Suddenly York seized Sulivan by the arm, his normally implacable features lit up by surprise. ‘Look, Mr Sulivan, look! A bird, all same as a horse!’
‘Where?’ Sulivan spun round.
‘There! Running on beach! A bird, all same as a horse!’
‘On the beach?’ Even Sulivan, with his astonishingly keen vision, could barely make out the beach, let alone any details thereon. ‘Do you see anything, Jemmy?’
‘Oh yes Mr Sulivan, a big bird. It is running fast. It is a tip-top goer!’
‘Bird all same as a horse!’ parroted Fuegia Basket.
‘Blessed if I know what they’re talking about,’ said a peevish Matthews, squinting at the horizon.
Sulivan raised his spyglass to one eye and scanned the distant shore from left to right. Then, as he scanned back again — there! He saw it. A large male rhea, scampering into the shallows, its powerful thigh-muscles flexing and unflexing with every stride.
‘It’s a rhea, York, an American ostrich. But that you could see it from here! Captain FitzRoy - an incredible thing, sir.’
FitzRoy came over, and was apprised of the astonishing discovery - made a full two and a half years after they had first come aboard - that the Fuegians’ powers of eyesight were well beyond those of normal men.
‘I have heard tell of such birds, sir,’ said Jemmy dismissively. ‘In the land of the Oens-men they are common-or-garden.’
York glared at Jemmy, who took a nervous step behind the tall figure of Sulivan.
There is so much that we do not know about them, thought FitzRoy. I have been so determined to bring them forward into our world that I have neglected to study what makes their own world so different, so special.
‘Does everybody in your country have such powerful eyesight, Jemmy?’
‘Of course, Capp’en Fitz’oy. My tribe is a good tribe, see very far. My country is a good country. Plenty of trees. Plenty of seals. When you see Woollya, you will say, “This is a beautiful country, as beautiful as Great Britain.”’
Jemmy favoured FitzRoy with a warm, proud smile. FitzRoy smiled back.
He has not seen his country for nigh on three years, he thought. By the Lord’s grace, I hope he shall not be in for a rude shock.
Chapter Fifteen
Good Success Bay, Tierra del Fuego, 17 December 1832
The Beagle nosed cautiously into a thick bank of alabaster fog. Even here, in the safest anchorage on the east coast of Tierra del Fuego, it was as well to be careful. Since its discovery by Captain Cook in the previous century, the bay had yet to be surveyed properly, so the little brig felt her way forward, her decks cool and damp in the waxy air of the early morning, her sails hanging limp. Momentary eddies in the mist revealed only the dark, featureless forest: scores of fallen beech trees lay uncleared amid the ranks of their silent fellows, like a battalion of foot-soldiers cut down by musket fire, frozen for ever at the moment of impact. The vegetation was as thick as in any tropical jungle, yet here it was drained of all colour and movement. In these solitudes death, not life, seemed the predominant spirit.
Their voyage south had taken them through a series of startling natural phenomena, as if nature wished to signal that the boundaries of human civilization had been crossed, that they were entering her domain. Each spectacle had been more extraordinary than the last. Not far south of the river Plate, they had woken one morning to find the Beagle turned red. The entire ship was covered from topmast to keel by miniature crimson spiders, millions upon millions of them, each furiously competing to trace out its gossamer web in the calm morning air. The first breath of wind had blown them all out to sea in an agitated red cloud, never to be seen again. Then, off the Bay of San Blas, it had snowed butterflies. A vast white cloud of fluttering wings two hundred yards high, a mile wide and several miles deep had enveloped the ship. Fuegia Basket had stood in the heart of the blizzard, twirling and flapping her arms with delight. They were, calculated Darwin, a variety of Colias edusa. But what had caused these huge migrations? The animals were hurtling to their destruction, but to what end? It was hard to see a purpose, divine or otherwise, in this almighty extermination.
