This Thing Of Darkness (2 page)

‘The powder explosion blew away half of his brain. Never have I seen a man suffer so much. Such great agonies ... and yet he bore his fate with fortitude. He had’ - King paused, remembering the pitiful, mutilated creature brought squealing and snuffling back to the Beagle - ‘He had no eyes. He made little sense; he merely cried out. He became lucid again on the fifth and sixth days, even philosophical as regards his fate, in spite of the pain. Thereafter he lapsed into incoherence once more. He died on the morning of the twelfth.’

Admiral Otway exhaled at last. ‘Poor Pringle,’ he murmured to himself, and sat back heavily. The manner of Stokes’s death disturbed him, rather than the fact of it.

Sensing an advantage, King persisted. ‘It had become clear to me, from reports in the days preceding his death, that the balance of his mind had become disturbed. For instance, he stopped for four days to survey the gulf of Estevan, when the
Beagle’s
supplies were very nearly exhausted, a survey that I had most emphatically not commissioned.’

‘The south has the strangest effect on a man,’ offered Otway apologetically.

King held his ground. ‘I do not honestly believe, sir, that any of us had ever previously experienced such conditions. The weather was atrocious. The crew were incessantly employed. At Cape Upright, for instance, the Beagle was under way all night for four nights. Most of the crew were sick with rheumatic complaints. Four men drowned. Three died of scurvy. Conditions were little better aboard
the Adventure.’

The accusatory tone of his remarks, King knew, served no purpose other than to provoke Admiral Otway to mild discomfiture. It was mere sport on his part, his meagre reward for months of back-breaking toil. He had no reason to fear Otway, no need to seek the admiral’s influence: this was his last commission, indivisible, unalterable, fashioned in Whitehall. His future was already out of Otway’s hands. Both men were aware, too, that King had given Stokes the tougher task, ordering him west into the teeth of the gales that howled up the Straits of Magellan. The sad fact was that Stokes had been a bad appointment, a mediocre captain crushed by the pressure of his responsibilities. Goading his superior now, King realized, helped only to ease his own frustrations.

The close tropical atmosphere bore down stickily on both men, as Otway pondered how to put into words what he was going to say next.

King monitored a bead of sweat as it made its way down the admiral’s neck, then dissipated suddenly into the stiff, high-necked woollen collar of his frock-coat. The contrast between Otway’s immaculate, starched uniform and his own, battered and salt-bleached, struck him briefly as absurd. Instinctively he raised his fingers to the thick, grey-streaked beard that had kept him warm in the south. He had not shaved now for over six months.

Otway closed the book on King’s accusations with an expansive gesture, as if to sweep aside the accumulated disasters of the preceding six months. His action prompted King to refocus, to widen his angle of vision. Rio de Janeiro harbour spread itself gloriously behind the admiral, filling the sternlights of the
Ganges:
white sails dotted everywhere like a field of cotton in the sun, cormorants skimming home sleek with their day’s catch, the bright terracotta roofs of the new merchants’ mansions climbing the steep hillsides alongside their crumbling, mildewed predecessors. Otway had the air of a circus impresario, thought King, installed before this magnificent panorama in his shiny coat, looking for all the world as if he was about to produce a dove from a handkerchief. Abruptly, he realized that this was no idle simile. Otway was indeed on the verge of making a big announcement. The admiral’s fingertips met.

‘Clearly the Beagle requires a commander of considerable qualities. Someone whose powers of leadership are, er, commensurate with your own.

‘She needs someone who can inspire the men to hitherto unsurpassed levels of courage, fortitude and determination. Were the Service blessed with two Phillip Parker Kings’ - Otway squeezed out as much counterfeit sincerity as he dared - ‘I should have no dilemma. You have taken so much upon your shoulders, with so little support, that my gratitude to you knows no bounds.’

King realized, uncomfortably, where the conversation was headed and decided to interject, although he knew as he did so that it would be futile. ‘Lieutenant Skyring has commanded the Beagle these last four months, sir. Considering the morale of the men and the state of the ship when Captain Stokes met his end, the transformation that Skyring has wrought is little short of remarkable. I can think of no one better suited to this commission than Lieutenant Skyring.’
Who should have had the job in the first place,
he added to himself.

