This Thing Of Darkness (18 page)

They had finally arrived at Monte Video two weeks late, only to be informed by Captain Talbot of the
Algerie
that both the
Adventure
and the
Adelaide
had been and gone, and that they were now to rendezvous at Rio instead. Again, it was a moment when the crew’s instincts would have been to slacken their efforts, but again FitzRoy refused to let this happen. And now, some nineteen months after their departure, the
Beagle
prepared to enter Rio harbour, in a palpably better condition than that in which she had left. Admiral Otway, FitzRoy knew, would be watching.

The following morning dawned dead calm, the ship marooned in banks of fog, which the sun drew upwards and slowly dispersed as the day wore on. At noon the midshipmen had trouble measuring the position of the sun, so harsh was its image as reflected by their quadrants. Soon after midday the Port Health Officer came aboard, to issue the ‘Pratique’ certificate of health. Black, curling ripples were already stealing across the glossy surface of the water as the
Beagle
weighed anchor and steered proudly for the harbour entrance.

‘Away, bullies, away! Away for Rio!’ exulted the crew, as they made sail.

Blue through the haze to port rose the mighty ridge that curled round the city, punctuated by the sharp spurs of the Corcovado and the Tijuca, and the flat-topped Gavia. To starboard the Organ Mountains stabbed upwards with their curious needle-points, and there, within the harbour itself, slumped the familiar hummock of the Sugar Loaf. Beyond that, a dazzling world of white sails awaited, clustered together at the feet of the great metropolis. Even among this wonderful constellation of ships there was no mistaking the
Ganges,
and just behind her, the
Samarang,
crossing the harbour in full sail, two of His Majesty’s ships-of-the-line, imperious and haughty, towering over the little
Beagle
as she skated slowly towards them. A squabbling, barging rabble of masked boobies plunged for fish in the
Beagle’s
wake, as if to emphasize her inferior social status. FitzRoy ran up the numbered signal to identify himself.

‘Keep a sharp eye open for any returning signals, Mr King.’

‘Aye aye sir.’

King did not have long to wait. Grasping the signal book so tightly with excitement that his fingers practically turned white, he was rewarded by a line of signal flags fluttering into position in the lofty heights of the
Ganges.
‘The admiral’s ordering us to moor alongside the
Samarang,
sir,’ he gasped.

‘That’s unusually specific, isn’t it?’ queried Lieutenant Kempe.

FitzRoy grinned. ‘Why, the old devil ... It’s a contest! He wishes us to compete with the
Samarang
in furling sail. He wishes to see how close we can run her. Well, we shall see about that! Mr Bos’n, make it known to the crew, would you?’

Sorrell marched down the deck, bawling at the top of his voice. ‘All right, boys! Seems the admiral wants a set-to between us and the
Samarang!
Wants to see us put in our place at furling sail! Well? Are we going to be made fools of by a crowd of jumped-up fancies? What do you say, boys?’

A huge answering roar came back in the negative.

There were only a couple of hundred yards before the two ships would be abeam of each other. A state of high excitement obtained aboard the
Beagle.

‘I want every man in position, Mr Bos’n, but nobody is to move until I give the order.’

‘Aye aye sir.’

The gap halved. There were just a hundred yards to go. And now fifty. Thirty. Twenty. Ten.
Now
.

Both ships began to turn into the wind at the same time. Figures swarmed simultaneously on to the yards of both the
Beagle
and the
Samarang,
hauling frantically on the clew lines, pulling the corners of the sails upwards into the masts. At breakneck speed, the courses, topsails and topgallants lost their billowing contours. The foretopsail, meanwhile, pressed against the mast, acting as a brake, slowing the
Beagle
to just a few knots. FitzRoy gave the order and the main bower anchor thundered into the water, sparks flying as the chain rattled deafeningly through the hawse. Almost at the same time, the foretopsail - its job done - began to curl up into the yards as well. FitzRoy stood tense on the poop deck, his pocket watch apparently ticking faster than normal.

‘Ten minutes ... ten minutes fifteen seconds ...’

‘Has a sounding ship ever beaten a man-of-war?’ murmured Kempe.

