I stumbled from the surf. When the clouds fluttered across the moon, it was frightful dark. I imagined the others about the ship—mending ropes, smoking their pipes. They would surely miss my jigs, and the hymns would be very mean without my accompaniment. But would they miss them enough to come and look for me? I had to believe they would. I’d build a fire, make a signal. Mr. Darwin would have them row here as soon as the weather allowed.

If the master was alive.

Of course he was alive. They were all safe aboard the Beagle by now.

I remembered the gale that had hit the Beagle two years before, when we were rounding Cape Horn, the southernmost point of Chile. The ship had been hit beam-on—directly in the side—and had nearly tipped right over, so half the deck was beneath water. For a teetering moment, all hands must have thought as I had that we were lost, yet she had rolled upright again and the sea had poured back out through her ports. I smiled at the thought. The Beagle would easily ride out a common squall.

I picked up my pace as I hit scrubby grass—much more comfortable walking for my bare feet. The sky was still clear, although looking upward made my heart race, expecting another attack.

In the far distance, the volcano was capped with a red glow—a cloud of smoke, lit from below. The volcano was active! Mr. Darwin had always said how much he would like to witness an eruption. Well, he could keep it, and good luck to him, because it was the last thing I needed right now. I gripped Scratch tighter to my chest and strode on. If ever a time were right for a fit of the vapors, this was not it. Stay bricky.

I found a cactus. I didn’t know the name of it, but it was one of the taller types with a central trunk and then a branch either side at the top. It looked like the captain’s brass candelabra, which I’d seen on his table when serving Sunday dinner for the officers. I sat beneath it, even though it would barely disguise me from above and the spikes meant I couldn’t even lean against it. But it was better than sitting in the open, and my legs felt like a pair of jellied eels, they were that exhausted. I laid the fiddle case over my knees. It didn’t slosh with water when I tipped it. I couldn’t bear to feel hopeful, nor to see Scratch’s ruin just yet. I’d leave that until morning, when I was feeling steadier.

No food, no waterskin, no knife, no fire flints. No canvas for shelter. Not one of the items I always packed for our shore expeditions. I had wished for adventure all those years ago as I left England, but not like this.

I curled around Scratch’s case, resting my cheek on the damp wood. When I closed my eyes, I felt the motion of the Beagle as if I were back aboard, and how I wished I was in my hammock belowdecks, the creaks of the ship and snores of my crewmates a strange but familiar lullaby. But somehow, there on the black volcanic rock beneath a cactus so spiky I couldn’t touch it, I slept.