‘Indeed, indeed.’ Otway grimaced. ‘I have no doubt that Skyring is an extremely capable officer, and I am delighted to hear that he has made such splendid headway. However, the candidate I have in mind is a man of considerable capabilities. He’s my flag lieutenant here in the
Ganges.
Only twenty-three, but the most — ’

‘Twenty-three?’ King blurted out. ‘Forgive my interrupting, sir, but Lieutenant Skyring is one of my most experienced officers. He has knowledge of the area and the complete confidence of the men. I simply cannot recommend — ’

A little wave of the hand from Otway silenced the captain. ‘I have already made the appointment,’ he stated flatly, picking up a handbell and ringing it to attract his steward’s attention. The man entered. ‘Would you kindly request Flag Lieutenant FitzRoy to present himself forthwith?’

The steward gave a slight nod and vanished.

‘A ship’s captain, at twenty-three?’ queried King, in more measured tones than before. ‘He must be a highly impressive young man.’

‘I shall only make him commander, of course,’ replied Otway. ‘He shall be acting captain of the Beagle.’

‘FitzRoy.’ King let the name drip from his tongue. ‘Commander FitzRoy would not, I wonder, be a relative of Admiral FitzRoy, or of the Duke of Grafton?’

Otway smiled, sensing that King was now in retreat. ‘Let us simply confirm that Commander FitzRoy will have ample means to fit himself out. In answer to your question, Robert FitzRoy is in fact the son of General FitzRoy, the nephew of both Admiral FitzRoy and the Duke of Grafton, also of Castlereagh. He is a direct descendant of Charles the Second. But much, much more importantly, he is also the most successful graduate ever to pass out from the Royal Naval College in Portsmouth. Not only did he complete a three-year course in eighteen months, and take the first medal, he subsequently passed his lieutenant’s exam with full numbers.
Full numbers
. The first man in the history of the Service to do so. And before you enquire about his practical experience, for I can see the question taking shape on your lips, he has been at sea for nine years, lately in the
Thetis.
Bingham had nothing but praise. His record is nothing short of exemplary. I commend him to you, Captain King.’

There was a sharp rap at the door. Even his timing is exemplary, thought King.

Otway bade the young man enter. A slender figure appeared in the doorway, moved silently across the threshold, and seemed to glide into place opposite the admiral, where he dispatched the appropriate courtesies speedily but respectfully. There was nothing foppish about his elegance; King could detect physical resilience beneath his graceful manner, allied to a firmness of purpose. The young man’s features were fine-boned, his nose was sharp and his ears were too large, but the overall effect was a handsome one. His countenance was open and friendly, his long-lashed eyes dark and expressive.

‘Do you know Captain Phillip Parker King?’ Otway asked the new arrival.

‘I have not had the pleasure of Captain King’s acquaintance, sir,’ replied FitzRoy, meeting King’s gaze squarely with what seemed to be a genuine smile of admiration, ‘but few in the service could fail to be aware of his extraordinary achievements in mapping the western and northern coasts of Australia. Achievements for which’ - he addressed King directly - ‘I believe you have recently been awarded a fellowship of the Royal Society, sir. I am most honoured to make your acquaintance.’ FitzRoy gave a little bow, and King knew instinctively that the tribute had been sincere.

‘I have been discussing with Captain King your promotion to commander of the
Beagle,’
boomed Otway, no longer able to conceal the showman’s grin plastered across his features, ‘and I am pleased to make you his second-in-command.’

‘You have obliged me very much by your kindness, sir,’ replied FitzRoy, with a knowing nod to King. He’s a bright boy, thought King. He’s assessed the situation perfectly. Still, that’s no reason to give him an easy ride.

‘Admiral Otway informs me that you were a college volunteer. Sadly, the benefits of such a formal education were denied to me as a young man. So what precisely do they teach you in the classroom at Portsmouth?’

‘A great many subjects, sir. The full list is an extensive one — ’

King cut him off. ‘I am eager to add to the stock of my own learning. Pray enlighten me.’

FitzRoy took a deep breath. ‘I recollect, sir, that we studied fortifications, the doctrine of projectiles and its application to gunnery, hydrostatics, naval history and nautical discoveries — ’

King raised a hand. ‘Naval history,’ he said. ‘I’m interested in naval history. Tell me what you know of the history of your new command.’

‘The previous
Beagle
was an eighteen-gun carrier,’ began FitzRoy, cautiously, ‘which won battle honours at San Sebastian and the Basque roads. Her replacement is a ten-gun brig, Cherokee class, two hundred and thirty-five tons burthen, three-masted. So she’s strictly speaking a barque, but commonly known as a coffin brig.’

