James Cook’s Lost World

by Graeme Lay

  He put his scope to his eye and studied the nearest three-decker, Ambuscade. Her gunners were going through their drills; he could hear commands emanating from the open cannon ports. Yes, this war was regrettable, but it was also necessary. Last month it had been reported that France and Spain had both agreed to supply weapons to the American rebels. This news had shocked James and others in the navy. England was now alone in this struggle to retain her rightfully held territories. For her to lose even one of her 13 American colonies was unthinkable.

  He put away his scope and went below to the Great Cabin. He needed to unpack his books and charts and shelve them in an orderly fashion. This afternoon he had read the Articles of War to the assembled crew, who listened to the harsh edicts with suitable sobriety. And he had just received a note to say that tomorrow Lord Sandwich and other Admiralty officials would come aboard to present him with his official Instructions and bid Resolution and Discovery’s companies farewell.

  Sandwich pumped James’s hand furiously. He and Miss Ray were staying in a hotel at Plymstock, above the sound. After Sandwich had been piped aboard, James and Gore had given the First Sea Lord a last tour of the ship below decks. Resplendent in his full naval regalia, complete with plumed admiral’s bicorn, Sandwich beamed with pleasure as he stared about the decks, where crewmen competed for space with the coops and pens of the poultry and livestock, and the young sailing master, Bligh, was checking the rigging.

  James and Gore stood at the top of the gangplank. Sandwich had his bicorn under his arm. Patting his wig, he said, ‘Splendid, captain, all splendid. I predict a wholly successful voyage.’

  ‘That is my hope too, my Lord.’

  ‘Is Omai satisfactorily accommodated?’

  ‘He is. And his cabin is crammed with mementoes of his English sojourn.’

  ‘Good, good.’ Sandwich coughed, then brought his florid face closer to James’s. ‘Captain, I know that you have named some islands in the Atlantic after me.’

  ‘The South Sandwich Islands, yes.’

  Sandwich wrinkled his nose. ‘A desolate location, by your account.’

  ‘Yes. The islands have few resources.’

  Sandwich raised his chin, as if presaging a statement of great moment. Then he announced, ‘I would like you, on this voyage, when you come upon a significant new land, an hospitable new land, to name it after myself.’

  Does the vanity of this man know no bounds? James wondered. But he replied, ‘It will be a great privilege to do so, my Lord.’

  The Sea Lord smacked his lips. ‘Sandwich Land has a nice ring to it, I think. Or Sandwich’s Passage would be even more suitable, when the passage to the Atlantic is discovered.’

  When he had at last left, and after James and Gore had returned to the quarterdeck, James said to his first officer, ‘Sandwich’s Passage may be open to bawdy interpretation, I think.’

  Gore chuckled, then said with mock severity, ‘The First Sea Lord’s passage is not to be mocked, Captain.’

  Final preparations were carried out. More water, firewood and provisions were taken aboard. Discovery’s departure was held over pending Clerke’s release. It was agreed that the two ships would later rendezvous in Cape Town before leaving together for the South Sea. In the meantime, Burney remained in command of Discovery, frustrated at being confined to Plymouth Sound while Resolution prepared for her very public departure.

  Resolution’s marine contingent arrived and joined the ship’s company. Lieutenant Phillips was in command of a sergeant, two corporals, 15 privates and a drummer. As the marines settled in to their quarters and went through their drills, James made a further entry in his official log.

  WEDNESDAY, 10 JULY

  The Commissioner and pay clerks came on board and paid the officers and crew up till the 30th of last month and the petty officers and seamen two months wages in advance: the latter is no more than is customary in the Navy but the former was an indulgence ordered by the Admiralty in consideration of the voyage, the better to enable them to provide necessaries for it.

  Ambuscade’s marine band did them the honour of playing while the dock workers prepared to release the mooring lines. A crowd had gathered dockside in the early evening: navy officials, provisioners, customs clerks, families with young children, other seamen, red-coats, rouged harlots, vagrants and pickpockets. All were curious as to Resolution’s destination; all knew the ship was commanded by England’s greatest explorer; all craned to catch a glimpse of the tall, imposing figure who stood on the quarterdeck behind helmsmen Whelan and Roberts.

