This Thing Of Darkness (44 page)

‘I say,’ murmured Colonel Vernon, ‘is that an
Indian?’

‘A Fuegian Indian, yes,’ confirmed Darwin.

‘Extraordinary.’

 

The men of the
Beagle
formed up on the mole between a rickety line of dockside cranes and a collapsing row of wooden sheds opposite. There they began their march into the city, through the long narrow avenues that followed the line of the peninsula. The river was a constant presence, a deeper brown here than at Buenos Ayres, but catching the sun, a dark rectangle glittering to left and right at every intersection. Legions of rats scattered at their progress, darting from their hiding-places in the mounds of vegetables, offal and stale fruit that lay strewn across the cobbles. Although the occasional crack of gunfire could be heard echoing down side-streets, there was no sign of the mutineers, who remained barricaded in the citadel. The city appeared empty, save for the occasional carrion, human and bovine, and the rodents busily gorging themselves upon it. The citizens, who were well used to such episodes, had wisely disappeared into their houses. The sailors could hear the eerie percussion of their own marching footsteps reverberating back from the walls, an intrusion that sounded almost impolite in the quiet, narrow lanes.

Beyond the moated, muddy walls of the city, the bay curved round to the west, where it swept up into the towering headland that gave Monte Video its name. There, atop the peak, sat the Fortaleza del Cerro, a white, elegant beacon risen above the chaos. The rough track to the fort was deserted. It took them a full two hours to march its length, FitzRoy striding grimly at their head. Darwin, who had matched him stride for stride with manly enthusiasm at the outset, began to sweat uncomfortably in his top-coat and thick woollen waistcoat, but he was determined at all costs to keep up. Bathurst, the consul-general, panted by his side, his little legs working like pistons.

Really, if its defenders had been determined, the fort would have been impervious to any sort of attacking force, unless supported by several men-of-war with heavy cannon. Certainly their approach — in fact, their entire progress around the bay - could have been spotted from the battlements without much trouble. But FitzRoy had been correct in his surmise: when they reached the edge of musket range he sent scouts forward, who reported that the fort’s gates were flung wide open. The building was guarded by just two men, both of them insensibly drunk by the looks of it and fast asleep. Six stealthy matlows were dispatched, who overwhelmed the guards and placed them under arrest. Within the quarter-hour, the
Beagle
party had taken possession of the fort.

FitzRoy and Sulivan strode out on to the high, flat roof and sized up the situation. A magnificent panorama presented itself. A distant church bell struck three at that moment, and the little white city set on its jutting finger of rock in the sunshine looked for all the world as if it were at peace with itself.

‘What do you say, Mr Sulivan? Two miles and a half as the crow flies? Well within the range of these sixty-four pounders?’

‘Absolutely, sir,’ grinned Sulivan. ‘They’re sitting ducks.’

The fort’s big guns, trained west and south to deter invasion by land and sea, were hauled round to the eastern side to face the citadel. Now the picturesque vista was gated off by the stark black silhouettes of the gun barrels, arrayed in parallel lines along the battlements. Geometric pyramids of cannonballs were hastily assembled at their base, proclaiming a veritable abundance of ammunition.

‘Señor Dumas?’

‘I should be very much obliged if you would lead a deputation to the mutineers. Kindly inform them that the Royal Navy has taken possession of the fort and the harbour, and that HMS
Druid
shall return from Buenos Ayres on the morrow. Their position is hopeless. They have until nightfall to return to their barracks, after which no more will be said about the incident. If, however, they fail to comply, I will begin shelling the citadel at first light. And when HMS
Druid
appears, I shall signal to her to do likewise.’

Dumas scurried off to carry out his appointed task. There was nothing left to do but to blockade the main gate, post sentries and wait. A store of juicy beefsteaks was located in the kitchens, which were cooked up in the little courtyard, and washed down with flagons of beer from the cellar.

Munching hungrily on a fat steak, Darwin was swept by a sense of exhilaration at their easy victory, coupled with a faint, muddled tinge of disappointment that FitzRoy had avoided bloodshed once again. Oh, to have
really
tested himself as a sportsman, to have potted a swarthy mutineer or two!

