This Thing Of Darkness (87 page)

‘Undoubtedly, Mr Gardiner, the heathen peoples of Tierra del Fuego could only benefit from the civilizing influence of a Christian mission, properly ordered and managed in their interest. But you are made aware, I trust, that this would be a considerable task. I hope that your enthusiasm to gain some advantage over the Roman Church will not induce you to act precipitately. The construction of any building on Patagonian soil is immediately attended by enormous interest among the natives, who cannot but seem to hinder the measures taken on their behalf.’

Gardiner removed his spectacles and grinned at FitzRoy from beneath a mantle of close-cropped iron-grey hair.

A floating mission, Captain FitzRoy!
A floating
mission! That is my plan. You see, I have heard of the destruction of your mission at the hands of.ignorant natives. Any land-based mission would inevitably be vulnerable to such an attack. But a floating mission! Suitably armed, it would be invulnerable! These months past, Mr Despard and I have collected funds and recruited men appropriate to the fitting-out of no fewer than two vessels suitable for this purpose — the
Speedwell
and the
Pioneer
, two stout schooners. Is it not the most uncommonly ingenious idea?’

FitzRoy remained sceptical. ‘I value your enthusiasm, Mr Gardiner, and I am sensible of your seafaring experience. But have you ever sailed in the vicinity of Cape Horn?’

‘No, sir, I have not.’

Gardiner did, at least, have honesty on his side.

‘Powerful westerly gales and the heaviest seas are its almost universal attendants. It is a hard job for a fully crewed and full-sized brig to stay afloat down there, never mind a schooner. Why, even two hundred-and-twenty-ton schooners would have their work cut out, coping with such elements.’

‘Well, I should confess, Captain FitzRoy, that the
Speedwell
and the
Pioneer
are of less than a hundred and twenty tons burthen. Sadly, we were unable to raise more than one thousand pounds to fund their purchase. They are more launches than schooners: to be precise, they are the pair of them twenty-six feet in length. But they shall be stoutly crewed — I have six good men and true! Pearce, Badcock and Bryant, who were Cornish fishermen, Erwin, our carpenter, Dr Williams, our surgeon, and Mr Maidment, who was a Sunday-school teacher.’

FitzRoy was appalled. Clearly, the man had not the faintest idea what he was letting himself in for.

‘Mr Gardiner, I must urge you to reconsider. It is my sincere belief that your resources are as yet quite insufficient for the task. You should do well to take a little more time, and to raise a little more money.’

Gardiner grinned his disarming grin once again. ‘I think you are forgetting something, Captain FitzRoy - something important. We have the protection of the good Lord. And with the Lord’s protection coming powerfully in our aid, I feel sure that we shall surmount any obstacle!’

 

‘Rum shrub?’

‘No, thank you very much.’

‘Please, please, take a chair.’

FitzRoy did as bidden.

‘It seems that I owe you an apology, Robert. I never calculated about this fellow Sheppard proving to be so tiresome. I am fain to say that he will not be standing on the Conservative interest again, but I imagine that will be of little consolation.’

Lord Londonderry poured himself a large drink and plumped his ample frame into an equally ample sprung chair; the greasy oil-cloud on the crocheted antimacassar indicated that this was a favourite spot. There was something so, well,
avuncular
about his uncle that FitzRoy found it easy to forget he was in the presence of one of the most important men in the Tory Party, if not the whole country. The chubby smile, the softly arched eyebrows and the confiding manner all sat at odds with his reputation as a fiery-tempered and ruthless political operator. With his round face and sharp, curved nose, he looked like a friendly owl.

‘He has challenged me to a duel. In the street.’

Londonderry chuckled softly ‘So I heard. How very melodramatic. Although you are aware, I trust, that my elder brother, your uncle Robert, fought two duels. He shot Canning in the left buttock!’ He laughed uproariously.

FitzRoy’s answering smile was, inevitably, somewhat muted. Viscount Castlereagh had suffered from the blue devils, just like himself. He had been forced into a duel, just like himself. He had gone on to commit suicide. It was not a comparison he relished.

