by John Wyndham
Still, it was clear that things were moving. He now had an office with a number of staff who always appeared to be furiously busy whenever I called there, and he himself had taken on the manner of the confident executive.
During the nine months that followed Walter’s return I had a number of meetings with Lord Foxfield. I found him easier to get on with than I had anticipated – I had suspected that he would have ideas of his own to put forward, and possibly insist upon. It was pleasant to discover that his views on a workable form of democracy accorded well with my own. The points he took me up on were, for the most part, perceptive, and led to few disagreements, none of them on major considerations, so that I gradually came to realize that his interest lay in being kept informed, rather than in steering. His desire, in fact, was to see his Project started on what appeared to be the right lines. His continual response when we did disagree on details was: “All right. Try it. But keep it flexible. You must keep it flexible. It is a changing world. We don’t want to encumber ourselves with something as rigid as the American Constitution. We want a humanist constitution, one that will work without a legislature.” And in my enthusiasm, I agreed with him: it all seemed so simple, so rational.
Then came an evening when he told me.
“It’s gone through. We’ve got our site. Signed and sealed today.”
We raised our glasses and drank to a long, successful life for the Project.
“And now, at last, may I know where it is?” I asked.
“It is a place, an island, called Tanakuatua,” he told me.
It was the first time I heard the name. (And he pronounced it Tanner-kooer-tooer instead of Tanna-kwah-twah, as we came to know it.)
“Oh,” I said, rather blankly. “Where is it?”
“Lies south-east of the Midsummers,” he explained.
Which left me as unknowledgeable as before – except that it suggested somewhere in the other hemisphere.
♦
Thereafter, with a known destination before us, the scheme took on a new reality. The pace of preparations increased. I found myself pressed into assisting Walter, and even sat in on some of his interviews with prospective candidates.
I cannot say I was impressed with the quality of the material that was coming forward to offer itself, but took some consolation that this would be only the pioneer group. Once the Project was established, once there existed a going concern, something one could come to and join, the appeal would be much stronger.
Undoubtedly Walter, and the rest of us, had underestimated the difficulty of assembling any kind of nucleus for such a venture. After all, the fit fit; it is the misfit who is free. The man whose gifts have won him a place in our system, but is prepared to throw it away in order to take a chance on an idealistic whim is understandably rare. So most of the applicants were only too palpably misfits of one kind or another. Not pioneer material – not community material, either. It must have been discouraging for Walter who conducted most of the interviews, but by now he was too deeply immersed in other aspects of the operation to let it weigh on him. He had aimed at a personnel of fifty, but was prepared to content himself with forty-six.
In the meantime, with the purchase of Tanakuatua safely concluded, Lord Foxfield had emerged into the open as the backer of the Project.
Acknowledgement of his sponsorship of the Project had been more or less forced upon him in order to forestall a more unpleasant kind of publicity.
There is an Opposition technique which, though trite, is still tediously employed. One selects an event which is deemed to have a suitable appeal for public indignation, and a slant which harmonizes with the Party’s views. At a dull moment one draws the attention of a national newspaper to it. If it looks promising, and nothing more interesting intervenes, the newspaper adopts it as a Cause, and launches it with a splash. The Party then agrees to one’s putting down a Question, indicating the newspaper articles as evidence of the people’s passionate concern over the Government’s latest iniquity. Thus the newspaper is shown to be the public’s trusty watchdog, one’s Party as its ready champion, and, if all goes well, the Government ought, once again, to be embarrassed.
In the case of the Tanakuatua sale, which was chosen as suitable material for the employment of this technique, there was a hitch. It had been decided that the angle: ‘Outrageous scandal of secret barter of British territory to private interests’ ought to make quite useful trouble-fodder, and the Daily Tidings was not unwilling to oblige. Indeed, its editor was considering how it could most effectively be handled, when he received information drawing his attention to several relevant facts: (a) that Tirrie, the purchaser of Tanakuatua, was a front-man for Lord Foxfield, (b) that there was a long standing friendship between Lord F and his Lordship, the proprietor of the Tidings, (c) that his latter Lordship had, in circumstances that were not dissimilar, himself acquired an island in the Caribbean.
Understandably the Tidings’ interest in the matter then waned. Furthermore, it was allowed to be known that his (Press) Lordship would regard any playing up of the subject by any other newspaper as an unfriendly act. As a consequence, the Opposition turned to fresh woes and scandals new, and Tanakuatua’s change of ownership received no more notice than an occasional factual paragraph here and there.
Lord Foxfield’s interest, however, was now known, and since that fact could no longer affect the price he had paid for the island, he was not unwilling to identify himself as the begetter of the venture.
The press, however, had its revenge, as it always does. The venture got a silly-season write-up. The coverage was slanted to give the impression of an old man’s senile whim, to present the members of the expedition as a bunch of irresponsibles for whom life in a properly ordered society was not good enough – and by implication to make the stay-at-home readers themselves feel sensible and normal. We all had a trying time for a while, and five of the volunteers resigned, bringing our total force down to forty, but when we were no longer a novelty the newspapers’ interest in us waned, to revive only briefly at the time of our departure.
