This Thing Of Darkness (74 page)

At this moment a jolly-faced, grinning Tahitian ran up to present them with a pineapple, and both men gratefully seized the opportunity to change the subject. Such exotic fruit - luxurious greenhouse rarities in England - were being distributed freely all round the deck.

‘Pineapples here are so abundant that the people eat them in the same wasteful manner as we would eat turnips,’ marvelled FitzRoy.

Darwin sank his teeth into the fruit’s soft flesh, and gave his verdict. ‘Mmm — this is better even than those cultivated in England, which I believe is the highest compliment that can be paid to any fruit.’

In an effort to restore order to the deck, Lieutenant Wickham had called for tables and benches to be fetched, and for some semblance of an English-style market to be established, which was not at all easy, given the presence of a herd of giant tortoises in the midst of proceedings. The shells of the great beasts would, of course, have made excellent surfaces for the display of goods, were it not for their habit of lumbering away mid-sale. Unlike the natives of South America, the Tahitians knew the value of money, especially paper money, and were not to be fobbed off with cloth or spare buttons: anything, it seemed, could be purchased for one
dala,
as they liked to pronounce the word ‘dollar’. After some negotiation, Darwin employed the services of two roasted-banana salesmen as guides, to lead him on an expedition up the island’s peak the following day.

Once the clamour of the impromptu market had ebbed somewhat, FitzRoy and Darwin were rowed ashore, to be taken in hand by a host of giggling children, who led them along a cool, winding path through the palms. Native huts were dotted between the trees, light, elegant constructions thatched with leaves, elliptical in shape, with bamboo frames and little cane fences. Cloth screens hung in the doorways, affording occasional glimpses of stools and baskets and calabashes of fresh water. One householder sat before his domain reading the New Testament, while his wife cleared away the broad leaves that had served them as breakfast plates, and two gurgling children played contentedly in the grass. It seemed to FitzRoy a beautiful miniature of a nation emerging from heathen ignorance, and modestly setting forth its claim to be considered civilized and Christian.

‘Ia-orana!’
called a voice. The phrase was a traditional Tahitian salutation, but the accent was unmistakably that of Limehouse Reach. Coming up the path to meet them, flanked by a bevy of soberly dressed native junior deacons, was a missionary priest, his hand extended in greeting. ‘Welcome to Tahiti, gents. May I take the liberty of introducing myself? Charlie Wilson, chief missionary here at Matavai.’

The newcomer was short and solid, with massive brawny forearms, furred like a chimpanzee’s: quite literally, a muscular Christian. His manner was entirely respectful and generous, if lacking in the refinements of etiquette, and his smile was warmly deferential; but here was a man who could look after himself, thought FitzRoy, a man who exuded physical confidence. How very different from their own Mr Matthews, no more than a peripheral figure when he had been most needed in Tierra del Fuego, who had all but become a recluse in the months since. Matthews had vanished into the bowels of the ship in shame, reduced to a pale-faced wraith visible only at mealtimes.

The introductions seen to, Wilson led them to his immaculate little wooden church in the forest, painted all in white, a neat and simple one-roomed cottage adjoining. But for the palm trees and the sultry heat, they might have been in rural Shropshire. Not for the first time that day, FitzRoy thought bleakly of the failure of the Woollya mission, and of the whereabouts of Jemmy Button. Would he ever see Jemmy again, he wondered, that poor lost soul whom he had elevated to Christianity, then abandoned to his fate in the Godforsaken wilds of the south? The contrast between this idyllic setting and his own doomed attempts to create something similar could not have been sharper. Humbly, he congratulated Wilson on the condition of his flock. A more orderly, quiet, inoffensive community I have not seen in any other part of the world,’ he said. Darwin nodded vigorously in agreement.

‘Where, may I ask, did you train as a priest, Mr Wilson?’

‘Oh, I didn’t train, sir - I have no formal training. The London Missionary Society, sir, it’s congregationalist - a knowledge of the Lord’s works and a willing heart is all as what’s required. I was a coal-whipper, sir, at the Port of London, unloading the big coal ships from the north-east into barges and lighters. Black as a Negro I was at the end of every working day. Then I found God, sir - I was born again, as they say - and I decided to devote my life to His works. I was sent here to assist Mr Henry Nott, and when that good gentleman retired these five years past, I took over the mission. I say “retired”, but Mr Nott needed the time to complete his great work, sir.’

