This Thing Of Darkness (5 page)

‘I have learned from Captain King and Lieutenant Skyring of the hardships borne on your first voyage, of the inclement conditions, the sickness and the lack of food. The weather that we encounter will, of course, be a matter for our maker. But I give you my word, as God is my witness, that the health of every man on board, and the sufficiency of victuals and provisions, shall be my prime concern.

‘There shall — as a consequence — be new regulations. For the avoidance of ship fever, every man is to wash himself thoroughly a minimum of once a week. All clothing is to be boiled every two weeks. All decks are to be scrubbed with vinegar every two weeks.

‘For the avoidance of scurvy, there will be an antiscorbutic diet, which will be compulsory for all those on board. No man is to go more than three days without fresh food caught locally. Hard tack, salt meat and canisters of preserved food are not sufficient. Every man is to take a daily dose of lemon juice. Lime juice is not sufficient. I shall also be asking Mr Bynoe to supply extra rations of pickles, dried fruit, vinegar and wintersbark. The daily wine ration is to remain at one pint, while supplies can be maintained. But for the avoidance of drunkenness, the daily rum ration is to be reduced from half a pint to a quarter of a pint.’

FitzRoy paused to let this sink in. The shocked gasp at the prospect of weakened grog was audible across the deck.

‘No man under the age of sixteen is to receive a rum ration.’

Another pause, punctuated this time by a smaller, higher-pitched gasp.

‘There will be no gambling. There will be no women in port. Before divine service on Sundays, all officers and men who can read and write, and I include myself in this, will be expected to contribute to the education of those who cannot. This will be a modern ship, run along modern lines. But the punishment for anyone who disobeys any of the new regulations, or any order for that matter, will be of the most old-fashioned sort. In particular, anyone who by his laxity endangers the ship, or the life of anyone aboard, will be flogged, as Able Seaman Gilly has discovered.

‘The refit will make the next two weeks a busy time for all of us. Nonetheless I shall ensure that every man is granted a period of shore leave. I trust that you will enjoy yourselves ashore. I trust also that you are all familiar with the penalty for desertion.

‘When you return to the ship, your work will begin in earnest. I intend to make the Beagle the best-drilled, best-handled vessel on the ocean. My object is that every one of her people shall be proud of her. That is my task, and yours too. Thank you for your time. You may go about your business.’

The crew milled about for a few seconds, murmuring among themselves, then disappeared back into the myriad hatchways and crevices of the ship. FitzRoy released his grip on the compass housing.

‘Well done sir,’ breathed Sulivan.

‘At least they didn’t come charging up the quarter-deck waving cutlasses and crying, “Liberty”,’ said Skyring. ‘Now, if you will permit me, Commander, I’ll go and gather my effects. The very best of luck to you. They’re not the best crew that ever sailed the ocean, but they’re not the worst either. There is potential in them. I am sure you will unlock it.’

‘You oblige me with your kindness,’ smiled FitzRoy politely, and the two men shook hands once more.

There remained only the matter of Able Seaman Gilly. As was normal custom, the ship’s company reassembled before the gangway at six bells to witness the flogging. Gilly was stripped of his rough canvas jacket and tied down. It was clear from the scars that laced his back that he had aroused the ire of Captain Stokes - and, no doubt, various predecessors - on numerous occasions. Sorrell, eager to impress, laid it on thick from the first blow, but Gilly clamped his teeth fast together, determined not to make a sound.

As the second blow fell, FitzRoy’s gaze shifted from the errant sailor towards the shore. In the distance, proceeding slowly away from the ship as it lifted and fell on a freshening breeze, he could just make out the jolly-boat, and in it, Bennet’s distinctive flaxen mop, almost hidden behind the wide backs of the two plump Brazilian women seated side by side. He turned back to observe the deck again, and the sea of watching faces under his command; only to become aware, uncomfortably, that every man jack of them was staring not at the flogging, but directly at him.

It was a glorious evening. A damp tropical breeze behind the Beagle nudged her softly towards the south-west. She slid silently into the mighty estuary of the river Plate, where the fifty-mile-wide sweep of warm brown river water gushes into the dark, welcoming depths of the Atlantic. A sliver of black-and-white on a shining sea, she navigated the divide between river and ocean, milky tea to her right side, port wine to her left. Giant columns of cloud marched across the landward horizon, golden shafts of sunlight angling between them, as if someone had lit a fire in the temple of heaven.

