CHAPTER ONE

Captain Illiam Quillian Kewley
JUNE 1857

SAY A MAN catches a bullet through his skull in somebody’s war, so where’s the beginning of that? You might say that’s easy. That little moment has its start the day our hero goes marching off to fight with his new soldier friends, all clever and smirking and waving at the girls. But does it, though? Why not the moment he first takes the shilling, his mouth hanging wide open like a harvest frog as he listens to the sergeant’s flatterings? Or how about that bright sunny morning when he’s just turned six and sees soldiers striding down the village street, fierce and jangling? But then why not go right back, all the way, to that long, still night when a little baby is born, staring and new, with tiniest little hands? Hands you’d never think would grow strong enough one day to lift a heavy gun, and put a bullet through our poor dead friend’s brain.

If I had to choose a beginning for all these little curiosities that have been happening themselves at me, well, I’d probably pick that morning when we were journeying northwards from a certain discreet French port, where tobacco and brandy were as cheap as could be. Not that it seemed much like the beginning of anything at the time, but almost the end, or so I was hoping. The wind was steady, the ship was taking her weather nicely, and as we went about our work I dare say every man aboard was having a fine time dreaming money he hadn’t yet got, and what pleasures it might buy him. Some will have been spending it faster than a piss over the side, dreaming themselves a rush of drink and smoke, then perhaps a loan of a sulky female’s body. A few might have dreamed every penny on a new jacket or boots, to dazzle Peel City with fashion for a day or two. Others would have kept cautious, dreaming it on rent paid and wives quieted.

And Illiam Quillian Kewley?

As the Sincerity jumped and juddered with the waves I was dreaming Castle Street on a Saturday morning, all bustle and everyone scrutineer-ing everyone else, with Ealisad walking at my side in a fine new dress, both of us holding our heads high as Lords, and nobody saying, ‘‘Look see, there’s Kewleys—don’t you know they used to be somebody.’’ Or I dreamed my great-grandfather, Juan, who I never met, but who was known as Big Kewley on account of being the only Kewley ever to make money rather than lose it. There he was, clear as day, leaning out of heaven with a telescope, and calling out in a voice loud as thunder, ‘‘Put a sight on him, Illiam Quillian, my own great-grandson. Now there’s a man who can.’’

Then all of a sudden our dreamings were interrupted. Tom Teare was calling down from the masthead, where he was keeping watch. ‘‘Sail. Sail on the port bow.’’

Not that anyone thought much on his shout then. The English Channel is hardly the quietest stretch of ocean, so there seemed nothing too worrying in discovering another ship creeping along. The boys went on scrubbing down the deck, while chief mate Brew and myself carried on standing on the quarterdeck, making sure they kept at it.

But you should know a little about the Sincerity, as there was a wonder all made of wood if ever there was one. Truly, you couldn’t imagine a vessel that looked more normal from the outside. I dare say she was a little old—her prow was round and blunt and well out of fashion, and her quarterdeck was too high for modern tastes—but otherwise she seemed as ordinary as seawater. I’d wager you could’ve spent all day aboard and still been none the wiser. Unless, that is, you had a particular eye for the measure of things. Or you happened to take a look above the inside top rim of the door to the pantry.

And that would be hardly likely.

In my great-grandfather Big Kewley’s day, now, such cleverness was never called for. The Isle of Man was still free and independent then, having yet to be bought by interfering English politicians, and as a free and independent land she took it upon herself to have her own free and independent duties on brandy and tobacco and such, meaning she had hardly any at all. Truly, that was the golden age of Man Island. Vessels sailed into her ports direct from every corner of the world, from Europe and Africa, from Indies West and East. Why, her harbour quays were so piled with barrels and casks that a man could hardly reach his own ship. What’s more, every cheap, dutiless drop of spirit or leaf of tobacco was as legal as King George himself.

Naturally it seemed a shame to softhearted Manxmen, such as my great-grandfather, to go hogging such plenty all to themselves when there were poor desperate Englishmen, Irishmen, Scotsmen and Welshmen wailing and moaning at the scandalous cost of their taxed liquor. It seemed just kindness to load up a skiff on a moonless night and slip across the sea to some quiet edge of Ireland or Scotland—or for that matter England or Wales, as Man Island sits clean between all four—and help them out. Forget all this fashionable talk of free trade, as it’s nothing but English mimicking. My great-grandfather was free trading before it was even invented.

But I’m drifting off from that beginning we had. Tom Teare’s second shout came just a moment or two after his first. ‘‘That ship on the port bow. Looks like she’s a cutter.’’

Now here I think we all took a little notice. Not that there was anything clear or certain, but this was definitely worse than just being sail. You see, though there are many ships that might be a cutter, there’s one kind in particular that always is, and this was exactly the kind that we didn’t want to meet. Nobody said anything—the boys carried on scrubbing and slooshing like before, and Brew and myself kept watch-ing—but we were all thinking trouble.

This little jaunt in the Sincerity was taking a chance, I dare say, but still it had seemed worth the risk. The sad truth of it is there never was a family so clever at letting it all slip through their fingers as Kewleys. When Big Kewley died he left farms, half a dozen town houses, an inn and boats enough to take half Peel for a jaunt round the harbour, but by the time it got to me there was just the house we lived in—and that with its roof—together with a farm that was half stones, a shop in the wrong street and a little grubby inn that never paid. It wasn’t even as if it had all gone on gambling and high women, which would at least have had a touch of the hero. No, the Kewleys were careful, sober people, but with a terrible taste for litigating wills, and a perfect eye for a rotten buy. Why, I can’t say I’d done any better than the rest of them. Even with my captain’s wages sailing dirty little vessels back and forth across the Irish Sea with cattle bones and such, I wasn’t even stemming the tide. I knew if I didn’t do something before long it would all be gone, and Kewleys would be begging on Big Street like any set of poor mucks.

Then one day I heard how a merchant vessel had sailed into Ramsey harbour bankrupt. Port dues were owing and she was coming up for auction, while the word was she’d go cheaper than dirty weather. That got me wondering. The fact was there was only one way Kewleys had ever got themselves rich, so perhaps I should give it another try? It was true that the old trade was long out of fashion nowadays, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t pay. At least I should take a look. So I rode across to Ramsey to put a sight on this stranded ship. A battered old vessel she was, with a high quarterdeck like you hardly saw anymore, and even a little toy of a cannon on the prow to scare the seagulls, but I never minded. Why, just looking at her I could feel hope getting into my lungs. I could just see myself there, shouting orders from her deck, my own ship, that would make me rich enough to buy half Douglas town.

Within the week I’d taken her, too, and was looking into selling off those last few scrapings of the great Kewley fortune. My wife was never pleased, of course. Sweet delight of my life though Ealisad is, when it comes to risk she’s one of those watchful, weighing kinds of female who won’t venture tuppence though it could catch her fifty guineas. I did try to win her round for sure. I told her a little about the clever things that could be done with a ship, especially by Manxmen from Peel City. I told her of cousin Rob, who’d been in the English navy and married an Englishwoman, and now caught eels and such near Maldon town—that was hardly a spit from London itself—where he lived in an old house sat on an empty stretch of shore, handy as could be, so he’d even joked about what might be done there when he last paid us a visit. I told her how much a fellow might expect to catch from one voyage of this particular kind, and how it was only doing those Englishmen a favour besides, and so was moral as could be in its way. Not that it did any good. All I got back was black looks and Scripture talk.

‘‘You’ll have us all walking the houses begging for ha’pennies, mark my words,’’ she’d say, ‘‘or in gaol.’’

‘‘Don’t you worry,’’ I told her, ‘‘it’ll be as easy as kicking pebbles on the beach. You just wait. Three months from now you’ll have a fine new carriage to take you off to church on Sunday.’’

Of course things never do turn out quite as you expect. It took more than three months just to get the ship ready. First there was bringing her round to Peel, where all was more discreet. Then there was finding all that certain extra timber I needed, that had to be from a boat freshly broken up, and one just a little smaller than the Sincerity herself. Next there was getting the timber fitted, and repairs done besides. There was finding the crew, who had to be just right every one of them, meaning they had to be Manxmen from Peel City, as no others could be trusted. Finally, when ship and men were all set, there was the showing cargo, which was salted herring, Manx as could be. All of this cost a good few pennies, and though I had had paid a sweet price for the Sincerity herself, I was running short by the end and even had to borrow more from Dan Gawne the Castletown brewer. By late May, though, all was finished complete.

What a send-off that we had. Why, it seemed as if half Peel was there, standing on the quays and the herring boats, all staring, and perhaps waving a hat if they had one. Then again we were quite a sight. The Sincerity looked fine as Christmas with her new canvas, her fresh ropes and paintwork, and even her figurehead was gleaming as if new, peering away at the horizon through her dark curls, with just a hint of a winking. I’d bought myself a fresh set of clothes and a cap to match, and as I stood on the deck I felt fine and brave as could be. The only thing to spoil it all, in fact, was when I saw the Bishop of Man pushing his way through the throng towards us.

‘‘Captain Kewley, is it?’’ he asked. ‘‘I understand you’re sailing south.’’

The Bishop of Man, I should tell, was an Englishman named Chalmers, being a huffy old scriss always peering down his nose at the world. There were some persons said he’d got himself all in sulks because he’d not been given a fine airy cathedral in Winchester or Canterbury to lord it over, but had been shut away on a small country full of Methodists mumbling some language he couldn’t understand. Not that I’m saying it was true, but there were persons said so. Now he was all sweetness, of course, seeing as he was questing after a favour.

‘‘I have to go to Port St. Mary, you see. The roads being so very poor I wondered if I might make a little passage aboard your vessel.’’

I can’t say I much wanted him aboard, even just for the hour or the two it would take us to reach Port St. Mary, but it’s hardly easy saying no to bishops. Besides, if there was one man in Peel City who wouldn’t be in the know as to what particular kind of ship that the Sincerity happened to be, it was him, so there’d be no great harm. Or so it seemed at the time. Up he climbed onto the deck, in his purple and his silly-looking straw hat to keep the sun off his fine Englishman’s head.

