This caused a considerable stir in the courtroom.
‘If the defendant has been brought low once more, has slipped from those exalted heights, it is not his fault, I assure you. It is the fault of those who call themselves good Christians - and I include myself among their number - who have neglected him, who have left him to fend for himself, who have given him no recourse but to revert to his former savage state, in body if not in mind.’
‘In your opinion, is it at all possible that the defendant is guilty of any of the charges laid before this court?’
Sulivan hesitated, for the merest flicker of an instant.
‘No. The very suggestion is laughable. He is no more capable of committing a murder, or of inciting or being accessory to murder, than any of the respectable gentlemen sitting in this court.’
‘Thank you, Rear-Admiral Sulivan. I have no further questions.’
There being - wisely - no questions from Mr Longden, the jurors retired to further consider their verdicts. The wait was not a long one, but for Sulivan the delay was agonizing. Had he done enough? It was impossible to tell. Only Jemmy, of all those in the courtroom, seemed to exude a sense of profound calm. Sulivan, he seemed to believe, had been sent by God to his rescue; although precisely which God he believed he owed his deliverance to, Sulivan was not at all sure.
At last, the jurors filed back into court.
‘Have you reached a verdict?’ asked Moore.
‘We have, sir.’
‘On the charge of murder, do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty?’
‘Not guilty.’
‘On the charge of incitement to murder, do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty?’
‘Not guilty.’
‘On the charge of being an accessory to murder, do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty?’
‘Not guilty.’
There was a surge of relief in the packed chamber, a gaggle of voices all talking at once. Lieutenant Lamb, quite forgetting himself, was punching the air; Governor Moore was smiling; Despard was locked in angry consultation with Lane; while Sulivan found himself exultantly hugging Jemmy, and then, almost immediately, questioning his maker.
Has justice been done? he wondered. Tell me, Lord, has justice been done? Or have I done a terrible thing?
Chapter Thirty-six
The University Museum, Oxford, 29 June 1860
The Prince Consort’s glance caught FitzRoy’s, and for an instant their eyes locked. His Royal Highness was seated in the front row of the lecture room, legs outstretched and crossed at the ankle, immediately beneath the podium. He was slimmer and less robust-looking than FitzRoy had imagined, more youthful-looking than his forty-one years, not quite the staid, inflexible statesman of his portraits. His was, by all accounts, a formidable intellect: his presidency of the British Association for the Advancement of Science was no formal reflection of his status, nor was his attendance at a lecture on the subject of ‘British Storms’. FitzRoy gripped the sides of the lectern, as he had once gripped the sides of the Beagle’s azimuth compass. This speech was as vital to the preservation of men’s lives as any he had given on the maindeck.
‘Your Royal Highness, my lords, gentlemen. On the twenty-fifth of October last year, the Royal Charter sank off the coast of Anglesey. It was a disaster that plunged the entire nation into the most severe traumatism. A modern iron clipper, equipped not just with sail but with an auxiliary steam engine to help her out of difficulty, went down with all hands within sight of the British coast. Over four hundred men, women and children lost their lives, not fifty miles from their destination, after a journey from Melbourne lasting many months. That this should have happened to a steam-vessel of the latest modern design seemed an impossibility; that a disaster of such Biblical proportions should have intruded into our modern age seemed incredible; but even modern man, with all his ingenuity, all his mechanical contrivances, ignores the power of the elements at his peril.
‘Today I should like to pose an important question: was the loss of the Royal Charter merely a random act of God, the cruel whim of a capricious Creator? Or does God’s universe follow a comprehensible pattern, an order of events that, by careful observation, we might yet learn to monitor and even anticipate?
‘The answer, I believe, is that the universe is indeed a system, mechanical but at the same time beautiful and marvellous in its complexity, that we are only just beginning to comprehend. From many years spent charting and studying the meteorology of these islands, I have come to the conclusion that our weather is an integral part of this observable system. I believe that our weather can be foretold. I speak not of prophecies or predictions, but of informed scientific opinions; weather forecasting, if you like. I believe not only that the loss of the Royal Charter could have been prevented, but that other, similar disasters might yet be prevented.’
There was a murmur in the hall. Prince Albert, however, did not flicker.
‘It seems, of late, that many men have been gazing through their microscopes. Perhaps we should all spend more time gazing through our telescopes.’
There was a communal chuckle. The scientific community, at least, was aware of FitzRoy’s involvement in the furore surrounding the publication of Darwin’s The Origin of Species: he had sent furious letters defending Old Testament orthodoxy to The Times under the pen-name ‘Senex’, a pseudonym born of the Latin proverb Nemo senex metuit Iouem - An old man ought to be fearful of God.’
