The Poisoned Island (6 page)

The prince stood up with relief. A big war canoe, its prow colorful and ornately carved, was pulling away from the ship. His brother had told him the foreign ship was called the
Britannia
, like the country it came from, and that she was used, wonder of wonders, to hunt whales. The prince had no conception of a whale, other than its vast implausibility, and the idea of hunting them seemed ludicrous. His brother was sure to be in the canoe, and the prince’s nerves calmed a little. He would not have blamed his brother for going with the British—but he would at least have wanted to say goodbye.

The canoe got bigger and bigger and, as it approached the shore, men started diving off it and swimming to the beach. One of them, to the prince’s delight, was indeed his brother. Strong and brown and gigantic, he rose from the waves, the seawater beading on his skin, pushing his long black hair away from his forehead and waving to the younger boy, who ran into the surf and greeted him with a very un-noble embrace.

The brothers walked out of the sea, and the younger’s questions began to flood over the older like an endless waterfall.

“Did you see guns?”

“Yes, Raanui. A great many guns. Some of them bigger than you.”

“Guns bigger than me? How do they lift them?”

“They don’t lift them. They are on wheels and they fire great lumps of iron into their foes. As much iron as you’ve ever seen in every shot.”

“Their country must be
made
of iron! Was there a whale?”

“No, Raanui, of course there was no whale. A whale is as big as their boat.”

“As big as their boat!”

“Yes. When they kill one they tie it alongside and bring it to shore. Or they cut the meat off the bones and leave the carcass in the ocean.”

“Were there British women?”

“No, only men.”

“Were any sickly?”

“No, they were not sickly.”

“Did you eat?”

“No, Raanui. They only have their own voyaging food. That is why they are here, to collect provisions.”

“Did you speak about leaving with them?”

Pause.

“No, Raanui, I did not.”

“But you still plan to leave?”

“To leave would be a great adventure. There are too many dying here.”

“Will we die?”

“Who can tell? Who knows why we die?”

“The missionaries say it is because we do not follow their god.”

“And the priests say it is because we have angered our own. No one knows the truth, Raanui.”

“Some say the British brought the disease.”

“Yes, some say that. Others say the French. Or the Spanish. Or the seagulls.”

“The seagulls!”

“Yes, Raanui, the seagulls. Now go and play with your little friends. I must speak to Father about what I have seen.”

“You wouldn’t go to Britain without saying goodbye, would you?”

“No, Raanui. Now run and play.”

It is midmorning the next day when the plants from the
Solander
arrive at Kew. It is the kind of June morning in England which even Scottish eyes must admit is magnificent. The sun is shining on golden water, there are fresh leaves on the trees, and the pollen in the air is like stardust, although this particular pair of Scottish eyes are somewhat inflamed by that ethereal flower dust. Robert Brown is feeling positively rheumy in the face of England’s summer splendor, which is unlike him. Almost two decades of collecting and investigating plants have turned him into a botanist and have inured him to most allergies of this kind. There must be something particularly pungent in the air this morning.

Being Scottish he is dressed entirely inappropriately for an English summer’s day, encased in dark clothes tailored by cold men in draughty cellars. But he is by no means the only man who has come to Kew in the wrong kind of clothes. Much of the crowd is wearing something which is inappropriate
for one reason or another. He has been amusing himself as the great classifier Linnaeus often did, by categorizing the crowd which stands beside the small jetty behind Kew’s Dutch House.

First of all, he carefully notes the Family of the crowd, which is undoubtedly English, not Scots or any of the European families. It is well mannered, of course, which he supposes would be a natural mark of Englishness, although the manners on display this morning are peculiarly affected, as he has come to expect of crowds made up of London’s more fashionable specimens. This crowd seems to be aware that people might be watching, and so it puts on its manners rather in the way an actress might put on face paint. The ladies are dressed in the most fashionable style, some of them with breasts quite alarmingly close to falling out of their dresses, which would be by no means acceptable in a Scottish setting. Indeed, Brown thinks that even English eyes must find it somewhat distressing to see such décolletage on display during daylight. This kind of exposure is normally only appropriate under candelabra, with charming music playing in one corner of a ballroom.

There are two distinct Genera of men within the family, and these are easily separated by their habit. First are the men who are, like him, dressed for winter weather on a summer’s eve, sober and yet still potentially excitable. These are the Royal Society natural philosophers, some of them clergymen, all of them pious in their own way. The second Genus consists of gentlemen and nobles, who for the purposes of today are most definitely here on Aristocratic Business (i.e., to be seen and to be admired), and are therefore dressed with seasonal and sartorial precision and flair.

Despite the differing levels of flamboyance and motivation,
Brown is well aware that both these groups of men present a common problem of classification: same family (
Angloeae
); different Genera (
philosophis
or
aristocrasis
); yet they also fall into a common Set, as almost all these men are also Fellows of the Royal Society. Thus in miniature, Brown notes, they encapsulate the Society’s Janus-like nature: a scientific foundation, certainly, but also a plaything for rich men who want to appear clever and curious. Perhaps Royal Society membership should be considered a
variety
of some kind, cutting across Species and Families, uniting different creatures in a common undertaking? He ponders on a binomial.
Homo experimentalis
, perhaps.

He smiles at his own whimsy, a small Scottish smile which would be imperceptible to the showier members of the Kew fraternity currently gathered. He understands that, like flowers seeking the attentions of insects, all these creatures are here to make appearances. Even the most dedicated natural philosopher must be seen to be philosophizing. Much has been done to banish ignorance, and much of that has been done to avoid being ignored.

