The Empire Sketcher

By Chris Coggin

In 19th Century maps the interior of Africa and Australia was a vast blank space. The men who explored those regions became legends: none more so than the missionary David Livingstone. But the men who accompanied Livingstone are now forgotten - and so is the dark side of Livingstone. Thomas Baines - explorer, adventurer and artist - was a man whose life rivaled that of Livingstone for wonder and excitement and who came to know the lesser-known side of the Livingstone legend. Baines had been caught up in the conflict between the British and the Boers in South Africa, he had faced danger and endured hardship on an epic voyage around the remote northern coast of Australia but nothing had prepared him for his ultimate test: an expedition into the heart of Africa with the popular hero Livingstone. The offer of a place seemed like a dream come true but it was to become a nightmare of betrayal and injustice. The dark heart was not that of Africa at all but of a missionary whose zeal for the Empire had overtaken his judgment and sense of fairness. This is the story, based on his own diaries and other original records, of Thomas Baines, of his battle with Livingstone and of the lost love that haunted him all his life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Coggin
• Release date: Feb 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311092199

Chris Coggin

Chris Coggin has had a close interest in Thomas Baines throughout his career in the information industry in South Africa, Zimbabwe and Australia. He lives in Perth, Western Australia and has plans for the epublishing of further novels, including one on the Chimurenga war in Zimbabwe and another on the role of the Afrikaans secret society, the Broederbond, in the life of a small boy in South Africa.

Book preview

The Empire Sketcher

by

Chris Coggin

Published by Chris Coggin at Smashwords

Copyright 2014 Chris Coggin

Cover picture by permission of

the National Library of Australia

Ebook formatting by Jesse Gordon

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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Dedicated to Pauline

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Prologue: 1875

Chapter 1: 1820-1842

Childhood and youth in Kings Lynn — early artistic talent encouraged — escapades with brother Henry — a childhood sweetheart — sailing on the Ouse — apprenticeship to a coach builder — love spurned — exodus to Cape Town

Chapter 2: 1842-1848

In which I adjust to my new surroundings — gain uncongenial employment — a painful recollection of wrongs long past — friendships made — an adventure to Simonstown — first encounters with fauna — my true vocation

Chapter 3: 1848-1851

Sojourn in the eastern Cape Colony — sketching trip to Grahamstown and beyond — intimations of publication dashed — introduction to Dutch frontier life and a Bushmen school — adventures with a friend in the Boer republic — my caprice exposes a youth to calamity

Chapter 4: 1851-1853

A narrow escape for a brave youth ; unpleasant recollections of Doctor Livingstone and his treatment of me; return to the Eastern Frontier; an unexpected commission; baptism into the 8th Kafir War as official war artist; poor judgment and its dire consequences

Chapter 5: 1852-1853

No satisfaction for the Grim Reaper; succour at a remote mission station; a shocking revelation

Chapter 6: 1853-1854

A warm welcome in my home town; exhibitions held and planned; mixed reception to Scenery and Events; a touching reunion with Alice; intercourse with the Royal Geographic Society; a pleasant (and unexpected) appointment

Chapter 7: 1855-1856

Voyage in the Blue Jacket; meeting with fellow officers of the North Australian Expedition; orders received from Augustus Charles Gregory; arrival of an Arian botanist and his contretemps with a querulous geologist; cruising the Carpentaria and arrival at the Victoria River mouth; an inebriated sea captain

Chapter 8: 1856

Naming of an iconic tree ; Base Camp consolidated; Close call with Aborigines; I am commemorated in a river; Christmas Day with a difference; good land discovered; establishment of the Depot Camp; Aborigines set extensive bushfires; disquieting decision by Mr Gregory

Chapter 9: 1857

Departure from the Victoria river — foment among the captain and crew — arrival and events in Kupang — seaworthiness of the Tom Tough in question —I charter the brigantine Messenger

Chapter 10: 1856-57

Disciplinary altercations with some expedition members; a torrid voyage in the longboat; sorrow at a simian bereavement; a terrible misadventure with Aborigines; arrival at the Albert River to relieve Mr Gregory

Chapter 11: 1857-1858

Wilson’s recalcitrance comes to a head; good sailing round the North West Cape and down the coast of Western Australia; a friendly American whaler; pleasant interlude and a surprise in Albany; return to Sydney and discharge of Expedition’s affairs

