This Thing Of Darkness (4 page)

‘Mr Sorrell was formerly in the
Saxe-Cobourg
, a whaler that was wrecked in Fury Harbour,’ explained Skyring.

‘The captain, sir, he sent two boats to row eighty miles down the Barbara Channel to look for survivors, sir,’ said Sorrell, sweating with gratitude. ‘If it hadn’t have been for him, I wouldn’t be alive today. A fine man he was, sir.’

‘Well, Mr Sorrell, I hope I will be able to live up to Captain Stokes’s many achievements,’ said FitzRoy.
All except the last one.

Coxswain Bennet, a ruddy-faced, flaxen-haired young man, was the final member of the welcoming party. He had preferred to keep his counsel throughout the previous exchange, and his blank expression, FitzRoy guessed, betokened an instinctive sense of diplomacy rather than any intellectual shortcomings. Skyring’s introduction of Bennet had been almost an afterthought.

The formalities over, Skyring came straight to the point. ‘I’m afraid the damage below is far worse than anyone thought. The forefoot and the false keel have been torn clean off. A little run-in we had with the rocks at Cape Tamar. It’ll take at least two weeks to put right.’

‘Two weeks? My orders are to turn her straight round and head south again. The Adventure and the
Adelaide
are to leave in four days’ time, and we are to sail with them.’ A collective groan escaped the assembled officers. ‘Mr Skyring here is to command the
Adelaide.’

‘Then it would appear I shall be leaving you behind. The copper bottom is absolutely shot to pieces and will need replacing. It appears you will be enjoying Christmas in Rio.’

The officers’ expressions brightened a little. FitzRoy did his best to join in with the smiles, but levity did not come easily at this point. His first order as captain, and he would be unable to fulfil it promptly.

‘Shall we take the grand tour?’ offered Skyring, and motioned the others towards the rear of the tiny main deck. With the ship at anchor, the deck watch were mostly idle: sailors slouched here and there playing cards, or lay curled up asleep in coils of rope. They were a ragged lot, dressed in a battered mixture of slops and ducks, threadbare blue pea-jackets and patched-up canvas blouses. There was no singing, no laughter, no animation. These were hollow-eyed, exhausted, sullen men, observed FitzRoy, malnourished in body and soul. They observed him too, suspiciously and with barely concealed contempt. FitzRoy thought he heard the derisive whisper as he passed, ‘College boy.’
That’s all I am to them,
he thought
, a boy just out of scbool. Nine tough years in the Glendower, the Thetis and the
Ganges
mean nothing to them. I must prove myself from scratch. Perhaps they are right. Perhaps that is how it should be. I have experienced nothing like the ordeal they have been through. It is my duty to win them over.

Sorrell blustered ineffectually, lashing out left and right with his rattan. ‘Look lively, lads! Jump up now! Make way for Captain FitzRoy!’

The men shifted, but their movements were lifeless and perfunctory. After a few short steps the party arrived at Stokes’s new raised poop deck, in the centre of which stood a solitary door.

‘This is the poop cabin,’ said Skyring. ‘Captain Stokes preferred it to the captain’s cabin so he used it as his own. He built it himself, which may account.’

FitzRoy lowered his head gravely, and stepped into the room where Stokes had died. It was cramped, extremely so, which was not unusual for a coffin brig: the distance from floor to ceiling could not have been more than four foot six. This cabin, though, appeared to be more uncomfortable than was strictly necessary. Not only did the mizzen-mast run straight through the middle of the room, but the steering gear was stashed under the chart table, taking up all the available legroom. A tell-tale noise from the other side of the wall informed FitzRoy that the officers’ water closet was right next door. A sparse selection of water-damaged volumes occupied the shelves that lined the back wall, for the cabin had also doubled as Stokes’s library. His cot still hung from the ceiling in memoriam, directly above the table and immediately beneath the skylight, as if spreading itself to absorb every ray of sunshine that filtered through the greasy glass.
That was why he wanted this cabin
, FitzRoy realized instinctively.
He was reaching towards the light.

‘Sometimes there are only two or three hours of it,’ said Skyring, who had followed his gaze. ‘Daylight. Down south. In winter.’

His eyes met FitzRoy’s. ‘Will you be wishing to keep this cabin? The men suppose it to be haunted.’

‘I presume the captain’s cabin is still below decks?’

Skyring nodded.

‘Then I shall take the captain’s cabin as normal. Irrespective of any ghosts.’

