FitzRoy could tell from York and Fuegia’s chatter, from the way that new sensations stimulated them to communicate with each other in their strange clicking language, that some kind of shared reasoning power united these two disparate characters. He felt enormously frustrated by the limits to his understanding. There is less dfference between most nations or tribes than exists between these two individuals. If I could help to prove that all men are of one blood, what a difference it would make.
He had consulted Captain Stokes’s copy of the Dictionnaire Classique, which divided men into thirteen distinct races, but to no purpose. The book marked Tierra del Fuego down, quite erroneously, as a Negroid area. Nobody, it seemed, had ever deigned to study the curious inhabitants of South America’s southern tip. Cracking the code of language, FitzRoy knew, would be the key. Unfortunately, York would not talk to any of the sailors. Fuegia would only parrot English with a wide, beaming smile. But they did speak to each other: already he had identified a noise like the clucking of a hen as ‘no’.
So long as we are ignorant of the Fuegian language, and so long as the natives are equally ignorant of ours, we will never know about them, or their society, or their culture. Without such an understanding, there is not the slightest chance of their being raised one step above the low place which they currently hold in our imaginations.
And then, on that wild, lonely peak above Christmas Sound, FitzRoy was struck by a big, beautiful idea.
If I carry a party of Fuegians to England, if I acquaint them with our language, and our habits and customs, if I procure for them a suitable education, and equip them with a stock of articles useful to them, if I return them safely to their own country; then they and their fellows will surely be raised from the brute condition in which they find themselves. They can spread their knowledge among their countrymen - the use of tools, clothes, the wheel! It could even be the start of a friendly Fuegian nation. They could facilitate the supply of fresh provisions and wood and water to ships rounding from one ocean to another. And if I could go further, and form them in the ways of polite society, then it would prove to the world that all men are created equal in the eyes of God.
The idea whirled in his brain, simple but fabulous. He would need Admiralty permission, of course, and both King and Otway would have to give their blessing, but if the Fuegians were educated at his own expense, then the Admiralty could hardly complain. The next survey ship could return the party to Tierra del Fuego. What could possibly go wrong?
A crack of gunfire from the beach below jolted him from his reverie. May’s boat-building party, hard at work on the replacement whaleboat, were under attack. Most of the sailors, armed only with tools, were rushing to take cover behind one end of the half-built boat. One of the crew, who must have been caught out in the open, lay face down in a pool of blood on the shingle, apparently dead. Two Fuegian women, who had apparently attacked him with sharpened rocks, were retreating from his body towards the far end of the beach, where a further ten or so of their number now gathered, chanting. They wore the white-feathered grass bands about their heads that, FitzRoy had come to learn, denoted hostility. Alone in the middle of this panorama, walking calmly up the beach towards them, firing into the air, reloading, walking a little further and then firing once more, moved the figure of Surgeon Wilson, a most unlikely hero. Perhaps Wilson’s apparent lack of imagination really betokened a serene inner strength after all, wondered FitzRoy. He ran forward down the hillside, Stokes at his heels, both men already drawing their pistols.
By the time they reached the beach it was all over. Wilson, normally one of the more invisible officers, had been feted as a hero, and was now engaged in trying to save the life of the injured man, whose skull was fractured. The Indians had taken to their canoes, but had been swiftly overhauled by a party of sailors in the cutter. All but one of the pursued Fuegians had dived over the side to escape capture, the exception being a frightened, slender youth, who now stood bewildered and shivering in the rough grasp of Davis, one of the crew. Beside him on the shingle was a length of the leadline (identifiable by its white five-fathom marker), a few tools and several empty beer bottles from the missing whaleboat. Shaking with rage, Davis pressed the muzzle of a loaded pistol to the boy’s temple. ‘Shall I shoot him now, sir?’
‘No! Put your gun down. This man is drunk.’
‘They’ve buzzed all the beer from the whaleboat sir. Every last drop sir.’
‘Let go of his arm.’
The boy fell slack on his back, looking up at FitzRoy, his unfocused eyes white with fear, his feathered headband limp with seawater.
Mortal fear is the only manner in which these people can be kept peaceable. It is a state of affairs I have to change, if I can. I must do everything in my power to bring about a mutual understanding between our two races.
‘Shall I just let him go then, sir?’ asked Davis, confused.
‘No. Bring him on board. Let him join his fellows on the Beagle.’
The newcomer was quickly christened ‘Boat Memory’ by the crew, as their last potential link to the vanished whaleboat. He seemed eager to help out around the ship, as if to atone for his part in the murderous attack at the beach, but for that very reason he found it difficult to gain acceptance. Furthermore his slender physique, most unusual for a Fuegian Indian, made him unsuited to physical tasks that - had he been similarly amenable - York Minster could have carried out without breaking sweat. York treated the new arrival with the utmost contempt, perhaps on account of his status as a defeated warrior, refusing to speak to him or even acknowledge him. They took to squatting at opposite ends of the ship, staring at each other through the thickets of rigging, the one baleful and contemptuous, the other cowed and frightened. It was left to Fuegia, inevitably, to act as go-between: unaware of any such nuances, she treated Boat Memory to the same winning display of affection that she served up to everybody else. FitzRoy felt the boy’s sense of isolation keenly, and realized that this might provide him with the opening he needed. He found Boat Memory sitting forlornly by the poop cabin skylight, playing with a length of rope. FitzRoy stood ten yards away from him, and spoke in a loud, clear voice: ‘Yammerschooner.’
