This Thing Of Darkness (20 page)

An official period of mourning was declared throughout the fleet, as per regulations, and FitzRoy sat down to prepare the divine service that must be held in memory of His Majesty. His mind, though, was still reeling with its own grief, too consumed by its own misery to care about the death, six thousand miles away, of the man he had served so assiduously for two years. He had to force himself to concentrate.
I must throw myself fully into my employment. Only through forced occupation will I get through the days. I must not allow myself to be unemployed and alone, or the demons will come again.

He remained stunned, too, by the revelation of the afternoon before. He had been obliged to part with a handsome sum to placate the aggrieved Dr Carson Figueira, but not before both Fuegia Basket and York Minster had consented to be inoculated; this after a nice speech in their own language by Boat Memory, who had — he later explained — urged them to put their trust in Capp‘en Fitz’oy. The capp‘en had given them his word, he said, that the white man’s medicine would protect them against ill health in the future, and the capp’en’s word was his bond. The momentarily loquacious York Minster had not uttered a single word since.

FitzRoy opened the battered copy of the scriptures that Sulivan had given him, and leafed through it. Whether he found the text of chapter fourteen of the Book of Job by accident, or whether he had read so much of the Old Testament by now that the chapter lay buried in his subconscious, he did not know.
As the waters fail from the sea, and the flood decayeth and drieth up; so man lieth down, and riseth not.

He felt suddenly weary in himself, and at that moment he saw life as a struggle to placate an uncompromising Old Testament God; a as a struggle to placate an uncompromising Old Testament God; a God who could wipe out most of the earth’s population in an instant with a mighty deluge, or take the life of one defenceless man, however good, however powerful, as was His wont.

 

It was not the most immaculately turned-out group of men that had ever bidden farewell to a monarch. The crew had been drawn up in two rectangles on either side of the upside-down whaleboat, which bisected the maindeck on its skids, its keel slicing the air like a half-submerged shark. They were as smartly dressed as they could manage, but the innumerable repairs and patchings-up that quilted their motley garments testified to the constant needlework required on a long voyage south. The file of red-jacketed marines to the left, their drummer boy at the far end, did lend the occasion an air of formality, although their uniforms would hardly have borne close inspection either. The officers at least presented a dignified prospect, a row of peaked caps behind their commander on the raised poop, their formal black frock-coats and white stockings cleaned and crisply pressed by their servants.

‘Caps off!’ commanded Lieutenant Kempe.

For a moment there was silence on board the
Beagle
, broken only by the creaking of the rigging as she rode, windlessly, at anchor. FitzRoy stepped forward to the azimuth compass, which had come to serve as his lectern whenever he needed to address the men. The creaking of the ship seemed more insistent now; almost rhythmic. He fought hard to keep thoughts of his own father from overwhelming his mind. ‘We are gathered to give thanks for the life of His Gracious Majesty King George the Fourth.’

The rhythmic creaking was coming faster now, not loudly but insistently, from somewhere close by. King and Stokes exchanged questioning glances. Kempe glared inquisitively at Sorrell, who shrugged his shoulders in mystification.

‘I shall read from the Book of Job, chapter fourteen. “Man that is born of a woman is of few days, and full of trouble. He cometh forth like a flower, and is cut down: he fleeth also as a shadow and continueth not.”’

Even FitzRoy was forced to take note now. The creaking, accompanied by a gentle knocking noise, insinuated itself relentlessly into his concentration. He paused, and murmured to Sorrell, ‘Mr Bos’n, is every member of the crew present?’

‘Yes sir, excepting those in the sick list, sir.’

The sound was coming from one of the tiny cabins under the poop deck companionways, the one to the starboard side, which was occupied by Midshipman Stokes. Now it was Stokes’s turn to shrug his shoulders with bemused innocence.

FitzRoy cleared his throat and began to read: ‘“And dost thou open thine eyes upon such an one, and bringest me into judgement with thee?”’ He broke off. There seemed to be a jaunty, almost enthusiastic quality to the creaking and knocking now.

