‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I would like to talk to you about the complexity of the animal skull, and what it tells us about animal generation.’
We sat in silence while he talked, holding up one skull after another, dogs and cats, reptiles and birds, comparing different species and talking about slight differences in the arrangement of the skull in those of the same species. I wondered where he had got them all from, for he was not experienced enough to have amassed so many himself.
From the box at his feet Dr Cole then produced a more familiar set of craniums. He set them out side by side in what he termed their ‘order of complexity’.
‘The skull of a European is the superior specimen,’ he said. ‘In descending order we might locate those of other races, though Europeans, Indo-Europeans, Chinese, Africans, and from thence through the monkeys – chimpanzee, orang-utan—’
A murmur of consternation had started up.
Will looked about at the frowns and shaking heads. ‘I wonder whether it is the hierarchy of human skulls he has presented or the inclusion of monkeys in the schema that’s bothering them?’ he whispered. ‘No doubt it is the latter.’
‘No!’ a voice screamed out from the topmost standings before I had chance to reply. We all turned to look. A man was on his feet, the lamplight glinting off his small round spectacles.
‘What the devil?’ Dr Sackville jumped up. ‘Birdwhistle! What are you doing here?’
‘I came to have my suspicious confirmed,’ Dr Birdwhistle cried. ‘“But there were false prophets also among the people, even as there shall be false teachers among you.” Two, Peter, chapter two, verse one. I suspected it, but now I see that it is true. You not only tolerate these views, Dr Sackville, but you condone them!’
‘I don’t condone anything,’ replied Dr Sackville calmly. ‘This is a place for scientific discussion. Dr Cole’s ideas are his own.’
‘Oh, I think they are not his own,’ cried Dr Birdwhistle. ‘For if I am not mistaken, sir, a number of those skulls belong to Mr Aberlady, and the ideas you are espousing, Dr Cole, those that claim a relationship between man and monkey and deny the existence of the Creator, are also his. It’s the work of the Devil. You recall what happened to Aberlady? He was driven out of his mind, driven mad by his own idolatrous views and unnatural behaviour.’
‘This is no place for such wild accusations,’ cried Dr Sackville. ‘You may say what you wish when you are in the pulpit, but not when you are in my home.’ He turned angrily to the student who had shown Will and me around his house. ‘How the devil did he get in? Were you not on the door?’
‘The door was open, sir,’ said Dr Birdwhistle. ‘I walked straight in.’
‘Then, sir, I must ask you to walk straight out again.’
‘I will do no such thing. Not until I have spoken!’
‘Then I will have you thrown out.’ The two burly orderlies were already mounting the steep staircases to the back of the lecture theatre. Dr Birdwhistle saw them and tried to get away. He darted along the unoccupied standing, only to be met by another orderly at the other end. He dashed back again, up and down, his black clergyman’s coat flapping, like a crazed puppet in a Punch and Judy show. But there was to be no escape. The orderlies seized Dr Birdwhistle, one on each side, and hauled him through another door at the back. We heard the sound of muffled shouts, of heels dragging and scuffling, the bang of a door – and then silence.
All eyes turned back to Dr Cole, who was still standing beside the operating table, a skull in his hand. At Dr Birdwhistle’s accusations his cheeks had turned red. He licked his lips, his gaze flickering from the skull in his hand to the door, as if, for a single instant, he considered flight to be the best option. But Dr Sackville waved a hand. ‘Pray continue, Dr Cole,’ he said.
‘As I was saying,’ Dr Cole cleared his throat. ‘The skulls show a regular and continual gradation from the most advanced,’ he tapped a finger on a large pale cranium. ‘The head of John Aberlady himself.’
‘Good God,’ I said. ‘It must still be warm!’
‘To this chimpanzee here,’ Dr Cole rested his fingers on a smaller skull with a low brow and protuberant lower face and jaw, ‘to this howler monkey here. The European skull is the most perfect, the negro the least perfect.’ His gaze flickered up to Dr Proudlove, and then darted away again. ‘They are part of a series, the European, the negro, the monkey—’
The murmuring had started up again, but one person could no longer contain himself. Dr Proudlove sprang to his feet. ‘You say the black man is inferior to the European?’ he cried.
