by John Darnton
FitzRoy was cordial, gesturing to Charles to sit down and pouring him a glass that Charles was loath to drink. As they paused a moment in a silent toast, the Captain examined him with narrowed eyes, and Charles had the unnerving thought that he was mentally measuring him against the trials that lay ahead and wondering if he would be found wanting.
“I ask myself if you fully understand,” FitzRoy put in bluntly, “the need for flogging on board a ship. I venture to say you were shocked by yesterday’s exhibition.”
Charles, again astounded at FitzRoy’s ability to peer into his soul, allowed as how he had been.
“Well, I make no apologies for it. Personally, I abhor corporal punishment, but there are too many coarse natures that cannot be restrained without it, especially among the lower sorts. It is, I regret to say, an indispensable tool of leadership if we are to perform our duties smartly.”
“But is there no other method of discipline at hand? Could you not find some other means of enforcing your wishes and commanding the respect of your crew?”
“Ha! You will find, my good sir, that indulgence and coddling do not succeed at sea. There are no Whigs on board this ship, other than yourself, and during a storm I dare say you are apt to find your own sensibilities shifting rapidly towards my determined position.”
FitzRoy gave a half smile to suggest that the topic was closed, though with no hard feelings on his side.
Charles was continually confounded by FitzRoy’s behavior. No question that the Captain gave him special consideration and had taken him under his wing. He was continually looking out for Charles’s comfort, pressing books upon him, and telling him not to worry—if the going got too rough, Charles could always put ashore at the next port.
I’d rather die than undergo the humiliation of returning to England, Charles told himself.
At other times, the Captain appeared to bore in on a softness in Charles, as if to root it out. He made clear that he expected manliness and stoicism in the face of hardship—he did not care to hear complaints about seasickness, for one thing—and he demanded obedience. Charles tried hard to please him; the Captain was so widely read, so worldly, and so confident in all his dealings.
“I say,” said Charles, switching the topic, “have you read Lyell’s Principles of Geology?”
“I most certainly have,” boomed FitzRoy. “A capital book. The second volume is due out in some months and I’ve ordered that it be sent to us in Buenos Aires.”
Charles looked across the table at him. Even after all these weeks, FitzRoy remained an enigma. Some moments, he was filled with bon-homie and an intense, boundless energy. At others, he gave in to a violent temper. The outward show of humor could fade in an instant with a cold look that seized his eyes even as his smile lingered.
Just that morning Charles had heard one officer ask another, with a meaningful wink: “Did you have hot coffee this morning?” Later King had told him it was a code for the Captain’s anger, which was most noticeable in the mornings, when he would prowl the deck looking for a tail of rope out of place or a knot poorly tied.
Charles himself had witnessed FitzRoy’s mercurial temper. During a shopping excursion in Plymouth, furious that a shopkeeper refused to exchange a piece of crockery, he had baited the man unmercifully, requesting the price of a full set of china and then abruptly canceling the fictitious purchase out of spite. On the pavement, seized by a pang of conscience whose onset was equally mysterious, he apologized to Charles. More than once, Charles had recalled Henslow’s warning that the man was laboring under the curse of suicidal melancholia.
Charles ate slowly and tried artfully to disguise his poor appetite by spreading bits of the overboiled preserved beef around his plate and hiding some under the blade of his resting knife. He left his soup untouched.
He sensed that FitzRoy was feeling contrite over the lecture he had delivered with such pomposity. In a gentle tone the Captain asked:
“Putting to one side matters of crime and punishment, are the accommodations to your liking and does the voyage meet with your expectations so far?”
“Most assuredly,” replied Charles. “Although . . .” His voice trailed off.
“Yes? Tell me,” put in FitzRoy quickly.
“There is one issue that I feel I must reluctantly bring to your attention.”
“Please do so at once.”
“There is on board a ship’s surgeon, a certain Mr. McCormick, with whom in fact I had the privilege—if that’s the proper word—of being acquainted some years back.”