‘Indeed she is,’ cut in King warmly. ‘And tell me, Commander, why the ten-gun brig is known throughout the service as a coffin brig.’ All three knew the answer, that more ten-gun brigs were lost every year than any other class of ship, just as they knew that King was looking for more than that. This was a technical test.

‘The ten-gun brig, sir, is a deep-waisted vessel - dangerously so, if I might venture to say so. The top of the rail, I apprehend, is just six feet out of the water, less when fully loaded. Without a forecastle to turn away a large bow wave, she’s liable to ship water ... large amounts of water, sir, which are then unable to escape on account of the high bulwarks. So she’s prone to wallow, or turn broadside on to the weather. In which circumstances a second wave, shipped before the first has had time to clear, might well finish her off.’

‘Absolutely, Commander,’ agreed King with grim satisfaction. ‘It’s like trying to sail a spoon. So tell me, Commander FitzRoy, how you would modify the Beagle to address such limitations?’

‘I’d build a poop cabin and a forecastle, sir, to deflect the heaviest seas.

‘An excellent answer, Commander. Indeed, the work has already been carried out by your predecessor. Captain Stokes added a poop deck and a forecastle deck level with the rail. Altogether I’d say he added a good sixty inches to the height of the ship. Then again, Commander, in the Southern Ocean it’s not uncommon to encounter sixty-foot waves, whereupon the poop and the forecastle make damn-all difference.’

‘Indeed sir.’

‘Put bluntly, Commander, the greatest achievement of the late lamented Captain Stokes may well have been that the Beagle returned safely to Rio minus only one officer.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Do you feel you are up to the task of leading a crew of exhausted, half-starved and demoralized men through such conditions?’

‘I am determined, sir, that the men under my command will receive my full attention as regards to their physical and mental welfare,’ said FitzRoy, calmly.

‘The
Beagle
was also your predecessor’s first command. The pressures of that command thrust Captain Stokes into such a profound despondency that he shot himself.’

‘So I heard, sir. An awful incident.’

‘And you are sure you will remain immune to such pressures?’ FitzRoy hesitated, and for the first time, King detected a note of uncertainty in his confident manner. To his irritation, Admiral Otway chose that moment to blunder to the young man’s rescue.

‘The south is a place “where the soul of a man dies in him”. That was the last entry in Stokes’s log. He was quoting Alexander Pope, I think - eh, FitzRoy?’

‘Indeed sir.’

‘But then poor Stokes was a melancholy sort. Not like yourself. Hardly suited for such a lonely post. I blame myself,’ he added, in a manner that implied he did no such thing.

‘The men are convinced that Captain Stokes’s ghost still haunts the ship,’ King informed FitzRoy. ‘You have an interesting task on your hands, Commander.’

‘I’m beginning to see that, sir.’

‘A familiar face or two wouldn’t go amiss,’ offered Otway, ‘if you have any requests.’

‘I’d like to take Midshipman Sulivan from the
Thetis,
sir, if that’s possible. We were together in the
Glendower
as well
.
He’s a capital fellow, and has the best eyesight of any seaman I’ve ever known.’

‘I see no reason why not - provided Bingham has no objections.’

‘You’ll need a new master as well,’ put in King.

‘May I take Murray, sir? He’s a fine navigator, and ready for his chance.’

‘Of course, of course,’ replied Otway generously. ‘You may take Mr Murray with you. Murray and Sulivan it is.’ The admiral produced a sealed package from his desk drawer. ‘I have your orders here. You are to complete the survey of the South American coast from Cape St Antonio around to Chiloé in the west, as directed by Captain King. You are to take particular note of all safe harbours, and all suitable refuelling and watering places. You are to observe weather patterns, tides and currents, the nature of the country inland and the people therein, remembering at all times that you are the official representative of His Majesty’s government. You and your officers are to avail yourselves of every opportunity of collecting and preserving specimens of natural history, such as may be new, rare or interesting.’ Otway slid the package across the table. ‘You can read the details at your leisure, Commander, but I would draw your attention to one significant instruction: the naming of topographical features. Grateful as I am to find myself honoured in perpetuity by the title “Port Otway”, there has been a tendency of late to ascribe names of a more frivolous nature. I’m thinking in particular of “Soapsuds Cove”, where you presumably did your washing. And “Curious Peak”. What the devil was curious about it?’