This Thing Of Darkness (77 page)

A native miller came to the door of the mill, and waved a polite good-day His face was powdered white with flour.

‘How very admirable,’ said Darwin.

 

‘Yours is the most extraordinary achievement, and we salute you for it,’ said FitzRoy. ‘Following our experiences of Kororareka, your mission was the very last thing we expected to see on these benighted shores.’

‘Kororareka is known as “the Pacific Hell” for good reason, Captain,’ replied the Reverend Clarke, earnest and long-nosed. ‘Satan maintains his dominion there without molestation.’

‘Sad to say, in nearly all the affrays there, it is the white man who is the aggressor,’ said the older, graver Reverend Davies alongside him. ‘Ignorance of the local language, customs or taboo marks has not caused so many quarrels as have deliberate insult, deceit or intoxication. As a nation we have cause to be ashamed.’

Four reverend missionaries sat around the farmhouse table: Messrs Clarke, Davies, Williams and Matthews. The elder Matthews, married to Davies’s daughter, was an altogether more confident and inspiring character than his younger brother, whom he had not seen since the latter was a small boy. His delight at being reunited so unexpectedly with his sibling was genuinely affecting. The younger Matthews, for his part, had recovered some of the unctuous self-possession that had characterized his arrival aboard the
Beagle
, and was now basking vicariously in the glow of his brother’s achievements. Together, the missionaries exuded a pious eagerness and generosity of spirit, undercut by that slight air of anxiety common to all pioneers in potentially hostile lands. The final member of the welcoming party, though, was an interesting exception: an elderly New Zealander, tall and spindly as a church steeple, attired in a shabby, long-tailed coat and threadbare pantaloons, his heavily tattooed face surmounted by a battered top hat. The old gentleman sat grinning and sipping tea from a cracked china cup, saying nothing but seeming thoroughly to relish the occasion.

‘We are fighting a war,’ said the elder Matthews, fist clenched, a flame in his youthful eyes. ‘A war against ignorance and savagery, not just among the native population, where God’s blessings have yet to percolate, but among those of our own kind who have relapsed from the state of grace that our civilization affords them.’

‘My own feelings exactly,’ said the younger Matthews, drawing confidence from his brother’s stout piety. ‘When the ranks of savages attacked the mission at Woollya, with their spears and their stones, I felt myself to be God’s warrior, at war with the sins of ignorance and covetousness. I fought as bravely as I could, of course - had I a real army at my back I could have achieved something that day - but, being alone, my efforts were doomed to failure, and I was overwhelmed.’

Those who had been present when the drenched and beardless Matthews, gibbering with fear, had hurtled yelling into the lead whale-boat at Woollya, immediately formed a mental image somewhat at odds with the picture painted by the missionary; but for his fellows, his words seemed as hot coals upon the fire of their enthusiasm.

‘Your efforts in Tierra del Fuego do
not
constitute a failure, gentlemen,’ said the pale, whippet-like Mr Clarke. ‘They are a most promising first step. You have lit a spark in that country, which, by God’s grace, will never go out. Why, your experiences sound similar to our own first steps in this country. We too failed at first, but by God’s blessing upon our exertions, we have at last succeeded far beyond our expectations.’

FitzRoy felt himself encouraged, consoled and strangely touched by their optimistic concern.

‘When we first came here,’ said Mr Williams, a stout, jovial Welshman with the air of a medieval archer, ‘the New Zealanders’ warlike tendencies had to be seen to be believed. One tribe went to war, I remember, because they possessed a barrel of gunpowder that would have gone to waste were it not used up!’ He gurgled with laughter at the memory. ‘Such attitudes can take a long time to change, is that not so, Chief Waripoaka?’

The old man at the end of the table continued to grin silently, but his steady gaze gleamed briefly at the mention of his name.

‘Chief Waripoaka here was once a cannibal. But he was the first chief to be converted to God’s word, and it was by his personal intervention, back in 1814, that our erstwhile colleagues King and Kendal were saved from being killed and eaten.’

At last, the wrinkled old fellow spoke, intoning his words like the tolling of a bell: ‘Wonderful white men! Fire, water, earth and air are made to work for them by their wisdom, while we New Zealanders can only command the labour of our own bodies.’

‘Now the chief drinks tea, instead of ...’ Williams paused, and opted to change tack rather than complete the sentence. ‘We will not hear of your calling the Woollya mission a failure.’

