This Thing Of Darkness (28 page)

‘Excellent, Jemmy, well done. Nine times twelve are a hundred and eight ...’

York’s eyes bored into the schoolmaster’s. The brute seemed to grow in his seat. Surely there was no chance of a response from that quarter?

‘... Peter?’

‘See what a noble, fine first-rate!’ chimed Peter.

I don’t blame you,
thought FitzRoy.

‘Well done, Peter. All our rhymes today have a nautical theme, Captain FitzRoy, in honour of your visit.’

‘I am indeed honoured, Mr Jenkins.’

‘Thank you, Jenkins, that will do,’ interrupted Wilson. ‘Now, children, you all know Captain FitzRoy. What do we say?’

‘Good afternoon, Captain FitzRoy,’ chorused the school.

And this is the captain’s sister, Mrs Rice-Trevor.’

The school said its good-afternoons.

‘Mrs Rice-Trevor has an important announcement to make, regarding our three Fuegian friends.’

Fanny swept to the head of the room, graceful and gorgeous in a carriage dress of Indian red satin, with a cloak and bonnet of black velvet; she appeared to the children as a dark, mysterious princess.
What a beauty,
thought Bennet.

‘Children, I have an invitation here, from Colonel John Wood, the extra messenger in His Majesty’s Household. Our friends Jemmy, Fuegia and York have been invited to London, to St James’s Palace, for a private audience with King William and Queen Adelaide. They are to have tea with the King!’

A gasp ran round the room. Jenkins’s glance darted instinctively to York Minster. Was that the ghost of a smile passing across the barbarian’s features?

 

‘What do you say, Captain FitzRoy? Is it not a pretty scheme?’

The party had adjourned to the Vestry House, adjoining the school, where Mrs Jenkins afforded refreshments, each serving accompanied by a little paean of praise to the all-round charm and sweet nature of that ‘good little creature’ Fuegia Basket. The Reverend William Wilson, inbetweentimes, continued to hold forth.

‘Two missionary volunteers to return to Tierra del Fuego with your Fuegians. That way, the savages may be taught such useful arts as will be suited to their gradual civilization. The Fuegians who have learned God’s truth here can provide assistance in establishing a friendly intercourse with the natives, and establishing a missionary settlement among them. I hope you will not think me forward, Captain FitzRoy, but a subscription has already been set on foot. What do you say? Will you take them in the
Beagle
?’

‘I will not be returning to the south in the
Beagle -
the Admiralty has other plans for her. The journey is to be a private undertaking. But — ’

‘Not in the
Beagle
?’ interjected Bennet, stunned. Unsure of his manners in such company, he had chosen - despite being invited to take a seat - to hover by the door like a sentry standing easy. And now he had let himself down.

‘I shall explain later, Mr Bennet.’

‘I’m sorry, sir.’

‘I must own, Mr Wilson, that your proposition takes me by surprise. Of course, any such venture would have to receive the blessing of the Admiralty, as they have sponsored the education of the Fuegians. Provided that you can find two brave souls willing to habit that Godforsaken coast, I see no reason why I should not be of assistance, but that is a considerable provision. Tierra del Fuego has claimed many European lives. I would not consign any man to those wild shores without his being fully cognizant of the dangers involved.’

‘The modern evangelist is a muscular Christian, Captain FitzRoy. He has tamed the cannibal islands of the South Seas and has made inroads into darkest Africa. We cannot exempt any part of God’s earth from receiving the light of His love.’

Any further discussion on the matter was postponed by the return of Mrs Jenkins, with the news that classes were over, and that Jemmy, York and Fuegia were waiting to receive their visitors in their lodgings above the school.

The boarders’ rooms in the eaves proved surprisingly attractive and spacious, with exposed beams and simple wooden furniture. As the party climbed the creaking staircase to the upper floor, they were intercepted by a little yellow blur, as Fuegia Basket launched herself like a cannonball into Fanny’s skirts. ‘Capp’en Sisser! Capp‘en Sisser!’ she squealed delightedly.

‘Why, Bob, she’s the
sweetest
little girl,’ Fanny exclaimed, giving her a hug.

‘Good afternoon, Fuegia. York.’

York Minster, a burly shadow standing sentinel in the corridor ahead, nodded in acknowledgement to FitzRoy.

