An Historic Voyage

1 October 1836 : Together they stood side by side on the deck, yet somehow apart, peering at the land ahead – home. The land ahead of them appeared to recede out of reach as it faded in the twilight; yet by tomorrow they would be home.

The whole day there’d been excited activity on board, the crew anxious to reach harbour that day, eventually having to accept they’d dock at Falmouth on the high tide in the morning.

“1 771 or 1 772 days - what did it matter, one more day?” he thought to himself. “Almost 5 years…” he said quietly to his companion.

He turned towards the man standing next to him. What were his thoughts? Did he know, did he rue, the end of the chapter?

* * *

Years later I tried to remember the exact date it had began, to pinpoint in my mind the exact starting point. I remember it all so clearly; etched into that sacred, silent part of me, my very essence. Of course I could, should I want to, work it out; from the journal. But that is too calculating, too scientific. The day should have been noted, in the journal; marked with a big exclamation mark. Then later, when like me, it’s author, it too was studied and analysed – “put under a microscope”, as it were (a good metaphor, I’ve always thought, though strictly speaking I didn’t use one often) - they would have wondered… Wondered what insight he had uncovered; was this the day it started fitting into place? Wondered, but they could not know. For how could they?

Instead, on that the journal was of course silent… Silent about that day of days.

And yet, it was this that sustained me through all the ensuing years of ill-health, notoriety, controversy. And yet it was this too that could have destroyed me – relished by foe, and rued by friend. (And in a sense, it did kill him. Oh yes, I do believe that.) At the very least it would have been a huge setback. It was scandalous enough, without a real scandal. Well posterity would then have fulminated, ruminated and hypothesised on what-might-have-been.

But it was never known.

Still like a small stone in one’s shoe, it niggles at the back of my mind. When was it exactly? What day was it - Saturday or Sunday perhaps? But hadn’t it begun before then?

Go back, go back… To the start of the voyage…

The first night – well at least that is a date I can remember. We had left from Portsmouth . My father had come to see me off – the departure of the prodigal son!

“This voyage is but another interruption in your education. I begin to despair of you amounting to anything. Will you only be good for hunting and rat-catching? I gave my consent for this voyage only to save the family from disgrace, and save my self the expense of your gaming debts.”

How disapproving he had been. Did he know it would be five years before we were to meet again? Would he approve of me later, the infamous revolutionary? Would he have understood the other, that of which no one else ever knew?

So father and Caroline, she as dear to me as a mother, watched as we set sail: 27 December 1831 …

It was natural that we would turn to each other for companionship. Indeed, more than natural for after all, was that not the real purpose of my presence – gentleman companion to the captain?

Not that it was “plain sailing”: Farmer initially did not like the look of my face (literally). He had the strange notion that the shape of my nose reflected dissoluteness in my character! Somehow we weathered that storm, but the cramped quarters took some adjusting to. Compared to what I was used to, the cabin we shared was tiny, indeed Spartan – 2 bunks, a table, a cupboard and a privy that barely provided any privacy at all. At the start of the journey I scarcely saw him during the day though, he being concerned with his duties. I for one was seasick. We were three days out of port before we ate our first meal together.

Then we settled into a routine from which we hardly deviated whenever we were on the high sea. During the day I would exercise on deck, and spend the rest of the day reading or writing up my observations. We would dine together in the evening. As befitting our station, the meal was formal, and we dressed accordingly.

Initially our conversations were polite if rather stiff, he being of somewhat taciturn disposition. I, despite my youth (not yet two-and-twenty) was also somewhat subdued. Certainly I was in some measure in awe of him. Only four years my senior, he cut a striking figure: tall and powerfully built, his bearing proud and aristocratic. Scion of royalty, he bore himself with manly confidence. I too was tall and muscular, for after all, had not I spent most of my days in the pleasures of the hunt and other athletic pursuits?

As a leader, he was respected, rather than liked. The other officers demurred politely to his command; the ratings treated him with polite deference which he accepted naturally as his due. Sailing south, the weather grew warmer. By the time of our first landfall in the Cape Verde Islands , it was balmy. Our relationship had warmed with the weather. In public we maintained a strict formality, addressing each other as “Captain” and “Sir”, but in private we called each other by surname.