‘Not to my knowledge,’ replied FitzRoy calmly. The
Beagle
was winning. It would be a close-run thing, but even across a hundred yards of water he could feel a creeping sense of panic enveloping the
Samarang.

‘Eleven minutes twenty seconds ... eleven minutes thirty seconds.’

And then it was done. There was no doubt about it. The last inch of the
Beagle
’s sail was taken in. Across on the
Samarang
there were still corners flapping, edges of sail here and there still being drawn diagonally upwards by the topmen. An almighty cheer went up from one end of the
Beagle
to the other, which was immediately answered by another huge cheer from the crew of the
Ganges,
delighted to see their rivals on the
Samarang
humiliated in this way. Not just humiliated, but humiliated by a surveying brig!

‘I wouldn’t care to be on the
Samarang
tonight!’ squealed King, dancing around the binnacle box for joy.

‘They say old Paget is a real tartar,’ said Bennet. ‘Heads will roll!’

‘Mr Bos’n, that was immaculate - quite immaculate,’ said FitzRoy, with profound gratitude.

Sorrell, stilled at last, hung his head and blushed scarlet.

‘And now, Mr Bos’n, when every last sail is taken in aboard the
Samarang,
I’d like every inch of canvas on the
Beagle
set.’

‘You want me to
set
sail, sir?’

‘Well, we wouldn’t wish our colleagues on board the
Samarang
to think that was just a flash in the pan, would we?’

‘Right you are, sir!’

Sorrell was grinning like a small boy on Christmas morning as he beetled off. The order to set sail again took the
Samarang
by surprise, but only for a few seconds. Paget’s exhausted crew were back in the rigging only a moment later, but they were already beaten men. The momentum was with the
Beagle
’s crew now; heads had dropped, fatally, aboard the man-of-war. Midshipman King was leaping about the poop deck so delightedly that he was practically bouncing off the rails, but nobody was in the mood to rein him in. ‘We’re rubbing their noses in it! We’re rubbing their deuced noses in it!’ he declared.

Another massive cheer, echoing across the harbour, announced that the Beagle had defeated the
Samarang
not once but twice. Unchristian though it was to show off, FitzRoy simply could not resist this moment of triumph. ‘Mr Bos’n, give the order to furl sail once more.’

‘Aye aye
sir,’
purred Sorrell.

And so, for a third time, the crew poured into the rigging and out on to the yards, all their tiredness long since evaporated, their movements smooth and well drilled, confidence and exhilaration written on every face. The
Samarang’s
second attempt at furling sail, by contrast, was ragged and lacklustre. The contest, what remained of it, was a foregone conclusion. Suddenly, a crash of cannon echoed across the harbour. The men on the
Beagle
were taken by surprise, but only for a moment.

‘They’re saluting us, sir! The
Ganges
is saluting us!’

Indeed they were. The admiral’s flagship was saluting a surveying vessel. All her crew stood in the rigging, waving their hats and cheering for all they were worth.

‘My God, this must be a first in the history of the Service,’ said Murray. ‘Well
done
, sir.’

‘Well done sir,’ echoed Kempe, cautiously. ‘And may I say it’s been a pleasure serving with you, sir. A real pleasure.’

‘Why thank you, Mr Kempe. Thank you very much indeed.’

 

‘Marvellous! Simply marvellous! Commander FitzRoy, you have my congratulations.’

Admiral Otway, thumbs hooked into his waistcoat pockets, leaned back in his chair with ill-concealed delight. ‘I had Paget across for supper last night, otherwise I’d have seen you sooner. He didn’t say one word all evening. Beaten by a surveying brig! Priceless!’ Otway roared with laughter at the memory.

It was the following morning. King and FitzRoy were reporting to the admiral’s staterooms on the
Ganges,
just as they had nearly two years previously. This time, FitzRoy too wore the grizzled, salt-bleached aspect that had characterized King on the previous occasion.

‘I have with me Captain King’s official report as to your conduct, Commander. Would you care to hear the conclusion?’

FitzRoy glanced at King. ‘I’d be delighted, sir.’

