The Darwin Conspiracy (40 page)

We raced to the rope but found to our dismay that it had disintegrated in the
intense heat.

McCormick yelled above the roar that we must find a way to save ourselves from that infernal place. A plume of smoke and fire rose up before us
and out of fear we grabbed each other for comfort. Just then, I spotted a
ledge over our heads, about thirty feet away. By hugging the walls with our
backs we carefully manoeuvred our way to it. Once there we were closer to
our goal, but not home free. The ledge was about eight feet above. I shouted 
for Mr McCormick to give me a boost, since he was considerably shorter than
I. Without a moment’s hesitation, he placed the fingers of his hands together
in a cup that I used as a stirrup. Swinging my full weight upwards and
steadying myself with one hand on his shoulder, I thrust myself high and
managed with my other hand to catch hold of a protuberance of rock. Using
this, and aided no doubt by the fear of death, I pulled myself up with a
strength I did not know I possessed. I landed on the upper ledge, gasping for
breath but alive.

It was then my turn to help Mr McCormick. I could hear him shouting,
encouraging me in no uncertain terms to waste no time. I ran to find the
remaining piece of rope but found the remnant too small to be of use. I
returned to the spot, lay down on my stomach, spread my legs upon the
ledge for leverage and leaned over the edge. When he saw me reappear, Mr
McCormick’s face turned hopeful. The trembling was increasing now and
I could see the lava begin to rise below like a boiling cauldron. I took my
cosh from my belt and reached down, holding it as low as I could with one
hand while I braced myself against the edge with the other. By jumping, he
could just reach it. He grabbed it. But his body, short as it was, was fully
extended so that he could not pull himself up. I realised I would have to
lower it another five or six inches, even though doing so would make my own
position more precarious.

I looked down at Mr McCormick and saw him staring back at me with an
appraising look. His face was contorted and he was sweating profusely. He
had grabbed the cosh with both hands and was holding on for dear life. I
lowered it an inch or two and he began to try to scramble up, kicking desperately at the wall with the soles of his shoes but making little headway. At
some point I heard a sound behind me and became aware of Captain FitzRoy’s presence. He was not yet close enough to help and could scarcely see
what was happening, though he could plainly hear us. I do not know what
occurred next. A giant plume of smoke rose from the belly of the volcano. I
pulled the cosh. McCormick was still holding on. Perhaps I should lower it
a little more, I thought. There was room, though perhaps not. I hesitated,
uncertain. The more I extended it, the more tenuous was my own position, as
my balance was giving way. When I concentrated again on the figure below
me, I saw that his hands were slipping a bit from sweat and he was looking
deep into my eyes with a hard glower. I heard his voice rise up, thin but distinct, and he spoke the words I shall never forget: ‘So that’s how it is, eh,
 
Mr Darwin? Survival of the fittest!’ And with that he let go, or I lurched
upwards so violently that it broke his grip. In any case I saw him tumble
backwards, turning in mid-air slowly as he plunged into the bubbling lava.

He screamed on the way down.

I do not remember how I got out of there, though I expect that Captain
FitzRoy helped me. The two of us ran down the mountain-side to the crewmen waiting at the boat. They quickly rowed us out to the ship and we set
sail.

I have often thought that that afternoon was the determining event of my
life. Having taken one course, or having that course thrust upon me, everything that followed was inevitable. I became a conniver, and much of what I
did makes me blush to the roots with shame, not just that I did it but that I
was so adept in the doing of it. Nothing was too large or small to escape my
notice in fashioning my deception. Thus, I put it out that Mr McCormick had
left the
Beagle
earlier in the voyage, and I even throttled his parrot, adding
it to my specimens. Sailing away from the Galápagos, I intentionally mixed
together all the finches I had gathered from the separate islands, so that I
could maintain the fiction that I derived the theory of natural selection on my
own at a subsequent time. I went through my notebooks, changing and cen-soring various entries to make the narrative conform to my story. As a ruse to
explain my many illnesses, which somehow came in retribution for that horrible episode, I fabricated an incident in which I was bitten by a benchuca
insect. I paid blackmail to Captain FitzRoy, the poor soul, who until the very
last remained suspicious of my actions in attempting to save McCormick.

Without definitive proof, he embraced religion with fanatical zeal—I believe
as a result of the events that transpired that fateful day.

A few men may have guessed that the burden I carried was one of guilt,
but only one person came upon my secret, and that is my daughter Elizabeth,
who inherited my cunning. We have never discussed it. I have not done right
by her but my actions in that regard pale in comparison with my other deeds.

Many a time have I thought over the events of that day on the volcano and
wondered if I could have done more to save the poor man. Although he is
dead, I still fear him. One time I even fled from a séance, so apprehensive
was I over the prospect of a spectral encounter.

Occasionally, when I tread the Sandwalk with Elizabeth, I think upon the
path itself and how it resembles my life. It begins in open air and sunshine,
full of promise and hope, but then takes a turn into darkness and despair.

The vehicle that carried me around that fatal turn was the
Beagle.
All I ever
wanted to do was to succeed at something and please my father. Now all is
lost. Like Faust, I have made my pact with the Devil and there is nothing
more to be done but wait in the twilight of my life for him to claim his due.

Charles Darwin

Set in his own hand, this day

30 August 1881

The champagne began to lose its fizz.

At first they drank with abandon, already high from their incredible find.

“This is an invaluable piece of history,” Beth remarked, suddenly serious. “Think of it. A confession coming to light after all these years—

Darwin and McCormick, bitter rivals, struggling on a volcano, Darwin trying to save him—”

“Or maybe not trying all that hard. You could read it that way. Why else did Darwin feel guilty for the rest of his life?”

