One of the chiefs answered on her behalf. ‘The honour of the Queen is our honour. We will share her difficulties. We have determined to unite in her cause, and pay the fine demanded by the manua.’
The Queen fixed her sad gaze upon FitzRoy. ‘My name, Aimatta. In our language, it means “the eater of eyes”. There was a time when my people ate the flesh of other people. The men of Great Britain have brought the word of God to these islands, and have replaced the old ways with God’s law, which must be obeyed. The law of Great Britain, they tell me, is God’s law. So if it is written in God’s law that we must pay, then we must pay.’
‘Your Majesty ... I thank you profoundly, in the name of King William and all my countrymen, for your wisdom and generosity. I hope Your Majesty and all the chiefs of Tahiti will do me the great honour of visiting the Beagle, and allowing my officers and crew to entertain you before we go off to England.’
‘Thank you, Fitirai. You are a kind man. I accept your invitation.’
The Queen smiled and inclined her head, and the various chiefs followed suit. FitzRoy felt only a burning sense of shame.
The following day a trestle table, knocked together quickly by May, was set up in the lee of the church, just by the main door, where the big square bastion of Anglicanism blocked out the light of the rising sun. A strongbox sat on the tablecloth in front of Lieutenant Sulivan, and a ledger lay before Lieutenant Wickham. An armed marine stood guard to either side, while FitzRoy paced about in an agitated frame of mind. A line of Tahitians queued to make their contributions, male and female, young and old, some virtually naked, some in their ill-fitting European clothes. There were elderly, stooped men clutching clay pots containing their life savings. There were small children, single coins clasped sweatily in their palms. Many of the islanders who had sold livestock and historical artefacts at the impromptu market on the Beagle’s maindeck were present, returning the coins they had accumulated so assiduously that day.
‘Dash it, sir, this is rotten,’ said Sulivan bitterly. ‘Absolutely rotten.’
‘It’s a confounded filthy matter,’ Wickham agreed, his jaw set tight. ‘I didn’t join the Service to go about the world stripping good Christian nations bare in this pinchbeck manner.’
‘You do not need to tell me, gentlemen,’ said FitzRoy with a scowl. Anger and embarrassment fought to overwhelm his customary good manners. Savagely, he kicked a stone into the grass.
‘I feel like one of the moneylenders in the temple,’ complained Sulivan.
I was brought up to obey orders, FitzRoy told himself. To do my duty. But increasingly I am being given orders that do not tally with natural justice - with God’s justice. Orders that I cannot in all conscience accord with. These people should be helped to found a decent, God-fearing society — not plundered, as if the Royal Navy were little better than pirates. Little better, even, than General Rosas.
After four hours’ march, the width of the ravine scarcely exceeded that of the bed of the stream, and near-vertical walls of volcanic lava a thousand feet high hemmed in the party on either side. Yet in the soft, porous rock, splashed by innumerable waterfalls and warmed by the steaming, humid climate, ferns, small trees, wild bananas and trailing plants sprang from every ledge or crevice. Using dead tree trunks as ladders, clambering up rock chimneys and knife-edge ridges, and employing ropes where necessary, they inched their way up the gorge. Darwin had scaled mightier mountains than this, but none so precarious or precipitous. Finally, after several hours of sweat-drenched effort, they hauled themselves out on to a cool, windswept plateau at the head of a waterfall. The view was spectacular.
‘Good Lord, Covington — what I would forfeit for a cold beer!’ he gasped, forgetting for the hundredth time that his remarks were falling literally upon deaf ears; not, he mused, that the response would have been very different in former days.
‘Beer, very good!’ giggled Hitote, one of the Tahitian guides. ‘But no tell missionary!’ He put one finger to his lips.
It was hard to see, up here, what they would do for food or shelter. The Tahitians had been insistent about the futility of lugging supplies up to the heights, particularly with regard to the delicately mooted suggestion of bringing an entire bed. Surely, now, they would have to furnish a miracle?