Soon after that it was time to be away. As the wise man says, keep a good wind waiting and it’s nothing you’ll be eating I called out for the bowline to be let go and the two towing boats started off pulling away till their tow ropes snapped taut. Then the Sincerity gave a kind of shudder and a little strip of water opened up between her and the quay. I recall thinking that, though we were hardly a yard gone, we were started now, after all these weeks of waiting, and then I dropped into wondering about the mysteries of how things would turn out, and what thoughts I’d be thinking when I returned. Not that I guessed even a glimmer of the truth of it, of course. If I had, I would probably have jumped straight back ashore. I gave a wave to Ealisad, though she hardly waved back, being still in her huff and then the crews of the two boats pulled at their oars and slowly the harbour began to change its shape, till it was scrinched up small behind us, and its waving bodies were hardly bodies anymore but just a crowd. After that there was no time for looking, as we were out in the swell, rocking nicely, and there was work to be done. The tow ropes were let go, the boats were brought up, and the boys were scampering aloft to let go a sheet or two and catch the wind. Soon the last sight of Peel was gone complete, and it was time to twist your head about and give a thought to what was next.

It was then that the Bishop of Man started getting himself bored. I suppose now he had monkeyed a passage out of us he could cast off his charm, and soon he was yawning and strutting his way about the deck as if he’d been suffering shipboard life for months. It was the creatures he found to amuse himself There weren’t very many aboard—I reckoned we’d only need fresh meat for a week or two and money was close, so I had got us just a dozen chickens, one sheep and a pig—but still they were enough for the bishop. There he was in his purple and his silly straw hat, clucking at the chickens and poking his fingers through into the coop, or trying to stroke the sheep, which didn’t like him. He must’ve thought himself a proper St. Francis. Not that any of that was so bad. No, what was bad came just after.

‘‘What a splendid pig.’’

It mightn’t seem much to one who doesn’t know, but it was to those that did. Not that I ever trouble myself with any foolish superstition, for sure, but I dare say some aboard did, and they’d have told you, certain as death, that there are particular words that must never be spoken aboard a Manx boat when she’s out at sea or it’ll be bad luck all voyage. Though I’m hardly an expert, like I’ve said, there’s some persons insist you mustn’t say rabbit but instead pommit. Likewise for herring you must always say child. For a cat you say scraper. For a mouse you say lonnag. The wind is Old Bags. Rats are Uncles or Big Fellows. Ree Yn Laa- that’s King of the day in English—is the sun, while Ben-rein Nyhoie, which means Queen of the night, is the moon. Blue Judith’s a mermaid. Blue John’s the sea. And you must never, ever say pig, but always swiney.

Of course, mistakes will happen, and the bad luck can be stopped easy enough if the proper thing is done. Whoever spoke wrongly should, as I’ve heard, shout ‘‘cold iron’’ and then touch the ship’s cold iron as quick as he can. This is hardly difficult after all, and so might as well be done, if only to quieten any that have such foolish beliefs. The trouble was that in this case it had been said by a foreigner, and a bishop besides. Consequently we none of us said a word, though one or two might have given him looks, and he might have noticed them too. Certainly he left the pig alone quick enough, and I recall that he went below soon afterwards, complaining of the sun, till we reached Port St. Mary and were rid ourselves of the old scriss.

Not that I was bothered by any of this myself of course, having no time for such windiness, but I dare say there might have been one or two aboard who were troubled that such a thing had happened just as the Sincerity set sail on this, her first voyage as a Manx ship of particular purpose. So there were more than a few words said about Bishop Chalmers when, just fifteen days later, Tom Teare gave his third shout down from the masthead.

‘‘The cutter, she’s turning towards us now.’’ Well, that left no doubting.

In my experience once bad luck gets started on a man it will go on, and Captain Clarke of the coast guard cutter HMS Dolphin was bad luck pure as air. As his vessel bore down at us I had hopes we might catch some addled old gent thinking of his retirement, all belly and gout yawning at the paperwork, but no, not at all, the Captain Clarke who stepped aboard the Sincerity’s deck was one of those shiny-buttons Englishmen, all peering out of his uniform at the world, hungry to find what laws it’s gone and broken. Why, there wasn’t even a ‘‘good morning’’ out of him as he glanced about him, six marines following just behind in case he should feel lonely. All he said was ‘‘Captain … ?’’

‘‘Kewley,’’ I obliged, handing him the ship’s papers.

‘‘Registered port Peel City, Isle of Man,’’ he read, giving me a little knowing glance when he got to Isle of Man, as if to say, I know all about that little spot. ‘‘Sailing to Maldon, Essex, with salted herring.’’ Now he played the actor a little, shaking his shiny-button head and pretending himself mystified. ‘‘I must say I’m a little surprised at your destination. Unless I’m very much mistaken Maldon is a fishing port. Are you sure they’ll be interested in a boatload of herring?’’

I gave him a shrug. ‘‘There’s fish and there’s fish.’’

Of course it wasn’t the cargo he was really interested in. That was just starting. ‘‘What troubles me, Captain, is your position. Your voyage is from Peel to Maldon, is it not? So why, I wonder, should we discover your ship sailing northwards from the direction of France?’’

I had an answer ready, at least of a kind. ‘‘We were hit by a squall just yesterday. It must have blown us thirty miles away to south.’’ As it happened, there had been a bit of dirty weather the day before, and it had been from the north. As the wise man says, choose your lies like you choose your wife, with care.

Not that it did any good. Clarke showed his claws now, which he was always intending. ‘‘Captain Kewley, I must ask you if contrary to your documents, you have broken your journey at a foreign port? I would advise you to answer with great caution, as any mistruth shall certainly be found out, and shall lead you to be fined so heavily that you will soon wish you had never gone to sea.’’

There was only one reply I could give and I gave it, with as much offended dignity as I could find. ‘‘Certainly we have not.’’

‘‘Do you have any cargo aboard other than the salted herring listed here?’’

‘‘That neither.’’

He seemed pleased, like a hound that’s smelt rabbits, and straightaway turned to his six boys in scarlet. ‘‘I want this ship searched and searched well.’’

So there we were. Matters weren’t turning out quite as easy as kicking pebbles on a beach after all. Not that he had us yet, for sure, but it was a proper worry, while I hated the notion of my ship being poked at and prodded by strangers like some common street harlot. I’d taken what precautions I could to keep her fancies clothed, though this was nothing much more than making sure that everyone was kept busy, there being nothing like idleness to make a body nervous, while the last thing we wanted was some fit of stammering or a hasty glance in the wrong direction. Juan Brew, the chief mate, and Parrick Kinvig, the second, were shouting out orders like seven devils, making their boys jump around the deck with chores, or scamper up aloft to trim the sheets. China Clucas, the ship’s giant, was at the wheel, while belowdecks in the workshop Chalse Christian the carpenter was sawing away at a piece of wood and Ritchie Moore the sailmaker was having a good sew at his canvas, while Mylchreest the steward was tidying the cabins.

That just left Rob Quayle, the cook, who was set to cleaning out the pigsty, this being the safest chore for him. Quayles, I should tell, were well known for being strange articles, being odds every one of them. Rob Quayle’s father had died when he was only a babe—from pure screaming madness as some persons said—and so he was brought up by his mother, who kept a rotten little house down by the herring salting sheds and earned her pennies washing other bodies’ dirty clothes. Whether it was this made Rob Quayle strange, or he just took his strangeness from the rest of those Quayles, that I wouldn’t like to guess, but strange he was for sure, with his long face and worrying eyes, keeping to himself and thinking everyone was talking about him, which quite often they were. No, it was hardly a surprise he was soft as butter for the company of creatures. It was the swiney that the Bishop of Man had called pig that he made his best friend, and in the two short weeks we’d been out from Peel they already seemed proper family, so hardly an hour went by without Quayle going over to talk to it or feed it a choice scrap he’d found. As for the pig himself you couldn’t imagine a more conceited beast. The better its food, the fuller it got with high notions of itself till Quayle was going half mad thinking up things it wouldn’t turn up its snout at and leave.

‘‘There’s only one thing that swiney hasn’t tasted,’’ was the joke that went round, and it was a joke Quayle hated. ‘‘And that’s a nice leg of pork.’’

Not that we were any of us in a mood for jokes now, as Captain Clarke set his marines poking about the ship. They started in the ship’s hold, which was danger, but could be handy too, as our cargo might work in our favour. I had chosen this with some care, there being few things dirtier, slippier and generally more stinking than fifty barrels of salted herring. Captain Clarke did what he could, standing well back when his soldiers started opening up barrels, but the fact is there’s no escaping a mighty dose of fish. As the redcoats emptied them out onto pieces of sailcloth, a proper mighty stink filled the air, and little specks of oil and skin and bone went splattering this way and that, jumping a surprising distance, so they sprayed over the marines, and even caught Captain Clarke’s shiny uniform and shoes. Well, he didn’t like that at all, for sure, but it never stopped him, more was the shame. Even when his boys had been through two dozen barrels, the hold was fuggier than dog’s breath and not a scran of anything had been found, still he was keen as mustard.

‘‘That’ll do, Sergeant,’’ he called out, as if he was having himself a fine old time. ‘‘Let’s start on the rest of the ship.’’

That was a worry. So round the vessel they traipsed, groping and prodding, with me following behind keeping watch. First to the fo’c’sle, where the soldiers went through the crew’s sea chests and poked at the hammocks and clothes hanging up to dry. Next to the work cabin, where Chalse Christian the carpenter and Ritchie Moore the sailmaker were looking sombre with their pieces of wood and canvas. It was in the pantry I got a proper scare. Clarke took himself a peek—nothing so bad there—but then, rather than just content himself with a sight of biscuits and beef and such, he had to go and put his hands round the top of the doorframe and sort of lean himself in. For a moment I couldn’t tell if he might’ve accidentally fingered that certain piece of cord that hung there. Only when he swung himself back out, looking as sour as before, did I breathe more freely. Then we got to the dining cabin. This might be the finish of us or could save us altogether. You see, I’d given a good deal of thought to this particular spot, thinking there’s nothing better suited to keeping a lady’s honour protected from dirty rummagers than a good dose of high finery. What was more, it worked, and a sight better than those salted herring. Even as Captain Clarke stepped inside I could see his face beginning to soften a little.

