This Thing Of Darkness (27 page)

‘In that case, sir, I beg your permission to request a year’s leave of absence.’

‘I beg your pardon, FitzRoy?’

‘I request, sir, that I be allowed to take my leave of the Royal Navy.’

Jenkins felt his customary warm glow of pride as the children sang, sweetly and harmoniously, making the appropriate hand gestures that accompanied each line. The Indian girl was perhaps the most enthusiastic contributor of all: she wriggled with pleasure on her fat little thighs, a wide beam curving from one ear to the other. As the class moved on to ‘This is the way we wash our face’, the schoolmaster allowed his gaze to drift benevolently across the heads of his charges, until it came to a rude stop, as it always did, at the hulking form of the big Indian. He alone was not joining in, as he never did. His face wore the same brutal sneer it always wore. He loomed threateningly over the tiny children to either side, as always. What on earth had prompted the Reverend Mr Wilson to invite him here? And who in God’s name had thought to christen this remnant of base creation with the title of one of England’s finest cathedrals? The Lord did indeed move in a mysterious way that he should test his loyal servant Edward Jenkins so. Jenkins fingered the smallpox scars that had pitted his cheeks since childhood. There had been sterner tests before, and there would be others to come. It was up to him to rise to this challenge.

‘Now, children, there are seven things that are an abomination unto the Lord. Can we remember all seven?’

Several hands shot up.

‘Alice?’ He chose the most tentative.

‘A lying tongue, sir.’

Alice, a quiet, undernourished waif who walked in every day from a farm labourer’s cottage a few miles south of Walthamstow, had barely spoken a word during her first few months at the school. She ranked as one of Jenkins’s proudest achievements.

‘Very good, Alice,’ he smiled. ‘William?’

William, a rake-thin five-year-old lost in a large, ragged smock, let his answer slip out shyly. ‘A proud look, sir.’

‘Excellent, William.’ Such was the Lord’s way, he thought: to reproach him gently for his pride, through the mouth of a child.

It was Jenkins’s practice to disregard the claims of his more insistent pupils, but the other Indian, the one who was always gazing at his reflection in a looking-glass, had his arm so far in the air it was in danger of popping out of its socket. Like a scarlet balloon tethered to his front row seat, he appeared ready to burst.

‘Yes, Jemmy?’

‘Hands that shed innocent blood, sir!’ exclaimed Jemmy Button, savouring each syllable with undue relish.

‘Very good, Jemmy The Lord abominates hands that shed innocent blood.’

Why couldn’t the big one be as keen as this one, as willing to please? Not for the first time, he decided to tackle York Minster’s brooding presence head on. ‘York. Can you think of anything that is an abomination unto the Lord?’

The big Indian simply stared at him, a look of surly contempt on his face.

‘Do you have an answer for me, York?’

Silence.

Jenkins opted to provoke his adversary.

‘Do you all see this little boy?’ he asked the class.

An affirmative chorus responded.

‘I am very sorry for him for he does not allow the Lord into his heart. Are you not sorry for him, boys and girls?’

‘Yes, sir,’ chorused the class.

‘Let us all try to make him a good boy, for if he is a good boy, we shall all love him, and the Lord shall love him too. Remember, York, “A child is known by his doings” - Proverbs chapter twenty, verse eleven.’

Nothing. The barbarian simply did not react at all, but continued to stare intently in his direction. Jenkins admitted defeat, and moved behind him to the girl, the poor creature who had the misfortune to be betrothed to the brute.

‘And you, Fuegia, do you have something to tell the class? Can you think of anything that is an abomination unto the Lord?’

Fuegia smiled her biggest, most appealing smile.

‘Feet that be swift,’ she replied, in her thickly accented English.

‘Feet that be swift ...’ He waited in vain for her to finish the quotation, before supplying the remainder himself: ‘... in running to mischief, Fuegia. Feet that be swift in running to mischief.’

Really, the contrast between this delightful child and the feral savage seated in front of her could not have been greater. He reached out an avuncular hand and stroked Fuegia’s hair.

