Beaufort passed a sheaf of papers across the table.
‘It ranges from nought - dead calm - to twelve, that which no canvas could withstand. Hurricane strength. Although I doubt very much that you would be in a position to report anything back to me, were you to encounter force twelve winds. Let us hope, God willing, that the eventuality shall not arise.’
FitzRoy thought back to the storm at Maldonado Bay, which had nearly cost them all their lives. Would that have counted as a twelve on Beaufort’s new scale?
‘It will not incommode us, sir.’
‘Oh, one more thing, FitzRoy. Do you have a surgeon on the Beagle?’
‘There is Bynoe, sir, the assistant surgeon. He has acted as surgeon before. He is young, sir, but a regular trump.’
‘Well, I am afraid he will have to remain assistant surgeon for the duration of the voyage. A surgeon named Robert McCormick shall be joining you. He was in the Arctic with Parry, but was invalided home. I should warn you that he has been invalided home from overseas a further three times.’
FitzRoy’s heart sank. ‘Invalided home’, both men knew, was a euphemism for ‘sacked’. McCormick’s previous captains had clearly found him intolerable.
‘I have met him, and he seems a sound, good fellow at the bottom. Perhaps a trifle brusque - he would have made a fine Army man.’
FitzRoy smiled.
‘He studied natural philosophy at Edinburgh, so he is well qualified to carry out the job of ship’s naturalist.’
‘I already have a naturalist aboard, sir.’
‘Ah, yes, young Mr Darwin. Well, I am afraid that Mr McCormick must take precedence - it is his right, as surgeon. But I am sure that they can rub along together. Perhaps they can be encouraged to concentrate on different areas. Natural philosophy is a wide discipline, is it not?’
‘It is indeed, sir.’
‘I’m sorry, FitzRoy, but it is the price you pay for their lordships’ consent to your commission. You are not the only man in the Service with influence in high places.’
‘And if Mr McCormick were to be invalided home once again, sir?’
‘I should not advise it.’
It was a rueful FitzRoy that followed the hydrographer’s limping progress up the companionway and out into the glare of the maindeck. As their eyes adjusted to the light, they found themselves standing behind Midshipman King, who was crouched mid-instruction with his new charges.
‘Remember to show willing by tailing on to any ropes that are being pulled. Ropes are always coiled out of the way - the way the sun goes round. Right toe, left toe, out in front of you - see? Now, if you’re sent up to loose the sails, be sure to take hold of the shrouds and not the ratlines. When the sails are loosed and set, you will hear the orders given for backing and filling them. It is to keep control of the ship’s course. The orders will sound like Greek at first, I expect.’
‘Not to me they won’t,’ said Musters.
Beaufort smiled indulgently, and turned to FitzRoy. ‘That’s the age at which I started. You, too, I expect.’
‘Near enough, sir.’
Hearing the officers’ voices behind them, the three boys jumped to their feet and saluted smartly.
‘You two younkers — what are your names?’
‘Volunteer First Class Musters, sir!’
‘Volunteer First Class Hellyer, sir!’
‘How old are you?’
‘Eleven, sir!’
‘Twelve, sir!’
‘Is this to be your first voyage?’
‘Yes sir!’
‘Excellent, excellent,’ chuckled Beaufort. ‘Take good care of these two in the south, Commander, for lads like these are the future of the service.’
‘I intend to, sir.’
‘Here — not strictly naval procedure, but I think we might stretch a point, seeing as this is your first trip.’ Beaufort reached into his pocket and extracted a handful of loose change. ‘Hold out your hands.’
He pressed a shiny half-sovereign into each of the two boys’ palms.
‘That’s not fair,’ grumbled King, as Beaufort hobbled off the ship.
‘I had hoped to be posted to a frigate, sir, or some other desirable ship,’ said Robert McCormick, his dark moustache bristling. ‘I am, frankly, wearied and tired out with all the buffeting about one has to endure in a small craft. Ofttimes I’ve had to put up with uncomfortable little vessels on unhealthy stations. But I intend to make my name as a naturalist, sir, which is why I have decided to accept the surgeon’s commission on the Beagle.’
