This Thing Of Darkness (51 page)

Once more there were farewell hugs and tears, and once more sleeting rain attended their departure. Only this time there was no oil-lamp glow to act as a parting beacon, for it had been smashed and stolen, the meaningless pieces shared out as far-flung booty. As the whaleboats glided out into the sound, the three little cottages were soon lost to view, swallowed by the primitive dark.

As the Beagle weathered the northern opening of Falklands Sound, the lookout spied a sail nosing above the northern horizon. The pendant numbers were prepared for the call-and-response.

‘From the cut of her topsails, she’s British,’ said FitzRoy, squinting into his spyglass, ‘but in these waters it pays not to take chances.’

‘Why? What chances are there to take in these waters?’ enquired Darwin peevishly.

‘Because our friends in Buenos Ayres are forever beating the drum about the islands belonging to them.’

‘I would have thought that Buenos Ayres was welcome to them.’ Darwin indicated the miles of low, dismal moorland and sodden peat bog rolling away to starboard. He pulled his benjamin tighter about him, as the raw wind sent another squall of hail clattering off his back.

‘My eye, Philos!’ objected Sulivan. ‘Why, this is God’s own country! There are fish in the sea and cattle on the land, and not a factory or coach road in sight. Here is nature in the raw! And where else, Philos, could you enjoy all four seasons in one day, except perhaps up a Welsh mountain?’

Darwin smiled. ‘I think you make my point for me most admirably. But what business have we here anyway, grabbing an island hard by the back door of Buenos Ayres?’

‘On the contrary, Philos,’ said FitzRoy patiently, ‘we did not “grab” the islands. John Davis discovered them in 1592, when they were quite empty. The French
thought
they had discovered them in the last century, and founded Port Louis, then sold the place to Spain. The British in Port Egmont only discovered the Spanish in Port Louis five years later. Not long after that the Spanish were kicked out. But they, and their heirs, the Buenos Ayreans, have been bleating about it ever since.’

‘Well, I think it looks a squalid little place.’

Sulivan clapped Darwin on the back. ‘That’s as may be, Philos - Port Louis is also the only place to take in supplies within three hundred miles of jolly old Terra del, and we have no supply tender. So you had better learn to enjoy it!’

Hamond brought news of the other vessel. ‘It’s HMS
Challenger,
sir. One of our b-brigs. B-bound for Valparayso, Chili via P-Port Louis. C-Captain Seymour, sir.’

‘Not Michael Seymour? He was a fellow pupil of mine at the Royal Naval College. So old Seymour has himself a brig! What splendid news.’

Within the quarter-hour, the
Challenger
had run the Union flag up her mizzen-mast, inviting the captain of the
Beagle
to come aboard. Side-ropes and a boat-rope were rigged to receive the visiting cutter, and FitzRoy soon found himself on the
Challenger’s
poop deck receiving an enthusiastic welcome from his old schoolfriend.

‘FitzRoy, my dear chap. Thank God you are alive.’

‘Should I not be?’

‘We knew you to be surveying in the vicinity of Cape Horn - those terrible storms! At least five vessels are missing, presumed lost. You were able to find a safe anchorage?’

‘A safe anchorage? Far from it! We were under way throughout, for twenty-four days. We were lucky not to be taken by Old Davy.’

‘By the deuce, you must have the best of sea-boats to have come through such a blow in one piece.’

‘She’s a good old girl. But, my dear Seymour, you have your own fine brig - my congratulations to you, old friend. These are splendid news indeed. What business have you in Port Louis?’

“Tis but a flying visit. The Falklands are to have a permanent garrison, and we are merely their transport. Allow me to introduce to your acquaintance Lieutenant Smith.’

Smith stood drinking at the scuttle-butt with four of his marines. He was young and rosy-cheeked, and his curly blond locks gave him the air of a mother’s boy, but his bearing and handshake told FitzRoy otherwise.

‘I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, Lieutenant. How many are to be in your garrison?’

‘Just myself and the four men you see here, sir.’

‘You are to garrison the Falkland Islands with
five
men?’ FitzRoy could not hide his disbelief.

The young man coloured. ‘I gather, sir, that our presence is to be symbolic. As I understand it, the belief in Whitehall is that Buenos Ayres would not dare attempt to occupy a territory defended by British troops for that would constitute an act of war.’

Or they might just consider such a small garrison to be evidence of a lack of will on London’s part
, thought FitzRoy.

