The letters were not, sad to say, all supportive. I was especially wounded by the fact that, for the first time, I found fellow churchmen ranged against me, obstinate in their reluctance to abandon their conviction that Eden lay in the Holy Land. For every critical letter received, however, I had at least one other in support. What was more, a great number of these asked the same excited question, a question which, oddly enough, had never occurred to me till then: when was an expedition planned for Van Diemen’s Land? There was no doubting its pertinence, as the whole great subject could never be finally proved except by such a means. While I little considered this to be my own concern, feeling my role was that of a humble forger of ideas rather than explorer, I did write to the Geographical Society, to alert them to this vital issue. In the event, however, they showed only a most disappointing interest, dazzled, as they were, by curiosity to find the source of that dreary river the Nile. Altogether the matter would likely have progressed no further, had not a letter arrived at the rectory one fine Thursday morning, enclosed within it a train ticket to London.
Dear Mr. Wilson,
Your pamphlet I have read. Your notions I applaud. Eden must be found. I believe I may be the man to make it happen. I await your visit. Sincerely yours,
Jonah Childs
It was a remarkable missive. Then again I was soon to learn this was a remarkable man. Well do I recall that wondrous first meeting between us in Clapham, Mr. Childs’s eyes shining with excitement as he asked his questions, which he did with such enthusiastic rapidity that I hardly began to reply to one when I would find myself met with its successor. Such was his passion to see the Scriptures defended that I feared he might be moved even to tears. After only a few minutes’ discussion he began scribbling a list of estimated costs, which he added together with a sudden flourish.
‘‘This I will gladly meet, and more besides if it should prove necessary.’’
I was dumbfounded, nothing less. Never before had I witnessed such mighty, and godly, generosity. I endeavoured to convey my humble thanks.
‘‘You must go, of course,’’ he then declared. ‘‘You came up with the notion. You know the rocks. You must go.’’
It was a suggestion I had not considered. I was most honoured at the thought and yet, if truth be told, I was most doubtful. I had never journeyed overseas before, nor even travelled on a ship, excepting river ferries. There was also my dear wife to consider. In the event it was she, brave little poppet, who decided the matter. When, the next day, I assured her I would happily remain with her in peaceful Yorkshire if that were her wish, she quite threw up her hands.
‘‘But you must go, Geoffrey. It is your destiny. Don’t you worry about me. I have the children, and my sister too, to keep me company.’’
Thereafter matters proceeded apace. Mr. Childs felt that a man of experience was required to lead the expedition and, after some consideration, the task was awarded to Major Henry Stanford: a tall, quick-eyed soldier, who had battled variously against Chinese pirates, Sikh warriors and more, as well as famously traversing Mesopotamia entirely alone, enduring such great hardship that he had been obliged to eat his own mule. He knew nothing of geology, it was true, and little of the Scriptures, but this aside, I supposed he would make a most adequate leader. He lost no time transforming our aspirations into reality, making arrangements and purchasing stores. It was he who chartered our ship, the Caroline. This was a most excellent vessel, which had been constructed to carry naval stores, and had served in the recent war with Russia before being sold into private hands, while her crew had as fine a military history as their craft, being a robust and fearless assembly of Portsmouth men.
Ten more days and we would be lodged within her, and our expedition would have begun. The very thought fired me with excitement as the cab made its way across London. I had directed the driver to take me first to Hampstead, to the home of Timothy Renshaw, the expedition’s botanist, who Jonah Childs had requested I bring. Timothy’s father was a dour man of modest origins who had made himself a fortune from the manufacturing of plaster, and the family home was large, not to say ostentatious. Timothy’s mother, by contrast, was a most cultured woman of good Herefordshire family, and it was she I was shown in to see. I observed she seemed a touch uneasy.
‘‘Timothy is just coming. I’m afraid he has been feeling a little unwell.’’
The fellow shuffled into the room soon afterwards, looking wan, with discernible shadows beneath his eyes. His appearance confirmed my suspicion that his suffering was wholly self-inflicted. The boy had quite a reputation for ill living, being a great worry to his parents for his late nights upon the town, and I assumed these excesses were not unconnected with his parents’ eagerness to have him join our expedition.