FitzRoy warmed to his theme. ‘Let me tell you about the British weather. There is in our latitudes a continuous alternation of air currents, which travel circuitously about each other; but while these are passing and repassing among themselves, the whole body of atmosphere in which they operate is moving incessantly towards the east, at an average of five miles per hour geographical. Because each storm is rotary in construction, there will usually be northerly, westerly or southerly airflows within the storm. When the Royal Charter gale crossed England, the winds within it howling at between sixty and a hundred miles per hour, the storm itself travelled at just five miles per hour. In advance of the storm, barometric readings fell sharply, for the barometer is among our most useful tools in determining the approach of a gale. But once the storm was upon us, much of the worst damage was caused by bad weather curling back into the east coast. The barometer, having already fallen, could give no warning of this. But there were other indications. Thermometers on the east coast plummeted ahead of the storm’s arrival. There were extraordinary disturbances of the currents along telegraphic wires. There were great electric or magnetic commotions in the atmosphere. Auroras were unusually prevalent. Without question, this increased solar activity was fundamentally connected to the scale of the disturbance. All of these indications were - and are - measurable.
‘The plan that I propose is simple: a network of observing stations, not just on our own coasts, but in mainland Europe and in the United States of America, to make just these measurements, and to give advance warning by electric telegraph of approaching storms. Yes, the United States! Why not? The transatlantic electrical cable may have been severed, but it is surely only a matter of time before it is reconstituted. Already the Americans, under the direction of Lieutenant Maury of the US Navy’s Depot of Charts and Instruments, have produced maps of the main wind-fields of the earth. These charts do not unfortunately show wind strength - only direction - unlike our own system of synoptic charts and wind stars. But if the Americans can be persuaded to provide us with more comprehensive information, then whenever a storm arises, we shall be in a position to send warnings to our fishing fleets before they are put at risk. That’s right - warnings before the bad weather arrives. That loss of life and destruction of property, which are currently so frequent on our exposed and tempestuous shores, could be diminished almost to nothing!
‘Already, the groundwork for this scheme has been laid. During the last few years, I have been distributing barometers of my own design to fisheries around o
ur coasts. The Duke of Northumberland has graciously paid for fourteen of them to be placed on the north-east coast. I have also developed a system of coastal signals based on brightly coloured cones and drums - symmetrical shapes that are unaffected by wind direction - which could be hoisted at shore stations, and which would be visible to offshore fishing fleets, naval and merchant vessels.’
FitzRoy began to unveil a series of charts, to demonstrate how these gale warnings would work. Still, the Prince remained impassive. Was he gripped, or just bored? Much depended on His Royal Highness’s reaction. Since taking over from Beechey, Sulivan had given his old skipper absolute freedom to interpret his role as he wished; indeed, he had made it a condition of his appointment that he ‘should not be obliged to direct Rear-Admiral FitzRoy in a sagacious condition’. He had even written to the government making clear his ‘infinite respect’ for FitzRoy’s abilities as a seaman, his courage as a man and his self-sacrifice as a public servant. But Sulivan had not the resources to fund a full-scale network of coastal warning stations, or the influence to persuade government that the idea was anything other than fantastical nonsense. Instead, he had given FitzRoy carte blanche to go in search of his own patrons and benefactors. Very few potential patrons, though, had the ear of government. The man sitting in the front row was one such.
His diagrammatical display at an end, FitzRoy concluded his speech.
‘In short, Your Royal Highness, my lords, gentlemen, I propose that this country should have the world’s first storm-warning system, and the world’s first weather forecasts. Thank you.’
The lecture room was only half full, but the audience’s enthusiasm made up for any shortfall in its size. The Prince led the applause, FitzRoy noted with relief, a lead that others were quick to follow. As the members of the association milled about and gradually dispersed, he was summoned by an equerry to be presented to His Royal Highness.
‘A most fascinating speech, Rear-Admiral FitzRoy.’ Albert’s German accent was as rich as his English was immaculate, and did not diminish his air of donnish gravity.
‘Your Royal Highness is too kind.’
‘I believe that I am lunching with the prime minister on Monday. If the occasion arises, I shall venture to enquire Lord Palmerston’s views on this most interesting of topics.’
FitzRoy wanted to whoop in triumph. Instead he gave a little bow. ‘I am both flattered and privileged by Your Royal Highness’s interest.’
‘I believe, Rear-Admiral, that you once sailed around the world with Mr Darwin, is that not so?’
‘That is indeed so, sir.’
‘But you are not of the same mind as your former companion.’
‘Indeed not, sir. I find his conclusions somewhat ... distressing.’
‘You are evidently not alone in your reservations, Rear-Admiral.’ There was a sympathetic glint in the Prince Consort’s eye. Of course His Royal Highness was careful never to express a public opinion on any controversial subject, political or scientific, but he was adroit nonetheless at getting his point across. ‘Will you be staying in Oxford to attend Mr Draper’s speech?’
Draper was an American, due to lecture to the association’s zoological section on ‘The intellectual development of Europe considered with reference to the views of Mr Darwin and others’. It was rumoured that the Bishop of Oxford himself intended to use the meeting as a platform to launch a violent attack on Darwin and his followers.
‘I shall, sir,’ said FitzRoy.
‘I am envious, Rear-Admiral. Unfortunately a busy timetable of engagements precludes my joining you. As a keen breeder of farm animals myself, I should have been most interested to hear Mr Darwin’s views on that topic put to the challenge.’ It was, of course, out of the question for the Prince to attend what promised to be an aggressive confrontation. ‘Do you think that your former shipmate intends to be present to defend himself?’