‘‘What a collection you have.’’

I went with the wind. ‘‘It’s a hobby of mine, I suppose. I’ve always been an admirer.’’

Now he was roaming the room peering at them one by one. ‘‘The Albert is very good. Where did you find them?’’

‘‘In Peel City. There’s a good deal of interest on the island.’’ I can’t say this was exactly true. In fact there was no interest on the island except from passing Englishmen, so I’d had to send as far as Liverpool to find the prints. But as I saw it, if I was to be a patriot, then why not the whole Island of Man with me? ‘‘My favourite is the Victoria. Now there’s royalty, is there not?’’

‘‘The way she leans upon the lion is very natural.’’ For the first time since he had come aboard there was a civility in the man’s voice, as if I might deserve to be treated as a full human creature rather than as a mere lawbreaker unproved. ‘‘And it’s unusual to see so many of the children displayed all at once.’’

As it happened, I had taken a little trouble over these, learning them every one by heart. ‘‘Victoria, Albert Edward, Alfred, Alice, Helena, Louise, Arthur and little Leopold,’’ I recited. ‘‘I’m looking out a Beatrice of course, though I dare say she’ll need to have a few more months on her before we’ll see her picture.’’

‘‘The two busts are also very good.’’ He had a peer at the one of Victoria, which was fastened to the top of a tall hollow block against the wall. Fortunately he didn’t look too long. Would you know it, he was looking doubtful, even a little guilty. I suppose the man simply could not imagine that a fellow who knew by heart the names of all nine royal children would think of cheating Queen Victoria’s own loyal customs. That was the end of his interest in the search, for sure. He had the marines poke around the cabin a little, but when the sergeant tried to look behind the print of Albert, Clarke turned quite huffy.

‘‘I think that’s enough,’’ he said sharply, as if inspecting the ship had all been the poor body’s idea, and a mighty rotten one besides. ‘‘You can return to the boat now.’’

Well, here was a sweet moment to savour. If you happen to come from a small country of the world, like Man Island, you can’t go expecting too many victories over foreigners—Waterloos and Bannockburns and such—but this seemed not so far off in its way. There we’d been, invaded, occupied and staring disaster in the nose, and now our enemies were fleeing away back to where they’d come from. Why, by the time we were back on the deck, and were stood by the pigsty, watching the marines lower themselves over the side, Clarke was almost apologizing.

‘‘I hope your fish will not have been spoiled, Captain?’’

It was all I could do not to look too pleased. ‘‘Ah, I’m sure they’ll be fine enough.’’

‘‘Well, I must thank you for your cooperation, and I hope you’ve not been inconvenienced.’’ With that he stepped back towards the ladder so he could join the marines in the boat below.

We were as close as that, truly we were. Go on, Captain Clarke, just get yourself and your snurly fish-splattered uniform off my deck and be gone. Away with you, so we can save ourselves all that trouble and journeying and hiding in cellars and worse—much worse—besides. Why, the very thought of it makes me quite shake with wanting. But no. There he is, already so well over the side that he’s just shoulders and a head, when he has to give that final glance in my direction, you know, for politeness—as if I wanted the big snot’s smile—and it was done. All of a sudden I realized he was looking just a little too long. Now he was having a frown, his eyes all beady and wondering. That wasn’t good. Next he was pulling himself back onto the deck, and I knew we had trouble.

‘‘What’s that you’ve got there?’’

It wasn’t me he was asking but Quayle, the cook, and Quayle looked like he’d been patted on the head with lightning. ‘Just cheese,’’ he stuttered, ‘‘for the swiney here.’’

Clarke peeled the cheese from his hand—a mighty chunk it was, and all foreign-looking in its shape—and took a deep sniff ‘‘And where might this cheese be from?’’

I guessed quick enough what was up. There had been a row of shops right by the quay of that certain discreet port, and Quayle must have slipped across without anybody noticing. Seeing how the silly fritlag would only stammer us into worse trouble, I shot him a look to quiet him. ‘‘Peel, wasn’t it?’’

‘‘So this is Manx cheese, is it?’’ Clarke turned it over, and then his face went all sort of white and he held it up for me to see. ‘‘And I suppose this is Manx writing?’’

Would you believe it, there was a big tear of French newspaper stuck to the underside, that it had been wrapped in. I knew Quayle was a windy dawd of a one but still I could hardly believe he had been so stupid as this. And all for that useless lump of swiney.

Clarke had himself a quick stare at the paper. ‘‘This is dated just four days ago.’’ You’d have hardly recognized him as the same man as a minute before. Quite gone was all his shiny-buttons cheeriness. Now his voice was sort of breathish and his face had gone quite pinched with fury. Sad to say, I’m sure he wouldn’t have been half so bad if I hadn’t managed to catch him so nicely with the prints of Queen Victoria and all her babes. He had been duped and he knew it, and there’s nothing your uniformed Englishman hates more than being shown stupid by foreigners.

I had to say something. ‘‘Wasn’t there a fishing boat we ran into? You must’ve bought the cheese off them, mustn’t you, Quayle?’’

Quayle nodded weakly. He’d have agreed if I’d said he’d bought it off some passing shark. Not that it made much difference now, as Clarke wasn’t going to believe a word I said, though it was seven times true. Besides, buying goods off a foreign ship without declaring it was almost as much breaking the law as buying them from a foreign port.

‘‘I think,’’ he said, icy as hoarfrost, ‘‘that it’s time you took yourselves to London, so you may have a little chat with some gentlemen from Her Majesty’s customs.’’ Then he peered over the side to call back his marines from the boat. ‘‘The Dolphin will escort you,’’ he added, all sarcastic, ‘‘just to make sure you don’t get lost.’’

So off we went, quiet as lambs, with a coast guard cutter just behind, and the six marines stretched out on our deck, smoking pipes and having themselves a good few laughs about Manxmen and cheese. There was nothing to be done about it, either, except to tell Quayle that he was to cook us for our dinner a fine feed of fresh roasted pork. Of course, there were some aboard remarked how strange it was that the creature that had caused us this trouble was the exact same one that the Bishop of Man had called pig. Not that I was one to trouble myself over any such foolishness, but then again, it was a little curious.

By dusk the coast was clear in sight. A long day it had been, too. Looking at that black English shore, all our dreamings of jink and rum and rented females were long gone. My thoughts were all of searches and questions, of fines and confiscations, of bankruptcy. Perhaps even a spell in gaol.

What we actually got, of course, could hardly have been more different.

The Reverend Geoffrey Wilson
JUNE 1857

THAT NIGHT I WALKED in Diemen’s Land. Through the furthest wilderness I strode, where no Christian had yet trod. Before me rose up cliffs steep as fortress walls, though these were like no ordinary cliffs, being white and smooth as polished alabaster. Humble yet fearless, I began to climb, surmounting boulders and chasms, reaching ever higher, till finally I stood upon a mighty peak and, there before me, miraculous to behold, lay the greenest land that ever was: a lush yet ordered abundance, a garden in the wilderness, lost these six thousand years. As I looked upon it, filled with awe and wonder, every distant fern and stream and flower seemed to murmur to me, ‘‘come hither, sweet vicar, come hither, and make haste.’’

Then I woke and found myself in my sister-in-law’s house in Highgate. Early morning summer sunlight caught the curtains with a delicate brightness, transforming this most ordinary of scenes, filling me with a warming light of truth, and giving to my premonition—for premonition it surely had been—a sense of something confirmed.

‘‘Louisa,’’ I gently called to my wife. ‘‘I have just had a most extraordinary dream. I do believe it is a sign.’’

My dear wife, though she is filled with fine and noble qualities, is not easily drawn by the visionary. ‘‘Oh good,’’ she murmured, without great attention, then returned to sleep.

Early though the hour was, I rose from bed without delay. Twenty-six years as a parish priest in rural Yorkshire had been more than long enough to imbue me with the ways of country people, and could not be gainsaid by a few weeks in lazy London. In this case my promptness proved most opportune. Hardly had I set to work on my correspondence when there was a knock at the door and the housemaid, once she had been raised from her slumber, admitted Jonah Childs’s coachman, who had brought a note from his master across town in Clapham.

The note’s simple directness was wholly characteristic of that noble man, as was its hour of arrival: he must have decided upon the meeting in the middle of the night, having the coachman roused—the idle fellow was visibly sulking—and sending him on his way there and then. Jonah Childs was never one for the slow or the round and about, being nothing less than a fountain of enthusiasm. To know him, indeed, was to be constantly delighted by his warm and excitable nature, his exuberance, his sudden and unexpected bursts of laughter. There were some, it is true, who considered him rather too changeable for their liking, yet I saw this never as a fault, but rather as a quality of charm, resembling the weather on a delightful spring day, when the wind may suddenly and unexpectedly alter its direction, transforming rain into sunshine.

The truth was that without Jonah Childs’s extraordinary kindness the whole expedition would have been impossible, and I believe the Garden of Eden might never be found at all, at least in my lifetime. The man had been nothing less than a power of generosity, a gift from God, and in consequence any little annoyances that might be suffered were of little account. While it was, I admit, far from wholly convenient for me to to be called so suddenly to his home in Clapham, I never for a moment considered declining his invitation. It might, besides, prove of no small importance to learn the identity of this mysterious ‘‘somebody’’ he wished me to meet. Mr. Childs was so unpredictable of spirit that there was no telling what might be in his thoughts.

‘‘Tell your master I look forward to visiting at eleven,’’ I informed his servant.

The morning promised a hot day, being already well warm by half past eight. As my cab journeyed down from Highgate hill, London dimly glinting in the distance through its own dust, I considered how richly unpredictable life could be. Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined, even a few months previously, that I might find myself in such a situation as this: my life wholly revolutionized, parish duties exchanged for hurried preparations for—now only ten days away—an epic journey of discovery.

I cannot say the change was wholly unwelcome. Twenty-six years is a long time to remain a vicar in rural Yorkshire, and while I was honoured to perform my humble priestly duties, and found the parishioners— in their direct way—wholly charming, I must confess that there were moments when I did wonder if I had not been intended to perform some greater service on this earth. My student work had been, though I say it myself not without promise, while I sprang—if somewhat distantly—from one of the older families of Kent, which had included within its ranks two bishops. I began my ministry with some zeal, endeavouring to improve the lives of my flock by launching a little campaign to have the alehouse open only three days in the week instead of seven, and offering—as a nobler recompense—two extra church services. Sadly this little initiative was answered, in certain quarters, with something like hostility.