Colonel Vernon strolled over, a massive slab of grilled beef in one hand.

‘A very good afternoon to you, Colonel,’ said Darwin politely. ‘And how are you enjoying your tour?’

‘Well, to be quite frank, my dear chap, I hadn’t thought Uruguay up to much before today. But now I realize that the place is capital - simply
capital!’

 

The next day passed as if the revolt had never occurred. The mutineers had accepted FitzRoy’s offer, sobered up, and returned to barracks. For the citizens of Monte Video, life returned to normal, if indeed there had been anything abnormal about the previous day’s events. President Lavalleja returned from Colonia, and announced that FitzRoy would be fêted at a grand restoration ball, to be held at the Teatro Solis. The streets were mysteriously cleared of debris, the shops were opened, and the ladies of Monte Video recommenced their elegant daily promenade through the streets, in their close-fitting gowns and black silk veils. Veils that concealed not just their heads and shoulders but one eye as well, leaving the other to flutter its dark, enticing invitation; or so it seemed to Darwin and Hamond, who sat in the Plaza Independencia with Augustus Earle, admiring the spectacle.

‘They are veritable angels,’ groaned Darwin, as one lady sashayed by, her skirts clinging to the outline of her hips as she passed. ‘And most demure - the veil is a most demure touch. They are gentlewomen, there is no question of that.’

‘They d-do not walk, they g-glide,’ moaned Hamond.

‘It makes one realize how foolish many Englishwomen are, who know neither how to walk nor to dress.’

‘How ugly the word “m-miss” sounds after “s-senorita”.’

‘It would do the whole tribe of Englishwomen a great deal of good to come to South America. The grace of these Spanish ladies is almost ... well,
spiritual.’

Augustus Earle said nothing, but did not take his eyes off the view.

 

Darwin and Hamond had occasion to continue their conversation the following Saturday night at the Teatro Solis, where they sat in a gilded box observing the whirling dance-floor below. The ladies of Monte Video had exchanged their silken veils and slinky gowns for ostentatious hair-combs and the most extravagant peacock gowns, which - from above — unfurled as swirling rosettes with every swing of the wearers’ hips. The music was slower than at an English ball, and the dancing more formal, but it was one-on-one: there were no linked arms, no set-tos, no bow-and-curtsies. The dancers seemed to stare into each other’s eyes with a studied ardour. There was something unsettling about the cool, intense formality of it all, and Darwin began to feel hot under the collar. He noticed Augustus Earle, who had somehow managed to secure himself a dancing partner, advancing boldly through the fray. It was hard to say which was the more irritating: that Earle knew the steps, that he had bothered to shave and spruce himself up (the first time he had done so in many months), or that he had found a partner with such apparent ease.

‘That man,’ observed Darwin, who after several months’ abstinence had drunk rather too well, ‘is unduly forward.’

‘He has m-missed his step?’ said the equally inebriated Hamond, misunderstanding.

‘I mean, I fear that his intentions towards that good lady might not be as ... respectful of her honour as she might wish.’

Earle’s dancing partner chose that moment to throw back her head and let out a lascivious laugh, soundless above the blare of the orchestra.

‘The way her hair is b-brushed back into a b-bow ... reminds me of a p-painting of the Virgin I once saw. She has the s-same innocence.

‘And yet anybody here might ask her to dance. Anybody! There is no master of the ceremonies. The arrangements of the house are quite unsatisfactory’ Darwin warmed to his theme. ‘The event is entirely open -
entirely
open - to the lowest classes of society, and yet nobody seems to have imagined the possibility of disorderly conduct on their parts. How different are the habits of Englishmen, on such jubilee nights!’

‘Quite d-different.’

Augustus Earle had succeeded in snaking one arm round his uncomplaining partner’s waist.

‘One might fear for public decorum at such an event!’ Darwin grumbled.

‘Perhaps they are happy b-because they are not d-dead. All my friends are d-dead,’ said Hamond, balefully, taking another gulp of lemon shrub.

‘That’s true. They could have been killed in the revolution.
We
could have been killed in the revolution.’

‘We could all d-drown in the south.’

‘We could indeed.’