‘Not if I know the man, sir. He is not one for a fight. I suspect that his illness shall most likely flare up again, at the last minute. If I recall, on the day of publication he found himself in need of urgent medical treatment at a sanatorium on the Yorkshire moors. The same affliction struck on the dates of two subsequent public meetings.’
Prince Albert smiled. ‘Such a pity that Mr Darwin’s bouts of infirmity should have coincided with so many valuable opportunities to defend himself.’
‘Indeed, sir - but I am sure that his two bulldogs shall be there to growl out a defence of his hypothesis.’
In the absence of a single public comment or appearance from Darwin since publication seven months previously, Hooker and Huxley had invariably been sent forth to do battle on their master’s behalf. He is like a cowardly officer who sends his men into the field but remains behind himself, thought FitzRoy contemptuously. The only brave thing he ever did was to publish that book. But now he is to be episcopally pounded, and neither Hooker nor Huxley will be able to save him.
Saturday dawned soft and sunny, and the city wore a bucolic air. For FitzRoy, the sense of sudden summer settling on the medieval quads recalled the chimeric summers of his childhood, when it seemed as if the previous century was not yet laid to rest: a pre-war world of pastoral certainties, before man had awakened to the complexities of the world around him. Man should have been able to work in partnership with God, should have found himself blessed by that understanding. Instead, just as in Eden, he had seized upon his new-found comprehension to engineer his own destruction. There was a new cathedral amid the spires of Oxford now, but it was built of iron and glass, not Cotswold stone. The Oxford University Museum, for all its ecclesiastical airs and Gothic grandeur, was a cathedral to science. For FitzRoy, science and religion should have been one and the same, the former merely a means to interpret the full majesty of the latter; but Darwin had set science against religion, had even gone so far as to postulate a Godless world. He had made himself instead the false god of science. He had even grown a long white beard, by all accounts, as if to parody the very image of his maker.
The country had been in uproar since the publication, the previous November, of The Origin of Species. The expected tide of condemnation had duly swamped its author, led - among others - by Darwin’s former mentor Professor Sedgwick and his former friend Richard Owen, who in his younger days had catalogued the Beagle fossils. But to FitzRoy’s astonishment and distress, once that tide had reached its high-water mark, a ferocious undertow of adulation had begun to pull in the opposite direction, a force exerted in the main by a younger generation whose lives had been cushioned by the prosperity of their age: young men who would never be asked to risk their lives in a roaring sea at the uttermost ends of the earth, who would never come face to face with their God.
The initial print-run of 1250 copies of The Origin had sold out before lunchtime on the first day of publication; not all the purchasers, it turned out, had required a copy the better to organize their rebuttals. Copies were being sold as fast as they could be printed, to genuine admirers of Mr Darwin and his ideas. Young couples were naming their children after him. He had even been made into the hero of a romantic novel. As he skulked behind the defensive earthworks of Down House, fanatical supporters and idle tourists camped outside, hoping to catch sight of the great man. Alone among the major European nations, Britain had come through the depressions of the first half of the century without violent revolution; but there was a residual, unfulfilled feeling of iconoclasm in the air, and Darwin had captured it. It was through science, not pikes and muskets, that the old order would be swept away by the young, the confident and the mechanically minded.
Even allowing for the enthusiasm of these new disciples, FitzRoy was stunned by the size of the crowd queuing to get into the museum. The association’s lectures were open to the public, but it was rare indeed for a member of the public to turn up. Today the mere mention of the name ‘Darwin’ in the title of Draper’s lecture had tempted close on a thousand people to attend a dry academic talk. Before long an off
icial emerged and announced that the lecture would be moved to the long West Room, the museum’s as yet unfurnished library, to accommodate the unexpected masses. There was a considerable delay while the West Room was got ready, but the crowd seemed unfussed; indeed, an enjoyable air of expectation was building, as the news spread that Bishop Wilberforce had indeed chosen today to lead the Church’s counterattack against the new heresy. The bishop, too, was not without his supporters. There were knots of priests here and there amid the merry throng of beery students. There were even a number of women present, fanning themselves with their handkerchiefs and filling out the queue with their ample crinolines; it was the first time FitzRoy had seen women at a scientific event. Truly, the world was changing.
At last, the doors opened and the crowd filed into the West Room, until it was filled almost to suffocation. Instinctively, the various tribes present separated out, as if to a predetermined command: journalists at the front, cassocked clergymen grouped at the centre, the rowdier students in one corner at the back, the women lined against the windows of the western wall, their white handkerchiefs fluttering like a flock of disturbed doves. Then, to a round of applause, the speaker emerged on to the dais, followed by the various interested parties: Bishop Wilberforce on one side, flanked by Richard Owen, with Huxley and Hooker taking the opposite corner. There was, of course, no Alfred Russel Wallace: he was still collecting beetles in the Far East, blissfully unaware of the explosion of interest in what was supposedly a joint theory. And there was, of course, no Darwin.
Professor John Henslow, by whose recommendation Darwin had first been appointed to the Beagle, was to be in the chair. He shuffled to the front of the dais.