This Thing Of Darkness Read Online Free

the waves towards his future. The depression that had overwhelmed Stokes would have seemed as distant a prospect as the wild channel where the poor fellow had surrendered himself to it. Four months earlier, however, there had occurred a ... disturbance: that was the only word for it. An isolated incident, which had filled FitzRoy with disquiet, and which now refused to be forgotten.
    It had been just such a day as this, the air at its sweetest, the sunshine clean and clear, and he had felt a sudden surge of elation as he prepared to order the signal to Wait for Dispatches. A kind of giddy excitement had seized him, a wild happiness, which led him in a whirling, mischievous dance. Glowing with joy, he had been struck by a tremendous idea. Why not run up all the flags in the locker in a splendid array? What a fine sight it would make! How in keeping with everyone’s mood on such a blessing of a day! Then, why not add all the night signals, the white lights, guns, horns, bells and flares, in a magnificent celebration?
    The midshipmen had laughed when he had described his plan, taking their cue from his own merry countenance, but their smiles had slackened and disappeared at the realization that he was not joking. He had tried to persuade them, pumping their hands, invoking their Christian names, urging them excitably to join in the entertainment. They had failed to understand, had assumed him to be drunk. There had been a scuffle — a vulgar push-and-pull, his uniform ripped - which had culminated in them locking him in his cabin, still flushed with fatuous excitement. The incident had been hushed up - Bingham had been told he was sick - and quickly forgotten by the others, but what the devil had he been thinking of? What malign spirit had taken control of his mind?
    The next morning had been even more inexplicable. He had woken in a state of what could only be called fear. A black despondency had suffocated him, squeezing all other thoughts from his mind, isolating him from the world outside his cabin. He had lain alone in his cot, shivering and frightened. In this state of overwhelming helplessness, there had seemed no point to his life, no point to his work, no point even to existence itself.
    Gradually, the darkness had seemed to take shape in his mind. As he was still in the sick list, his friends had presumed him to be battling the dog of a hangover, but this was a much fiercer beast. It slavered at him, mocked him. You are completely in my power , it seemed to say, should I ever deign to visit you again.
    Within a few hours, however, the creature had stirred itself and padded away. He had emerged from his cabin shaken, cowed and deeply embarrassed. Since that day, everything had been as it should, but the incident continued to loom large in his consciousness. Had the creature really departed? Or was it merely biding its time, toying with him, waiting to return at a moment when men’s lives depended on his skill and judgement?
    He had thrown himself at phrenology, had turned himself into an expert on the subject, staying up late to study Gall and Spurzheim, had spent hours in front of the mirror feeling the bumps and hollows on the surface of his skull, but to no avail. He thought of his uncle: a formidable intellect, one of the foremost statesmen of his age. Castlereagh had taken his own life. He thought, too, of Stokes. Had he, Robert FitzRoy, come face to face with whatever those men had encountered in their final moments?
    Profoundly troubled, he realized that Sulivan had stopped chattering, and was looking at him with an expression of concern. ‘I say, FitzRoy, is everything all right?’
    ‘Of course. My dear Sulivan, you must forgive my inattention. It is not every day one is given a vessel of one’s own to fret about.’
    ‘And three cheers to that!’
    ‘Even so, my rudeness is quite inexcusable.’
    ‘Not a bit of it, old fellow, not a bit of it.’
    FitzRoy sat up in the boat. Loath as he was to dampen