The steward gave a slight nod and vanished.
‘A ship’s captain, at twenty-three?’ queried King, in more measured tones than before. ‘He must be a highly impressive young man.’
‘I shall only make him commander, of course,’ replied Otway. ‘He shall be acting captain of the Beagle.’
‘FitzRoy.’ King let the name drip from his tongue. ‘Commander FitzRoy would not, I wonder, be a relative of Admiral FitzRoy, or of the Duke of Grafton?’
Otway smiled, sensing that King was now in retreat. ‘Let us simply confirm that Commander FitzRoy will have ample means to fit himself out. In answer to your question, Robert FitzRoy is in fact the son of General FitzRoy, the nephew of both Admiral FitzRoy and the Duke of Grafton, also of Castlereagh. He is a direct descendant of Charles the Second. But much, much more importantly, he is also the most successful graduate ever to pass out from the Royal Naval College in Portsmouth. Not only did he complete a three-year course in eighteen months, and take the first medal, he subsequently passed his lieutenant’s exam with full numbers. Full numbers. The first man in the history of the Service to do so. And before you enquire about his practical experience, for I can see the question taking shape on your lips, he has been at sea for nine years, lately in the Thetis. Bingham had nothing but praise. His record is nothing short of exemplary. I commend him to you, Captain King.’
There was a sharp rap at the door. Even his timing is exemplary, thought King.
Otway bade the young man enter. A slender figure appeared in the doorway, moved silently across the threshold, and seemed to glide into place opposite the admiral, where he dispatched the appropriate courtesies speedily but respectfully. There was nothing foppish about his elegance; King could detect physical resilience beneath his graceful manner, allied to a firmness of purpose. The young man’s features were fine-boned, his nose was sharp and his ears were too large, but the overall effect was a handsome one. His countenance was open and friendly, his long-lashed eyes dark and expressive.
‘Do you know Captain Phillip Parker King?’ Otway asked the new arrival.
‘I have not had the pleasure of Captain King’s acquaintance, sir,’ replied FitzRoy, meeting King’s gaze squarely with what seemed to be a genuine smile of admiration, ‘but few in the service could fail to be aware of his extraordinary achievements in mapping the western and northern coasts of Australia. Achievements for which’ - he addressed King directly - ‘I believe you have recently been awarded a fellowship of the Royal Society, sir. I am most honoured to make your acquaintance.’ FitzRoy gave a little bow, and King knew instinctively that the tribute had been sincere.
‘I have been discussing with Captain King your promotion to commander of the Beagle,’ boomed Otway, no longer able to conceal the showman’s grin plastered across his features, ‘and I am pleased to make you his second-in-command.’
‘You have obliged me very much by your kindness, sir,’ replied FitzRoy, with a knowing nod to King. He’s a bright boy, thought King. He’s assessed the situation perfectly. Still, that’s no reason to give him an easy ride.
‘Admiral Otway informs me that you were a college volunteer. Sadly, the benefits of such a formal education were denied to me as a young man. So what precisely do they teach you in the classroom at Portsmouth?’
‘A great many subjects, sir. The full list is an extensive one — ’
King cut him off. ‘I am eager to add to the stock of my own learning. Pray enlighten me.’
FitzRoy took a deep breath. ‘I recollect, sir, that we studied fortifications, the doctrine of projectiles and its application to gunnery, hydrostatics, naval history and nautical discoveries — ’
King raised a hand. ‘Naval history,’ he said. ‘I’m interested in naval history. Tell me what you know of the history of your new command.’
‘The previous Beagle was an eighteen-gun carrier,’ began FitzRoy, cautiously, ‘which won battle honours at San Sebastian and the Basque roads. Her replacement is a ten-gun brig, Cherokee class, two hundred and thirty-five tons burthen, three-masted. So she’s strictly speaking a barque, but commonly known as a coffin brig.’
‘Indeed she is,’ cut in King warmly. ‘And tell me, Commander, why the ten-gun brig is known throughout the service as a coffin brig.’ All three knew the answer, that more ten-gun brigs were lost every year than any other class of ship, just as they knew that King was looking for more than that. This was a technical test.