With Stokes’s spectre thus dismissed, they stepped back into the warm Brazilian sunshine, where the other officers stood waiting, then all proceeded down the dark hole of the after companionway to the lower deck. A familiar reek assaulted FitzRoy’s nostrils there: the concentrated smell of men who have not washed themselves in several months, mixed in a treacly stew with the wet scent produced by holy-stones, sand, water and wood, as the below-decks watch scrubbed halfheartedly on their hands and knees. Sorrell again tried to whip up some enthusiasm with his rattan, and one of the men, a grinning, red-haired Cornishman, wished FitzRoy a polite good morning that could have been either friendly or mocking, he could not tell which.

The captain’s cabin, at the bottom of the companionway, proved marginally roomier than Stokes’s berth in the poop, but no taller and a good deal more gloomy. Despite the presence of a small skylight, it was impossible to see into the corners. On the wall in the half-light, like religious artefacts, hung Stokes’s three chronometers: scientific icons, without which measurements of longitude could not be taken, without which there could be no expedition, without which the world could not be captured on paper, tamed and subjugated in the name of God and King George. They were obviously government-issue chronometers, their glass foggy, their metal housing battered, and one of the dials disfigured by a deep, vertical crack, but they did at least appear to function. FitzRoy made a mental note to dismantle them, clean, oil and reassemble them before the ship headed south once more.
This tiny cabin
, he thought,
will be your home for the next two years
; and for a brief moment he allowed himself the indulgent realization that the flag lieutenant’s quarters on the
Ganges
had been utterly luxurious by comparison.

Having acquired a lantern, which seemed to make no difference whatsoever to the gloom, the party inspected the gunroom and the midshipmen’s berth, and peered into the chain locker. FitzRoy could hear Sulivan chattering away behind him, befriending his fellow midshipmen with characteristic ease and rapidity, even though they could barely see each other. As they moved past a line of neatly spaced hammock hooks, however, FitzRoy was brought up short by the sight of two unstowed hammocks and their contents, a pair of ample Brazilian whores sleeping off their night’s exertions. For the first time in their tour of inspection, Skyring began to struggle. ‘The men have been away since the end of 1826. They haven’t seen a woman in two years - with the exception of a brief leave period last December. I thought ... well, you know, Admiralty regulations do permit women on board in port.’

‘Married women.’

Skyring grimaced and indicated a cheap wedding ring, which adorned the fat hand spilling out of the nearest hammock. ‘It doesn’t actually state whom they should be married to,’ he offered.

‘Mr Bennet,’ said FitzRoy, ‘perhaps you would be kind enough to wake the two ... ladies, and arrange for them to be escorted back ashore in the jolly-boat.’

‘It’ll be a pleasure, sir.’

Skyring attempted to look at the ceiling, but was already forced to stoop so low by the lack of headroom that he found himself staring instead at the back of Bennet’s head.

FitzRoy said no more, and the party finally emerged, blinking, through the fore hatchway. As they arrived on deck and straightened their backs for the first time in a quarter-hour, FitzRoy turned, to be greeted by another unexpected sight. ‘What in heaven,’ he enquired, ‘has happened to your yawl?’

Where the largest of the surveying boats should have been, bridging the gap between the foremast and the mainmast, was a crude, white-painted vessel cut from twisted timber. Inside it, where a smaller cutter should have resided, lay only a few tools.

‘Our original yawl was dashed to pieces by waves in the Gulf of Estevan,’ explained Skyring. ‘The one you see here was constructed by May, the carpenter, from driftwood. The cutter was stolen.’

‘Driftwood? Stolen by whom?’

‘The Indians. They’d steal the Beagle herself if you turned your back for an instant. The Fuegian Indians are the most degraded creatures on God’s earth - little better than animals.’ There was a murmur of assent from the company. ‘And if the Indians don’t take the boats then the elements will. Between the three ships we’ve lost eleven boats, all told. I’d say that of all the men on board -’ Skyring leaned further over than usual, and confided in FitzRoy ‘- May is the one indispensable man on the manifest. Lose May and you might as well set sail for home.’

‘I should very much like to meet him.’

May was duly summoned, and proved to be a short Bristolian whose hair had apparently been cut by a blind man. His cheeks were permanently flushed and reddened by scores of tiny broken veins.

‘I must compliment you on your ingenuity, May.’

‘Sir.’

‘This boat of yours is a remarkable achievement.’

Silence from May, who appeared taciturn to the point of mulishness.

‘Don’t worry about him,’ said Skyring, when May had returned to his duties. ‘He rarely obliges any of us with conversation.’

