This Thing Of Darkness (41 page)

‘No, Mr Hellyer, he had not done anything bad.’

‘Then why did God take him, sir?’

‘Maybe God loved Mr Musters so much that He wanted him at His right hand. I can think of no other explanation.’

‘By God, it’s enormous.’

‘What the deuce is it?’

‘That will probably suffice with the pickaxe, Mr Sulivan. Here comes Philos to the rescue with his box of tools.’

‘Thank heaven for that.’

Sulivan stepped back from the earth bank, perspiring. Embedded in the indigo clay before them, surrounded by a starburst of broken shells as if propelled violently through from the other side, a vast head, half exposed, grinned out at them. It measured a good four feet from side to side, each lifeless black eye-socket a whole foot in diameter.

 

Darwin picked his way up the beach, shivering. A chill breeze blew insistently from the south-east, and snow was visible on the distant Sierra de Ventana. Behind him, the descending tide had exposed a muddy lattice of shallow, silt-choked channels, a treacherous labyrinth into which FitzRoy had not dared steer the
Beagle.
Up and down the coast, as far as the eye could see, low sand hillocks lay in endless serpentine humps, forming a drab backdrop to an equally lifeless shore. One or two of the nearer humps had been garrisoned by mangy vultures, no doubt hoping that the unusual activity portended a much longed-for meal.

‘This looks exactly like Barmouth,’ he remarked, to nobody in particular. ‘Except for the vultures.’ Then he observed FitzRoy and his officers, some fifteen feet or so above the high-water mark, clustered about a section of clay bank that had collapsed, exposing its innards. Then he saw what held their attention.

‘My God,’ he said, arriving. ‘What is it?’

‘We were hoping you would be able to tell us,’ admitted Bynoe, glad to hand over the baton of geological expertise.

‘We thought it was a rhinoceros at first,’ said FitzRoy, ‘but it is far too large. These teeth are many times greater than those of any land animal living today.’

‘What’s the stratigraphic diagnosis, Philos?’ said Sulivan goodhumouredly. ‘Tell us all.’

Darwin stared, transfixed, into the monstrous eye-sockets.

‘I do believe it is a Megatherium,’ he offered finally. ‘If so, it would be only the second to be discovered. The first was found at Buenos Ayres in 1798, and resides in the King’s Collection at Madrid - where, for all purposes of science, it is as much hidden as if still in its primeval rock. This is an incredible discovery!’

‘How long has it been buried here, Philos?’

‘Well, this earth is a conglomerate of quartz and jasper pebbles, which means it is comparatively new in geological terms. And these broken shells must also be of recent origin — all these creatures are extant today. This creature cannot be more than a few thousand years old.’

He indicated a small section of shoulder-plate that had been exposed by Sulivan’s pickaxe, below the jaw-bone.

‘Do you see how its bones have been buried in alignment? That suggests its remains were fresh and still united by their ligaments when they were deposited in the silt. This creature appears to have drowned.’

‘Yet it is fifteen feet above the high-water mark,’ FitzRoy pointed out, his heart thumping at the implication.

‘Bless me, Philos,’ said Sulivan excitedly, ‘these could be the remains of an animal wiped out in the great flood itself. An animal too large to fit into the ark.’

FitzRoy observed that Darwin chose not to reply. Instead, the philosopher began to scratch at the exposed bank, where a number of jet-black plates, septagonal in shape and osseous in nature, protruded like bad teeth between the jumble of white shells.

‘What are they, Philos? Are they part of its carapace?’

‘I would say these were typical of the plates on an armadillo’s back. Except they are enormous. To sport such a coat, an armadillo would have to be the size of a carriage - perhaps eight feet high and ten feet long.’

‘A giant armadillo!’ Midshipman King conjured up a thrilling mental image of the creature rampaging down Piccadilly.

“‘The end of all flesh is come before me,
”’ murmured Sulivan.

‘Let us not waste any more time in chatter,’ said FitzRoy. ‘It will take all afternoon to dig this fellow from his grave.’