Furnish a miracle they did, however - constructing an entire house in a matter of minutes from bamboo-stems and banana-leaves, bound together with strips of bamboo-bark. Then, producing a small net from his loincloth, Hitote dived into the stream above the waterfall, flashing back and forth through the water like an otter, before emerging with a wriggling netful of tiny fish and freshwater prawns. A wild lily-root, sweet as treacle, would serve as pudding. A fire was lit, the dinner was cooked, grace was said, and finally the party fell upon their feast.
Shading the banks of the stream were the dark, knotted stems of a plant Darwin had not seen before, each leaf a sultry green ace of spades. ‘What is that plant, Hitote?’
The Tahitian grinned conspiratorially. ‘Ava. Very good. Chew ava, see many strange things, feel good. When missionaries find ava, they burn it. Missionaries say is devil’s plant. Ava only left now in mountains. You want try?’
Purely in the spirit of scientific enquiry, Darwin accepted a slice after dinner. He found it acrid and unpleasant on the tongue, but before long a sense of well-being crept over him. He and Hitote sat out on the grass before the cliff-edge, gazing down upon the lavish sweep of the landscape, watching the play and interplay of colour, outline and shape as the sun’s slanting rays and the gentle mountain breezes set the leaves dancing with each other, not just seeing but feeling the radiance of God’s universe as its beauty swept over them. Darwin’s eyes followed the course of the stream down the valley to Point Venus: there, opposite the stream’s outflow, was a break in the encircling reef, where the Beagle lay at anchor, her officers no doubt carrying out depth-sounding experiments on the coral. Tiny men on a tiny boat, lost in a vista that he alone could see in its entirety, that he alone had the vision to encompass.
For years, men had thought that coral reefs grew up thousands of feet from the sea bed. Then Lyell, not unreasonably pointing out that coral cannot live below ten fathoms, had postulated that it grew instead from the rims of submerged volcanoes that were themselves rising from the seabed. His was the very latest theory on coral atolls. Lyell, however, had no answer to the reefs that fringed the Pacific’s tropical coasts. Why was there a line of coral along the shore, then a further wall of it, half a mile off the beach? Lyell did not know. None of them knew. For Darwin, floating high above them all, the pieces of the universe suddenly seemed to fit together, as if part of a gigantic jigsaw. For if there was dead coral below the ten-fathom mark, then it must once have grown in the light zone nearer the surface. The coral was not rising, or it would have been pushed clean out of the water, like the sea beaches he had seen high in the Andes. The coral was falling. As it fell below ten fathoms each little creature died, while its fellows above struggled to grow back towards the surface. Coral atolls were the rims of volcanoes that had sunk below the surface. The fringing reef? Why, the fringing reef marked the line of an old beach, thrust suddenly below the surface - that was why there was a break in it, opposite the mouth of the stream, and opposite every stream, because the freshwater torrent would have cut through it in the days when it lined the shore. Coral was a shore creature. The coral out on the reef had suddenly found itself marooned in open water following the descent of the land, the Pacific falling as the Andes rose into the clouds.
Darwin lay back in the grass, a sense of profound relaxation stealing over him, while his mind floated away, high above their little eyrie, high above the limpid shallows of the lagoon and the dark, heaving waters of the ocean beyond.
‘I have to hand it to you, Philos — you’re a deuced marvel! You really do take the palm for deduction.’
‘Well, I must confess, I did have a little ... help.’
FitzRoy and Darwin had squeez
ed into the latter’s cabin, the library shelves crammed not just with books these days, but with snakes and insects in jars, armadillo shells, stuffed birds and lizards, all the accoutrements of a natural-history museum in miniature. Darwin, who had outlined his theory of reef formation to FitzRoy, sat at the chart table, examining a section of live coral beneath his microscope.
‘I could not swear to it,’ he pronounced, ‘but it appears to reproduce — asexually. There are similar creatures by the shore at Edinburgh. I used to wade through the shallows of Leith harbour with Professor Grant. “Zoophytes”, he called them, plants that reproduce by releasing free-swimming eggs.’
‘If it released an egg, how could it be a plant?’
‘Well, like the coral, it is a creature so close to both categories that one could happily place it in either. They are animals arranged as plants.’