‘‘What’s up?’’ he asked, without offering so much as a good morning to myself. When I explained that his company was expected at Clapham, and shortly, he put on the dreariest of voices. ‘‘That’s awkward. I had things to do.’’ Seeing his mother’s sharp look, however, he gave a shrug. ‘‘But I suppose if I must …’’
I confess he had never been my ideal choice for this great venture. Mr. Childs had been determined that we must have a scientist, feeling that no expedition was complete without, but acquiring one proved no easy matter. Scientists, it seemed, are a tribe greatly swayed by fashion, and the dismal jungles of South America were the preferred destination of the moment rather than distant Tasmania. It was just as we were beginning to lose hope, indeed, that we received a letter from Mr. Renshaw, whose wife had learned of our expedition from a female cousin of Mr. Childs she knew through her church. Accompanying Mr. Renshaw’s letter was a reference from the eminent botanist Dr. Dyson, who had been engaged in instructing Timothy, and who praised his student’s work upon cold-climate plants—especially thistles—describing him as ‘‘a rising talent in this rare field.’’ It was only when I met the younger Renshaw that I found myself wondering if Dyson’s praise were not double-edged, and if the rareness of his field might be a subtle qualification upon his rising talent. Jonah Childs, however, unpredictable as ever, seemed to find every satisfaction with the sullen fellow.
‘‘I do believe the Lord himself has sent him to us,’’ he declared, after the interview, eyes shining. ‘‘So serious, so mature beyond his years. He will be a credit to the expedition.’’
I kept my doubts to myself, as in my experience it was ill advised to try to dissuade Mr. Childs from one of his enthusiasms. Kindly though he was, his was a complex nature, and if contradicted his mood could change with surprising speed, from exhilaration to profound disappointment, or worse. On the one or two occasions when I had been unwise enough to oppose him, such as over his suggestion that we might use Tasmanian native wallabies as pack animals, he had, though he acceded to my view, grown quite resentful, even leading me to fear—doubtless foolishly—that he might lose interest in the venture altogether.
‘‘This is slow,’’ remarked Renshaw with a kind of dreary satisfaction, as the cab ground to a halt once more. The journey had been swift enough till we passed around Trafalgar Square, where we became mired in traffic. This was hardly unusual, delay being as common a feature of London roads as fish in rivers, but as time passed, and the recriminations of nearby drivers grew louder and more torrid, I began to grow concerned.
‘‘What’s the trouble?’’ I called up to the cab driver.
‘‘Some going on at Horse Guards Parade.’’
Craning my neck past Renshaw, I saw there was indeed a great commotion in front of the army headquarters, with carriages littering the road in profusion, and a large crowd was gathered, many of them in uniform. A strange sort of assembly they made, at once agitated and subdued.
‘‘It hardly looks like a parade,’’ I ventured.
Renshaw shrugged. ‘‘Must be some new war.’’
It seemed a remark both foolish and lacking in taste, and I was on the point of reprimanding him when the cab lurched forwards and
began to proceed once more upon its way. Fortunately the roads southwards from Westminster proved empty enough, and it was not long before we were rumbling down a lane towards Jonah Childs’s home, which was one of a row of houses marooned in fields, being an advance colony of ever-spreading London. It was only with care that one might discern signs of the great trading enterprise that was Childs and Company: the portrait of Jonah’s father above the stairs, depicted in some faraway land, amid a scene of trees industriously felled, and ships awaiting their transportation, or the splendid reproduction of HMS Victory just beneath, constructed, so I had learned, from no fewer than twenty-two kinds of wood.
‘‘Mr. Wilson. Oh, and Mr. Renshaw too. How splendid!’’ Mr. Childs was irrepressible as we were shown into the study. ‘‘Our other guest has already arrived.’’