Attendances at my normal Sunday services actually declined, while I felt myself regarded sometimes with frosty glances in the village.

If this were not troubling enough, I found myself also increasingly concerned for the happiness of my dear wife. She had been brought up in exhilarating Manchester—she would often reminisce about its many colourful shops—and did not find life in this quiet corner of Yorkshire always easy. For a time she was distracted by the demands of our seven children, but as these grew older and more independent, her stoicism seemed slowly to wane. The main source of her distress was, charmingly, her noble loyalty to myself. Often she would recall one of my teachers during my Canterbury days, with whom I had enjoyed some splendid theological duels, in which I had acquitted myself, I must confess, by no means poorly. The man had later gone on to become a man of some influence in the Church, and she felt, perhaps foolishly, he might have helped me find some more exacting toil. Hard though I struggled to reassure her that such things were quite beyond our own poor understanding, still she would raise the matter ever and again, even to the point of weariness. Being much troubled by her unhappiness, which I seemed powerless to alleviate, I became increasingly drawn to taking long walks, along the cliffs or across the moors, so my senses might be refreshed by the bracing Yorkshire wind. It never occurred to me, of course, that I might be walking upon the very answer to my many questions.

My interest began as the merest foolishness: a simple pleasure in collecting pebbles, the more pleasing of which I would bring home and place on the mantelpiece. After a time I developed a curiosity about their colours, which varied so wondrously, which led me onwards to observing the hues of the cliffs and soils of the area. From here I took the great leap of purchasing a bag and tiny pick for the collection of samples, and all at once I discovered myself to be a man with a pastime, that even took me on little journeys of discovery about the county. Naturally I never expected anything to come of this enchanting pursuit beyond the knowledge and simple pleasure it already provided.

One morning I visited our nearest town to purchase a replacement for a lamp that had broken, only to find that the shop was closed. A little annoyed to have wasted my journey, I drifted into a nearby bookseller’s, and soon chanced upon a newly published volume on geology. How close I came to replacing the book upon its shelf, considering its price too high. What drove me to make so rash a purchase? Merest chance? Or did some distant voice murmur words of encouragement? Of such mysteries are formed life itself. That same afternoon I applied myself to reading and received a mighty shock. Even in the very first chapter the author—supposedly a geologist of repute—brazenly asserted that Silurian limestone was no less than one hundred thousand years of age. This was despite the fact that the Bible tells, and with great clarity, that the earth was created a mere six thousand years ago.

This was not mere error, this was slander. This was a most poisonous assault upon the good name of the Scriptures. As I sat thus by the fire, the cup of tea by my side grown cold, my wife working upon her knitting, needles clicking, my heart began to beat faster, and suddenly I knew myself to be in the midst of one of those rarest of moments, that are like some dazzling hilltop vista in the midst of the slow walk of life. A great truth began to pour through my soul, like some charge of electricity. All these long years in Yorkshire had not been wasted, far from it. I was simply being prepared for the great task now revealed to me: to right this terrible wrong, and prevent weak minds from being led astray by this vile falsehood.

From that moment idle pastime was turned to deadly earnest, as I endeavoured to make a kind of machine of myself, to defend this great cause. I read every volume on the subject that I could find, only to discover that more than a few others were tainted with the same calumny as my opponent. My enemies were stronger than I had supposed. Still I strove not to lose heart, recalling to mind the story of little David and mighty Goliath. I began conducting investigations of my own, journeying even outside Yorkshire, as far as Wales and Cornwall. I studied. I pondered. I studied again. Half-formed thoughts began to crystallize into lines of reason. Vague assumptions took on a clear, fighting form. Finally I felt ready to put pen to paper and attempt my very first pamphlet, which I had printed at my own expense: False questions honestly answered: the new theory of divine refrigeration fully explained. Little did I imagine as I looked upon the results of my labours, stacked ready to be sent to periodicals and men of influence, where these sheets of paper might finally take me. Publication is a powerful thing. It can bring a man all manner of unlooked-for events, making friends and enemies of perfect strangers, and much more besides.

My opponents’ first argument was that the rocks of the earth—which are generally agreed to have once been in a hot and melted state—would have required far longer to lose their heat than the Scriptures described. My reply was that the earth had indeed cooled at great speed, being made possible by a process I termed Divine Refrigeration. Seeing as our Lord had enjoyed the power to create the world, it seemed only logical, after all, that he would also have had the power to alter its temperature. This left only the atheist geologists’ second claim, which concerned the vanished creatures. My adversaries had fussed greatly about these, especially a defunct animal named the trilobite—that resembles nothing so much as a giant wood louse—whose remains are sometimes found in Silurian limestone, and which they claimed must have existed in some long-past era. The explanation, however, seemed nothing less than obvious. The earth had originally been created with a huge variety of animals dwelling upon it, extending from the useful—such as horses and trusty dogs—to the simply ludicrous, such as this tiresome specimen. Naturally, with time, many of the less satisfactory animals—and what could be less satisfactory than a giant wood louse?—had simply vanished away. A good deal of them, I proposed, would have succumbed during the great flood.

One would have thought this might be an end to the matter, but no, my suggestions seemed only to feed the flames. Within weeks a countering piece appeared, not by my original adversary but by another of this many-headed hydra. What, my new critic demanded, of the first plants and animals? Genesis states that these were placed upon the earth within two days of the earth having been formed. Surely, he insisted, even divine refrigeration could not cool a world of molten rocks so quickly.

Thus was the Garden of Eden brought into the fray.

My staunchest ally in this desperate battle was the Good Book itself. Although the Scriptures possess the answer to every question that may be asked, they do not always surrender these easily. Sometimes the faith of the reader is tested with an ingenious puzzle, for which there are provided clever clues, and thus it was here. The Bible tells us that man and the animals at first dwelled only in one place—in all likelihood not even an especially large place—being the Garden of Eden. Here lay our answer. I surmised that Eden had lain upon a unique form of rock, one that was wholly impervious to heat, and which floated upon the rest like a great raft, probably surrounded by clouds of steamy vapour. Genesis does not tell us how long it was that Adam and Eve lived contentedly in the Garden before the serpent went about his wicked work, but men seemed to have lived to a great age then and it was surely a good number of years. By the time they were finally banished, the rest of the earth would have had ample time to be cooled by refrigeration, and plants and animals would have spread far and wide across its surface. This was the thesis of my second pamphlet: The Geology of Eden considered.

It seems, however, there is no silencing critics. If this is true, they cried, in letters to periodicals, and as many as two articles, then where is this special form of rock? Why has it not been found?

For some time I struggled with this problem, and I will admit I struggled in vain. Studies and reading brought no relief, likewise the letters I wrote to those few intrepid fellows who had travelled in remoter regions of Arabia, where I still supposed Eden must lie. Those were difficult weeks, and I confess I came close to abandoning the matter altogether, deciding, with the greatest reluctance, that there was nothing to be done but simply to wait for future discoveries to prove my case.

Then, one day, I received a most unexpected piece of correspondence. The sender, who had been following my writings with interest, explained that he had previously lived for some years as a sheep farmer upon the remote island of Van Diemen’s Land, that has lately been renamed Tasmania, and lies just southwards of Australia. His farm had lain on high ground on the very edge of the settled area and he related how, on clear days, he could glimpse the distant mountains of the wilderness beyond. Though he had travelled extensively in other parts of the globe he had never seen anything remotely similar to these. The peaks, he said, were like ruined fortresses, almost as if they were all that remained of some wondrous city, built upon a scale greater than could be aspired to by mere man, that had lain forgotten for thousands of years. As if this were not already curious enough, he insisted that exploration of the colony had been largely confined to the coast and that, with the exception of aboriginal black men, not a soul had yet explored this distant wasteland.

All at once my mind was set racing. Genesis, in that famous passage, which had, I realized, often left me slightly puzzled, states that four rivers flowed out from Eden. One is the Pison, which is unknown, a second is the Gihon, also unknown, which is said to flow to Ethiopia. A third is named the Hiddekel, which goeth towards the east of Assyria, and lastly there is the Euphrates. I have told how the Bible sometimes offers its knowledge in the manner of a puzzler testing his audience. A simple glance at the map shows that it is quite impossible for rivers to flow from the same source to both Ethiopia and Assyria, as the two lands are nearly completely divided by ocean, being connected only by a narrow stretch of the peninsula of Sinai, itself a notorious desert. The more I considered the matter, the more I came to conclude that the passage could signify only one thing, and I was astonished that I had never realized it before. Look elsewhere, the Scriptures were urging. Look to some other place altogether. But where? To the east of Assyria. Suddenly all was dazzlingly clear. East of Assyria? Why not far to the east, as far even as Tasmania?

This was not proof, of course. My next step was to try to discover the names of the rivers of that distant island. I sought the aboriginal names, their replacements by white settlers being far too recent, though these proved far from easy to obtain, the aborigines having been, most unfortunately, all but extinguished. My interest being whetted, however, I would accept no discouragement but persevered, writing to any men I could think of who might have spent time in that distant colony, and urging them, if they could not help me themselves, to provide the names of others who might. Little by little names began to come, and looking upon these, I quickly became struck by what I saw. They were not identical to those of the Bible—with the hazards of time it was inevitable that changes in pronunciation would have occurred—but still I found myself nothing less than amazed.

BIBLICAL NAME	ABORIGINAL NAME
Euphrates	Ghe Pyrrenne
Gihon	Gonovar
Pihon	Pewunger
Hiddekel	Liddywydeve

Where, one might ask, do these four rivers originate? Why, in exactly the region of mountain wilderness that my farming friend had glimpsed from afar!

Naturally I felt I had no choice but to make these findings available to the public. Thus appeared my third pamphlet: A proof against the atheisms of Geology: the truth of the chronology of the Bible finally and conclusively shown. I suppose I had anticipated the piece might attract a response and yet the scale of this quite took me aback. All at once our home was no longer the remote haven it had been, and frequently the postman was quite weighed down with correspondence. Callers would arrive, sometimes unannounced, one from as far as Edinburgh. Even the local population began to regard us with a certain dour curiosity, while my wife, who had never previously shown great interest in my geological pursuit, began quite to enjoy this little fame we had discovered.