Both men sensed where the conversation might be headed. Professor Grant, scourge of the late unlamented McCormick, was a follower of Lamarck. Tiny sea creatures arranged as plants afforded perhaps the only real ammunition for the transmutationists as to the origins of animal life.
‘It is a fine evening. Shall we take a stroll upon the deck?’
Darwin readily agreed to FitzRoy’s diversion, and folded away his microscope. The pair walked out on to the maindeck, sidestepping a huddle of giant tortoises conspiratorially mulching a mound of green leaves, and headed for the starboard rail, where they stood in silence and drank in the view. The coconut palms lining the shore cut jet-black silhouettes into the purple evening sky. A loose-limbed youth was shinning with no apparent difficulty up one of the featureless tree trunks. Along the beach, a line of little cooking-fires blazed, putting FitzRoy in mind of the bonfires of Tierra del Fuego. Was it only a year and a half since they had braved the thundering seas and lashing rain of South America’s wild tip, and gained admittance to that isolated, mysterious world, primitive man’s last true kingdom on earth? It seemed like a lifetime ago. There the dogs had barked, the drums had beaten out their primal tattoo, and the surf had curled unchecked against the rocky shore. Here, the flames were reflected in the mirror of the lagoon, glittering like gems, and in their glow little children played, or sat in companionable circles singing sweet-voiced hymns, melodious and clear.
‘What an opportunity for writing love-letters,’ mused Darwin. ‘Oh, that I had a sweet Virginia to send an inspired epistle to!’
The next evening, every one of the ship’s boats was hoisted out and dispatched, under the reliable command of Mr Stokes, to ferry Queen Pomare and her retinue to the Beagle. May had rigged up a jury-cradle, so that Her gracious but undeniably weighty Majesty could be lifted aboard with all due dignity. A salute could not be fired, of course, for fear of disturbing the chronometers, but the ship was dressed with flags, and the crew sent into the yards to stand to attention and give Her Majesty a rousing three cheers as she rose slowly from the cutter. The poop deck had been cleared of tortoises, and a long table had been laid with linen, silverware and candles. So many years into the voyage, the fare was of necessity extremely simple, and FitzRoy thought it no meal to put before a queen; he was conscious throughout of trying his damnedest to compensate for the shabby way in which she had been treated. But there were fireworks after the meal: every rocket, blue light and false-fire to be found on the ship was lit. All were received rapturously by the royal party, as well as prompting a chorus of ooohs from the Tahitians lining the bay. There were presents for each guest, followed by the entertainment: chairs were drawn up, and the best singers and musicians among the crew brought out to perform before the assembled dignitaries.
‘I should like to present Harper, our sailmaker, singing “Rule Britannia”,’ announced Coxswain Bennet, to commence the concert.
‘Peace be with you and your King William,’ replied the Queen, smiling at him.
Harper’s mellifluous baritone having been well received, Bennet stepped up once again to introduce Wills, the armourer, accompanied by Billet, the gunroom boy, performing ‘Three Jolly Postboys’. It was a jaunty number, and the watching crew began to tap their feet and clap along. It soon became apparent, however, that something was wrong. The Tahitians were whispering and muttering among themselves in worried tones, and Queen Pomare’s customary expression of placid melancholy had been replaced by one of genuine distress. FitzRoy waved the two performers to a halt. ‘Pray forgive me, Your Majesty, but is something the matter?’
‘This is not a hymn, Fitirai?’ asked Pomare in dismay.
‘No, Your Majesty. This is a ... a sea song, not a hymn.’
‘But, Fitirai - the singing of songs is forbidden in Tahiti, except hymns. Singing is one of the illicit pleasures, forbidden by God’s law. We have followed God’s commands, as told to us by your British missionaries. This is God’s way. It is the British way. What is going on? I do not understand.’
Chapter Twenty-six
The Bay of Islands, New Zealand, 21 December 1835
Viewed through the spyglass, the little village of Kororareka seemed quiet enough, a drab and undistinguished huddle beneath a range of low, drizzly hills. Three whaling ships sprawled lazily at anchor, and the occasional solitary canoe could be seen pottering across the bay, but there was no boisterous welcome like the one that had greeted the Beagle in Tahiti. New Zealand’s only English settlement presented a tidy, reticent aspect to the sea, as if its back were turned. Any closer inspection would have to wait, for the ship lay becalmed at the entrance of the Bay of Islands. Darwin, who had been feeling seasick for a week, used the respite to pace the poop deck irritably.