Chapter 12: 1858

Loving welcome at Kings Lynn; pleasant news from the Geographical Society; I meet Doctor Livingstone; design and building of a river boat; my appointment to the Zambezi Expedition; a colourful farewell for a famous man

Chapter 13: 1858

Arrival at the Zambezi River delta; confounded by choked channels; a pompous commander shows his true colours; recalcitrance of a paddle steamer; Portuguese exploitation in Zambesia revealed

Chapter 14: 1858

A disturbing dream; no sympathy for illness; supplies missing from the store; a voyage upstream; trading with the locals; Bedingfield raises our leader’s ire once more; grisly discovery at Mazaro; rescue of the Governor of Tete; a narrow escape from rebels

Chapter 15: 1858 December

Prescience of a sad event — Livingstone’s expectations of my portraiture — I give painting lessons — dismissal of Bedingfield — an independent sojourn on the river — further fever — kindness of a Portuguese officer

Chapter 16: 1859 July

Livingstone’s reunion with the Makololo — Questions about the river’s navigability — unexpected frankness from Doctor Kirk — bad news from a Zambezi tribesman — a concupiscent dream — bitter disappointment for our leader

Chapter 17: 1860-1861

Thornton dismissed from the Expedition — forewarning of Charles’ vindictiveness — I visit a sugar estate and paint Portuguese beauties — Crab’s demise — Livingstone as accuser, judge and jury — Kirk performs a traitorous duty — Sicard digs his heels in — banishment to Expedition Island

Chapter 18: 1860-61

A fruitful period in Cape Town — assiduous efforts to clear my name — reunion with two old comrades — startling news from my dear Mama — foreshadowing of my next book and negotiations with King Lobengula of the Matabele

Epilogue: 1875

The sources

Bibliography

Acknowledgments

The author

Prologue

DURBAN 1875

A light breeze drifted across the small garden fronting James Watson’s house. Annie Lewis, James’s mother, gathered her voluminous skirt about her as the Zulu driver helped her dismount from the buggy. She took a moment to gaze towards the ocean and the harbour, marvelling at the contrast between the deep blue shimmer of the sea and the coruscating surface of the harbour. A few sailing craft sat placidly on the water today, although she could just make out signs of activity alongside a schooner at anchor near the Point. And she was pleasantly surprised to spot, dwarfed beneath the lighthouse on the Bluff, what appeared to be a barque cresting the swell as it breached the harbour entrance.

Good day, Ma. Annie’s son emerged from the small porch. A lithely-built fellow with weathered features, he embraced her briefly, and took the basket she was carrying. Ngiyabonga. Buya emva kwamahora amabili ukulanda uMama wami, he said to the driver, who nodded in understanding of the instruction to come back within a couple of hours. With a staccato click at the two horses the Zulu man set the buggy moving again.

How’s the patient? Annie anxiously touched James’ wrist. She wondered how he and his wife, Arabella, had been coping with her sick nephew, Thomas Baines.

* * *

Thomas had been confined to his bed at James’ place for several days, although his illness was of longer duration than that. Four weeks previously, when still at Annie’s house, he had started to show debilitating signs: stomach cramps and frequent trips to the outside lavatory. Despite his obvious discomfort he had carried on with his duties, as he called them, saying they were inescapable and that others had expectations of him. Annie found she could not dissuade him. She did not have the energy to push him; she felt tired and sometimes thought, I am frail, then berated herself for thinking so. Then she would recall her age, reflect on her long sojourn — twenty-five years — in Durban, and acknowledge the happy times. She was an optimistic soul.

You must rest, she kept on telling her nephew. You’ve not too long been back from Port Elizabeth.

On this occasion Thomas looked up from his easel, his brown eyes smouldering with a fever she had not seen before. His hand shook as he wiped his brow; a smear of indigo paint remained and Annie made to wipe it off with her kerchief. Thomas parried her movement. He felt guilt at his impatience; he loved his aunt and still marvelled at the courage she had shown over the years, having been widowed twice in Natal — as if all the other hardships white settlers had to endure in the new colony were not enough.

Aunt, I must ask you to help me pen a letter. He seemed to brighten; Annie surmised he was about to repeat parts of the story he had recounted to her on previous visits. The saga involved arduous wagon journeys, repairs to axles, treating of sick bullocks and sick people, hazardous crossings of streams and rivers, fossicking for gold, measuring, mediating between white hunters and black potentates … and all the while sketching, drawing, draughting, painting, writing. He had never called for anyone to help in narrating anything; Annie wondered why he would want it now.

