This Thing Of Darkness (45 page)

The only member of the crew who would naturally have sported any facial growth, Augustus Earle, had suddenly left the ship in Monte Video. Officially, the artist had cited advancing rheumatism, a condition that would not have benefited from the bleak chill of a southern summer, but many suspected that a certain competing attraction in the Uruguayan capital had also influenced his decision. His last-minute replacement, the little Anglo-Austrian Conrad Martens, now sat in the lee of the poop deck, wrapped in a tight Petersham coat, completing a topographical sketch of the coastline. Fuegia Basket, still religiously attired in her increasingly shabby royal bonnet, peered over his shoulder for a moment, then skipped up the companionway to hold York Minster’s hand. As she did so, Mr Matthews stepped diplomatically to the other side of the burly Indian. For all his attempts to ingratiate himself with the Fuegians, he had learned the hard way that it was not a good idea to cross the invisible line separating York from his beloved.

‘What are you doing?’ Fuegia asked Sulivan, who was standing at the rail with a spyglass, jotting down notes with a metallic pencil.

‘I’m keeping a geological record of the coastline. I’m writing down all the stones. For the philosopher, who is too sick to do it himself.’

He showed her his pad, upon which he had scribbled:
‘Thick white layer. Chalk? Pumiceous? Layer of porphyry pebbles above.’

‘Poor, poor Philos,’ said Jemmy. ‘He does not like when the boat goes up and down.’

‘Absolutely,’ said Sulivan, sparing Darwin’s blushes as to the real cause of his sickness.

‘My confidential friend Mr Bynoe will make him better. He has many good medicines.’ Jemmy had taken to calling Bynoe his ‘confidential friend’ after trying out various of his remedies for stomach upsets and minor ailments. In fact, so impressed had Jemmy been with Bynoe’s assortment of jars and bottles that the incidence of his supposed illnesses had escalated dramatically. It was a rare day indeed when he could not be seen marching proudly from the sickbay with a phial of Gregory’s powder, calomel or some other such purgative.

Suddenly York seized Sulivan by the arm, his normally implacable features lit up by surprise. ‘Look, Mr Sulivan, look! A bird, all same as a horse!’

‘Where?’ Sulivan spun round.

‘There! Running on beach! A bird, all same as a horse!’

‘On the beach?’ Even Sulivan, with his astonishingly keen vision, could barely make out the beach, let alone any details thereon. ‘Do you see anything, Jemmy?’

‘Oh yes Mr Sulivan, a big bird. It is running fast. It is a tip-top goer!’

‘Bird all same as a horse!’ parroted Fuegia Basket.

‘Blessed if I know what they’re talking about,’ said a peevish Matthews, squinting at the horizon.

Sulivan raised his spyglass to one eye and scanned the distant shore from left to right. Then, as he scanned back again — there! He saw it. A large male rhea, scampering into the shallows, its powerful thigh-muscles flexing and unflexing with every stride.

‘It’s a rhea, York, an American ostrich. But that you could see it from here! Captain FitzRoy - an incredible thing, sir.’

FitzRoy came over, and was apprised of the astonishing discovery - made a full two and a half years after they had first come aboard - that the Fuegians’ powers of eyesight were well beyond those of normal men.

‘I have heard tell of such birds, sir,’ said Jemmy dismissively. ‘In the land of the Oens-men they are common-or-garden.’

York glared at Jemmy, who took a nervous step behind the tall figure of Sulivan.

There is so much that we do not know about them,
thought FitzRoy.
I have been so determined to bring them forward into our world that I have neglected to study what makes their own world so different, so special.

‘Does everybody in your country have such powerful eyesight, Jemmy?’

‘Of course, Capp’en Fitz’oy. My tribe is a good tribe, see very far. My country is a good country. Plenty of trees. Plenty of seals. When you see Woollya, you will say, “This is a beautiful country, as beautiful as Great Britain.”’

Jemmy favoured FitzRoy with a warm, proud smile. FitzRoy smiled back.

