The main thoroughfare petered out at the foot of a small hill, atop which two flags fluttered gracefully from a white pole: the Union Jack, and another they did not recognize, a red cross on a blue background. The cottage of Bushby, the British resident, was the last house in the street. After they had pounded upon the front door for some minutes, a metal hatch was finally opened, and two frightened eyes peered out from behind a pair of cracked spectacles. Seeing their naval uniforms, the resident drew back a platoon of bolts and let them in, casting a furtive glance up and down the street before rebolting the door behind them. He beckoned them to follow him down a little corridor, scuttling ahead like a pursued mole, into a dark and shuttered parlour. Mr Bushby’s left arm, they noticed, hung uselessly in a sling.
‘Are you wounded, sir?’ enquired Sulivan solicitously, once the introductions had been made.
*‘I was shot,’ explained Bushby bluntly, ‘during the course of a robbery upon this very house. The swine would have murdered me, but I escaped through the back door. Barely a day goes by, gentlemen, without another murder being added to the charge-sheet of villainy that shames this settlement.’ ‘Can you not take action against the miscreants?’ asked FitzRoy. ‘In a place this size, surely it must be possible to identify them?’
The resident laughed sardonically, a high-pitched little bark that escaped from his throat in a rush, his hands pawing nervously at his side-whiskers. ‘I am a resident, gentlemen. I reside here. That is my sole occupation. I am not granted even the power of a magistrate. I am here to observe. There are no laws, no police and no judges to prevent the vicious, worthless inhabitants of this vile hole practising whatever excesses they wish - be it drunkenness, adultery or murder. They are escaped convicts, for the most part, from New South Wales - although the whalers are no better. They are the very dregs of the earth, all of them - a fact which, had I been apprised of it in London, would have militated against my taking the position.’ Bushby shuddered at the full realization of what he had got himself into.
‘But what of the New Zealanders themselves - the natives?’ asked Sulivan. ‘Do they posses no authority?’
‘None in Kororareka, to be sure,’ said Bushby bitterly. ‘The chiefs only stopped fighting each other long enough to declare New Zealand a sovereign nation seven weeks ago. That is the new flag up on the hill. But this is a nation in name only. It is the New Zealanders themselves who require protection from the abuses of the worst of our citizenry. I tell you, gentlemen, these islands are gone to the very devil.’ The resident drew his coat about him and quivered with silent outrage.
‘Pray excuse my asking, but what do you actually do here, given that you are denied the opportunity to exercise authority?’ enquired FitzRoy.
‘I grow vines. In my garden. Prior to taking up this position, I journeyed through France and Spain, solely for the purpose of collecting vines to grow in my adopted country. The climate here is most admirable for the production of wine. You shall see, gentlemen - at a future day not only the citizens of New Zealand but of Australia, too, will have cause to thank me, and to acknowledge my foresight.’
‘I do not doubt it,’ said FitzRoy hurriedly, for a fervent gleam of enthusiasm had appeared in Bushby’s eyes. ‘And what of the missionaries ? We seek a clergyman by the name of Matthews.’
Bushby’s own missionary glow faded as quickly as it had ignited. ‘Matthews? Matthews is at Waimate. Would that I were at Waimate, and not stationed here at the pointless behest of His Majesty.’
‘Waimate? Is it far?’
‘It is but fifteen miles’ walk. I shall take you there.’
The following day, augmented by Darwin and the Beagle’s own Reverend Mr Matthews, the party set out for Waimate, along a well-worn path cut through tall, waving ferns. At intervals they passed mean clusters of native houses, flea-ridden, smoky, windowless ovens in Bushby’s derisive estimation. At one point they encountered a funeral ceremony, if that was indeed the correct word: the deceased, a woman, had been shaved, painted bright scarlet and staked out upright, flanked by two canoes driven vertically into the soil and surrounded by a ring of little wooden idols. As her macabre, rotting face looked on, her relatives beat themselves and tore at their own flesh until they were covered with clotted blood, in a communal howl of grief.
‘By all that’s holy,’ said a shivering Matthews, who wondered if he had not merely exchanged the frying-pan for the fire.