‘His great work? What great work would that be?’

‘Why, none other than the translation of the Old and New Testaments into Tahitian - a work worthy of the very fathers of our church, sir, which has taken up no fewer than forty years of his life. Utaame, fetch Mr Nott here directly, if you please.’

One of the junior deacons was thus dispatched, and quickly returned with an elderly, shrivelled gentleman, the last few wispy strands of whose hair spiralled about his liver-spotted pate as if attempting to ascend to heaven by themselves. Nott’s handshake was firm, though, and his blue eyes unclouded.

‘It would appear, Mr Nott, that we may credit you before all others for the changes that have overcome this place since Cook’s day,’ said FitzRoy.

‘Oh, I will take none of the credit, for that is the Lord’s doing and I merely His willing instrument, and others like me.’

‘You were the first missionary here?’ asked Darwin.

‘That I was.’

‘Then may I propose that you are become too modest? Was this not the most savage of lands when you arrived?’

‘Oh, it was an uncommon savage land, all right, and an ignorant one. There were human sacrifices, bloody wars where the conquerors spared neither women nor children, the wanton destruction of the aged, infirm or sick, and, of course, an idolatrous priesthood. It is not twenty years since I saw the Tahitians with my own eyes flee in terror at the sight of a horse - a “man-carrying pig”, they called it.’ A little wheezy chuckle escaped from Nott’s turkey throat.

‘It is not sixty years since Cook himself could see no prospect of a change in these parts,’ added Wilson, in tribute to his senior.

‘But God’s love was within these people, gentlemen. By His light we have freed that love from its former cloak of savagery, intemperance and licentiousness. In Cook’s time, it was the custom of the Tahitians to practise fornication as a matter of routine.’

The four gentlemen tut-tutted at this, but before he could stop it, a sudden, momentary image of a blob of molten candlewax, cooling white against Maria O’Brien’s skin, flashed into FitzRoy’s mind. He hurriedly filed the image out of sight. He was the captain of a surveying-brig, here to do his duty.

‘The natives will persist in going about semi-naked, in their shame,’ said Wilson, a disapproving look scudding across his countenance too, ‘but the younger generation what pass through the mission schools are learning the virtue of covering their modesty. Though you will have noticed that the women shave their heads, and decorate their skin with needles, and draw attention to themselves by placing flowers in their hair and other means.’

Nott grunted. ‘Oh, we have tried to persuade the ladies of the need to change their sartorial habits, but it is the fashion, and that is answer enough at Tahiti as well as Paris.’ The old man stood up. ‘But here, Captain FitzRoy, let me make you a present, in honour of your visit.’ So saying, he reached up to a shelf and, with surprising strength, heaved down a large leatherbound volume that lay there. ‘It is the Good Book, as translated into Tahitian. One of the first copies.’

‘You are too generous, Mr Nott. I was unaware that your great work had been printed.’

‘Printed? This is the Pacific, Captain FitzRoy. There are no printing-works on Tahiti. Every copy is transcribed by hand.’

‘By
hand
?’

Amazed, FitzRoy opened the cover. Sure enough, thousands of pages were filled with serried rows of neat and apparently flawless script. ‘But, Mr Nott, I cannot possibly accept the fruits of this - this immense labour.’

‘Nonsense. It gives the Tahitians something to do, and diverts them from their formerly licentious ways.’

After dinner of roasted breadfruit, wild plantain and coconut milk, with pipes and snuff to follow, FitzRoy and Darwin were taken on a tour of the Matavai mission school. In a simple white-painted school-room, a young, smiling Tahitian deacon had charge of a class of perfectly drilled juniors, who rose to attention wearing identical shapeless smocks. Once again, FitzRoy regretfully called to mind the infants’ school at Walthamstow, where the brooding figure of York had lurked amid the children, mulling over his grand plan. Once again, he felt humbled by the industry and dedication of the men from the London Missionary Society. He and Darwin bade a formal greeting to the class.