He strode briskly down the companionway, turned sharply at the bottom and flung open the door to Stokes’s cabin. Stokes’s hammock, the source of the creaking, was up on its hooks, stretched from one wall to the other. In it, his face a mask of furious concentration, his breeches about his ankles, lay York Minster. Bouncing astride York, her skirts gathered about her waist, her head bent against the ceiling, sat Fuegia Basket. Still bouncing, she turned delightedly and favoured FitzRoy with her most beaming smile. ‘Fuegia love Capp’en Fitz’oy,’ she said.

‘They must be married at the earliest convenience.’

‘Married? How can she be married, sir? She is not yet thirteen.’

‘I mean, they must be betrothed. At the very least, we must have the banns published in Plymouth, or I shall obtain a marriage licence from Doctors’ Commons when we reach London.’

The issue of York and Fuegia continued to vex FitzRoy. As her legal guardian — for such he surely was, ever since the Admiralty’s acknowledgement of his letter - he was responsible for the child’s welfare. To allow her relationship with York Minster to continue unchallenged was out of the question. But to separate the Fuegians from each other would surely go against the purpose of his scheme, as well as being an interesting physical proposition, given York’s frankly superhuman strength. The only answer FitzRoy could find was to legitimize their union. How he wished for spiritual guidance on the matter, but as there was no chaplain aboard such a small ship, he himself was the sole source of spiritual authority on the
Beagle.
Instead he had turned for solace to the wholly inadequate figure of Wilson, the surgeon, whose reaction to FitzRoy’s concerns was predictably dismissive.

‘Sir, these people, if they are indeed such, are of the lowest rung on God’s ladder. Such behaviour is hardly unexpected at the basest levels of society. Take a carriage ride up the Haymarket and you will see girls of the lowest class, girls as young as eight or nine, offering themselves to the highest bidder. When the famines bit in Kent and Sussex and Hampshire, poor farmers sold their daughters at market, some, I have heard tell, in a halter like a cow. These savages are lower still, barely a step above the brute creation. To behave in this manner is in their nature.’

‘Mr Wilson, I have given my word that these people will be raised from their base condition, and given every advantage of polite society. That is the purpose of their sojourn in England. If the girl finds herself with child when she is in my care, I will have failed in my duty before their visit has even begun.’

‘But if they are betrothed, sir, how will they even know it? One is no more than a child, the other keeps his counsel like a simpleton.’

‘You would do well not to underestimate their intelligence, Mr Wilson. York Minster may be a displeasing specimen of humanity in many respects, but stupidity is not one of his vices. Fuegia, too, is sharp of mind. I shall put the proposition to him, and to her, over dinner.’

‘Over
dinner
, sir?’

‘Over dinner, Mr Wilson. I intend to invite them to dinner, if the four of them can squeeze into my cabin. It will not be the noblest repast, as we are down to hard biscuit, salt pig and salt horse, but I have asked the cook to keep back the last few canisters of Donkin’s soup and preserved vegetables. Even if a formal betrothal does not result, we may at least educate them in the way of a few table manners.’

 

The Fuegians filed into FitzRoy’s cabin just after midday, their naturally crouching gait a useful attribute in view of the low ceiling. Suspicion was etched across all their faces at the sight of the captain’s formal linen and glassware, even more so than when faced with Dr Figueira’s tray of medical instruments. They had become accustomed to meals below decks, where food was eaten by hand or with a single knife, and drink was slurped from an open bowl; here, a veritable obstacle course was arrayed on the tablecloth. Coxswain Bennet — whom FitzRoy had also invited, as he had somehow drifted into the role of unofficial nursemaid to the Fuegians — entered with them, his burly form bent practically double in the tiny cabin, cheerily ushering his charges to their seats. FitzRoy’s steward became the seventh person to try to insinuate himself into the tiny space, in a desperate attempt to pour water into the guests’ glasses, but as a lesson in etiquette this got the afternoon off to a bad start: he was compelled by the lack of standing room to hover in the doorway and reach over the heads of those nearest to him.

Barely had York Minster’s crystal goblet been filled with water than he grabbed it, and threw the contents down his throat in one swift move.

