‘Sir, these people, if they are indeed such, are of the lowest rung on God’s ladder. Such behaviour is hardly unexpected at the basest levels of society. Take a carriage ride up the Haymarket and you will see girls of the lowest class, girls as young as eight or nine, offering themselves to the highest bidder. When the famines bit in Kent and Sussex and Hampshire, poor farmers sold their daughters at market, some, I have heard tell, in a halter like a cow. These savages are lower still, barely a step above the brute creation. To behave in this manner is in their nature.’
‘Mr Wilson, I have given my word that these people will be raised from their base condition, and given every advantage of polite society. That is the purpose of their sojourn in England. If the girl finds herself with child when she is in my care, I will have failed in my duty before their visit has even begun.’
‘But if they are betrothed, sir, how will they even know it? One is no more than a child, the other keeps his counsel like a simpleton.’
‘You would do well not to underestimate their intelligence, Mr Wilson. York Minster may be a displeasing specimen of humanity in many respects, but stupidity is not one of his vices. Fuegia, too, is sharp of mind. I shall put the proposition to him, and to her, over dinner.’
‘Over dinner, sir?’
‘Over dinner, Mr Wilson. I intend to invite them to dinner, if the four of them can squeeze into my cabin. It will not be the noblest repast, as we are down to hard biscuit, salt pig and salt horse, but I have asked the cook to keep back the last few canisters of Donkin’s soup and preserved vegetables. Even if a formal betrothal does not result, we may at least educate them in the way of a few table manners.’
The Fuegians filed into FitzRoy’s cabin just after midday, their naturally crouching gait a useful attribute in view of the low ceiling. Suspicion was etched across all their faces at the sight of the captain’s formal linen and glassware, even more so than when faced with Dr Figueira’s tray of medical instruments. They had become accustomed to meals below decks, where food was eaten by hand or with a single knife, and drink was slurped from an open bowl; here, a veritable obstacle course was arrayed on the tablecloth. Coxswain Bennet — whom FitzRoy had also invited, as he had somehow drifted into the role of unofficial nursemaid to the Fuegians — entered with them, his burly form bent practically double in the tiny cabin, cheerily ushering his charges to their seats. FitzRoy’s steward became the seventh person to try to insinuate himself into the tiny space, in a desperate attempt to pour water into the guests’ glasses, but as a lesson in etiquette this got the afternoon off to a bad start: he was compelled by the lack of standing room to hover in the doorway and reach over the heads of those nearest to him.
Barely had York Minster’s crystal goblet been filled with water than he grabbed it, and threw the contents down his throat in one swift move.
‘York,’ said FitzRoy gently, ‘today I wish to teach you how to behave at dinner in England. It is thought polite to wait until everybody has their food or their drink before starting.’
York said nothing, but leaned towards the unlit candelabra in the centre of the table and sniffed at the candles.
‘These are “candles”. They give light from a little flame. At a polite dinner in England they would be made from beeswax. At a simpler meal, or here on a naval vessel, they are made from beef tallow.’
Once more York sniffed at the candles, which sat plumply in their twisted silver cradles, then abruptly grabbed and ate all three, cramming them into a capacious mouth. FitzRoy sighed. It was shaping up to be a long afternoon.
Jemmy, meanwhile, was holding each item of silver cutlery to the skylight in turn, an expression of wonderment on his face. ‘Beautiful. Many beautiful knifes.’
Bennet, who was about to enlighten him, checked himself. He had only dined with a senior officer once before in his young life, when Admiral Bartlett had invited all his junior officers to dinner in groups aboard the Persephone. It had been, he remembered, a terrifying and painfully silent affair: officers were strictly forbidden to broach any topic of conversation until it had first been raised by their commander. Fortunately FitzRoy spotted his hesitation and gave him the nod.
‘The spoon on the outside is for the soup course, Jemmy. Then the fork and knife on the inside are for the second course. With each course, you move in to the next two pieces of cutlery. Finally, your pudding cutlery is at the top of your place setting.’
‘When Jemmy is rich man in Englan’ he will have many courses, many cutleries.‘ Jemmy’s eyes swam delightedly at this suggestion, and he bared his teeth with pleasure. ‘Many beautiful knifes.’