So they set to the cliff with a will, the soft conglomerate rock crumbling before their onslaught, and gradually the head of the Megatherium emerged. Each took a turn at making bolder progress with the pickaxe, while Darwin took charge of the more delicate excavations and made notes with his bramah pen. Their task was almost complete when a shout from below alerted them to the presence of two schooners running into the bay. At least, FitzRoy could not find a better description than ‘schooner’: the two vessels were tiny, no bigger than the
Beagle’s
whaleboats, but each was possessed of twin masts and a covered deck. The lead schooner appeared to be crewed by a single sailor of quite enormous bulk, who clung to the mast shouting and waving, the little craft lurching from side to side so violently beneath him that it seemed he must upset her. The overall effect was that of a hugely overloaded bobbin, its spindle swaying fit to break.

‘He’s calling to us,’ said Sulivan.

Despite its ungainliness, the little schooner and its fellow-craft were being expertly piloted, sidestepping the muddy shoals and darting through the watery channels towards the beach at great speed.

‘The Bill is passed!’ bawled the man.

‘What’s that?’

‘Are you Englishmen, sir? I said, the Bill is passed!’

A shudder of excitement ran through the little group. The Reform Bill had passed through Parliament at last!

‘Mr James Harris, sir, and this is Mr Roberts.’ Florid with exertion, the fat sailor squelched into the shallows, crushing a dozen small crabs in the process. His face wore a just-boiled look.

‘Commander Robert FitzRoy, captain of His Majesty’s surveying-brig
Beagle
,’ responded FitzRoy, stepping forward. He threw manners out of the window. ‘Does His Majesty still reign or is there a republic?’

‘I know not, sir. We spoke to a mail packet bound for San Francisco. All I know, sir, is that every man of property shall have the vote. The Bill is passed!’

Every man stood thrilled, transfixed, but fearful, too, that there might no longer be an England to go back to.

‘You are sealers?’ FitzRoy’s practised eye took in the two vessels at a glance, both of them smeared with a filthy black cocktail of rancid seal and sea-elephant-oil. Harris and Roberts themselves were no less well greased.

‘That we are, sir. I constructed them myself.’ Harris gestured towards the boats, perspiring proudly. ‘The
Paz
displaces fifteen tons, and the
Liebre
nine. I converted her from a frigate’s barge.’ Roberts’s craft was little bigger than a coffin. ‘As you will have seen, sir, the channels hereabouts are too shallow to risk a brig at low tide, or a barque. But at high tide an open boat like your own runs the risk of being swamped. The tide races are strong and the seas are uncommon heavy. These vessels present the ideal solution. The decks keep out the waves. If they go aground, one simply steps overboard and heaves them afloat. And one’s own bodyweight answers admirably in trimming such craft.’

Yours especially,
thought FitzRoy uncharitably. ‘There are many such bays further down the coast?’ he enquired.

‘A hundred miles of them, sir, and each a maze of muddy creeks. But I am tolerably acquainted with them all.’

FitzRoy’s mind raced, and a plan began to formulate therein.

 

The two sealers had come ashore to visit the fort at Argentina, the last permanent military encampment on the coast, in search of supplies. In view of Harris’s advice regarding the incoming tide, FitzRoy instructed the shore party to pull the boats on to the shore and bivouac for the night, and went ahead with Harris and Darwin to the lonely outpost. A few miles’ brisk walk across a level greensward, cropped short by semi-wild horses and cattle, brought them to La Fortaleza Protectora Argentina, a squat polygonal fortress some three hundred yards across, boasting thick mud walls and a defensive ditch. The walls were pitted and scarred, their wounds a vivid testimony to the number and intensity of recent Indian attacks.

An assemblage of creaking pulleys raised the main gate at their approach, and a reception party issued forth to greet them. At their head was an immensely tall half-caste mounted on a lean horse; dark of visage, his combination of army uniform and Indian dress was as confused as his lineage. Behind him rode several gauchos, wild, unshaven and desperate-looking, each man liberally adorned with knife-cuts; yet they were as gaily dressed as if in the service of an Eastern potentate. Gleaming white leather boots with shiny spurs jutted up from hand-carved wooden stirrups; voluminous scarlet drawers billowed over their boot-tops; and above those, the whole was enveloped by the swirl of their brightly striped ponchos. Bringing up the rear was a far less impressive straggle of uniformed foot-soldiers, sad-eyed white boys taken against their will from the suburbs of Buenos Ayres. The leader of this curious platoon spoke, in slow, deliberate Spanish. ‘¿
Viernes de Buenos Ayres con provisiones?’
Do you come from Buenos Ayres with supplies?