Robert FitzRoy stood by the wheel, Lieutenant Kempe a mute presence at his shoulder, and allowed his senses to bathe in the grandeur of the scene. In the distance ahead he could see the sharply curved promontory of Maldonado Island, the only interruption in the otherwise level plane of the horizon, jabbing up like a thorn from the flat stem of a rose; and in the shelter of Maldonado Bay beyond, he could just make out the spars of the
Adventure
at anchor. The glimpse of stitched canvas and carved wood promised friendly faces and welcome reunions for the
Beagle
’s crew after a month alone at sea. FitzRoy’s orders were to rendezvous with King in the
Adventure
, Skyring in the
Adelaide
and Admiral Otway in the
Ganges
at Maldonado before the day was out. The
Beagle
was only just on schedule, but she had been handling increasingly well for such an ungainly little vessel, and would arrive before dusk. He could take justifiable pride in the changes he had wrought during the preceding weeks.

They had hove her down off Botafogo beach, to the south of Rio de Janeiro, the crew camped along the shore in tents. Naturally enough it was Sulivan who had volunteered to inspect the damage to her false keel, who had dived again and again into the shimmering water. Finally he had been hauled back aboard exhausted, the skin on his back lacerated by the jagged copper below. FitzRoy had been forced to take over the task himself, to prevent his shattered subordinate flinging himself back into the sea. The youngster had paid for his exertions, though, with a bout of dysentery, and now lay weak in a sick-bay cot with a high fever and a chamber pot for company.

They had hauled the
Beagle
out of the water using ropes, her fat belly ripped and encrusted with barnacles, gasping and glistening like a landed whale as the seawater streamed off her in a hundred cascades. They had laid her down by hand on a platform constructed from four large market-boats. They had re-payed the cracked pitch in her seams and sealed it with hot irons; they had cleaned out her bilges, oiled her blocks, blacked her meagre armaments and painted the gun-carriages; they had polished her brightwork to a mirror finish with brick dust. And then she had been lowered snugly into the water again, to be welcomed back by the warm waves lapping around her hull.

Between Rio de Janeiro and the river Plate he had drilled the men relentlessly: reefing and furling sail in all weathers, sending down sails and yards for imaginary repairs, or waking the crew in the middle of the night to fix non-existent leaks. They had performed gun drill at all hours, summoned to action stations without warning by the drums pounding out the rhythm of ‘Heart of Oak’. Piped orders were practised again and again. Orders that had needed to be yelled through the speaking trumpet at first were now kept to a minimum. The boatswain had only to bark, ‘Make sail!’ and the bare trees of the Beagle’s masts would bloom white within minutes. She would always be an ungainly little brig, her decks awash even in the lightest seas; she would never dance adroitly to the tune of her captain like one of the elegant ships-of-the-line. But she was at last assuming a sturdy reliability that did her company credit. FitzRoy was beginning to feel proud of his sailing-spoon.

 

‘It begins to look very dirty to leeward, sir.’ Lieutenant Kempe was one of those perverse customers whose smile — half grin, half grimace - carried a hint of satisfaction at unfortunate developments. But he was unquestionably correct. The giant pillars of cloud on the western horizon were filling and darkening, and appeared to be increasing in size - which did not make sense, as the warm, gentle breeze that half filled the Beagle’s sails was blowing from the north-east.

‘Barometer reading?’

‘Steady sir, 30.20. That’s up from 30.10 half an hour ago.’

Everything was as it should be. The barometer said so. But tiny alarm bells rang in FitzRoy’s mind. Most of the crew didn’t hold with barometers - he’d had a hard job, in fact, persuading his officers that such gadgets had any part to play in modern seamanship — preferring their captain to handle the ship by instinct. A good captain, of course, was capable of marrying science and nature in his deliberations. The barometer may indeed have been adamant that nothing was wrong, and the nor’-easterly behind them may have contained barely enough vigour to ruffle the milky sheen of the estuary, but this, he was keenly aware, was no ordinary estuary. More than twice as wide as the English Channel at Dover, the river Plate was notorious for its sudden
pampero
storms. None of the crew had ever seen one, but they had heard the stories. Their instincts tensed like violin strings.