‘Jemmy is a spark all right, he’s a bright spark,’ said Sulivan, ‘but he’s a tiny spark in an almighty darkness.’

‘We will send word to London,’ said Williams. ‘We in the Church Missionary Society have the whole organization of the Anglican Church at our backs. We do not operate independently of authority and of each other, like the London Missionary Society. We are no catechists, plucked untrained from ordinary life. We are professional men, trained in holy orders, a veritable army of God. We will have London send missionaries to Tierra del Fuego - a host of missionaries - to make contact with this Jemmy Button of yours, and kindle your spark into a blazing fire.’

Was it possible? Was it too much to hope for? A properly organized and equipped missionary effort, sent to the relief of Jemmy Button?
FitzRoy could only dare to believe.

Mr Davies, apparently the
de facto
leader of the group, spread his hands in a gesture of restraint. ‘I should stress that we are normally constrained to act only within a diocese of the Anglican Church. New Zealand falls within the diocese of New South Wales. But given that Tierra del Fuego is virgin territory, under no formal ecclesiastical control, I see no reason why Lambeth Palace might not be persuaded to make an exception. Be assured that we will do everything in our power to assist you, Captain FitzRoy.’ The creases about Davies’s eyes tightened imperceptibly. ‘But we, too, should be most grateful were you to lend your reputation in assisting us.’

‘How may I help you, gentlemen? You have only to ask.’

‘A book has been published - a most regrettable book - which is gaining some notoriety but which paints an entirely false picture of the work we do here. You and your colleagues, as men of repute, can testify upon your return to England that this volume does not speak the truth, before any more damage can be done.’

‘What is this book?’

Davies produced a slim, leatherbound volume:
Narrative of a Nine Months’ Residence in New Zealand,
by Augustus Earle.

‘Earle,’ said FitzRoy, his eyes wide.

‘By the Lord Harry!’

Sulivan, beside him, and Bennet, respectfully standing guard by the door, were instantly alert.

‘You know him?’

‘He was briefly our ship’s artist,’ confessed FitzRoy. ‘But I had no knowledge ...’

‘Your former colleague was our guest here in 1827. Now he damns us for foisting Christianity upon a people “ill-adapted” to receive God’s word. He claims that our “narrow outlook” has killed the “innocent gaiety” of the New Zealanders. I quote: “Any man of common sense must agree with me that a savage can receive but little benefit from having the abstruse points of the Gospel preached to him, if his mind is not prepared to receive them.” I can see no logic to his reasoning. For how can any human mind not be ready to receive the word of God?’

‘The man lived openly in sin - fornicated, no less - with a native woman,’ huffed Mr Williams, all trace of his former jollity gone. ‘If he had an interest about the “innocent gaiety” of the New Zealanders, it was with a view to plundering it for the benefit of his openly licentious habits!’

‘Mr Williams is criticized by name in Mr Earle’s volume,’ said the elder Matthews, quietly. ‘He is openly accused of lacking hospitality. Yet I know that my colleague here always treated Mr Earle with far more civility than his open licentiousness could have given reason to expect. Perhaps Mr Earle was disappointed at not finding the field of licentiousness here in New Zealand quite as formerly, on account of our efforts.’

‘You see, it is our mission here not just to spread the word of God,’ said Mr Clarke, his fingers enmeshed, ‘but to suppress licentious habits and ardent spirits. To teach the virtue of covering naked flesh. To help the natives to understand that there is a state of future punishment awaiting those who do not follow the path laid out for them by the Church of England. Some of their customs are most barbarous: for instance, did you know that when a New Zealander falls ill, or meets some calamity, the other members of his tribe - even his family and friends - descend like locusts and rob him of all his belongings? Thus do the strong survive and the weak go to the wall. What kind of Godless system is that, for Earle or any other to advocate?’

‘It is disgraceful,’ said Darwin.

‘You have my word, gentlemen,’ vowed FitzRoy, a guilty pink flush about his cheeks. ‘I shall use my every and utmost endeavour, upon returning to England, to promote your efforts to civilize the people of New Zealand and to counter Mr Earle’s propaganda.’

‘Wonderful white men!’ intoned the chief.

‘More tea, Chief Waripoaka?’ said Davies, keen to present a little tableau of civilization.