“Yes, I know the man. Indeed, I chose him for the voyage. What of him?”
“He seems to be under the impression that he alone has the right to collect specimens. Since that—as you well know—is my singular passion, I fear that our pursuits may come to cross purposes.”
FitzRoy threw down his serviette and grabbed Charles by the wrist.
“Let me set your mind to rest on that score. As long as I am Captain of this ship, by Jupiter, you shall have absolute priority in the matter.
Say the word, and I shall shut the man down entirely.”
“No, no, thank you very much. That’s not necessary. I’m sure there is some collecting that he might perform that is quite harmless, provided it is clear that I bear the official title of the Beagle’s naturalist and that I alone am recognized as responsible for the duties of that office.”
“Ha! Say no more! You have my word as a gentleman—it shall be so!
And whatever you collect shall be happily sent to whomsoever you designate, at His Majesty’s expense.” In his exuberance, FitzRoy added:
“Quantity shall be no object.”
Charles was overwhelmed by the man’s generosity. How wrong he had been to question his steadfastness! What a capital fellow he was!
Both men were embarrassed by the emotions engendered by such sudden accord, and FitzRoy changed the subject.
“I suppose I am something of a naturalist in reverse,” said FitzRoy.
“As you know—for we have discussed the matter—the Beagle is carrying specimens of my own, three of them, though it must be acknowledged that far from collecting them, I am returning them to their natural state.”
“Most certainly,” said Charles, though it made him uncomfortable to hear human beings referred to in this manner. Indeed, he had been thinking of the three savages from Tierra del Fuego since coming aboard. He had glimpsed them only once, in Plymouth, when they arrived by steam packet and were whisked off to Weakley’s Hotel.
What a strange sight they presented, three dark-skinned figures with broad faces, all done up in English finery complete with black umbrellas. Hustling behind them was the missionary who had volunteered to run the station at the bottom of the world, Richard Matthews, a mere teenager with long hair, aglow with the Lord’s work, who kept his Bible under his raincoat lest it get wet.
As Charles excused himself with a bow and made his way back to his cabin, he thought, with a mental shrug, that on balance the Captain’s good traits far outweighed the bad. But a voice within told him to remain on guard.
Two days later, Charles had his first encounter with Jemmy Button, the fifteen-year-old Fuegian who was most outgoing and most popular with the crew. Swinging in his sick berth, miserable as ever, Charles had fallen into a deep sleep. He awoke abruptly when he felt a finger tracing a line across his feverish forehead.
He could scarcely believe his eyes. There, no more than a foot away, was a most strange apparition, a face dark as pitch, with a spatulate nose and wide-set eyes, staring down at him. Slowly Jemmy withdrew his finger and stepped back. Charles looked at him. He was wearing a black topcoat, a double-breasted waistcoat, long trousers, polished boots, and a white shirt whose high collar was held in place by a black tie: he was dressed up like a perfect Englishman.
Jemmy’s face collapsed in a twisted grin, which Charles soon realized was meant to be a look of pity.
The savage opened his mouth. The stentorian words came out slowly
and with feeling: “Poor, poor fellow!” he intoned happily.
CHAPTER 8
Hugh couldn’t believe his luck. The journal had fallen into his hands like a gift, a ripe fruit tossed down by the gods. It had taken him a while to realize what it was—rather stupidly, he thought a moment later. He had stared at the writing. For a second the thought struck him that perhaps it belonged to someone at the publishing house, that an editor or a researcher had come along and thoughtlessly scribbled in it. But the neat writing was clearly ancient. He closed the journal to examine the cover. It appeared innocuous, a simple account book. In the lower right-hand corner the same black pen had scrawled the number 1 and circled it.
Opening it again, he read the first paragraph, then a full page—it spoke of “Down House” and “Papa’s fame”—and he was struck by a revelation, a coup de foudre, like a door suddenly flung open, actually, a series of revelations and opening doors: This was dated 1865 . . . It was authentic! . . . It was a journal kept by one of Darwin’s children!
