‘Are you all right, Jemmy?’ asked Mrs Snow.
For the second time in his life, big wet dollops were running down Jemmy’s nose and splashing on to the table beneath.
Following dinner, the canoes that had relentlessly pursued the Allen Gardiner’s trail began to arrive at last. Jemmy preferred not to spend the night on the ship, for his wife was starting to panic, but returned at dawn, his new clothes caked in red mud because he had slept in them. By morning there were perhaps a hundred canoes packed with excited natives buzzing round the ship, like wherry-boats swarming about a prestigious launch on the Thames. Presents were distributed, of blankets, knives and carpentry tools; then Snow lowered the dinghy, and he, Phillips and his fellow-catechist Charles Turpin went with Jemmy to inspect the scant remains of FitzRoy’s mission buildings. A silent host of curious Fuegians shadowed their every footstep, intent on every English word.
‘Here Jemmy’s house . . . Here York and Fuegia’s house . . . Here Mister Matthews’s house . . .’ Jemmy marched them past three discoloured squares in the grass, a few splinters of rotting board the only tangible reminder of FitzRoy’s great experiment. Remarkably, Snow found a potato in the debris of the garden. Then, Jemmy produced a twenty-year-old axe, its blade worn to a sliver but still as sharp as the day it had been made. ‘Capp’en Fitz‘oy give me this,’ he announced proudly.
Garland Phillips seized the Fuegian by both arms. ‘We can build it again, Jemmy,’ he said.
‘What you mean? Jemmy no understan’.’
‘Yes you do. We can rebuild the mission. But first you must come with us on the Allen Gardiner. Not to Britain - that is too far. But we have built another mission on the Falkland Islands. Come with us - bring your family, bring your friends - learn the ways of mission life!’
‘Is too far. Jemmy go long way to Englan’. Maybe someone else want go to mission. Maybe my brother Macooallan.’
‘Jemmy, it is just a few days’ sail.’
‘Mrs Button no want Jemmy to go.’
‘Then bring her, Jemmy - bring her with you. Bring your whole family!’
‘Will Capp’en Fitz‘oy be there? At Falk’and?’
‘No. He won’t.’
It was Snow who had cut in bluntly. Phillips glared daggers at the burly captain.
‘No, he won’t be there now, Jemmy, but he will be there soon. Captain FitzRoy will be there soon. And Captain Sulivan - he lives at the Falklands - he will be there too.’ Phillips gave Snow a look of triumph.
‘Mister Sulivan good man. Good frien’. Mister Sulivan is Capp‘en Sulivan now?’
‘Yes. He is Captain Sulivan now.’ Phillips could tell that Jemmy was wavering. ‘It is a beautiful mission, Jemmy, on Keppel Island. You will have your own house, made of brick, like the houses in London. Our mission is named Cranmer, after the greatest Christian martyr, Archbishop Thomas Cranmer.’
‘If you please, what is martyr?’
‘A martyr, Jemmy? Martyrdom is the greatest accolade that can be bestowed upon any Christian. To die for one’s faith. To die for the love of God. That is a martyr. God wants you to come to Cranmer, Jemmy. It is God’s wish.’
Jemmy hesitated, dreaming of a pink suit he once owned. His son came to his side and took his hand affectionately.
‘I can bring Wammestriggins?’
‘You can bring Wammestriggins.’
Jemmy paused for a further second, then made his decision.
‘Very well. Jemmy will come, for five moons. No longer.’
The former Port William, recently made capital of the Falkland Islands and renamed Stanley in honour of the previous colonial secretary, stretched in three lines of damp wooden huts along the shore of a cigar-shaped natural harbour. It was the site chosen by FitzRoy himself as an alternative to Port Louis, a three-mile strip of sedate water studded with jetties and linked to the ocean by a rumbustious narrow channel. Snow thought that he had never seen such a drab settlement. Maybe it was the institutional white paint that had been chosen to decorate every hut in a dismal attempt at collective gaiety, already peeling in protest at the pounding it was taking from the elements. Maybe it was the dispiriting, regimented rows in which Stanley had been laid out. Or maybe it was the listlessness of the inhabitants, pensioners and poverty-stricken Irishmen all, who had been induced to remove themselves here by the official promise of a hundred acres of farmland each, plus a cow and a pig. The hundred-acre plots, the settlers had soon discovered, were parcels of worthless bog many miles deep in the interior; the pigs and the cows were feral beasts, roaming the islands in wild herds that, frankly, were anyone’s for the taking if they were brave enough. To make matters worse, the prices of ordinary household goods in Stanley - all of which had to be imported from Britain — were running at four times the normal.
