This Thing Of Darkness (35 page)

‘Damned scientific Whiggery,’ snorted McCormick.

Darwin gave him a supercilious stare. ‘I, too, am a Whig, Mr McCormick. As is my father, and as was my grandfather, who — however misguided his scientific principles may have been — believed in liberty, social advancement, industrialization and cultural improvement.’

‘So he was a Jacobin, sir, in both his politics and his chemistry,’ McCormick shot back.

‘If you will forgive me, gentlemen, I have an appointment for supper in the gunroom.’ Darwin rose stiffly, taking care not to bang his head on the ceiling, pulled on his benjamin and disappeared through the dark rectangle of the doorway. Once more a flurry of lashing rain and gusting wind disrupted the equilibrium of the cabin, before calm reasserted itself. FitzRoy was left facing McCormick across the chart table.

Finally, the surgeon broke the silence.

‘Deuced filthy night, sir,’ he said.

 

‘Well, if it isn’t the Philosopher!’

‘Come in, Philosopher, and make yourself at home!’

‘Hello there, Philos!’

The fug of pipe-tobacco in the gunroom was warm, friendly and cosseting. Sulivan stood up, clapped Darwin on the back and offered up his seat.

‘Supper won’t be long, Philos. We’ve some rare tackle - a nice bowl of warm soup, boiled duck and onions, with hot duff to follow. How will that suit?’

‘Wonderful, thank you.’ The idea of filling his stomach with hot food appealed to Darwin, but he was aware that his stomach might take its usual contrary view. He squeezed in between Bynoe and Usborne, the new master’s assistant.

‘So, Philos, how are you liking your new life on the rolling deep?’

‘I dare say I shall like it a deal more, gentlemen, when this fearful storm abates.’

A thunderclap of laughter rolled round the table.

‘Fearful storm? This is barely a stiff breeze!’

‘Wait ’til Tierra del Fuego, Philosopher, then you’ll see a blow or two!’

‘It’s when the bulkhead’s under your feet and the deck’s by your left ear that you should start to fret, old man!’

‘So, how is your study of the art of seamanship advancing, Philos?’ enquired Wickham. ‘Have you mastered all the technical terms yet?’

‘I feel I have made some progress. I have learned the names of all the sails, and the masts and the parts of the ship. So while not quite a seafarer yet, I am beginning to hold my own.’

‘Capital, capital. These are exactly the areas of knowledge that will save your life, when you are atop the mast in a howling gale in the Southern Ocean.’

‘When I — My dear Lieutenant Wickham, I do not propose to climb the mast at any time, still less during a howling gale.’

‘But Philos,’ said Bynoe, a worried look on his face, ‘did you not realize? When the order is given for all hands on deck, that means all hands. Even the civilians.’

‘In a gale we all pull together,’ confirmed Bennet.

‘Did the skipper not mention it?’ said Usborne.

‘Do not worry yourself unduly, Philos,’ said Wickham. ‘As a passenger, you will be asked to reeve the halliards through the block at the peak of the driver, or something like that.’

Darwin’s face wore a worried look. ‘The driver? That’s a ... temporary sail, if I recollect, hoisted up the mizzen-mast?’

‘Spot on,’ said Bynoe. ‘You do know your stuff. I presume you know your halliards also - outer halliards, middle halliards, inner halliards, throat halliards?’

‘Well, I ... throat halliards?’

‘Oh, it’s perfectly simple,’ Wickham reassured him. ‘The throat halliards are reeved through a block lashed at the mizzen-mast head. But when the sail is large - and it is important you remember this - the lower block of a luff tackle is hooked to a thimble in the throat cringle or nock, and the upper one is hooked to a strap round the mizzen-mast head. The sheet rope is reeved through a sheave-hole in the boom, and clinched to an iron traveller; in the other end, a thimble is spliced, the outer block of a luff tackle is hooked to it, and the inner one to a bolt on the boom. I say, Philosopher, are you all right?’

Panic-stricken, Darwin scanned the room. A circle of grave, concerned faces met his gaze.

‘It’s just that I ...’

There was a worried silence. Sulivan, still standing behind him, ended it by breaking into laughter.

‘Enough! Enough, you rotters, you have had your sport.’

The table erupted in hilarity.

