The Darwin Conspiracy (11 page)

That evening Charles left his cabin again. It was early but already dark because of a fog that refused to dissipate. Visibility was poor. Still, walking past the long whaleboat overturned upon skids, he caught sight of a distant figure lurking beside the forecastle. It was McCormick.

Steadying himself against the whaleboat—he had not begun to acquire the rolling gait of a seaman—Charles walked the length of the ship. McCormick had entered the forecastle and was bending over with a furtive air, apparently examining the locker that had been set aside by FitzRoy for Darwin’s specimens.

By the lord Harry, Charles thought, the man is spying on me!

He moved closer, cleared his throat loudly, and turned to look out to sea. McCormick gave a start, quickly straightened up, grasping the railing tightly. He was silent for a moment, clearly flustered, and then spoke in a burst.

“I say, it does take a time to learn this ship in all her particulars. I’ve been touring incessantly and I still don’t have it all down.”

Charles nodded and looked at him with suspicion.

“Are you feeling better?” McCormick asked.

“Somewhat,” lied Darwin.

“Amazing how horrible seasickness can make one feel.”

“Yes, isn’t it?”

McCormick was quiet for a moment, then asked out of the blue:

“Has your family known the FitzRoys long?”

“No, we are unacquainted.”

“I see. I thought perhaps there was a connection.” His voice took on a wheedling tone.

The two peered out into the fog and didn’t speak for a full minute.

McCormick cleared his throat and gave a nervous smile. “I think perhaps it might be best to bring up a matter now, lest it cause some dis-agreeable misunderstanding later,” he said. “As you undoubtedly know, I am present here in the capacity of ship’s surgeon. And as such,
I
am the person officially designated to exercise the duties of ship’s naturalist.

Now, I understand that you have certain interests, proclivities, what have you, that tend to the same direction, that is, in the realm of natural sciences—”

“Yes, most certainly true.”

“—and so I think it would be advantageous, in the interests of all concerned, for the sake of harmony, for the higher good of the ship’s mission—”

“Come, come, man. Get to the point.”

“The point, as you put it, is this: I would like you to recognize that I bear primary responsibility for the collecting, classifying, and shipping of all specimens. The Government pays for me to do so, although naturally I would be more than happy to have you assist me—”

“Assist you! You must be daft! I would no more assist you and give up my right to collecting than I would marry the Devil.”

McCormick was taken aback.

“You can hardly expect me to relinquish my claim,” he said. “There’s been an exchange of letters. As surgeon I am entitled to make a collection at the disposal of the Government.”

“Then, sir, we shall simply go our separate ways. We shall each of us collect on our own and do the best we can. And we shall try our utmost to maintain civil discourse in the ship’s company.”

McCormick drew himself up to his full height—though he was still a full head shorter than Charles—and glanced at his companion.

“Very well. I do hope you realize my overture was well intentioned.

It sprang from a sincere desire to avoid conflict. I would not want the sort of unpleasantness that characterized your relationship with Dr.

Grant to re-occur on board here. This is a small ship, after all.”

Charles, still gripping the railing, was fuming—the nerve of the man, bringing up that mortifying episode. At Edinburgh, as a protégé of the eminent biologist Robert Grant, Charles had made a small but thrilling discovery—the means by which a seaweed-dwelling zoophyte called
Flustra
reproduced itself—only to be silenced by his mentor, who subsequently published a paper on it. Bested by a jealous scientific rival, Charles had vowed never to let it happen again.

McCormick turned on his heel and hurried away.

If he believes for one single moment that I am going to roll over like a whipped dog a second time, he will find that he is sorely mistaken, Charles thought, wending his way back on unsteady legs to his cabin.

The following day, Charles was invited to dine in the Captain’s cabin, and though hardly in any condition to eat, he accepted, for he was conscious of his duty to provide distraction for FitzRoy.

He was surprised to find that the cabin was smaller than his own, though it was furnished more elegantly with a sofa in addition to a real bunk, a small writing desk, and a skylight.

A table was set for two on port side, complete with a bottle of wine chilling in a silver bucket of cold seawater.

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.

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.