‘The captain wishes you happiness,’ the deacon made clear to his beaming pupils.

‘And we wish happiness to the captain,’ responded a small boy in the front row, seemingly unbidden.

‘Should the captain and Mr Darwin like to see the children perform for their benefit?’ the deacon asked respectfully.

‘Why, yes, that would be most agreeable. Perhaps a little Tahitian dance?’

A confused hush fell upon the class.

‘I am sorry, sir,’ chimed the boy at the front with a polite smile, ‘but dancing is forbidden in Tahiti, along with all other frivolous entertainments. Anyone caught dancing is to be reported to the watchman, who will take them to the district governor to be punished
most
severely.’

 

The following day the
Beagle’s
cutter was hoisted out, and FitzRoy and his officers were rowed along a twisting seven-mile channel in the coral to Papiete, the capital, where they attended morning service at the English church. The building was an eyesore, a high, box-shaped structure resembling a Thames brewery, its ugly gabled roof dwarfing the elegant thatching of the surrounding huts. The service, conducted by a Mr Pritchard in both English and Tahitian, was an interminable affair that taxed the patience even of Sulivan. The congregation of some six hundred souls - although kept in order by a beadle with a white wand — began to shuffle and whisper long before the end. Many of the worshippers wore European clothes, sent from London and distributed apparently at random: big, burly Tahitian men had forced themselves into coats so small the seams had split, their arms protruding from their shoulders like the sails of a windmill; while small children sat marooned in enormous benjamins, their hands unable to reach their cuffs, thereby giving the impression that they had been chopped off.

When the service had finished and the congregation had filed out, FitzRoy sat alone in the front pew and waited, while his officers formed a guard of honour outside the main door; for it was here, in the English church following the service, that Queen Pomare had decreed that he might have his audience. He did not have long to wait. After some fifteen minutes spent in contemplation of the task Commodore Mason had given him, he heard the clack of the heavy iron latch lifting from its slot, and the creak of the door as it swung slowly open. The Queen of Tahiti entered, followed by a phalanx of her tribal chiefs, grey-haired but muscular, tattooed and stripped to the waist. FitzRoy rose.

Queen Pomare was a vast woman, almost spherical in shape, loosely dressed in a long, dark, simple gown, fastened at the throat like a priest’s cassock. Her hair was divided into two simple braids. She held no regalia, and wore no crown. Nor, in fact, was she wearing anything at all upon her head, hands or feet, nor any kind of girdle or sash to confine her dress. No ceremony attended her arrival. She walked alone up the aisle to meet him, wistfully but gracefully, an air of melancholy pervading her expression. It was clear that her undoubted piety derived from the teachings of the missionaries, but FitzRoy could not help lamenting, for her sake, that her sense of ceremony appeared to have been discarded in the process. Almost embarrassed at finding himself alone with the monarch, he bowed low before her.

‘Your Majesty. I am Captain FitzRoy, of His Majesty’s brig
Beagle
. I come to you on official business, as a representative of His Majesty King William IV of Great Britain, and most humbly request an audience.’

‘Come, Fitirai. Sit with me.’

So saying, the Queen wedged herself into an adjoining pew — not even one of the principal pews by the pulpit, but a rough-hewn public bench. Unable to sit behind or in front of her, for that would have entailed one of them having to twist in their seat, FitzRoy slid in alongside the ample monarch.

‘Your Majesty, a British vessel, the
Truro
, was fishing for pearl oysters in the Low Islands, that you call the Paamotu Islands, and was plundered of her catch by the islanders. The government of His Majesty King William has set the compensation for the plunder at two thousand eight hundred dollars, to be paid by Your Majesty’s government at once.’

‘I know about this ship
Truro,
Fitirai. The islanders of Paamotu live by their pearls. Then the
Truro
came, a big ship, to take away all their pearl oysters. The chief was not asked. No money was given.’

FitzRoy coloured. Really, he had been given an abominable task. ‘Unfortunately, Your Majesty, under our law one cannot own the sea, or the creatures that live therein. In law, the men of the
Truro
had every right to fish there.’

‘If the men of Paamotu came to the shores of Britain in a big ship and took all the oysters from one place, would the government of King William give its blessing?’