James Cook’s Lost World

by Graeme Lay

  Their houses are long, low and narrow and have much the appearance of a large boat turned bottom up whose keel is curved or bent, the largest I saw was 60 feet in length, 8 or 9 feet high in the middle and 3 or 4 at each end, its breadth was nearly the same; the door was in the middle of one side, built like a porch so low and narrow as just to admit a man to creep in upon all fours. The framing is made of small twigs and the covering the tops of sugar cane and plantain leaves and extends from the foundation to the roof so that they have no light but what the small door admits. These people dress their victuals in the same manner as at the other isles.

  He carefully blotted the paragraphs, then noticed through the study window a ship of the line sailing slowly up the river on the tide. He picked up his spyglass and held it to his eye. HMS Catherine. A three-decker, 60 guns. Her ensign fluttering, her men clinging to the shrouds. What a grand sight she was. Distracted by the spectacle, it was some time before he was able to return to the task in hand.

  ‘Omai! Ia ora na!’

  ‘Cap-i-tain Tute, good day, sir!’

  The two men shook hands in the hallway of Newton House, the home of the Burney family. The servant who had opened the door, an elderly wigged man in white hose and blue velvet frock coat, took James’s cape, then stood back.

  Omai wore a suit of Manchester velvet lined with white satin and finished with ruffles of white lace. His boots were brilliantly polished, a sword hung from his belt and his lustrous black hair hung down over his shoulders. With his almond eyes, prominent cheekbones and well-shaped nose, he was an exotic, strikingly handsome figure.

  A petite young woman emerged from a doorway further down the hall. She had a perfectly oval face, reddened cheeks, a small chin and cupid mouth. Her hazel eyes were quite wide apart and her brown hair was coiled and pinned on the top of her head. She wore an emerald-green gown with lace cuffs, and a necklace of tiny cameos. ‘Captain Cook?’ She smiled warmly. ‘I’m Fanny Burney, James’s sister. Please, come through to the drawing room.’

  The three of them sat in an alcove on upholstered chairs with curved legs. Red velvet drapes hung from rails on both sides of the alcove. Carpeted in deep brown, and with heavily embossed floral wallpaper, the room had a large fireplace and a huge central chandelier. There was a grand piano with a raised lid in one corner of the room, and portraits in ornate gold frames of Burney family members—men, women and children—hung on the walls.

  Sitting between the two men, her hands together in her lap, Fanny said, ‘It’s such an honour to have you here, Captain Cook. Your great voyages have been widely reported in the news-sheets. Regrettably, my mother has an appointment this afternoon, so is unable to be here. My brother often spoke of his time with you on Resolution.’ She gave a tinkling laugh. ‘I do so enjoy listening to him and Omai speaking Otaheitian.’

  James nodded. ‘I was sorry when he had to leave my ship and go over to Adventure to replace the ill officer. But he proved an able lieutenant to Furneaux, it was reported to me.’

  ‘Yes, he is dedicated to the naval life. Has been since he first went to sea.’ Fanny’s face fell. ‘But the discovery of the killing of the men in Grass Cove shocked him. He has nightmares about it still, he told me.’

  Not wanting to dwell on this disturbing subject, and aware that Omai was following their conversation closely, James merely frowned and nodded. Then he said to her, ‘Your brother told me it is your intention to become a writer. Is that correct?’

  She blushed slightly and looked down at her lap. ‘It is. So far I have published only some of my journal writing, but I have a desire to write novels.’

  James smiled. ‘As one who is writing a voyaging account, I can understand the challenges that ambition must represent.’ He paused. ‘How is Dr Burney, your father?’

  Tucking an errant lock of hair behind her ear, Fanny said, ‘He’s well. He’ll be disappointed that he’s missed meeting you. At the moment he’s teaching music theory at Cambridge. He’ll be home for Christmas, though. As will James, we hope.’ She smiled demurely.

  ‘On which vessel is your brother serving?’

  ‘HMS Cerberus. As second lieutenant.’

  The elderly retainer entered, carrying a silver tray. ‘Drinks?’ asked Fanny.

