To the Ends of the Earth

by William Golding

  But the cry rings out from the crosstrees of the foremast.

  “Deck there! Land ho! Land ahead and on the larboard bow! Deck there! Land ho!”

  It will not do, of course. I do not mean because this is an autobiography, for I have come to think that men commonly invent their autobiographies like everything else. I mean it would be too stagey.

  The truth in a way was subtler and more amusing. On a morning of perfect visibility, when Mr Summers handed the captain his folded paper with the computed latitude and longitude, the captain examined it with raised eyebrows and compared it with the other folded paper which had been given him by Mr Benét. His only comment was to order the ship’s course to be maintained. We sighted land some hours later.

  What a novelist could not have foreseen and the autobiographer must make as interesting as he may was the complete reversal of expected attitudes. The crew, which might have rolled cannon balls, or made protests, or grumbled and sent deputations before we sighted land, were quiet, good-humoured and obedient until the low-lying coast was there before them. Only then was there murmuring and the clear voice of dissent. They thought we should disembark at once on this land of milk and honey, pausing merely to select ourselves the slaves of our choice from the eager applicants!

  It was at this time that Mr Prettiman had some kind of—revelation is the only word I can find for it. He confessed that he now believed there was a profound mystery (rather than secret) at the heart of the cosmos to which man would be admitted. He was made extraordinarily happy. I myself had a premonition of his death which like all the premonitions in my life proved to be mistaken. In brief, I learnt from a few words what I had no business to know. I have to own, it was moving and—confounding, even if he was, as he must have been, deluded.

  On that day as I entered his cabin I saw that his eyes were closed and I paused, for in his pain, sleep was very precious to him. I wondered if I should go away again but as I stood there, he spoke, or rather muttered in what I can only describe as a tone of awed astonishment.

  “I am able to bless—!”

  Yes, I should have gone there is no doubt about that. But in a strange embarrassment I did nothing but utter an involuntary, and I fear silly, laugh. His eyes opened and looked straight into mine. A positive tide of crimson seemed to consume his face. I got out of the cabin, shut the door and only then was able to feel the extraordinary difference between these few humble words and the rarified concept of the Good which we were too often prone to discuss. My mind plunged back to that early interview when I had read to him from Voltaire’s Candide the strange words of le bon vieillard “We have no need of priests—we are all priests”!

  I went away confounded for a time and have thought since that it was one of several occasions in my life when I have felt myself to be on the brink of a mystery which through character, upbringing and education I am wholly unable to penetrate. But at the time, when I came to myself, I reflected that after all, the “good old man” had been one hundred and sixty five, and even he blushed as he spoke openly of the religious mysteries of El Dorado!

  The day after that we sighted land, as I have said.

  “Land ho!”

  It was land indeed and visible at an astonishing distance. But the truth is that the diamond nature of the air in those climes has to be experienced to be believed so I will not labour the point. As for the longitude, it at once pleased and irritated all our navigators; for Charles and Benét had kept their workings to themselves like card players and revealed them only to the captain. He in his turn, with a sense of humour which I had not suspected, kept his own counsel—the longitudes were the same except for a mile or two! The Benét–Anderson method, therefore, might be good or bad. Nothing was proved or disproved. Charles, by rejecting the palpably wrong reading of one chronometer and relying on the other two, which were fairly close together—he added the readings and divided them by two—had achieved the same result. Luck must be considered to have favoured both parties. The land was where they said it was. So everyone and no one was satisfied.

  Our adventure was now running down. We obtained fresh meat from one settlement and a quantity of vegetables from another. Beans we had always with us. It must be confessed that with the sight of land that common sense which is a useful though grey component of my nature gradually reasserted itself. There were changes among us all. Mr Prettiman returned to his customary state of excitement and anger. It rendered him more amusing than awesome. The emigrants, too, were a source of amusement to me. They appeared to think that we should steer straight for the nearest bit of land and disembark there! The rigid system of separation which had once obtained in our vessel had been so moderated by time and adventure that I could now walk among them without comment. They thought that one might walk round the coast to Sydney Cove, the weaker members riding in the wagons with which the aboriginals would provide them! Here, they thought, was a land of freedom, where crops and flocks grew themselves, black men and women were eager to learn and serve and every white man was a little king with a gang of chastened convicts to keep the blacks in order!

  Winter had worn its worst away when we sighted the north point of Flinders Island and altered course to move up the east coast! We were held up by contrary winds for a while between there and Cape Howe. But we were cheered, I think, by moving among names which were familiar so that the bald points seemed to cry us a welcome in our own tongue. Despite all the increase to my reading and thinking which I got from the Prettimans, I cannot but be a patriot! I have been brought to see—and not only by them—the defects of England. I will not subscribe to the furious rubbish of “My country right or wrong!” But nevertheless, when I search my heart, among all the prejudices of my nature and upbringing, among all the new ideas, the acceptance of necessary change, the people, writers and artists, philosophers and politicians—even the wild-eyed social philosophers—the deepest note of my heart-strings sounds now as it will to my dying day—“England for ever!” So seeing those bald lumps of land and hearing their names, King Island, Flinders Island, Cape Howe, I felt, even if I did not cry, “England for ever!”