‘Well, Captain Seymour, the
Beagle
is bound for Port Louis so I can save you a journey. I should be delighted to ferry Lieutenant Smith and his men the rest of the way.’

‘FitzRoy, old man, that would be capital! You oblige me by your kindness, you really do. By the bye, do you have a Mr Darwin in the
Beagle
?’

‘He is our natural philosopher.’

‘Excellent. I have a letter for him, which I was to have left in the store at Port Louis. It is from a Professor Henslow at Cambridge University, marked “Most Urgent”, so the port-admiral in Rio decided to forward it post-haste. Now you may pass it to him directly.’

 

Darwin stood clutching the letter in a lather of excitement.

‘Well?’

‘The Megatherium heads, FitzRoy, and the other fossils, have been displayed before the cream of the academic world, at the Cambridge meeting of the British Association for the Advancement of Science. They were announced by Buckland himself.
Buckland himself!
Listen to this: “The fossil Megatheriums were fabulously prized, revealing features never seen before. Darwin is the word on everybody’s lips. Your name is likely to be immortalized.” Did you hear that, FitzRoy? My name is likely to be immortalized!’

‘Philos, this is the most wonderful intelligence! Let us hope that some of your escalating fame shall accrue also to those officers who have furnished you with specimens. Mr Sulivan, Mr Bynoe — ’

‘But, of course, my dear FitzRoy. You have my every assurance on that point.’

‘I must say I am relieved that the packing-crates were consigned to England in one piece. I was not entirely convinced of Mr Lumb’s reliability on that count.’

‘Well, most of them were. Henslow says, “The majority of specimens arrived in good order, but what on earth was in packet 223? It looks like the remains of an electric explosion, a mere mass of soot!” Good Lord, I wonder what it can have been. I fear I do not have an adequate record, after our soaking off the Horn.’

‘Excuse me sir,’ piped up Edward Hellyer, from the corner, ‘but I have a record of the contents of every packing-crate consigned by the
Beagle
, sir. I maintained my paperwork in waterproof bags, sir.’

‘You did? Well
done
, young man! Capital news!’ Darwin was so delighted he looked as if he might burst.

‘Well done indeed, Mr Hellyer,’ said FitzRoy with quiet pride.

‘The future has become a brilliant prospect, FitzRoy. I must collect as many specimens here in the Falklands as I possibly can.’

‘Indeed you must. A Falklands kelp goose is the thing, I am told. It is different from the Fuegian variety, and no specimen has yet been captured. Let us see who can bag one first, shall we? Although I fear my skills with a rifle are as naught compared to yours.’

‘Nonsense, my dear FitzRoy. I am sure you are my absolute equal in that respect. But let us have ourselves a sporting contest: the Captain’s Cabin versus the Library. The first to boast a Falklands kelp goose is the winner!’

They shook hands on the wager.

 

They were still sixty miles short of the mouth of Berkeley Sound, the long inlet that sheltered Port Louis, when a reception committee appeared to shepherd them into land: swarms of tiny prion birds fussed about the rigging, black-and-white Commerson’s dolphins formed a guard of honour before them, and tiny penguins with extravagant orange eyebrows splashed perplexedly in their wake. There was even a new kind of dolphin that nobody had seen before, which Darwin insisted be logged for posterity as
Delphinus FitzRoyi.

As they rounded Volunteer Point, they overtook another sail: the sealing-schooner
Unicorn
, labouring eastward, which vessel signalled the Beagle to heave to. She was low in the water and clearly overloaded, but not with seals; rather, she was full to the gunwales with people. The
Beagle
pulled alongside, and this time it was FitzRoy’s turn to receive a visitor. The
Unicorn’s
master, a short bustling sealer with side-whiskers and the broken remnants of a Scottish accent, panted up the man-ropes and made himself known.

‘William Low sir, sealer, of Port Louis. Thank goodness you’re here, sir, thank goodness you’re here.’

As FitzRoy identified himself, he realized that the name was familiar. Then he remembered why - three Patagonian Indians and a stuffed horse on the windswept beach at Dungeness Point, back in April of ’29.

‘Forgive me, Mr Low, but I believe I was once passed a missive of yours by some Horse Indians.’