‘The ten-gun brig, sir, is a deep-waisted vessel - dangerously so, if I might venture to say so. The top of the rail, I apprehend, is just six feet out of the water, less when fully loaded. Without a forecastle to turn away a large bow wave, she’s liable to ship water ... large amounts of water, sir, which are then unable to escape on account of the high bulwarks. So she’s prone to wallow, or turn broadside on to the weather. In which circumstances a second wave, shipped before the first has had time to clear, might well finish her off.’
‘Absolutely, Commander,’ agreed King with grim satisfaction. ‘It’s like trying to sail a spoon. So tell me, Commander FitzRoy, how you would modify the Beagle to address such limitations?’
‘I’d build a poop cabin and a forecastle, sir, to deflect the heaviest seas.
‘An excellent answer, Commander. Indeed, the work has already been carried out by your predecessor. Captain Stokes added a poop deck and a forecastle deck level with the rail. Altogether I’d say he added a good sixty inches to the height of the ship. Then again, Commander, in the Southern Ocean it’s not uncommon to encounter sixty-foot waves, whereupon the poop and the forecastle make damn-all difference.’
‘Indeed sir.’
‘Put bluntly, Commander, the greatest achievement of the late lamented Captain Stokes may well have been that the Beagle returned safely to Rio minus only one officer.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Do you feel you are up to the task of leading a crew of exhausted, half-starved and demoralized men through such conditions?’
‘I am determined, sir, that the men under my command will receive my full attention as regards to their physical and mental welfare,’ said FitzRoy, calmly.
‘The Beagle was also your predecessor’s first command. The pressures of that command thrust Captain Stokes into such a profound despondency that he shot himself.’
‘So I heard, sir. An awful incident.’
‘And you are sure you will remain immune to such pressures?’ FitzRoy hesitated, and for the first time, King detected a note of uncertainty in his confident manner. To his irritation, Admiral Otway chose that moment to blunder to the young man’s rescue.
‘The south is a place “where the soul of a man dies in him”. That was the last entry in Stokes’s log. He was quoting Alexander Pope, I think - eh, FitzRoy?’
‘Indeed sir.’
‘But then poor Stokes was a melancholy sort. Not like yourself. Hardly suited for such a lonely post. I blame myself,’ he added, in a manner that implied he did no such thing.
‘The men are convinced that Captain Stokes’s ghost still haunts the ship,’ King informed FitzRoy. ‘You have an interesting task on your hands, Commander.’
‘I’m beginning to see that, sir.’
‘A familiar face or two wouldn’t go amiss,’ offered Otway, ‘if you have any requests.’
‘I’d like to take Midshipman Sulivan from the Thetis, sir, if that’s possible. We were together in the Glendower as well. He’s a capital fellow, and has the best eyesight of any seaman I’ve ever known.’
‘I see no reason why not - provided Bingham has no objections.’
‘You’ll need a new master as well,’ put in King.
‘May I take Murray, sir? He’s a fine navigator, and ready for his chance.’
‘Of course, of course,’ replied Otway generously. ‘You may take Mr Murray with you. Murray and Sulivan it is.’ The admiral produced a sealed package from his desk drawer. ‘I have your orders here. You are to complete the survey of the
South American coast from Cape St Antonio around to Chiloé in the west, as directed by Captain King. You are to take particular note of all safe harbours, and all suitable refuelling and watering places. You are to observe weather patterns, tides and currents, the nature of the country inland and the people therein, remembering at all times that you are the official representative of His Majesty’s government. You and your officers are to avail yourselves of every opportunity of collecting and preserving specimens of natural history, such as may be new, rare or interesting.’ Otway slid the package across the table. ‘You can read the details at your leisure, Commander, but I would draw your attention to one significant instruction: the naming of topographical features. Grateful as I am to find myself honoured in perpetuity by the title “Port Otway”, there has been a tendency of late to ascribe names of a more frivolous nature. I’m thinking in particular of “Soapsuds Cove”, where you presumably did your washing. And “Curious Peak”. What the devil was curious about it?’