The hut of the islands’ governor, Thomas Moore, was no better or worse than any of the others. A vicious wind cut through the cheap planking, whirling his official paperwork about the top of his rudimentary desk. Snow and Phillips stood uncomfortably to attention on the governor’s rough dirt floor. This truly is the end of the world, thought Snow.
‘Do you not think it discourteous, gentlemen, even impudent, that the Patagonian Missionary Society should see fit to take possession of an island under my governorship, without any reference to myself?’ Moore glared at the pair.
‘I supposed, sir, that the Reverend George Packenham Despard, the president of the Patagonian Missionary Society, had written to you regarding the establishment of our mission,’ replied Garland Phillips coolly.
‘Oh, Mr Despard wrote to me indeed,’ growled Moore, a stout and pugnacious former military man. ‘He wrote demanding that I allow him land to build a mission, “away from the depraved, low and immoral colonists of Stanley”. I can assure you that his opinion of the settlers has caused much offence here. I can also assure you that he has received no affirmative response from myself, and yet here you are, sirs, demanding retrospective permission for the construction of a mission on Keppel Island!’
Snow wished that the ground would swallow him up.
‘And let me assure you, sir,’ replied Phillips even more smoothly, ‘that the Cranmer Mission is a project dear to God’s heart. It has the support of no less a dignitary than Captain Bartholomew Sulivan, of these very shores. If you would only contact Captain Sulivan — ’
‘Don’t you know there is a war in Europe?’ barked Moore. ‘Captain Sulivan is from home. He has been called to fight the Russians.’
‘Nonetheless, sir, his support for the Reverend Mr Despard’s project has been unwavering throughout. Mr Despard is a visionary, sir, one of the greatest men of our times, and it has been a privilege for me to serve the Lord through him. With his guidance, the savage Jemmy Button and his fellow natives — ’
‘Jemmy Button, who was once bought for a button? I would remind you both of the slavery laws.’
‘Jemmy Button, who has now volunteered to bring his family to Cranmer,’ stressed Phillips. ‘With the Reverend Mr Despard’s guidance —
‘How many natives are in the party?’
‘About twelve, sir.’
‘And you are aware, I trust, of the Alien Ordnance passed by the Falklands Legislative Council, which imposes a levy of twenty shillings per foreign worker?’
‘These are not workers as such, sir. If you would — ’
‘I consider it my duty, gentlemen,’ cut in Moore, who was fast losing patience not just with Phillips but with life in the Falklands in general, ‘to make strict enquiry as to whether these miserable savages have come voluntarily and with lawful contracts, as far as can be intelligible to their limited intellects. Not,’ he added witheringly, ‘that I wish to pour cold water upon your romantic enterprise.’
‘You may be satisfied, sir,’ retorted Phillips, ‘that no less a person than the Reverend Mr Despard himself is due in Stanley ere long on the Hydaspes, a Patagonian Missionary Society vessel bound from Plymouth. I have no doubt, sir, that
he shall settle any of the minor difficulties you have raised to your complete and utter satisfaction.’
Moore grunted, only partly mollified.
It was indeed just a few days later that the Hydaspes stood into the next jetty along from the Allen Gardiner, whereupon gangs of eager sailors in matching guernseys could be seen unloading Despard’s wife, children, pigs, sheep, goats, ducks, hens, books, furniture and grand piano. Despard himself swept among the matlows dispensing God’s blessings with a munificent air; but his smile faded and his brow clouded when Snow and Phillips emerged from the Allen Gardiner to welcome him to Stanley and to organize the transfer of his goods to their vessel.
‘Captain Snow,’ he boomed, ‘I have received a communication in Monte Video, a most disturbing communication, from my catechist here’ - Phillips, impassive, did not bother to look embarrassed — ‘suggesting that you actively encouraged the savage Jemmy Button to remain at Woollya, and not to make the passage to Keppel Island.’