The Beagle nosed cautiously into a thick bank of alabaster fog. Even here, in the safest anchorage on the east coast of Tierra del Fuego, it was as well to be careful. Since its discovery by Captain Cook in the previous century, the bay had yet to be surveyed properly, so the little brig felt her way forward, her decks cool and damp in the waxy air of the early morning, her sails hanging limp. Momentary eddies in the mist revealed only the dark, featureless forest: scores of fallen beech trees lay uncleared amid the ranks of their silent fellows, like a battalion of foot-soldiers cut down by musket fire, frozen for ever at the moment of impact. The vegetation was as thick as in any tropical jungle, yet here it was drained of all colour and movement. In these solitudes death, not life, seemed the predominant spirit.

Their voyage south had taken them through a series of startling natural phenomena, as if nature wished to signal that the boundaries of human civilization had been crossed, that they were entering her domain. Each spectacle had been more extraordinary than the last. Not far south of the river Plate, they had woken one morning to find the
Beagle
turned red. The entire ship was covered from topmast to keel by miniature crimson spiders, millions upon millions of them, each furiously competing to trace out its gossamer web in the calm morning air. The first breath of wind had blown them all out to sea in an agitated red cloud, never to be seen again. Then, off the Bay of San Blas, it had snowed butterflies. A vast white cloud of fluttering wings two hundred yards high, a mile wide and several miles deep had enveloped the ship. Fuegia Basket had stood in the heart of the blizzard, twirling and flapping her arms with delight. They were, calculated Darwin, a variety of
Colias edusa.
But what had caused these huge migrations? The animals were hurtling to their destruction, but to what end? It was hard to see a purpose, divine or otherwise, in this almighty extermination.

Near the entrance to the Straits of Magellan the sea itself had turned crimson: the cause, they soon determined, a monstrous shoal of tiny crustaceans. But more impressive still were the humpback whales that twisted and churned at the centre of the maelstrom, gorging themselves on their infinitesimal prey by the ton. One great beast flung himself almost completely out of the water, landing with a magnificent crash that sent a shudder through the hull of the
Beagle;
and Darwin remembered Midshipman King, and his earnest claims made out on the verandah of the little house at Corcovado, and he wished then that he had not seen fit to doubt his young chum.

This clammy morning in Good Success Bay found a quiet, solitary figure up at the cathead, half enveloped in mist. Bynoe, taking his morning constitutional around the deck - as surgeon he was spared the discomfort of night watches - spotted Jemmy Button there, and sensed at once from the Fuegian’s defeated posture that something was wrong.

‘Jemmy? Are you all right?’

‘My confidential friend.’

The greeting was not delivered in Jemmy’s usual effusive style; rather, it came out in a husky croak, and Bynoe could see that his eyes were rimmed with wet.

‘Jemmy? Have you been crying? What is the matter?’

‘My father is dead.’

‘Your father ... ? What makes you think that?’

‘A man came beside my hammock in the night. He told me.’

‘What man? York Minster?’ Jemmy and York messed together, forward with the crew. Fuegia, for obvious reasons, slept aft at the officers’ end of the ship.

‘No, not York Minster. A man.’

‘A crewman?’

‘Not man from this world, Mr Bynoe. A man from this other world.’

‘That’s a dream, Jemmy, just a dream.’

Jemmy shook his head. ‘No, my confidential friend. Not a dream. A man from this other world. My father is dead. It is very bad.’ He reached up and wiped the corner of his eye with his sleeve.

‘Jemmy ... I am sure that when we get back to Woollya you will see that your father is alive and well. Mark my words.’

Jemmy smiled, with pity and affection combined, at Bynoe’s lack of understanding; and the surgeon could not think of anything else to say.

 

Further along the rail, FitzRoy scanned the curtain of white and called for another depth sounding. Forty fathoms, came back the reply, and clean sand as before. Still, the billowing fog would reveal nothing. Darwin came to join him, glad of the chance to be up and about at last.

‘My dear FitzRoy, whatever do you look like in that beard? It has become quite patriarchal!’

‘Much like yourself, I should imagine.’

‘I? I resemble nothing so much as a half-washed chimney-sweeper!’ Darwin grasped his own enormous beard, leaving a gingery tuft protruding from his clenched fist. ‘What a pair we must make. Tell me, my dear friend, shall I have a chance to explore the beech forest?’

