This Thing Of Darkness (31 page)

‘When it is dark, London not sleeps.’

‘No, Jemmy, it never does. The chop-houses and beef-houses and public-houses will stay open half the night. The oyster-rooms by the theatres in the Strand will still be packed at three o’clock in the morning.’

‘Not like Walthamstow.’

‘No, Jemmy, not like Walthamstow.’

Fuegia had danced away from them now, fifty yards up the street, bathing herself in the candlelight, immersing herself in its glow. And then she stopped by the coal-black entrance to a side alley, like a mouse transfixed by an aperture that it feels compelled to enter. Suddenly, she was gone, sucked by curiosity into the dark hole of the rookeries. Bennet shouted a warning, but it was too late. He began to run, his feet slipping on the cobbles. Something streaked past him and he knew it was York, his immense, muscular frame devouring the intervening distance at an inhuman speed. Somewhere behind them, picking his way delicately between the mounds of horse dung, a little cry indicated that Jemmy was falling behind. They were becoming separated. It was the worst thing that could happen, but Bennet did not have time to think what to do. He reached the entrance to the passage that had consumed Fuegia and York. There was no sign of them. Panic iced through his stomach. He plunged in.

He found himself in a rabbit warren thick with urine and human faeces, the stench strong enough to stop a horse in its tracks. A maze of filthy, ill-constructed courts and alleys led away in all directions. As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he became aware of faces staring at him: wan children crouched in filthy staircases, their eyes filled with futility and despair. He chose a passageway randomly, and ran down it: another junction. A rushlight glowing in a glassless window provided the only glimmer. He took the right fork, between crumbling masonry and mildewed fencing, disturbing a prostitute and her client, her ragged, greasy skirts gathered about her waist, a momentary glimpse of pink flesh. Then, down another dark court, a flash of yellow told him that he had found Fuegia. And there was York; thank God, he had found Fuegia as well. But they were not alone. Even as Bennet arrived at the passageway leading to the courtyard, dark shapes detached themselves from the surrounding buildings and uncoiled from the shadows.

‘What ’ave we ‘ere, boys?’ said a voice.

‘A werry respectable gen’leman to be aht on a night like this, an’ in St Giles an’ all,’ said another.

‘For why’s you fetched your doxy down our way, mister gentleman?’ said another, Irish-accented this time.

York did not speak.

‘My mate arksed you a question. Wot’s-a-do, cully, someone put a turd in yer mouth?’

Bennet never even saw the knife as it flashed from its owner’s pocket towards York’s kidneys. But York did; or, rather, he sensed it. As York spun round, Bennet saw that the Irishman’s wrist was pinioned fast in his vice-like grip. He heard the blade skitter harmlessly away across the cobbles.

Still York did not speak. He simply increased the pressure of his grasp, forcing his attacker on to his knees. Bennet could see the whites of the Irishman’s eyes, and the fear ringed therein. The man let out a cry of pain, but it did not sound like a human cry, more the whimper of a terrified animal come face to face with its own death. York took the Irishman’s windpipe carefully between the finger and thumb of his right hand; he looked straight through, into his victim’s soul, with cruel, hooded eyes. The other assailants were backing away now, their most primitive instincts beseeching them to turn and flee, any bravery they might have summoned up on their friend’s behalf long since evaporated. York’s finger and thumb began to close on each other like heavy machinery, twin cogwheels engaging with industrial precision. A faint gargle escaped from the Irishman’s throat.

‘York!’ commanded Bennet.

York froze.

‘We must leave.’

For a moment, York did not move, and Bennet feared that he might disobey. Eventually, however, the Fuegian released his grasp, and the Irishman slumped to the ground.

‘Come.’

Bennet tried to keep the quaver out of his voice. York took Fuegia gently by the hand and led her out of the courtyard, the little girl still beaming as if nothing had happened. As he moved forward, so the dark shapes fell back, deferentially, to let him pass.

FitzRoy reached the inn-yard of the Royal Hotel a mere half-hour after the arrival of the Portsmouth stage, to find a familiar, oversized, crumpled figure waiting for him.

‘My dear Darwin.’

‘My dear FitzRoy, please excuse my tardiness - but what a journey I have had! All London’s in a panic - there is a cholera outbreak in the city.’

