‘In accordance with Timothy’s wishes, the sums he mentioned will be honoured in full. There is however no clue to the final quest he was planning. For now, I have another proposal. The Hercules will continue its life as a research vessel when Geoffrey is not availing himself of it. Charles has suggested a long voyage to the West Pacific Ocean. Encouraged by Joseph Bank’s accounts from the great southern land of Australia, he believes there is enormous scope to discover and collect new plant and animal species.
‘John, I am asking you to lead this grand voyage under the direction of Professor Webster.’
Caroline had succeeded in dumbfounding all three gentlemen.
‘What about Sir Geoffrey? He may wish to join the voyage and I could not have a knight of the realm under my command,’ Dixon said, hiding his excitement.
‘Geoffrey, who is not yet a Sir, may well wish to join the adventure but I have a feeling his interests may lie elsewhere,’ Caroline said.
‘It is a perfect opportunity for John to lead the men, and God knows they love him to boot,’ Cantwell said.
Dixon eyed Cantwell, discomfited by his assessment.
‘Then I accept wholeheartedly. Sail me out of the Thames to get some warmth into these creaky bones.
‘Congratulations, Captain Dixon,’ Caroline said to everyone’s amusement.
In a serious tone, Cantwell said, ‘Caroline, I have one request in the interest of a long voyage such as this.’
‘You only have to ask, Geoffrey.’
‘A dry ship, so John and his men can fully concentrate on the task at hand.’
Cantwell had barely uttered the last word when Dixon leapt up and put him in a headlock.
‘Care to retract that request, Mr Cantwell?’ Dixon said, twisting Geoffrey’s left ear, turning it red.
‘No women on board either,’ Cantwell said.
Dixon released him with a friendly punch to his ribs.
‘For fear of a mutiny, normal rations will apply.’ Caroline grinned and winked at Dixon, making his day.
‘Now concerning the newspapers, gentlemen. The uproar after the events at the Ballard has thankfully subsided since the deaths of Timothy and Vincent. It seems the press may have a heart after all, though I am not sure if it is out of respect for Timothy or their macabre sense of appeasement. The claims of blasphemy and the link to Sir Kenneth’s death were ludicrous and hurtful, especially to Timothy who was a man of unwavering faith and reverence.
‘Lastly, I have arranged for one ornament to be permanently displayed at Cambridge University and another at the British Museum. On Timothy’s behalf, a scholarship program will be offered at Cambridge’s Trinity College and I hope that between you all there will be time enough for an annual address to the students to promote Timothy’s ideals.
‘There is little else left to say, except I am forever indebted to each of you. Though the details of Timothy’s final quest remain a mystery for now, I believe we will one day fulfil his last great dream.’
Caroline paused and a solitary tear rolled off her cheek into her coffee cup. The grandfather clock chimed twelve, the midday sun bright in the cold sky. A tiny green frog called for company in the wall of vines outside the sitting room window. Its suitor, a silent olive snake, consumed it in a single squeeze of its throat.
24
1831
Thomas watched the flickering glow of the oil lamp play in the shadows along the corridor wall. The night watchman came toward him, stopping in front of a wooden pedestal topped with a glass dome. He raised his lamp, admired the Trinity frogs, polished a sticky fingerprint off the dome with the sleeve of his coat and moved on.
Thomas shrunk into the recess beneath the stairwell, waiting for the lamp light to pass. He heard the door at the end of the corridor open and close. A full moon gazed through the skylight as Thomas threw a blanket over the dome and smashed it with a hammer, so it fell quietly in on itself. He extracted the ornament, holding it aloft in a brief show of triumph.
When Thomas picked up the blanket his wrist caught a piece of glass, and blood immediately dripped onto the floor. He turned to run and the blanket snagged on the pedestal, pulling it off balance. It lingered between righting itself and toppling, choosing the latter, crashing to the floor. Thomas fled through the gymnasium and sprinted down a grass bank to the river. A dog sniffed the air, barking wildly. Thomas leapt into a canoe, clutching his injured arm and the ornament tightly to his chest.