You do not need me to help you write, surely. It occurred to Annie that Thomas wanted to set down something of the sort at which he might imagine a woman would be more adept. Perhaps he would articulate in writing his yearning for Alice and ask his aunt for suggestions about approaching her again. Where might she be now, after so many years? Annie dismissed this scenario as well, figuring that if he were going to revisit any longstanding issue it was more likely to be in relation to Doctor Livingstone and Thomas’s conviction that the missionary-explorer had wrongfully besmirched his name.The Scot’s death two years before had apparently done little to put his mind at rest.

Thomas took a moment to put his palette to one side, wipe his hands and compose himself. Getting up from his seat he made his way to the bureau, limping slightly. A likeness of Queen Victoria, painted by Thomas himself on an earlier visit, frowned down at him as he pulled out a sheaf of papers. He felt angry for not having the strength to pen the letter himself, but had to admit that he was too shaky right now. And the matter in hand was of vital importance; he had delayed getting it done for too long. He could no longer wait for people like Rudolf, Greenstock or Dawnay to come up with capital, much less expect an injection of funds from the managers of the South African Goldfield Exploration Company in London. Until recently Oliver, the company secretary, was making egregious demands of him, as if he, Thomas Baines, owed them as much as a sou after all his labours in Matabeleland on their behalf.

You recall that I obtained a mining concession from Loben, Aunt. Annie had heard the name often enough to recognize it as Thomas’ affectionate way of referring to Lobengula, king of the Matabele nation that lay north of the Transvaal Republic. He is waiting for me…the Company, really … me as agent of the Company to go up again and make good the things that we discussed when I was there. Thomas breathed heavily. Annie could discern only the last part of his next sentence. …take up machinery, stores so that mining operations can begin.

Annie replied that she thought yes, she could recall his talking of the concession. He was very excited when he returned from Matabeleland four years ago with the news. For months afterwards, even until a few weeks ago when down in Port Elizabeth, he had immersed himself in activities aimed at following up on the possibilities offered by Lobengula’s largesse. Annie had wondered why nothing seemed to have come of his energies; indeed, why Lobengula could still be interested after all this time. But, always conscious of not prying into her nephew’s life, she had said nothing to him. William, her elder son, occasionally expressed puzzlement about the situation and on more than one occasion she had heard him quizzing Thomas. He believed he had a right to do so, for he had been a member of an earlier expedition led by Thomas, also to see Lobengula.

Annie, smiling uncertainly, seated herself next to Thomas at the bureau. Sunlight was beginning to enter the window now, warming the already-humid air, and she adjusted the curtains slightly. She hoped that her hand would be steady enough to undertake the duty Thomas was asking of her; after all, she herself was nearly eighty. She readied herself with pen and ink, looked at Queen Victoria for strength, and started writing as her nephew spoke:

To Lobengula, King of the Matabele Nation

Greetings from Thomas Baines

Since I was with your Majesty, I have, as you know, been most industrious in seeking to further the interests described in the Concession signed by you on the 9th of April 1870. The parties whose financial support is necessary for the advancement of the matters therein have had to find funding for the machinery and other equipment necessary; this has taken much time. I extend my earnest regret, and that of the said parties, for the delay thus occasioned. If I should unfortunately be delayed a little longer, I hope that you will believe that I am making every effort in my power, and that my heart is grateful to you for the kindness you have shown me, and is still fixed to return and to continue the friendly relations which have subsisted between us in Matabeleland.

I close in expressing my continued good wishes, affection and respect to your Majesty, and trust that good health, prosperity and happiness continue to bless You and Your subjects.

Signed this, the 2nd of April, eighteen hundred and seventy five, by

Your obedient servant and friend

Thomas Baines.