‘Where’s Jemmy?’

‘I - am -
here
!’

Jemmy stepped smartly out of his room on cue, and struck a dandyish pose in the corridor. The visitors could only gape. He was attired in skintight white buckskins, tucked into knee-length boots that had been polished to a mirror finish, an extravagant neckcloth of Flemish lace, and, topping off the whole ensemble, a long-tailed, double-breasted dress riding coat of the brightest pink, its gathered waist straining gallantly across its owner’s pot belly. His hair had been plastered down with pomatum. FitzRoy murmured under his breath to Bennet, ‘When I said, “Take him to the tailor’s to purchase a suit of clothes,” Mr Bennet — ’

‘He absolutely insisted, sir,’ whispered Bennet unhappily. ‘You know what he’s like. The minute he saw the cloth, wild horses could not have diverted him.’

‘I think it looks
marvellous
,’ announced Fanny loudly. ‘You have the appearance of a real English gentleman, Jemmy.’

Jemmy’s face lit up with pleasure.

‘You’ve certainly taken my breath away, Jemmy,’ confessed FitzRoy. ‘Are you well?’

‘Hearty sir, never better!’

‘You are pleased with your accommodations?’

‘By Jove, indeed I am. We are given many presents! People are very kind.’

‘And you, York? I gather you have been your usual quiet self in class.’

A half laugh, half snort from York.

All those months of divine study, York - is there not one lesson from the scriptures that you have taken to heart?’

York grunted. ‘Too much study is weariness of the flesh,’ he said pointedly.

 

Early on the Monday afternoon, FitzRoy left Messrs Walker & Co. of Castle Street in Holborn, where the last of the charts drawn up by the Hydrographic Office from his surveys had been committed to copper plate, and called for his carriage. He drove east, out of the city proper and down the Commercial Road, thick as it always was with empty waggons heading out to the docks and loaded ones struggling back in. Where the road divided he took the southern fork, past the moated fortress of the West India Dock, down Old Street to the South Dock, the old City Canal on Limehouse Reach. It was high water, so the river had flooded the marshes on the Isle of Dogs, and despite the lateness of the season the air was thick with mosquitoes. Only the Deptford and Greenwich Road on its newly elevated embankment remained above the water, cutting the silver sheen of the Thames in two as it curved to the ferry landing at the end of the peninsula. This was one of the poorest parts of the river: narrow lanes lined with mean slums ran down from the road, straight into thick Thames mud. Sickly, half-starved children, their limbs bowed with rickets, foraged in the treacly silt for driftwood or rotten fruit discarded from passing cargo ships.

The
John
was berthed about half-way along. Its owner, John Mawman, was waiting for him on the quayside. A taciturn Stepney merchant, Mawman kept his manners to a minimum. This suited FitzRoy. In the light of the transaction he was about to undertake, he was in no mood for pleasantries.

‘There she is, sir. That’s my brig. John Davey is her master.’

FitzRoy climbed aboard and had a look round. At two hundred tons she was of roughly the same dimensions as the
Beagle
, and the same colour
-
black, with a white stripe running round her rail - but there the resemblance ended. Her paintwork was dirtied where the crew had thrown slops over the side, rather than lowering buckets. Ropes lay untidy and uncoiled about her deck, like the back of a chandler’s shop. Her blocks were in need of oiling, her pitch was cracked and in need of re-paying. The bilges stank for lack of pumping. But all this was not uncommon in the merchant service, where naval discipline did not apply. She was basically sound and seaworthy, he could see that. Her timbers were solid. She would do.

‘You choose an opportune moment to depart the country, sir. If there is not reform soon, I do not doubt we shall all have our throats slit in our beds.’

FitzRoy ignored him. ‘There shall be seven passengers, Mr Mawman - myself, Mr Bennet my coxswain, the three Fuegians and two volunteer missionaries.’

‘You said five passengers.’

‘As our provisions are accounted for separately I take it that this does not amount to a problem.’

‘No, it does not. I believe the sum agreed was one thousand pounds?’

‘It was.’

‘Pilotage fees will also be extra.’

‘As we discussed.’