‘When Cook first discovered the island,’ said Bushby, ‘the New Zealanders threw stones at his ship and shouted, “Come ashore and we shall eat you all.”’
‘Phrenologically speaking, these are people of the most savage kind,’ said Darwin.
They pressed on quickly.
Presently they came to a small creek, which had to be forded. Bushby kept a skiff tied up in the reeds, and as he untethered it a fiercely tattooed old chief, wreathed in a stinking blanket, appeared through the undergrowth and stepped into the boat, muttering a cursory word or two in his own language.
‘They like to ride in the skiff. Sort of a pleasure cruise,’ explained Bushby, as the chief took a seat unbidden opposite the Englishmen.
‘I don’t think I have ever seen a more horrid and ferocious expression,’ whispered Darwin. ‘It reminds me of one of the characters in Retzsch’s outlines to Schiller’s “Ballad of Fridolin”.’
‘It is not an expression,’ said Bushby. ‘The tattoo incisions destroy the play of the superficial muscles, giving an air of permanent aggression. The designs are actually heraldic ornaments.’
‘Fascinating,’ said FitzRoy. ‘So all those cuts and whorls are the armorial bearings of a knightly warrior.’
‘He can speak English, by the bye,’ said Bushby.
‘Good morning to you sir,’ said Sulivan politely. The old chief bestowed a look upon him, which could have been anything from a friendly smile to a glare of demonic rage.
Matthews shuddered.
As they stepped out of the skiff at the end of their short trip up the creek, the New Zealander spoke. ‘Do not you stay long. I shall be tired of waiting here,’ he commanded Bushby, who ignored him.
‘Good day sir,’ said Sulivan.
‘The hoary old villain,’ muttered Darwin, when they were safely out of earshot.
Matthews, who had found it difficult since Tierra del Fuego even to say good morning to the captain without feeling guilty, remained silent, lost in his own thoughts and fears. But he need not have worried: after three hours’ further walk through the ferns, the most extraordinary vista opened before them.
‘Waimate, gentlemen,’ said Bushby, with a wave of the hand.
There, placed as if by an enchanter’s wand, was a fragment of old England. A church set amid golden cornfields; thatched cottages clustered around a stream, with a waterwheel to drive a little flour mill; orchards, groaning with every kind of ripe fruit; pigs and poultry running about, squealing and clucking; a barn, for threshing and winnowing, and a blacksmith’s forge. To cap it all, a game of cricket was taking place on an adjoining meadow, the shouts of the white-clad players mingling with the thrum of insects carried past on the summer breeze.
‘By the Lord Harry!’ exclaimed Darwin.
The others stood open-mouthed; Matthews looked as if he would weep with relief.
‘All of it constructed within these past ten years,’ said Bushby.
‘It certainly inspires high hopes for the future progress of this fine island,’ marvelled FitzRoy.
A native miller came to the door of the mill, and waved a polite good-day His face was powdered white with flour.
‘How very admirable,’ said Darwin.
‘Yours is the most extraordinary achievement, and we salute you for it,’ said FitzRoy. ‘Following our experiences of Kororareka, your mission was the very last thing we expected to see on these benighted shores.’
‘Kororareka is known as “the Pacific Hell” for good reason, Captain,’ replied the Reverend Clarke, earnest and long
-nosed. ‘Satan maintains his dominion there without molestation.’
‘Sad to say, in nearly all the affrays there, it is the white man who is the aggressor,’ said the older, graver Reverend Davies alongside him. ‘Ignorance of the local language, customs or taboo marks has not caused so many quarrels as have deliberate insult, deceit or intoxication. As a nation we have cause to be ashamed.’
Four reverend missionaries sat around the farmhouse table: Messrs Clarke, Davies, Williams and Matthews. The elder Matthews, married to Davies’s daughter, was an altogether more confident and inspiring character than his younger brother, whom he had not seen since the latter was a small boy. His delight at being reunited so unexpectedly with his sibling was genuinely affecting. The younger Matthews, for his part, had recovered some of the unctuous self-possession that had characterized his arrival aboard the Beagle, and was now basking vicariously in the glow of his brother’s achievements. Together, the missionaries exuded a pious eagerness and generosity of spirit, undercut by that slight air of anxiety common to all pioneers in potentially hostile lands. The final member of the welcoming party, though, was an interesting exception: an elderly New Zealander, tall and spindly as a church steeple, attired in a shabby, long-tailed coat and threadbare pantaloons, his heavily tattooed face surmounted by a battered top hat. The old gentleman sat grinning and sipping tea from a cracked china cup, saying nothing but seeming thoroughly to relish the occasion.