‘Good sweet tea,’ said the chief, ladling spoonful after spoonful of sugar into his cup. ‘Englishman meat taste too salty. Not taste sweet, like New Zealander. I eat a Captain Boyd once. Whaling captain. Too salty. Now Chief Waripoaka good Christian - no eat human meat. Drink sweet tea instead!’

The old man grinned conspiratorially, and took a big wet slurp from his teacup.

 

FitzRoy spent the next few days completing tests upon an ocean thermometer he had devised to detect and trace currents in the water. Darwin kept to the library, magnifying-glass fastened to his forehead by an elastic garter, microscope unfolded upon the table. Nobody went ashore: even the crew, it seemed, had little inclination to risk the dangerous fleshpots of Kororareka. New Zealand, it appeared to FitzRoy, was at a crossroads. The settlements of Kororareka and Waimate offered two alternative visions of its future. British intervention was surely now essential, to rein in the excesses of his countrymen and to steer the fledgling nation down the Christian path. A British governor was required, backed up by a considerable force of troops, to restore order and to protect the native population. He would do his utmost, upon returning to England, to press for such a policy to be imposed.

He decided to weigh anchor and head home for England following Christmas dinner. As this could hardly be taken ashore, a small, uninhabited island out in the bay was selected, and Mr Stokes charged with organizing the day’s festivities. With preparations well under way, FitzRoy, Bynoe, and King were rowed ashore to see Christmas taking shape. A large area of flat ground had been cleared, and planted with chairs and tables festooned with decorations. A Galapagos turtle was turning slowly on a large spit. At one end of the clearing they found a beaten-down circular area, with the remains of a cooking fire at its centre.

‘It was still warm when we got here, although the island is deserted now,’ related Stokes. ‘Looks like somebody else had their Christmas dinner here before us.’

‘Those are mighty big bones,’ remarked FitzRoy. ‘What are they? Beef? Lamb?’

Bynoe knelt down to have a look.

‘Neither, I’m afraid. This is a human femur.’

There was a long silence. Eventually King spoke.

‘The deuced filthy black savages.’

FitzRoy looked at him.

‘And what makes you so sure, Mr King, that this was not the act of deuced filthy
white
savages?’

It took the
Beagle
just over nine months to arrive at that glorious morning when, defying the swell, the crew could clamber as one into the yards - not just the deck watch, but the idlers and the off-duty men as well — each hopeful of being the first to see a low, dirty blemish break the distant line of the horizon. Every man aboard had ‘Channel fever’, as they called it, a desperate, yearning desire to gaze upon the undistinguished blue-grey hills of England’s south-western tip. For Charles Darwin, the sea had become a heaving desert, and the previous nine months just so much existence obliterated from the page of his life.

‘I loathe, I abhor the sea, and all the ships which sail on it,’ he muttered to himself, as his stomach surged and his gorge rose for the thousandth time that week. A blustery autumn gale was driving the
Beagle
up through the western approaches with close-reefed topsails set, the wind at her back, her progress rapid but not rapid enough for her reluctant passenger.

It seemed like an age since they had sailed beneath the revolving red beacon of the lighthouse in Sydney Cove, there to discover not - as expected - a grubby, scratchy little settlement akin to Kororareka, but a glorious gilded boomtown of windmills and white stone mansions shimmering in the heat. The liveried servants standing to attention on the coaches that clattered through the cobbled streets may have been ex-convicts; there may have been precious few gentlewomen in evidence; there may have been no sign of theatres, bookshops, galleries or any other outward manifestation of intellectual life; but there was no denying the incredible vibrancy of Australia’s youthful capital. Captain Phillip Parker King was there to meet them, having retired from England to an estate on the Bathurst Road, and keen to reclaim his son. FitzRoy generously consented to Midshipman King’s discharge from the Service, and there followed many an anguished farewell, Darwin’s parting from his boisterous young friend being one of the saddest. They found Conrad Martens, too, in Sydney, the little Austrian’s path having preceded their own footsteps across the Pacific: this was quite a stroke of luck, as it transpired that he had painted many of the locations subsequently visited by the
Beagle
, canvases that FitzRoy and Darwin were able to purchase from their creator at three guineas apiece. Darwin had felt himself obliged to draw a further hundred pounds on his father’s account, complaining of Sydney’s ‘villainously dear’ prices.