‘William Low sir, sealer, of Port Louis. Thank goodness you’re here, sir, thank goodness you’re here.’
As FitzRoy identified himself, he realized that the name was familiar. Then he remembered why - three Patagonian Indians and a stuffed horse on the windswept beach at Dungeness Point, back in April of ’29.
‘Forgive me, Mr Low, but I believe I was once passed a missive of yours by some Horse Indians.’
‘Ah yes sir, the letter, the letter. Always does to keep in wi’ the natives in my line of business.’ Low spoke quickly and restlessly, and described impatient circles as he talked. ‘I say “my line of business”, sir, but my business is as good as shot. I am nearly ruined, sir - confined at anchor for sixty-seven days by the gales around the Horn, like a pea on a drum we were, and nary a fur seal to be had. Then on top of all that, sir, I needs carry the survivors of two other sealers. The Magellan, she’s a Frenchy, and the Transport, she’s a big Yankee boat. Both of them shivered to smithereens off the Horn, see, but they limped as far as West Falkland before running aground in the shallows. I needs ye to take some of them off my hands, sir.’
‘Your humanitarian instincts do you credit, Mr Low. I should be delighted to help. May I introduce you to our ship’s philosopher, Mr Darwin?’
‘You say you are a resident of Port Louis, Mr Low?’
‘Aye, that’s right, sir, since eight years.’
‘I don’t suppose you could tell me if there is a bank in Port Louis where it might be convenient for me to cash a banker’s draft on my father’s account? I appear to find myself somewhat short of ready currency.’ Darwin concealed his embarrassment beneath a cloak of insouciance.
‘A bank, sir? There are but five buildings in Port Louis. The population’s 0but twenty-three, just now. There’s a general store ... The storekeeper Mr Dickson, he’s a Pat — from Dublin, sir — he looks to the Union Jack and flies it on a Sunday, or when a ship’s in port. He might give ye a few bob up front if ye make it worth his while, sir, that’s if ye can get a word in edgewise. Then there’s Mr Brisbane, the local agent, who stands me in accommodation for the winter. Then there’s a Frenchy, a soldier, the Capitaz we call him, and a German gent — ’
‘Pray excuse me, sir,’ Bos’n Sorrell bobbed up and interrupted, ‘but would that be Mr Matthew Brisbane, formerly master of the Saxe-Cobourg ?’
‘Aye, it’s Mr Matthew Brisbane right enough.’
‘That’s my former ship, sir! Mr Brisbane and I were rescued from the wreck of the Saxe-Cobourg by the Beagle, back when Captain Stokes was in charge. He’s a gentleman, sir, is Mr Brisbane.’
‘Aye, that he is, sir, that he is. He’s sailed more sea miles than I’ve had pusser’s peas, has Mr Brisbane. Reckon he’ll be mighty cheered to see you, will Mr Brisbane.’
‘Extraordinary,’ murmured FitzRoy. ‘There must be fewer than a hundred Britons in the whole of South America, yet we continue to exercise a happy knack of finding one another. Tell me, Mr Low, as Berkeley Sound is new to me, would you be kind enough to act as our pilot on the approach? I take it you know the bay well?’
‘I ken these islands like the back of my hand, sir. No need to flurry yourself- Berkeley Sound’s no more difficult than a shilling trip round the harbour. But if you needs help I’m your man.’
‘Well, Mr Low, your expertise is preferable to navigation by guess and by God. Which is in part why we shall be here for the next few months: we are to survey the islands for a new Admiralty chart.’
‘A few months?’ Low scratched the wiry stubble which stuck out haphazardly from his chin like scythed cornstalks. ‘D’ye ken there’s over four hundred islands? And as many bays and inlets. Just now I’d say you’re looking at a good year, at the very least.’
‘Four hundred islands?’ FitzRoy’s heart sank. They were fifteen months into their voyage, and their task was beginning to look nothing short of impossible. To map the Falklands, the whole of the South American coast from Punta Alta downwards, and to complete the survey of Tierra del Fuego, not to mention the constellation of tiny islands that lay to the south of Chili, in such a limited time? Had the Admiralty simply given him enough rope with which to hang himself?
‘Mr Low,’ he ventured, ‘I apprehend from your earlier remarks that the sealing season is now at an end.’
