This Thing Of Darkness (3 page)

‘I have no idea,’ replied King drily. ‘You’d have to ask Stokes.’

‘Admiralty orders are quite specific on this point. The maps you are updating were compiled by Byron, Wallis and Carteret back in the 1760s, since when it has been something of an embarrassment that English charts contain such trivial identifications as “Point Shut-up”. The site of some unseemly squabble, no doubt. Try to confine yourself to practical descriptions, or if you must commemorate someone, I would recommend members of the government or the Royal Family. Of course you can commemorate yourselves, but I would suggest a limit for ship’s officers of one or two place names each. Understood?’

FitzRoy nodded.

Otway’s brisk tone softened. ‘The Beagle is on her way up from Monte Video. When she arrives, she will be hove down and repaired. Before then I would pay her a visit. Unannounced. That is to say, I think you should make your presence felt.’ He grinned conspiratorially, and gestured to indicate that the interview was over.

Formalities completed, FitzRoy and King took their leave of the admiral’s cabin, stooping with the instinct of years to avoid cracking their heads as they crossed the threshold. Outside, King paused at the top of the companionway. ‘So tell me, Mr FitzRoy. Of all the captains under whom you have served, whom did you admire the most?’

‘Sir John Phillimore, sir,’ replied FitzRoy without hesitation. The ensuing pause made it clear that King meant him to go on.

‘We were escorting Lord Ponsonby to Rio as ambassador, sir. One of the younger midshipmen suffered a terrible injury to his arm, and was in danger of losing it. Sir John gave the Ponsonbys’ cabin to the boy, and himself slept in a cot outside the cabin door, giving instructions that he should be wakened immediately if anything were to befall the lad. We were all much impressed. It was Sir John who reduced the men’s daily rum ration from half a pint to a quarter. Which, I must confess, improved the efficiency of the ship considerably.’

King raised both eyebrows. ‘Good luck with the rum ration.’

FitzRoy smiled back, and King could not help but like his new second-in-command.

‘Skyring’s disappointment will be bitter, I confess. But he is not the sort to pay this off on you. He is a generous type. I will give him our supply schooner, the
Adelaide,
which should help soften the blow.’

‘I hope so, sir.’

‘One more thing, Mr FitzRoy. That quotation in Stokes’s log - “the soul of a man dies in him”. Who really wrote it?’

‘Thomson, sir. It’s from
The Seasons.’

‘You’ll go far, Mr FitzRoy. I think you’ll go very far indeed.’

With a brisk, matter-of-fact breeze behind her, the little cutter slid easily through the choppy blue of Rio bay, a curious petrel or two in pursuit. Enlivened by the sunshine, the crew put their backs into it. Occasional flecks of foam from the oars flung themselves gaily into Robert FitzRoy’s face as he sat in the stern, but on such a day as this, the odd splash was hardly an imposition. It was a glorious morning to be alive; and, as it was certain to be one of the last such days he would see for a year or more, he should really have been able to enjoy it to the full. King’s challenge, though, continued to perturb him.

They raced past a fisherman’s skiff, its silvery catch glinting in the sun. A large, muscly black stood balanced in the prow, holding aloft the pick of his fish as enticingly as he could, while the cutter skimmed by unregarding. FitzRoy felt a flash of pity for the man, who could never know the world and all it offered, who had not the opportunities provided by modern civilization to make whatever he wanted of his own life.

Dropping behind them, resplendent, the
Ganges
lay at anchor, the pride of the South American station, her jet-black pitch contrasting smartly with her blinding white sails, the Union flag fluttering from her jackstaff, the blue ensign rippling square from her mainmast. Ahead in the distance, dwarfed by the rounded symmetry of the Sugarloaf mountain, the squat shape of the Beagle could just be made out, low in the water like a lost barrel. His first commission. It was hard to keep the butterflies subdued. Make your presence felt, Otway had said.

By his side in the cutter’s stern, Midshipman Bartholomew Sulivan, just turned eighteen years of age, chattered away about home, about matters naval, about the task ahead of them, about anything. He really did take the palm for talk sometimes, but a cheerier, more optimistic companion was not to be found anywhere. Guiltily, FitzRoy realized that he had not been paying attention for some minutes.