The unexpected bang startled the night watchman. He headed back to the corridor and peered carefully in through the door. Satisfied no one lurked in the shadows he held up his lamp and entered. Shattered glass littered the floor and the pedestal lay on its side. The ornament was gone, a trail of blood leading from the scene.
Outside the gymnasium, the dog pulled ferociously on its chain. The night watchman released it and it bounded ahead of him to the river bank, nose to the ground, smelling the earth, howling at the silence.
The current steered the canoe downstream. Thomas tore off his shirt, wrapping it tightly around the gaping cut in his arm. He had three days to reach Plymouth with the ornament. No one in their wildest dreams would imagine he had stolen it. When the school term ended, the college believed he had boarded a steam train to London. Nothing linked him to the theft. He wrote an elaborate lie to his parents informing them of a hurriedly arranged field trip to hunt trapdoor spiders in the heath lands north of the Cam River. His uncle and aunt had also kindly offered to host him for Christmas then see him home for the New Year.
Spiders were Thomas’ favourite pastime. To search for them he would forgo his holidays at Wilsbury and evenings by the fire listening to his grandfather’s fabulous tales of adventure aboard the Hercules.
The canoe scraped to a halt on the river bed. Thomas stepped into the shallow icy water and waded up the slippery bank.
From the hill top, Thomas saw the station. A big iron locomotive with ten red carriages in tow had already parked. The baggage car on the end had a tiny deck at the rear and a wide door on the side. In the distance a pair of silver threads wound southward in the moonlight.
On the station platform, behind the ticket booth, was a large box filled with rags. Checking no one was watching, Thomas hopped in, buried himself and closed his eyes.
He woke to the bustle of people arriving at the station. The platform was full of suited men in hats and women in long skirts dragging heavy cases and excited children behind them. No one noticed Thomas in the rag box. He squinted at the early morning sun angling in under the station roof as a burst of steam from the locomotive’s boiler billowed into the sky. A porter walked by and dipped his hand for a piece of cloth, nearly brushing Thomas’ hair with his fingers.
Thomas grasped the ornament he’d let go during his sleep, held it up to watch the tiny frogs sparkle in the sun then slipped it into a lonely brown sock.
The bloodied shirt wrapped around his wrist had dried, sealing the wound with a soft scab. He managed to carefully peel the shirt away without reopening the cut. Amongst the rags, he spotted another shirt, oversized and grey, crumpled but clean. He threaded his arms into the long sleeves and rolled the cuffs up to his elbows, stuffing the long tails into his trousers. He thought it would best fit his grandfather’s friend, old Mr Dixon, with his barrel chest and thick bull neck.
Thomas rolled over the edge of the box onto the platform, weaving through the throng of people to the southern end of the station. Four porters were loading boxes and cases of all shapes and sizes through the wide-open door of the baggage car.
The large clock next to the ticket booth showed 7:30. The pile of luggage on the platform slowly shrunk as well wishers said their goodbyes and the steam whistle hurried them on.
With a handful of passengers left to board, Thomas stepped off the platform down to the track where the smell of oil and burning coal was heavy on the breeze. He crossed the rails, hiding in the long grass as the engine driver got off the locomotive and walked the length o
f the train to check the wheels and couplings.
As the minute arm tilted jerkily to the top of the hour a whistle signalled the porters to sight the last of the tickets.
In a cloud of steam the train edged out of the station. Thomas ran through the grass in a crouch, eyeing the watchman on the baggage car who was sucking his pipe and comically saluting the people left on the platform. Thomas jogged beside the car, pulling himself onto a ladder fixed to its side. The clatter of wheels settled to a rhythmic click as the train picked up speed and Thomas climbed onto the car roof. He lay on his back in the cold wind, content to watch the blue sky and the fields slip by. At two sharp bursts of the steam whistle came sudden blackness as the train rattled through a short tunnel then broke back into the sun. Thomas crawled to the back of the car and saw the watchman busy repacking his pipe. In the middle of the car’s roof he noticed a fine gap running in a square where an old hatch had been sealed up.
Thomas laid the ornament down in its brown sock, pulled a small knife from his back pocket and chipped at the wood. The freed hatch caught the wind, spinning away into the air, hitting the track and cracking in half.