Thomas had then shouldered her with the responsibility of ensuring the letter would have safe passage. On his instructions she delivered it to his friend, Andrew Leathern who, as a local transport rider, would see to it that the missive would find its way through the Transvaal and thence to John Lee, Baines’ agent in Matabeleland. Thomas assured her that Lee would take it personally to Lobengula. Annie had thought her ministrations would lead to her nephew’s quick recovery. As far as she was able she made him rest. But he would not have it and persisted in as many of his routines as he could: receiving guests in his chamber (he said they were business contacts), writing, drawing and painting. She had her own favourite remedies for his condition or, rather, the condition from which she believed he suffered. But Thomas prevailed upon her to administer his medications, including vials of what appeared to be crushed roots, leaves, even bone, from Matabeleland. Towards the end of the month, when he took a turn for the worse and moved with difficulty, she decided that it was unfair for the other guests in her boarding house to be confronted daily with the sight and sounds of the invalid. The coolness expected in Durban about that time had not materialised, so Annie persuaded James and Arabella to have their cousin in their house: located high on the Berea, it picked up every cooling breeze that might waft.

* * *

That breeze was palpable today and Annie, not for the first time, thought how good it would have been if she and her second husband, Nathan Lewis, had built their boarding house up here on the Berea instead of situating it upon the flats of the town itself. Siting it down there was a deliberate decision, however, based on the comings and goings of travellers arriving and departing by ship.

James looked worried at her question. He tugged at his dark brown beard, drew his hands across his visage, then shrugged. Our cousin is no better, Ma. Doctor Sykes has given me some different medicine to dose him with. But he’s a difficult patient.

Annie thought that, with his modest stature and thoughtful eyes, James looked much more like his cousin than did William. Mother and son entered the cottage. A stocky man whose broad face suggested oriental forbears was on his knees scrubbing the flagstones of the tiny entrance hall; Arabella was in the kitchen, ironing. Good morning, Mama, she called out to Annie.

Annie handed over the brown-paper bag of eggs she had brought for her. Still on the lay! she said. At least my fowls are thriving in this heat.

Arabella thanked her and resumed her chore. Morgan, the floor scrubber, looked up with a half grin; he hoped against hope that Arabella might share the eggs later. Annie and James made their way past her down the passage to Thomas’ room at the other end of the house. Thomas was at his easel. Despite the weather he wore on his head a sort of sleeping cap; a heavy scarf was tied loosely at his throat.The visitors glanced at the painting: it was the latest version of one Thomas had done a few weeks earlier on the occasion of Sir Garnet Wolseley’s arrival in Natal to take command of the colonial units of the British army.

James peered at the canvas. If I’m right, Tom, you’ve put an extra boat in this one.

I’m doing this one for Jim Meikle. Thought I’d make it worth his while. Thomas smiled, but it was not like his usual impish grin. Annie grieved inwardly at the extent of his deterioration from the night before.

The two visitors sat on a small divan. It was cloaked with the Union Jack which Thomas took on all his expeditions. Annie straightened the front edge as she lowered her ample buttocks, and Thomas smiled again. This time the smile was a little brighter: Be careful, Aunty, the sun never sets on the British Empire. Their chuckles relieved the tension, and James asked Thomas if he felt the doctor’s medicines had been helping. He hoped against hope that Thomas would not admit to taking any of the native remedies: that experiment, surely, was at an end. He knew that Thomas used Boer medications as well: the English settlers were accepting of these, for it was known that they had the imprimatur of scientific pharmacopeia originating in Holland or, if of more recent vintage, the benefit of two hundred years of homeopathic Boer experience in the Cape Colony.

They chatted for a while, the visitors conscious that Thomas was looking weaker by the minute. The dialogue was desultory as a result, but nevertheless touched on the success of Baines’ paintings. Unexpectedly Thomas appeared to be rattled. It’s all very well for my paintings to be so popular, but what continues to hurt is the knowledge that the Doctor never issued a formal apology. His hands shook as he fumbled in a pocket for snuff; seemingly there was none there and he folded his arms like a cross child.

The outburst took Annie and James by surprise. Their eyes widened; they moved their heads in gentle dissembled affirmation. Oh dear, is all Annie could say. Thomas glared at them both, his head nodding like an old man’s, although he was only fifty-five. He got to his feet and lurched towards and out the door, excusing himself. Annie told James he should follow his cousin, but James indicated that these forays to the small shack at the bottom of the garden were commonplace, adding, I only wish we could help him more.

I worry that he couched his remark about Doctor Livingstone the way he did, murmured Annie. Surely he cannot be thinking that the end …?