‘I did so, sir, because I had my doubts - genuine Christian doubts - regarding the manner in which he was enticed to make the passage.’ Snow gave Phillips a filthy look.
‘You are a paid employee of the society, Captain Snow, and as such you are not one of God’s elect. You are not qualified to express such doubts.’
‘Missionary work, Mr Despard, should be about good deeds, poor relief and spreading knowledge and understanding. It should not be about planting an idol in the heathens’ hearts; introducing them to mystic ideas which they can only understand as you may choose to make them understood; and doing so by various methods which are neither straightforward nor truthful.’
Despard looked as if he would like to lean forward and bite the captain. ‘I would advise you, sir, to know your place.’
Snow was getting hot under the collar now. ‘My place, sir, is the place of any good Christian, to question the immoral removal of these uncomprehending natives many hundreds of miles from their home-land. Evil must not be done that good may perchance - and only perchance - come out of it.’
‘Your place, Captain Snow, is on the Hydaspes, as a paying passenger,’ trumpeted Despard haughtily. ‘You are dismissed - dismissed, do you hear? - from the society’s employ. Captain Fell of the Hydaspes — a decent, God-fearing sailor, sir - shall take your place at the helm of the Allen Gardiner. When, and only when, a new captain is appointed to the Hydaspes, you shall be free to quit these islands. In the meantime, I bid you good day, sir.’
‘You are a charlatan, sir!’
‘And you are a scoundrel, sir!’
Only then, as they finally gave full vent to their anger, did the two men realize that all work on the jetty had come to a halt and that the entire company of ship’s matlows stood frozen with surprise, staring in their direction.
Jemmy Button rested a weary boot on his spade, as Mr and Mrs Despard picked their way carefully down from Sulivan House. As was so often the case at Cranmer, a cold, sleeting rain was whipping eastwards out of a glowering sky. Jemmy was bundled up in a south-wester, a red comforter, a pea-jacket and heavy boots, not for warmth or protection - he actually felt rather overheated in such an ensemble - but because it was the most elegant sartorial combination he could concoct. The fact that he resembled a Dutch lugger had passed him by, although it made the crewmen laugh. He really should have resumed digging when the Despards came into view, but they had almost certainly spotted his inactivity already, so there was little further point pretending: he contented himself instead with straightening his aching back in a vaguely respectful manner. They were passing the cattle corrals now, where a sudden ‘moo’ caused Mrs Despard to leap quickly to her left. Jemmy suppressed a grin.
‘Good morning, James,’ called Despard, his huge semicircle of upper teeth on confident display. The Despards invariably called him James.
‘Good morning, sar.’
‘You have ceased digging, James.’
‘Jemmy’s boots get muddy. Jemmy not like his boots get muddy.’
‘God loves good men, James. Good men are not idle. God does not love idle men.’
‘No sar.’
‘The Queen’s birthday is in three days’ time, and by then I want to see all five flagstaffs erected. Would you have Her Majesty’s birthday pass without the Royal Standard and the Union flag flying over her distant domains?’
‘No,’ replied Jemmy, sullenly.
‘No what?’
‘No sar.’
‘No sir, and no ma’am. There is a lady present. Do you see the other diggers being idle?’ He gestured across the landscape, which was dotted with stocky Fuegians at work. ’I think not. Do you see Jamesina being idle? I think not.’ Jamesina was the name the Despards had given to Lassaweea, Jemmy’s wife. ’Jamesina has learned to work at the needle, in her rough way. She washes and irons clothes, prepares food and performs all manner of household duties. I expect you to follow her example, James.’
‘Yes sar. Yes ma’am.’
‘That’s better, James,’ said Despard, and he and his wife continued on their way, the clergyman audibly lamenting the general state of his charges. ‘What you must remember, my dear, is that the savages are as self-willed and capricious as grown spoiled children, and require great patience and firmness to manage them, as well as an undaunted spirit.’
‘I see that, my dear, I see that all too well.’
‘I have great hopes, however, for young Threeboys.’ Threeboys was the name the Despards had devised for Wammestriggins. ‘His diligence as regards cleanliness is remarkable. So ambitious is he to become white that he ablutes often, in the hope of washing the brown out of his complexion. It is a most promising sign — a most promising sign indeed.’
