‘You think there is no evidence of physical transmutation? What are the fins of a penguin but its former wings? What is a man’s useless nipple but the remains of a former breast?’
‘Even assuming you are correct in these observations, you are describing changes within the species of penguins, within the boundaries of the human race. You will find no half-men, half-penguins anywhere! By what means do you believe these variations descend, that the species boundary is so easily crossed?’
‘I call it pangenesis. I believe that every animal produces microscopic “gemmules”, which collect in its reproductive organs for transmission to the next generation. Without doubt, sexual reproduction is the key to adaptation. The different colours of the human race, for instance, must have been caused by sexual selection - although it seems at first sight a monstrous supposition that the jet blackness of the negro has been gained this way.’
FitzRoy was incredulous. ‘Can the Ethiopian change his skin, or the leopard his spots? What of the origin of life itself? How do you account for that, if you are not prepared to acknowledge our Creator?’
‘Life itself must have started by chance too — in a warm pond, perhaps, galvanized by a bolt of lightning that fused random molecules together.’
‘Lightning on a warm pond? What of human consciousness? Was that born of lightning on a warm pond as well?’
‘Even man’s vertebral skull, which contains our brains, is a sign of our descent from molluscal creatures with vertebrae but no head. Plato says in Phaedo that our imaginary ideas derive from the pre-existence of the soul. For pre-existence of the soul, one may substitute monkeys. We have animal ancestors, FitzRoy.’
‘I’m sorry,’ laughed his guest, ‘but I simply refuse to acknowledge that my most august ancestors, the dukes of Grafton, are descended from apes!’
‘My dear FitzRoy, can you not see that the utilitarianism that is changing our very society operates in nature as well? Open your mind to the idea of change, the idea of progress. Do not be hidebound by aristocratic privilege!’
Under former circumstances this last sentiment would have been an aggressive sally indeed, guaranteed to cause offence, but here it was delivered with a smile, and was accepted with one too, for nostalgia had the upper hand. This was a debate entered into by both parties with relish. Then, with a sudden stab, as a cold December gust came slicing in from the stubbly fields beyond the sand walk, FitzRoy remembered that Darwin had not invited him here to discuss pigeon-breeding and all its attendant ramifications. There was, no doubt, a deeper, darker purpose on the agenda. Both men knew what the pause in their conversation heralded.
‘I have received a letter,’ said Darwin at last, ‘from a man named Alfred Russel Wallace. He is a former schoolmaster, no more, who has become a professional collector of specimens for gentlemen naturalists. He is currently exploring the Malay archipelago. He has written to me from the island of Ternate, near New Guinea. He has written to me, FitzRoy, to propose my own theory - the theory of natural selection. Like me, he believes that all species form a branching tree. The plain truth is, we have thought alike and have come to similar conclusions. I never saw a more striking coincidence. I have been collecting facts for twenty-five years, and Wallace reached the same conclusions as myself after thinking about the matter for just three days!’
He pulled Wallace’s letter from an inside pocket and read out the salient paragraph.
‘“The answer is clearly that on the whole the best fitted live. From the effects of disease the most healthy escape; from enemies, the strongest, the swiftest, or the most cunning; from famine, the best hunters or those with the best digestion; and so on. Then it suddenly flashed upon me that this self-acting process would necessarily improve the race, because in every generation the inferior would inevitably be killed off and the superior remain - that is, the fittest would survive.”’
Darwin folded the letter and replaced it portentously in his pocket.
‘What do you want of me?’ asked FitzRoy, who knew very well what Darwin wanted of him.
‘I should like to be released from my bond. I should like to write a book outlining my theories. In fact, I have already begun to write it, on the advice of Lyell. He says that my research consists of ugly facts, but facts nonetheless, and that if I do not publish them, Wallace will go ahead and publish regardless when he returns to these shores.’
‘Shall you credit Wallace?’
‘Lyell and Hooker have suggested a joint paper, in both our names, to be read to the Linnaean Society.’