‘I am much obliged to you, Mr McCormick,’ said FitzRoy, drily.
‘Don’t mention it, sir,’ said McCormick, entirely missing the sarcasm.
There was a woodenness about the man, thought FitzRoy, an immobility to his bovine features, which was entirely offset by his waxed military moustache. McCormick’s moustache quivered animatedly when he spoke, and shuddered in time to his every emphatic declaration. It was as if the moustache spoke for him, in some queer disembodied fashion. The contrast with Matthews’s sparse growth struck FitzRoy as faintly ludicrous.
‘Captain Beaufort tells me you have voyaged to the Arctic with Parry in the Hecla.’
‘I did, sir, for my sins, and a more damn-fool expedition was never mounted on the surface of God’s earth. Parry’s plan was to get to the Pole in wheeled boats pulled by trained reindeer. Of course the damned things were too heavy, and the reindeer couldn’t shift ’em. Parry was a fool,’ he said scornfully
FitzRoy wondered what terms his new surgeon would find to describe him behind his back.
‘The axles were buried under a foot of snow. So there we all stood in raccoon-skin caps, hooded jackets, blue breeches and white canvas gaiters, straining like idiots to shift ’em even an inch. We must have looked like a party of elves!’ McCormick suddenly roared with laughter at the memory.
He has a sense of humour at least, thought FitzRoy ‘So, tell me, Mr McCormick, how have you occupied your time more recently?’
‘Well, I have been without a ship since ten months. I’ve been having a monstrous good time in London, though - boxing, rat-hunting, fives and four-in-hand driving. I’ve been lodging at my father’s place - the old man has lots of tin. But all good things must come to an end, what? Oh, I say, sir, what’s that?’
The two men were strolling through the lofty white rectangles of the Royal Dockyard, towards quay number two, where the Beagle and the Active were moored.
‘What’s what?’
‘On your deck, sir. Looks like a gang of Hottentots.’
‘They are Fuegians, Mr McCormick. They have been educated in England at Admiralty expense, and are being returned to their home country to establish a mission.’
‘Extraordinary. Wish I’d known — there’s a feller of my acquaintance runs the Egyptian Hall in Piccadilly. We could have made a pretty penny exhibiting your savages to the general public.’
‘In fact, Mr McCormick, they are very far from the savage state. Three better-mannered and more agreeable souls it would be difficult to find.’
‘Wonders will never cease.’
They went aboard, McCormick’s brisk, stiff military bearing at variance with FitzRoy’s lithe informality. Introductions were made to those officers present on deck, before FitzRoy decided to show the new surgeon the library. They found Stebbing within, entering book titles in a catalogue.
‘I say, sir, there must be over three hundred volumes here,’ enthused McCormick.
‘There are in excess of four hundred.’
‘I must say, though, sir, I’m surprised to see Lamarck here. Should we really be giving house-room to a transmutationist? Beasts evolving into men? Typical of a Frenchman to espouse the most atrocious revolutionary principles and the most dangerous Godless doctrines.’
‘I hold no more with transmutationism than you do, Mr McCormick, but is it not preferable to understand the arguments of one’s enemy than to dismiss them out of hand?’
br /> ‘Well,’ snorted McCormick, ‘if there is a halfway house between man and beast, then it’s your Frenchy, and no mistake. Personally, I’d chuck the whole beastly nonsense overboard. Ah, I see you have a copy of Lyell. Another damned fool.’
‘Mr Lyell is one of our foremost geologists. He has expressed an interest in the results of our expedition.’
‘Has he, by Jove? Lyell’s the fellow who devised all that gammon about the world’s geology being the result of internal heat. Well, I studied under Jameson at Edinburgh - a genius, sir — and he has proved conclusively that both granite and basalt are formed by crystallization from a watery soup. The earth’s core is an underground sea — that’s where the flood came from.’
‘Now you are interesting me, Mr McCormick. We must discuss this with Mr Darwin, the - ah - my companion.’
‘Your what, sir?’
‘I have engaged a gentleman companion for the voyage, a Mr Charles Darwin. He too is interested in natural philosophy, and intends to make a collection.’
‘Well, as long as it doesn’t interfere with my official work as surgeon and naturalist.’