  Omai’s eyes lit up. ‘For me, port wine,’ he said keenly.

  ‘A small brandy for me, please,’ said James.

  Luncheon was served in a dining area that led off the drawing room. They were served cold cuts of pork and mutton, with boiled potatoes, parsnips and green peas, followed by Stilton and Wensleydale blue cheese. James noted that Omai wielded his knife and fork dexterously, said little during the meal, ate wolfishly and asked for his port glass to be refilled three times.

  The meal over, James and Omai chatted while Fanny observed them closely, seeming content to just listen. From time to time she blinked, slowly, like a contented cat.

  James said to Omai, ‘Banks has told me something of your experiences here in England. You’ve been enjoying life in this country, I hear.’

  Omai nodded vigorously. ‘Yes, yes.’ His eyes bulged. ‘I have met King Tosh!’

  ‘Yes. What did you say to him?’

  ‘I say to him, “How do, King Tosh?” He seemed very please. So please he gave me this.’ Standing up, he patted the sword at his side, then sat down again. He finished his port. ‘Yes, Tute, I like very much England. I learn to dance the English way, and I play cheese.’

  ‘Chess, Omai,’ Fanny put in patiently. She said to James, ‘Omai is quite the boulevardier these days.’

  Omai frowned at her. ‘What is this word, boul, boul—?’

  ‘Boul-e-var-dier,’ said Fanny. ‘It’s a French word. It means a man about the town.’

  He frowned. ‘Man about the town. About London town?’

  ‘In your case, yes,’ Fanny replied, laughing. She stood up. ‘I know you two still have much to discuss, so I’ll leave you to it.’ Gathering her gown up in one hand, she inclined her head. ‘It was a great pleasure to meet you, Captain Cook. Ring for the servant when you need a hackney. Charles will hail one for you.’

  James and Omai returned to the alcove. Although he was impressed with the way in which the Raiatean was so obviously assimilating into English life, James was also concerned that he was spending such a long time here, so far from his homeland. He said, ‘You cannot live in England forever, Omai. You will have to go back to your own islands one day.’

  Omai grunted. ‘Yes. I miss my islands. I think often about my islands. So Omai must go back. To Huahine or Raiatea. But how? And when?’

  James sighed. Vexed questions. ‘One day King George’s ships will sail again to Otaheite. And you will be able to go with them.’

  Omai’s eyes widened. ‘Yes. Yes. And when I go, I take guns from England to kill enemies of Raiatea and Huahine. Enemies from Bora Bora.’

  James held a hand up. This was what he had feared: that the Indian would see his return as an opportunity to start a war against his islands’ traditional foe. ‘No. There will be no weapons for you. It would only lead to much killing.’

  Omai’s dark eyes flashed. ‘Yes, yes! My people will use England guns to kill our enemy!’ He leapt to his feet. ‘And Omai will then be the ari’i rahi—the great chief—of Huahine.’

  ‘No. The ari’i rahi of Huahine is my taio, Ori.’

  Omai sank back down. ‘Ori will be finished when Omai takes guns to Huahine.’ He sneered. ‘Ori is old, old man.’

  Regarding him coldly, James said, ‘You will not take guns to Huahine. I will tell King George to forbid you to take guns. You may take tools and other English goods. Seeds for planting. Books, too. But no guns.’

  Omai slumped in his chair, offended. James decided it was time to leave. He was aware that, unlike Tupaia, who had travelled on Endeavour from Otaheite to New Zealand, New Holland and the Dutch East Indies, and was a respected arioi, or priest, Omai was a lower class person. As such, given the Otaheitians’ propensity
for born-to-rule hierarchy, Omai would have little status back on Huahine, no matter how many fine English clothes he wore. Yet he had to be returned home. This conundrum was one to which as yet he had no answer.

  He stood up. ‘I must leave now.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m glad you’re enjoying my country, Omai. And I’m pleased that your English is so good.’

  Omai shook James’s hand vigorously, his amiability restored. ‘Thank you, Tute. I like to talk with you.’ He paused. ‘Except about the guns.’