Near the entrance to the Straits of Magellan the sea itself had turned crimson: the cause, they soon determined, a monstrous shoal of tiny crustaceans. But more impressive still were the humpback whales that twisted and churned at the centre of the maelstrom, gorging themselves on their infinitesimal prey by the ton. One great beast flung himself almost completely out of the water, landing with a magnificent crash that sent a shudder through the hull of the Beagle; and Darwin remembered Midshipman King, and his earnest claims made out on the verandah of the little house at Corcovado, and he wished then that he had not seen fit to doubt his young chum.
This clammy morning in Good Success Bay found a quiet, solitary figure up at the cathead, half enveloped in mist. Bynoe, taking his morning constitutional around the deck - as surgeon he was spared the discomfort of night watches - spotted Jemmy Button there, and sensed at once from the Fuegian’s defeated posture that something was wrong.
‘Jemmy? Are you all right?’
‘My confidential friend.’
The greeting was not delivered in Jemmy’s usual effusive style; rather, it came out in a husky croak, and Bynoe could see that his eyes were rimmed with wet.
‘Jemmy? Have you been crying? What is the matter?’
‘My father is dead.’
‘Your father ... ? What makes you think that?’
‘A man came beside my hammock in the night. He told me.’
‘What man? York Minster?’ Jemmy and York messed together, forward with the crew. Fuegia, for obvious reasons, slept aft at the officers’ end of the ship.
‘No, not York Minster. A man.’
‘A crewman?’
‘Not man from this world, Mr Bynoe. A man from this other world.’
‘That’s a dream, Jemmy, just a dream.’
Jemmy shook his head. ‘No, my confidential friend. Not a dream. A man from this other world. My father is dead. It is very bad.’ He reached up and wiped the corner of his eye with his sleeve.
‘Jemmy ... I am sure that when we get back to Woollya you will see that your father is alive and well. Mark my words.’
Jemmy smiled, with pity and affection combined, at Bynoe’s lack of understanding; and the surgeon could not think of anything else to say.
Further along the rail, FitzRoy scanned the curtain of white and called for another depth sounding. Forty fathoms, came back the reply, and clean sand as before. Still, the billowing fog would reveal nothing. Darwin came to join him, glad of the chance to be up and about at last.
‘My dear FitzRoy, whatever do you look like in that beard? It has become quite patriarchal!’
‘Much like yourself, I should imagine.’
‘I? I resemble nothing so much as a half-washed chimney-sweeper!’ Darwin grasped his own enormous beard, leaving a gingery tuft protruding from his clenched fist. ‘What a pair we must make. Tell me, my dear friend, shall I have a chance to explore the beech forest?’
‘Of course, when the fog lifts. But be careful. Stick to the guanaco paths. When Cook was here, Mr Banks and Dr Solander mounted an expedition into the forest and became lost. Then night fell, and two of the men died of cold. Solander himself was lucky to escape with his life. I should not wish the same fate to befall our own dear Philosopher.’
‘Rest assured, I — ’
Darwin’s next words were cut off by a blood-curdling cry from the forest. It was a human cry — at least, he thought it was a human cry - but it seemed to him an utterly primeval sound, a harsh, rudimentary cry left over from the dawn of creation. Then, as if on cue, the milky curtain parted to reveal the source of the noise. There, not eighty yards distant, on a wild crag overhanging the sea, perched a small group of naked Fuegians. As they became visible to the Beagle’s crew, so they became aware of the ship and sprang up, gesticulating and yelling, their long hair streaming,
each of them waving their tattered guanaco-skin cloaks. In answer to their calls, other ragged, yelling creatures emerged from the entangled forest, until the little crag was clustered with frantic, energized figures. One young Fuegian, his face daubed black with a single white band, began to hurl stones, as if to drive the Beagle away, but of course the projectiles fell well short of their intended target.
‘My God,’ breathed Darwin. ‘They are naked. Absolutely naked, in this inclement country. I had never, ever imagined anything like this. It is incredible.’
Those who had not journeyed south on the first voyage were transfixed. Hamond stood open-mouthed at the rail. Matthews, although he kept his feelings in check, could not disguise his fascination. Those like FitzRoy, who knew the Fuegians well, watched the watchers, riveted to see again their own initial reactions.
