London was finally near.
That morning, I stood on the upper deck of the Beagle, leaning against the railing, breathing in the long-missed scent of the Thas River.
It was a scent only Londoners understood, mixed with the wet mustiness of mudflats, coal smoke, beer dregs, and old ropes. Being away for five years, hosickness was like an old cable tied to one’s soul, a gentle tug would make one’s heart tremble.
The sun was already high, the river shimring with dazzling golden light, heat rising from the deck as we sailed upstream. Passing by Gravesend, then through the waterways of Lihouse, familiar landmarks erged one by one. The do of Saint Paul glowed faintly in the mist, and the Tower of London stood solemnly like an old soldier in the morning light.
The ship swayed occasionally, river wind stirring up the bustling sounds from distant docks. A coachman was loudly cursing the lagging workers; vendors shouted, selling cheap fresh herring. The rhythm of the barges’ oars hitting the water was even more moving than any bird song I’d heard in the tropical rainforest.
Boats interwove constantly, as if the shipping on the Thas had never ceased. A Norwegian rchant ship, laden with timber, was unloading at the dock; rows of bare-chested sailors with sunburned shoulders shouted, their voices echoing between warehouses. Another ship from India, belonging to the East India Company, had quietly anchored, its hatch half-open, and I could see boxes of tea being carefully unloaded from afar...
The scenes of London unfolded before like a tapestry, and I couldn’t help but light up a pipe, murmuring, "London, my dream beauty, today I return to your fervent embrace... Damn, which son of a bitch kicked ?"
Before the poem was finished, Eld felt a tightness in his backside and fell heavily onto the deck. Even the pipe in his hand flew out, landing with a plop into the Thas River.
"Your pants are loose enough to raise chickens, and your hair is greasy enough to fry fish. Eld, look at you being all pretentious here, acting like Byron?"
A breathless and angry voice ca from behind Eld: "I’ve been hauling your drawing box and microscope all around the ship, while you’re here composing poetry for the river fishes in the Thas. Aren’t you afraid you’ll make the dolphins in the Atlantic Ocean sad with your antics?"
Eld turned around and, sure enough, on the Beagle, besides Colonel Fitzroy, only that bald guy from Cambridge dared to speak to him like this.
Charles Darwin was carrying a box in each hand, with his luggage over his shoulder and a telescope hanging around his neck. He looked as if he’d just crawled out of a South Arican swamp, sweat dripping, and not a clean spot could be found on his white shirt.
Eld lay on the deck, bracing himself with his hands, his lips twitching a little.
The bittersweet look on his face instantly transford into an expression of fury and arson.
He slamd the deck and sat up straight, yelling at Darwin: "Charles! Are you out of your damn mind? My last line was perfectly laid out, ’Today I return to your fervent embrace of the world.’ You’re just jealous, pure jealousy, jealous that my natural talent for poetry outnumbers your thinning hair."
Having lived with Eld for five years, Darwin’s value was clearly rising, and such jabs at his hairline no longer had any effect on him.
Darwin rely snorted: ", jealous of you? You look like you’ve just rolled out from a mule’s belly, and you’re here composing poetry. You think you’re Byron? You’re nothing more than his unwashed sock."
"Piss off!" Eld snapped, rolling up his sleeves and stepping forward: "When I helped you organize specins, I didn’t hear a word of thanks from you. Now it’s your turn to carry a box for , and you have all these complaints?"
Darwin was about to retort when suddenly he heard a voice behind him: "Both of you shut up!"
This shout was like a cannonball exploding on the deck, startling two pigeons into the air.
Colonel Fitzroy, dressed immaculately in his uniform, kicked aside a thick rope on the deck, stepping between the two of them: "Eld! Look at you, looking like a ghost! There might be people from the Navy Departnt to greet us later at the docks, maybe even a few reporters. Don’t tell you plan to let the Navy Departnt see you with your trousers split and your beard haphazard! I’m warning you, I don’t want to see a headline in tomorrow’s The Tis like ’Beagle returns after five years, bringing back a madman and a pile of algae.’"
Eld was dumbfounded by the scolding, his mouth half-open as if to speak, but he was instantly silenced by the Colonel’s eagle-eyed glare.
"Get downstairs and change your clothes right now! Your shirt looks like it’s been wiped with dead fish, and the leg of your pants could wring out a bucket of black water. I don’t want your uncle thinking I’ve been mistreating you on the ship these five years."
Hearing Colonel Fitzroy ntion his uncle, Eld instantly deflated like an eggplant hit by frost.
At such a ti, he really needed to leave a good impression on his uncle, as he would rely on the old man to help navigate the Navy Departnt’s connections back in London.
Sullenly, he grabbed one of the ragged boxes from Darwin’s hands, limping toward the direction of the ship’s cabin.
Returning to the living quarters of the cabin, Eld soon stripped off his clothes down to his skin, fetched so water in a washbasin, faced the palm-sized mirror, holding a razor in one hand, and touching his sunburnt, scraggly beard with the other.
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