She heard footsteps coming down the passage, and tailed off. But they were heavy footfalls, and the man who entered was not Thomas but William. He kissed his mother lightly on the cheek, having to bend his tallish, weighty frame to do so. He was wearing the stout clothing and heavy fabric of his blacksmithing trade, his face florid not only from his labours but from his ride up the hill. His horse, Jemma, could be heard outside, its soft whinnying sounding like a woman’s giggle. Morgan could be heard joking in Zulu to Arabella, apparently amused at the mare’s high-spiritedness; Annie then heard him respond to some remark Thomas made as he passed Morgan, his companion for many years, on his return from the outside lavatory.

Ah, Thomas, so sorry you are still not yourself, the bulky William exclaimed. He made to pull up Thomas’ chair. Thomas, still shaking, poured water from a pitcher into a mug and sipped a mouthful. There was sweat on his brow. He nodded in response to William’s concern and sat down heavily. I am not too indisposed, he muttered.

Thomas, I have news for you, announced William. He was trying to impart a sense of excitement, of imminent surprise: he fancied it might brighten Thomas.

But Thomas seemed not to hear. He was looking down at his feet, breathing quickly. William had not seen him like this before. On their first trip to Matabeleland there had been times where one or more of their party had been incapacitated by heatstroke or fever, but he could not recall his cousin ever being overtaken by illness. When fatigued and under physical pressure the most noticeable handicap Thomas ever exhibited was an uneven gait, barely a limp.

Without warning Thomas straightened himself. William, I am forever in your debt. His utterance surprised them all. William in particular was taken aback, and blinked. Thomas pressed on: Your behaviour during and after our expedition was of the highest order: comparable to the loyalty and dignity shown to me by Mr Gregory in northern Australia. Would that the Doctor’s loyalty had been like his — and yours.

William, like his mother, was well acquainted with Thomas’ sporadic allusions to the missionary explorer, although he knew little of Gregory’s exploits. He half smiled, made to speak, to reveal his news. Thomas held up a hand, streaky with oil paint, and went on, Do you remember the first time we met Loben, William? He was in that hut, there were some others around — yes, some comely native women also! The artist’s gaze turned upwards to the thatch roof as in wondrous recollection, then swivelled back to his cousin. My goodness, and the pumpkin porridge. He looked at Annie and James, his mouth moving in a smiling grimace, but there was no humour in his deep-set eyes. Mashed pumpkin, can you believe? And, William, we boiled water and gave him some tea. An English drink in the wilds of Matabele country! I ask you now, why did we do that?

William opened his mouth to respond, to give him his news, but Baines pushed on. Then you repaired that German flintlock for him. I thought afterwards that if you had not, we would never have been permitted to leave that place. William nodded; this time he did not attempt to speak. Most of all, my dear coz, it was you who translated for me … for me when most unjustly and falsely charged of digging for gold before having the King’s permission. Not that there was a king at that time, of course. It was Umnombata who threw the questions at me, thanks to Sir John Sinburne.

William, recognizing the pun on Swinburne’s name, was amused that Thomas could still exercise his sense of humour. He thought this was the moment to announce his news, and again opened his mouth to do so.

Yet Thomas had more. He leaned back and sang in a surprisingly strong tenor. Then his voice tailed off, and he guffawed. "No, this one is better. I had the passengers sing it on The Blue Jacket sailing to New South Wales:

In Amsterdam there lived a maid

Mark you well to what I say.

In old Kings Lynn there lives a maid

And this fair maid my trust betrayed. "

Annie turned to her sons, was taken aback. He’s but delirious, I fancy.

Baines paid no heed to her. The refrain, the refrain. His head jerked back. For an instant alert, he regarded them boldly. Annie was distressed by his pallidness. He went on, "You must join in. Come. The melody, tis well known:

I’ll go no more a rovin’ for you, fair maid

A-roving, a-roving, since roving’s been my ru-i-in

I’ll go no more a rovin with…"

His voice tailed off, and he sat back, apparently exhausted. William and James went to him, taking him gently and leading him to his small bed. Coz, you must rest, said William.

* * *

Morgan dozed intermittently in the cane armchair. On taking up his duty in Thomas’ bedroom he had whiled away the first twenty minutes by examining the more recent of the artist’s drawings and paintings. He felt no compunction in doing so without permission: he had accompanied Thomas on numerous adventures in Matabeleland and Mashonaland and knew what liberties he could and could not take with his employer’s effects. Moreover, right now he was snoring gently and appeared to be impervious to anything happening around him.

Morgan turned to a volume lying on the chest of drawers. It was a leather-bound diary: the fly leaf, captioned in big round letters, read ‘My story’. He flipped through some pages but stopped as soon as he had read a few sentences. He smothered the lamp, settled back as he had been ordered, and kept watch.