A small private club of your friends and colleagues, thought FitzRoy. In theory, you will have published jointly. In practice, the name Wallace shall never escape the society’s four walls.
Darwin looked shamefaced. ‘Let me be perfectly honest with you, FitzRoy. Writing this book feels like confessing to a murder. My wife and my family will be heartbroken. But I believe, I truly believe in my heart, that nature’s works are blundering, low and horribly cruel, and that it is my duty to say so. The chief good any individual scientific man can do is to push his field forward, a few years in advance of his age. For me to reach conclusions, and not openly to avow those conclusions, is to retard my field. It is a matter of principle.’
He is desperate for recognition, realized FitzRoy, yet he fears the consequences — and rightly so.
He fixed his gaze upon Darwin. ‘If your theories be true, then religion is a lie, human law is a mass of folly and a base injustice, morality is moonshine, our labours on behalf of the black people of the world are the works of madmen, and men and women are only better beasts. If you succeed, the Church shall be ruined and all moral safeguards shattered. You will give succour and credence to the Chartists who seek to overthrow our society. You will remove the very need for God.’
‘Perhaps not. Perhaps the success of The Vestiges has opened the way for healthy intellectual debate. Some scientists are with me — Huxley and Hooker, to name two. Owen, I must tell you, will be agin me: he believes that animals progress from one form to another only within basic species archetypes, as decreed by the will of God.’
‘Thank heavens for the good sense of Mr Owen.’
‘So, FitzRoy, will you release me from my obligations? Do I have your permission to publish?’
‘Were I to withhold my permission, would it make the slightest bit of difference?’
‘Probably not.’
‘Then why ask?’
‘Because I respect you as a former shipmate and a friend; because I am about to walk a difficult road; and because I should like your blessing, at least by default, for my journey.’
FitzRoy saw that there was no stopping him. He thought, then, of Mary, and of his vow to uphold the word of the Lord in her name for the rest of his born days. He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die. And yet, he was not his brother’s keeper. He pondered for a while, then made his decision.
‘Very well, Darwin. I will no longer hold you to your word. Go ahead and publish. But know that as of now I will be your enemy, and that I will do everything in my power to hinder you, and to hinder the public acceptance of your arguments.’
On the train back from Sydenham, FitzRoy unfolded and reread a letter of his own that he had kept quiet from his former cabin-mate. It was from his son, Robert O’Brien FitzRoy, now a midshipman serving on the Far Eastern station. It was just aimless chatter, most of it, intended to reassure a concerned parent that his offspring was happy and healthy with the sun on his back. But reading between the lines, FitzRoy thought he could detect the same loneliness, the same yearning for approval, that had so profoundly informed his own days as a young middie. Had he been a good parent? he wondered. Had he given the boy every advantage in life? He had sent him away to sea at twelve, which he considered to be the optimum age to begin a successful naval career. He would never have let the lad run riot, fixing trapezes to the ceiling or descending the stai
rs on a tin tray. One day, he knew, his son would thank him for instilling the virtues of discipline and hard work. But had he been too disciplined with himself? Had he worked too hard to afford his son sufficient of his own time?
A feeble winter light struggled to penetrate the rain-flecked windows as the train rolled through the filthy railway suburbs of South London, which seemed to be spreading as rapidly as soot exploding from a burst sack.
I have never neglected my duty for a minute, he comforted himself; and even as the thought crossed his mind, he realized that devotion to duty had been only the half of it. The more I employed myself the more I forced occupation, the more easily I got through the day, he confessed inwardly. My worst times have always been when I was alone and unemployed What a life this is — the pains are far greater than the pleasures. And yet people set such a value upon existence, as if they are always happy.