‘Look — look at that one on the right!’ Darwin pointed out an older man, with circles of white paint round his eyes, his upper lip daubed with red ochre, his tangled hair gathered in a fillet of white feathers. ‘He is like a stage devil from Der Freischutz! My God, FitzRoy, they are demoniacs! They are like - like the troubled spirits of another world!’
‘They are no worse than I supposed them to be,’ said Matthews piously.
Hamond shook his head sadly. ‘What a p-pity such fine fellows should be left in such a b-barbarous state.’
‘Fine fellows?’ Darwin raised his eyebrows. ‘I would hardly dignify them with the description “fine fellows”. They are hideous! Their growth is stunted, their features are literally beastly, their skin is red and filthy, their hair is greasy and tangled, their voices are discordant and their gestures are violent! To think Rousseau believed that savages in a state of nature would lead idyllic lives! Why, if the world was searched, no lower grade of men could be found. They are barbarians, my dear Hamond, utter barbarians!’
‘They are ignorant and savage, perhaps,’ said FitzRoy softly, ‘but not contemptible. Does not the example of our friend Jemmy here indicate what may be done to improve their lot?’
For the first time, the officers at the rail turned to look at Jemmy.
His face, they realized, was burning with shame and humiliation.
‘Philos is right,’ he said, jabbing out each word. ‘These men are not men. They are beasts. Fools. My land is quite different. My tribe is quite different. You will see. My friends will be happy to see Capp’en Fitz’oy. My friends will honour Capp’en Fitz’oy, will honour all Beagle. These men are beasts.’
Four days later, Darwin arrived at dinner clutching a copy of Commodore Byron’s Narrative; it was an uncannily calm and sunny day off Cape Horn, and Bynoe’s skill as a marksman had provided their table with a fat roast steamer duck each.
‘So much for the famous Horn,’ remarked Darwin breezily. ‘A gale of wind is not so bad in a good sea-boat. Have you read this?’
‘I suggest you wait until we ship a sea or two before you write off the famous Horn,’ replied FitzRoy drily. ‘And yes, I have.’
‘Not only are these Fuegians of yours cannibals, it would seem they practise incest and bigamy as well. After the shipwreck Byron lived with a native who had two wives, one of whom was his daughter! And he beat them both regularly! Poor Byron was treated as a dog - quite literally. They fed him on scraps.’
‘Disagreeable as it is to contemplate a savage, Philos, and unwilling as we may be to consider ourselves even remotely descended from human beings in such a state, remember that Caesar found the Ancient Britons painted and clothed in skins exactly like the Fuegians.’
‘Worst of all,’ said Darwin, ignoring him, ‘is this passage here:“A little boy of about three years old, watching for his father and mother’s return, ran into the surf to meet them; the father handed a basket of sea-eggs to the child, which being too heavy for him to carry, he let it fall; upon which the father jumped out of the canoe, and catching the boy up in his arms, dashed him with the utmost violence against the stones. The poor little creature lay motionless and bleeding, and died soon after. The brute his father shewed little concern about it.”
‘Was a more horrid deed ever perpetrated? They are the most grotesque race. I feel quite a disgust at the very sound of the voices of these miserable savages!’
‘Forgive me, Philos, but I think you are wrong to distinguish them as a race. I think there is more variance between any two individuals than between the different races. Could three more distinct individuals exist than Jemmy, York and Fuegia? Yet are any of them so very different from Englishmen you have met?’
‘Well, it is true that I could scarcely have believed how wide was the difference between a savage and a civilized man. It is more strikingly marked than between a wild animal and a domesticated pet! But is that not what you have done with your three savages - tamed them, like dogs? They do not yet appear to boast of human reason or of the arts consequent to that reason. Take these very ducks, here. What was it York Minster said, when Bynoe shot them? “Oh, Mr Bynoe, now much rain, much snow, blow much.” It appears the steamer duck is some sort of sacred animal to him! He considers the elements themselves to be avenging angels! Only in a race so little advanced could the elements become personified so. It is absurd.’