The watchman sat up, wide awake. A shadow flickered overhead, the square of wood flying past the end of the train. As he peeked around the side of the car, an icy wind stung his face and a deep drone hummed in his ears.
Thomas picked up the ornament and peered into the car. He lowered himself in, tumbling down the pile of luggage to the floor where he sat and gathered himself. Above him, in the square patch of blue sky, the watchman’s head suddenly appeared, staring into the gloom.
Thomas froze. The watchman strained to see anything in the dimly lit car then he was gone, back along the roof, down onto his tiny deck.
Thomas held his breath. The train did not slow and the patch of blue stayed clear. He rested his head on a case, drew a loose blanket under his chin and fell asleep. Still clutching the ornament, he dreamt of big hairy spiders leaping off the dining room walls at Wilsbury into Grandma Caroline’s bowl of thick pumpkin soup.
Thomas woke to the slowing click of wheels. The brakes grated, a rush of steam signalling the train was about to stop. He threw the blanket off and scrambled up the luggage, popping his head into daylight and the smell of the sea. A light breeze blew off the water, the station a riot of colour. He climbed onto the car roof as passengers filed from the carriages and waited for their luggage.
When the porters opened the baggage car, cases and boxes fell out onto the platform.
‘We’ve had a stowaway,’ the head porter said, pointing at the hole in the roof. He called to the watchman. ‘Did you see anything?’
‘I saw the hatch fly off, thinking it worked loose in the wind. When I climbed up and looked into the car everything appeared in order,’ the watchman said.
‘British Rail purchased this car from Begley’s Circus last year. It took a good deal of scrubbing to rid the timbers of the smell. The food hatch was tarred up and wouldn’t have come loose in a thousand years. I’ll have it repaired by departure time tomorrow morning,’ the porter said.
Thomas crept down the baggage car ladder onto a terminus of intersecting tracks and ran toward an empty platform on the other side of the station. A man yelled at him, giving chase. Thomas leapt onto the platform and kicked the man away, escaping down a narrow path between two long sheds.
Hands on knees, Thomas regained his breath then headed toward the dock.
The skyline was a panorama of masts and rigging. Something about the seaside made the hair on Thomas’ neck stand up. The light was uplifting with bright buildings painted in cheerful colours to match the holiday mood. Wilsbury had manicured lawns and sumptuous interiors filled with the finest furniture and art money could buy. But here the rawness of the wind and the salt air made his spirit soar.
The Beagle stood apart, its yards stacked with sail. The mooring ropes were being cast off and the rigging adjusted. With a gentle slap, canvas caught the breeze, angling the Beagle slowly away from the pier.
Thomas tied a knot in the end of the brown sock and ran toward the ship, drawing level with the bow, spotting Mr Darwin clutching a balustrade on the foredeck.
‘Mr Darwin! Mr Darwin!’
At first Darwin heard nothing above the wind in the rigging.
‘Mr Darwin!’ Thomas screamed.
Darwin turned toward the pier to see a boy running with the ship, shirt flapping behind him like a rogue sail.
The Beagle picked up speed, carving sharply to port as Darwin made for the stern.
Thomas stopped abruptly at the end of the pier, swinging the sock in large windmills around his head. He released it with all the force his wiry arms could muster, and it flew in a high arc over the water. Darwin followed the flight of the brown blob, whose trajectory seemed perfect. He thought it might land on the aft deck but as the Beagle powered forward he quickly realised its shortfall. He reached out in vain hope but it dived beneath his outstretched hands, striking the stern. Whatever Thomas had hurled with such high expectation, was now sinking like a brick to the bottom of the harbour. Thomas waved madly as Darwin faded into the distance.
The pier became a distant speck. The Beagle rounded the headland and a full set of sails unravelled to take advantage of the following breeze. The bark groaned and shuddered as it surfed the rolling swell. Darwin felt seasick. He remained on deck hoping the ocean air might ease his queasiness but eventually sought refuge in his cabin where he lay down, closed his eyes and kicked off his boots. Nausea overcame him, and back on deck as the Beagle heeled under the wind, he expelled the contents of his stomach into the Atlantic. Captain FitzRoy watched from the wheel with a mixture of amusement and concern. They were one hour into a two-year journey. Young Charles must become accustomed to the sway of the boat or suffer horrible bouts of sickness in what fledging sailors considered a fate worse than death. The weather was gentle now compared to the storms they could expect in the South Atlantic.