‘When a man and a woman are married in England, Jemmy, they are given presents for their home. This is how most people obtain their cutlery, and linen, and crockery.’ FitzRoy indicated the three items in turn.
‘Please, Capp’en Fitz’oy, what is married?’ asked Boat.
‘“Married” is when a man and a woman come together in the sight of God.’ FitzRoy cut to the chase. ‘When we reach England I believe York and Fuegia must be married.’
‘Please, Capp’en Fitz’oy, York and Fuegia are already come together.’
‘I believe York and Fuegia must be married!’ squeaked Fuegia.
‘They are together, yes, Boat, but their union has yet to be blessed by God.’
‘God is late,’ protested Jemmy. ‘York and Fuegia come together many months ago.’
The servant began distributing ladlefuls of Donkin’s soup, a thin, evil, green liquid, among the dinner guests. York lowered his head into the steam and sniffed warily.
‘Remember, the outside spoon,’ said Bennet helpfully.
York gave him a scornful sidelong look, lowered his face into the scalding fluid and began to slurp loudly. Jemmy, meanwhile, held a spoonful of bright green liquid to his lips, his grasp awkward but his technique surprisingly dainty. ‘York is rough fellow. Very rough fellow,’ he observed, down the length of his nose. York’s green face rose bubbling from the steam, and silenced him with a glare.
‘Do you not have marriage in your country, Boat?’ enquired FitzRoy hastily. ‘When the two families come together and celebrate?’
‘Oh yes Capp’en Fitz’oy. When a man is old enough to hunt and a woman is old enough to bear childs. The family of girl will sell her to family of young man. But my people do not understand God’s mercy. This is not a proper English married.’
‘I believe York and Fuegia must be married!’ squealed Fuegia, once more.
‘We have a big celebrate, Capp’en Fitz’oy. It goes on for many days. We kill seal. Everybody come from many miles. Everybody celebrate - young people, old people.’
FitzRoy’s memory was jogged. ‘There is something I have been meaning to ask you, Boat. You speak of old people. But I saw no old people in Tierra del Fuego. No grey-haired men or women.’
‘There are old people in my country, Capp’en sir.’ Boat looked unhappy.
‘But not many. I saw none in a year and a half.’
‘You did not look for them well, Capp’en Fitz’oy.’
There was something wrong now, FitzRoy could tell. Boat Memory was staring fixedly into the emerald depths of his soup bowl.
Jemmy, immune to the gathering crisis, chattered on obliviously. ‘Sometimes my people very hungry, in winter. No food!’ He gesticulated eagerly, rubbing his pot belly to indicate the unimaginable awfulness of not being able to fill it. ‘Then we eat old people. Put head in smoke, they die quick. Women eat arms, men eat legs. Leave rest. Sometimes old people run away. Sometimes we catch, bring back. Sometimes no find, die in woods.’
Fuegia giggled.
FitzRoy became aware that Bennet had dropped his spoon, his ruddy countenance frozen in horror. A single virulent green rivulet was making its way purposefully down the starched white of his napkin. FitzRoy felt his gut seize and tighten at the revelation he had unleashed, but he ploughed on with grim anthropological fascination: ‘But Jemmy, you have dogs. If
your people are starving - hungry - do you not eat the dogs first?’
‘Oh no Capp’en Fitz’oy!’ laughed Jemmy. ‘Doggies catch otters! Old women no!’
Boat Memory continued to stare red-faced at the tablecloth. Fuegia Basket suppressed another giggle. A strange snorting guffaw bubbled up through the shallows of York Minster’s soup plate. It was the first time, FitzRoy realized, that he had ever heard York Minster laugh.
