This Thing Of Darkness (21 page)

Jemmy, immune to the gathering crisis, chattered on obliviously. ‘Sometimes my people very hungry, in winter. No food!’ He gesticulated eagerly, rubbing his pot belly to indicate the unimaginable awfulness of not being able to fill it. ‘Then we eat old people. Put head in smoke, they die quick. Women eat arms, men eat legs. Leave rest. Sometimes old people run away. Sometimes we catch, bring back. Sometimes no find, die in woods.’

Fuegia giggled.

FitzRoy became aware that Bennet had dropped his spoon, his ruddy countenance frozen in horror. A single virulent green rivulet was making its way purposefully down the starched white of his napkin. FitzRoy felt his gut seize and tighten at the revelation he had unleashed, but he ploughed on with grim anthropological fascination: ‘But Jemmy, you have dogs. If your people are starving - hungry - do you not eat the dogs first?’

‘Oh no Capp’en Fitz’oy!’ laughed Jemmy. ‘Doggies catch otters! Old women no!’

Boat Memory continued to stare red-faced at the tablecloth. Fuegia Basket suppressed another giggle. A strange snorting guffaw bubbled up through the shallows of York Minster’s soup plate. It was the first time, FitzRoy realized, that he had ever heard York Minster laugh.

 

It was a very English dawn that broke over the Royal Dockyard at Devonport as the Beagle and the
Adventure
made their final approach: grey, featureless and nondescript, and therefore all the more welcome to the men, who had dreamed of such an English morning for the last four years. Here was the familiar heartland of His Majesty’s Navy. Even the statuesque ships of Rio de Janeiro harbour would have paled alongside the mighty men-of-war that towered above the Devonport quays and, indeed, over the town itself. But there was no hammering or banging to be heard as one would expect in a naval dockyard, no vibrancy, few signs of life, even. The men-of-war lay deserted, painted bright yellow against the elements, their yard-arms, masts and rigging stripped. The war was long since finished. The titans that had defeated Napoleon and wrested control of all Europe from the dictator lay chained up, silent but proud, reduced to this sorry state by clinical economic necessity. HMS
Bellerophon
, heroine ofTrafalgar and the Nile, wallowed rotting and unpainted, the cramped and sweating quarters below her decks packed with convicts due for transportation to Australia. The
Beagle
and the
Adventure
trod a silent path between these fallen giants, the men lining the rail navigating their own path between pride, regret and the simple thrill of homecoming. Alone on the grey wharf, a small crowd had gathered to meet the ships, for news of their arrival had travelled rapidly up the coast from Falmouth.

The four Fuegians crowded alongside the sailors, eager for a glimpse of the land about which they had heard so much.

‘This is Englan’, Capp‘en Fitz’oy?’ asked Boat Memory, for the third time, as if unable to believe the evidence of his eyes.

‘This is England, Boat.’

‘By the deuce, it may not look up to much, but this is old England all right,’ enthused King, who had not seen England since he was ten.

Indeed, it did not look up to much. The flat grey-green landscape; the uninteresting little town, wreathed in wisps of smoke, that stumbled down the eastern bank of the river; the broad, deserted avenue paved with marble chips that ran white and lifeless from the dockyard gates; none of these could be compared with the sights and sounds that the
Beagle
’s crew had encountered over the previous four years. But this was home, and the gaggle of wellwishers crowding the quayside was made up of friends and family.

‘I have dreamed of this day,’ breathed Boat Memory, and he looked at FitzRoy, his eyes a wet slick.

‘Jemmy too have dreamed of this day,’ said Jemmy, as convincingly as he could, although - in all truth - this was not the shiny golden England of his imagination.

And then the hush was broken, suddenly, by a monstrous, clanking, belching sound, which took everybody on board by surprise. The Fuegians reacted first, their self-preserving instincts honed, Boat, Jemmy and Fuegia diving for cover, the little girl whimpering in terror as she curled herself into a ball inside a coil of rope. York, undecided between flight and furious resistance, bent down to the deck and shouldered a massive spar that two crewmen would have been hard put to lift. Brandishing it like a colossal spear he stood, nostrils flaring, cheeks flushed, legs braced apart, ready to confront his adversary.

‘Good God,’ said Kempe in amazement at this physical feat.

‘He’s a ruddy marvel,’ said Stokes.

‘It’s a steam-ship, York,’ said FitzRoy, soothingly. ‘It’s just a steam-ship. A ship powered by steam.’