By now the pair had arrived at Button Villa, the name given to the ten-foot-square brick hut into which all the Fuegians had been crammed. Gingerly, Despard pulled aside the calico window-blind, and peered in. He could see Jamesina sitting with her eight-year-old daughter Fuegia, as they had renamed Passawullacuds, her baby Anthony, as Annasplonis had been christened, and Threeboys himself. She was polishing a tin cooking utensil. Despard pushed open the door.
‘Good morning, Jamesina.’
The Fuegian gave a little curtsy.
‘Good morning, sar. Good morning, ma’am.’
‘This is very good, Jamesina,’ said Despard, taking the utensil from her. ‘You have cleaned this very well.’
‘I have brought you a gift, Jamesina,’ said Mrs Despard, opening her bag. ‘It is a woven shawl, knitted by Mrs Harvey of York.’
‘It is a woven shawl, knitted by Mrs Harvey of York,’ replied Mrs Button, who still clung to the traditional Fuegian practice of repeating anything said to her that she did not understand.
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ prompted Despard.
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ said Jamesina, uncertainly.
‘And you, Threeboys. What are you about this morning?’
‘I have written a letter, sar, to Queen Victoria.’
‘Indeed, Threeboys? May I see it?’
Threeboys handed over a piece of paper, upon which he had written in a painstaking hand:Dear Queen
I am glad to saw much; to plane much. By and bye I shall be a carpenter. I shall visit England; and you will give me a hatchet, a chisel, and a bradawl; and I shall say, thank you. Threeboys (Wammestriggins).
‘That is excellent, Threeboys. Very good indeed. I shall post it for you.’
Despard slid the letter into his pocket; he would consign it discreetly to the fire later.
‘I pray to God for Jesus Christ’s sake to make me a good boy,’ said Threeboys.
‘God shall hear your prayer, Threeboys, I am certain of it,’ said the delighted clergyman.
Mrs Despard, meanwhile, had plucked the sleeping Anthony deftly from his cot, and now cradled the child lovingly in her arms. ‘Look, dearest. Is he not the sweetest little boy?’
‘The Lord has blessed you, Jamesina, with a most attractive baby. I am sure
that he will grow into a strong and healthy Christian.’
Something stirred beneath Mrs Button’s newly acquired veneer of faith, and she held out her hands for the return of her son.
Reluctantly, Mrs Despard complied. ‘Dearest,’ she said to her husband after they had left Button Villa, ‘do you think it would be possible for us to keep Anthony? I mean, after the Fuegians are gone?’
‘Keep him, Mrs Despard?’
‘We could give the child a healthful and civilized upbringing - a far cry from the life of savage despair that awaits him. And is it not said that savage mothers do not feel the same attachment to their children as would be felt by mothers of a more advanced race?’
‘That is indeed said, my dear. You have made an interesting proposal — a most interesting proposal indeed. Perhaps it is not impossible that - on this point at least - the savages shall be able to see reason.’
In a graceful, lazy arc, almost the same one that had measured its flight in life, the goose plummeted soundlessly to the grass. Impressed with himself and grinning with pleasure, Threeboys lowered the gun.
‘Well done! Well done, Threeboys!’ said Despard, and clapped the boy on the back.
Really, things could not have been going better for the Reverend George Packenham Despard. The Fuegians had been at Cranmer for six months now, and despite the odd grumble at the length of their stay and the regime of continuous hard labour, there was no doubt that the mission and its inhabitants were finding mutual benefit in the arrangement. Jemmy and his relatives spent their days digging peat for fuel, painting window-frames, carrying paving slabs, tending the vegetable gardens, building bridges across streams and foraging for wreckwood on the beaches; gradually, they were learning the virtues inherent in honest servitude and Christian prayer and, gradually, the mission was nearing completion. The business with Snow had been awkward - Mrs Snow had virtually succumbed to a hysterical breakdown on the jetty at Stanley - but the man had clearly been a troublemaker from the start. Captain Fell was a vast improvement, quiet but firm, and studious in his devotions. With Garland Phillips as a more than able sergeant-major, Despard was confident that he had assembled the right team to commence the building of another mission on the mainland of Tierra del Fuego itself. That jumped-up foot-soldier Moore had sent men down from Stanley to sneak around, but the natives had been on their best behaviour, and the governor’s hirelings had returned empty-handed: there would be no more trouble on that score.