Otway paused briefly for effect, then began his performance. ‘“Commander FitzRoy, not only from the important service he has rendered, but from the zealous and perfect manner in which he has effected it, merits their lordships’ distinction and patronage; most particularly in the discovery of the Otway and Skyring waters, and of the Beagle Channel, made by Commander FitzRoy himself, in the depths of the severe winter of that climate; and I beg leave, as his senior officer, to recommend him in the strongest manner to their favourable consideration. The difficulties under which this service was performed, from the tempestuous and exposed nature of the coast, the fatigues and privations endured by the officers and crew, as well as the meritorious and cheerful conduct of every individual, which is mainly attributable to the excellent example and unflinching activity of the commander, can only be mentioned by me in terms of the highest approbation.” Pretty damned good, eh, Mr FitzRoy?’

‘You oblige me with your kindness, sir,’ said FitzRoy warmly to King.

‘I wrote that, Commander, before I had an opportunity to speak to my son. He paid a visit to the
Adventure
last evening, and was most forthcoming about your voyage.’

‘Indeed, sir?’

A cold hand reached round FitzRoy’s heart and held it still for a moment. Had Midshipman King confided to his father the episode of the stolen whaleboat, and all that had followed? There was an awful pause, as Captain King’s eyes seemed to bore into those of his subordinate. ‘According to my son, Commander, it would appear that you are the finest commanding officer in the history of the service. A position, I should add, that I formerly held myself. It seems I have been utterly supplanted in the young man’s affections - an achievement for which I suppose I should congratulate you.’

‘Midshipman King is most unaccountably generous, sir.’ Relief streamed from FitzRoy like water pouring from the
Beagle
’s prow in a heavy sea. King caught his gaze for a moment longer. Was there something else in it, something unspoken? He could not tell.

‘Now, Commander, these savages of yours,’ boomed Otway.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Personally I can’t imagine what you were thinking of, cluttering up the maindeck with those benighted creatures, but it seems the Admiralty sees things differently. I have a reply to your letter from Barrow in the Admiralty office:

And so on and so on.’

‘That’s wonderful, sir.’

Otway harrumphed. ‘Well, I can’t see any good coming of it myself, but each to his own.’

‘I have the four Fuegians present, sir, on the
Ganges.
If you please, I thought perhaps you might care for them to be presented to you.’

‘They are here on the
Ganges?
Good Lord! Well, I can’t say I’ve ever met a Fuegian. Very well, bring the brutes in.’

Boat Memory, Jemmy Button, York Minster and Fuegia Basket were ushered in and introduced to the admiral. Boat and Jemmy bowed, as they had been trained to do, and Fuegia lifted her skirts and performed a perfect curtsy.

‘Most impressive, FitzRoy, most impressive. Their manners would do credit to many a matlow.’

‘Thank you, Capp’en Admiral, sir. It is a great pleasure to make your acquaintance.’ The speaker was Boat Memory.

Otway practically jumped out of his skin. ‘Good grief, FitzRoy. It speaks English.’

‘You have very beautiful cabin,’ chipped in Jemmy. ‘One day Jemmy have very beautiful cabin like you have.’

‘Three of them speak excellent English, sir. We are making slower progress with York Minster here, whose real name is Elleparu. Jemmy here was born Orundellico. Fuegia’s name is Yokushin. And Boat here — ’

Boat Memory cut in: ‘Please. My name is Boat Memory. I wish to have proper English name.’

‘Well, quite. Absolutely. Who wouldn’t?’ said Otway, almost at a loss.

Fuegia broke ranks and charged up to the admiral, beaming from ear to ear. ‘My name is Fuegia Basket. I have a pretty dress.’

Otway was on the point of shooing her away when, overcoming his prejudices, he found himself seized with a sudden impulse of generosity. ‘Come here, my little creature, and sit on Admiral Otway’s lap. Do not be afraid.’ And he reached out a beckoning hand.

As Fuegia skipped forward, Otway felt sure he heard a low animal growl in the stateroom, but there were no animals to be seen, and no one present appeared to have made a sound. Perhaps he had imagined it. But - there was no denying it — the hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end. Looking about him he could see no rational reason for this, but some primitive instinct told him to beware the big, silent one, the muscular Indian who had yet to speak. Somehow, innately, Otway knew that York Minster was the source of the tangible sense of threat that now assailed him.