York, unsure whether to trust FitzRoy, stood rigid and transfixed, a perfect physical specimen poised to face down his enemy in mortal combat. But the steamer waddled past unconcernedly in the opposite direction, its big side paddle-wheels clunking ineffectually at the water, coal smoke belching filthily from its two chimneys.

‘They’ve witnessed the future and they don’t like it,’ scoffed King.

‘Have you ever seen a railway train, Midshipman King?’

‘No sir,’ said King, addressing his own feet.

‘Fuming like a grist mill and clanking like a blacksmith’s shop? When you have seen one such run smoking past you, then I venture you may understand what it is to see your first steam-ship.’

‘Yes sir,’ muttered King, suitably chastened.

 

It was not difficult to spot Sulivan in the reunion crowd, mainly because he towered over most of them. FitzRoy had to pinch himself to equate this giant with the slender eighteen-year-old midshipman who had bidden him such a tearful farewell two years previously. And then, of course, there was the conspicuous white stripe on his sleeve, which indicated that this was now Lieutenant Sulivan. The two men navigated through the throng and pumped each other’s hands so delightedly and so vigorously it seemed they must do themselves an injury.

‘My dear Sulivan - my dear
Lieutenant
Sulivan.’

‘It’s wonderful to see you safe and sound, sir — and not a scratch on the
Beagle
! Oh, but I am being remiss in my manners. Miss Young, may I have the honour of presenting to your acquaintance Commander FitzRoy of HMS
Beagle
. Commander, this is Miss Young of Barton End, and her companion Miss Tregarron.’

FitzRoy became aware of two young ladies, waiting patiently arm in arm at Sulivan’s elbow, and immediately swept off his cap. ‘The pleasure is entirely mine, ladies.’

‘Will you accompany us, Commander?’

‘I would be delighted, Miss Young. And might I be so forward as to enquire of your Christian names?’

‘Of course - I am Sophia. Miss Tregarron’s Christian name is Arabella.’

‘Do not Miss Young and her companion look well this morning?’ beamed Sulivan, although the rapt way he pronounced the words ‘Miss Young’ left no room for doubt as to where the compliment was aimed.

‘After four years at sea, my homecoming has been doubly blessed that I should find myself in the presence of such delightful company.’

The two women blushed prettily.

Like matching peacocks, they were arrayed in identical dresses of bright turquoise silk trimmed with broderie anglaise, their waists fashionably constricted, the outlines of their hips and legs concealed by a demure gathering of petticoats. Miss Tregarron, the chaperone, dipped the brim of her bonnet faintly and took a discreet step back into the crowd. Miss Young, round-faced and fresh with the beauty of youth, continued to gaze up adoringly at Sulivan. FitzRoy, too, stared up at his former midshipman, who had grown by at least three inches.

‘When I last saw Mr Sulivan he was but a middie, and very much a boy. Now he has grown into a fine figure of a man.’

‘He is five foot and eleven inches tall,’ glowed Miss Young, so close now to her beau that they were almost touching. ‘But I fear, Commander, that Mr Sulivan is demonstrating undue modesty this morning. Will you not tell the commander of your remarkable accomplishment in the lieutenant’s examination?’

Sulivan’s face suffused with scarlet. ‘I passed for lieutenant with full numbers,’ he confessed.

‘Only the second person in the history of the Service to do so!’ said Miss Young, so overwhelmed with affection it seemed she must burst. ‘Following yourself, of course, Commander FitzRoy.’

‘These are the most marvellous news!’ FitzRoy would have thrown his arms around Sulivan and hugged him then and there, except it did not do for naval commanders to hug lieutenants in the middle of the Royal Dockyard.

‘But it is you, sir, who must take all the credit. Everything I have learned about handling a ship, Miss Young, and I mean everything, I have learned from Commander FitzRoy here. Many is the hour that the commander gave of his free time in the
Thetis
to pass on his exhaustive knowledge of seamanship, from box-hauling to flatting in, from French shroud knots to selvagees — ’

‘Mr Sulivan talks about you continuously, Commander, in the most glowing terms.’

‘Mr Sulivan talks continuously, Miss Young, but not always accurately. All that he has achieved, he has achieved by his own hard work and intelligence — I will not accept one iota of credit. Do you have a ship yet, Lieutenant Sulivan?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Then we shall exert all our influence to rectify the omission. At least with full numbers you will not go to the back of the mates’ list.’