He read on. Holy shit—the language, the descriptions, the names, they all appeared genuine. He examined the penmanship: a rounded handwriting, elegant and feminine. The author was a woman—she spoke of wearing a crinoline and of her sister, Etty. He thought for a while and then guessed the author’s identity: Elizabeth Darwin, or Lizzie, Darwin’s second daughter. It had to be hers. What was known of her? Hugh searched his memory—his recent reading had provided scant information. She was the other daughter, the one no one quite remembered.
The phrase “lost to history” popped into his mind. Let’s see. Darwin fathered ten children (for someone so sick, Hugh mused, the old man did okay). But three of them died young, including of course the ten-year-old Annie, whose death broke her father’s heart.
In his excitement the other names came to him in a jumble—William and George, Francis and Leonard, another boy whose name he could not recall, and Henrietta, the beloved one, everyone’s favorite. It was Etty who read her father’s manuscripts and edited them and who imitated him in his perpetual illnesses. She was the perfect woman of her time, even going so far as to achieve a Victorian lady’s highest aspira-tion, namely, marriage. But Lizzie—she got lost in the shuffle. What happened to her? Did she ever marry?
Hugh was captivated by Lizzie’s voice. He admired the subterfuge of hiding her journal in plain sight, just like The Purloined Letter. The ruse had worked its magic for—how long? he did the math quickly, rounding off—some 140 years. And just think, it had been lying there unread all those years, and he was the first person to crack it open!
He read on. From time to time he glanced at his minder sitting primly at the desk beneath the French window. She seemed to be taking pains to ignore him, like a guard in a museum gallery who doesn’t mean to suggest that you’re capable of actually stealing the Renoir. But he was capable; he knew that. He was already joining in Lizzie’s spirit of subterfuge, occasionally picking up papers and shuffling them around nonchalantly. He began to rationalize—any publisher that would burn Byron’s memoirs was pusillanimous to begin with and didn’t deserve this treasure. He debated: Should he steal the damned thing or not? Perhaps he should just borrow it—that was the thing to do. He could always come up with a way to return it, maybe say it got mixed among his papers.
A phone rang, startling him. The woman answered it and spoke in low tones, then turned to Hugh and said: “I’m terribly sorry, but we’re closing early today because of the move.” He had more entries to read.
“You have only five minutes more, I’m afraid.”
Five minutes was all he needed. He rearranged his papers, then placed a stack of them on the table and, sitting behind it, raised his shirt and slipped the journal under it, wedging it firmly in place with his belt.
He casually jotted down some more notes, gathered up his things, smiled distantly at the woman, thanked her, and walked down the creaking wooden staircase and out the front door. As he stepped into the cool London air, he felt as if he had just walked out of the Tower of London with the Crown Jewels.
With only minutes to spare, Hugh arrived at King’s Cross, leapt from the cab, and ran to catch the train to Cambridge. He climbed into a second-class coach and fell into a window seat just as the train departed.
Outside, stanchions glided by at a sluggish pace, then wooden sheds and coal piles and the grimy back facades of railroad flats. It was late afternoon but already darkening.
He was too preoccupied to notice much of anything. Other passengers were seated near him, an almost felt presence in his peripheral vision, but he ignored them. He switched his backpack to his lap and patted the canvas—he could feel the journal inside, its distinctive thick cover with rounded edges—and again the thrill washed over him, a tingling of excitement.