‘. . . and do you remember that Danish fellow, Pritz, who pressed three of our men for the Brazilian navy? And old Bingham telling him’ - here he adopted Bingham’s fruity tones - ‘“I hear my boat’s oars. You had better give me back my men.” And the look on the Dane’s face when we climbed over the rail and he realized he must knock under! And do you recall him all crimson, shouting at us as we rowed off? “Remember Copenhagen! Remember Copenhagen!”’ Sulivan’s face flushed with excitement at the memory.

‘We raced each other over the rail, as I recall,’ admonished FitzRoy, ‘and you were first over, even though you were supposed to be in the sick list that day.’

‘It was the devil of a spree!’ said Sulivan, and the ratings at the nearest oars grinned discreetly at the youngster’s high spirits.

FitzRoy’s mind, though, could not settle.
I am now responsible for this young man’s life. His life and the lives of more than sixty others. Every decision I take affects their survival. Any misjudgement I make could kill us all.

Had the commission been his four months earlier, this golden morning would have found FitzRoy his usual confident self, speeding across the waves towards his future. The depression that had overwhelmed Stokes would have seemed as distant a prospect as the wild channel where the poor fellow had surrendered himself to it. Four months earlier, however, there had occurred a ... disturbance: that was the only word for it. An isolated incident, which had filled FitzRoy with disquiet, and which now refused to be forgotten.

It had been just such a day as this, the air at its sweetest, the sunshine clean and clear, and he had felt a sudden surge of elation as he prepared to order the signal to Wait for Dispatches. A kind of giddy excitement had seized him, a wild happiness, which led him in a whirling, mischievous dance. Glowing with joy, he had been struck by a tremendous idea. Why not run up all the flags in the locker in a splendid array? What a fine sight it would make! How in keeping with everyone’s mood on such a blessing of a day! Then, why not add all the night signals, the white lights, guns, horns, bells and flares, in a magnificent celebration?

The midshipmen had laughed when he had described his plan, taking their cue from his own merry countenance, but their smiles had slackened and disappeared at the realization that he was not joking. He had tried to persuade them, pumping their hands, invoking their Christian names, urging them excitably to join in the entertainment. They had failed to understand, had assumed him to be drunk. There had been a scuffle — a vulgar push-and-pull, his uniform ripped - which had culminated in them locking him in his cabin, still flushed with fatuous excitement. The incident had been hushed up - Bingham had been told he was sick - and quickly forgotten by the others, but what the devil had he been thinking of? What malign spirit had taken control of his mind?

The next morning had been even more inexplicable. He had woken in a state of what could only be called fear. A black despondency had suffocated him, squeezing all other thoughts from his mind, isolating him from the world outside his cabin. He had lain alone in his cot, shivering and frightened. In this state of overwhelming helplessness, there had seemed no point to his life, no point to his work, no point even to existence itself.

Gradually, the darkness had seemed to take shape in his mind. As he was still in the sick list, his friends had presumed him to be battling the dog of a hangover, but this was a much fiercer beast. It slavered at him, mocked him.
You are completely in my power
, it seemed to say,
should I ever deign to visit you again.

Within a few hours, however, the creature had stirred itself and padded away. He had emerged from his cabin shaken, cowed and deeply embarrassed. Since that day, everything had been as it should, but the incident continued to loom large in his consciousness. Had the creature really departed? Or was it merely biding its time, toying with him, waiting to return at a moment when men’s lives depended on his skill and judgement?

He had thrown himself at phrenology, had turned himself into an expert on the subject, staying up late to study Gall and Spurzheim, had spent hours in front of the mirror feeling the bumps and hollows on the surface of his skull, but to no avail. He thought of his uncle: a formidable intellect, one of the foremost statesmen of his age. Castlereagh had taken his own life. He thought, too, of Stokes. Had he, Robert FitzRoy, come face to face with whatever those men had encountered in their final moments?

Profoundly troubled, he realized that Sulivan had stopped chattering, and was looking at him with an expression of concern. ‘I say, FitzRoy, is everything all right?’

‘Of course. My dear Sulivan, you must forgive my inattention. It is not every day one is given a vessel of one’s own to fret about.’

‘And three cheers to that!’

‘Even so, my rudeness is quite inexcusable.’