‘What other conclusion might we draw? He is inferior to the European as the howler monkey is to the chimpanzee,’ said Dr Cole. His smile, his spread hands, were guileless. But his eyes glittered. ‘And all are related to one another.’
‘Well, sir,’ cried Dr Proudlove, ‘if it is the case that the European is a later development, an advancement on earlier imperfections, if you are arguing that we are seeing a gradation of change, that your most primitive skull is that of a black man, that all humans spring from the black man, then it also follows that our very first parents, Adam and Eve, were also black.’
Dr Cole coloured. ‘I don’t think—’
‘But logic demands it,’ cried Dr Proudlove. ‘Does it not, sir? Your logic, at least. Or am I being too primitive for you? I might also add—’ By now he had to raise his voice to be heard, and his words rang out above the hullabaloo. ‘I might also add that as God made Adam and Even in his own image then it also follows that God himself is black. As this is the case, sir, then I would imagine that the black man is superior in all ways, and that what you are seeing here is a degeneration, from a state of grace to something far less noble, the development of a devilishness that seeks to put white men above all others, to set himself as superior even to God. How else might we understand the corruption and misery of the age in which we live?’ The room exploded in uproar. ‘I have no doubt, that was what Aberlady would have concluded,’ cried Dr Proudlove, ‘when he published his paper on the comparative study of the human cranium. Were you intending to take his arguments as far, sir, when you passed off his work as your own?’
Dr Proudlove looked round at that cockpit of white faces and angry shouting mouths, and turned away.
Chapter Eighteen
We left Dr Sackville’s and went back to the Blood. I had told Will there was no need for him to sleep aboard, but he refused to return to Fishbait Lane.
‘The previous apothecary jumped out of the window,’ he said. ‘This place is dangerous, Jem. For both of us, I should think, but for you in particular – you with your questions and your argumentative manner.’
‘I’m not argumentative,’ I said.
‘You are. And at this moment so am I. I am not going back to Fishbait Lane.’
I had to do the ward rounds before bed, and I left Will in the apothecary trying to make himself comfortable with a few blankets and a sack of hops as a pillow.
Downstairs the place was subdued, the patients quiet and still, the thick air heavy with the breath of sleeping men. There was one lantern near the foot of the stairs, where the night nurse slumbered in a chair. Her head was tipped back, her mouth open, her tongue pink as a sea anemone in a dark wet hole. I walked between the beds, on silent feet. Further down the top ward, a candle glowed. Dr Proudlove was crouched beside the sleeping patient, Rintoul. His face was furious, his teeth flashing white as he spoke to the man who stood beside him: Dr Rennie, small and crouched, like a wizened goblin.
‘They led me to believe I was accepted,’ he said. He rubbed his arm as if something itched beneath. ‘I did everything they wanted, and then they demean me—’
‘Don’t take it to heart, my boy,’ Dr Rennie was saying. ‘It is a test, that’s all. Every man must be tested, must be subjected to humiliation, to mockery, his ideas ridiculed so that he might show himself able to defend them. I assume you stood up for yourself? One must stand up for one’s ideas.
Once a man passes the test there is no going back. You will have your rewards.’
‘I . . . I left,’ said Dr Proudlove. He struck his forehead with the heel of his hand, his face resolving into fury. ‘That was no test, sir, it was . . . it was injustice. It was men who do not want their hallowed ranks tainted by the presence of a black man, men who have not a single new or original thought in their heads refusing to listen. I have no doubt that if what I had said had come from the lips of Dr Antrobus then their reaction would have been very different.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Dr Rennie. ‘But perhaps not.’ He gave a hoarse whispering laugh. ‘What are the chances of Dr Antrobus ever saying anything new or original?’ Dr Rennie patted Dr Proudlove’s shoulder. ‘It’s not for everyone,’ he said with a sigh. ‘It was not for me—’
‘But I don’t want to be like you,’ said Dr Proudlove. ‘I’m not like you. I am so much more that these vile and squalid streets, more than this ship—’ He put his head in his hands. ‘Forgive me, sir. I didn’t mean to—’
‘Oh, but you are so much more,’ said Dr Rennie. ‘And you are a pioneer of your race. It was never going to be easy.’