‘My dear Philosopher, they are having a game with you,’ said Sulivan, throwing an arm good-naturedly around Darwin’s shoulders. ‘If we find ourselves at the mercy of a gale in the Southern Ocean, you will be tucked up like a babe in your hammock, as sure as eggs is eggs!’

The grave faces of a moment before had been replaced by a sea of merriment. Bennet, right before him, was literally weeping with laughter, tears rolling down his rosy cheeks. ‘Jimmy’ Usborne, to his left, was clutching his ribs as if in pain. Darwin, still stunned, sat in silence for a moment; and then, gradually, a smile stole over his features, and he began to chuckle too. Just a cautious chuckle at first, then a fullthroated guffaw, until he was laughing with the best of them.

Two hours later, the dog-watch over, hammocks piped down, all the lights and fires out except for a yellow glow from the gunroom skylight, Darwin stood at the rail. He stared out at the black, choppy surface of Barnet Pool and tried not to frighten himself with the thought of fifty-yard swells, or mighty walls of water that could crush a three-decker to matchwood, waves that might snap the Beagle in two like a twig. He had eaten too well, and had taken snuff for the first time, and he felt queasier than ever, for what seemed an inexhaustible variety of reasons.

An hour later still, FitzRoy knocked at his cabin door, and found him attempting forlornly to climb into his hammock.

‘It sounded like an enjoyable evening.’

‘It was.’

Darwin did not elaborate.

‘You are having trouble?’

‘I am having the most ludicrous difficulty. Every time I try to climb in, I only succeed in pushing the deuced thing away, without making any progress inserting my own body.’

‘Here. Let me show you. The correct method is to sit accurately in the centre of the hammock, then give yourself a dextrous twist, and your head and your feet will come into their respective places. Like so.’

FitzRoy swung easily into the hammock, then hopped down again. Darwin carefully replicated his movements, and succeeded, finally, in wedging himself between the folds of cloth.

‘Pray let me tuck you in.’

‘Really, FitzRoy, there is no need.’

‘My dear fellow. If you will suffer me ...’ And he arranged the blankets tenderly about Darwin, and pulled them up to his chin. ‘I am sure you will feel better on the morrow.’

‘My dear preserver, I do hope so.’

FitzRoy extinguished the light. ‘Happy Christmas, Darwin,’ he said.

‘Happy Christmas, FitzRoy’

 

The officers took their Christmas dinner ashore at Weakley’s Hotel. They ate mutton chops washed down with champagne, followed by plum-dough with raisins, and watched the rain lash into the window-panes, the streets of Plymouth rendered as grey watercolour smears by the streams cascading down the glass. FitzRoy, though, was optimistic: whatever the despondency engendered among his men by the weather, the barometer told a different story. It was on the turn, indicating that they would in all likelihood be able to set sail the next day. He had given most of the crew Christmas Day off as a consequence, and had left charge of the
Beagle
to a small party of men notionally commanded by Midshipman King - partly to give the boy a taste of responsibility, and partly to keep him away from the champagne. Sulivan, who had worked like a Trojan during the preceding months, was in a cheery mood, like his captain, despite his exertions, for such was his nature. Theirs was a merry end of the table. Fuegia Basket hurtled about, admiring the ribbons and the candles, teasing Musters and Hellyer, and playing with a model boat that the captain had given her. FitzRoy felt gladdened to be in such happy company.

Darwin found himself in mid-table, seated opposite Augustus Earle, the new ship’s artist, who had been employed by the captain in a private capacity to provide a visual record of the trip. He found Earle an odd fish: nearly twice his age, the man sported a stubbly beard, wore a shabby top-coat and a filthy stock.

‘I apprehend that you are an American, Mr Earle.’

‘I was born there, Mr Darwin, but I am a man of the world. I have not seen the States since 1815. I have lived in Chili, Peru, Brazil, Madras, India, and Tristan da Cunha. Lately I have spent three years in Australia, employed upon the portraits of colonial governors. When the supply of subjects was exhausted, I passed nine months in New Zealand, painting the natives.’

‘I am sorry to hear of your disappointment. I imagine the Australian commission was a lucrative one.’