This is sadly ironic, realizes Brown, for the personage whose attention is most craved will not be present. The King is still indisposed, as it is said, and is thought to be at Windsor. He has been there since the return of his illness last year (it is only ever called his illness, partly out of politeness, partly out of complete ignorance as to what the illness actually is). His Majesty is here in spirit, however, for a little further upstream from the crowd on the jetty loom the doomed, Gothic and silly towers of George’s Castellated Palace: unfinished, bankrupt, and still wholly inappropriate for a royal dwelling. The palace’s insane architecture and recent abandonment are now only metaphors for the King’s departed mind.

Prior to his illness, the King would certainly have been here. Kew is his favorite place. The man who would have been a philosopher-king has turned out to be merely a royal gardener, and Brown thinks there is no shame in that. Like all those here tonight, Brown feels a sharp anxiety about the wishes and ambitions of the King’s son, now the Regent, who shows no interest in the science of horticulture while maintaining a massive appetite for its fruits.

So the royal family is unrepresented, but in its place is another who can claim a good portion of regal authority over this blessed plot. He sits, a massive bull of a man in a wheelchair of his own design, his head as large as one of the marrows in the botanical garden. His enormous belly is bisected by the bright-blue sash and the glittering yellow star which he wears everywhere in public. And something else, something only a man with the searching eyes of a botanist would notice: his knuckles, white and shaking, gripping the worn leather armrests on the splendid old wheelchair.

Thus Sir Joseph Banks, President of the Royal Society, awaits the treasure from the other side of the world, attended by his librarian, the Scottish botanist Robert Brown.

Now, a pinnace—a rather grubby thing which has clearly seen a good deal of the world—appears around the bend of the river towards Putney. Behind it are two Thames barges, flat and black in the water, like dangerous and near invisible bodyguards to a St. James’s beau. The women in the waiting group chatter and chirp with excitement, and for a moment Brown thinks Banks will rise from his chair. His body tenses as if to do so, but then with a near silent sigh he settles back to wait. His knuckles are still white.

The flotilla makes its way towards them, passing the village of Chiswick and disturbing the herons which rise from
the riverbank as one and fly out and east, towards Hampton Court and Runnymede. The excitement in the crowd has been premature, because the river is playing games with everyone’s sense of perspective and the flotilla has further to go than was thought. After a quarter-hour more it is nearly upon them. Brown can see the familiar figure of Captain Hopkins in the prow of the pinnace, standing firmly with his hands behind his back in that confident way all competent sea captains possess when they have delegated their tasks and now merely await their completion. Behind him stream the Thames barges, piled high with the treasures of foreign seas. The women and the gentry applaud the captain’s arrival and his moment. Brown wonders at how much the English do love a sea captain.

Now the fat old bull in the wheelchair stands, solidly if carefully, and walks to the edge of the jetty as Hopkins’s boat approaches. Brown goes with him, one step behind, and for the hundredth time finds himself resenting the way this makes him feel—a manservant instead of an amanuensis. And for the hundredth time he tells himself to trample on his silly pride. He does what he does in the name of knowledge and advancement. The occasional mild humiliation by Banks is a small price.

Banks bellows his welcome and applauds, the bull replaced by a huge hospitable bear. Hopkins salutes stiffly. Brown, a former Fencible, wonders if that is entirely appropriate, a military salute to a civilian like Banks, but reminds himself that Banks is a very particular kind of civilian. After only a few minutes of business in docking the pinnace, the captain is able to step up onto the jetty and into the outstretched arms of Joseph Banks.

Never one for decorum, Banks hugs the surprised Hopkins
into his great stomach, and roars his approval. A few ladies gasp at his lack of manners, but most of the men roar along with their president. Brown adopts a face of social invisibility, and continues to observe.

“Captain Hopkins!” shouts Banks. “We welcome you to Kew, and we delight in your cargo!”

“Mr. President,” says Hopkins, carefully rearranging his tidy uniform. “Your welcome is as one with your personality: large, unexpected and terrifyingly warm.”

The ladies laugh at that. Why, a sea captain with
wit
. And Welsh! Such a delightful creature! Sir Joseph’s bonhomie can be rather exhausting, after all.

The barges are now fixing themselves just off the jetty, the men on board tying the vessels together to stop them being jostled away from each other by the stream. The men then work to remove tarpaulins and untie ropes, and before long (with a gratifying moan of pleasure from the crowd) the cargoes of the barges are revealed to the hungry eyes of those watching.

As the tarpaulins are removed, the barges burst into flower. It is, thinks Brown, the only possible way to describe it. Within are such riches, such beautiful clusters of color and shape, that the barges themselves seem to spring into life, touched by some green flame. Even Brown finds himself sighing with the wonder of it. The plants in the barges, which have been growing for months as they traveled around the globe, spring up into the sunlight with hungry speed and transform the two barges into floating pleasure gardens. Greens and browns redecorate the dirty black hulls of the barges and, for a moment, compete with the trees and bushes of the riverbank for preeminence. While the ancient riverbank can boast of its elegance and history, it can say nothing against the alien
magnificence of what lies in the barges. Strange flowers, surprising bushes, exquisite little saplings, and from the whole a cloud of strange new pollen which rises up into the air like a benediction from distant civilizations, mixing with the golden Kew stardust already in the air and inflaming, once again, the watching Scotsman’s eyes.

Banks, one arm still on Hopkins’s shoulder, gazes upon the sight. It will be later reported that tears sprang into his eyes, to which Brown will remark that it was perhaps the alien pollen. For a moment, the crowd on the jetty has forgotten itself: forgotten to think, forgotten to plot, forgotten to pose. It is held, magnificently, inside a moment of natural awe.