‘Thank goodness for that! Of course I do not have a handle to my name, and they say that some who are without must wait ten years for a berth — ’ FitzRoy smiled, and Sulivan coloured at the realization of what he had just said. It would be hard to find a more useful ‘handle’ than ‘FitzRoy’. Sulivan stumbled on, ‘That is, my father has a large family, therefore it was a great object to him to achieve so good an education for me free of cost — ’

‘Pray excuse me.’ This time it was Miss Young who had interrupted, her widening eyes fixed on the
Beagle
. ‘But is that ... a
little girl
I see on the deck of your ship?’

FitzRoy turned, just in time to see Fuegia dart behind the mizzen-mast with a cheeky grin. She was playing hide-and-seek with him.

‘It is, indeed.’ He laughed. ‘That is Fuegia Basket. Come aboard and I will introduce her to you.’ He proceeded to relate the story of the four Fuegians. ‘It is my intention,’ he concluded, as Sulivan helped Miss Young up the accommodation ladder, ‘to secure for them a Christian education in this country before returning them to their own, so that they might draw benefit as a nation from the advanced condition of our society.’

‘How wonderful, Commander - and how provident that the Lord has delivered you into our hands today! For I am acquainted with the Reverend Mr Harris, the vicar of Plymstock — he is the most prodigious friend of my father. He is also the local representative of the Church Missionary Society, whose very purpose is the provision of religious instruction to savages.’

‘Then we must effect an introduction this very afternoon - that is, if you are amenable to the suggestion, sir.’

‘Capital, my dear Sulivan - that would be capital!’

Fuegia ran up and hurled herself into Sophia Young’s turquoise skirts.

‘Pretty dress! Fuegia want pretty dress like this one! Fuegia be pretty lady too!’

‘Why, Commander FitzRoy, she is delightful,’ smiled Miss Young, stroking Fuegia’s wild tresses, ‘and it is to her great good fortune, I am sure, that the Lord has appointed you guardian angel to these poor unfortunate creatures. You have the power to give them life - eternal life - where once there was only misery and suffering.’

I hope so
, thought FitzRoy.
I only hope so
.

FitzRoy put down the
Hampshire Telegraph and Sussex Chronicle
in irritation. How the deuce had the journalist tracked them down to Castle Farm? And how did he presume to comment on the Fuegians’ satisfaction or otherwise, when he had yet to make their acquaintance? The
Morning Post
was even worse.

FitzRoy tossed down the paper in disgust. “‘Taken prisoner”? What do they mean, “taken prisoner”?’

Bennet felt it wiser to keep his counsel. Morrish, the phrenologist, looked up from under beetling brows but said nothing, and continued to unpack his Gladstone bag.

‘Please, what is “taken prisoner”?’ asked Boat Memory nervously.

‘It means you do not wish to be here.’

‘This is not true. This is a bad man who does not speak the truth. Boat Memory is happy to be here in Englan’. One day Englan’ and my country will be frien’s. Good frien’s, like Boat Memory and Capp’en Fitz’oy.’

‘That’s right, Boat. One day our two countries will be friends.’

But how had the journalists discovered so much
? FitzRoy was inclined to suspect the Reverend J. C. Harris, vicar of Plymstock, a fat, fussy, fluttering cleric, whose appeal to the Church Missionary Society had more or less come to naught: the clergyman had returned after a fortnight’s absence wearing a woebegone face and bearing bad news, a letter which declared brusquely that ‘The Committee do not conceive it to be in the province of this Society to take charge of these individuals.’ They had, at least, referred FitzRoy to the National Society for Providing the Education of the Poor in the Principles of the Established Church; an appointment had been fixed with the secretary, the Reverend Joseph Wigram, who was assistant preacher at St James’s, Westminster, when the
Beagle
reached journey’s end in London. She was due to set sail from Devonport on the day after the morrow. In the meantime, he had taken a vacant cottage in Castle Farm as a billet for the Fuegians, in an effort to protect them from prying eyes and from the international assortment of diseases for which Plymouth, as the hub of the country’s naval activity, was justly famous. He had also written to the First Secretary of the Admiralty, Sir John Croker, requesting special leave for Murray and Bennet to accompany the Fuegians onshore. It would be no great travail to navigate his way up the Channel to the Port of London without a master and a coxswain.