was one of the most difficult tasks he had ever been made to undertake. ‘I am sorry, gentlemen. In my opinion, the report is a scandal and a disgrace, and it is motivated, if not by sheer ignorance, then by political and commercial considerations. I have registered protests at every level, but to no avail. The decision has already been made. I am afraid there is nothing any of us can do.’

‘But what about the daily forecasts in
The Times?’
FitzRoy blurted out. ‘What about the — ’

Sulivan interrupted him:
‘The Times
had already indicated to the Board of Trade its intention to discontinue printing the daily forecast.’

A mixture of rage and panic welled up inside FitzRoy. ‘They have no idea of the mechanical complexity involved in preparing these forecasts!’ he shouted. ‘We are just three men, devising an instant forecast for the whole nation! Our evidence is blowing in the wind - Darwin can pickle his evidence, and pin it to a board, and study it at his leisure, for months if necessary! If we make a mistake, the elements will furnish a correction the very next day! If Darwin makes a mistake, no one will ever know, for the only correction is to be found in the scriptures that he chooses to disregard so casually! I am a scientist too - I know how little any scientist knows - Francis Galton knows even less than we do!’

‘I do not think it is about Darwin or Galton,’ replied Sulivan, miserably. ‘I think it is about money. Loss of revenue for the fishing-fleets, the costs of telegraphy — ’

‘So coasters and fishermen must die for the sake of pecuniary interest? Lest occasionally a day’s demurrage should be caused unnecessarily, or a catch of fish missed for the London market? Damn them - damn them all to hell! I shall pay the telegraphy costs myself, from my own purse!’

‘You cannot, my dear FitzRoy. You have given too much already.’

It had been an empty boast, FitzRoy knew. He had, in fact, given everything. He was severely in debt. Only the salary from his current situation was keeping his head financially above water: without it, even the house in Norwood would have to go. Grief, agitation, frustration and helplessness boiled inside him. It was all so desperately unfair. He wrenched open a nearby drawer, grabbed a handful of papers, and flung them on to the table.

‘Look - positive testimonies!’

One by one, he picked them up and read them out, almost hysterically: ‘Local Marine Board, Dundee: “Storm signals very generally appreciated.” The Sunderland pilots: “Great importance and great practical value.” The collector of Customs at West Hartlepool: “Much trusted and attended to by sea-faring men.” Mr G. S. Flower, collector of Customs at Deal: “The means of saving life and property to an immense extent.” The secretary of the Liverpool Marine Board: “Very valuable.”’

He flung the rest of the pile furiously into the corner of the room. ‘The secretary of the Liverpool Marine Board!’ he shouted, then tailed off, because he was aware that he was beginning to sound ridiculous, and because he never wanted to shout at Sulivan, not ever.

‘I know ...’ said Sulivan helplessly. ‘I am on your side ...’

He was shot through with guilt and sadness, not just for the end of FitzRoy’s dream, and for all the sailors and fishermen who would lose their lives, but because he knew that for FitzRoy it was the end. His friend was fifty-nine. He would never work again.

 

The reception for Captain Maury, of the US Navy’s Weather Forecasting Department, was to take place that very afternoon at the French embassy in Knightsbridge. Distraught as he was, FitzRoy realized that he could not in all conscience miss the event. He had been communicating with Maury by telegraph for years, exchanging ideas and information. Many of his suggestions on the compilation of synoptic charts and the analysis of meteorologic information had been incorporated by Maury into the work of his own department. Forward observing stations in America had provided vital information to statists in both London and Paris, at least until the outbreak of civil war in the United States had curtailed the flow, and the Canadians had stepped into the breach. Now Maury had travelled many thousands of miles to Europe. He was to be fêted by the French for his work, and awarded the Legion d’Honneur. It would be churlish in the extreme, thought FitzRoy, to put his own personal disappointment before his gentility; he must show a proper appreciation of his American counterpart.

He did not take a hansom cab to Knightsbridge. Rather, he dipped his head like a bull, not looking where he was going, and plunged blindly through the crowds, which parted as if by tacit agreement to let him pass. On the way it started to rain, as he had known it would, a fierce, lashing westerly stinging his skin, little spikes of rain hurtling down from lowering skies ahead. Dimly, he became aware that he was passing Hyde Park on his right.
It is where I used to walk with Mary on a Sunday morning,
he recalled, and he thought how much he loved her, and he wished that he could take her gloved hand in his once more.

Somehow, his footsteps took him of their own accord to number fifty-eight, a tall, cream-coloured block in the classical style with its entrance beside one of the park gates. He presented himself at the main door, a rather weary, bedraggled figure, the front of his dress uniform blotched wet. He handed his sodden frock-coat to a servant, and was shown into the reception room, which was already brimful of people. He refused the offer of a drink; nor had he any wish to make small-talk. Instead, he bleakly joined the queue of guests waiting to be presented to Captain Maury. After an interminable wait behind a large woman with a pince-nez, it was his turn. Maury proved to be a grizzled veteran of FitzRoy’s own age, with a thick southern accent and a pronounced limp, the result not of any military heroics but of a coach crash in his early thirties. The American pumped him by the hand.

‘Admiral FitzRoy, this is an honour indeed. I’ve long admired the accuracy and thoroughness of your work.’

‘On the contrary, Captain Maury, the privilege is entirely mine. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance after all these years.’

‘And how goes the work of you and your men, Admiral?’