On the eve of that departure we assembled at a hotel in Bloomsbury. Most of us had never met before. There was a noticeable tendency among the members to eye one another with caution, even with misgiving. I must admit that even my enthusiasm felt the strain. Walter and I did our best with introductions to induce something of a party spirit, but it was heavy going. We looked, I imagine, more like a flock of bewildered sheep than a brave band of pioneers-oh. But, we told ourselves, jollity would have been equally out of place. After all, we were embarking on a serious mission…
I myself seem in my recollection to have been in a state of dichotomy. I can recall moments of depression alternating with phases of positive exaltation. In fact I can recall a wondering look in the eyes of some of those I spoke to, as if they found my enthusiasm a little alarming.
Drinks and a good dinner did something to ease and unloosen us, and there were even signs of a sense of team spirit beginning to show, when at the end of it Lord Foxfield rose to give us his valedictory address.
I think I will quote from that. It will give, perhaps, a better impression of his vision for the future than I have conveyed.
“God,” began Lord Foxfield, rather surprisingly, for him. “God, we have been assured, created man in His own image. His own image – let us consider what that means.” He did so, at some length, coming to the conclusion that the image meant the true image. He continued:
“Now, it is not for man to select which of the powers latent in that image he will employ, nor which he will reject. To do so would be tantamount to declaring that God had included certain powers by mistake – or that man knew better than God which powers he should employ, a supposition that puts us on a slippery slope indeed. For surely if God had not intended a power to be used, He could have included it only by accident, or for a mischievous purpose – a proposition which, I imagine, few would accept.
“Thus we must accept that b
y including certain powers in man’s make-up God implicitly laid upon him the duty not of approving or disapproving of these gifts, but the duty of employing them all, to the best of his ability.
“It follows, therefore, since man’s image is God’s, God must have intended man to become like God.
“Why else should He give him His own image? He has, after all used countless other images for His less capable creations: consequently, by choosing to use His own image He must – unless He deliberately made a spurious image of Himself – have laid upon man the obligation to become as godlike in manner as in form.
“Now, this is not a novel deduction. Many rulers, from the earliest times up to the present day, have perceived it – and have, in consequence become aware of, and proclaimed, their personal deification and divine rights. Being, however, strong individualists they have interpreted this divinity as setting themselves apart from and above, other men. Unfortunately, also, they have tended to model their conduct upon that of the captious God of the Old Testament – with unhappy results for others of their kind.
“They were not wrong. Their mistake, or blind spot, if you prefer it, was their failure in logical perception, their inability to see that since mankind was created in the image of God, the destiny and duty of being godlike cannot be restricted to concern simply a few selected persons: it must fall equally upon all who are in the image, which is to say, upon all mankind.
We have long been aware that man is the mightiest species in the creation. During the recent centuries, and particularly in our time, we have seen spectacular increases in his power. Even now his domination of much of his environment is godlike: and his potentialities are unguessable.
“Indeed, he may have exceeded divine expectations in some directions already, for, though the ability of God to annihilate Himself is theologically debatable, man has undebatably achieved the ability to destroy himself, and his world as well.
“This capacity alone should serve to make it clear that the time has now come for us to cease to behave like a lot of irresponsible children letting off fireworks in a crowded hall. It was always stupid; now it has become too dangerous.
“We have now acquired the knowledge and the means to construct for ourselves a rational and mentally healthy form of society. We can adapt much of our environment to our needs – and even, if necessary, much of ourselves to our environment. We have become able, if we wish and so order it, to live not by destruction of, not in conflict with, not as parasites upon the world about us, but in harmony with it, creating a symbiosis with the forces of nature: guiding and directing, but also bestowing as we receive. We have reached a stage where we can – and must, if we are to survive – stop living with the fecklessness of animals, and take charge of our own destiny. If we are afraid to become men like gods – then we shall perish…
“That is what this expedition is about. It is not – as the popular press would have people think – a flight from reality. It is not seeking a lotus-land, an Eden, or even a Utopia. It is the small seed of a great intention.
“You are setting out to plant that seed in a brave new world. To care for it and coax it until it produces fair, fresh, uncontaminated crops to sustain a new society liberated from superstition, purged of blind faiths and ignorant beliefs, freed at last from the cruelty, misery, and frustration that these things have plagued mankind with from time immemorial…”
There was quite a lot more of it with quite a variety of simile and metaphor – as well as a little confusion, some might have felt, in his angles of approach to his subject. Nevertheless, the gist was clear: “The knowledge and the means to create a sane society exist. Here is your opportunity to use them. Now go to it, and good luck to you.”
And, indeed, Lord F might well have contented himself with some such succinctness, for there were some in his audience who did not find it easy to combine his advocacy of rationalism with the unlooked-for prospect of their apotheosis.
However, it was his Lordship’s day. He had paid a very pretty penny to bring it about, and it would cost him a lot more yet, so he was heard out with patience and occasional applause right to his final exhortation to us to bear in mind the words of Henley: ‘I am the Master of my fate: I am the Captain of my soul’.