‘I am a seal-man,’ replied Harris in fluent Spanish. ‘I have come to Argentina to purchase supplies.’

‘There are no supplies here. Buenos Ayres has forgotten us.’ The tall horseman spat derisively upon the ground.

‘There must be beef,’ objected Harris.

‘There is always beef. But who are these men? They are not seal-men.’ He indicated FitzRoy and Darwin.

‘They have come by ship from England.’

‘I am Commander FitzRoy of His Majesty’s Ship
Beagle.’
FitzRoy spoke for himself, equally fluently, while Darwin, who was still learning the language, struggled to keep up. ‘I represent King William of Great Britain.’

‘I do not know of such a place. You must report to the commandant.’

The three allowed themselves to be led through the fortress gate to the far side of an outer courtyard where raucous children played. A group of naked and frightened Indian prisoners crouched shackled together, gnawing at the carcass of a roasted horse.

‘What will happen to those men?’ enquired Darwin of Harris.

‘They will be sent north to be interrogated. Then they will be shot.’

‘They will be shot? In cold blood?’

‘You should see what the Indians do to white prisoners. Shooting is a mercy by comparison.’

The party was escorted to a simple room where pieces of rough wooden furniture stood upon a floor of beaten earth, and squares cut into the walls served as windows. There they were instructed to wait for the commandant. Two enormous pewter plates of beef were brought, one roasted, the other boiled, and an earthenware jug was filled from a water-butt in the corner. No cutlery or drinking-vessels were provided. Presently the tall horseman returned, fetched back by his curiosity.

‘Your country,’ he enquired. ‘It is to the north?’

FitzRoy assented.

‘Is it warmer or colder than here?’

‘Great Britain is colder than here in the summer, but warmer in the winter.’

‘I have heard of Mendoza, and the United Provinces, and of Roma where the Holy Father lives. But I have never heard of this country you speak of.’

‘I
have heard tell of Great Britain.’

The voice came from behind them: although weary in tone, its rich texture evoked the wisdom of years. All turned to see the
comandante
framed in the doorway. He was a lean, erect, narrow-shouldered man, somewhat lost in a bleached and frayed major’s uniform, his sun-gnarled face divided by a sagging grey moustache. In any other army, in any other part of the world, he would surely have been pensioned off many years previously. Clearly normal rules did not apply out here at the frontier, here in his personal domain.

‘Great Britain is a city in the country of London, which is connected by land to the United States of America. Am I right?’ The major sat down stiffly opposite FitzRoy, Darwin and Harris.

‘That is approximately correct,’ answered FitzRoy, diplomatically.

‘Please. Eat.’ He gestured to the two vast mounds of beef.

‘Will you excuse me?’ Darwin, whose fingers were still caked with the blue clay of the Punta Alta shore, poured water from the jug on to his hands and rubbed them vigorously. For good measure he splashed some on his cheeks, still flecked with mud from his geological exertions.

‘You are a Mahometan?’ asked the major.

‘No.’ Darwin looked puzzled.

‘Then why do you wash? I have heard that only Mahometans wash themselves.’

‘I am a Christian. In our country it is common for Christians to wash.’

‘You are a follower of the one true Catholic faith? You have confessed your sins?’

‘No ... I am not a Catholic, but I am a Christian.’

‘If you are not a Catholic, you cannot be a Christian. You must be a Mahometan. It matters not. If you have a God, then you will be safe under my roof. You are sailors?’

‘I am a sailor,’ clarified FitzRoy. ‘My friend Mr Darwin is a naturalist.’

The
comandante
looked puzzled. The term
naturalista
evidently fell outside the scope of his knowledge.

‘A naturalist is a man who knows everything,’ explained Harris helpfully through a mouthful of beef.

‘You know
everything?’
The major raised an eyebrow.