  (21)

  From Cape Howe, I believe it was, we had what Cumbershum irritated Oldmeadow by describing as a “soldier’s wind”, meaning one so conveniently on the beam that even a soldier could take the ship there and back. Oldmeadow replied with some nonsense about “a sailor on a horse” but by now I was bored to distraction by their service dislikes and rivalries. Oh, the restlessness in that ship! The ladies! I have the word of both Mrs Prettiman and Mrs Brocklebank that they were dying to get their stuff out of the hold and have everything clean! Even the cleanest of us were dirty, I believe. After all, it was now months since we had been able to use anything better for washing than saltwater soap! I had in fact wondered whether or no I should entitle my three volumes nothing less than Saltwater Soap but alas—owing to the pusillanimity of English book publishers, the occasion has not arisen. So we came at last to Sydney Cove and our little world burst wide open. We were brought alongside the new quay and the ship was invaded, for the articles we had brought in our hold were long awaited. No one took much notice of the few passengers. Iron railings were of more account. Anderson left the conduct of the ship to Mr Summers and hurried ashore with Mr Benét (the image of a flag lieutenant).

  I did not chuse to go with them, for it appeared that the governor, Mr Macquarie, was absent, visiting an island even more drearily penal than the Cove. Some of our passengers fought their way ashore through the agents, porters, bales, boxes and noise. Miss Zenobia Brocklebank was carried on a stretcher, hustled on every side and with only the tip of her nose showing. Mr Brocklebank stopped by me.

  “Goodbye, Mr Talbot. I hear you propose to publish an unillustrated account of the voyage. I advise against it. Nothing you can ever write can match the success of your medical practice.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Have you not half cured our good friend Mr Prettiman? In
fact, sir, I believe you should abandon the Muse for Aesculapius! Good day to you.”

  “Mrs Prettiman—Mrs Prettiman! I will not say goodbye but au revoir! Surely we shall meet again!”

  I could not hear what she said for the noise, nor get near her because of the mob on deck and the opened hold. It was a distracted parting. Mr Prettiman was half sitting up on the stretcher and peering at the quay. Two or three men detached themselves from a crowd and pressed aboard. He was expected! He was borne off without a backward glance and Mrs Prettiman followed him docilely. I was about to run after her but the stretcher of the senile midshipman Martin Davies got in my way. The Pikes followed with the Easts in attendance, as if they were their servants! Mrs Brocklebank came running back—had she left her yellow shawl—oh no, she had been wearing it all the time—how silly! But she came very close to me and declared that she had quite forgotten what happened when we so nearly missed the ice—I could not tell what she meant then and cannot now.

  “Farewell, dear Mr Talbot. Believe me, our secret is safe with me!”

  Charles came up from the fo’castle.

  “Edmund. You have not gone. I thought we had said farewell in the middle. This is insupportable.”

  “What sort of man do you suppose the governor is?”

  “This gentleman seems to have business with you. God bless you!”

  The gentleman had indeed. It was Markham, one of the entourage! He welcom’d me, took me straight off to, as he said, “wet my whistle”. The phrase was a mixture of the knowing and the common which I found fairly representative of the junior members at the Residency. An English inn does not transplant well, but I have to acknowledge that the settlers had done what they could. I was startled to find that a general air of piety was required in the governor’s presence. However, Markham said we were “safe for the time being”, though the governor’s deputy was only marginally less pious than the governor himself.

  “Captain Phillip is a naval man?”

  “Oh, indeed. He and your captain will be discussing the fate of that old hulk of yours—not hard to settle, I should judge by the look of her!”

  “We lost our topmasts and had the devil and all to do.”

  “You ain’t a naval man, by any chance?”

  “God forbid. Our captain does not carouse.”

  “Neither does Phillip. ‘Goodbye, Mr Markham. I shall see you tomorrow at divine service.’”

  “Good God!”

  “It’s tolerable here when you get used to it. The flies are the devil. Good riding and shooting. By the by, there’s a pack of letters for you at the Residency.”

  “Letters!”

  “Came in the bag.”

  “I must go.”

  “Hey, wait a minute! You have to report to Phillip, you know!”

  The upshot was that we went back to the ship, the state of which was indescribable, for already they were unloading from her as much of her stores as were immediately required on shore. I changed into reasonable clothes.

  My interview with Captain Phillip was not long. He accepted my credentials without comment, hoped I would be happy in what he was pleased to call “the family”, hoped my godfather was well, then asked in a voice little above a whisper for a paper on Mr Prettiman. I had to reply that I had not committed anything to paper. The man was now a cripple and married. I was convinced that he represented no danger to the state. Phillip looked up at me under his brows but said nothing.

  “Sir—there is another matter!”

  “Yes?”

  “The ship, sir. What will happen to her?”

  “I am told she cannot go to sea again. She will become our guardship. The additional space for offices is very welcome.”

  “And her officers?”

  “That scarcely concerns you, Mr Talbot.”