FitzRoy shifted his attention to the nearby rigging, which enmeshed the foremast in a thick tracery of blackened rope. He gave it a spirited tug. First impressions were encouraging, but then he took a closer look at what appeared to be a repair and picked at the tar covering with a fingernail. Something caught his eye. ‘Would you come here a moment, Mr Sorrell?’

The boatswain bobbed forward uncertainly.

‘Take a look at this, please.’ Sorrell peered at the exposed fibres. ‘Now tell me what you see.’

‘It — it’s not hemp, is it, sir?’

‘No, Mr Sorrell, it’s not. It’s sisal.’

‘Yes sir. Most definitely sisal. God’s my life, sir, I have no idea how this happened.’

Skyring and Kempe exchanged glances.

‘Who carried out this repair?’ asked FitzRoy.

‘Able Seaman Gilly, sir.’

‘Fetch him here.’

Within a few seconds Sorrell had scurried back with a reluctant Gilly, who proved to be an oldster, as grimy and wiry as any of the crewmen FitzRoy had seen so far. Gilly eyed his new commander suspiciously.

‘Did you carry out this repair, Gilly?’

‘Aye aye sir.’

‘How long have you been in the Service?’

‘Nine year or thereabouts.’

‘And how many years an able seaman?’

‘Six.’

‘And have all those years not taught you that sisal is insufficiently strong for rigging?’

‘Couldn’t find no hemp, could I?’

FitzRoy’s voice was iron. ‘I cannot look over this, Gilly. You have endangered your fellow crewmen’s lives. Once my commission has been read, you will be flogged at the gangway at six bells of the forenoon watch.’

Gilly said nothing, but gave FitzRoy a look of contempt.

‘You may return to your duties.’

The man turned on his heel without a word and walked away.

‘Shall I make it a batty, sir?’ Sorrell, relieved to have escaped a tongue-lashing, was now attempting to distance himself further from the crime by recommending a severe punishment.

‘Mr Sorrell, you know as well as I do that more than a dozen lashes are expressly forbidden, and have been for as long as you or I have been in the Service.’

‘I know, sir, but Captain Stokes always — ’

‘Captain Stokes, God rest his soul, is no longer with us. You will carry out a sentence of a half-dozen lashes at six bells. Furthermore, Mr Sorrell, when the
Beagle
is hove down, you will personally inspect every rope, every inch of her rigging and every link in her chains. Is that clear?’

‘Aye aye, sir. I’ll do it most zealous, sir,’ said Sorrell, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and back again.

‘Tell me, Mr Sorrell, how many minutes does it take the Beagle to make all sail?’

‘In good conditions, sir? From reefed? I’d say about a quarter-hour, sir.’

‘Well, Mr Sorrell, let’s see if you and I can get that down below twelve minutes, shall we?’

Sorrell, who had not dared breathe for the past minute or so, emptied his lungs at the prospect.

‘And now, if you will oblige me by mustering the ship’s company aft, with Lieutenant Skyring’s permission I should like to address them.’

The order was piped and men began to emerge, from the lower deck, from the hold, from the magazine, from coalholes, lockers, store-rooms and even - limping - from the sick bay, until it seemed impossible that the narrow deck would hold them all. They formed themselves into a ragged square, the red-coated ship’s marines to the left, while Skyring read FitzRoy’s commission.

FitzRoy himself stood on the poop, flanked by his officers in their peaked caps, dark coats and white trousers, until Skyring had finished. Then he stepped forward. He placed his hands on either side of the compass housing as if it were a lectern and spoke in a clear, firm voice. ‘My name is Robert FitzRoy. I am directed by my lords commissioners of the Admiralty to take charge of this vessel. My orders are to complete the survey of the South American coast begun by Captain Stokes, from Cape St Antonio in the east to Chiloé Island in the west, under the direction of Captain King in the
Adventure.
Lieutenant Skyring is to accompany us in the
Adelaide.
We shall make sail in approximately two weeks, after the ship has been hove down and repaired. Most of you, I know, will not relish so hasty a return to the south, but we may consider ourselves fortunate in some respects. The service is decreasing in size every day, as the war becomes no more than a memory. Ships are being broken up, commissions are not being renewed. The ports and taverns of England are packed with men who clamour for a berth. I know - I have been home recently. We are the lucky ones. And we have an opportunity not just to sail one of His Majesty’s ships, but to do so for the benefit of future generations. To survey unexplored territory, to map it and to name it, is to contribute to history. This is the chance offered us today.