♦
There exists a coloured photograph of our party assembled the next day on the deck of the Susannah Dingley, taken shortly before she sailed. We number thirty-eight, having been reduced to that number by a couple of not entirely convincing indispositions developed overnight.
We are not a gathering that the unprompted observer would instantaneously have recognized as the Founding Fathers (and Mothers) of a new era. Yet what would be? So many people manage to look unimpressive until they have made their impression.
And, after all, given a fair chance, we might have made it – some of us…
The dominant figure in the photograph is undoubtedly Mrs Brinkley. This is due in part to the prominence of the bulging travel-bag which she clutches, a massive affair decorated with what appears to be a Japanese hunting tartan, but even without it her own broad, beaming, brood-flanked presence would take the eye. One feels that, whatever the ideals and hopes of the rest of us may be, Deborah Brinkley knows just what she wants; it is more babies, and she is ready to go on cheerfully accumulating them on Tanakuatua, or wherever else the tides of life may carry her. This, and the presence of her husband beside her, looking the sturdy, capable farmer he is, has the effect of making her the most confidence-inspiring figure in the picture.
Alicia Hardy, who can be seen close by, talking earnestly to one of the Brinkley children, gives us a touch of distinction.
But there can be no doubt that it is Marilyn Slaight (Mrs Slaight) who thinks she is stealing the picture. In a spectacularly inappropriate going-away outfit, a pose picked up from a fashion magazine, and with a great big smile for all the world, she is clearly self-cast as the belle of the voyage. She stands next to Horace Tupple, his chubby, babyish face already topping a vivid beach-shirt. A more clearly marked life and soul of any party it would be hard to find. I wonder to this day how those two managed to get under Walter’s guard. Horace himself apparently got to wondering the same thing during the following week or two, for he decided to skip the ship at Panama and make his way home. It is remarkable how wise a fool can be.
The small man in the front row frowning at the camera from under his cap is Joe Shuttleshaw. He was a useful carpenter, but, at a glance, a born chip-bearer; beside him is his wife, Diane, as obviously a born husband-bearer. Beyond her Jennifer Felling, the nurse, has rather the effect of a Derain included in a bunch of Matisses. The other Jennifer, Jennifer Deeds, is looking serenely dedicated.
Walter Tirrie is there, of course. He is holding himself a little apart from the rest of us. Something, perhaps the work of preparation, perhaps the angle of the light, has given his face a chiselled look that I had not been aware of before. Also, he has taken on in an undefinable way an air of leadership, and regards the camera with an air of challenge.
Away on the right, Jamie McIngoe the engineer, wears a slight smile – though whether it is caused by Walter, or by the occasion, or by his own thoughts is hard to tell.
Next to him stands Camilla Cogent. She seems withdrawn into her own reflections, unaware of camera or occasion alike: there, but not with us.
I, Arnold Delgrange, am away on the other side, seen in profile. With my gaze distant, and my expression rapt, I look a little ‘sent’. And at that moment I confess I was. Even now I can catch glimpses of the mood that filled me then. The rest of the party’s feet are planted on the steel deck-plates of the Susannah Dinghy – but mine are treading the planks of a new Argo. The sullied waters of the Thames eddy viscously beneath the others, but I am gazing far beyond them, to a new Aegean, gold and caerulean in the sun. I am setting out to turn a vision into a reality, to see the world’s great age begin anew, to play my part in contriving that:
Another Athens shall arise,
>
And to remoter time
Bequeath, like sunset to the skies,
The splendour of its prime.
In that moment I am seeing even more – a new, distant archipelago in which a whole lost world shall flare, phoenix-like, into re-birth…
Alas for the sweet songs the sirens sang!
There we stand. Tom Conning, Jeremy Brandon, David Kamp, and the rest. All kinds of us, from Arnold Delgrange, the dreamer, to Charles Brinkley, the farmer – and any man’s choice for the title of colonist-most-likely-to-succeed.
It is a saddening photograph. We may not look much, certainly we do not present the appearance of a galaxy of talents, but all of us then were filled with high hopes. And the idea that had brought us together was much greater than ourselves.
Ah, well – it will be tried again, I suppose. Men have been setting out these thousand years and more in search of freedom…Yes, they will try again – and next time I hope the Fates will be with them, not against them…
Two
So we sailed for Tanakuatua.
And this seems an appropriate place to give some account of our destination.
When the Susannah Dingley raised her anchor and set out, all that I or indeed any of us, except Walter who had found the place for us, knew of Tanakuatua was that it was a small, uninhabited island too insignificant to be recorded at all in most general atlases, but discoverable in some of the larger and more conscientious ones as an out-of-scale dot in the large blue spread of the Pacific Ocean, located in the region of 9°N, 170°W.
There were some pictures of it, too, taken at intervals over the last seventy years. These for practical purposes, however, can be considered as one picture since each photographer has been struck by the same scenic quality of precisely the same view. It gives a vista looking north-east as seen from a ship moored in the lagoon. There is a line of curving white beach hedged by undergrowth from which springs a pallisade of palms, thickly backed by more palms and trees of other kinds. It is only the background that distinguishes this aspect from that of a thousand other beaches: the twin hills united by a high saddle that identify it as Tanakuatua.