  In the hackney on his way back to Assembly Row, James was deep in thought. If the Indian must be returned to his homeland, when would it be? And just who would take him there?

  Weeks passed, and the London autumn descended abruptly into an early winter. James continued his routine, travelling by ferry to the hospital six days a week, occasionally attending meetings of the Royal Society at Crane Court and savouring the respect its members now accorded him. As he told Elizabeth after one meeting, ‘They now treat me as an equal. No longer am I the clodhopper from the North Riding.’

  To which she replied sternly, ‘James, you were never the clodhopper.’

  In November Stephens informed James that Resolution had finally gone into the dockyard at Deptford to undergo an overhaul. Pleased to hear this, James would have liked to have had a hand in the refit, but was much too preoccupied with his writing.

  He wrote in sections, each one covering about a month of the voyage. When a section was completed to his satisfaction he collated the sheets and dispatched them to the man the Admiralty had commissioned to edit the journal. This was 55-year-old Scotsman John Douglas, a scholar and Anglican bishop, who lived at Lambeth. James didn’t know Douglas, but Stephens reported that he was a rigorous academic, Oxford-educated and also a Fellow of the Royal Society.

  The Bishop’s replies to James, and his annotations, certainly showed attention to detail. Rather too much so, James thought. Whereas he preferred longish sentences, Douglas often truncated them. He also questioned James’s spelling of some islands (‘Espiritu Santo, you call it. But the Frenchman, Bougainville, called it “Great Cyclades”. Make clearer.’ And: ‘Of the Friendly Isles, Abel Tasman named one island “Rotterdam”. You call it “Annamoka”. Which is the correct nomenclature?’). But Stephens had also let James know that Douglas had remarked of his writing, ‘’Tis rough-hewn but honest, like the man himself. It’s my task to polish his prose so that it takes on a shine.’ Although sometimes irritated by Douglas’s queries, James did his best to respond to them patiently. But he continued to be disconcerted by the amount of rewriting that was deemed necessary. At this rate the project would take even longer than he had anticipated.

  In mid-December a letter was delivered to James at home. When Elizabeth handed the envelope to him he looked curiously at the handwriting. It was unfamiliar to him. Certainly not Douglas’s heavy, confident hand. This writing was thin and very neat. He sliced open the envelope with his bone paper-knife.

  12 December 1775

  Captain James Cook RN You will doubtless be interested in the fact that the manuscript of my account of the voyage of Resolution is now in the hands of a London publisher. My chronicle, which has been sanctioned by the Admiralty, is the result of several months’ work. I am confident that my chronicle will be received with great approbation, not only by the scientific world, but the general reading public of England. It is my earnest intention that you will obtain a copy of my Resolution account in due course, and read of the voyage which we shared for over three years with such enthusiasm.

  I am yours,

  Dr Johann Reinhold Forster

  James studied the letter in disbelief. Noting his consternation, Elizabeth looked up from her crocheting. ‘Who is it from?’

  ‘Johann Forster.’

  ‘What does he want?’

  James handed the letter to her. She put her crocheting aside, read the note, then looked up quickly. ‘He is publishing an account of the voyage? Before yours appears?’

  ‘No. He cannot do so. The first account published is to be mine. There is an agreement between me and the Admiralty. For me to write of the voyage first.’

  Looking confused, Elizabeth said, ‘Then that agreement must be enforced.’ Her frown deepened. ‘But how can that be possible, if Forster’s version is already with a publisher?’

  ‘I will let Stephens know. Forster’s claim that the Admiralty has approved his account must be a falsehood. He seeks to make more profits from his scribbling.’ Clenching his fist, James said angrily, ‘We must have his publication halted.’

  This assessment that the claim was a falsehood proved correct. Stephens was equally livid at this development. ‘A clear breach of contract,’ was his summation. ‘There was no such agreement for him to write a full account of the voyage. Only that he would publish some papers of a botanical and zoological nature. The man is seeking to make capital from his experiences, over and above the outrageous sum he was paid to participate in the expedition.’