The letters were not, sad to say, all supportive. I was especially wounded by the fact that, for the first time, I found fellow churchmen ranged against me, obstinate in their reluctance to abandon their conviction that Eden lay in the Holy Land. For every critical letter received, however, I had at least one other in support. What was more, a great number of these asked the same excited question, a question which, oddly enough, had never occurred to me till then: when was an expedition planned for Van Diemen’s Land? There was no doubting its pertinence, as the whole great subject could never be finally proved except by such a means. While I little considered this to be my own concern, feeling my role was that of a humble forger of ideas rather than explorer, I did write to the Geographical Society, to alert them to this vital issue. In the event, however, they showed only a most disappointing interest, dazzled, as they were, by curiosity to find the source of that dreary river the Nile. Altogether the matter would likely have progressed no further, had not a letter arrived at the rectory one fine Thursday morning, enclosed within it a train ticket to London.

It was a remarkable missive. Then again I was soon to learn this was a remarkable man. Well do I recall that wondrous first meeting between us in Clapham, Mr. Childs’s eyes shining with excitement as he asked his questions, which he did with such enthusiastic rapidity that I hardly began to reply to one when I would find myself met with its successor. Such was his passion to see the Scriptures defended that I feared he might be moved even to tears. After only a few minutes’ discussion he began scribbling a list of estimated costs, which he added together with a sudden flourish.

‘‘This I will gladly meet, and more besides if it should prove necessary.’’

I was dumbfounded, nothing less. Never before had I witnessed such mighty, and godly, generosity. I endeavoured to convey my humble thanks.

‘‘You must go, of course,’’ he then declared. ‘‘You came up with the notion. You know the rocks. You must go.’’

It was a suggestion I had not considered. I was most honoured at the thought and yet, if truth be told, I was most doubtful. I had never journeyed overseas before, nor even travelled on a ship, excepting river ferries. There was also my dear wife to consider. In the event it was she, brave little poppet, who decided the matter. When, the next day, I assured her I would happily remain with her in peaceful Yorkshire if that were her wish, she quite threw up her hands.

‘‘But you must go, Geoffrey. It is your destiny. Don’t you worry about me. I have the children, and my sister too, to keep me company.’’

Thereafter matters proceeded apace. Mr. Childs felt that a man of experience was required to lead the expedition and, after some consideration, the task was awarded to Major Henry Stanford: a tall, quick-eyed soldier, who had battled variously against Chinese pirates, Sikh warriors and more, as well as famously traversing Mesopotamia entirely alone, enduring such great hardship that he had been obliged to eat his own mule. He knew nothing of geology, it was true, and little of the Scriptures, but this aside, I supposed he would make a most adequate leader. He lost no time transforming our aspirations into reality, making arrangements and purchasing stores. It was he who chartered our ship, the Caroline. This was a most excellent vessel, which had been constructed to carry naval stores, and had served in the recent war with Russia before being sold into private hands, while her crew had as fine a military history as their craft, being a robust and fearless assembly of Portsmouth men.

Ten more days and we would be lodged within her, and our expedition would have begun. The very thought fired me with excitement as the cab made its way across London. I had directed the driver to take me first to Hampstead, to the home of Timothy Renshaw, the expedition’s botanist, who Jonah Childs had requested I bring. Timothy’s father was a dour man of modest origins who had made himself a fortune from the manufacturing of plaster, and the family home was large, not to say ostentatious. Timothy’s mother, by contrast, was a most cultured woman of good Herefordshire family, and it was she I was shown in to see. I observed she seemed a touch uneasy.

‘‘Timothy is just coming. I’m afraid he has been feeling a little unwell.’’

The fellow shuffled into the room soon afterwards, looking wan, with discernible shadows beneath his eyes. His appearance confirmed my suspicion that his suffering was wholly self-inflicted. The boy had quite a reputation for ill living, being a great worry to his parents for his late nights upon the town, and I assumed these excesses were not unconnected with his parents’ eagerness to have him join our expedition.

‘‘What’s up?’’ he asked, without offering so much as a good morning to myself. When I explained that his company was expected at Clapham, and shortly, he put on the dreariest of voices. ‘‘That’s awkward. I had things to do.’’ Seeing his mother’s sharp look, however, he gave a shrug. ‘‘But I suppose if I must …’’

I confess he had never been my ideal choice for this great venture. Mr. Childs had been determined that we must have a scientist, feeling that no expedition was complete without, but acquiring one proved no easy matter. Scientists, it seemed, are a tribe greatly swayed by fashion, and the dismal jungles of South America were the preferred destination of the moment rather than distant Tasmania. It was just as we were beginning to lose hope, indeed, that we received a letter from Mr. Renshaw, whose wife had learned of our expedition from a female cousin of Mr. Childs she knew through her church. Accompanying Mr. Renshaw’s letter was a reference from the eminent botanist Dr. Dyson, who had been engaged in instructing Timothy, and who praised his student’s work upon cold-climate plants—especially thistles—describing him as ‘‘a rising talent in this rare field.’’ It was only when I met the younger Renshaw that I found myself wondering if Dyson’s praise were not double-edged, and if the rareness of his field might be a subtle qualification upon his rising talent. Jonah Childs, however, unpredictable as ever, seemed to find every satisfaction with the sullen fellow.

‘‘I do believe the Lord himself has sent him to us,’’ he declared, after the interview, eyes shining. ‘‘So serious, so mature beyond his years. He will be a credit to the expedition.’’

I kept my doubts to myself, as in my experience it was ill advised to try to dissuade Mr. Childs from one of his enthusiasms. Kindly though he was, his was a complex nature, and if contradicted his mood could change with surprising speed, from exhilaration to profound disappointment, or worse. On the one or two occasions when I had been unwise enough to oppose him, such as over his suggestion that we might use Tasmanian native wallabies as pack animals, he had, though he acceded to my view, grown quite resentful, even leading me to fear—doubtless foolishly—that he might lose interest in the venture altogether.

‘‘This is slow,’’ remarked Renshaw with a kind of dreary satisfaction, as the cab ground to a halt once more. The journey had been swift enough till we passed around Trafalgar Square, where we became mired in traffic. This was hardly unusual, delay being as common a feature of London roads as fish in rivers, but as time passed, and the recriminations of nearby drivers grew louder and more torrid, I began to grow concerned.

‘‘What’s the trouble?’’ I called up to the cab driver.

‘‘Some going on at Horse Guards Parade.’’

Craning my neck past Renshaw, I saw there was indeed a great commotion in front of the army headquarters, with carriages littering the road in profusion, and a large crowd was gathered, many of them in uniform. A strange sort of assembly they made, at once agitated and subdued.

‘‘It hardly looks like a parade,’’ I ventured.

Renshaw shrugged. ‘‘Must be some new war.’’

It seemed a remark both foolish and lacking in taste, and I was on the point of reprimanding him when the cab lurched forwards and began to proceed once more upon its way. Fortunately the roads southwards from Westminster proved empty enough, and it was not long before we were rumbling down a lane towards Jonah Childs’s home, which was one of a row of houses marooned in fields, being an advance colony of ever-spreading London. It was only with care that one might discern signs of the great trading enterprise that was Childs and Company: the portrait of Jonah’s father above the stairs, depicted in some faraway land, amid a scene of trees industriously felled, and ships awaiting their transportation, or the splendid reproduction of HMS Victory just beneath, constructed, so I had learned, from no fewer than twenty-two kinds of wood.

‘‘Mr. Wilson. Oh, and Mr. Renshaw too. How splendid!’’ Mr. Childs was irrepressible as we were shown into the study. ‘‘Our other guest has already arrived.’’

So this was the mysterious ‘‘somebody.’’ He was a heavy-shaped sort of man, intense of expression, even to the point of cheerlessness. Only when we shook hands did his face come to life with a brief smile, while even then there was something defensory about his manner, as if he felt some need to fend off imagined disapproval. A lingering London harshness to his speech suggested this was a man who had, like Timothy Renshaw’s father, raised himself from modest beginnings.

‘‘May I introduce the eminent surgeon Dr. Potter,’’ Childs explained.

‘‘He is a friend of Dr. Kite, who did such wonders for my poor sister’s feet.’’ He broke into a nervous smile. ‘‘Dr. Potter has kindly offered his services for our expedition. Isn’t that splendid?’’

I will not have a word said against Mr. Childs, whose character is beyond any reproach, and yet I confess I did wish he would refrain from making important arrangements without first consulting the views of others. It was not that I objected to this Dr. Potter, or his origins—I am never one to pay any heed to such trifles as a man’s birth, which are, besides, of little account in the eyes of the Lord—but I was more than a little concerned that such a great change was being proposed so shortly before our departure. There was, if nothing else, a danger of hastiness. I glanced towards Renshaw, but he was yawning at his own shoes, wholly uninterested in the matter.

Potter regarded me coolly. ‘‘I have long had a scientific interest in Tasmania, and so I was naturally most interested when I learned of your expedition.’’

‘‘Has Major Stanford been informed?’’ I asked. Our leader was away upon some windy hillside of Dartmoor, testing the new tents.

Childs nodded. ‘‘He was most delighted to hear you would have a physician.’’ All at once a frown appeared upon his brow. ‘‘You don’t seem very pleased, Vicar.’’

It seemed hardly useful, or wise, to object. I attempted a smile. ‘‘I’m sure Dr. Potter will prove a great asset.’’

Jonah’s face broke into a delighted smile. ‘‘But that’s splendid. Why, now I can show you the other little surprise I have.’’

For a moment I wondered if I was about to be introduced to further new members of the venture: a team of camel drivers, perhaps. Fortunately this was not the case. Childs led us in a polite straggle to an adjoining room where, laid upon a packing case, were six shining new rifles and a revolving pistol.

‘‘I have a cousin who owns a small factory in Birmingham that makes a part for them,’’ he explained. He picked up one of the rifles and aimed it carefully at a nearby wall. ‘‘They are the latest military issue, and quite as good as anything except sporting guns, so he told me, being of the new expanding-bullet type.’’

