Gerald Durrell - The Bafut Beagles

'Are you travelling on this ship that's in?' inquired someone.

'Yes,' I said, stifling a yawn; 'sailing tomorrow.'

'Good Lord! I pity you, then,' they said cheerfully.

'Oh. Why is that?'

'Captain's a bloody Tartar, old boy, and he hates animals. It's a fact. Old Robinson wanted to take his pet baboon back with him on this ship when he went on leave last time. Captain chucked it off. Wouldn't have it on board. Said he didn't want his ship filled with stinking monkeys. Frightful uproar about it, so I heard.'

Smith and I exchanged anxious looks, for of all the evils that can befall a collector, an unsympathetic captain is perhaps the worst. Later, when the last party of sightseers had gone, we discussed this disturbing bit of news. We decided that we should have to go out of our way to be polite to the Captain; and we would take extra care to make sure there were no untoward incidents among the monkeys to earn his wrath.

Our collection was placed on the forward deck under the supervision of the Chief Officer, a most charming and helpful man. The Captain we did not see that night, and the next morning, when we arose early to clean out the cages, we could see him pacing on the bridge, a hunched and terrifying figure. We had been told that he would be down to breakfast, and we were looking forward to meeting him with some trepidation.

'Remember,' said Smith as we cleaned out the monkeys, 'we must keep on the right side of him.' He filled a basket full of sawdust, trotted to the rail and cast it into the sea.

'We must be careful not to do anything that will annoy him,' he went on when he had returned.

Just at that moment a figure in spotless white uniform came running breathlessly down from the bridge.

'Excuse me, sir,' he said, 'but the Captain's compliments, sir, and will you please make sure which way the wind's blowing before you chuck that sawdust overboard?'

Horror-stricken, we looked up towards the bridge: the air was full of swirling fragments of sawdust, and the Captain, scowling angrily, was brushing his bespattered uniform.

'Please apologize to the Captain for us,' I said, conquering a frightful desire to laugh. When the officer had gone, I turned to Smith.

'Keep on the right side of him!' I said bitterly; 'don't do anything to annoy him! Only fling about three hundredweight of sawdust all over him and his precious bridge. Trust you to know the right way to a captain's heart.'

When the gong sounded we hurried down to our cabin, washed, and took our seats in the dining-saloon. We found, to our dismay, that we were seated at the Captain's table. The Captain sat with his back to the bulkhead, in which there were three portholes, and Smith and I sat on the opposite side of the circular table. The portholes behind the Captain's chair looked out into the well-deck in which our collection was stacked. Half-way through the meal the Captain had thawed out a little and was even starting to make tolerant little jokes about sawdust.

'As long as you don't let anything escape, I don't mind,' he said jovially, disembowelling a fried egg.

' Oh, we won't let that happen,' I said, and the words were hardly out of my mouth when something moved in the porthole, and, glancing up, there was Sweeti-pie, the Black-eared Squirrel, perched in the opening, examining the inside of the saloon with a kindly eye.

The Captain, of course, could not see the squirrel sitting on a level with his shoulder and about three feet away, and he went on eating and talking unconcernedly, while behind him Sweeti-pie sat on his hind legs and cleaned his whiskers. For a few seconds I was so startled that my brain refused to function, and I could only sit there gaping at the porthole. Luckily the Captain was too intent on his breakfast to notice. Sweeti-pie finished his wash and brush-up, and began to look round the saloon again. He decided that the place would be worth investigating, and glanced around to see which was the best way to get down from his perch. He decided that the quickest method would be to jump from the porthole on to the Captain's shoulder. I could see this plan taking shape in the little brute's head, and the thought of his landing on the Captain's shoulder galvanized me into action. Muttering a hasty 'Excuse me', I pushed back my chair and walked out of the saloon; as soon as I was out of sight of the Captain I ran as fast as I could out on to the deck. To my relief, Sweeti-pie had not jumped, and his long bushy tail was still hanging outside the porthole. I flung myself across the hatch-cover and grabbed him by his tail just as he bunched himself up to spring. I bundled him, chattering indignantly, into his cage, and then returned, flushed but triumphant, to the saloon. The Captain was still talking and, if he had noticed my abrupt departure at all, must have attributed it to the pangs of nature, for he made no mention of it.

On the third day of the voyage two of the Idiurus were dead. I was examining their corpses sorrowfully when a member of the crew appeared. He asked why the little animals had died, and I explained at great length the tragic tale of the nonexistent avocado pears.

' What's an avocado pear?' he inquired.

I showed him one of the shrivelled wrecks.

'Oh, those things,' he said. 'Do you want some?'

I gazed at him speechlessly for a minute.

'Have you got some?' I said at last.

'Well,' he said, 'I haven't exactly got any, but I think I can get you some.'

That evening he reappeared with his pockets bulging.

'Here,' he said, stuffing some beautifully ripe avocados into my hand; 'give me three of those ones of yours, and don't say a word to anyone.'

I gave him three of my dried-up fruits and hastily fed the Idiurus with the ripe ones he had procured, and they enjoyed them thoroughly. My spirits rose, and I began to have hopes once more of landing them in England.

My sailor friend brought me plump, ripe avocados whenever I informed him that my stock was running low, and always he took some of my desiccated stock in exchange. It was very curious, but I felt the best thing I could do was not to inquire too deeply into the matter. However, in spite of the fresh fruit, another Idiurus died, so by the time we were rolling through the Bay of Biscay I had only one specimen left. It was now, I realized, a fight against time: if I could keep this solitary specimen alive until we reached England, I would have a tremendous variety of food to offer it, and I felt sure that I could find something it would eat. As we drew closer and closer to England I watched the little chap carefully. He seemed fit, and in the best spirits. As an additional precaution, I smuggled his cage into my cabin each night, so that he would not catch a chill. The day before we docked he was in fine fettle, and I became almost convinced that I would land him. That night, quite suddenly and for no apparent reason, he died. So, after travelling four thousand miles, the last Idiurus died twenty-four hours out of Liverpool. I was bitterly disappointed, and black depression settled on me.

Even the sight of the collection being taken ashore did not fill me with the usual mixture of relief and pride. The Hairy Frogs had come through, as had the Brow-leaf Toads; Charlie and Mary were hooting in their cages as they were swung overboard. Sweeti-pie was eating a sugar-lump and eyeing the crowd on the docks with hopeful eyes, while the Moustached Monkey peered from his cage, his whiskers gleaming, looking like a juvenile SantaClaus. But even the sight of all these creatures being landed safely after so long and so dangerous a trip did not altogether compensate me for the loss of my little Idiurus, and Smith and I were just going to leave the ship when my sailor friend appeared. He had heard the news about Idiurus, and was extremely upset to think that our combined efforts had been in vain.