‘Of course, when the fog lifts. But be careful. Stick to the guanaco paths. When Cook was here, Mr Banks and Dr Solander mounted an expedition into the forest and became lost. Then night fell, and two of the men died of cold. Solander himself was lucky to escape with his life. I should not wish the same fate to befall our own dear Philosopher.’

‘Rest assured, I — ’

Darwin’s next words were cut off by a blood-curdling cry from the forest. It was a human cry — at least, he thought it was a human cry - but it seemed to him an utterly primeval sound, a harsh, rudimentary cry left over from the dawn of creation. Then, as if on cue, the milky curtain parted to reveal the source of the noise. There, not eighty yards distant, on a wild crag overhanging the sea, perched a small group of naked Fuegians. As they became visible to the
Beagle’s
crew, so they became aware of the ship and sprang up, gesticulating and yelling, their long hair streaming, each of them waving their tattered guanaco-skin cloaks. In answer to their calls, other ragged, yelling creatures emerged from the entangled forest, until the little crag was clustered with frantic, energized figures. One young Fuegian, his face daubed black with a single white band, began to hurl stones, as if to drive the
Beagle
away, but of course the projectiles fell well short of their intended target.

‘My God,’ breathed Darwin. ‘They are naked. Absolutely naked, in this inclement country. I had never, ever imagined anything like this. It is incredible.’

Those who had not journeyed south on the first voyage were transfixed. Hamond stood open-mouthed at the rail. Matthews, although he kept his feelings in check, could not disguise his fascination. Those like FitzRoy, who knew the Fuegians well, watched the watchers, riveted to see again their own initial reactions.

‘Look — look at that one on the right!’ Darwin pointed out an older man, with circles of white paint round his eyes, his upper lip daubed with red ochre, his tangled hair gathered in a fillet of white feathers. ‘He is like a stage devil from
Der Freischutz!
My God, FitzRoy, they are demoniacs! They are like - like the troubled spirits of another world!’

‘They are no worse than I supposed them to be,’ said Matthews piously.

Hamond shook his head sadly. ‘What a p-pity such fine fellows should be left in such a b-barbarous state.’

‘Fine fellows?’ Darwin raised his eyebrows. ‘I would hardly dignify them with the description “fine fellows”. They are hideous! Their growth is stunted, their features are literally beastly, their skin is red and filthy, their hair is greasy and tangled, their voices are discordant and their gestures are violent! To think Rousseau believed that savages in a state of nature would lead idyllic lives! Why, if the world was searched, no lower grade of men could be found. They are barbarians, my dear Hamond, utter barbarians!’

‘They are ignorant and savage, perhaps,’ said FitzRoy softly, ‘but not contemptible. Does not the example of our friend Jemmy here indicate what may be done to improve their lot?’

For the first time, the officers at the rail turned to look at Jemmy.

His face, they realized, was burning with shame and humiliation.

‘Philos is right,’ he said, jabbing out each word. ‘These men are not men. They are beasts. Fools. My land is quite different. My tribe is quite different. You will see. My friends will be happy to see Capp’en Fitz’oy. My friends will honour Capp’en Fitz’oy, will honour all
Beagle.
These men are
beasts.’

 

Four days later, Darwin arrived at dinner clutching a copy of Commodore Byron’s
Narrative;
it was an uncannily calm and sunny day off Cape Horn, and Bynoe’s skill as a marksman had provided their table with a fat roast steamer duck each.

‘So much for the famous Horn,’ remarked Darwin breezily. ‘A gale of wind is not so bad in a good sea-boat. Have you read this?’

‘I suggest you wait until we ship a sea or two before you write off the famous Horn,’ replied FitzRoy drily. ‘And yes, I have.’

‘Not only are these Fuegians of yours cannibals, it would seem they practise incest and bigamy as well. After the shipwreck Byron lived with a native who had two wives, one of whom was his daughter! And he beat them both regularly! Poor Byron was treated as a dog - quite literally. They fed him on scraps.’

‘Disagreeable as it is to contemplate a savage, Philos, and unwilling as we may be to consider ourselves even remotely descended from human beings in such a state, remember that Caesar found the Ancient Britons painted and clothed in skins exactly like the Fuegians.’

‘Worst of all,’ said Darwin, ignoring him, ‘is this passage here: