English passengers (5 page)

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.

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.