Galapagos Regained (30 page)

“Beyond aesthetic matters, I am persuaded that a finding against the Almighty at Alastor Hall will ultimately benefit our human race,” said Miss Bathurst. “Solange put it better than I ever could. ‘If there exists a species of ignorance certain to keep increasing the premiums on the bliss it buys, then a belief in God is surely that creature.'”

“Chloe Bathurst, I've never been more exasperated with you,” her brother seethed, “and I've not forgotten the time you put snails in my bed!”

As he sipped his claret, Malcolm realized that the actress's decision had elicited his qualified admiration. She might be a reckless dreamer, a foe of decorum, and the despair of Heaven, but her refusal to abandon the hunt boasted a perverse élan.

“I've changed my mind about the wine,” Algernon told Malcolm. “Pour me enough to make me forget my sister's obstinacy.”

“Please recall that at present we occupy not the Garden of Eden but a swamp of iniquity—Nineveh on the Rio Negro, as Solange once put it,” Miss Bathurst told her brother. “There are thieves everywhere. I advise you to forego the claret, proceed to the hotel, and hide your money in your mattress.”

“Allow me to attempt some wise counsel as well,” said Malcolm to Miss Bathurst. “When we make our way across the Andes, you must take care not to drive yourself too hard, lest you ruin your health. You are neither Carmine the vampire, Mr. Coleridge's wraith, nor any other immortal in your repertoire.”

“You said ‘we,'” she noted.

“If you would have me by your side during the journey, that is where I shall be.”

“That you might supervise my friendship with Ralph?”

“That I might help your mission to succeed. Yes, Miss Bathurst, surprising as it sounds, you may henceforth regard me as a member of your club.”

“I am deeply moved.”

And I am deeply perplexed, thought Malcolm—perplexed and melancholic and in mourning for my Maker.

*   *   *

For all his present religious skepticism, and despite his apparent assent to Solange's aphorism about blissful ignorance and rising premiums, Chloe could make little sense of Mr. Chadwick's decision to join the quest. If he sought to confirm his doubts about God, there were easier means to that end than continuing the treacherous journey to Galápagos. He could simply spend a quiet evening at home, reading Omar Khayyám or Percy Bysshe Shelley or, for that matter, “An Essay Concerning Descent with Modification.”

Not surprisingly, Ralph and Solange also chose to remain with the expedition: such was their devotion to atheism, free thought, and Chloe Bathurst (or so she surmised). Mr. Pritchard, meanwhile, after searching his soul and consulting his self-interest, decided to favor an immediate £250 payout over a hypothetical £600 share in the prize. Of course, this meant that he and Solange must go their separate ways, a situation that was causing the courtesan but little regret, “the fire having gone out of our fornication” (quoth Solange). As for Captain Runciter, he sat down, performed the computation, and realized that, with Flaherty eaten and Pritchard also out of the picture, his own share now topped £2,000, enough to retire from smuggling and “live like the king of an impoverished country.” So he, too, would be going to the Encantadas.

When not sporting with Ralph or fretting over the time they were involuntarily squandering in Manáos, Chloe assuaged her anxiety by strolling along the wharves of the foggy Rio Negro, contemplating the Indian work teams as they loaded nets filled with latex
peles
onto Belém-bound schooners and brigs. Accompanying Chloe on her fifth such excursion was Ralph, whom she'd invited along, and Mr. Chadwick, who'd invited himself. As the three travelers reached the end of the central pier, the mists parted to reveal a peculiar tableau.

A slender young man—sunburnt, side-whiskered, bespectacled—sat on his haunches inside a ring of dead birds, twelve in all, each with a blazing crimson body, black wings, and a disc-shaped crest. Beyond this strange circle, two Arauaki servants deposited other avian specimens in a crate bearing a London address. At first Chloe imagined that the white man was practicing a religious rite, but then she decided he must be a collector, aiming to sell his birds to European connoisseurs—no, not simply a collector: a scientist, too, for he scrutinized the specimens with an intensity that partook more of curiosity than of avarice.

“Excuse me, sir,” said Chloe. “Am I correct to infer you are a naturalist?”