With the crew he maintained his rigid attitude of rectitude and discipline. I however was surprised at the brutality of naval life. I witnessed the sentence imposed on two sailors who had returned to the ship late and drunk. Not that he himself had administered the punishment – it was meted out by the mate. The men themselves however seemed to accept it as part of their lot, and seemed to harbour no long-term hard-feelings.

No hard-feelings? Well, perhaps amongst the crew. I was certainly experiencing feelings that I found increasingly hard to deal with. In the set at Edinburgh and then Cambridge particularly, there’d been high jinks and implied licentiousness. But my delicious, guilty secret, had remained just that – secret. The sin of Onan! I believe it later came to be described as “self-abuse”. I (we?) had no name for it – it was the great unmentionable. The lascivious ribaldry at college was always to do with the busty wenches of taverns, or slutty (or so we wished) chambermaids in our homes.

But for me, now my solitary pleasure was taken away. No opportunity for privacy – during the day the cabin door remained unlocked. At night, oh the nightly agony! - my member rock-hard, yearning for release. But always visible in the dim light of the lantern, my companion - the Captain.

The voyage continued, we heading ever southward. Our evening custom was to dine together, then while the dinner was being cleared away, for me to accompany him on a final inspection of the ship. The crew on duty would greet us deferentially, “Aye, aye, Cap’in. Evening Sir.” On returning to the cabin, Farmer would at last abandon all formality. Disrobing he would lay his uniform out for pressing in the morning, then lounge on this bed, reading or conversing, in his undergarments. I would look with admiration at his muscular manliness, wishing all the while for something, but I knew not what. His sturdy, strong arms, the powerful shape of his calves, the elongated knot at his groin… I would remained fully clothed – guilty of my potential tumescence – slipping off my clothes only once the lantern was dimmed, and I would lie on the bed, covering myself with a sheet.

And so until a night, a night sultry and humid, the ship becalmed in the doldrums, south of Cape Verde . In the oppressive heat, neither of us could sleep; even our discourse was languid and insipid. Impatiently he cast aside his sheet he suggested we seek relief on deck. A half moon was rising in the eastern sky; we stood silently, hearing the waves lapping against the almost motionless hull. A school of porpoises glided by, and to get a better view we moved towards the stern.

I turned towards a low scuffling sound. I saw a sailor rutting a figure bent over before him. In the dim moonlight I could see the white two half-moons of his buttocks flexing as he thrust his pelvis back and forth. The man in front whimpered while his buggerer murmured staccatoed obscenities, all the while plunging his manhood deep into him.

I was aghast. Appalled. Spellbound; but fearful for the consequences for the two miscreants. I’d seen the punishment in Cape Verde meted out for drunkenness. In fascinated horror I held my breath, yet Farmer simply motioned me to step quietly backward, and we returned to the cabin.

Nothing was said. Nothing. Dimming the lantern, Farmer got onto his bed and seemed to fall asleep. I was left stunned – feeling almost robbed of something. What did it mean? Why had he chosen to ignore it. And the memory of the sailor’s buttocks – white perfect orbs – clenching and unclenching, enflaming me. In a daze, yet suddenly clear about my own longings: to possess, to be possessed; to touch, to fondle, to caress. I lay on the bed yearning, my erection throbbing. But I dared not grant myself relief: fear of waking my companion, and fear of leaving my discharge on the bedclothes for the cabin boy to discover in the morning.

Nightly my torments continued. I recognised the seaman who I had seen buggering that night. Clearly he did not know he’d been observed, and his demeanour remained natural and unconcerned. I longed to know whom he had rutted with. Was it for them just the animal act it appeared to be, or did it have meaning for him? Did they have yearnings like me?

At least now I understood my own yearnings. At last I knew – I wanted, I craved – to give and to receive. Fill my inner self with his manhood – feel the core of him deep inside me. And, share my essence inside him. And this man, the man with whom I wanted to share all, this man was lying next to me.

For three nights I lay awake at night, tormented by desire. Questions tumbled inside me: why had Farmer not done anything; why had he just stepped back and let it pass?