Without a word, obediently, Boat got to his feet, walked forward and presented himself humbly to the captain, holding out the length of rope.
FitzRoy could hardly contain himself. ‘It means “Give to me,”’ he breathed excitedly. ‘“Yammerschooner” means “Give to me.”’
‘By Jove sir, you’ve got it!’ squeaked King over his shoulder, a delighted grin plastered across his puppyish face.
FitzRoy wiped any trace of levity from his own features. He stared directly and unwaveringly at the Indian, and pointed a finger at his own eyes. ‘Eyes,’ he announced.
‘Telkh,’ replied Boat Memory, without hesitation.
‘Fetch your notebook, Mr King,’ murmured FitzRoy, relief mingled with pleasure. The other officers began to gather round, interested despite themselves.
‘Forehead,’ tried FitzRoy, moving his finger upward.
‘Tel’che.’
‘Eyebrows.’
‘Teth’liu.’
‘Nose.’
‘Nol.’
King scurried back breathless, notebook and pen in hand. FitzRoy ignored him and kept going.
‘Mouth.’
‘Uf’fe’are.’
‘Teeth.’
‘Cau’wash.’
‘Tongue.’
‘Luc’kin.’
‘Chin.’
‘Uf’ca.’
‘Neck.’
‘Chah’likha.’
King scribbled away, desperately trying to transliterate Boat Memory’s words and make sense of all the tongue-clicks. FitzRoy kept it slow, his eyes trained on his subject.
‘Shoulder.’
‘Cho’uks.’
‘Arm.’
‘To’quim‘be.’
‘Elbow.’
‘Yoc’ke.’
‘Wrist.’
‘Acc’al’la’ba.’
‘Hand.’
‘Yuc’ca’ba.’
‘Fingers.’
‘Skul’la.’
‘Have you got them all, Mr King? Tell me you have translated them all so far?’
‘I think so sir, except for a couple when I was getting the book.’
FitzRoy took the notebook from his midshipman and read out the first entry as best he could. Pointing to his own eyes once more, he tried out: ‘Telkh.’
Without averting his gaze, the young man pointed to the same spot on his own face and said, clear as day: ‘Eyes.’
Then pointing to each body part accurately in turn, he continued without hesitation: ‘Forehead. Eyebrows. Nose. Mouth. Teeth. Tongue. Chin. Neck. Shoulder. Arm. Elbow. Wrist. Hand. Fingers.’
There was a complete silence for at least ten seconds on the upper deck. Quite simply, nobody dared breathe. Finally, FitzRoy spoke.
‘My God,’ he exclaimed.
May’s new boat was finished on the twenty-third. Kempe, meanwhile, had supervised the watering of the ship, and the stitching of new topmast rigging. As soon as the work was over, the Beagle weighed anchor, warped to windward and made sail out of Christmas Sound, steering small amid the profusion of rocks and islets. She made her way south-east along the coast to False Cape Horn, that cunning natural replica that lies some fifty miles up the coast from the real thing. There she turned north into Nassau Bay, her binnacle lamp a lonely pinpoint of light in the darkening winter evenings. The sick list was lengthening now, an untidy catalogue of colds, pulmonic complaints, catarrhal and rheumatic afflictions, not to mention two badly injured men. The fresh food of summer - the seabird meals of redbill, shag and bittern - had become a rarity. Anything they could catch or shoot now was offered first to the sick, and then to the Indians, on FitzRoy’s orders. Nassau Bay, long known but long unexplored, was to be their final ‘boat service’ of the trip, for which the captain was duly grateful. Surgeon Wilson had impressed upon him that the crew’s health was in dire need of recruiting. FitzRoy was all too painfully aware that this decline had begun following the episode with the whaleboat. Even though there had been no sign of any relapse on his part, it was as if the crew took its communal health - silently, invisibly - from him, as if damage to the head was reflected in the spirits of the body corporate.
The education of Boat Memory was now coming on so fast that FitzRoy could hardly bear to break off to recommence surveying operations. Fuegia, too, amazed to find that FitzRoy could suddenly communicate with her in her own tongue, had started to learn English with an astounding rapidity. Only York Minster, a brooding, intimidating presence to all but Fuegia, stayed silent. He sat in his berth up by the chimney grating in all weathers, surrounded by his secreted piles of food, oblivious of the cold and rain. Some among the crew thought he brought bad luck, or wished storms upon them, but none dared to confront him. To approach York felt like walking towards the entrance of a bear cave.
‘I’m afraid the water in the wash-hand basin is a mask of ice, sir.’