‘York,’ said FitzRoy gently, ‘today I wish to teach you how to behave at dinner in England. It is thought polite to wait until everybody has their food or their drink before starting.’

York said nothing, but leaned towards the unlit candelabra in the centre of the table and sniffed at the candles.

‘These are “candles”. They give light from a little flame. At a polite dinner in England they would be made from beeswax. At a simpler meal, or here on a naval vessel, they are made from beef tallow.’

Once more York sniffed at the candles, which sat plumply in their twisted silver cradles, then abruptly grabbed and ate all three, cramming them into a capacious mouth. FitzRoy sighed. It was shaping up to be a long afternoon.

Jemmy, meanwhile, was holding each item of silver cutlery to the skylight in turn, an expression of wonderment on his face. ‘Beautiful. Many beautiful knifes.’

Bennet, who was about to enlighten him, checked himself. He had only dined with a senior officer once before in his young life, when Admiral Bartlett had invited all his junior officers to dinner in groups aboard the
Persephone.
It had been, he remembered, a terrifying and painfully silent affair: officers were strictly forbidden to broach any topic of conversation until it had first been raised by their commander. Fortunately FitzRoy spotted his hesitation and gave him the nod.

‘The spoon on the outside is for the soup course, Jemmy. Then the fork and knife on the inside are for the second course. With each course, you move in to the next two pieces of cutlery. Finally, your pudding cutlery is at the top of your place setting.’

‘When Jemmy is rich man in Englan’ he will have many courses, many cutleries.‘ Jemmy’s eyes swam delightedly at this suggestion, and he bared his teeth with pleasure. ‘Many beautiful knifes.’

‘When a man and a woman are married in England, Jemmy, they are given presents for their home. This is how most people obtain their cutlery, and linen, and crockery.’ FitzRoy indicated the three items in turn.

‘Please, Capp’en Fitz’oy, what is married?’ asked Boat.

‘“Married” is when a man and a woman come together in the sight of God.’ FitzRoy cut to the chase. ‘When we reach England I believe York and Fuegia must be married.’

‘Please, Capp’en Fitz’oy, York and Fuegia are already come together.’

‘I believe York and Fuegia must be married!’ squeaked Fuegia.

‘They are together, yes, Boat, but their union has yet to be blessed by God.’

‘God is late,’ protested Jemmy. ‘York and Fuegia come together many months ago.’

The servant began distributing ladlefuls of Donkin’s soup, a thin, evil, green liquid, among the dinner guests. York lowered his head into the steam and sniffed warily.

‘Remember, the outside spoon,’ said Bennet helpfully.

York gave him a scornful sidelong look, lowered his face into the scalding fluid and began to slurp loudly. Jemmy, meanwhile, held a spoonful of bright green liquid to his lips, his grasp awkward but his technique surprisingly dainty. ‘York is rough fellow. Very rough fellow,’ he observed, down the length of his nose. York’s green face rose bubbling from the steam, and silenced him with a glare.

‘Do you not have marriage in your country, Boat?’ enquired FitzRoy hastily. ‘When the two families come together and celebrate?’

‘Oh yes Capp’en Fitz’oy. When a man is old enough to hunt and a woman is old enough to bear childs. The family of girl will sell her to family of young man. But my people do not understand God’s mercy. This is not a proper English married.’

‘I believe York and Fuegia must be married!’ squealed Fuegia, once more.

‘We have a big celebrate, Capp’en Fitz’oy. It goes on for many days. We kill seal. Everybody come from many miles. Everybody celebrate - young people, old people.’

FitzRoy’s memory was jogged. ‘There is something I have been meaning to ask you, Boat. You speak of old people. But I saw no old people in Tierra del Fuego. No grey-haired men or women.’

‘There are old people in my country, Capp’en sir.’ Boat looked unhappy.

‘But not many. I saw none in a year and a half.’

‘You did not look for them well, Capp’en Fitz’oy.’

There was something wrong now, FitzRoy could tell. Boat Memory was staring fixedly into the emerald depths of his soup bowl.