And then, he felt it again - that strangest of feelings. The tiny hairs on the nape of his neck rose as if charged with an electric current. His every instinct told him to run for cover, as if there had been a tiger in the room. He glanced round wildly at York, but all he could see was the back of his square, brutal head. It was as if the animal could
sense
his affectionate gesture towards the girl. He tensed, and withdrew his hand abruptly. A flustered pause ensued. A sea of eager faces was looking expectantly up at him, all except one. Jenkins pulled himself together.

‘An heart that deviseth wicked imaginations, York. You could have said, an heart that deviseth wicked imaginations.’

 

‘How utterly delightful is the countryside hereabouts!’ exclaimed Mrs Rice-Trevor. ‘And so close to the city.’

As the carriage clattered across the new metal bridge spanning the river Lea, the surrounding woodlands parted to reveal a marvellous vista of London beyond the marshes, distant clouds of kites wheeling above the city in the late-summer sunshine.

‘Why, all that smog and filth and wretchedness is rendered almost tranquil at such a distance, Mr Wilson. You are fortunate indeed to minister to such a peaceful parish.’

‘Sadly, Mrs Rice-Trevor, I rarely see it in the summertime. You see, I have a plural living.’ The Reverend William Wilson, who had become utterly entranced by Mrs Rice-Trevor, flushed with the sheer exertion of trying to impress her. ‘In winter, I minister to the people of Walthamstow. In summer I minister to the parish of Worton, near Woodstock, itself a place of rare beauty; but not even the considerable beauty of Worton, madam, would stand comparison with your own. We are most honoured that you are able to bless us with your society.’

‘Why, Mr Wilson, you are too kind.’ Fanny Rice-Trevor blessed the clergyman with a smile that flowed through his bloodstream like a tot of warm whisky, stirring every doubt he had ever nurtured as to his calling. ‘I am sure that the three Indians in your charge could not be more fortunate, Mr Wilson. Is that not the case, Bob?’

Suppressing a smile, FitzRoy took the hint and came to his sister’s rescue. ‘I think there can be no doubt that fortune smiled upon them when the Reverend Mr Wilson consented to admit them to his school. I trust they are advancing well?’

‘Oh, there has been considerable progress, Captain FitzRoy, considerable progress. That is, by the boy and the girl. The man is harder to teach, except mechanically. He is interested in carpentry and smithying and animal husbandry, but he is a reluctant gardener - apparently he considers it to be a woman’s work.’ Wilson smirked in what he hoped was a man-of-the-world fashion at Fanny. ‘Jenkins tells me that he quite refuses to learn to read. But in general I must report that they are well disposed, quiet and cleanly people, and not at all fierce and dirty savages. You have done a remarkable job in civilizing them, Captain FitzRoy.’

FitzRoy demurred. ‘I am sure that the credit is entirely yours, Mr Wilson.’

‘And what about the one who died, Mr Wilson?’ Fanny enquired. ‘Boat Memory - do they ever mention him?’

‘Never, madam, to my knowledge.’

‘Bennet tells the same story,’ added FitzRoy. ‘But he reports that when Boat died, the other three blackened their faces with a mixture of grease and charcoal from the grate.’

‘Remarkable,’ said Wilson.

‘Perhaps not so remarkable, Mr Wilson,’ suggested Fanny. ‘Do we not mourn the death of a loved one by dressing in black? In their society they have no clothing but animal skins, so they must decorate themselves in black instead. Perhaps they are not so very different from ourselves, after all.’

‘Perhaps not,’ murmured Wilson, unconvinced.

 

Coxswain Bennet watched as the carriage rattled into the centre of Walthamstow village. He tapped out his pipe on the old flint wall of St Mary’s Church and straightened his posture. He would be glad to see the skipper again. His paid billet in Walthamstow had been a welcome rest to begin with - keeping an eye on the three Fuegians had hardly been an arduous detail - but the inactivity had begun to . pall, and he was eager to return to sea once more, to man the
Beagle’s
boats and ride the waves.

A pair of watchmen moved to challenge the carriage - day patrols had been instituted in the light of the reform riots sweeping the countryside - but almost immediately relaxed again as they recognized Wilson’s rubicund visage at the window. The vehicle swept to a halt outside the Squires’ Almshouses, from where a little path ran up through the graveyard to the church. Bennet made his way between two lines of jumbled headstones. As the coachman jumped down to open the door for Fanny, he sprang forward to assist her. FitzRoy followed and pumped the coxswain’s hand.