‘Another wretched island. There is nothing I so much long for, as to see any spot or object which I have seen before, or any which I am likely to see again! To think this will be our fifth Christmas away from home!’
‘We are all of us homesick, Philos,’ muttered FitzRoy, as Darwin stalked past.
‘I feel sure that the scenery of England is ten times more beautiful than anywhere else we have seen on our travels. What reasonable person can wish for great ill-proportioned mountains, two and three miles high? Give me the Brythen, or some such compact little hill!’
Wickham and Stokes exchanged the faintest of grins.
‘As for your boundless plains and impenetrable forests, who would compare them with the green fields and oak woods of England? People are pleased to talk of the ever-smiling sky of the tropics — what precious nonsense! Who admires a lady’s face who is always smiling? England is not one of your insipid beauties. She can cry, and frown, and smile, all by turns.’
‘Actually, when I went to Shropshire it looked rather like this,’ offered King, helpfully. ‘Imagine that those ferns behind the shore are meadows, and you will see the similarity at once . . .’
The young midshipman tailed off, as Darwin glared at him.
‘Come on, Philos,’ put in Sulivan cheerily. ‘Let’s not growl. What is five years around the world, compared to the soldiers’ and sailors’ lives in India?’
‘I did not sign up to be a sailor! Not for five years, at least. And I am convinced that it is a most ridiculous thing to go round the world. Stay at home quietly, and the world will go round with you.’
With that, he stomped off to his cabin.
A light breeze picked up after dinner and gently ballooned the Beagle’s sails, enabling them to reach anchorage by early afternoon. FitzRoy, Sulivan and Bennet went ashore in the cutter. When they arrived at the main thoroughfare of Kororareka, they discovered that appearances had indeed been deceptive. The place was a pit.
A mucous coating of mud and faeces lined the main street, splattered by passing footsteps up the rough wooden walls of the adjoining buildings. Every second dwelling was either a spirit-shop, a musket-seller’s or a public house. It seemed that the entire population - to judge from the evidence of those on view — was blind drunk. Two men were fighting at the end of the village. A whore, crawling on all fours, was retching up a thin stream of vomit, consol
ed by a scarcely less sober companion. A man with a Newcastle accent shouted meaningless obscenities at anyone who would listen. Everyone, worryingly, appeared to be armed. A heavily tattooed native, pasted with filth and wrapped in a grubby blanket, lurched towards them shouting angrily. ‘You English captain! You help me!’
FitzRoy halted - he had little option, as the man had blocked his path - while Bennet moved protectively to the front in case the skipper needed rescuing.
‘I am Captain FitzRoy. How may I help?’
‘Englishman steal my wife! Take on whale-ship! You get my wife back!’
‘Then you must call out the watch. The authorities.’
The man’s face was a mask of furious incomprehension.
‘Who is in charge here? Who is boss?’ asked FitzRoy firmly.
‘You English captain! You boss!’
Another native, long-haired and raw-boned, as well built and ferocious as the first, his face a whorl of angry black tattoo-cuts, bore down upon them. ‘You help me!’ he shouted. ‘I work on whale-ship one year. Promise me big money. Leave ship, no money! White man steal my money!’
A drunken white woman cackled at them from a puddle of her own urine.
‘Gentlemen - please!’ FitzRoy managed briefly to silence the furious complainants. ‘Who is the chief here?’
‘No chief. This is white-man town!’
‘Who is the British chief? The British resident?’
The second native jabbed a finger accusingly towards the far end of the street, whereupon the two supplicants fell to arguing with each other.
‘Is it not mystifying?’ pondered a troubled Sulivan, as the trio picked their way through the clinging mud. ‘In a pleasant climate, surrounded by beautiful countryside, can one account for human nature degrading itself so much as to live in such a den?’
Bennet, who remembered his excursion into the rookeries behind Oxford Street with the three Fuegians, kept his thoughts to himself.