  ‘That’s ’im,’ a dumpy, bonneted woman called to her friends, pointing. ‘The tall one, back of t’ship. That’s Cap’n Cook hisself!’

  As Ambuscade’s band played ‘The Roast Beef of Old England’ the gangplank was struck and one by one the mooring lines were cast off. Bligh called for the clew lines and buntlines to be released. Men worked their way along the yardarms and the canvas began to fill with the light breeze. The air was cool and the sinking sun highlighted the fields and copses of Devon. The western sky was taking on a pinkish hue and in the east were tail-feather traces of high cirrus. As the crew scurried about the shrouds and ratlines, the watching crowd began to wave and cheer. The band’s playing grew louder, the horns more blaring, the snare drums more frantic, as if to drown out the cheers. The sun glinted on the brass of the bandsmen’s instruments.

  Bligh joined the helmsmen and together they studied the binnacle compass. Officers of the watch were lieutenants King and Williamson. They, like the crewmen, were tense with expectation. Each man aboard knew his role and was exuding determination to execute it. And as Resolution moved out into the channel, she seemed to come alive, like a creature that had awakened after a profound sleep and was now keen to display her long-suppressed vigour.

  James climbed aloft and stood on the mainmast yard, legs braced, looking back at the land. This was the third time he had left Plymouth harbour on a voyage to the other side of the world. When, he wondered, would he see this coast again?

  The ship moved clear of the sound. James looked up at the main topgallantsail, then down at the water. An unfavourable wind, so they would have to head down-channel. Already there was a beam sea running and he felt Resolution begin to roll. As the breeze cooled his face, he realised how much he had missed these sensations. The challenges that lay ahead would be daunting, but he would be equal to them. If there was a North-east Passage, then he would discover and survey it, and so bring even greater distinction to himself.

  How had Stephens put it? ‘There is only one Englishman with the experience and ability to seek a North-east Passage, and that is you. No one other than you could bring such a search to fruition.’ Stephens was right. Discovering was his destiny.

  He watched Devonshire dwindle to a long streak of green, felt the sea breeze become a wind, saw the setting sun turn the surface of the water to flashing diamonds of light. He breathed in the sea’s briny, intoxicating essence.

  This was what he had tried, foolishly, to turn his back on.

  This was where he was meant to be, this was what he was meant to do.

  He climbed down to the mid-deck, where his first officer was in discussion with Bligh. ‘Carry on, Gore,’ he said. Then he went down the companionway to the Great Cabin, to make the day’s entry in his log.

  FRIDAY, 12 JULY

  At 8 pm weighed and stood out of the sound with a gentle breeze at NWBW. We had not been long out before the wind came more westerly and blew fresh so that we had to ply down channel …

  PART TWO

  Nine

  15 JULY 1776, THE BAY OF BISCAY

  Dearest Elizabeth,

  As before, my personal journal to you will be kept here in the Great Cabin under lock and key. To be able to record my innermost feelings by committing them candidly to paper lifts my spirits. And again as before, the knowledge that I will share this special journal with you upon my return provides further comfort to me.

  As
you know, our departure was fully three months later than the date originally intended: a most regrettable delay. Yet this also meant that I was at home for little Hugh’s arrival: an unforgettable event. Seeing the tiny one in your arms, calling lustily to the world, filled me with joy, and he and you have been much in my thoughts since we left England’s shores.

  This is the first voyage on which Lieutenants King, Williamson and Harvey have served with me, and it is too early yet for me to provide you with an appraisal of their characters. (With Clerke still in custody in London, our sister vessel Discovery languishes in Plymouth, under Burney’s temporary command. He will be a competent substitute, but already I miss Clerke and his ready wit.)

  You will recall that I formerly held misgivings about the Virginian, Gore, who is my first officer. On Endeavour I had occasion more than once to reprimand him for his intemperate behaviour. However, that was seven years ago, and since then his attitude and conduct have improved markedly. I believe his remorse over what occurred during the Endeavour voyage is sincere. People change as they grow older, and usually for the better, I believe. Gore’s experience in the South Sea is also considerable, and should be to our collective benefit. Oddly, though, the man is only semi-literate. He can read, but cannot write.