Darwin wiped the spit from his mouth, returned to his cabin and lay on his bunk, staring at the ceiling. His gut rose each time the Beagle dropped into a trough, and fell as the bark forced its way up the next steep swell. He tried feeling for a rhythm in the roll of the hull but the Beagle breached a tall wave, jarring into the hollow on the other side.
Near sunset, the sea flattened and the wind softened. Some of the sails were collapsed to manage the boat during the night. Darwin was unsure if the smell of food from the galley made him feel better or worse but thankfully the Beagle now rode on a more even keel across the choppy swells.
Darwin, about to go on deck to watch the sunset, heard a knock outside his cabin window. He poked his head into the salty air to see a brown sock snagged on an oarlock, stretched by something weighty in the foot. He unhitched it, pulled it into the cabin, loosened the knot in the end with his teeth and emptied it onto his bunk.
He stared disbelievingly at the Cambridge ornament. If only young Thomas knew that the British Museum in London had recently presented him with their matching example. Darwin put the prize back into the sock, placed it in the middle drawer of the chart desk and thought to mention it to Captain FitzRoy at a later time.
On deck, an orange sun slipped off the horizon. Cold wind forced Darwin’s hands deep into the pockets of his long grey coat. He leaned against the fore spar, mesmerised by the dozen Atlantic dolphins surfing the bow wash and spinning through the air. It heralded a voyage in which a thousand wonderful sights would assail Darwin and lead him to some controversial conclusions of his own.
25
Thomas was ashamed of his stupidity. The ornament was gone forever. He saw it strike the stern of the Beagle and lost sight of it as it ricocheted off the dinghy and into the water. No diver would find it at the bottom of the deep cloudy harbour. He walked off the dock, drawing stares from the dissipating crowd. Missing Christmas at Wilsbury was for nothing. He had four days to return to Cambridge, collect some luggage, purchase an official ticket to
London and arrive home composed and enthusiastic at the prospect of the New Year.
James opened the door at the first knock. He had watched Thomas from a window, walking up the driveway of the estate, struggling with his case.
‘Good morning, Thomas,’ he said, slightly stooped in his eighty-year-old frame.
‘Hello, James,’ Thomas said.
‘How was the train trip?’ James said, noting Thomas’ exhaustion.
‘It’s good to be home, James,’ Thomas said, smiling and recalling his adventure to Plymouth.
‘Your parents are shopping in London but they’ll be home for lunch. Grandpa and Grandma Cantwell are in the drawing room taking morning tea,’ James said with a twinkle in his eye.
Thomas couldn’t wait. He dropped his case and dashed off along the hallway, skidding along a silk runner in his shiny black shoes before stopping at the doorway of the drawing room. Antelope heads lined the walls, content in the warm glow of the fire. His grandparents were sitting together on a couch. He crept up behind them as the fire collapsed in a shower of sparks. A creaky floor board gave him away and he ran around and hugged them both.
‘Find any trapdoors, young man?’ Grandpa Cantwell said.
‘Heaps, Grandpa.’ Thomas’ enthusiasm masked his deceit.
‘We missed you, especially on Christmas morning, Thomas,’ Grandma Cantwell said.
She took him by the arm, leading him to the Christmas tree laden with tinsel, coloured balls and topped with a white angel. One present remained beneath its green branches.
‘Open it, Thomas. It looks lonely under there,’ Grandma Cantwell said.
Thomas knelt and lifted the weighty present wrapped in red paper and tied with a gold ribbon. He pulled the bow undone and tore the paper from a cardboard box. With an expectant glance at Grandpa Cantwell he removed the lid to find a collection of hardcovered books. He lifted one out. On its cover, Spiders of the Americas was printed above a fantastic drawing of a Giant Bird-Eating Spider. Thomas fanned the pages, feverishly admiring the coloured plates. He put the book on the rug, delving excitedly back into the box, holding up Spiders of Asia. He examined a bright blue tarantula he’d never seen or heard of.
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