FitzRoy paused. ‘Extremely well, thank you. Might I enquire after the prospects of your own department?’ He simply could not bring himself to share his humiliation with a stranger.

‘Well, as you know, everything has been in abeyance. Now the war is over I’m hoping to return to New York to pick up the pieces. That’s if they’ll have an old Confederate like me back. Still, if they won’t, there’s plenty of good men in my department ready to take up the reins.’

‘Indeed? How many are there in your department?’

‘Before the war, I guess there were about fifty men, but I shall be asking for more this time around. How many are there in yours?’

‘Including myself - three.’

‘That’s correct.’

‘And you issue a daily forecast for the whole of Great Britain?’

‘Yes.’

‘But - but that’s impossible.’

FitzRoy grimaced in acknowledgement, but had no time to reply, for the start of the presentation was suddenly announced, and Maury was whisked away. The French ambassador, the Prince de la Tour d‘Auvergne, a slight figure with an elegant spearpoint beard who resembled a sixteenth-century Spanish portrait, stepped on to a small dais at one end of the room. He welcomed his guests in fluent English, and spoke in praise of Captain Maury’s achievements. The captain, he said, had introduced the world to an entirely new branch of science. Hundreds of lives on both sides of the Atlantic had been saved thanks to the captain’s early-warning stations. Who would have dreamed it possible, he marvelled, even a decade previously, that one day man might be able to foretell the passage of the very elements. This was Captain Maury’s gift to the world. It was only right and proper that the government of His Most Excellent Majesty the Emperor Napoleon III should recognize the captain’s achievements by awarding him the Legion d’Honneur. Amid warm and grateful applause, Maury walked forward, bowed his head, and accepted his decoration.

The ambassador, it seemed, had not finished: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I must tell you that we have not one, but two distinguished meteorologists present this afternoon. We are fortunate enough to be joined also by Vice-Admiral FitzRoy, of the Statical Department of the Board of Trade here in London.’

FitzRoy started at the mention of his name. The prince’s speech had passed over his head largely unnoticed, like the clouds that had raced past him on his journey over from Parliament Street.

‘Admiral FitzRoy has made his own hugely significant contribution to the advancement of science,’ the ambassador was saying, ‘for it was none other than Admiral FitzRoy, the very man who stands before you now, who captained HMS Beagle, the ship that ferried the celebrated Mr Darwin around the globe. Without the admiral’s efforts, the great works of Mr Darwin might never have been brought to the public attention, for which endeavour we must all be truly thankful. As a mark of the considerable esteem in which Admiral FitzRoy is held by the government and people of France, I am pleased to invite him forward to receive this lasting token of our regard.’

Still in a daze, FitzRoy stumbled forward. Everyone was looking at him, applauding. The Prince de la Tour d’Auvergne was beaming at him, and thrusting a little wooden box towards him. He took it, and opened it. Inside, nestled on a meagre bed of straw, lay a small, mass-produced, bedside travelling clock.

 

It was dark by the time he got back to Parliament Street, and the gas-jets were burning low in the office. His two deputies were working late, no doubt, packing up their papers or telegraphing the shore stations to tell them that the forecasting service had been closed down. But no: his young helpers had left for the day. It was, in fact, the downcast figure of Sulivan that he found there, sitting alone behind the table in a pool of sickly yellow light. The fire had gone out. Sulivan looked exhausted, a picture of misery.

Sulivan, for his part, thought that FitzRoy looked broken and thin.

‘Jemmy is dead,’ he said simply.

FitzRoy did not reply, but hung his head and stared at the floor.

‘How?’ he said at last.

‘Of disease. What with the murders at Woollya and Mr Despard’s dismissal, the Patagonian Missionary Society has been finding it mortal hard to raise funds in this country, so it has concentrated on soliciting charitable donations for the Fuegians among the Christian people of South America. The missionaries collected surplus clothing in Buenos Ayres, some of which undoubtedly once belonged to those carried off by malignant diseases. They distributed it at Woollya. Somehow the infected miasma seems to have hung about the clothes, although I have been assured by the society that they were properly aired. There was an epidemic. More than half the Fuegians at Woollya are dead, most probably of the measles. Jemmy is among their number.’

‘Did he have a Christian burial?’ asked FitzRoy, almost inaudibly.

‘No,’ replied Sulivan, ashamed. ‘That is the worst part. It seems the Fuegians dispose of their dead by cremation, like many primitive societies. But they would not burn Jemmy’s body, for in his death-throes he had requested “to be buried like an English gentleman”. So they left him for the missionaries instead. The sailors and the missionaries, however, continue to blame Jemmy for the deaths of Captain Fell, Mr Phillips and the others, so they would not touch him, especially as he was diseased. His body was left to rot on the beach.’

‘Poor Jemmy,’ said FitzRoy, and a tear rolled down his cheek. ‘Would that he had never met me. “If I had not come and spoken unto them, they had not had sin. But now, they have no cloak for their sin.”’

‘It is just as Philos once said,’ reflected Sulivan. ‘Wherever the European has trod, death and disease seem to pursue the aboriginal.’

‘We were the disease. Don’t you see that, Sulivan? You, and I, and Darwin -
we were the disease.’

 

FitzRoy caught the last paddle-steamer across the river, and the last train back to Crystal Palace. The oil-lit carriages rattled. mournfully over the South London rooftops on their elevated causeway, a dark sea on either side.
Down there,
thought FitzRoy,
life teems amid the courts and alleys and slums, spreading like a virus, and it will not stop until the whole of creation has been infected.