So this was the mysterious ‘‘somebody.’’ He was a heavy-shaped sort of man, intense of expression, even to the point of cheerlessness. Only when we shook hands did his face come to life with a brief smile, while even then there was something defensory about his manner, as if he felt some need to fend off imagined disapproval. A lingering London harshness to his speech suggested this was a man who had, like Timothy Renshaw’s father, raised himself from modest beginnings.
‘‘May I introduce the eminent surgeon Dr. Potter,’’ Childs explained.
‘‘He is a friend of Dr. Kite, who did such wonders for my poor sister’s feet.’’ He broke into a nervous smile. ‘‘Dr. Potter has kindly offered his services for our expedition. Isn’t that splendid?’’
I will not have a word said against Mr. Childs, whose character is beyond any reproach, and yet I confess I did wish he would refrain from making important arrangements without first consulting the views of others. It was not that I objected to this Dr. Potter, or his origins—I am never one to pay any heed to such trifles as a man’s birth, which are, besides, of little account in the eyes of the Lord—but I was more than a little concerned that such a great change was being proposed so shortly before our departure. There was, if nothing else, a danger of hastiness. I glanced towards Renshaw, but he was yawning at his own shoes, wholly uninterested in the matter.
Potter regarded me coolly. ‘‘I have long had a scientific interest in Tasmania, and so I was naturally most interested when I learned of your expedition.’’
‘‘Has Major Stanford been informed?’’ I asked. Our leader was away upon some windy hillside of Dartmoor, testing the new tents.
Childs nodded. ‘‘He was most delighted to hear you would have a physician.’’ All at once a frown appeared upon his brow. ‘‘You don’t seem very pleased, Vicar.’’
It seemed hardly useful, or wise, to object. I attempted a smile. ‘‘I’m sure Dr. Potter will prove a great asset.’’
Jonah’s face broke into a delighted smile. ‘‘But that’s splendid. Why, now I can show you the other little surprise I have.’’
For a moment I wondered if I was about to be introduced to further new members of the venture: a team of camel drivers, perhaps. Fortunately this was not the case. Childs led us in a polite straggle to an adjoining room where, laid upon a packing case, were six shining new rifles and a revolving pistol.
‘‘I have a cousin who owns a small factory in Birmingham that makes a part for them,’’ he explained. He picked up one of the rifles and aimed it carefully at a nearby wall. ‘‘They are the latest military issue, and quite as good as anything except sporting guns, so he told me, being of the new expanding-bullet type.’’
The lure of guns: I confess I myself felt it, though all my teaching warned me otherwise. As for the others, they were quite captivated. Potter examined the pistol almost as if in a trance, then took one of the rifles, abruptly threw it in the air and caught it again, like some excited boy. Even Renshaw was ensnared, carefully handling one of the weapons though it was almost as tall as himself. ‘‘Do the bullets actually expand?’’
Potter knew. ‘‘They change shape. At first they’re spherical, so they can drop easily down the barrel, but the metal’s soft, and when the charge goes off it blows them sort of flattish. That way they exactly fit the bore of the gun barrel, and spin nicely. It’s the spinning that makes the gun so accurate.’’
Renshaw did not understand what bore was, and this prompted Potter to point one of the rifles in turn directly at each of our eyes, so we could make out the gently spiralling grooves in the barrel, all of which he did with a certain zest.
I felt a need to deflate the moment. ‘‘Please do thank your cousin. It will be a great reassurance to have such fine weapons with us, I’m sure, though I trust we will have no cause to put them to use.’’
‘‘I hope you’re right,’’ answered Childs, his mood suddenly sombre. ‘‘Although I must say I’m not so sure. After the news today I was more than pleased you’d have these fellows with you.’’
I was mystified, as were Renshaw and the doctor. ‘‘What news?’’
Childs seemed taken aback. ‘‘I assumed you’d heard. There’s been a terrible rebellion by the Bengal army. Delhi has fallen and hundreds of poor women and children are feared brutally murdered.’’
