This Thing Of Darkness (92 page)

The busy detonations of musket fire from over on Flagstaff Hill were receding now, a grand percussive movement coming to an end. Before long only individual reports could be heard, an isolated shot here and there, until the guns in that direction were finally stilled. Dimly, through the onrushing barrage of stimuli that whirled and danced past his senses, FitzRoy realized that young Lieutenant Randall and his men must be dead, that the Lord had carried them forward to a better place, to the wondrous fulfilment of His majestic purpose. But the firing from the stockade was still thick and angry, the rough staccato bark of the guns like dogs fighting in the night, and FitzRoy’s heightened attentions were at once diverted.

Captain Maynard and the soldiers of the 80th were putting up a terrifically brave fight for men who had never seen action before. But they were defending a wooden stockade, in the midst of a wooden settlement that was succumbing at speed to ravenous flames and, to make matters worse, they were literally sitting atop Kororareka’s rather substantial powder magazine. The gunfire from that quarter never once abated, to their credit; but then, with a mighty whoosh of light, and an ear-splitting eruption of sound that could be heard across the entire Northland, God took Captain Maynard to His bosom as well, and all his men, and many of the native attackers with them. The blast illuminated the ships in the bay, lighting them a lurid orange like a Regent’s Park diorama of the Great War, and almost blew Captain Hazlewood and his marines off their feet. FitzRoy wondered for a moment whether the Day of Judgement had finally arrived, and whether there would be trumpets. All around him were expressions of unadulterated horror, but he knew, if the frightened marines did not, that theirs was the chosen path, the one true way forward.

Dark shapes were appearing from the town now, running forward in waves, crouching and emptying their muskets. The marines at the jetty were returning fire. Captain Hazlewood shouted to the
Hazard
for boats, to commence a general evacuation; but as he got to his feet to signal to his men on the brig’s deck, a ball hit him in the throat, and he subsided at FitzRoy’s feet with a confused gurgle. Mr Williams, who was crouched next to FitzRoy, was grabbing at his sleeve, trying to impress upon him the precarious nature of their position, and their urgent need to get to the boats. This was puzzling: surely he, as a man of God, should have been capable of some deeper understanding? The
Hazard’s
guns had opened up, their sporadic
basso profondo
providing a counterpoint to the staccato crack of the marines’ muskets, and the rattle of answering fire from the town. Whatever it was that Williams was saying now, his words were becoming lost, each one slipping soundlessly from his open mouth and flitting off to join the whirling symphony of noise. The man seemed to be in a state of entirely unmerited panic. The
Hazard’s
cutter had managed to row within yelling distance of the jetty, but most of the men at the oars had been shot, and it was bobbing stupidly in the water, about thirty yards out. Some of the marines on the jetty were ditching their muskets, their powder horns, their wad-cutters, rammers and all the other paraphernalia of the modern infantryman, and were making a swim for it.

‘Captain FitzRoy! We must leave!’ screamed Williams into his face, from just a few inches away.

Really, the man seemed to be incredibly agitated about something. There seemed to be some sort of problem. Where was Sinclair? Sinclair would know what to do. Perhaps it was time, at last, for all of them to take their places at the Lord’s side. Or perhaps the Lord would come to them. Yes, that was it. The Lord would come to them.

As if on cue, there was a blinding white flash, and an obliterating roar that seemed to come from far out to sea. An instant later, a mighty crash rent Kororareka, shaking the ground and throwing up huge explosions of sparks and flame. A second colossal thunderclap followed, and after that, further dazzling pyrotechnics from what little remained of the town. FitzRoy thought that the heavens had literally parted, but then, in the light from the scorching flames sweeping through the blazing settlement, all of them managed to locate the source of the sound. There, out in the bay, as stately and disdainful as a swan, stood a mighty British ship-of-the-line, her huge guns effortlessly pulverizing the town and its new masters alike; what looked like a thousand red-jacketed troops were crowded at her rail, ready to disembark. Williams was on his knees now, shuddering and shaking with relief, giving repeated and strident thanks to God for their deliverance. How curious, thought FitzRoy, that he uses the medium of speech to address the Lord, that he cannot simply
feel
His presence.