Staring into the gathering darkness of the train window, he was vaguely aware of dim objects whizzing by outside and half images reflected from the carriage interior. He paused to take stock. He knew the excitement the journal aroused in him was not entirely pure, that it had a darker side. For the thought kept creeping in that this discovery could launch his career. It might make big waves among Darwin scholars. Clearly, it wouldn’t prompt a radically new view—the man’s eccentricities and illnesses were legendary—but this was an account from within his own family. He wondered just how accurate it was. Yes, it sketched the familiar outlines of Darwin as a paterfamilias. But this portrait was more complicated, more nuanced—and not altogether flattering. Lizzie seemed to suggest that the old man buried himself in his family as some sort of refuge. His hypochondria could be triggered by the slightest social interaction and it turned the whole household upside down—or rather, settled over it like a depressive fog. And Darwin’s temper and his melancholy seemed formidable; what to make of that business with the cosh? Or the mirror to spy on visitors? Or Leonard’s remark that Darwin looked so distraught after the visit from his old shipmates? Lizzie certainly put a spin on things. She practically conjured up the vision of Robert Louis Stevenson’s lodger awaiting the dreaded tap of Long John Silver’s wooden leg.
Well, as the saying goes, no man is a hero to his valet. He recalled the retort—that it is the valet who is incapable of recognizing the hero.
He tried to picture Lizzie, young, not yet twenty, sitting in a high-collared dress, composing her journal entries by the cold winter light coming in through a window. Or perhaps leaning back in bed in a long cotton nightgown while a candle flickered shadows upon the wall.
He imagined her straining to find the words to express the tumult of her feelings. Her eyes burned bright with intelligence—at that moment, he could actually see her and see her eyes staring back at him. He gave a slight gasp, shook off the daydream, but her eyes were still there— for real—reflected in the train’s dark window. Startled, he began to turn, felt a hand on his arm.
“I was wondering when you’d notice me,” Beth said.
He couldn’t believe it. She was smiling, Sphinx-like.
“Beth. My God. What are you doing here?”
“On my way to Cambridge. And you?”
“The same.” He was dumbfounded. “How long have you been
here?”
“A little longer than you. You passed right by me to sit down. I’d say you were in some kind of trance.”
“Sorry. Yes. I don’t know. I was thinking.”
“I could see that. I almost didn’t recognize you. What happened to your beard?”
“I shaved it.”
“New look for a new life?”
“Yeah.” He gave an ironic half smile. “I’m starting with the little things—life—and moving on to the big stuff, like haircuts.”
“I see.” She examined him closely. “Well, you don’t look like a hermit anymore. Much more mainstream. Basically, you look good.”
“So do you.”
She was looking good—blue jeans, black scoop-neck sweater, her hair up. He shook his head.
“It’s amazin
g—to run into you like this,” he said.
“I know. Last time I saw you, from the panga, you were just a tiny figure on an island in the middle of nowhere.”
“And you—you were disappearing over the horizon.” He caught himself. “God, I’m sorry. I forgot about your mother, and the funeral. I hope . . . all that wasn’t too hard on you.”
“It was hard, actually, more than I would have thought. It was so totally unexpected.” She looked past him, out the window. “It turned out she had had heart problems before, but she kept it from us.”
“I’m sorry.”
She looked back at him. “You never really believe a parent is going to die—that’s trite but true. And we were very close.”
She said it matter-of-factly, without a trace of self-pity. He didn’t know how to reply. Only gradually was he recovering from the shock of seeing her.
“You learn a lot about yourself at a time like that,” she continued.
“The scales fall off your eyes. All kinds of things come out of the closet.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Feelings. Unresolved conflicts. Things you never even knew existed. You must have felt that.”
“Yes,” he said. Then he switched the subject. “And your father—how is he taking it?”
“Not well. They’d been married thirty-seven years. Met in college, sophomore year. He was stunned at first, but now that the shock is over his pain is even worse—all the little daily reminders that she’s no longer there. I think he still can’t quite believe it. He can’t bring himself to take her message off the answering machine. I’m going to have to figure out how to spend a lot of time near him in the future.”
“And was that a relative who called? On the island?”
“Yes. My brother, Ned. He’s five years younger. He lives in Califor-nia, so he’s not much help. That’s typical.” She shrugged. “And you—tell me about you. When did you leave Sin Nombre?”
“Nearly three weeks ago now. I just got fed up. After you two left, it wasn’t the same . . .”