‘I have no idea,’ replied King drily. ‘You’d have to ask Stokes.’
‘Admiralty orders are quite specific on this point. The maps you are updating were compiled by Byron, Wallis and Carteret back in the 1760s, since when it has been something of an embarrassment that English charts contain such trivial identifications as “Point Shut-up”. The site of some unseemly squabble, no doubt. Try to confine yourself to practical descriptions, or if you must commemorate someone, I would recommend members of the government or the Royal Family. Of course you can commemorate yourselves, but I would suggest a limit for ship’s officers of one or two place names each. Understood?’
FitzRoy nodded.
Otway’s brisk tone softened. ‘The Beagle is on her way up from Monte Video. When she arrives, she will be hove down and repaired. Before then I would pay her a visit. Unannounced. That is to say, I think you should make your presence felt.’ He grinned conspiratorially, and gestured to indicate that the interview was over.
Formalities completed, FitzRoy and King took their leave of the admiral’s cabin, stooping with the instinct of years to avoid cracking their heads as they crossed the threshold. Outside, King paused at the top of the companionway. ‘So tell me, Mr FitzRoy. Of all the captains under whom you have served, whom did you admire the most?’
‘Sir John Phillimore, sir,’ replied FitzRoy without hesitation. The ensuing pause made it clear that King meant him to go on.
‘We were escorting Lord Ponsonby to Rio as ambassador, sir. One of the younger midshipmen suffered a terrible injury to his arm, and was in danger of losing it. Sir John gave the Ponsonbys’ cabin to the boy, and himself slept in a cot outside the cabin door, giving instructions that he should be wakened immediately if anything were to befall the lad. We were all much impressed. It was Sir John who reduced the men’s daily rum ration from half a pint to a quarter. Which, I must confess, improved the efficiency of the ship considerably.’
King raised both eyebrows. ‘Good luck with the rum ration.’
FitzRoy smiled back, and King could not help but like his new second-in-command.
‘Skyring’s disappointment will be bitter, I confess. But he is not the sort to pay this off on you. He is a generous type. I will give him our supply schooner, the Adelaide, which should help soften the blow.’
‘I hope so, sir.’
‘One more thing, Mr FitzRoy. That quotation in Stokes’s log - “the soul of a man dies in him”. Who really wrote it?’
‘Thomson, sir. It’s from The Seasons.’
‘You’ll go far, Mr FitzRoy. I think you’ll go very far indeed.’
Chapter Two
Rio de Janeiro, 15 December 1828
With a brisk, matter-of-fact breeze behind her, the little cutter slid easily through the choppy blue of Rio bay, a curious petrel or two in pursuit. Enlivened by the sunshine, the crew put their backs into it. Occasional flecks of foam from the oars flung themselves gaily into Robert FitzRoy’s face as he sat in the stern, but on such a day as this, the odd splash was hardly an imposition. It was a glorious morning to be alive; and, as it was certain to be one of the last such days he would see for a year or more, he should really have been able to enjoy it to the full. King’s challenge, though, continued to perturb him.
They raced past a fisherman’s skiff, its silvery catch glinting in the sun. A large, muscly black stood balanced in the prow, holding aloft the pick of his fish as enticingly as he could, while the cutter skimmed by unregarding. FitzRoy felt a flash of pity for the man, who could never know the world and all it offered, who had not the opportunities provided by modern civilization to make whatever he wanted of his own life.
Dropping behind them, resplendent, the Ganges lay at anchor, the pride of the South American station, her jet-black pitch contrasting smartly with her blinding white sails, the Union flag fluttering from her jackstaff, the blue ensign rippling square from her mainmast. Ahead in the distance, dwarfed by the rounded symmetry of the Sugarloaf mountain, the squat shape of the Beagle could just be made out, low in the water like a lost barrel. His first commission. It was hard to keep the butterflies subdued. Make your presence felt, Otway had said.