‘That’s if it ever began, Captain FitzRoy.’
‘Tell me, Mr Low. What might your answer be, were I to suggest that I should like to buy your boat?’
With Low piloting, the Beagle taking the lead and the Unicorn falling into line behind, the two vessels ran confidently into Berkeley Sound the following morning. A straggle of hollow-eyed, exhausted French and American sealers slumped lifelessly on the decks of both ships, shivering in their tattered clothes. Gruel-coloured clouds scudded across the sound, sweeping down from broad, peat-thick valleys, before buffeting away across low ridges littered with grey quartz boulders. Not a single tree or shrub broke the monotonous, sombre moorland; brackish pools of yellow-brown water, gleaming dully here and there, furnished the only relief from the drab uniformity. Monstrous wild bulls bellowed at them as they passed, like Cretan sculptures made flesh, their horns jabbing accusingly from the scurrying mists at those who would trespass upon their domain.
‘Look ’ee, sir — see them? They’re descended from escaped cattle, left behind by the Spanish sixty years ago,’ related Low. ‘We shoots the cows for food, so there’s a good many more bulls just now.’
‘They are so grotesquely large,’ observed Darwin. ‘Why did the Europeans stock the islands with such an enormous breed?’
‘Och, but they was quite normal-sized to begin with. They’ve grown bigger since. They’ve separated out too. See these here brown bulls? South of Choiseul Sound they’re white with black heads and feet. And over west they’re smaller, and lead-coloured, and the cows calve a month earlier.’
‘They have changed size and split into three varieties in sixty years? Mr Low, that’s quite impossible.’
‘I’m telling you straight, sir. The wild horses now, they’ve shrunk. They’re two-thirds the size of a normal horse - and there was no horses, mind, before the Frenchies and the Spanish came.’
‘I find this impossible to credit.’
‘Even the foxes are different, sir. See, they’re smaller and redder in West Falkland than in the east. And the Fuegian fox is smaller still. But they’re all of them twice the size of a British fox.’
Darwin’s imagination performed somersaults. Self-selecting breeds? Inter-island mutability? But Lyell’s latest volume had been quite explicit on this point. Variations within species were separately created by God at localized ‘centres of creation’. Creatures could not simply adapt themselves in this radical manner. This strange, mad, half-Scottish sealer must be wrong.
Low was staring at him, reading every nuance of his scepticism.
‘Here’s Port Louis now, sir. Ye can ask the old ’uns there about it.’
Five little white crofters’ cottages had materialized at the head of the rainsoaked sound. The capital of the Falkland Islands looked no more substantial than a large moorland farm.
‘Dickson’ll have the flag up for ye, sir, just you wait and see,’ Low informed FitzRoy.
But as they waited and watched, heaving to before Port Louis, the Irish storekeeper did not make his expected appearance. The little settlement sat silent in the early-morning drizzle.
‘It’s very q-quiet,’ said Hamond.
‘Where the devil is Dickson?’ said Low. ‘That feller needs told to stay off the hard stuff.’
‘Never mind Dickson - where the devil are the rest of them?’ demanded Darwin.
‘Should there not be boats?’ FitzRoy asked. ‘I see no boats.’
Low nodded. ‘There should be a jolly-boat before the store. There should be people. Bairns.’
‘Well, if they will not come to us, then we must go to them.’ FitzRoy gave orders for the cutter to be put into the water. Suliv
an, Hamond, Darwin, Bynoe, Mr Low and Lieutenant Smith accompanied him on the short pull across to the settlement. As they stepped on to the pebbly beach, the silence was tangible.
They found Dickson in his store, face down, his throat cut, his blood soaked dry into the bare boards. The place had been looted and wrecked.
‘Murderers,’ breathed Sulivan. ‘Rotten filthy murderers.’
FitzRoy turned Dickson’s body over. ‘Mr Bynoe?’ he asked calmly.
‘The blood is still sticky in one or two places. Given the damp conditions, sir, I’d say this was done yesterday’
‘So the assailants cannot have gone far. Mr Sulivan, take Mr Low and Mr Hamond and see if you can find Mr Brisbane. Here — take this.’ He offered one of his pistols to Low, who accepted it gingerly, looking almost as nervous as Hamond beside him.