As if to prove his point, London Bridge station in mid-afternoon was full of good-natured trippers, braving the winter chills. The end of the war had lifted everybody’s spirits: the women paraded in blooming crinolines and vast hats, while their black-clad beaux, wealthy enough not to work, sported slick military moustaches. The swirling skirts put FitzRoy in mind of the grand ball held in his honour at the Teatro Solis in Monte Video, a celebration that appeared to him now as a distant dream. All those brightly coloured dresses that had opened out like flowers, all now withered and faded, pressed lifelessly in the book of his memories. There were times when his youth felt like someone else’s story - or perhaps this was someone else’s life, this was the illusion, and back there, back then, was where he truly belonged. Had he been happy then, in his innocence? He suspected so. But he had taken Darwin with him for company, and the philosopher had come home with seeds adhering unwittingly to his boots, the seeds of the tree of knowledge.
He rode a hansom cab to Parliament Street, and found Pattrickson and Babington warming their hands at the little grate, a high tide of unattended synoptic charts surging across the table. He was mystified: they were usually the most diligent and enthusiastic of men. He could not help but sound a little tart.
‘Why are you not transferring the meteorologic data to the log, as Admiral Beechey instructed?’
‘Have you not heard, sir?’ asked Babington, his face a picture of shock and news-bearing excitement.
‘Heard what?’
‘Admiral Beechey is dead!’
‘Dead? How?’ The admiral had been, if not a picture of health, then very much alive when FitzRoy had last seen him.
‘He died this very afternoon, sir, of heart failure.’
‘I ... I’m sorry.’
FitzRoy really did not know what to say.
‘I must confess, gentlemen, that I am not entirely sure what this news shall mean for us.’
‘What it shall mean, sir? Surely, it means that you will be promoted to the admiral’s former position, as Chief Naval Officer. It means that our work may continue, sir.’
The two of them sat there on their stools, no longer able to contain their true feelings, grinning like a pair of monkeys.
‘FitzRoy, my dear fellow, come in, come in!’
‘Your lordship.’
‘Oh, there is no need to stand on ceremony. We are old hands, you and I. I hope I see you well, sir.’
The fourteenth Earl of Derby beamed effusively, warmth and sincerity radiating from every pore. He had been very handsome and sought-after in his youth, although these days his striking aquiline features were half sunken in his spreading face, his extravagant ginger side-whiskers had turned to grey, and he was terribly assailed by gout; but he had lost none of the charisma that had propelled him to the summit of the Tory Party. The familiarity of the welcome immediately put FitzRoy on his guard: Derby was a consummate politician, and he was not to be trusted. He had been a Whig, then a Liberal, then a follower of Canning, then a full-blown Tory; he had espoused slavery, and had helped to abolish it; he had spoken for and against Irish emancipation; as Lord Stanley, prior to his father’s death, he had appointed FitzRoy governor of New Zealand, and then had dismissed him. In the process, he had amassed a personal fortune well in excess of a million pounds. Behind the affable manners, he was a cold, pragmatic businessman. He had been appointed prime minister twice, but had been overthrown twice, once by the Peelites and once by the electorate. Palmerston was prime minister now, but Derby was biding his time. He would be back.
The earl relaxed into his armchair, beneath a patriotic painting depicting the advance of the 7th Madras Native Infantry into Rangoon.
‘Dreadful news about Freddie Beechey.’
‘Most regrettable, my lord.’
And, of course, it will mean a shake-up at the Marine Department. A man of your experience will be absolutely vital in the coming weeks. I tell you, FitzRoy, I don’t know where the country would be without your knowledge, your dedication and your grasp of meteorologic science. I hear golden opinions of the work you are doing over at the Statical Department.’
Derby’s tones were mellifluous and soothing. Hearing them was like being lulled to sleep by a favourite nanny.
‘Thank you, sir. I am glad that our work is appreciated. If I may be so bold, I came here on the strength of that work, to see if the party would press my claim to be allowed to succeed Admiral Beechey as chief naval officer.’
Derby was not just the leader of the Tory Party; his cousin was president of the Board of Trade.