By his side in the cutter’s stern, Midshipman Bartholomew Sulivan, just turned eighteen years of age, chattered away about home, about matters naval, about the task ahead of them, about anything. He really did take the palm for talk sometimes, but a cheerier, more optimistic companion was not to be found anywhere. Guiltily, FitzRoy realized that he had not been paying attention for some minutes.
‘. . . and do you remember that Danish fellow, Pritz, who pressed three of our men for the Brazilian navy? And old Bingham telling him’ - here he adopted Bingham’s fruity tones - ‘“I hear my boat’s oars. You had better give me back my men.” And the look on the Dane’s face when we climbed over the rail and he realized he must knock under! And do you recall him all crimson, shouting at us as we rowed off? “Remember Copenhagen! Remember Copenhagen!”’ Sulivan’s face flushed with excitement at the memory.
‘We raced each other over the rail, as I recall,’ admonished FitzRoy, ‘and you were first over, even though you were supposed to be in the sick list that day.’
‘It was the devil of a spree!’ said Sulivan, and the ratings at the nearest oars grinned discreetly at the youngster’s high spirits.
FitzRoy’s mind, though, could not settle. I am now responsible for this young man’s life. His life and the lives of more than sixty others. Every decision I take affects their survival. Any misjudgement I make could kill us all.
Had the commission been his four months earlier, this golden morning would have found FitzRoy his usual confident self, speeding across the waves towards his future. The depression that had overwhelmed Stokes would have seemed as distant a prospect as the wild channel where the poor fellow had surrendered himself to it. Four months earlier, however, there had occurred a ... disturbance: that was the only word for it. An isolated incident, which had filled FitzRoy with disquiet, and which now refused to be forgotten.
It had been just such a day as this, the air at its sweetest, the sunshine clean and clear, and he had felt a sudden surge of elation as he prepared to order the signal to Wait for Dispatches. A kind of giddy excitement had seized him, a wild happiness, which led him in a whirling, mischievous dance. Glowing with joy, he had been struck by a tremendous idea. Why not run up all the flags in the locker in a splendid array? What a fine sight it would make! How in keeping with everyone’s mood on such a blessing of a day! Then, why not add all the night signals, the white lights, guns, horns, bells and flares, in a magnificent celebration?
The midshipmen had laughed when he had described his plan, taking their cue from his own merry countenance, but their smiles had slackened and disappeared at the realization that he was not joking. He had tried to persuade them, pumping their hands, invoking their Christian names, urging them excitably to join in the entertainment. They had failed to understand, had assumed him to be drunk. There
had been a scuffle — a vulgar push-and-pull, his uniform ripped - which had culminated in them locking him in his cabin, still flushed with fatuous excitement. The incident had been hushed up - Bingham had been told he was sick - and quickly forgotten by the others, but what the devil had he been thinking of? What malign spirit had taken control of his mind?
The next morning had been even more inexplicable. He had woken in a state of what could only be called fear. A black despondency had suffocated him, squeezing all other thoughts from his mind, isolating him from the world outside his cabin. He had lain alone in his cot, shivering and frightened. In this state of overwhelming helplessness, there had seemed no point to his life, no point to his work, no point even to existence itself.
Gradually, the darkness had seemed to take shape in his mind. As he was still in the sick list, his friends had presumed him to be battling the dog of a hangover, but this was a much fiercer beast. It slavered at him, mocked him. You are completely in my power, it seemed to say, should I ever deign to visit you again.
Within a few hours, however, the creature had stirred itself and padded away. He had emerged from his cabin shaken, cowed and deeply embarrassed. Since that day, everything had been as it should, but the incident continued to loom large in his consciousness. Had the creature really departed? Or was it merely biding its time, toying with him, waiting to return at a moment when men’s lives depended on his skill and judgement?
He had thrown himself at phrenology, had turned himself into an expert on the subject, staying up late to study Gall and Spurzheim, had spent hours in front of the mirror feeling the bumps and hollows on the surface of his skull, but to no avail. He thought of his uncle: a formidable intellect, one of the foremost statesmen of his age. Castlereagh had taken his own life. He thought, too, of Stokes. Had he, Robert FitzRoy, come face to face with whatever those men had encountered in their final moments?