Sulivan’s party found the next-door house, where Low lodged with Mr Brisbane, quite empty. There was no sign of the agent, but his half-eaten breakfast lay abandoned on the table. Whatever had occurred, Brisbane had obviously been taken unawares. FitzRoy, Bynoe and Lieutenant Smith, meanwhile, pushed carefully at the door of Jean Simon, the Frenchman: creaking, it swung carelessly open to the touch. They discovered the ‘Capitaz’ in his front parlour. He had obviously put up a terrific struggle. There were knife-slashes to his jacket and forearms, and blood was spattered on the walls. He had been dispatched by a gunshot, and lay against the far wall, his arms raised in useless protest, a look of astonishment fixed for ever on his face. A similar scene of horror presented itself in the adjoining houses. The entire population of Port Louis had either been done to death, had fled or had been led away.
‘It would seem, Mr Smith, that your posting is to be anything but symbolic,’ remarked FitzRoy grimly.
The young lieutenant breathed hard and tightened his grip on his rifle.
Reinforcements were hurried across from the Beagle, and the surrounding area was searched. FitzRoy discovered Mr Brisbane himself, or rather Mr Brisbane’s feet, protruding from a hastily piled mound of rocks. The agent had been executed by a shot to the back of his head, presumably while kneeling, some two hundred yards behind his house. The corpse had subsequently been disturbed and chewed by dogs. The discovery brought a tear to the corner of the boatswain’s eye. ‘The filthy swine! Who would do such a thing to a gentleman like Mr Brisbane? He was a gent and a plain man, was Mr Brisbane.’
‘I promise you, Mr Sorrell, we shall apprehend the villains who perpetrated this horror. You have my word on it.’
Finally, in the murky interior of a distant outhouse, they found the remaining inhabitants of Port Louis: two children, three women and a handful of older men, quaking with fear but alive and unharmed.
‘Mr Channon! This is Mr Channon, sir!’ Low identified the individual nearest to the door, who was blinking back the daylight that had suddenly flooded the little shed.
‘Dear God! Have they gone? Please God, have they gone?’
‘My name is Captain FitzRoy. You are quite safe. But who are “they”?’
‘The Buenos Ayreans. They said they would take the islands back for Buenos Ayres. They took us prisoner!’
‘How many Buenos Ayreans?’
‘Ten. I think it was ten. Under a Captain Rivero. They have murdered Mr Brisbane in cold blood — and Mr Dickson. Lord preserve us!’
‘We know. We have found them both. Do you know where these Buenos Ayreans have gone?’
‘They planned to wait for the Unicorn, to murder Mr Low and steal his boat. But when they saw the naval vessel flying the Union flag make its way up the sound, they took fright and fled. They headed west, by the path to Port Salvador. They told us to stay here or they would come back and kill us. But they have taken all the horses.’
‘This is Lieutenant Smith, of His Majesty’s Royal Marines. You have my word — and his — that we will catch these murderers and bring them to justice. Now, let us get you all out from this damp shed, and before a warm fire.’
‘The whole matter is so sordid,’ Darwin concluded angrily. ‘Our country, dog-in-a-manger fashion, seizes an island and leaves to protect it a Union Jack. The possessor has, of course, been murdered, and now they send a lieutenant, with four sailors, without any instructions, to deal with any eventuality! It is a paltry little police action unworthy of the Crown. And here are we, supposed to be going about the business of surveying and specimen-collecting, and instead we find ourselves embroiled in a contemptible little colonial war, in which an army of ten has attacked a town of twenty-three inhabitants!’
‘We really have no choice in the matter,’ said FitzRoy wearily.
‘You know as well as I do, FitzRoy, that Buenos Ayres will paint this across South America as a just revolt, of their poor subjects groaning under the tyranny of England.’
And you know as well as I do that what occurred was cold-blooded murder.’
‘I fail to see why we cannot just give back the islands.’
‘Back to whom? The penguins?’
‘If necessary, yes. This is a miserable little seat of discord. The only thing these islands are worthy of is the contemptible scene that has been acted upon them.’
‘You seem to forget that one of my duties as captain of one of His Majesty’s vessels is to protect British subjects under any circumstances. That is a duty I do not intend to neglect - under any circumstances.’