‘Well, of course, it is a job you could do in your sleep. And it carries with it the rank of rear-admiral. And, I dare say, the one thousand pounds a year would not go amiss either!’ Derby chuckled sympathetically. ‘Where is it you are living now? Upper Norwood? Bad business - bad business.’ The last few words were mumbled, a mutual embarrassment to be hurried past as quickly as possible. Derby cleared his throat.
‘Well, let me say first that I have been working extremely hard in your behalf - you may be satisfied of it. As I am sure you are aware, a position of this importance attracts the very best of candidates. And I have some good news for you — qualified good news, I should say, but good news nonetheless. I hear that your seniority has come through. You are to be made rear-admiral, effective immediately. Congratulations, Rear-Admiral FitzRoy.’
‘Thank you, my lord.’
was to the matter of your promotion within the Board of Trade, I am afraid that the news on that count is not quite as good. Despite the best efforts of the party, the government has decided by the narrowest of margins that the claims of another candidate should be preferred.’
‘Another candidate?’ croaked FitzRoy. The disappointment was crushing. He felt both angry and humiliated.
‘Oh, he is a splendid candidate, I am sure you will agree. He has our every support, and I have no doubt that you will feel privileged to serve under him. He distinguished himself considerably during the war - I appreciate, FitzRoy, that you were unlucky enough not to secure a command yourself but, damn it, the man is a bona-fide war hero and we should not begrudge him that — distinguished himself, I should say, not just by innumerable acts of bravery, but by several technical innovations as well. It was he who came up with the idea of cladding wooden hulls with iron plates, and fixing ships’ guns to the deck. Then when the Russians filled the sea with infernal machines that exploded on impact with our ships, he invented a creeper device to sweep them out of the water. And he also dreamed up the idea of bombarding fortified Russian positions aerially, instead of front-on: a sort of concentrated vertical fire. His vessel fired more than three thousand “mortar bombs” during the taking of Sweaborg. He is just about to be made Companion of the Bath and, between you and me, he would have had a knighthood were it not for the jealousy of one or two of the senior admirals. You might even know him. Your new superior’s name is Captain Bartholomew Sulivan.’
‘Bartholomew Sulivan?’ gasped FitzRoy. It was almost impossible to take in. If he had not been sitting down, his legs would no doubt have given wa
y.
‘That’s the chap. You don’t have any objections, I take it?’
FitzRoy paled. How could he?
‘No . . . none whatsoever.’
Derby smiled, the winning smile of a master strategist.
‘No . . . I thought you might not.’
Chapter Thirty-five
Stanley, Falkland Islands, 12 October 1857
‘All rise for the governor, Mr Thomas Moore, and justices of the peace, Mr Arthur Bailey and Mr John Dean.’
Everyone in the shabby wooden courthouse rose to their feet as the only gentlemen of any official consequence on the islands swept in. Outside, the baying of the angry mob could still be heard: a small rip to Moore’s coat and Bailey’s disarranged hair bore testimony to the buffeting they had taken on their way in. There was an expression of grim defiance on Moore’s face. He would be damned if lynch law were to prevail in his colony. ‘Bring in the prisoner,’ he commanded.
Two gaolers entered, flanking the pathetic, bewildered figure of Jemmy Button, clad in rough overalls and bearing a cut forehead where a brick had glanced off his cranium. He had only narrowly escaped with his life. As he shuffled forward to the dock, the manacles that bound his ankles together clinking at the limit of every step, twelve furious, hostile faces glared at him. The jury was an extension of the crowd outside: this savage had murdered an entire party of white men, and they wanted to see him swing.
‘Please state your name,’ said the clerk.
‘Jemmy Button, sar.’
‘Please state your nationality.’
Jemmy looked confused.
‘To which country do you belong?’ interpreted Moore.
‘I am English gen’leman, sar.’
‘Excuse me, m’lud, but I believe that to be incorrect,’ whispered the clerk.
‘Button, you are not an English gentleman,’ said Moore testily. And do not call me “m‘lud”, Haskins. “Sir” will suffice.’