This particular thought crystallized, hard, in the mist of Darwin’s drunken reasoning. He could have died in the mutiny. Thank heaven FitzRoy had avoided a firefight. He might, as Hamond had so graphically put it, drown in the south. But he wasn’t ready for heaven yet.

‘If we d-drown, do you think we shall g-go to heaven?’ Hamond had read his thoughts.

‘Of course we shall.’

But would he? Had he not doubted the scriptures? Had he not questioned the Biblical account of the flood? Would the Lord not damn him in the hereafter on account of his presumption? Should he not atone, now, before it became too late?

‘Hamond?’

‘Yes?’

‘Do you think there must be an English chaplain here, in Monte Video?’

‘Of c-course. There is an English chaplain in every m-major city.’

‘Do you feel it would be wise to have the sacrament of the Lord’s Supper administered to us previous to journeying south?’

‘What - right now?’

‘When else? We set sail on the morrow. It is an ordinance that many see as a vow to lead a better life - a vow that might stand one in good order with the Lord.’

‘I s-see what you mean.’

And so it was, after a few discreet enquiries, that two somewhat confused gentlemen - fortified still further, following their earlier conversation - could be seen hammering on the door of a house in the Avenida Bolivar, in the small hours of Sunday.

‘He’s taking an unconsciably long time. An unconsciousonably long time.’

‘Perhaps he’s s-sleeping.’

‘It is a Sunday morning.’

Finally, they heard the sound of bolts being scraped back, and the door creaked open. A bushy-eyebrowed gentleman in a nightcap and gown stood before them, peering irascibly through the yellow glow of an oil lamp.

‘Reverendo Mr Maynard? We are British.’

‘I said what the devil do you mean, hammering on my door at this hour?’

‘We were h-hoping you might administer the Holy S-Sacrament. In case we d-drown.’

‘It wants twenty to two in the morning!’

‘We appreciate the lateness of the hour, sir, but it is most - most important that you administer the Holy Sacrarament, so that we do not go to hell.’

‘To hell? That is precisely where you deserve to go, waking decent gentlemen at all hours of the night! Get out of here at once, before I call the watch, do you hear? Go to hell indeed, sir! Good night, gentlemen - if I may call you that!’

Maynard withdrew and slammed the door loudly in their faces, leaving the pair alone in the darkened street.

‘Hamond?’

‘Y-yes?’

‘I don’t think that went particularlarly well.’

 

The Patagonian shore lay low on the horizon, no more than an ill-defined smudge of blue on the starboard beam. The Beagle plunged through the swell, holding her course loosely, sacrificing navigational precision for speed, lest any rudder adjustments slow her progress. FitzRoy was keen to get south, to carry out the task in hand. They had been delayed quite enough by indiscriminate gunfire, by army mutinies and by grand celebrations. The fossils had been successfully dispatched to England and the decks were pristine once more - how Wickham would have approved, had he been present. A repentant Darwin lay curled on the chart table in the throes of sickness, as so often before, except that this time the sea had little to do with his condition. Hamond, who was in a similar state, could enjoy no such luxury, but instead suffered in silence at his station, a pale, dull-headed presence on the maindeck. His only consolation, perhaps, was that his condition did not stand out, for it was the first morning of official winter beard growth. With the breeze getting up, and drizzle flecking their faces, all the crew sported rough coats, greased boots, southwesters and a day’s stubble.

There were exceptions to this grimy parade, of course: Jemmy Button could be seen promenading around the deck in a dress-coat of well-brushed scarlet broadcloth, a cravat, a fob watch and his favourite white kid gloves. He had manfully sweated his way through the tropics in this and similar outfits, and now that the weather had cooled down was reaping the reward for his persistence. All knew, however, that the smallest blemish on his boots, the faintest smear of tar or grease, would send him scurrying below, to where Messrs Day and Martin kept the officers’ shoe-cleaning materials. Jemmy was also clean-shaven, and York likewise, for the Fuegians concurred with the better elements of British society in regarding facial hair as rather primitive, more a matter for beasts than for men; although these days, of course, the two Fuegians used a razor, rather than plucking out each hair with a sharpened mussel-shell. As for their mentor, the Reverend Mr Matthews, he, too, wore no beard for the simple reason that he had tried and failed to grow one.