1

My story

1820 - 1842

Childhood and youth in Kings Lynn — early artistic talent encouraged — escapades with brother Henry — a childhood sweetheart — sailing on the Ouse — apprenticeship to a coach builder — love spurned — exodus to Cape Town

Between executing paintings like Durban harbour, view of and Coronation of Cetewayo and so many of that ilk, it is only natural that I should feel the need, and find time for, other pursuits. But I am not looking for things to do; the Lord knows my time is constantly occupied. That has always been my way. Yet I do need to set down something of my life for those who come after. I fear that my achievements, modest as they have been, may for all time be smothered by the pervasive sentiments surrounding the triumphs of the Scottish doctor and the sway that his accomplishments hold in the minds of the public, both at home and in the colonies. Not that I harbour any resentment towards Dr Livingstone in a personal sense.

If life’s successes are to be measured by the books that one publishes, then my attainments in specific endeavours are eloquent enough. But what of a coherent biographical narrative from beginning to … well, if not the end, at least to a point in my life which I may always feel at liberty to extend according to my physical energy and the remaining years that God may grant me.

My physical energy was something always remarked upon by my Mama, Mary Ann Baines. She was active until her death four years ago and I reckon it must have been from her that I derived that energy.

Thomas, don’t you ever stop doing things? I was five at the time, but I can remember Mama ’s dissembled exasperation at the sight of her son lying on a rug in the front parlour sketching a sailing ship coming into harbour. King’s Lynn then, even more than now, was a busy place.

My father, just entering the house from drinking with some of his shipmates at The Valiant Sailor, grinned. Aye, it will be like his father our Thomas will be. He winked at me. He did that a great deal, so that I never knew whether he was jesting or not: he was young, for a father.

How can you say that, John Thomas, my Mama retorted. His skills clearly are those of an artist. And who, may I ask, has the gift of artistry in our family? Even at that age I could answer part of that question: it was Mama’s father, Grandpa Samuel Watson, who had encouraged me to sketch and paint.

My father chuckled. He was an easy-going fellow who seemed imbued with everlasting patience in his relationship with Mama . Tis true, Ma. But let us see how his interest in ships and the seven seas may go. In the end the artist in him may take second place to the seafarer.

Mama clicked her tongue. Young as I was, this exchange imprinted itself on my mind, and I reflected from then on that life could be more than just one thing or the other. My mother and father often tugged their notions to and fro in a parody of dissension, but in the end it was Mama’s ideas and preferences which prevailed. In later life I would think back and regard Father as a peacemaker. As illustration thereof my father, in the above exchange, might well have reminded Mama of his own artistic talents, for was that painting of frigates above the mantelpiece not one that he himself had executed while stationed at Cape Town?

One morning a year or two later Mama took my brother Henry and me to see Wombwell’s Menagerie, its caravans and wagons having just arrived after performing over several days in neighbouring Gaywood. The show was camped beside the Ouse a mile or so upstream from Kings Lynn and was reached by the bumpy and often muddy road that led there. This did not stop the Lynn townspeople from venturing thither in great excitement, and this day was no exception. The great tent was festooned with colourful bunting, and several cages and outside enclosures had drawn crowds of people who had never seen such beasts before or, if they had, only in the pages of illustrated magazines of the time — or, even less likely, in some of the books of travel which were to fire my imagination so exceedingly when I was older. Two lions in a rickety cage set me to wondering what would happen if they escaped and made for the nearby paddocks on which were grazing a score of Friesland cows, presenting a scene of the sort beloved by Mr Turner in his marvellous paintings. Not that at the time I knew of him, for here I was, by then hardly eight, dying to draw animals from more outlandish climes.

Thomas, what is it? You are jumping around like a squirrel, my Mama exclaimed. Have you forgotten something? She tut-tutted when I told her I had no drawing implements with which to sketch the scenes and activities around us, although I could tell from the manner in which she looked here and there that she felt she should have anticipated something of the sort from her elder son. But the presence of toddler Henry, irritably pulling at his Mama’s arm and swiping at midges flickering around his face, had the effect of detracting from her irritation.