‘Not a bit of it, old fellow, not a bit of it.’

FitzRoy sat up in the boat. Loath as he was to dampen the young man’s enthusiasm, he felt obliged to make a little speech. ‘Look here, Sulivan ... now they’ve sewn a couple of stripes on my sleeve, we shall still be the best of friends, of course — the very best of friends - but you do understand that it would not be fair on the other officers, the other midshipmen especially, if I were to show any sign of special friendship towards you? A ship’s captain eats alone, reads alone, even thinks alone. I have to be fair and just. I’m determined to do the right thing, Sulivan, the right thing by everyone, even if I end up the loneliest old man on the ocean. I hope you understand.’

‘Oh absolutely, old chap, absolutely. I mean, it couldn’t be any other way. It will be a privilege to serve with you, sir.’ Sulivan looked up at his new commander, and could only see everything that he wanted to be.

By now they were close enough to the
Beagle
to hear the water’s slap against her sides, and to see the welcoming party gathering at the rail. Whatever Otway’s recommendations of surprise, King was not the sort to leave Skyring and his men caught unawares by the visit. FitzRoy could make out Skyring by his uniform now, taller than the others, perhaps thirty years of age, his face dominated by a Wellingtonian nose and topped by a shock of dark hair. As the cutter pulled alongside, the lieutenant’s leaning gait seemed to suggest that the fierce southern winds had left him bent permanently at an alarming angle.

FitzRoy climbed gracefully up the battens, waving away offers of help, and shook hands enthusiastically with Skyring. His predecessor’s rueful smile indicated that no more needed to be said by either man, and that FitzRoy could consider the matter of his leapfrog promotion closed.

‘How do, Lieutenant?’ said FitzRoy, warmly.

‘Your servant, sir,’ replied Skyring. ‘May I introduce to you Lieutenant Kempe?’

Kempe, a cadaverous, unsmiling man, whose teeth seemed to be fighting to escape his mouth, stepped forward and offered a calloused hand. On closer inspection the crew, like the ship, had a weatherbeaten aspect. Skyring had obviously done a good job during his brief tenure: the Beagle was freshly caulked, her decks white, her sails free of the tropical mildew that could take hold seemingly in hours - but there was no disguising the beating she had taken. Everywhere there was evidence of running repairs, in her rebuilt masts, repaired rigging and the fragile patchwork of her sails.

‘This is Mr Bynoe, our surgeon.’ A dark-haired, clean-shaven young man with a friendly countenance stepped forward and pumped FitzRoy’s hand rather more encouragingly. ‘At least, he has been acting as surgeon. He’ll be resuming his duties as assistant surgeon when Mr Wilson arrives,’ added Skyring, in wry acknowledgement of the parallel. A broad grin from Bynoe, to whom FitzRoy instinctively warmed.

‘This is Midshipman King,’ went on Skyring. ‘Midshipman Phillip King.’

FitzRoy had no need of the warning, although he was grateful for Skyring’s gesture. The boy before him, no more than a child, was a scaled-down replica of Phillip Parker King. ‘I take it that you are related to the captain of the
Adventure?’

‘He’s my father, sir.’

‘Your father is a great man and a fine captain, Mr King.’

‘Yes sir. He is, sir.’

The younger King seemed harmless enough at first encounter, but this was an unexpected handicap all the same.

And this is Midshipman John Lort Stokes.’ Skyring indicated a robust-looking youth with a military air and a correspondingly firm handshake.

FitzRoy raised a quizzical eyebrow.

‘No relation to the late captain, sir,’ explained Stokes, briskly.

‘Mr Stokes hails from Yorkshire,’ said Skyring, as if that clarified the situation.

FitzRoy breathed an inward sigh of relief.

Further introductions were made between the two midshipmen and Sulivan, Stokes being deputized to show the new man the ropes, before Skyring moved on to the warrant officers.

‘Bos’n Sorrell, sir.’

Sorrell, a square-framed man with thinning hair, who looked as if he had been fat in a former life, was clearly eager to talk. ‘The late captain was a fine man, if I may say so, sir, a fine man. He saved my life, sir, and many others.’ He bobbed uncomfortably before FitzRoy, as if in need of an urgent visit to the heads.