‘You cannot possibly fight the fellow. Imagine if you killed him! They would throw you in prison. The damage to the party would be irreparable.’

‘Unfortunately, he is extremely hard to avoid. He is like a wasp.’

‘I do not for one minute surmise he will go through with it. I am sure he is no more than a posturing hobbadehoy, letting off his steam. But even so, it is not a risk the party can take. I am afraid that young Mr Sheppard’s behaviour might seriously jeopardy the both of you.’

‘Otherwise than Mr Sheppard, I suppose that my contribution has been satisfactory? I have tried to serve the party in Parliament to the very best of my ability.’

‘Your contribution to the Parliamentary party cannot be faulted, Robert - I do you justice on that. Regrettably, one’s performance in the Commons is often less important than the perceptions of the voting public, however misguided those perceptions might be. Oh, I do not for one moment suggest that any scandal attaches to your reputation as a result of his antics - far from it. Rather, it is the antics themselves that are become an embarrassment. The party continues to be reported in the newspapers for all the wrong reasons, which cannot be to the good of any of us. I am sorry that it has not worked out for you, Robert. I entirely blame myself.’

FitzRoy began to experience the awful sinking sensation that had attended his last interview with Beaufort. Londonderry leaned forward in his best confidential manner, and FitzRoy felt like a mouse beneath the owlish gaze.

‘I shall be frank with you. A position has come up - a plum position - that may solve our little problem. You are aware, I take it, that the government has declared New Zealand an independent colony?’

FitzRoy nodded.

‘Well, a colony needs a governor. A few years in New Zealand, and all these allegations of Sheppard’s will be forgotten, as will this whole business of a duel.’

‘What about Hobson, who negotiated the treaty? I surmised that the job was his.’

‘I am afraid news came through yesterday afternoon that Captain Hobson has died of some beastly tropical illness. It was rather a drawn-out affair, by all accounts. Poor fellow, his death is the better for everyone.

‘I am sorry to hear it.’

‘Funny thing is, the Church Missionary Society has already begun to lobby on your behalf. Cove by the name of Dandeson Coates, the secretary, wrote to the Colonial Office to say he’d received representations from a bunch of missionaries at a place called Waimate, demanding that you get the job. According to them, you’re the only man to look after the welfare of the native race, in the largest sense of the word. In fact I was talking to Stanley, the secretary of state for the colonies, only this morning. It appears you are also the only man of any official stature in the whole country to have actually visited the place. So — what say you?’

FitzRoy recalled the gin-sodden, muddy hell of Kororareka; and the look of pure hatred that Edward Gibbon Wakefield had shot in his direction that day in the select committee room. Was New Zealand really a place he could take his wife and children?

‘I would anticipate no great difficult with the New Zealanders themselves - but I foresee abundant trouble with the whites.’

‘The potential benefits to your career in the long run would be considerable.’ Londonderry was making it as clear as he could that a negative response was not an option.

By now, FitzRoy was past caring about the benefits or otherwise to his career in the long run. Was this the right course of action to take before God? That was the only question occupying his mind.
To do right, at whatever cost to myself, must be the governing principle of my conduct,
he reminded himself.

‘Very well,’ he said reluctantly. ‘Should the job be offered to me, I shall accept it - subject, I must make very clear, to the agreement of my wife.’

 

The first cab at the stand was a gleaming new hansom, a racy two-wheeler with the driver perched way up at the back. A more sedate old four-wheeler sat behind it with a fatter horse, and FitzRoy found himself wondering whether it would be a breach of etiquette to displace the natural order of the queue; and whether, indeed, it was a sign of advancing old age to prefer a more traditional mode of transport. Perhaps it was indeed time to leave behind the chaotic buzz of London; time to exchange his life as it was for the chance to be in at the start of something big, to help build a brand new nation from scratch, to be a genuine force for good in this world. Perhaps the Almighty was giving him a chance to contribute to the well-being of mankind.

His reverie was interrupted by the tinny horn blasts and bawled headlines of a nearby news-vendor selling the
Evening Standard.

‘Battle on the river Plate! Argentine batteries engage British vessel! HMS
Philomel
hopelessly outnumbered and outgunned! A story o’ heroism and tragedy!’