‘Ah yes sir, the letter, the letter. Always does to keep in wi’ the natives in my line of business.’ Low spoke quickly and restlessly, and described impatient circles as he talked. ‘I say “my line of business”, sir, but my business is as good as shot. I am nearly ruined, sir - confined at anchor for sixty-seven days by the gales around the Horn, like a pea on a drum we were, and nary a fur seal to be had. Then on top of all that, sir, I needs carry the survivors of two other sealers. The
Magellan
, she’s a Frenchy, and the
Transport,
she’s a big Yankee boat. Both of them shivered to smithereens off the Horn, see, but they limped as far as West Falkland before running aground in the shallows. I needs ye to take some of them off my hands, sir.’

‘Your humanitarian instincts do you credit, Mr Low. I should be delighted to help. May I introduce you to our ship’s philosopher, Mr Darwin?’

‘You say you are a resident of Port Louis, Mr Low?’

‘Aye, that’s right, sir, since eight years.’

‘I don’t suppose you could tell me if there is a bank in Port Louis where it might be convenient for me to cash a banker’s draft on my father’s account? I appear to find myself somewhat short of ready currency.’ Darwin concealed his embarrassment beneath a cloak of insouciance.

‘A bank, sir? There are but five buildings in Port Louis. The population’s 0but twenty-three, just now. There’s a general store ... The storekeeper Mr Dickson, he’s a Pat — from Dublin, sir — he looks to the Union Jack and flies it on a Sunday, or when a ship’s in port. He might give ye a few bob up front if ye make it worth his while, sir, that’s if ye can get a word in edgewise. Then there’s Mr Brisbane, the local agent, who stands me in accommodation for the winter. Then there’s a Frenchy, a soldier, the Capitaz we call him, and a German gent — ’

‘Pray excuse me, sir,’ Bos’n Sorrell bobbed up and interrupted, ‘but would that be Mr Matthew Brisbane, formerly master of the
Saxe-Cobourg
?’

‘Aye, it’s Mr Matthew Brisbane right enough.’

‘That’s my former ship, sir! Mr Brisbane and I were rescued from the wreck of the
Saxe-Cobourg
by the
Beagle
, back when Captain Stokes was in charge. He’s a gentleman, sir, is Mr Brisbane.’

‘Aye, that he is, sir, that he is. He’s sailed more sea miles than I’ve had pusser’s peas, has Mr Brisbane. Reckon he’ll be mighty cheered to see you, will Mr Brisbane.’

‘Extraordinary,’ murmured FitzRoy. ‘There must be fewer than a hundred Britons in the whole of South America, yet we continue to exercise a happy knack of finding one another. Tell me, Mr Low, as Berkeley Sound is new to me, would you be kind enough to act as our pilot on the approach? I take it you know the bay well?’

‘I ken these islands like the back of my hand, sir. No need to flurry yourself- Berkeley Sound’s no more difficult than a shilling trip round the harbour. But if you needs help I’m your man.’

‘Well, Mr Low, your expertise is preferable to navigation by guess and by God. Which is in part why we shall be here for the next few months: we are to survey the islands for a new Admiralty chart.’

‘A few months?’ Low scratched the wiry stubble which stuck out haphazardly from his chin like scythed cornstalks. ‘D’ye ken there’s over four hundred islands? And as many bays and inlets. Just now I’d say you’re looking at a good year, at the very least.’

‘Four hundred islands?’ FitzRoy’s heart sank. They were fifteen months into their voyage, and their task was beginning to look nothing short of impossible. To map the Falklands, the whole of the South American coast from Punta Alta downwards, and to complete the survey of Tierra del Fuego, not to mention the constellation of tiny islands that lay to the south of Chili, in such a limited time? Had the Admiralty simply given him enough rope with which to hang himself?

‘Mr Low,’ he ventured, ‘I apprehend from your earlier remarks that the sealing season is now at an end.’

‘That’s if it ever began, Captain FitzRoy.’

‘Tell me, Mr Low. What might your answer be, were I to suggest that I should like to buy your boat?’

 

With Low piloting, the
Beagle
taking the lead and the
Unicorn
falling into line behind, the two vessels ran confidently into Berkeley Sound the following morning. A straggle of hollow-eyed, exhausted French and American sealers slumped lifelessly on the decks of both ships, shivering in their tattered clothes. Gruel-coloured clouds scudded across the sound, sweeping down from broad, peat-thick valleys, before buffeting away across low ridges littered with grey quartz boulders. Not a single tree or shrub broke the monotonous, sombre moorland; brackish pools of yellow-brown water, gleaming dully here and there, furnished the only relief from the drab uniformity. Monstrous wild bulls bellowed at them as they passed, like Cretan sculptures made flesh, their horns jabbing accusingly from the scurrying mists at those who would trespass upon their domain.