  The Scotsman William Anderson I came to know from Resolution’s second voyage, when he was surgeon’s mate. He is now our surgeon, and a capable one. He is a strong believer in the imbibing of wort, not only to combat scurvy but to act as a laxative. As one who has suffered from this distressing condition I will try any remedy which assists in its easing, so I insisted that we have plentiful supplies of malt to produce the wort. I have ordered that all aboard partake of it daily, and set a strict example by taking it conspicuously myself. Although we have no proper naturalist on this voyage, Anderson also has skills in this discipline. For example, he employs dried herbs such as garlic as remedies for common complaints. His abilities as an unofficial naturalist may thus prove as useful as his medical capabilities.

  The cabin of our Raiatean supernumerary, Omai, is filled with mementoes of his stay in England. He imagines that after he is returned to his adopted island of Huahine he will live the life of an English county squire. This is a fanciful notion. He is undoubtedly intelligent, as demonstrated by his rapid assimilation of our language and ways (he is teaching Charlton, one of the midshipmen, to play chess), but will probably lack the necessary tact to avoid flaunting his exotic possessions when he returns.

  Resolution carries considerable numbers of livestock and poultry, meaning that the decks are crowded with their pens and coops …

  There was a knock on the door of the Great Cabin. James put the journal into his locker drawer and called, ‘Yes?’ As he got to his feet, Resolution rolled, causing him to brace himself against the bulkhead. There was a heavy sea running, squalls were striking the ship regularly and her timbers were groaning. ‘Yes?’ James called again, impatiently.

  The cabin door was opened by marine Corporal Cooper, who was on sentry duty. He touched his forehead. ‘Master Bligh to see you, Captain. He says it’s urgent.’

  James saw the pale, moonish face of Bligh behind the corporal. He was clutching the peaked leather cap he habitually wore.

  ‘What is it, Bligh?’

  The master gulped, then blurted out, ‘The decks are leaking, sir.’

  James looked at him in disbelief. Leaking? Surely not. Pushing past the marine, he said to Bligh, ‘Get Gore. Tell him to meet me on the mid-deck.’

  Even a cursory inspection confirmed Bligh’s report. A combination of the squalls and the heavy sea meant that the decks were awash. If the seams had been properly caulked this would not have been out of the ordinary; normally the surplus water would have drained out through the scuttles. Instead, the water was seeping through the decking and leaching into the lower decks.

  ‘Look at this,’ said Gore, kneeling and picking at the caulking with his knife. The oakum came away easily, leaving a gap into which the rain quickly drained. Insufficient tar had been worked into the seam. Stuffing the oakum back, Gore cursed. ‘Not just shoddy workmanship, shocking workmanship.’

  James hissed with anger. Gore was right: the Deptford yard contractors had scrimped on the pitch, doubtless in order to make more money for themselves. The consequence was a leaking ship. James also cursed his own negligence. A close inspection of the decking before they sailed would have revealed the inadequate caulking. Why hadn’t he made time to carry out an inspection of the decks?

  Resolution rolled on in the steep swells. Rain drove in from the west, spray continuing to drench the decks. Bligh reported more bad news: the topsides were also leaking and the forward sailroom and storerooms were saturated. The stored sails were wet through. The animals’ fodder was also soggy and could rot as a result.

  James and Gore went below and saw more evidence of leakage. In the galley, cook Morris looked at the two officers glumly. ‘There’s water in the for’ard holds, Captain.’ He looked up at the galley roof ruefully. ‘If it leaks into the food stores …’ It was not necessary to complete this statement. Rotted food could jeopardise the expedition. The leaking required urgent attention.

  Back on deck, James looked up at the inky sky and pulled his cape more tightly about his shoulders against the driving rain. ‘We’ll alter course,’ he told Gore. ‘We need to make Tenerife as soon as possible.’