The War of the Flagstaff had ended almost as suddenly as it had begun. The remaining New Zealanders, who had no answer to the overwhelming firepower of the British naval barrage, were fleeing into the hills in disarray. Within a quarter-hour, boatloads of uniformed troops had swarmed over the beach and taken control of the blackened ruins of Kororareka. As smoke drifted like incense across the placid obsidian waters, a graceful white whaleboat was seen to detach itself from the side of the mother ship and make pale, elegant progress to the jutting tip of the Kororareka jetty. A young officer stepped out, emerging through the ivory haze as if from the billowing clouds of heaven. He walked slowly towards them, quiet assurance and confidence informing his every step. FitzRoy realized then that he was staring into a looking-glass: that this figure was none other than himself, aged about thirty. This other FitzRoy even wore an identical governor’s uniform. The Lord had reached back in time, had summoned a younger FitzRoy from the past - or an alternative FitzRoy, perhaps, whose life had taken different twists and turns - and had fetched him here, to deliver them all from evil. Truly, God’s ways defied rational explanation. Lost in awe and wonder, he rose to his feet, and the two FitzRoys walked towards each other along the little wooden jetty, before halting, no more than a foot apart, at its centre. Only then did he realize that this other FitzRoy was not himself at all, but was somebody else, somebody entirely different.

‘You are the reinforcements? From New South Wales?’ gasped Williams. His cassock was covered with blood and pieces of torn flesh - not his own but the unfortunate Captain Hazlewood’s - and he was trying frantically to wipe it off as he spoke.

‘New South Wales? No. We come directly from Britain. Captain Grey, at your service. We arrived at Auckland just after you left. We were apprised of your situation and made our way straight here. We have arrived with not a moment to spare, it would appear.’

‘Lord be praised,’ groaned Williams, who was sweating profusely with relief. ‘You have saved all our lives. I am the Reverend William Williams. This is Governor FitzRoy’

‘You are FitzRoy?’ The newcomer turned his cool, detached gaze on the man at Williams’s side. Captain Grey’s every movement, his every word, was crafted with elegant precision, his manner reassuringly languid. He ran a swift, professional eye over FitzRoy’s scuffed, bloodsplattered uniform. ‘It is with the greatest regret, sir, that I must inform you that you are to be relieved as governor of New Zealand forthwith, and replaced by myself, by order of Her Majesty Queen Victoria, and Lord Stanley, secretary of state for colonial affairs. I’m sorry, FitzRoy’

‘Replaced? But what ... ?’

The words were not FitzRoy’s, but Williams’s. If the Lord had sent an emissary to assume command, thought FitzRoy, he could give no complaint. Captain Grey held forth an official-looking letter.

Williams took it and read it out, for he sensed that FitzRoy was in no state to do so. Most of it consisted of platitudinous tributes to the outgoing governor. ‘“Public spirit and disinterestedness ... arduous duty ... personal sacrifices so liberally made ... most implicit reliance on your character ... zeal for the Queen’s service ...”’

Williams looked up in bewilderment. Captain Grey gestured to the official documents attached to the letter. ‘There was a House of Commons Select Committee on New Zealand, chaired by Lord Howick.’

‘Lord Howick? But he’s ...’

‘It received numerous submissions from the New Zealand Company regarding Governor FitzRoy’s supposed “deficiencies”. It was felt by the committee that the strength and persistence of press criticism would not have been such without some basis in truth. Furthermore, the dismissal of a loyal and hard-working public servant in Lieutenant Willoughby Shortland, the failure to apprehend the perpetrators of the Wairau massacre, the failure to raise a local militia and the issuing of paper money without prior permission were all factors that could not be overlooked. I fear that Lord Stanley was left with no choice. The summary of the committee’s report is attached.’

With shaking hands, Williams read the committee’s conclusions by the flickering firelight. ‘“Governor FitzRoy’s zeal, however laudable, for the welfare of the aborigines, has rather outrun discretion ... The uncivilized inhabitants of any country have but a qualified dominion over it ... The acknowledgement by the Governor of a right of property on behalf of the Natives was not essential to the true construction of the Treaty of Waitangi, and was an error which has been productive of very injurious consequences ... The New Zealand Company has a right to expect to be put in possession by the Government, with the least possible delay, of the number of acres awarded to it ... The principles in which the New Zealand Company has acted in making reserves for the Natives, with a view to their ultimate as well as present welfare, and in making suitable provision for spiritual and educational purposes, are sound and judicious, tending to the benefit of all classes ...”’