The lure of guns: I confess I myself felt it, though all my teaching warned me otherwise. As for the others, they were quite captivated. Potter examined the pistol almost as if in a trance, then took one of the rifles, abruptly threw it in the air and caught it again, like some excited boy. Even Renshaw was ensnared, carefully handling one of the weapons though it was almost as tall as himself. ‘‘Do the bullets actually expand?’’

Potter knew. ‘‘They change shape. At first they’re spherical, so they can drop easily down the barrel, but the metal’s soft, and when the charge goes off it blows them sort of flattish. That way they exactly fit the bore of the gun barrel, and spin nicely. It’s the spinning that makes the gun so accurate.’’

Renshaw did not understand what bore was, and this prompted Potter to point one of the rifles in turn directly at each of our eyes, so we could make out the gently spiralling grooves in the barrel, all of which he did with a certain zest.

I felt a need to deflate the moment. ‘‘Please do thank your cousin. It will be a great reassurance to have such fine weapons with us, I’m sure, though I trust we will have no cause to put them to use.’’

‘‘I hope you’re right,’’ answered Childs, his mood suddenly sombre. ‘‘Although I must say I’m not so sure. After the news today I was more than pleased you’d have these fellows with you.’’

I was mystified, as were Renshaw and the doctor. ‘‘What news?’’

Childs seemed taken aback. ‘‘I assumed you’d heard. There’s been a terrible rebellion by the Bengal army. Delhi has fallen and hundreds of poor women and children are feared brutally murdered.’’

There is news and news. Most of it catches our sympathies only modestly, and though it may cause in us brief joy or sorrow, its distant protagonists soon fade from thought. This, however, was different. Here, surely, was catastrophe on a monstrous scale. I recalled those angry, anxious faces outside Horse Guards Parade—well did I understand them now—and for a moment it was almost as if I could hear the terrified cries of innocents, carried magically across the miles, from those cruel and dusty plains.

‘‘The news takes a month to arrive,’’ added Childs, ‘‘so there’s no knowing what may have occurred by now.’’

Dr. Potter carefully replaced his gun upon the floor and for a moment we all stood in thoughtful silence. It was Renshaw who broke our solemn reverie, showing—as ever—his talent for misjudgment. ‘‘That could make trouble for your plans.’’

Captain Illiam Quillian Kewley JUNE 1857

THREE LONG DAYS we had those London customs boys groping their way about the Sincerity, all stiff and snurly and hardly speaking a word. They weren’t my favourites, those three days. They had put us in one of those new sealed docks, and there was nothing to do but wait, listening to the terrible mad din of London spilling over that high wall like a threat. All the while my poor vessel was poked and scrutinized in a way that was terrible to behold, and I was thinking it only takes one find, or one fool of a body getting himself into a scare…

Truly, there’s no thoroughness like customs’ thoroughness. First they had us move all the barrels onto the quayside and tip out the herring. Next they checked all our stores, down to every cask of hardtack in the pantry, as well as the chicken coop, the sheep pen and the boat where Quayle’s pig had been. They went through everyone’s sea chests, and took the prints of Victoria and her brood out of their frames. They even had a try at my uniform, scrinching up the cap, I suppose in case I had a few ounces of tobacco hidden inside. Then, when they’d done with all that, they started right over again, now tapping and banging their way round the vessel, now pulling up a floorboard, now making little fires to see where the smoke went. Worse was the interviews. One by one each of us was taken off alone to the dining cabin for his little chat. Stories were checked, particularly my foolish blurt about the boat Quayle was supposed to have bought his cheese off. All the while they were threatening and coaxing and hoping someone would bust and go off like a rocket.

‘‘We ’re going to find the stuff soon enough anyway,’’ was their sneer. ‘‘You may as well make it easier on yourself by telling us now.’’

Three whole days. And what did they find after all this fuss?

Not a thing.

I could hardly believe it myself I mean, I knew we had a wonder made of wood, and that the crew were every one of Manxmen from Peel City, but still I never thought the Sincerity would keep herself so tight and virginal as she did. This was the very cream of Her Majesty’s Royal English Spying and Conniving Customs Service, after all, and in their own dread nest of London too. And us just a shipload of poor, ignorant souls from Man Island, smallest country in all the wide world. Not that I’m one to go talking miracles, but it did seem out of the ordinary. Why, I almost wondered if giving that Bishop Chalmers his ride had earned us a favour after all.

Well, there was a thing to celebrate. Not that I’m much of a one for foolishness, but there was no stopping the rest of them after those three long days. Down the hold we went that evening where nobody could spy, with everyone speaking Manx just in case. Drinking? Well, there might have been a little. Singing? I dare say. Toasts? That there’s no denying. ‘‘Boiys da dooine as baase da eease,’’ we called out, which means in English ‘‘Life to men and death to fish,’’ and is about herring, as are all Manx toasts. Then it was ‘‘Death to the head that never wore hair’’ and ‘‘Here’s death to our best friend.’’ Meaning herring, of course.

I dare say there’s always a price to be paid for that sort of night. In this case, though, the price did seem higher than was fair. Stumbling out of my cabin the next morning with a sore head, made sorer by that din of London roaring out like some great fight with wheel carts, what did I find waiting on the deck but a stranger, perched nice and comfortable on a coil of rope, smoking his pipe. ‘‘Captain Kewley?’’ He got up in a gradual sort of way, as if I wasn’t worth any hurry. ‘‘My name’s Parish.’’ With that he reached into his pocket and handed me a letter. I guessed from its mean, interfering scribble that this was customs poison. Nor was I wrong.

‘‘The Board of Customs,’’ it announced, ‘‘has decided that, on the evidence of the foreign goods discovered aboard the Sincerity’’—this being Quayle’s cheese—‘‘that the merchant ship Sincerity broke her journey from Peel City to Maldon at a foreign port, for which she had no entitlement, and which her master repeatedly denied to an officer of Her Majesty’s coast guard. In consequence of these actions it has been decided that her master’’—this being me—‘‘is to pay a statutory fine of two hundred pounds.’’

Two hundred pounds. That was as much as many men would hope to earn themselves in ten years. Two hundred pounds that we didn’t have. There were also port fees, which were high, being London—where we hadn’t wanted to go—and were rising with each day we stayed. Lastly there was ninepence duty for the cheese. This wasn’t real law, mind. This was just raw revenge for their being beaten. Forget all their talk, there’s no bad losers like Englishmen, especially Englishmen in uniforms. No wonder all those Indian Hindoos had mutinied against them with the likes of this going on. I wished them good luck.

‘‘I’m to stay here till it’s paid,’’ explained Parish in a leaning sort of way. ‘‘Just to see how you’re doing, you know.’’

I knew all right. He was there to spy. Having failed to find a thing through all their searching, the customs were now hoping to smoke us out with fines and watching.

I did what I could. I wrote a letter that same day to Dan Gawne, the Castletown brewer. I had hopes of that letter. Seeing as Gawne had already lent us jink, I supposed he might be scared into giving out more, just to get it back, while it seemed to me we were a fair enough risk, as if we could just get free of this gaol dock and away to Maldon we’d have money enough for anyone. In the meantime we did all the selling we could, to agents in the dock and other vessels too. First went the salted herring, though they didn’t catch very much, as they’d been out of their barrels twice now and it showed. Next went any spare ship’s stores, even down to the chickens that were left. Why, I’d even have peddled the prints of Victoria, Albert and the eight babes if there’d been a buyer. It was never enough, though. When all was done and I counted out the jink, we were still eighty-three pounds short. Then Gawne’s answer arrived, being short as could be.

Sell the ship and pay me what you owe.

That was no reply. That was just a low rottenness flung over oceans. As if I’d sell the Sincerity. As if I even could, considering what her new owners would find inside her. We called Gawne some names that morning, I can tell you. Scrissag. Scrawl. Sleetchy old scraper. Hibernator.

Castletown snot. Fat muck of a fritlag. Big slug, all sitting on his shillings with his little crab of a wife, snurly and high as if they thought they were somebody.

Not that it made any difference. Within the hour we were in worse trouble than ever, when two of the starboard watch, Tom Hudson and Rob Kneale, jumped ship, doing so clean in front of the whole crew, springing over the side with their sea chests as if they never cared. ‘‘No, thanks,’’ they jeered, when I ordered them back. ‘‘We’d rather find a boat that can pay.’’ With other vessels this wouldn’t have mattered, and would even have had its uses as their wages could be kept, but the Sincerity wasn’t other vessels and all her crew had to be Manxmen from Peel City. All of a sudden I knew it was time to be taking a chance, and a big one too. As the wise man says, it’s no good betting pennies when the dice have snatched your horse and your house.

Now if a body goes knocking around ships he will hear things, including chatter about places he’s never seen and never expects to, and I’d heard talk about London, including the name of a particular inn that was near the docks, where certain people might be found and certain arrangements made, as it was said. Perhaps, I reasoned, I could get us a loan out of someone as part of an arrangement. It would be a good enough deal after all. Once we were free, those certain somebodies could have our cargo at a most reasonable price. There were dangers in such a venture of course. Most of all we didn’t know who to trust among all these Englishmen foreigners, and there was the fear we’d been getting help from a gang of customs officers in disguise, as they were known to play such tricks. For all this, it had to be tried.

First I needed to get some samples. I sent Kinvig up to distract the spy Parish with a bit of talk, just as a precaution, and had Brew set the boys working at something noisy too, while I made my way down to those certain secret places that the Sincerity had kept so pure from customs’ eyes. First I went to her pantry and reached above the rim of the doorframe, to that certain piece of cord that Captain Clarke had so narrowly missed, which I gave a gentle tug. The answering click didn’t come from nearby but from the storeroom next door. Not that you’d have known what it was that had clicked there unless you happened to go looking behind a particular coil of rope at the panel just behind, which was suddenly a touch loose. Which I did. And d’you know, out it swung, to reveal a couple of pieces of cable just asking to be pulled. Which I did too. Now what did we have now but two more clicks, from the dining cabin. Sure enough, the two busts, of Albert and Victoria, seemed somehow a touch less anchored. Have a close look and you’d notice the hollow blocks they were fastened onto were a little loose, and give one a push and you’d get a smartest surprise, as the hinged trap door in the floorboards swung open so tidy and smooth.