A long dark roll of cloud had curled into being on the horizon, filling the spaces between the vapour columns and blotting out the setting sun. Should they cut and run for the shore, he wondered? Or should they drive ahead to the sanctuary of Maldonado Bay? The former would involve disobeying orders. The latter risked being caught in the open, if this was indeed a
pampero.

‘Barometer reading?’

‘Steady sir, 30.20.’

This simply didn’t make sense. If a storm was indeed in the offing, the barometer should have been sharing his alarm. He resolved to stay on course for Maldonado.

‘No, wait a minute, sir. The quicksilver is dipping. 30.10 sir ... it’s dipping fast sir. It’s dipping really fast sir. 30 dead sir. It’s dipping really fast sir.’

Even as the master relayed the bad news, the nor’-easterly wind behind them dropped away to nothing. The sails fell slack against the masts. Only the creaking of the rigging betrayed the
Beagle
’s presence in a world of silence. There was a moment of hush on deck, as officers and crew stood in awe and watched the cloud columns grow, thousands of feet high now, grotesque black billows at the core of each pillar like the smoke from a cannonade.

FitzRoy’s ribcage constricted.
It’s so easy to know what action to take when you are only the subordinate. I have to take charge. Now.

‘Barometer reading 29.90 sir. The temperature’s dropping too sir.’

‘Take her into the shore, Mr Murray. Any shelter you can find.’

Murray made a quick calculation. ‘Lobos Island is only a few miles off the coast, sir, but there’s no breeze.’

‘I believe we shall have a sufficiency of wind before very long, Mr Murray.’

‘Aye aye sir.’

The master relayed the instructions to the helmsman. ‘Larboard — I mean, port - a hundred and thirty-five degrees.’

The cadaverous half-smile continued to divide Lieutenant Kempe’s bony features. The crew were still learning to use the word ‘port’ instead of ‘larboard’, at FitzRoy’s insistence: ‘larboard’ could sound uncommonly like ‘starboard’ in the middle of a storm.

The helmsman swung the wheel down smoothly with his right hand, and the ship inched slowly to starboard, reluctantly answering the call of her rudder.

‘Double-reefed topsails, Mr Sorrell, and double-reefed foresail. Batten the hatches and put the galley fires out.’

The boatswain piped the orders to the crew, and within seconds the rigging swarmed with figures: younger, lighter hands in the tops and out on the yard-arms, burlier sailors in the centre, wrestling with the heavier, more uncooperative shrouds of canvas.

A few seconds, and the adjustments were made. Now all they could do was wait like sitting ducks, and hope that the storm, when it came, would fill their reduced sails sufficiently to drive them towards the darkening shore.

‘Barometer reading 29 dead sir.’

‘That’s impossible,’ breathed FitzRoy. He had never known the quicksilver fall so far so fast. Swiftly, he crossed the deck to check for himself. There was no mistake. You could actually see it falling with the naked eye.

‘Hold on to your hats,’ murmured little King, somewhat unnecessarily. They were clearly in for the blow of their lives. Hands closed silently around ropes, rails and brass fittings — anything that looked securely screwed down.

‘Look sir,’ said Bennet, ruddy-faced under his flaxen mop. He’d come up on deck as the ship had changed course, and was now leaning over the port rail and squinting upriver to the west. All eyes followed the direction of his gaze. Before the rolling black cloud lay a lower bank of what appeared to be white dust, skimming across the silken brown waters towards them at incredible speed.

‘What is it? A sandstorm?’

FitzRoy reached for his spyglass. Even at closer quarters, the white band across the horizon was difficult to make out. ‘Great heavens ... I think it may be ...
insects.’

As he breathed the last word, the vanguard was upon them. Butterflies, moths, dragonflies and beetles arrived by the thousands, a charging, panic-stricken battalion, driven helplessly by the surging winds at their back. They flew into blinking eyes and spluttering mouths, snagging in hair and ears, taking refuge up nostrils and down necks. They clung to the rigging and turned the masts white. The sails disappeared beneath a seething mass of tiny legs and wings.