‘My dear fellow, your lateness is of no account. You are safe and - sound, that is all that matters.’

‘I say, would you mind... ?’ Darwin patted his pockets. ‘I find myself a trifle short of cash at present.’

‘Of course, of course.’

FitzRoy distributed a few coins among the upturned palms of the attendant post-boys.

‘But what a terrible business! When I got to the Swan With Two Necks in Cheapside, all coaches to the West Country had been suspended. They said that rioters in Bristol had burned the Bishop’s Palace and the Mansion House, and a score of merchants’ stores, and had thrown open the gates of the prison!’

‘It is worse. Lieutenant-Colonel Brereton, the governor, has taken his own life - he shot himself through the heart - to avoid court-martial for failing to arrest the progress of the riot. And his deputy, Captain Warrington, is to be court-martialled for failing to order his troop to kill the rioters.’

‘Good God! The country is close to collapse! Luckily I managed to secure an outside seat by the Chaplin’s coach to Portsmouth, but I was made to sit up-a-top next to a stone-faced guard with a blunderbuss. Then I have been on this dreadful little rattly chaise for the last two days. Of course there isn’t a turnpike road between Portsmouth and Plymouth. In some of the hamlets we went through, we afforded so much excitement, one would think they had never seen a stage coach before. The road was a disgrace, and the wind was in the horses’ faces all the way. Between Wool and Wareham I thought my stomach was about to spill its contents. Heavens, it was a damnable place: flat, open heathland with one or two hovels and not a scrap of shelter. God knows how the residents live off such land.’

‘It sounds as if you have had the very devil of a time. Now that you are to be a seafaring man, perhaps you will take the steamer in the future.’

They took a hackney to the Royal Dockyard at Devonport, the clipclop of the horse’s hoofs echoing down the regimented lines of deserted barracks, the wheels crunching on the marble chips of the approach road. Eventually three statuesque masts hove in sight. They alighted and FitzRoy paid off the coachman.

‘Wait until you see the
Beagle
. She looks magnificent. She has been completely rebuilt, with mahogany and brass fittings. She has an entirely new upper deck, raised by eight inches aft and twelve inches for’ard. It has added materially to the comfort below decks - at last, one no longer has to bend double at all times.’

FitzRoy glowed with pride. The loss of the considerable sum he had laid out on the
John
seemed as nothing, now that he had the
Beagle
back.

‘I must say, FitzRoy, I was thrilled to hear that the voyage was reinstated, and doubly thrilled to hear that you had secured such a luxurious refit. Forgive my landsman’s ignorance, but surely she is a long way from being ready for sea? Is she normally painted bright yellow?’

FitzRoy burst out laughing.

‘My dear Darwin, that is not the
Beagle.
That is the hulk of the
Active.
That is the
Beagle
, moored alongside.’

‘
That
is the
Beagle?
I thought it a tender, or a tug-boat.’

‘That is the
Beagle.’

‘But she is the length of a cricket pitch!’

‘Come, come, my dear fellow, one must not insult a lady. She is a full eight yards longer than a cricket pitch - she is ninety feet long.’

Still taken aback, Darwin allowed himself to be led on board.

‘Here, let me show you your quarters. I have put you in the poop cabin, behind the wheel at the rear of the maindeck.’

FitzRoy threw open the door, to reveal a cabin some five foot six inches wide, some five foot six inches deep, and some five foot six inches high. The starboard and stern walls were lined with books from floor to ceiling. Just inside the door was the thick tree trunk of the mizzen-mast. Behind that was a large chart-table, and behind that, in the narrow gap between the table and the bookshelves, stood a thin, balding figure, blinking through a pair of bottle-glass spectacles.

‘Ah. Mr Darwin, may I introduce to your acquaintance Stebbing, our librarian? Stebbing is the son of the mathematical instrument-maker at Portsmouth. Mr Darwin is to be our natural philosopher. I should have explained that your cabin doubles as the library.’

Stebbing extended a limp finger for Darwin to shake, but the young man was too stunned to remember his manners.

‘See, Darwin — we have Byron, Cook, Milton, Humboldt, Lyell, Euclid’s
Geometry,
Paley’s
Evidence of Christianity,
all twenty volumes of the
’Cyclopaedia Britannica,
even Lamarck!’