He could have negotiated the sum down a little, FitzRoy knew, but haggling invariably made him feel sordid. He produced his pocketbook and took out the cheque for a thousand pounds, drawn on his London bank. It was a huge amount: enough to buy a sizeable town-house in the city. The hire of a brig and her crew to voyage into perilous waters for six months was no small undertaking. But he had given his word to the Fuegians. He handed the cheque to the merchant, and signed Mawman’s fourteen-page contract.

‘You realize, Commander, that if you abandon the trip for any reason you will forfeit the entire sum?’

‘I am fully aware of the conditions binding our agreement, Mr Mawman.’

They shook hands on the deal. FitzRoy stepped back into his carriage, and joined the laden cart-stream heading back towards the city.

 

‘I’ve done the deed, Fan.’

‘Oh, Bob, I do hope you know what you’re doing. How much has it cost you?’

‘One thousand pounds.’

A faint, high-pitched whistle of breath escaped Fanny Rice-Trevor’s lips. ‘Do you have so much to spare?’

‘If I did not, I should have to find it. I cannot go back on my word.’

‘Of course not. I understand.’

His sister’s tone was soothing, but the candlelight from the chandelier illuminated a wet gleam in her eyes. A hundred tiny flames shimmered in her concerned gaze.

The occasion was a private coronation ball, at the house of Mrs Beauchamp in Park Lane. Of course the ball season normally ended in late July, when the evenings began to draw in, but the coronation had made 1831 an unusual year. At one end of the ballroom, a small orchestra had begun the opening quadrille, and black-and-white-clad dancers whirled past in stately formations. Their hostess wove her way through the chattering crowds at the dancers’ edge to where the FitzRoys stood, a quiet island amid all the activity. ‘Are you young people enjoying yourselves?’

‘Quite so, Mrs Beauchamp. Your hospitality is always generous, but this year you have surpassed yourself.’

‘My, you look dashing, Commander FitzRoy. And what a wonderful dress, my dear. I adore the white lace over the blue satin. How very wise of you to wear blue to offset the orange of the candlelight. Now, if either of you finds that your appetites are in need of recruitment, I have placed refreshments in the small room at the far end. There will be a proper supper downstairs, of course, but we can’t have you catching a chill passing down that draughty staircase for lemonade and biscuits. Or something stronger if you prefer, Commander.’

‘You are as thoughtful as ever, Mrs Beauchamp.’

FitzRoy’s imagination could not help but compare the potential draughts on Mrs Beauchamp’s staircase with the ‘draughts’ he could expect on the exposed bridge of the
John
: South Atlantic gales screaming into his face, icing the rigging and raising surging walls of grey water thirty or forty feet high. Mrs Beauchamp wove away again, her heavy skirts shouldering aside the flimsier creations of the younger ladies.

‘She’s right, Bob. You do look dashing,’ Fanny said, adjusting her brother’s already immaculate white tie. ‘We must find you a dancing partner. It really would be most unfair to a multitude of ladies if such a fine catch were not to be made available.’

‘Really, Fan, there is no need — ’

She waved away his protests. ‘Come with me. I shall play master of the ceremonies. I shall present you to Miss Mary O’Brien. She is the daughter of Major-General O‘Brien, of County Wicklow. I would mark her card for you, except that Miss O’Brien is not the sort to carry a dance-card. She is a rather serious and devout young woman
-
just the sort for you, if you are to spend six months arm in arm with a brace of missionaries.’

Still protesting feebly, FitzRoy allowed himself to be dragged in the direction of Miss O‘Brien; and so it was that, five minutes later, he found himself bowing to her, and she curtsying in reply, as they lined up facing one another for the commencement of the Sir Roger de Coverley. They were the third pair in line, so they had time to exchange a few words before they were called upon to promenade between the two lines of dancers. Their conversation was formal: friendly enough, but stilted. FitzRoy preferred the silence of the dance, which he found not at all awkward but serene. Miss O’Brien wore a plain dress of white satin, slender-waisted and decorated only with three narrow rouleaux at the base. Her hair, unlike that of the other ladies present, was not arranged in clusters of curls about her face, or tied up in a swirling Apollo-knot: rather, it was parted in the centre, swept back and secured simply at the neck by a cameo. It was raven-coloured, and FitzRoy thought that she looked like a Catholic saint from Madrid or Andalucía. There was a beatific quality to her: the overall effect was pure, not severe. She gazed at him intently when they danced.