FitzRoy’s steward had arrived to waken him, bearing a bowl of steaming skillygalee porridge, but he had already been roused to half-sleep by the rattle of the anchor chain below. It was just before six o‘clock, halfway through the morning watch, and it would not become light for a good couple of hours yet. Snow lay dark and thick on the skylight above. In terms of personal discomfort this was no more than FitzRoy was used to, but it did mean that much of the day would be taken up with the tiresome business of de-icing the rigging. He wolfed his breakfast, struggling into his uniform as he did so, and left his cabin, unwashed, as the sentry rang four bells. It was too cold to clean the decks, so the ship’s company were already busy lashing up and stowing their hammocks. A tired-looking Murray, who was on duty at the wheel, seemed relieved to see a friendly face. ‘I think it’s going to be a fine day, sir. The stars are out and we have a good anchorage - one of the few on this coast fit for a squadron of line-of-battle ships.’
‘Excellent.’
Murray paused. ‘I’m afraid we lost the small bower anchor in the night, sir. The seaward cable parted through frost. It froze right through, sir. I had the remainder of the small bower cable shackled to the best bower, and rode with two-thirds of a cable on the sheet, and a cable and a half on the bower. I’ve had the men keep the cables constantly streaming wet at the hawse-holes with seawater all night, sir, to prevent any more icing up.’
‘Well, it’s a pity about the small bower, but you’ve done well, Mr Murray. I am grateful to you for your quick thinking.’
‘Thank you sir.’
As FitzRoy’s eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he became aware of a dim column of warm breath beyond the foremast, which signalled the solitary presence of York Minster, shrouded in a blanket in his accustomed spot. Boat and Fuegia had been persuaded to sleep below decks, but York chose to keep guard out in the open.
‘He’s been there all night, sir. As usual.’
The Beagle had anchored in darkness, but the emerging moon now illuminated steep wooded hillsides, hemming in the ship on three sides. Towards the northern end of the bay these slopes converged in a mess of islands. Here, as so often, FitzRoy, Stokes and Murray would have to hunt for channels, short-cuts and hidden routes into the interior of Tierra del Fuego.
A sudden commotion arose at the far end of the deck. York had sprung to his feet, all his senses alert like a hunted animal’s. His eyes scanned the darkness intently, and then he began to shout. The head of Boat Memory soon appeared at the companionway, and behind him Fuegia Basket scampered on deck. All three began to run about agitatedly, dashing up to the rail where they would scream derisively and pull faces into the darkness, before shuttling back again, as if afraid to show themselves for too long.
‘What the deuce are they shouting at?’ wondered FitzRoy.
Neither he nor any of the lookouts could see anything, even with a nightglass. But then, conducted like electricity through the clear black air, came faint answering shouts and catcalls. At first they came by the score, and then, as they came closer, by the century. Screwing up his eyes and squinting into the gloom, FitzRoy could see tiny silhouettes, black shapes cut in the moonlit sheen of the distant channels. Canoes, a good hundred of them. Boat Memory ran past waving his arms and shouting, ‘Yamana! Yamana!’ Even the normally solemn York was running about in agitated circles. Fuegia, FitzRoy noticed, was in tears.
‘What is it, Boat? Who are they?’
Boat was too panicked to answer. FitzRoy grabbed his arm roughly as he hurtled past and spun him round. ‘Boat. Who are these men?’
‘Bad men. Yamana! Kill Boat Memory!’ He gestured to two scars on his arm as proof of the strangers’ murderous intentions.
‘Yamana?’
‘Yamana! Bad men. Kill Alik’hoo‘lip.’
‘You are Alikhoolip? You and York and Fuegia?’
‘Yes. Yamana kill Alik’hoo‘lip! Bad men!’
‘Nobody will kill you here. Understand? Nobody will kill you here.’
But Boat was already charging to the starboard rail to deliver another volley of insults into the darkness.
FitzRoy gave the order to beat to quarters, and the Beagle’s drums thundered out into the blackness of the sound. Locks were produced for the guns, along with trigger lines, priming wires and powder, handspikes and rammers. The decks around the guns were wetted and liberally sanded. After a minute of frantic activity the men were standing by, waiting for the order to load.
‘Are you going to give the order to open fire, sir?’ asked Murray.
‘I hope to God it will not be necessary. The recoil could play merry hell with the chronometers.’
A great flotilla of canoes was converging on the Beagle now, from more than one direction. Silhouetted figures stood in the little boats, waving otterskin mantles the size of large pocket handkerchiefs, or holding what appeared to be substantial wooden clubs in thei
r fists. The shouts of the men in the canoes jostled and competed with each other to cross the gap between them and the ship. Now that they were closer, the jeers of Boat and York, and the wails of Fuegia, seemed suddenly pathetic by comparison. Steadily, the Yamana canoes converged into a tight ring around the Beagle, but still no attack was launched. The sailors stood tense and nervous by the guns; FitzRoy, pistol drawn, held himself in readiness to give the order to fire.
‘Sir! Sir!’ It was Coxswain Bennet who had shouted. ‘They’re not clubs, sir, they’re fish!’