The young man replied in a cheery English accent. “Hunting specimens is the love of my life, or so I persist in telling myself—for why else would a man keep paddling up the infernal Negro and the wretched Uaupés? Thus far I've suffered three bouts of malaria and two snakebites.”

“Such hardships are not unknown to me,” said Chloe, “for I, too, am a naturalist.”

“A profession not typically associated with the female gender,” said the collector, rising.

“My sex is evermore evolving. I am Miss Bathurst of Covent Garden, and this is my friend Mr. Dartworthy, intrepid mariner, and my other friend Mr. Chadwick, reluctant Deist.”

“Wallace,” said the young man. “Alfred Wallace of Hertfordshire. Because you are yourself a naturalist, Miss Bathurst, you will appreciate my thoughts concerning these particular specimens of
galo da serra,
the cock-of-the-rock, genus
Rupicola.
”

“Ah, yes, the fabulous
galo da serra,
” said Chloe, feigning expertise as deftly as Algernon might bluff a flush.

“What most interests me is the problem of intraspecies variation,” said Mr. Wallace.

“A mystery I have pondered as well.”

“As you can see, not every
galo da serra
is a luminous red—four of my exemplars tend towards orange. Observe, too, how the width of the tail-band fluctuates from specimen to specimen, as does the diameter of the crest. At what point, I ask myself, do such differences become so pronounced as to demark two separate kinds of bird? Might there exist some physical law, analogous to Mr. Newton's universal gravitation, that governs the progression from variant to variety to species?”

Good Lord, thought Chloe—another transmutationist! Though apparently not in possession of a full-blown theory of natural selection, he was clearly on the scent. She clutched her distressed stomach and then, recovering, undertook to learn whether Mr. Wallace was the sort of scientist who might carry his conjectures to Oxford.

“Believe it or not, the origin of the animal races is my passion as well,” said Chloe. “Summer will find me in Galápagos, an archipelago reportedly tenanted with species that boast distinct identities even as they evoke the fauna of Ecuador and Peru.”

“Miss Bathurst, you are a woman after my own heart—or I should say, head, for we have trained our intellects on the same conundrum. Were I more solvent, I would now invite you and your companions to lunch. My London agent fetches a good price for my treasures, but after he deducts his percentage my profits are meager.”

“Good sir, you must allow us to entertain you instead,” said Chloe.

Twenty minutes later, Mr. Wallace's Indians having nailed the crate shut and begun filling a second such container with specimens, everyone sat down to cowfish stew, roasted plantains, sweetmeats, and sangria in the Jacaré Vermelho, a dockside café crowded with cigar-smoking
caboclos
playing dominoes and robust
ribeirinhos
engaged in arm-wrestling tournaments. The subsequent conversation found Mr. Wallace struggling with incompatible oral needs—eating and talking—so that most of his excited sentences entered the air accompanied by flying morsels of manatee.

“From my observations here in Amazonia, I would argue that every species has come into being coincident in time and space with a pre-existing, closely allied type,” said the naturalist. “Ah, but does each such advent represent a separate divine initiative, or might we posit
another
explanation?”

“Excellent question,” said Chloe.

“When apes do battle with angels, I always put my money on the jungle,” said Ralph.

“You're a materialist, then, Mr. Dartworthy?” asked Mr. Wallace.

“In most circumstances, yes. After nine years before the mast, I've learned not to quarrel with typhoons.”

“Ralph is too modest,” said Chloe. “Though the world's worst hurricane might befuddle him, he handily outmaneuvers the average gale.”

“Speaking of apes,” said Mr. Wallace, “might we consider the primate family in general? Traveling up and down the Amazonas tributaries, I've studied twenty-one species of monkey. Without exception, the types found on a given shore—the marmosets, for example—diverge markedly from their cousins on the opposite side. Why would God deploy this genus so capriciously? Why does one distinct species inhabit the western bank of the Negro whilst another colonizes the eastern, even though the climate and flora are identical on both sides?”

Chloe forced a smile of scientific camaraderie, even as she grimaced inwardly, for this man's views seemed fully capable of winning the honors at Alastor Hall. “Tell me, Mr. Wallace, will you be returning to England soon?”

“September will find me in the East Indies, collecting and exploring for at least a year—but doubtless I shall in time grow homesick. Indeed, I already have.”