They fell silent then, as from overhead came the sound of voices, and clattering boots. I remained where I was, in the shadows, concealed from view by a bulkhead. Behind me, Dr Cole and Dr Antrobus came down the stairs. The patients stirred in their beds, but did not wake. The two men went to the stern, to the hutches where they slept when they were on board the Blood, and then they noticed the candle, and the two figures at the back.
‘Dr Rennie, Dr Proudlove,’ said Dr Cole. ‘I didn’t see you there. How fares the patient?’
‘Well enough,’ said Dr Proudlove. His voice was cold. ‘Somewhat better than if he had been dosed with opium.’
‘We’re going to get some supper,’ said Dr Antrobus. ‘Rather late, I know. Up on Spyglass, would you care to join us, Dr Proudlove? Perhaps we might,’ he cleared his throat, ‘resolve our little differences?’
Dr Proudlove hesitated. ‘I think not,’ he said finally. He turned away. At that the two other men shrugged, and climbed the stairs back up to the weather deck.
‘Was I right to refuse them, Dr Rennie?’ said Dr Proudlove gloomily. ‘Should I make amends? I accused him of stealing another man’s ideas. He argued that I was an inferior species altogether!’ He put his head in his hands. ‘Shall I go? Shall I join them? I no longer know what to do for the best.’
‘I can’t tell you that,’ said Dr Rennie. He stood in silence then, his real eye pale and watery, staring into the shadows at nothing. His painted eye was fixed upon Dr Proudlove, a glinting, unblinking stare that seemed to strike into the other man’s soul.
Dr Proudlove stood up. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said. He shook Dr Rennie by the hand, and then he was gone. I heard his footsteps pass overhead, in the same direction that the others had taken.
The next morning, I attended to the ward rounds. I had expected Dr Proudlove to accompany me but he was nowhere to be seen. I assumed he had had as pleasant an evening as Will and I had had with Dr Cole and Dr Antrobus. We drank some coffee sitting amongst the foliage on the poop deck. Will had to go up to Deadman’s Basin again. He was loath to go back, but anxious that the job should progress.
‘It holds no horror for us now,’ he said. ‘It is simply a job that needs to be done. I couldn’t get it out of my mind last night, as you saw.’ He looked at me, his expression half bashful. ‘I’m grateful to you, Jem,’ he said. ‘For what you did. What you said.’
I nodded.
‘Anyway.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘I went up there this morning while you were on the wards. The air of menace that seemed to hang over the place yesterday has quite disappeared. Now, it is simply ugly and dirty. Those tumbled buildings, those slumped sheds sitting out on the black water, that still, eerie silence—’ He shrugged. ‘It is still unutterably vile, but it seems less . . . less desolate, somehow.’ He finished his coffee and stood up.
‘Will you be . . . will you be equal to the task ahead?’ I said.
‘I will be more than equal.’ He smiled. ‘What about you? Will you manage alone here?’
‘Ah, but I am not alone,’ I said. ‘I have Dr Rennie – somewhere about. And Mrs Speedicut. I cannot see her but I can smell her pipe – I fear she has run out of Virginian shag and is now smoking dried dung. And there are some nurses. Besides, how on earth do you think I managed before I met you?’
‘You were lonely and bored,’ he replied.
‘No,’ I said. ‘You were lonely and bored. I was happy, and living an enviable life.’ We exchanged a glance, and laughed.
He made a telescope with his hands and looked through it with his right eye, squinting his left eye like an admiral scanning the horizon for enemy ships. ‘I see Miss Proud-love opening up the Seaman’s Dispensary,’ he said. ‘She is alone this morning. And there’s Toad, at the door to the mortuary, out for his morning constitutional, perhaps? No, no, I see he has just come out to relieve himself in the gutter. And there’s Young Toad, walking with a swagger in his step this morning. Barefoot, as usual. Off to join the mud larks down near Deadman’s Entry – no wonder the poor lad is always so filthy.’ He turned to look further up the dockside. ‘And here comes Dr Sackville in his fine carriage, and Dr Birdwhistle on foot with a Bible under his arm. I see his lips moving – whether it is in prayer or as a consequence of his venereal disease it is impossible to say—’
‘You’re learning fast,’ I said.