‘Oh, there was no disappointment, Mr Darwin. Producing identical portraits of minor officials to hang before their families is no appointment worth speaking of. It merely paid my way. The New Zealander, by contrast, is a challenging subject for any painter. I like to think I captured something of his vitality, his athleticism. But there ain’t many as want to buy a portrait of a New Zealander. It’s why I moved on.’

‘Do forgive me, Mr Earle, but I cannot imagine who would wish to purchase a portrait of a black man.’

‘Well, our own Captain FitzRoy is an admirer, sir. He said I had a sympathetic eye, along with a capacity for detailed observation. It is how I have found myself in his employ. I have also written a book about New Zealand, which is to be published in Port Jackson, Australia, next year.’

‘Is there no end to your talents, Mr Earle? May I know the substance of your narrative?’

‘The substance of my narrative, Mr Darwin, is that the New Zealanders are an intelligent, spirited people whose way of life is threatened with destruction by what we term Christian civilization.’

‘But how can Christian civilization be a destructive force? Is that not a contradiction?’

‘You are a parson-in-waiting, Mr Darwin. If you had seen Christian civilization from the other side of the fence, as I have, then you would have a different appreciation. I lived with a native woman for nine months, and saw first-hand what Christian civilization is doing to her people.’

Darwin was horror-struck. ‘You mean you were
familiar
with a black savage for nine months? Unwed?’

‘Yes, sir, I was.’

‘Was she... well, was she
clean
?’

‘Cleaner ’n me, that’s for sure.’

Darwin sat back, stunned, unsure what to say. There were some things in this world simply beyond his comprehension. Clearly, the voyage would have a lot to teach him.

 

‘Tell me, FitzRoy... tell me about your home.’

‘My home? My home is in the
Beagle.
’

FitzRoy and Darwin sat before the fire in the smoking room at Weakley’s. The younger man felt emboldened, drawn by the embers’ intimate glow into making the kind of personal enquiries that can only be conducted between two gentlemen who are well known to each other.

‘I mean, your family home.’

‘I was brought up at Wakefield Lodge, which is by the village of Pottersbury in Northamptonshire. But since as long as I can remember I wanted to go to sea. My uncle was an admiral, which put him on a par with Nelson in my eye. I dare say my father was not best pleased. He was a general, and had me down for a career in soldiering, but I badgered him and badgered him until he put me down for the Service.’

Mentally he saluted his father’s generosity in giving way to an insistent six-year-old son.

‘I was quite the explorer even then. Once, during the servants’ dinner hour, I took a laundry tub and slipped out of the house. I was determined to sail the uncharted waters of the large pond, to discover what lay upon the far shore. I could have walked round, I suppose, but that would have been too prosaic a solution. I even took with me a pile of bricks, to act as ballast — I had heard of ballast from my uncle, I think. Sadly I had not thought to anchor my ballast, so when I stood up halfway across to survey the way ahead, all the bricks slid to one side and my little craft capsized. I was saved from a watery grave by one of the gardeners, who dived in and swam out to rescue me. It was an early lesson in nautical mechanics.’

FitzRoy laughed at the memory.

‘My word, I’ll wager you suffered the most fearful thrashing. What did your mother and father say?’

‘I’m afraid my mother died when I was five years old.’

‘Just like my own. I’m sorry.’

‘My father never found out about my escapade. He was never there. As I’m sure you can imagine, the French were keeping him rather busy in those days. On top of which he was the MP for Bury St Edmunds.’

‘Your father is a Member of Parliament? But, my dear FitzRoy, when I told you my uncle was an MP you said nothing.’

‘One does not like to boast of such things,’ said FitzRoy, abashed. Somehow, he felt reluctant to share his precious memories of his father, so few and far between were they. ‘My father is no longer with us either. He died... he died some time ago.’

‘My friend, I am sorry.’

‘I have an older brother, George, who has the house, I suppose, but I hardly know him. He was sent away to school when I was but one. It was my sister Fanny who brought me up. Then I, too, was sent to school at six. First Rottingdean, then Harrow, then the Royal Naval College when I was twelve. Everything you see before you was fashioned there. They do not simply teach seamanship, or the classics like a normal school. I learned everything from foreign languages to fencing and dancing. It is the most advanced of educational establishments. It was also my first ship, if you like - certainly, that was how we were encouraged to see it.’