On the fourth night after, Farmer seemed unusually loquacious. We discussed at length our observations of the volcano at Cape Verde , how it all seemed to bear out Lyell’s hypothesis that the earth was of great age, and not relatively young as suggested by certain clerics. (Bishop Ussher for example, had dated creation at 4004 bc.) Our discourse drifted, turning to the advantages a proper education bestowed, and the obligations of our privileged class.

In speaking of the burden of leadership, he alluded to the incident we’d witnessed. My thoughts, in tumbled turmoil, struggled hesitantly to form themselves into words. What had it meant – a man, rutting like an animal, and with another man? But could it have meaning – could there be real feelings, caring even, behind it?

I groped for words, grappling to articulate my unvoiced thoughts, that I, destined for the clergy, and he, a committed Christian, it was for us that I was asking.

His answer was indirect. “You and I are born into a certain class and obligation. Our actions, our deeds, reflect our position as gentlemen. What sets us apart, what makes us superior, to those that look up to us. Surely we are inflamed by the same base desires as the lower orders? But they have not our upbringing, or education, indeed, our lineage! They have not been taught, they have not been trained, have not our forbearance.

“Thus their passions unbridled, are let loose. They find expression in vulgar couplings and common aggression. We cannot stop them on board, any more than we can stop the lascivious couplings in the inns and bawdy houses of every port.”

“But,” I blurted out, “is it of necessity mere wantonness, devoid of feeling, caring?” Beyond caring, I continued, “My desires, my deepest yearnings, are denied me by my class? Oh woeful legacy.”

“You desire, you look for, fulfilment in a sexual pairing, as we saw the other night?”

Beyond caring, I replied, “Indeed yes. No! What it is that I desire, yearn for, is a physical expression of love. And if truth be told, it is with you Sir, that I long to consummate my desire.” Abashed, I lay back on the bed, closing my eyes.

In the long pause, the silence was palpable.

“You mistake my meaning,” he continued at length. “It is lascivious passion, devoid of feeling, that is the great Leviathan to be trapped and ensnared. Does Kirkpatrick [the seaman we had in flagrante delicto] care for Haddon other than as a receptacle for his semen? In Buenos Aires he will be whoring with whichever damsel or dame is willing to accept his money, and indeed some who won’t.

“You said,” he said, “assuming I divine your meaning correctly, that you have sexual desires, but desires that transcend the mere carnal?”

“Yes,” I replied simply.

My eyes still closed, I heard him get up from his bed. I assumed he was preparing to retire as I could hear him laying his clothes out as was his wont. But then - he laid his hand on my shoulder. From then on words ceased. He drew me up, and we stood side by side next to the porthole, our hands brushing each other. He slipped his arm around my waist, and pulled me towards him.

I feft an immediate stirring in my groin and I tried to draw away from him, embarrassed. He drew me tighter to him. Almost of equal height, he turned to face me and pulled us together. Pressed against me I could feel the solidness of his erection. I gasped, his arousal taking me by surprise. In excitement I fumbled to reach out and hold it, aching to hold it within my grasp. Gently he held me back, then let our arms twine, holding us in a firm embrace.

He led me to the bed, and skilfully helped me undress. In amazement I allowed him to take off my undergarments too, exposing my nakedness to someone for the first time since infancy. I fumbled with his vest, helping his to take it off. His chest was more beautiful than I had even imagined. His biceps were strong and firm. His chest was hairier than mine – with my fingers I circled his nipples and began to trace a path with my finger to down his stomach. Below his navel an inky black trail of hair to his genitals. Again, he prolonged the anticipation, deflecting my hand before I could touch his throbbing manhood. With his tongue he exquisitely tickled my nipples, now erect as my penis.

Again he pulled us face to face – and began kissing me. What delicious ecstasy – I wanted to possess every part of him. I pressed my tongue deep into his mouth, as our lips pressed hard against each other. Breaking apart, he knelt over me and began licking my nipples, encircling with his tongue. Then slowly, enticingly, he started ran his tongue now my torso. I felt my own rigidity leap as his tongue neared my groin. I knew not what would happen, but desired it all.