  A fortnight later, Resolution’s anchors were lowered off Santa Cruz, the port of Tenerife. Parties went ashore and supplies were replenished. The ship was able to take on wheat, hay and wine, and the brandy was cheap and plentiful. But as there was no pitch or oakum available in the quantities they needed, they did not tarry there. Instead, after three days they weighed and pressed on for the Cape Verde Islands, 800 nautical miles to the south.

  On 10 August, at nine o’clock in the evening, the island of Boa Vista was sighted. This was the easternmost island of the Cape Verde archipelago, a chart showed them. James was on watch, on the quarterdeck, with Brown and Roberts at the wheel. An hour and a half after sighting land they bore away, steering first south-east and a few minutes later south towards the island’s south-eastern extremity.

  Surgeon Anderson was enjoying the warmth of the evening air and the silhouette of the island from the starboard quarter. ‘A fine evening, Captain,’ he called across to James.

  ‘Aye.’ James sniffed the air. ‘And I can smell the land.’

  Resolution was closing on the island. Anderson walked across the deck to join James, and as he did so he glanced across the water. He looked again. White water, only a few yards away. ‘Breakers!’ he screamed. ‘Breakers to starboard!’

  Moonlight gleamed on the breaking water. James saw and heard the breaking waves, saw that Resolution was heading directly for the reef, heard the sinister smack of wave against rock. ‘Hard to starboard!’ he yelled to the helmsmen. ‘Brace the yards sharp up!’ His cries were taken up, repeated, and repeated once more. The wheel was put hard about and men raced aloft to reef the sails. The foaming waves came closer. Then, with agonising slowness, Resolution responded. Her bow turned, and she sailed not into but past the reef.

  Later that evening, James summarised the incident in his log, writing by lamplight and concluding, Our situation for a few minutes was very alarming.

  He closed the log. He was appalled at what had happened, since he knew that the cause—navigational imprecision—must be sheeted home to himself and Second Lieutenant King. Their calculations of the longitude of Boa Vista had been inaccurate. By only half a league, but that had been enough to bring them far closer to the rocks than they should have been. An egregious error and too close a call.

  That night, after he extinguished the lamp and took to his cot, sleep did not come easily. The chagrin he felt over almost leading the ship onto the rocks was compounded by the fact that the pains in his gut had returned. Moaning softly, he drew his legs up to his belly and wrapped his arms around them. It made no differ
ence.

  They crossed the equator on 1 September, an event accompanied by the usual hullabaloo and duckings. James enjoyed watching the clowning from the quarterdeck; it distracted him from his physical discomfort.

  Bligh, who had bought his way out of a ducking, observed the carry-on from the mid-deck. Turning away, he shook his head in disapproval and called up to James, ‘This ducking is a vile practice, sir. I’m going below.’ And he vanished down the companionway.

  James looked at Gore. ‘Vile? A strange word to use for a harmless tradition.’

  Gore nodded. ‘Bligh is diligent but he’s not a barrel of laughter, I’ve noticed.’

  South of the line the sun’s rays became intense, beaming down fiercely on the ship. This allowed some of the soggy sails to be spread and dried topside. James ordered the crew’s clothing to be dried too, while sulphur pots were burned below to alleviate the dampness that had seeped into the holds and cabins. However, the ship’s decking also dried out under the burning sun, opening her seams even more. This allowed the tropical downpours—which came regularly in the mid-afternoon—to pour through the seams and into the storerooms and cabins. There was hardly a man aboard who could lie dry in his hammock.

  As he walked the decks and observed the seams widening, and inspected the ship below decks and noticed water still seeping down the hull, James felt a burning anger. What had been done—or rather what hadn’t been done—in the dockyard was nothing less than disgraceful. Furthermore, other defects had become apparent. ‘Look at this, sir.’ Bligh said to him one day, picking up one of the shrouds, then pulling it. The cordage came apart in his hands. His expression was fretful. ‘Rotten. In a gale I doubt if the rigging will stand the strain.’

  Looking up, James saw that the sky was darkening. A rainstorm was coming. More leaking, more strain on the rigging. ‘At Cape Town we’ll have the decking and topsides completely re-caulked, and the damaged rigging replaced.’