It was a very English dawn that broke over the Royal Dockyard at Devonport as the Beagle and the Adventure made their final approach: grey, featureless and nondescript, and therefore all the more welcome to the men, who had dreamed of such an English morning for the last four years. Here was the familiar heartland of His Majesty’s Navy. Even the statuesque ships of Rio de Janeiro harbour would have paled alongside the mighty men-of-war that towered above the Devonport quays and, indeed, over the town itself. But there was no hammering or banging to be heard as one would expect in a naval dockyard, no vibrancy, few signs of life, even. The men-of-war lay deserted, painted bright yellow against the elements, their yard-arms, masts and rigging stripped. The war was long since finished. The titans that had defeated Napoleon and wrested control of all Europe from the dictator lay chained up, silent but proud, reduced to this sorry state by clinical economic necessity. HMS Bellerophon, heroine ofTrafalgar and the Nile, wallowed rotting and unpainted, the cramped and sweating quarters below her decks packed with convicts due for transportation to Australia. The Beagle and the Adventure trod a silent path between these fallen giants, the men lining the rail navigating their own path between pride, regret and the simple thrill of homecoming. Alone on the grey wharf, a small crowd had gathered to meet the ships, for news of their arrival had travelled rapidly up the coast from Falmouth.
The four Fuegians crowded alongside the sailors, eager for a glimpse of the land about which they had heard so much.
‘This is Englan’, Capp‘en Fitz’oy?’ asked Boat Memory, for the third time, as if unable to believe the evidence of his eyes.
‘This is England, Boat.’
‘By the deuce, it may not look up to much, but this is old England all right,’ enthused King, who had not seen England since he was ten.
Indeed, it did not look up to much. The flat grey-green landscape; the uninteresting little town, wreathed in wisps of smoke, that stumbled down the eastern bank of the river; the broad, deserted avenue paved with marble chips that ran white and lifeless from the dockyard gates; none of these could be compared with the sights and sounds that the Beagle’s crew had encountered over the previous four years. But this was home, and the gaggle of wellwishers crowding the quayside was made up of friends and family.
‘I have dreamed of this day,’ breathed Boat Memory, and he looked at FitzRoy, his eyes a wet slick.
‘Jemmy too have dreamed of this day,’ said Jemmy, as convincingly as he could, although - in all truth - this was not the shiny golden England of his imagination.
And then the hush was broken, suddenly, by a monstrous, clanking, belching sound, which took everybody on board by surprise. The Fuegians reacted first, their self-preserving instincts honed, Boat, Jemmy and Fuegia diving for cover, the little girl whimpering in terror as she curled herself into a ball inside a coil of rope. York, undecided between flight and furious resistance, bent down to the deck and shouldered a massive spar that two crewmen would have been hard put to lift. Brandishing it like a colossal spear he stood, nostrils flaring, cheeks flushed, legs braced apart, ready to confront his adversary.
‘Good God,’ said Kempe in amazement at this physical feat.
‘He’s a ruddy marvel,’ said Stokes.
‘It’s a steam-ship, York,’ said FitzRoy, soothingly. ‘It’s just a steam-ship. A ship powered by steam.’
York, unsure whether to trust FitzRoy, stood rigid and transfixed, a perfect physical specimen poised to face down his enemy in mortal combat. But the steamer waddled past unconcernedly in the opposite direction, its big side paddle-wheels clunking ineffectually at the water, coal smoke belching filthily from its two chimneys.
‘They’ve witnessed the future and they don’t like it,’ scoffed King.
‘Have you ever seen a railway train, Midshipman King?’
‘No sir,’ said King, addressing his own feet.
‘Fuming like a grist mill and clanking like a blacksmith’s shop? When you have seen one such run smoking past you, then I venture you may understand what it is to see your first steam-ship.’
‘Yes sir,’ muttered King, suitably chastened.
It was not difficult to spot Sulivan in the reunion crowd, mainly because he towered over most of them. FitzRoy had to pinch himself to equate this giant with the slender eighteen-year-old midshipman who had bidden him such a tearful farewell two years previously. And then, of course, there was the conspicuous white stripe on his sleeve, which indicated that this was now Lieutenant Sulivan. The two men navigated through the throng and pumped each other’s hands so delightedly and so vigorously it seemed they must do themselves an injury.
‘My dear Sulivan - my dear Lieutenant Sulivan.’
‘It’s wonderful to see you safe and sound, sir — and not a scratch on the Beagle! Oh, but I am being remiss in my manners. Miss Young, may I have the honour of presenting to your acquaintance Commander FitzRoy of HMS Beagle. Commander, this is Miss Young of Barton End, and her companion Miss Tregarron.’