He turned around, crouching low over my penis, positioning his own in front of me. I gasp at the sheer masculine perfection of it, seeing it for the first time. I reached out and encircled it with my hand. It was moist from the lubricating fluid I knew from my own. Gently I pulled his foreskin away from the head, inhaling the heady aroma of his masculinity. Gently I caressed it, lovingly worshiping the manly part of him.

Again I gasped, for suddenly I realised he had taken me inside his mouth. At first just the head, pulling the foreskin down, and encircling the sensitive head with his tongue. Then slowly he slipped it fully into his mouth, gliding it up and down in exquisite rhythm. I too wanted to experience him within me, and hesitantly I received him in my mouth. He responded with renewed ardour. Synchronising with his movements, I circled his head with my tongue, peeling back his foreskin. I allowed him to penetrate deep into my mouth in sublime surrender.

Yet too I ached for release, my pent up yearnings craving for discharge. He seemed to sense this, and withdrew both of us, kissing my inner thighs and allowing the passion to abate. “Not yet, not yet,” he whispered. In humility I submitted to his direction. Gently he turned me over, and stroked my back. I could feel the hardness of his passion pressed against my leg. Again I yearned to possess it, letting it fill my mouth. Instead he let me grasp it in his hand, caressing it as I knew to do with my own, bring it closer to a climatic end. Sensing that I could I not wait longer, he began the final act.

I felt his tongue running along the contours of my back. With loving tenderness I felt him reach curve of my buttocks. He massaged them firmly with his hands, then pushed my thighs apart. His touch, almost imperceptible, glided along my calves. Then, in amazement I almost cried out – he pushed my buttocks aside and his tongue began to lap at that secret entrance. Waves of delicious anticipation rolled over me. Wet and sensing what was about to happen, I opened wide my legs and felt him enter into me. Nothing before could have prepared me for the sheer wonder of possessing his very member, deep within my body.

I felt his body go rigid, and knew he was empting himself, his essence, into my body. Eery nerve of my body tingled as I felt him thrust himself within me – giving me himself. He lay panting on my back, panting in satisfaction, his member still hard within me. With his lips he caressed my neck lovingly. What did all else matter, this the culmination of life?

But it had not finished. I felt him withdraw himself from me. He turned me over, and then presented himself to me. Ah, at last I understood – we would both be giver and receiver. But first I too had to prepare the way. As he had done I moistened his hole with my tongue, thrusting it in him as far as it would go. I probed his entrance with my finger, and heard him gasp in appreciation – so there, I too can initiate pleasure. Licking my finger, I again inserted into his hole – knowing I was entering into him. He seemed too to demand more; I felt him groping for me. As he encompassed in his hand, I realised my pent up anticipation could not be staved off for much longer.

Pushing his cheeks apart, I drove myself deep in him. Our bodies tingled together as I felt deep within me the welling up of my climax. Wave after wave of euphoria engulfed as I spilled my seed into him.

Exhausted, I lay back, but he held me tightly, keeping me inside him. I could feel my fluid wet inside. At last as my tumescence subsided, I slipped out of him. He turned me around and we lay face to face. He kissed me gently, yet still passionately. I could smell the musky scent of both him and me on his face, as we both drifted to sleep.

For the remainder of the voyage, only one bed in the cabin was ever used, though the cabin boy still had to make up both every morning.

* * *

And so, that is how it began. And now, all these years later, we stand together, knowing this will be our last night together. In another time, another place - perhaps if we had lived with the ancients – there would not have had to be this parting.

But perhaps we both knew, but perhaps did not accept: this was the end.

Well not completely the end. When later the voyage had become famous, and those of us on it became a part of history, they came to ask why he died like he did: a morbidity of hereditary (after all his relative, a foreign secretary, too had taken his life)? Or was it the disappointment of his clash with the New Zealand colonists during his sojourn as governor? What they cannot know, will never know: the void, emptiness - of a love he had known, which could not be.

I adapted more easily, settling down to matrimonial harmony, if not bliss. But, they speculated too about me – what had made me I hesitate for so long? Was it a reluctance to disturb the equilibrium of the age of progress? What caused the debilitating ennui – was it physical or did it have an emotional pathology? What they cannot know, will never know: through all the controversies and personal attacks, I was sustained by a love I had known, even if it could never be.