‘My dear FitzRoy... the want of room...’

‘My dear fellow, this is one of the largest cabins on board. Even with the bookshelves, I am sure you will all fit into it most comfortably.’

‘All?’

‘Did I not say? You are to room with Mr King and Mr Stokes, whom I have promoted to mate and assistant surveyor. Stokes will need to share the chart-table with you. I should have said that your cabin also doubles as the chartroom. And as the locker for the steering-gear, which is under the table. But do not worry - Mr Stokes will dress and sleep outside under the companionway’

‘And where am I to dress?’ Darwin managed to gasp.

‘Here.’

‘And where am I to sleep?’

‘Here.’

‘But, FitzRoy, I see no bed.’

‘You and King are to sleep in hammocks, slung above the table.’

‘But I am taller than the room is long.’

‘Ah — not so. The wonders of modern naval design - observe.’ FitzRoy pulled out the top drawer from a chest built against the forward bulkhead, and indicated a brass hook in the shadows within. ‘The foot-clew of your hammock attaches here,’ he smiled.

Darwin gaped like a landed sturgeon. Midshipman King chose this exact moment to cross the deck, so FitzRoy hailed him and made the necessary introductions.

‘Ah, my cabin-mate,’ said King. ‘It’s good to have you aboard, Mr Philosopher. I’m sure we shall rub along just fine. I shall be happy to show you the ropes, of course, or answer any questions that may arise. You’ll pick it up in no time, I’m sure. Now, you must excuse me, for there is work to do.’

‘Er, quite,’ gurgled Darwin, and King made a businesslike exit.

‘FitzRoy,’ whispered Darwin under his breath, ‘I am sharing my cabin with a small boy’

‘Well, of course you are. Surely you would not rather share with our burly coxswain? This way you shall have all the more room.’

‘All the more room? I have just room to turn round and that is all.’

‘My dear fellow, why on earth should you wish to turn round? If you did so, you should be facing the wall. I promise you, I shall take the utmost care to ensure that this corner of the ship is so fitted up that you will be comfortable, and will consider it your home. Besides, you will have the run of my cabin as well. Come, I shall show you.’

They descended the companionway to FitzRoy’s cabin, which proved to be no bigger: another work-table, with a narrow cot to starboard doubling as seating and an even narrower sofa to port. A marine sentry stood guard outside.

‘This stout fellow protects the magazine hatch and the locker containing the chronometers. There are twenty-two in all, hanging in gimbals and bedded in sawdust. Eleven belong to His Majesty, six I have purchased myself, four were lent by the makers, and one has been lent by Lord Ashburnham.’

He threw open the door to the narrow locker. A thin, balding figure with bottle-glass spectacles had somehow succeeded in squeezing himself inside.

‘Stebbing winds them all at nine every morning. Only he and I are allowed to touch them.’

‘But how did he ... ?’

‘Oh, there are many routes about a ship. I have no doubt you shall learn them all in due course. Come, let me show you all my improvements. The canals of England have been overloaded with naval supplies these last few weeks!’

They headed back to the maindeck, Darwin feeling big and clumsy behind the wiry FitzRoy, who sprang exuberantly from one deck to another like a young deer.

‘I must confess myself thoroughly delighted that so many of the officers and men chose to return from our first voyage. Almost everybody volunteered for another tour, excepting Wilson, my surgeon, who has retired, and Mr Murray, the master, who sadly accepted another berth when he thought our trip cancelled. I had a positive herd of lieutenants to choose from. In the end I went for my old friend Mr Sulivan, recently qualified, and Mr Wickham, who was first lieutenant on the Adventure last time out, under Captain King. A splendid fellow all round - let me introduce you.’

A cheerful, hearty officer with a stentorian voice was directing refitting operations from the centre of the maindeck. Darwin found himself greeted with a warm, friendly smile: Wickham, who looked to be in his early thirties, had an open, round face, surmounted by a mass of short, dark curls.

‘So you’re the philosopher, eh? Excellent. Well, Mr Darwin, I run a neat and tidy ship here, so if you can keep your messier specimens out of my way, you and I shall be the best of friends.
Entiende?’