FitzRoy became aware of two young ladies, waiting patiently arm in arm at Sulivan’s elbow, and immediately swept off his cap. ‘The pleasure is entirely mine, ladies.’
‘Will you accompany us, Commander?’
‘I would be delighted, Miss Young. And might I be so forward as to enquire of your Christian names?’
‘Of course - I am Sophia. Miss Tregarron’s Christian name is Arabella.’
‘Do not Miss Young and her companion look well this morning?’ beamed Sulivan, although the rapt way he pronounced the words ‘Miss Young’ left no room for doubt as to where the compliment was aimed.
‘After four years at sea, my homecoming has been doubly blessed that I should find myself in the presence of such delightful company.’
The two women blushed prettily.
Like matching peacocks, they were arrayed in identical dresses of bright turquoise silk trimmed with broderie anglaise, their waists fashionably constricted, the outlines of their hips and legs concealed by a demure gathering of petticoats. Miss Tregarron, the chaperone, dipped the brim of her bonnet faintly and took a discreet step back into the crowd. Miss Young, round-faced and fresh with the beauty of youth, continued to gaze up adoringly at Sulivan. FitzRoy, too, stared up at his former midshipman, who had grown by at least three inches.
‘When I last saw Mr Sulivan he was but a middie, and very much a boy. Now he has grown into a fine figure of a man.’
‘He is five foot and eleven inches tall,’ glowed Miss Young, so close now to her beau that they were almost touching. ‘But I fear, Commander, that Mr Sulivan is demonstrating undue modesty this morning. Will you not tell the commander of your remarkable accomplishment in the lieutenant’s examination?’
Sulivan’s face suffused with scarlet. ‘I passed for lieutenant with full numbers,’ he confessed.
‘Only the second person in the history of the Service to do so!’ said Miss Young, so overwhelmed with affection it seemed she must burst. ‘Following yourself, of course, Commander FitzRoy.’
‘These are the most marvellous news!’ FitzRoy would have thrown his arms around Sulivan and hugged him then and there, except it did not do for naval commanders to hug lieutenants in the middle of the Royal Dockyard.
‘But it is you, sir, who must take all the credit. Everything I have learned about handling a ship, Miss Young, and I mean everything, I have learned from Commander FitzRoy here. Many is the hour that the commander gave of his free time in the Thetis to pass on his exhaustive knowledge of seamanship, from box-hauling to flatting in, from French shroud knot
s to selvagees — ’
‘Mr Sulivan talks about you continuously, Commander, in the most glowing terms.’
‘Mr Sulivan talks continuously, Miss Young, but not always accurately. All that he has achieved, he has achieved by his own hard work and intelligence — I will not accept one iota of credit. Do you have a ship yet, Lieutenant Sulivan?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Then we shall exert all our influence to rectify the omission. At least with full numbers you will not go to the back of the mates’ list.’
‘Thank goodness for that! Of course I do not have a handle to my name, and they say that some who are without must wait ten years for a berth — ’ FitzRoy smiled, and Sulivan coloured at the realization of what he had just said. It would be hard to find a more useful ‘handle’ than ‘FitzRoy’. Sulivan stumbled on, ‘That is, my father has a large family, therefore it was a great object to him to achieve so good an education for me free of cost — ’
‘Pray excuse me.’ This time it was Miss Young who had interrupted, her widening eyes fixed on the Beagle. ‘But is that ... a little girl I see on the deck of your ship?’
FitzRoy turned, just in time to see Fuegia dart behind the mizzen-mast with a cheeky grin. She was playing hide-and-seek with him.
‘It is, indeed.’ He laughed. ‘That is Fuegia Basket. Come aboard and I will introduce her to you.’ He proceeded to relate the story of the four Fuegians. ‘It is my intention,’ he concluded, as Sulivan helped Miss Young up the accommodation ladder, ‘to secure for them a Christian education in this country before returning them to their own, so that they might draw benefit as a nation from the advanced condition of our society.’
‘How wonderful, Commander - and how provident that the Lord has delivered you into our hands today! For I am acquainted with the Reverend Mr Harris, the vicar of Plymstock — he is the most prodigious friend of my father. He is also the local representative of the Church Missionary Society, whose very purpose is the provision of religious instruction to savages.’