‘It’s good to see you, sir.’

‘And you, Mr Bennet, and you. Mrs Rice-Trevor, may I introduce to your acquaintance Coxswain Bennet? Mrs Rice-Trevor is my sister.’

‘I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr Bennet. My brother tells me that he might not be here today, if it were not for your courage and resolution.’

‘It’s quite the other way round, ma’am, I’m sure. It’s an honour to make your acquaintance, ma‘am.’

Bennet’s features had reddened under his flaxen mop. Fanny had that effect on people.

‘All’s well in Walthamstow, Mr Bennet?’

‘All’s well, sir - no sign of any rioters or revolutionaries. To be honest, sir, it’s been a little dull. I’ve sometimes found myself hoping for a baying mob to come round the corner.’

‘I’m not sure I’d fancy your chances, Mr Bennet. The mobs are getting bigger. I read in the
Morning Post
that three thousand people have demolished fifty miles of fencing at the Forest of Dean. And the army have shot and killed several iron-workers at Merthyr Tydfil.’

‘The French have a lot to answer for,’ grumbled Wilson, coming round from the other side of the carriage where he had been attending to his luggage. ‘All of this is their doing. Good afternoon, Bennet.’

‘Afternoon, sir.’

‘Rest assured, Mrs Rice-Trevor, we’ll have none of that sort of thing in Walthamstow. The extra day patrols of watchmen will see to that.’

‘How very comforting, Mr Wilson.’

Bennet struggled without success to picture the two portly, middle-aged watchmen in their greatcoats and broad-brimmed hats, beating off a three-thousand-strong mob of starving farm-workers. Wilson, meanwhile, marched the party across to the infants’ school.

‘St Mary’s, Mrs Rice-Trevor, was the country’s first Church of England infants’ school, constructed and paid for entirely by myself.’

‘How very generous of you, Mr Wilson.’

‘My father made a considerable fortune, madam, from the manufacture of silk. The school has been established according to the principles of the great educator Mr Samuel Wilderspin. Are you familiar with Mr Wilderspin’s teachings, Mrs Rice-Trevor?’

‘I admit that I cannot say so.’

‘Wilderspin believes that the years between two and seven are a wasted opportunity. That the early period in a child’s life is vital for impressing those Christian values and teachings that might otherwise be debased by the beliefs and actions of crudely educated parents. By the time each of our children starts national school they have attained a religious and moral excellence, an understanding of personal cleanliness, as well as a basic standard of reading and arithmetic.’

‘How very laudable.’

‘Our children learn by singing and clapping. They are encouraged to learn, Mrs Rice-Trevor, and never beaten or punished physically. I can think of no better environment for the education of three members of a primitive race, whose mental development is akin to that of an English child.’

FitzRoy kept his counsel at this.

Bennet’s mind swam at the thought of the carnage that would ensue if Schoolmaster Jenkins ever tried to beat York Minster.

The party made its way into the school and through to the school-room that occupied the majority of the building.

It really was an impressive construction - light and airy, with arching ecclesiastical windows - quite unlike the gloomy workhouse conditions of the national school across the road. However self-regarding Mr Wilson might be, FitzRoy could only admire the generosity with which he had built and endowed St Mary’s.

Jenkins was midway through an arithmetic lesson when the school-room door opened. Every member of the class, except York, shot to his or her feet. After a brisk ‘Carry on, Jenkins,’ from Wilson, he continued to teach in that slightly stilted manner common to all schoolmasters under scrutiny.

‘We shall take our rhymes from
Marmaduke Multiply’s Merry Method of Making Minor Mathematicians,
’ he announced, brandishing the book for all to see. Tiny beads of sweat formed visibly upon his upper lip. The dignitaries were there to see the savages perform, he knew that.

‘Four times five are twenty - Fuegia Basket?’

‘Jack Tar say - his purse is empty!’ beamed the little girl.

‘Very good, Fuegia. Seven times ten are seventy - Jemmy?’

‘Now we’re sailing very pleasantly!’ Jemmy grinned across at FitzRoy, seeking approval, and won an answering smile.