Now I’ll tell you why all those serious-faced customs men never found a thing. It was because the Sincerity wasn’t just some piece of cheap faked-up carpentry, no. From the dining-cabin floor down, the Sincerity was two entire vessels, one inside the other. The inner hull was those timbers I’d bought from the boat that was being broken up, and though I’d had it thinned out little, still it didn’t sound hollow if you gave it a thump. It even looked weathered and damp, just like it should. As for the gap between these two hulls, this was no more than eighteen inches— more and the hold would have looked too curious—but eighteen inches right round the body of a ship holds a mighty store of bales of tobacco and flasks of brandy. Not to mention those certain pieces of French painted glass that I had taken at the same time. A pleasure it was to look down upon it all, stretching into the dark, all tidy and valuable, with that rich smell of wood and leaf and spirit to sweeten your nostrils.

I only needed enough to show, of course: a few ounces of tobacco in a tin, a small flask of brandy, and one of the bits of painted glass, which were small enough. I slipped these into my coat pocket, then restored the Sincerity to decency, and made my way back up to the deck where Parish was still talking with Kinvig, seeming none too interested in what I was up to. I gave a nod to chief mate Brew to follow, Brew being a clever fellow, for all his pale dozy eyes looking slow as cheese. All those Brews were proper brains, and certain ones said they were too sharp altogether, and that you should never trust a Brew at the fair. Not that I was one to take notice of the likes of them, for sure. The other one I took along was China Clucas, who was always handy to have about, being the ship’s giant, and strong as seven oxen.

Luck we were needing and luck we were getting. The three of us strolled across to the gate, gentle as babes, flapping our arms to show we weren’t carrying anything, and were waved through by the guards with hardly a glance. All at once we were in that London which I’d hardly put a sight on till now. Not that I was one to be scared by a bit of dirt and noise. I decided we should walk, just in case the cabs were spying for the customs, and we set off at a jaunty step.

‘‘Want someone to show you the way, mister?’’ This came from a lad, if you could call him that, as he was more a ball of grubby rags with little hungry eyes peeping out. ‘‘I’ll show you the way for a penny.’’

How he guessed we were strangers I couldn’t have said, as we’d been making our faces miserable and ordinary as any Londoners’. The thought came to me, though, that he might be handy enough. ‘‘A penny, eh? Very well then. It’s the Waterman’s Arms we’re seeking.’’

‘‘I know it,’’ he fairly sang. ‘‘Just follow me.’’

‘‘I hope he’s not working for the customs,’’ murmured Brew.

I had to laugh at that, as it wasn’t often Brew came up with such a bit of raw foolishness. ‘‘Aw, man,’’ I told him, ‘‘next you’ll be seeing customs spies in the fishes themselves.’’

It was all we could do to keep up with our guide as he led us from one stinking street to another, and we walked further, and further again, till I began to wonder if he really knew the way or if he’d just told us so to try and earn his penny. Finally he took us along a narrow alley and into a dirty little court overlooked by wild, leaning houses, and here he just stopped. By now my patience was running thin.

‘‘You’re lost, aren’t you?’’ I told him. ‘‘We’ve not all day to waste, you know.’’

Rather than just answer, like you’d expect, he did a curious thing, giving out a loud shout. ‘‘Daa! Maa!’’

In a moment a little crazed body of an old man stepped out from one of the houses, leaning himself on a long grey stick, all mad hair and eyes that didn’t look at you but stared somewhere off to the side. He looked too ancient to be anyone’s father. I was thinking he’d help us find the Waterman’s Arms, but then all at once the lad turned at me and spat out a cry. ‘‘Oi! Where’s my two guineas?’’

I suppose it should’ve been funny, but it wasn’t quite. The only one to laugh was China Clucas, who always was the slow one. Next thing he was stooping down to be on a level with the creature. ‘‘Aw, man, you know it was just a penny you’re getting.’’

I could see the lad drawing in a power of breath. Next thing he was all noise, yelling out, ‘‘Thieves,’’ just as if he was one big whistle. Suddenly there was a whole throng of them creeping out at us, all shouting out their claim on the little fritlag. There was his ‘‘mother,’’ who looked younger than he did, and his ‘‘brother,’’ who looked older than the mother, as well as uncles and aunts, and some more that weren’t specified. A very close family they seemed, too. Their one wish, as they straggled out, was that we should give their relative back his four, no five guineas that we’d stolen off him. Well, it was clear as glass what this was about.

‘‘Let’s get out of here,’’ I called out.

Most of them were no bigger than the lad himself and for a moment I thought we might escape nice and stately. Slow, we started, and mostly backwards, back out of the court and down the alley, with China holding the line. We were all right till we reached the street, where there was more room for them. All at once the lad sank his teeth into China’s leg, and while the poor gorm was distracted the little old man scelped him one with his stick, and when I tried to help him, two others were ripping at my pockets. At that we just ran, a sort of howl rising up behind to hurry us on as we took the street at a full gallop, dodging past loiterers— especially the ones with outstretched arms—and on. All of a sudden I caught sight of a big plain building that could only be a chapel. The door was open and someone was going inside. ‘‘Over there,’’ I yelled.

A moment later I was inside, huffing and panting at the back of a sermon. A popular one it was, too, being full to standing with sober people in poor clothes, some giving me dirty looks for being so clattering and out of breath when their preacher was droning. China was just behind, squeezing into the congregation as best he could, but of chief mate Brew there was no sign.

‘‘Did you see what happened to him?’’ I whispered, catching myself a ‘‘shhhh.’’

China shrugged, then rubbed his leg where he had been bit. I suppose we should really have gone back out and had a search, but there was the worry they might all still be there. Besides, I reckoned he should be able to take care of himself, with all that cleverness of his. ‘‘We ’ll look a bit later,’’ I said, and China looked happy enough with that.

‘‘These terrible events in India,’’ expounded the preacher, who was a tidy little fellow in spectacles, ‘‘are nothing other than the first step upon the road to that battle that shall end all battles.’’

So he was an Armageddon man. Well, I don’t mind a bit of fire and brimstone, though it’s hardly my favourite. Manxmen, I should explain, aren’t always so pure as to their Scriptures, and there’s many will go to two or three different churches all on the same Sunday, especially if there’s not much else to do. It seems a shame, after all, to keep just to one when your Anglicans have the best singing, Romans come top for smoke and smells and for theatre you couldn’t beat a hellfire body like this one. There it came, sure enough, ‘‘Armageddon,’’ and just a few years down the road too, so he promised. The man had a clever trick of bringing things nicely up to the moment. According to him, Gog, ruler of Rosh, Mezhek and Thuval was none other than the Tsar himself, of Russia, Muscovy and Siberia. As to the final battle, which would be followed by pestilences and apocalypses and such, this was to be fought between Russians and Englishmen, like the little squabble they’d just had in that Crimea, but a hundredfold nastier.

‘‘Who shall be swept away by this great judgment, this mighty tide of destruction?’’ Ah, we all knew the answer to that one. Sinners. He had a whole list, giving a little pause between each so we’d not miss any by mistake. Fornicators and drunkards. Breakers of the Holy Sabbath. Papists and followers of Dr. Pusey. The Turk and all worshippers of the infidel Mohammed. The black savage who had never acknowledged the glory of Christ. The Jew, who murdered Christ our Saviour. And any others who’d been remiss confessing their sins and begging for pardon. The congregation were rapt as babes, having themselves a fine time as he danced them this way and that with his words. First there was a mighty tingle of fear as they wondered if they’d confessed enough, or if it might be themselves who’d be burning forever. Next there was the sweet relief of hearing that they’d probably not be on the bad list after all, so long as they went careful. Finally, and best of all, they’d have a smug little ponder of all those rich Lords and Ladies, and Kings and Emperors who, for all their fine clothes and carriages, were beyond saving, and would soon be knocked off their high perches clean into hell. It was strong stuff. Though I’m no end-of-the-world man myself, just hearing it told with such certainty did pull at me a scran, throwing up little doubts and wonderings.

‘‘Let’s be off now,’’ I whispered.

It was as if China never heard. I saw he was staring at the preacher wide-eyed with fear, hooked like a fish to his words. Then again, that one always was a fool for being persuaded, soft gorm of a body that he was. When I gave him a nudge he actually turned his back on me. Well, discipline aboard Manx boats may be thin as milk compared to your English or American vessels, Man Island being too small for the formal, but there are limits. I gave him a jab in the ribs. ‘‘Crewman Clucas, I’m ordering you to come along.’’

I suppose it did come out a little loud. All at once one of the other listeners was giving a sharp tug at my jacket. ‘‘That’s enough. If you can’t stay quiet then you should go.’’

The trouble was that the cloth lining had already been ripped half to pieces by those low dirts of robbers reaching into my pockets. All at once I felt something give and fall. Now, if there’s one sound that will carry nicely, it’s breaking glass, and even our friend in the spectacles went quiet for a moment. Likewise there’s no smell like brandy to catch the nostrils, and everyone nearby was peering round to see what was doing. A fine little sight there was for them, too. Next to a smashed flask of brandy was the tin of spilled tobacco, and next to that was the glass plate. This last was broken but it still wasn’t hard to make out what was pictured on it, as it was nicely done and there are certain particular shapes that a man will notice. It was of a young miss, brave as could be, sat in a comfortable chair, smiling and holding a little kitten. As for clothes, well, she had a neat little bonnet and a fine pair of ankle boots with laces up to the top. And of course the kitten. But that was about as far as it went. The detail was very fine.

‘‘Drunkard,’’ hissed a voice.

‘‘Fornicator,’’ spat another.

Altogether it seemed like I’d not be doing too well on hellfire day after all. At least it got Clucas moving, though, and you couldn’t have got him out of there quick enough. The other good thing was that as we stepped outside there was no sign of our friend in the rags or his many relations. The street was quiet, while just a few yards down, sunning himself on a wall, was that sly one chief mate Juan Brew. It was typical of the man. If all the world went stepping in dog muck he’d be the one to spy himself a guinea instead. Sometimes it was tempting just to give him a good kicking.