“Perchance you've heard of a theological competition in Oxford. Settle the God question to the judges' satisfaction—for example, by presenting a convincing materialist theory of speciation—and you'll walk away with ten thousand pounds.”

“Do you believe a person might actually construct a convincing materialist theory of speciation?” asked Mr. Wallace.

“The idea offends me beyond all telling,” replied Chloe, prompting Ralph to expel a sweetmeat and Mr. Chadwick to sneeze. “God is the author of all things.”

“I quite agree,” said Mr. Wallace. “It's true that I seek the law of transmutation, but even if I succeed, I would never soil my discovery by turning it against the Almighty. Whatever principles underlie evolution, they indubitably bespeak God's will.”

“Indubitably,” echoed Chloe as Ralph gulped audibly and Mr. Chadwick sneezed again.

“Then there's the problem of Man himself,” said Mr. Wallace. “Our moral sense, rational intellect, and faculty of speech are manifestly gifts from on high. I've never seen the divine spark in a marmoset, but I observe it daily in
Homo sapiens.
”

“I am relieved to hear that opinion from so learned a person as yourself,” said Chloe.

“Miss Bathurst cannot begin to tell you how relieved she is,” said Ralph, grinning.

As it happened, however, Chloe failed to take pleasure in knowing Wallace was out of the race, for a sudden coldness now gripped her bones, accompanied by a hammering in her skull. She imagined she might be experiencing an overture to malaria—or yellow fever or typhus or perhaps even Annie Darwin's nemesis, consumption: four possibilities she resolved to exile from her thoughts.

“You will excuse me, for I must make certain the Indians loaded my treasures on the proper boat,” said Mr. Wallace. “Let me express my gratitude for so memorable a conversation. The three of you have nourished me in body, mind, and soul.”

And with that benediction the naturalist slipped away.

“It's over,” said Mr. Chadwick wistfully. “At long last, it's over.” He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. “Owing to our Mr. Wallace, Jehovah's coffin has received its final nail. This vicar's faith is extinct.”

“I don't follow your reasoning,” said Ralph. “The man believes in God.”

“When Mr. Wallace insists that a supernatural power undergirds Nature's laws, I hear a poignant yearning but no real argument,” said Mr. Chadwick. “Our friend is merely averring that the universe exists, something I already knew. You have won the day, Miss Bathurst. For me, God is dead in all His aspects, including Aristotle's Unmoved Mover and Mr. Locke's Divine Clockmaker.”

“I'm sorry,” said Chloe, enduring a spell of terrestrial
mal de mer
.

“No, you're not,” said Mr. Chadwick.

“No, I'm not,” she admitted, then took a big gulp of wine: a medicinal measure, she told herself—and the draught indeed settled her stomach, simultaneously restoring the warmth to her frame.

“You must be very sad,” said Ralph.

“Sad, but not despondent.” Mr. Chadwick consumed a final spoonful of stew. “For all I know, I shall soon find my situation tolerable, perhaps even convivial.” He popped a sweetmeat into his mouth. “O brave new world, that has such tortoises in it.”

*   *   *

“Godspeed, little brother.”

“Fare thee well, sweetest sister.”

Standing together on the thronging and boisterous central pier, not far from where she'd happened upon Mr. Wallace two days earlier, Chloe and Algernon engaged in a protracted embrace. Behind them stood Mr. Pritchard, Bartholomew the capuchin balanced on his shoulder, the monkey tugging on the man's brimless cap, the sailor brooding silently, both mammals apparently impatient to return to England and start spending their £250. Scowling clouds crowded the sky, making ready to spill their daily quota of rain, and yet the sun burned brightly, undaunted by local meteorological conditions on any of its eight planets.

Her spontaneous choice of locution,
Godspeed,
piqued Chloe's sense of irony, a transmutationist soliciting heavenly favors on behalf of a departing voyager being so prodigious an incongruity. “And may you find no occasion to seek the aid of a nonexistent Providence,” she hastened to add. At that moment, however, the notion of divine assistance greatly appealed to her, for the throbbing temples and swirling nausea she'd suffered whilst lunching with Mr. Wallace were upon her once again.