Williams lowered the paper in outrage. ‘But what shall happen to the New Zealanders?’ he demanded, although he already knew the answer.

‘I have over a thousand marines at my disposal, with more to follow. The New Zealanders are to be removed from the land. Any who resist, including the perpetrators of the massacre at Wairau, are to be arrested as criminals and hanged. I am afraid, gentlemen, that the due process of law must be followed. It is the mark of a civilized nation. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a country to take charge of.’

Grey walked on up the jetty, and FitzRoy wondered at the mellifluous simplicity of his movements. Truly, he thought, the Lord’s emissary wore all the wisdom and majesty of God’s kingdom, wrapped about him like a heavenly cloak.

‘Pappy! Pappy! Please can we go bug-hunting? I want to go bug-hunting
ever so!’

George Darwin crashed the study door open so hard, it nearly jumped off its hinges. Behind his impish grin his elder sister Annie stood reproving in the doorway, her earnest round face and podgy cheeks full of precocious concern for her father.

‘Leave him
alone,
Georgie. Pappy is working.’

Ever since the Darwins’ eldest child, Willy, had been packed off to board with a private tutor as a precursor to his schooling, Annie had taken the lead among her siblings.

‘Don’t worry, Annie,’ her father reassured her. ‘It’s almost midday’

The children had been forbidden to enter the study before twelve, although with the racket they made in the hallway outside, it was a somewhat pointless stipulation.

‘It’s
almost
midday, but it’s not
actually
midday, and Georgie is old enough to know the difference. I think he does it on purpose.’

She crossed the study, climbed on to her father’s lap and kissed him. ‘Are you feeling better today, Pappy?’

‘Yes, thank you, my dear,’ he lied. He had counted no fewer than seven nasty boils on his rear that very morning. He had also to contend with dyspepsia and constipation, headaches, constant high temperatures and ceaseless vomiting. This plague had been visited upon him daily for some sixteen years now. On bad days, even his vision and hearing were impaired; on good days, he felt almost normal. Today was somewhere in between.

‘Please-can — we — go — bug-hunting?’ demanded George, although the end of the question became a surprised squeal as Etty, who was two years older than he, suddenly lifted him up and dumped him unceremoniously on to the ‘microscope chair’, the small black wheeled stool their father used when peering at his specimens. It was already battered and scuffed from all the times it had been kidnapped and removed to the drawing room, where it would be punted up and down with one or more tiny riders on board. Etty propelled George head first into the old green sofa: many small children would have seized such an excellent opportunity for a good yell, but George was more or less indestructible.

‘Yes, we can go bug-hunting,’ conceded their father. ‘If - and only if — all of you leave my study at
once
. Coats on, and meet by the mulberry tree outside the nursery window in five minutes.’

With excited shouts the children charged out to locate their coats and comforters, scooping up little moon-faced Bessy, who had wandered confusedly through the doorway at that moment. Darwin put down his pen, and replaced the cap on the inkpot: he would finish his letter to Huxley later. He was preparing the ground for the publication of his forthcoming work on barnacles, writing to the likes of Hooker and Huxley to ensure that his book would receive good reviews from his friends and associates.

A bored-looking donkey was pulling an elderly mowing machine across the lawn as the children assembled, breath condensing with excitement, and set off eagerly through the yew trees. George made ‘bug-hunting’ sound far more thrilling than it was: in fact, they took the same walk every day at midday, down through the greenhouses and allotments to the little wood at the far end of the Darwins’ eighteen acres. There ran the ‘sand walk’, a little circuit that they followed again and again, their father knocking over a stone with his iron-shod stick to count each revolution. The ritual never seemed to lose its fascination for the younger Darwins, however many times they followed it. They marched joyously down the cinder path, trailing smaller siblings (who never lasted the course), curious ponies, pet dogs, and — clutching baby Leonard - Miss Thorley, the children’s governess, whose job it was to round up any stragglers and see them home safely.