‘I surprise myself. Last week I diagnosed my own headache and told myself to take a nap.’
I watched Will walk along the waterfront towards Deadman’s Entry. He had been to the slop shop on Spyglass Lane and bought himself a suit of sturdy navy-blue canvas, which would withstand the dirt of Deadman’s Basin better than Aberlady’s suit. He was met by the foreman, and I saw them shake hands and head up to the basin together. I was glad he seemed more his old self.
I sighed, and stood up, rubbing my fingers against the hard needles of the rosemary bush and raising them to my nose as I looked up and down the waterfront. Everywhere there was evidence of wealth and luxury, warehouses filled with spices, or silks; barrels stacked as high as a building, and ropes and sails enough to rig every spire in London. Shop windows gave glimpses of gleaming brass and glass, thick coils of rope and creamy swathes of sailcloth.
The door to the Seaman’s Dispensary was open, for the building was south facing, looking out at the Blood, and the day was bright again. It wouldn’t last, I knew. The city was far too dirty. The wind had dropped too, and soon the smoke and damp would gather about the water in a brown pall. I went down onto the weather deck. Some of the men had come up from below and were standing about the deck wrapped in blankets and smoking. The convalescents’ hammocks were all occupied, some of the men hunched in their blankets in silence, others chatting. The cookhouse – usually a source of unpleasant aromas – today smelled of apple. Will and I had brought up a quantity of windfalls from the physic garden the day before. I had been all for handing them out to the patients, but Will had stopped me.
‘Most of them have no teeth, Jem,’ he’d said. ‘How will they manage?’
‘Stewed apple,’ said Dr Rennie, who had looked at our baskets of fruit with glee. ‘With a little bit of autumn spice.’ He had vanished downstairs to his lair above the bilges, and returned with a giant sack of raisins, a cluster of nutmegs and a bundle of cinnamon sticks. He grinned. ‘Contraband from a grateful patient.’
I contributed a fistful of cloves from the apothecary supplies, and the smell of the stewing fruits and spices was delicious. Everyone was smiling – even Dr Birdwhistle, once he had finished arguing with Dr Sackville about his appearance at the Medical Society the previous evening. Everyone had heard them.
‘I shall report you to the governors,’ he had said. ‘You have strayed into blasphemous waters, sir. To deny God is to court disaster. Think of the consequences. Dr Cole and Dr A
ntrobus follow your lead, sir, and I fear for them both as a result. If they do not answer to God, then to whom do they answer? To themselves? They are fast on the way to becoming the slaves of their own arrogance and certainty, and where is the benefit in that? Or do they answer to you? Are you a better arbiter of right and wrong than the word of Our Lord? You must, and shall, be stopped!’
‘I shall report you to the governors, sir,’ Dr Sackville had replied. ‘What I do in my own house in my own time is no concern of yours.’
Now, Dr Birdwhistle seemed to be drifting about the deck in search of someone’s soul to save. The men in the hammocks fell silent, hastily feigning sleep. Those with pipes and blankets shuffled back down to the ward. The sun went in. Dr Birdwhistle sidled over.
‘You’ve settled in, sir?’
‘More or less, Dr Birdwhistle.’
‘I saw you at Dr Sackville’s last night, Mr Flockhart. Would I be right to assume that you and he are like minded?
‘Perhaps we are, sir, in some ways,’ I replied. ‘Though not in others. I was there merely as an observer.’
‘It is the start of a slippery slope, sir. Observing. I have seen it before.’
‘In Mr Aberlady?’
‘Mr Aberlady was a man who had forsaken the Lord in many ways. He killed himself, sir. That in itself is an act deplored by God, just as his unnatural tendencies, his addictions and proclivities were further evidence of his alienation from the Lord.’ He stared at me. The hand that gripped his large black Bible had left a wet stain upon it, and I saw that the leather at the spine bore a pale dusty bloom, the dried sweat from a thousand fervid clutchings. ‘“The vengeance of eternal fire shall fall upon him.” Jude, chapter one, verse seven. I tried to reach him, sir. More than once I tried, but he would not listen. He was a sinner, sir, and he could not stop. He would not.’
The Blood: What secrets lie aboard? (Jem Flockhart Book 3) Page 24