There is news and news. Most of it catches our sympathies only modestly, and though it may cause in us brief joy or sorrow, its distant protagonists soon fade from thought. This, however, was different. Here, surely, was catastrophe on a monstrous scale. I recalled those angry, anxious faces outside Horse Guards Parade—well did I understand them now—and for a moment it was almost as if I could hear the terrified cries of innocents, carried magically across the miles, from those cruel and dusty plains.
‘‘The news takes a month to arrive,’’ added Childs, ‘‘so there’s no knowing what may have occurred by now.’’
Dr. Potter carefully replaced his gun upon the floor and for a moment we all stood in thoughtful silence. It was Renshaw who broke our solemn reverie, showing—as ever—his talent for misjudgment. ‘‘That could make trouble for your plans.’’
Captain Illiam Quillian Kewley JUNE 1857
THREE LONG DAYS we had those London customs boys groping their way about the Sincerity, all stiff and snurly and hardly speaking a word. They weren’t my favourites, those three days. They had put us in one of those new sealed docks, and there was nothing to do but wait, listening to the terrible mad din of London spilling over that high wall like a threat. All the while my poor vessel was poked and scrutinized in a way that was terrible to behold, and I was thinking it only takes one find, or one fool of a body getting himself into a scare…
Truly, there’s no thoroughness like customs’ thoroughness. First they had us move all the barrels onto the quayside and tip out the herring. Next they checked all our stores, down to every cask of hardtack in the pantry, as well as the chicken coop, the sheep pen and the boat where Quayle’s pig had been. They went through everyone’s sea chests, and took the prints of Victoria and her brood out of their frames. They even had a try at my uniform, scrinching up the cap, I suppose in case I had a few ounces of tobacco hidden inside. Then, when they’d done with all that, they started right over again, now tapping and banging their way round the vessel, now pulling up a floorboard, now making little fires to see where the smoke went. Worse was the interviews. One by one each of us was taken off alone to the dining cabin for his little chat. Stories were checked, particularly my foolish blurt about the boat Quayle was supposed to have bought his cheese off. All the while they were threatening and coaxing and hoping someone would bust and go off like a rocket.
‘‘We ’re going to find the stuff soon enough anyway,’’ was their sneer. ‘‘You may as well make it easier on yourself by telling us now.’’
Three whole days. And what did they find after all this fuss?
Not a thing.
I could hardly believe it myself I mean, I knew we had a wonder made of wood, and that the crew were every one of Manxmen from Peel City, but still I never thought the Sincerity would keep herself so tight and virginal a
s she did. This was the very cream of Her Majesty’s Royal English Spying and Conniving Customs Service, after all, and in their own dread nest of London too. And us just a shipload of poor, ignorant souls from Man Island, smallest country in all the wide world. Not that I’m one to go talking miracles, but it did seem out of the ordinary. Why, I almost wondered if giving that Bishop Chalmers his ride had earned us a favour after all.
Well, there was a thing to celebrate. Not that I’m much of a one for foolishness, but there was no stopping the rest of them after those three long days. Down the hold we went that evening where nobody could spy, with everyone speaking Manx just in case. Drinking? Well, there might have been a little. Singing? I dare say. Toasts? That there’s no denying. ‘‘Boiys da dooine as baase da eease,’’ we called out, which means in English ‘‘Life to men and death to fish,’’ and is about herring, as are all Manx toasts. Then it was ‘‘Death to the head that never wore hair’’ and ‘‘Here’s death to our best friend.’’ Meaning herring, of course.
I dare say there’s always a price to be paid for that sort of night. In this case, though, the price did seem higher than was fair. Stumbling out of my cabin the next morning with a sore head, made sorer by that din of London roaring out like some great fight with wheel carts, what did I find waiting on the deck but a stranger, perched nice and comfortable on a coil of rope, smoking his pipe. ‘‘Captain Kewley?’’ He got up in a gradual sort of way, as if I wasn’t worth any hurry. ‘‘My name’s Parish.’’ With that he reached into his pocket and handed me a letter. I guessed from its mean, interfering scribble that this was customs poison. Nor was I wrong.
English passengers Page 4