“Because despite his best efforts, he failed to rescue him. Because at heart he was a good man. And because even though he was an atheist, he continued to uphold Christian morality. McCormick’s death was an accident.”

“You’re probably right.”

“The whole thing is so unbelievable—except that it’s written in Darwin’s own hand. Thank God for that.”

“And he admits that McCormick had grasped the theory of evolution, that’s the significant thing. For all anybody knows, McCormick could have gone down in history as the co-discoverer. And here he is today, a complete unknown.”

They raised their glasses to the past and to the whole lot of them: Darwin, FitzRoy, McCormick, Jemmy Button, and, of course, poor Lizzie.

“But in the end she was vindicated,” Hugh said. “Her father gave her credit—she was the only one who was able to ferret out his secret.”

“Small consolation,” Beth shot back. “The way I look at it, her whole life was kind of a waste.”

“I wonder why she didn’t read his missing chapter. She’s supposed to be curious. Maybe she was scared of what she might find.”

“Could be. But she already knew the secret. So she assumed, rightly, that her father was spilling the beans about his role in McCormick’s death. She didn’t need to read it. She couldn’t bring herself to actually destroy it—after all, her Papa was already world-famous—and yet she didn’t want to be the one to make it public. So she sent it off to her daughter in the New World, basically passing the buck—or leaving things up to fate.”

“I guess,” he replied.

“You don’t sound so sure.”

“No. I don’t know.”

She put an arm around Hugh and gave him a hug. That was when the fizz began to fade.

“Something else bothers me,” he said. “Did you notice the language Darwin used? At one point he says, ‘My life has turned to dross.’

At another he’s talking about his fame and fortune and says, ‘All has been undeserved.’ That’s a bit strong, don’t you think? I mean, if McCormick’s death was totally accidental. Because Darwin
did
deserve
something
—he came up with the theory.”

“Again, guilt. A good man takes his sins harder than a bad man. And maybe if he was honest, he knew that he really had wanted McCormick to die. Don’t forget—the guy was trying to kill him.”

“A minute ago you were saying Darwin was trying his hardest to save him.”

“Maybe it’s not so clear-cut. At least in Darwin’s mind. Maybe he fears on some level he allowed the death to happen—a sin of omission rather than commission.”

Hugh refilled their glasses. He remembered someone observing that Darwin had shied away from investigating the human mind.

Why did he have the feeling that they hadn’t fully plumbed Darwin’s secrets?

“And he never actually says when the theory comes to him,” he continued. “He makes it sound as if he and McCormick just stumbled on it somewhere.”

“That’s nothing new. He struck that tone in everything he wrote. He was never precise about it. This just shows he formulated the theory a bit earlier than anybody knew.”

“But covering up exactly when it struck him? Messing up his finch specimens? Making up that whole episode about an insect bite? What was the point?”

“I grant you, that’s a bit strange.”

“I’ll say. And another thing—all these people trying to blackmail him.

Don’t forget that. And why would Huxley and all the others need to protect him?”

“They’re not really protecting
him.
They’re protecting the theory.

They know it’s too important to let one man’s reputation drag it down.”

“But how did they know what Darwin did? Where did they hear of McCormick’s death?”

“From FitzRoy.”

“But FitzRoy didn’t actually see what happened on the volcano. All he came away with was suspicions.”

“Maybe Darwin confessed it to them.”

“But he says Lizzie was the only one who knew his secret.”

“The only one who
discovered
it,” answered Beth, but without conviction. She was beginning to feel stymied.

“And Wallace—he was on the other side of the earth,” said Hugh.

“Don’t tell me Darwin confessed to
him.
”

“He eventually returned to London. Maybe he heard about it from someone in the inner circle then.”

“But Wallace had already come up with the theory on his own.

Wouldn’t he want to assert his ownership if he thought Darwin was possibly a murderer?”

“Could be he needed the money.”

“It could be. But if he exposed Darwin, he would have been credited with the theory and gotten fame and money into the bargain. Besides, if you include Wallace as one of the conspirators—if that’s the word for it—
the circle gets wider and wider.”

She withdrew her arm.

“Face it, Beth. It just doesn’t add up. Too many loose ends.”

“I admit you’re raising questions that are hard to answer.”

He suddenly stood up. “I just thought of something,” he said. “How 
could we have missed it?” He put his glass down on a table. “There’s one question that’s even harder.”

“What?”

“Assume for a moment that you’re correct: Lizzie turned against her father because of what happened on the volcano.”

“Right.”

“And she learned about it from reading the letter McCormick wrote to his relatives.”

“Right.”

“How could he have written it? He was dead.”

“Shit.”

“Let me ask you something,” Hugh said to Roland, after the three of them left the library for the evening, the doors locking behind them, and strolled along Burrell’s Walk toward Garret Hostel Lane. “You’re a fount of knowledge.”

“Thank you,” replied Roland. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“Does the expression
nuit de feu
mean anything to you?”

“It brings to mind several things. But I’m not sure I should discuss them in mixed company.”

“No, seriously.”

“May I ask what lies behind this rather odd query?”

“It concerns our Darwin research,” put in Beth. “We’re at something of a dead end.”

“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me what you’re up to. I’m distinctly out of the loop, as you Americans say.”

“We’d tell you but we don’t know what we’ve got,” said Hugh. “So far we’ve just exchanged one mystery for another one. And the second is even more mysterious than the first.”

“It’s like what Churchill said about Russia,” added Beth. “A mystery inside an enigma wrapped in a riddle.”

Roland grimaced. “You mean, a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.”

“Whatever. It means the same thing.”

“No, it doesn’t. You can’t wrap something inside a riddle.”

“And I suppose you can wrap it inside an enigma?”

“Not to put too fine a point on it, but the
wrapping
was done to the riddle by the mystery. Then the whole thing went into the enigma.”