Luckily at this juncture who should come to my rescue but Aunt Annie, appearing briskly from behind the camel enclosure in the company of little Alice, her neighbour’s daughter. After briefly embracing my Mama Auntie rummaged in her bag and produced, mirabile dictu, a sketch pad made by Strand of London and a tolerably good HB pencil. At the present time (1874, the year in which I have commenced this account) Aunt Annie is of course the hospitable and hardworking lady running the boarding house at which I am lodged in Durban; but at the time of which I write she was a handsome young woman of outgoing personality with a jolly liking for children.

Thanks to her I spent the rest of the morning drawing as many features of the menagerie as I could. Perhaps it was the sight of a small lad showing such assiduous attention to his task that drew more than one menagerie attendant to me: a young man with a pointed beard, keeper of the two lions, assured me that I could safely stroke the paw of one of his charges through the bars. It has just fed, and is full enough, he declared. Many years later in the Matabeleland bush I related this story to a native guide and could not blame him for exclaiming with horror at the foolishness of the callow curator. With such a response from my incredulous native companion how could I refrain from adding, for his amusement, the account of the ride I was then offered by another keeper, this one the fellow who looked after the elephants? I still have my drawings of both those events, now in the keeping of the family in Lynn.

* * *

My proficiency in drawing was fostered strongly by Miss Taggart, one of the teachers at Horatio Nelson’s Classical and Commercial Academy, a small teaching establishment just around the corner from our home. I was one of the first students there, the school having been founded, as we were frequently told, to honour the name of the great son of Lynn whose name it bears. Miss Taggart, an earnest but kind lady, would take us severally to various locations in the town, where we would while away a happy hour or more making drawings of the more memorable buildings of which Kings Lynn has not a few. When he was old enough little Henry joined me in such excursions, having himself commenced instruction at the Academy and already displaying a gift in sketching and painting that was to serve him well in adulthood. At the same school one of my closest chums during this time was the aforementioned Alice who, a full year younger, was a pupil with my young sister Emma. Were it not for the girly distractions provided by Emma I am sure that Alice would have followed me everywhere, as she seemed to be exceedingly fond of her friend’s elder brother.

Sadly for me, that relationship fell away — temporarily, I am pleased to say — when I turned eleven. For it was then that Mama decided I was ready for a more advanced learning regimen, Mr Beloe’s school in New Conduit Street being selected as the lucky institution to benefit from my talents (as Mama put it to him). In truth, Mr Beloe, a florid corpulent man, saw at once that I had an alert interest in many things other than sketching, and it was not long before I was fashioning simple mechanical contraptions and models of ships. Henry joined me in these endeavours and, in the interests of accurate delineation, the two of us frequently ventured down to the Ouse where we studied the riggings and design of every type of vessel anchored alongside the quays. For details of fishing boats we ventured further north along the river to what was called the Northend, the hub of Lynn’s fishing industry.

It was towards the end of my sojourn at Beloe’s that Henry and I decided to build a working model of a frigate. That type of ship had a special place in our minds: as already indicated, our father was for a time stationed at the Cape of Good Hope and it was during his stay there that he painted the flotilla of British ships of the line which were depicted in the painting hanging above the mantelpiece. We had built numerous models before that, but this was to be the most ambitious. My Mama, hearing of the scale we had in mind, was doubtful that our small bedroom would provide enough space for the work. For once, however, Father’s enthusiasm prevailed. It will be excellent experience for them, Mama , he insisted. And the challenges of creating such a model will hone their skills in a most useful way. My Mama retorted that, since he was a master mariner and the model was of a ship, he would say that come what may.

Nearing the end of the project, with Henry sanding away at the prow and myself checking the configuration of the stern, we were interrupted by a feminine voice. May we see how you are getting on? The voice was Alice’s; she, now a striking fifteen year-old girl, had entered our room with my sister Emma and stood looking at us in some awe at our achievement. In the doorway, looking on proprietarily, stood Mama with her hands on her hips. I told ’em they’d get a surprise, she said, grinning. Go on, Thomas, show them the finer points of the thing. By this time I had earned a reputation, despite my incipient quietness, for being something of a showman when the right occasion presented itself. I struck the pose and adopted the tones of a crusty sea captain, describing the finer points of a frigate as represented by the gigantic model and, nearing the end of my exposition, guided Alice gently by a dainty wrist as we stepped around to inspect the craft. Henry merely looked on, but I could tell he was bemused by his brother’s behaviour.

All this time my Mama, having crossed over to the window which overlooked Ferry Lane, was eying