  Lord Sandwich was informed, and the Admiralty’s notary contacted. On his advice, Sandwich dispatched a letter to Forster, advising him that he was forbidden to publish an account of the voyage before James’s appeared. Instead, Sandwich suggested, Forster should write an account of the scientific findings he made during his stay in Dusky Sound. If this paper was acceptable to the Admiralty, then Forster could publish other accounts of the voyage, provided he shared the profits of his writings with James.

  James was not mollified by this. ‘I do not approve of it at all,’ he told Elizabeth when Stephens informed him of the Admiralty’s overture to Forster. ‘I have no wish to share the profits with that man. And he has no right to trespass on my territory.’

  ‘Certainly not.’ Elizabeth had heard many accounts from James over these past months of Forster’s bothersome behaviour during Resolution’s voyage.

  He continued his own writing, working several hours a day at the hospital. When time permitted, he also wrote letters to his mentor John Walker in Whitby and his sister Christiana in the North Riding, informing them of his circumstances and progress.

  Just before Christmas, during another meeting with Stephens, James was informed that the Admiralty had received a sample chapter from Forster, describing his stay at Dusky Sound. Stephens reported, ‘The Admiralty has rejected Forster’s work.’ He smiled mischievously. ‘His writing was as bad as we hoped. So the story is entirely yours to tell.’

  James nodded, gratified. ‘Forster should never have been appointed naturalist to the expedition.’

  Stephens arched his eyebrows. ‘He’s returning to Prussia, I heard.’

  ‘Good. Let’s hope he stays there.’

  Christmas 1775 was spent by the Cook family at the house of Elizabeth’s mother and stepfather in Upper Shadwell. Because it was the first Yuletide in several years that they had all been together, Mary and John Blackburn put on an enormous spread, with mince pies, a roasted goose stuffed with chestnuts and served with potatoes and parsnips, a bottle of wine from Burgundy and plum cake laced with brandy. Young James had returned from the Royal Naval Academy for a week’s break, and he afforded his family great pleasure by describing the content of his courses, the vagaries of his instructors and the characteristics of his fellow students. ‘Astronomy is my favourite subject,’ he told them. ‘In the last examination I came top of my class.’ He said to his brother, ‘It’ll be good to have you there next year, Natty. There are bullies, but I’ll protect you.’ And when they again put young James on the Portsmouth coach, he smiled gamely at his family and shed no tears.

  By the New Year of 1776, James’s account had reached the New Hebrides:

  THURSDAY, 25 AUGUST 1774 (OFF THE ISLAND OF ESPIRITU SANTO)

  After doubling the Cape we found the coast trend away to the South and form a very large and deep bay of which the land above mentioned was its western boundaries. Everything conspired to make us believe this was the Bay of St Philip and St James, discovere
d by Quiros in 1606. To determine this point it was necessary to search it to the very bottom for at this time we could see no end to it. For this purpose we hauled the wind on the larboard tack, having a gentle breeze at South which at Noon began to veer towards East and being well over to the western shore tacked and stood to NE Latitude 1° 55' 30"; Longitude 16° East.

  SATURDAY, 27 AUGUST 1774

  At 1 pm the cabin was succeeded by a gentle breeze at NBW with which we stood up the bay till 3 when being but about two miles from the shore I sent away Mr Cooper and the Master to sound and reconnoitre the coast and in the meantime we stood off and on with the ship. This gave time for three sailing canoes who had been following us some time to come up with us. There were five or six men in each; they came near enough to take hold of such things as were thrown them fastened to a rope but would not come along side. They were the same sort of people as we saw last night and had some resemblance to those of Mallicollo but seemed to be stouter and better shaped and so far as we could judge spoke a different language which made us believe they were of another nation: probably the same as Annamoka and the neighbouring isles, as one of them, on some occasion, mentioned the numerals as far as five or six in that language. Some had hair short and crisp which looked like wool, others had it tied up on the crown of the head and ornamented with feathers like the New Zealanders.