‘We are fighting a war,’ said the elder Matthews, fist clenched, a flame in his youthful eyes. ‘A war against ignorance and savagery, not just among the native population, where God’s blessings have yet to percolate, but among those of our own kind who have relapsed from the state of grace that our civilization affords them.’
‘My own feelings exactly,’ said the younger Matthews, drawing confidence from his brother’s stout piety. ‘When the ranks of savages attacked the mission at Woollya, with their spears and their stones, I felt myself to be God’s warrior, at war with the sins of ignorance and covetousness. I fought as bravely as I could, of course - had I a real army at my back I could have achieved something that day - but, being alone, my efforts were doomed to failure, and I was overwhelmed.’
Those who had been present when the drenched and beardless Matthews, gibbering with fear, had hurtled yelling into the lead whale-boat at Woollya, immediately formed a mental image somewhat at odds with the picture painted by the missionary; but for his fellows, his words seemed as hot coals upon the fire of their enthusiasm.
‘Your efforts in Tierra del Fuego do not constitute a failure, gentlemen,’ said the pale, whippet-like Mr Clarke. ‘They are a most promising first step. You have lit a spark in that country, which, by God’s grace, will never go out. Why, your experiences sound similar to our own first steps in this country. We too failed at first, but by God’s blessing upon our exertions, we have at last succeeded far beyond our expectations.’
FitzRoy felt himself encouraged, consoled and strangely touched by their optimistic concern.
‘When we first came here,’ said Mr Williams, a stout, jovial Welshman with the air of a medieval archer, ‘the New Zealanders’ warlike tendencies had to be seen to be believed. One tribe went to war, I remember, because they possessed a barrel of gunpowder that would have gone to waste were it not used up!’ He gurgled with laughter at the memory. ‘Such attitudes can take a long time to change, is that not so, Chief Waripoaka?’
The old man at the end of the table continued to grin silently, but his steady gaze gleamed briefly at the mention of his name.
‘Chief Waripoaka here was once a cannibal. But he was the first chief to be converted to God’s word, and it was by his personal intervention, back in 1814, that our erstwhile colleagues King and Kendal were saved from being killed and eaten.’
At last, the wrinkled old fellow spoke, intoning his words like the tolling of a bell: ‘Wonderful white men! Fire, water, earth and air are made to work for them by their wisdom, while we New Zealanders can only command the labour of our own bodies.’
‘Now the chief drinks tea, instead of ...’ Williams paused, and opted to change tack rather than complete the sentence. ‘We will not hear of your calling the Woollya mission a failure.’
‘Jemmy is a spark all right, he’s a bright spark,’ said Sulivan, ‘but he’s a tiny spark in an almighty darkness.’
‘We will send word to London,’ said Williams. ‘We in the Church Missionary Society have the whole organization of the Anglican Church at our backs. We do not operate independently of authority and of each other, like the London Missionary Society. We are no catechists, plucked untrained from ordinary life. We are professional men, trained in holy orders, a veritable army of God. We will have London send missionaries to Tierra del Fuego - a host of missionaries - to make contact with this Jemmy Button of yours, and kindle your spark into a blazing fire.’
Was it possible? Was it too much to hope for? A properly organized and equipped missionary effort, sent to the relief of Jemmy Button? FitzRoy could only dare to believe.
Mr Davies, apparently the de facto leader of the group, spread his hands in a gesture of restraint. ‘I should stress that we are normally constrained to act only within a diocese of the Anglican Church. New Zealand falls within the diocese of New South Wales. But given that Tierra del Fuego is virgin territory, under no formal ecclesiastical control, I see no reason why Lambeth Palace might not be persuaded to make an exception. Be assured that we will do everything in our power to assist you, Captain FitzRoy.’ The creases about Davies’s eyes tightened imperceptibly. ‘But we, too, should be most grateful were you to lend your reputation in assisting us.’