‘I gather that he, too, studied under Jameson at Edinburgh.’
‘Did he? Splendid.’
Although I seem to recall that he was not as complimentary in his assessment of the professor.
‘He is presently in the Atheneum Gardens assisting Stokes, my assistant surveyor. He is to mark the time and take observations on the dipping needle, while Stokes calibrates the chronometers for their initial readings. We have selected the Atheneum as the starting point for a chain of chronometric measurements around the globe.’
‘Is that usual, sir, for a civilian to assist with naval surveying matters?’ McCormick looked decidedly piqued to hear of Darwin’s involvement in the scientific life of the ship.
‘It may not be usual, Mr McCormick, but the arrangement is most satisfactory to all concerned.’
‘Of course, sir.’ McCormick took the hint. ‘I say, you there.’ The surgeon indicated Stebbing. ‘I’m absolutely gasping for a drink. Fetch me a glass of wine, will you, well qualified with brandy and spice.’
Stebbing looked bewildered.
‘There is no alcohol on the Beagle, Mr McCormick,’ cut in FitzRoy. ‘This is to be an alcohol-free voyage. Shall I show you to your cabin?’
‘No alcohol! Good Lord. Belay that. And I felt just like swallowing off a glass.’ McCormick wore a bleak expression. ‘It’s going to be a deuced long two years, sir.’
The officers’ cabins were forward of FitzRoy’s own cabin on the lower deck, leading off the old messroom, which had been converted into a well-appointed gunroom. McCormick flung open his cabin door: a cot, a washstand and a cramped chest of drawers consumed almost all the meagre space available.
‘The cabins in these coffin brigs are so damned poky,’ he complained. ‘Are they all painted white?’
‘It affords some reflected light, given the paucity of natural light below decks.’
‘I’m not sure I wouldn’t prefer French grey. It’s more restful. On second thoughts, it is a French colour. Hmm. I shall give the matter due consideration.’
Shall you indeed? thought FitzRoy, who was beginning to wonder how he would last two hours in McCormick’s company, let alone two years. McCormick, he realized, had now fallen silent, for the first time that afternoon. The surgeon had pulled open the cabin drawers one by one, and stood open-mouthed before them.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said finally.
‘Yes, Mr McCormick?’
‘My cabin appears to be full of French lace, sir.’
FitzRoy marched up George Street in a disturbed frame of mind, a silent Darwin trailing a yard behind. The impossibility of completing his commission in the time available bore down heavily upon him; the callow inexperience of Matthews, and the imposition of McCormick upon what had been a close-knit group of colleagues only made matters worse. He felt a vague sense of urgency as a physical need, an itch he could not scratch, a strange discomfort for which there was no relief. Anxiety had made him tired through lack of sleep; a sense of the pointlessness of all his meticulous preparations was creeping over him, even though his mind was too filled with thoughts to be still. The wider panorama of problems that assailed him was for the most part impossible to address; but on a more intimate scale he could, at least, remedy the ludicrous surfeit of crockery aboard the Beagle. So it was that he marched through the doorway of Addison’s china shop in combative mood, Darwin - bringing up the rear - wondering all the time what had happened to his beau ideal of a sea-captain.
‘Commander FitzRoy, is it not? May I be of assistance, sir?’ The proprietor - presumably Addison himself - glided from behind the counter to greet his distinguished visitor.
‘You may indeed. I have recently had occasion to purchase several complete sets of crockery from this very shop.’
‘I remember the occasion well, sir.’
‘It seems I have over-ordered. I will have to return them.’
‘The items in question have provided every satisfaction, I trust?’
‘I told you, I have over-ordered.’
‘Then forgive me, Commander’ — here Addison indicated a sign — ‘but goods may not be returned unless they are found to be faulty.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ said FitzRoy, taking a step forward with sufficient intent that the proprietor was forced to take a step back.
‘G-goods may not be returned, Commander, unless they are found to be faulty.’
‘Do you see this, sir? And this, and this?’ FitzRoy indicated the most expensive items on display. ‘I would have purchased these - all of these — had you not been so disobliging. You are a blackguard, sir!’