  “With respect, sir—”

  “Mr Talbot, I make every allowance for the conduct of a young man in what amounts to the first few moments of an entirely new situation to any he has known hitherto, but you are a very junior officer and must be made aware of that fact at once!”

  “I am aware of it, sir, and only the very deepest feelings of my heart could impel me to speak at such a moment. But, sir, as a naval officer you must have known many voyages, many commissions—must know how close friendships may become and how—passionately involved one may find oneself with the affairs and the future of a, a shipmate!”

  The deputy governor regarded me for a moment or two in silence. Then his lips twitched into a smile.

  “That is all true. I remember—but that is not to the purpose. Well. Captain Anderson is aware that continued command of a permanently moored guardship in this harbour is not possible for a post captain. He will return to England. Lieutenant Benét—a most unusual young man—goes with him.”

  “I was not thinking of the captain or Lieutenant Benét, sir.”

  Captain Phillip leaned back in his chair and regarded me solemnly.

  “You interest me, Mr Talbot. Proceed.”

  “I was hoping to find, sir, that you would use your vast experience of things naval to reach down and promote a man who is not only my friend and a fine seaman but what is more a convinced and devout Christian!”

  Captain Phillip leafed through the papers I had presented to him. Again the smile dawned round his lips.

  “You not only interest me, Mr Talbot. You surprise me.”

  “Thank you, sir!”

  “I offered command of the ship to Lieutenant Benét. But as I expected, after five minutes with him, he declined it. I hope the Navy does not lose him. He, with an address which seems natural to him but might be though impertinent in another youngster, pressed the claims of Lieutenant Summers.”

  “Good—Heavens!”

  Captain Phillip smiled broadly.

  “Captain Anderson had already done so. He said with emphasis that Lieutenant Summers was admirably suited to the charge of the ship.”

  “So Lieutenant Summers will be a captain!”

  “Who said so?”

  “I thought—”

  “On the other hand, it is possible, of course. His duties would include King’s Harbour Master with the emoluments from that position, for we have lost the one we had.”

  “I am sure emoluments are the last thing in Mr Summers’s mind. He desires only to serve his God and his King.”

  “He said so, perhaps.”

  “Indeed. It was an injunction laid on him at the start of his career by Admiral Gambier in person and it has been his guiding star.”

  “Gambier is a good man. A pious man.”

  “It was my hope, sir, that my first letter to my godfather might contain a description of my joy at being able to represent to Governor Phillip the propriety of promoting a man of strict Christian principles—”

  “‘Governor Phillip.’ Yes. Well. Who knows? So you want Summers made a captain, eh? You know of course that Governor Macquarie will have to confirm? And then the promotion will have to be confirmed from Home? However. Yes. I’ll do it.”

  “Thank you, Governor, a thousand times!”

  “You’d better get him here as soon as possible. And now about your affairs, my boy. We won’t work you too hard for a while. Take a week or two to settle in. Look round you. When you write to your godfather you might include—no. One doesn’t want to seem to be—”

  “It will give me great satisfaction to mention your kindness, Governor. I hardly like to ask—but would it be possible—could I take the good news to Captain Summers myself?”

  “Handsomely, lad! I haven’t even signed an acting commission! Good Heavens, we cannot go about a serious matter like promotion in such a scimble-scamble fashion!”

  “I beg pardon, sir.”

  “No, no. By the by—isn’t your mother a FitzHenry?”

  “Yes, sir. My father—”

  “We have the forms here, you know, printed quite in the modern manner. After all, it is only ‘acting’. It isn’t as if His Royal Highne
ss’s signature was required—that must wait to come out from England if it ever does.”

  “Yes, sir. A little more delayed, I suppose, in peacetime.”

  “Charles Summers, lieutenant—any middle name? No—of the ship—being—to acting—signed—deputy governor.”

  “I can’t thank you enough, Governor!”

  He was regarding me curiously.

  “Anything for yourself?”

  “For me? I—could I take the commission to him?”

  The deputy governor looked a little startled. But then he burst into hearty laughter.

  “It has indeed been a long voyage! Oh, I should not say that—but Benét and Summers, Cumbershum, is it? And Anderson—now you—I tell you what, my boy. That is—that must have been far and away the happiest ship in the service!”

  “Do you have communication with India, Governor?”

  “The Bag, of course. Anything you want sent, let Markham know. He oversees it.”

  “Thank you, Governor.”

  “And, Talbot—the entourage is expected to set a good example, you know.”

  “Yes, Governor.”

  “I’ll see you at matins.”

  He lifted himself an inch or two off the seat and gestured in the direction of the door. It was all much unlike the rosy anticipations with which I had set off from England. But in my delight with the paper I held in my hand I could not be sorry. I went with winged feet towards the ship, a Glaucus with a gift of gold or bronze—and there was Charles, standing at the forrard rail of the quarterdeck. Two carts full of luggage were bumping away along the cobbles and Anderson and Benét were strolling by them! They had lost no time.

  But the ship was in a turmoil. All the hatches had been broken up. Booms were swaying up burdens of every sort, casks were being rolled, bales piled, dust rising—