‘How may I help you, gentlemen? You have only to ask.’
‘A book has been published - a most regrettable book - which is gaining some notoriety but which paints an entirely false picture of the work we do here. You and your colleagues, as men of repute, can testify upon your return to England that this volume does not speak the truth, before any more damage can be done.’
‘What is this book?’
Davies produced a slim, leatherbound volume: Narrative of a Nine Months’ Residence in New Zealand, by Augustus Earle.
‘Earle,’ said FitzRoy, his eyes wide.
‘By the Lord Harry!’
Sulivan, beside him, and Bennet, respectfully standing guard by the door, were instantly alert.
‘You know him?’
‘He was briefly our ship’s artist,’ confessed FitzRoy. ‘But I had no knowledge ...’
‘Your former colleague was our guest here in 1827. Now he damns us for foisting Christianity upon a people “ill-adapted” to receive God’s word. He claims that our “narrow outlook” has killed the “innocent gaiety” of the New Zealanders. I quote: “Any man of common sense must agree with me that a savage can receive but little benefit from having the abstruse points of the Gospel preached to him, if his mind is not prepared to receive them.” I can see no logic to his reasoning. For how can any human mind not be ready to receive the word of God?’
‘The man lived openly in sin - fornicated, no less - with a native woman,’ huffed Mr Williams, all trace of his former jollity gone. ‘If he had an interest about the “innocent gaiety” of the New Zealanders, it was with a view to plundering it for the benefit of his openly licentious habits!’
‘Mr Williams is criticized by name in Mr Earle’s volume,’ said the elder Matthews, quietly. ‘He is openly accused of lacking hospitality. Yet I know that my colleague here always treated Mr Earle with far more civility than his open licentiousness could have given reason to expect. Perhaps Mr Earle was disappointed at not finding the field of licentiousness here in New Zealand quite as formerly, on account of our efforts.’
‘You see, it is our mission here not just to spread the word of God,’ said Mr Clarke, his fingers enmeshed, ‘but to suppress licentious habits and ardent spirits. To teach the virtue of covering naked flesh. To help the natives to understand that t
here is a state of future punishment awaiting those who do not follow the path laid out for them by the Church of England. Some of their customs are most barbarous: for instance, did you know that when a New Zealander falls ill, or meets some calamity, the other members of his tribe - even his family and friends - descend like locusts and rob him of all his belongings? Thus do the strong survive and the weak go to the wall. What kind of Godless system is that, for Earle or any other to advocate?’
‘It is disgraceful,’ said Darwin.
‘You have my word, gentlemen,’ vowed FitzRoy, a guilty pink flush about his cheeks. ‘I shall use my every and utmost endeavour, upon returning to England, to promote your efforts to civilize the people of New Zealand and to counter Mr Earle’s propaganda.’
‘Wonderful white men!’ intoned the chief.
‘More tea, Chief Waripoaka?’ said Davies, keen to present a little tableau of civilization.
‘Good sweet tea,’ said the chief, ladling spoonful after spoonful of sugar into his cup. ‘Englishman meat taste too salty. Not taste sweet, like New Zealander. I eat a Captain Boyd once. Whaling captain. Too salty. Now Chief Waripoaka good Christian - no eat human meat. Drink sweet tea instead!’
The old man grinned conspiratorially, and took a big wet slurp from his teacup.
FitzRoy spent the next few days completing tests upon an ocean thermometer he had devised to detect and trace currents in the water. Darwin kept to the library, magnifying-glass fastened to his forehead by an elastic garter, microscope unfolded upon the table. Nobody went ashore: even the crew, it seemed, had little inclination to risk the dangerous fleshpots of Kororareka. New Zealand, it appeared to FitzRoy, was at a crossroads. The settlements of Kororareka and Waimate offered two alternative visions of its future. British intervention was surely now essential, to rein in the excesses of his countrymen and to steer the fledgling nation down the Christian path. A British governor was required, backed up by a considerable force of troops, to restore order and to protect the native population. He would do his utmost, upon returning to England, to press for such a policy to be imposed.