‘Without horses, it will be damn-near impossible to run them to ground,’ said Lieutenant Smith. ‘Any assault would be visible a mile off across these moors.’
‘How about a night attack?’ suggested Sulivan.
‘It would only work if we could completely surround them in pitch darkness,’ FitzRoy pointed out. ‘They will not sleep far from their mounts, and will not be so foolish as to give away their position by camping around an unextinguished fire.’
‘Have we the men to surround them?’
‘We are nine marines on the Beagle, sir,’ said Serjeant Baxter, ‘plus however many matlows the captain can spare.’
‘It is not enough,’ said FitzRoy. ‘Even if we could take up position in the dark, they are as likely to escape during the confusion of a night attack as during the day. No, gentlemen. We have two advantages. First, these are adventurers, not regular troops. Mr Channon tells us they wear no uniforms. So they will be cold and damp and tired, and will have to warm their bones by day. So they should assist us by giving their position away. Any column of smoke will be visible for miles. Second, the mobility they are relying upon will make them overconfident. They will be expecting an attack by sea from the east, and will be prepared at any time to flee further west. If we can anticipate their flight, indeed if we can precipitate it, our men could be lying in wait for them as they flee. Let them ride to us on their horses.’
Sulivan scanned the sparsely detailed Spanish chart they had come to improve.
‘To be lying in wait to the west, sir . . . well, that would entail our men marching fifty miles across open country from San Carlos Water, through soaking peat bogs and knee-deep swamps, with heavy packs.’
‘Exactly. Not only will they not expect anyone to arrive from that quarter, they will certainly not be expecting it in three days’ time.’
‘Three days?’
‘The Beagle can reach San Carlos Water betimes in the morning. After that, it is up to the Royal Marines. Lieutenant Smith? Serjeant Baxter? Can you and your men manage twenty-five miles a day across such terrain?’
‘No question, sir,’ said Smith confidently.
Serjeant Baxter’s jaw hardened. ‘We’ll do it sir.’
‘Observe,’ said FitzRoy. ‘To the west of Port Salvador there is only high ground — but it is split in two by a single valley here: the Arroyo Mato. If we can induce our quarry to head into that valley, they will fall into our trap. Mr Smith?’
‘It sounds good, sir.’
‘I think that on this occasion you had best dispense with your scarlet jackets, gentlemen. You will need to
blend in with your surrounds rather better than you are accustomed to. And you and I, Mr Sulivan, shall also dispense with our uniforms. We shall approach from the east at first light in the Unicorn, disguised as sealers.’
‘As sealers?’
‘It is an obvious subterfuge to mask our approach. When this Captain Rivero sees us coming, he will see through it at once, and think it the best shot in our locker. With any luck he and his men will canter off up the valley, too busy mocking our efforts at concealment to be on their guard.’
‘Will Mr Low consent to your using his boat in such a manner?’
‘As of tomorrow, Mr Sulivan, the Unicorn will not be Mr Low’s boat. It will be my boat.’
‘Your boat?’
‘My boat.’ FitzRoy stood up to indicate that the discussion was over. ‘Good luck, gentlemen. It’s neck or nothing.’
‘Good luck, sir.’
As Smith and Baxter made their exits, Sulivan hung behind, his face taut with concern.
‘Yes, Mr Sulivan?’
‘Sir, the Unicorn, I . . .’
‘Mr May has looked her over. She is oak-built in a British yard, copper-fastened throughout, a hundred and seventy tons burthen, a first-rate sea-boat in very good keep, wanting only one or two sheets of copper and an outfit of canvas and rope. She will be ideal for our purpose.’
‘But the cost, sir — ’
‘Six thousand paper dollars, that’s about thirteen hundred pounds, for immediate possession, plus the services of Mr Low as pilot for a year. We can salvage the extra canvas and rope from the two wrecked sealers. She shall be renamed the Adventure, in order to keep up old associations, and we shall hire the American sealers to crew her. Mr Chaffers shall be her skipper, assisted by Mr Bennet and Midshipman Mellersh, until such time as Mr Wickham can pass over from Punta Alta. I shall send Mr Usborne to take his place.’