A hideous tidal wave of fear suddenly welled up inside FitzRoy, who felt as if he was drowning, right there in the street. He pushed through the little crowd at the news-stand. ‘Give me a paper, if you please.’

‘That will be threepence, sir.’

There were no stray coins adrift in his purse, or gathering fluff in the pockets of his surtout. ‘I’m afraid I have no change. I only — ’

‘Werry sorry, sir, but three pennies buys a
Standard
. If you ain’t got three pennies — ’

FitzRoy almost threw a ten-shilling note at the news-vendor, leaving him speechless with astonishment, and snatched the paper from his hand. The headline read ‘Naval Battle at Obligado’. As fast as he could, he devoured the story, his heart a pounding drum stretched taut with panic.

A chain had been placed by President Rosas’ forces across the river Parana, guarded by an Argentinian frigate and two gunboats. Trapped and pinned down by withering enemy fire ‘like large cricket balls’, the
Philomel
and her companion vessels had suffered tremendous damage to their sails and masts. Three thousand men rained fire upon the British ships, either from the shore batteries or using field-pieces. Lieutenant Doyle on the quarter-deck had been beheaded by a cannon-ball. The situation had looked utterly desperate; but the smoothness of the river-water had at least enabled the
Philomel
to stay afloat, despite being holed in several places just above the waterline, and Captain Sulivan had coolly brought her guns to bear on the enemy. The ship’s company, on account of their exemplary training and discipline, had never wavered in the face of overwhelming odds. Eventually, all of the shore batteries had been knocked out by ingeniously lobbing fire over their protective earthworks, with the exception of the number two battery.

Demonstrating extraordinary pluck and an utter disregard for his own safety, Captain Sulivan had left the
Philomel
in the command of Lieutenant Hamond, and had single-handedly launched an attack on number two battery in one of the boats. Under the cover of heavy musket fire, he had killed the gunnery crew in hand-to-hand combat and had spiked the Argentine heavy guns entirely by himself. The enemy frigate had been set ablaze and sent to the bottom, and the blockading chain had been cut by driving a merchant steam-vessel through it. Finally, Captain Sulivan had assembled a landing party of marines, at which point the enemy forces - mostly black conscripts - had fled in disarray. British losses had amounted to twenty-four men killed and seventy-two wounded. Enemy losses were estimated at eight hundred killed or wounded. Captain Sulivan was to be recommended for a decoration on account of his remarkable gallantry.

FitzRoy skim-read the whole story once more to be sure that he had missed nothing; then, he folded the paper and sank back against the wall, his knees weak, his body shaking, his heart still thumping, but thumping now with pride and happiness and sheer relief.

The news-vendor, disgruntled, appeared with hands cupped, a vast mound of dark pennies piled therein.

‘Your change, sir. Nine shillings and ninepence.’

The
Bangalore
drifted through the darkened bay like a ghost, her sails glowing intermittently in the flickering torchlight from the town. Her skipper, Captain Cable, had misjudged her approach through Waitemata harbour and had missed the daylight altogether - as, indeed, he had misjudged so much during the journey. The captain had even gone to sleep one night in a secluded, smooth-water harbour in the Straits of Magellan, with all his yards and masts still aloft, and his lightest anchor run out on its shortest scope of chain. He did not possess a barometer, whereas FitzRoy had packed two in his luggage, and both were plummeting fast, down to twenty-eight inches. After a fierce, hissed argument, FitzRoy had persuaded the mate to let go a second, heavier anchor, its cable veered. At two a.m. there had been a roar to the west, followed by a dense cloud of driven water as high as the lower yards, and within seconds the
Bangalore
was very nearly over on her beam-ends, her passengers’ screams almost inaudible over the terrifying shriek of the gale and the plaintive mewing of her straining anchor-chains. The first chain had snapped clean in two; but the second had held. FitzRoy had saved their lives. It was the low point of a journey that had been little short of agony for him, six whole months confined as a mere passenger on a Torbay merchantman whose skipper could not sail, could not navigate and could not read the weather conditions.