‘Really, Commander, I must — ’
‘I said, you are a blackguard, sir!’ FitzRoy seized the principal teapot from the nearest crockery display, and dashed it to the floor. Darwin stood, stunned. Addison, unable to believe his eyes, remained rooted to the spot, shaking and confused. FitzRoy swept out of the shop.
With only a brief, panic-stricken glance of sympathy at the proprietor, Darwin followed him into the street. ‘My dear FitzRoy, what the deuce — ’
‘You do not believe me? You do not believe that I would have purchased those items?’ His nostrils flared; his features were contorted with rage.
It was, thought Darwin, as if a complete personality change had suddenly overwhelmed the captain. ‘But the Beagle already has a surfeit of crockery,’ he pointed out.
‘I tell you sir, I - I - I ...’ FitzRoy tailed off, and stood there on the cobbles, outwardly silent; but Darwin could see that a superhuman struggle was taking place inside his friend’s mind.
FitzRoy could see Darwin now, a ghostly grey shape embodying calm and reason, superimposed against that other Darwin who had inexplicably driven him to anger just a moment before. It was as if another, different reality was showing through, a palimpsest behind the reality that currently intensified each and every one of his senses, that stretched his every nerve-ending like india-rubber. A surge of panic threatened to overwhelm him, as he felt himself on the edge of an abyss, a terrifying black hole of enveloping hopelessness and despair. But he was also conscious of the fact that, for the first time, an alternative course presented itself, if he could only find the strength to reach for it.
‘FitzRoy?’
‘Darwin, I - I ... I’m sorry, but I ...’
He wanted to complete the sentence, but he realized that he could not recall the start of it. Big tears, huge dollops of salt water, began to roll helplessly down his face. I’m all right, he realized. I’m all right. Whatever it was, it went away.
He had come back from the brink. But was his sudden salvation anything to do with his friend’s presence? Had the very fact of Darwin’s companionship driven the demons of loneliness away? Or was his recovery mere coincidence, another unpredictable fluctuation in the electric current that seemed to course unchecked and undirec
ted through his mind?
‘FitzRoy? Are you all right?’
‘Yes... yes, I’m fine. I am most terribly sorry... Please, let us leave now.
And he led his friend back down George Street towards Devonport.
Chapter Twelve
Barnet Pool, Devonport, 24 December 1831
‘Deep in wide caverns and their shadowy aisles
Daughter of Earth, the chaste Truffelia smiles;
On silvery beds of soft asbestos wove,
Meets her gnome-husband, and avows her love.‘’
Darwin giggled when he reached the end of the verse, and shot FitzRoy an I-told-you-so look.
‘And you are seriously informing me,’ repeated FitzRoy, ‘that these lines were written about two truffles mating underground?’
‘I do not jest.’
‘Extraordinary.’
‘It is not the finest verse ever composed.’
‘It is certainly the best entertainment I have had this last month.’
The Beagle had received Admiralty permission to leave in late November, and had moved to the holding area at Barnet Pool beneath Mount Edgcumbe, ready for departure. No sooner had she done so than a persistent gale had set in, flinging squall after squall up the Channel from the west; there had been no break in the weather for nigh on a month. Bucking and dipping and bouncing where she stood, the little brig strained continually at anchor like an impatient dog trying to break free of its lead. Attempting to tack a square-rigger into such a head-on gale, as FitzRoy explained to Darwin, would be a waste of all their efforts; a point made emphatically on 17 December, when the Persephone, a brig that had set out for the Bay of Biscay two days before the storm broke, was driven unceremoniously back into Devonport.
It was Christmas Eve. FitzRoy and Darwin had taken refuge in the library; the other occupants of the cabin, King and Stokes, were part of the last dog-watch from six to eight, and so were hunched in their thick woollen surtouts outside, the elements at their backs. Sleeting winds and rain swept mercilessly across the decks, and inside the library, beat their muffled tattoo against the skylight. The oil lamp swung from side to side in its gimbal, bathing the cabin in its warm yellow glow, and tossing out little parabolas of smoke with every rise and fall of the ship. As the lamp swung back and forth, the two men’s shadows alternately grew and shrank against the cabin walls, like pugilists advancing and retreating.