‘‘D’you think it’s true, though?’’ That big gorm Clucas had got himself in a proper blather. ‘‘Is Armageddon coming?’’

‘‘For you, certainly.’’ My thoughts were on those samples the big walloper had gone and made me break. The fact was it was no small disaster. There was no point even trying to find the right Waterman’s Arms now we had nothing to show.

To my surprise Brew seemed hardly bothered by the news of what had happened. ‘‘Ah, don’t worry yourself Captain. I’ve had an idea.’’ He smiled. ‘‘Why don’t we offer up the Sincerity for charter? Say we’ll take a few passengers away off to some faraway spot of nowhere, wherever they’d like to go. That’d get us the jink to pay the fine.’’

‘‘Charter?’’ I knew we were desperate, but still. There’s ships that are for taking passengers and ships that aren’t, and I knew which particular kind was the Sincerity.

‘‘We wouldn’t actually need to take them anywhere,’’ Brew continued, sticking to his thought. ‘‘Once we’re free from here and have some money for the cargo we can make up some story why we can’t go after all, and give them back their pennies from our jink.’’

It was tempting just to say no, and put a hole in his cleverness. The truth was, though, that it wasn’t such a bad idea.

The Reverend Geoffrey Wilson JULY 1857

THE FIRST SIGN that anything might be amiss was the large cart that drew outside my sister-in-law’s house, its burden concealed beneath a thick tarpaulin. I was busily engaged upon my correspondence and took little notice at first, assuming it must concern one of the neighbours, but then the housemaid called me.

‘‘There’s somebody asking for you, Mr. Wilson.’’

Waiting outside the door was the cart’s driver: one of those dour London types who seem to be forever at work with their mouths, whether it be chewing, spitting, smoking a pipe or all three at once. ‘‘So where’s it to go?’’ he asked, pointing to the cart.

I was pondering a suitably discouraging reply when his assistant pulled away the tarpaulin and revealed, neatly stacked, every one of our stores for the expedition. ‘‘But this is quite wrong,’’ I told him sharply. ‘‘These belong aboard the Caroline.’’

The driver was still fumbling for documents when I saw Jonah Childs drive up in his carriage. As he clambered out, I saw the dejected look upon his face, and all was soon painfully clear. ‘‘I only heard myself this morning,’’ he explained. ‘‘The Admiralty are sending her with munitions to Bombay.’’

We had no ship! As if this were not already disaster enough, he then shocked me with more bad news.

‘‘Major Stanford has also been taken from us, I’m afraid. His regiment is sailing for Calcutta within the week.’’

Only two days more and we would have been already at sea, safe from any such misfortune. I felt the greatest sympathy, naturally, for the military in this, their hour of grave crisis, and yet still I could not help but wish they had not found another vessel to requisition, and another major. Was not our venture, after its own fashion, every bit as important as their campaigns against murderous rebels? If they were attempting to defend the rule of civilization, we were endeavouring to defend the very rock upon which was built that civilization: the Scriptures themselves.

It was a terrible blow. An expedition deprived of both leader and means of transportation was no expedition at all, but mere wishfulness. In the event I had little time to consider the problem, being faced with the practical matter of where the displaced stores were to be placed, as the cart driver was showing signs of impatience. While I had no wish to make a warehouse of my sister-in-law’s home, where I was myself a guest, they could hardly be left in the street, and so there seemed little else to be done. ‘‘Put them in the parlour,’’ I told him, seeing as this was the largest and least cluttered room.

Mr. Childs had sent word of the crisis to Renshaw and Dr. Potter, and they appeared soon afterwards. I suggested we all gather in the parlour, so we might keep an eye on the two workmen. It was a sad moment. The constant arrival of our stores, which soon began to form a small mountain in the centre of the room, provided an awful pertinence to our discussion, seeming almost to taunt us with their thwarted promise: the tents, the hammocks and horse saddles, and, not least, the seemingly limitless number of mule bags, which appeared plentiful enough for a small army.

‘‘I’m afraid it won’t be easy to find another vessel,’’ declared Childs glumly. ‘‘I understand the Admiralty is requisitioning everything it can lay its hands on.’’

‘‘What if we went by steamer?’’ suggested Potter. ‘‘I believe they now go as far as the Australian mainland.’’

I could not help but find it a little trying that this man, who had been a member of the expedition barely a week, was already lecturing us as to how it should be conducted. ‘‘It is essential that we have a vessel of our own,’’ I told him firmly. ‘‘We may need it to transport us to some part of the Tasmanian wilderness, or to bring us supplies.’’

Renshaw yawned. ‘‘How about a foreign ship? They won’t have been taken.’’

It was typical of the fellow to come up with so disloyal a notion. Childs, who is of a keenly patriotic disposition, gave him a reproving look. ‘‘Better to have no vessel at all than that. This is an English Christian expedition and as such it should not have to rely upon men of false belief No, if nothing else is obtainable, then I am afraid we must simply consider postponing departure.’’

Here I had to intervene. ‘‘But that would mean we’d not arrive in Van Diemen’s Land in time for the southern summer, which is the only suitable season to journey into the interior. The venture would have to be delayed by a whole year.’’

At this point the discussion faltered. The fact was, we had reached an impasse. It was essential we leave at once yet none of us could think of a means of doing so. For a time we stood thus in the parlour in unhappy silence, watching the arrival of ever more stores. By now the cart driver and his helper had finished with the bulkier objects and, perspiring from their exertions, were at work on consumables Major Stanford had purchased.

‘‘There’s some choice stuff here,’’ observed Renshaw.

It did seem that Major Stanford had selected his supplies with an eye for both quantity and quality, not to say luxury. I found myself wondering if he might have been unduly concerned by a reluctance to repeat his unfortunate experience with the Mesopotamian mule. Before us appeared, variously, best potted ham, hermetically sealed salmon, hotchpotch from Aberdeen, and whole cases of sherry, whisky and champagne. Nor was there any danger that these would be consumed in discomfort, either, as the next stores included folding tables and chairs, table linen, crockery and some finest Sheffield silver cutlery. To complete the arrangements there was a large box of finest Cuban cigars.

‘‘No wonder there were so many mule packs,’’ murmured Renshaw.

Jonah Childs seemed little pleased, which was understandable seeing as it was he who had paid for it all. ‘‘I had no idea Major Stanford felt a need to be so commodiously supplied.’’

‘‘Perhaps it’s not entirely unfortunate that he has been called away,’’ suggested Potter. ‘‘After all, he has no knowledge of Australia.’’

It struck me as more than a little impertinent of this new arrival to begin criticizing long-serving members of the venture, and yet, rather to my own surprise, Childs made no attempt to discourage the man. He even seemed to concur with his view. ‘‘That’s certainly true. Mind you, I’m doubtful we would be able to find an Australian expert now, at such short notice.’’

Thus we passed on to the question of the leader, though the discussion remained of necessity rather tentative, the expedition itself being nothing else.

‘‘Then again, do we need an explorer at all?’’ suggested Potter radically. ‘‘Such persons will be ten a penny in Tasmania itself I’m sure. Perhaps we should be looking simply for a someone who possesses the right qualities of character. A man of determination and vigour. Of energy and decision. Of strength of body and mind.’’

It was perhaps my imagination, yet all at once I had the distinct sensation that the doctor was not drawing some abstract profile of suitable leadership, but was subtly trying to recommend his own self. This might seem unfair, and yet in the short time I had known him I had observed he was a man of lively, even pushing nature. It was hardly a prospect I could welcome. The fellow was doubtless admirable in his own way and yet I was far from convinced of his fitness for this most important task. Ours was no ordinary expedition, after all, but something like a holy quest, in search of wonders of limitless significance. It would be quite wrong to place at its head a man about whom almost nothing was known, least of all his moral understanding. My concern, and it was no small one, was that Mr. Childs, unpredictable enthusiast that he was, might simply suggest the doctor as leader there and then.

‘‘Surely,’’ I proposed, ‘‘we should be looking for someone with a proven commitment to principles behind this venture. Someone of known moral purpose.’’ I should make it clear that I had no wish to suggest myself. To do so, would have been against my very nature, which abhors any kind of self-advancement. The thought, indeed, had not even occurred to me. I was simply concerned to define the correct qualities of leadership, for the sake of the expedition.

‘‘A geologist perhaps?’’ murmured Renshaw, quite unnecessarily, glancing from Potter to myself with a provoking look.

Jonah Childs turned in my direction, seeming faintly surprised, as if some notion had occurred to him for the first time. ‘‘Perhaps you yourself would be willing to take up the task, Vicar?’’

Thus it was that, sudden and unsought for, this most difficult of honours appeared before me. The suggestion was so unforeseen that I found myself quite taken aback, assailed by troubling thoughts. How could I even contemplate such a thing when there must be, surely, another far better suited? Yet where was he, though? It occurred to me that, imperfect though I might consider myself, I was not wholly without qualities that might prove of usefulness. I did have a knowledge of the Scriptures, and of geology, as well as being possessed of some poor understanding of the minds of men. So much was at stake, and so great was the urgency! The others were stood watching me, awaiting my reply. Could I? Should I? All at once I recalled my visionary dream of just a few days before, and the cry I had heard: ‘‘Come hither, sweet vicar, come hither, and make haste.’’

There was my answer. ‘‘If you require me to lead this expedition,’’ I declared quietly, ‘‘then I shall do it.’’

Dear Mr. Childs broke into a wide smile. ‘‘Bravo, Vicar, bravo!’’

‘‘We still need a boat,’’ Renshaw insisted drearily.

In the event, a solution was nearer than we could ever have guessed. It was almost as if, having overcome one great hurdle, we had now earned a remedy to the other. Our saviour was none other than my own wife, who appeared through the door just a moment later, clutching a hatbox. ‘‘What is going on?’’ she demanded, regarding, with no little surprise, the great pile of expedition stores. Hardly had I begun to explain our predicament, however, when she waved her hand in dismissal, as if there could be nothing so foolish.

‘‘But there was a ship for charter in this morning’s newspaper,’’ she declared, amazing us all. ‘‘It had a delightful name as I recall. I believe it was the Chastity.’’