‘If you will suffer me to object, Philos, you say they are backward, and do not share all our qualities, but what of their own qualities? What of their astonishing gift for mimicry? They can instantly memorize and repeat several lines of an alien tongue!’
‘Come now, that is merely a consequence of the more practised habits of perception, and the keener senses, common to all men in a savage state.’
‘What of their unique powers of eyesight?’
‘They live upon the sea! It is well known that sailors, from long practice, can make out a distant object better than a landsman.’
‘What of their powers of intuition?’
‘Such powers are more strongly marked in women, as well as being characteristic of the lower races. They are powers characteristic of a past and lower state of civilization. Does not man achieve a higher eminence, in whatever he takes up, than a woman can attain? There is your proof.’
‘You continue to speak of the “lower races”. There are no such things. Genesis one, twenty-six: “And God said let us make man in our image.” There is nothing in the scriptures about lower men. Genesis nine, nineteen: By the three sons of Noah “was the whole earth over-spread”. Esau begat the copper-coloured race, with the daughter of Ishmael. No doubt the climate, and their diet, and their habit of living have all helped to adapt them, but they are men, Philos, just as you and I.’ Please, my friend, it feels as if I am losing you. Please turn back before it is too late, for this way blasphemy lies.
‘My dear FitzRoy, the races may have been conceived in equality, but who would deny that they are now utterly distinct and utterly unequal? The emotional and intellectual faculties of the Fuegian Indian have been diminished. Their language scarcely deserves to be called articulate - it sounds like a man clearing his throat. Even their gestures are unintelligible! If, as you say, they have been rendered hideous by cold, want of food and lack of civilization, then have they not become a lower race? What skills they have may now be compared to the instinct of animals, for they do not seem to be improved by experience. Their canoes, for instance, have not changed at all since Byron wrote his book a hundred years ago.’
‘The fact that their society has degenerated does not make them a lesser race. They are innocent, that is all - innocent of so much. What of the English, when the Romans left our shores? Were we then a “lesser race”? Progress is a social ideal, not a measure of physical development. History is not by definition a process of improvement.’
‘You think not? I tell you, FitzRoy, at some future period, not very distant I imagine, the civilized races of man will almost certainly exterminate and replace the savage races throughout the world. It is already happening. Wherever the European has trod, death pursues the Aboriginal. Varieties of man act upon e
ach other as do species of animal. The strong extirpate the weak. There is nothing we can do about it.’
‘Yes, there is. I have tried in my small way to do something about it. I do not compete with the Fuegians. I support and encourage them because I am a Christian and such is God’s command.’
‘But not all men are as upright, as dedicated to God’s truth as you are, my dear friend. Already the Europeans are reaching further south, beyond Punta Alta. The Fuegians cannot survive, just as the Aborigines of Australia cannot survive, or any other of the degraded races of blacks. And when the higher apes, the anthropomorphous apes, are exterminated in turn, then the divide between man and the animal kingdom will be even greater, and civilized man will reign supreme.’
‘What do you mean, “the divide between man and the animal kingdom will be even greater”? How can it become greater, or lesser?’
‘I mean the gap between the Caucasian and the lower apes — such as the baboon - is greater than the gap between, say, the Negro and the gorilla.’
‘What are you saying? I cannot believe you are saying this!’
‘Come, FitzRoy. Look at the orang-utan - its affection, its passion, its rage, its sulkiness, its despair. Then look at the savage — naked, artless, roasting its parent. Your Fuegians remind me of nothing so much as an orang-utan taking tea at the zoological gardens. Compare the Fuegian and the orang-utan and dare to say that the difference is so great.’
FitzRoy was angry now.
‘Oh, I dare to say that, Philos, I dare indeed. We humans - notice how I use the word we - walk on two legs; the apes — be they “higher” or “lower” - walk on four. We humans feel love and affection, and reason, and shame, and embarrassment, and pride. The apes have only a breeding season, a cycle of sexual receptiveness. We have a complex vocal language. They do not. We are, in the main, hairless. They are covered from head to toe in fur. They are animals. You can civilize a human, as I have proved. You cannot take an orang-utan to enjoy a civilized conversation with His Majesty the King of England.’