by Graeme Lay
Bligh said worriedly, ‘That will take some time, sir. It will adversely affect our progress.’
James glared at him. ‘You think I don’t realise that, Bligh? Of course it will “adversely affect our progress”, as you put it. Would you rather we traversed sub-Antarctic waters, in gale conditions, with leaking decks and rotten rigging?’ Bligh shook his head and looked chastened. He placed his hands behind his back and braced his shoulders, as if trying to appear taller than his five feet seven inches.
James immediately regretted his outburst. The young man was proving punctilious in all his duties. He said quietly, ‘The additional refit will cause delays, undoubtedly. But I’m only too aware, from my last voyage, that no ship can survive the high latitudes unless she’s in faultless condition.’
Squinting up at the shrouds, Bligh said crisply, ‘I understand, sir. There is much hard sailing ahead.’
‘There is.’
James turned and walked past the sheep pens and up onto the quarterdeck. Another squall was scuffing the sea to larboard and bearing down on the ship. Minutes later it arrived: at first a splattering of fat raindrops striking the sails, rigging and decks, then a deluge. Resolution began to roll in the roughening sea. At the wheel, Whelan and Roberts struggled to keep the ship on her course; Bligh yelled for the fore topgallant sail and the fore topsail to be reefed. The men aloft worked their way across the yards in response to his command.
Drawing his cape tightly about his shoulders, James could not shake off the anger consuming him. Those at the dockyard charged with ensuring the ship was fit for sea should first be flogged, then clapped in irons in the Tower. The war in America could not be used as an excuse for negligence. Gross negligence, which threatened the safety of Resolution and all aboard her. He clenched and unclenched his scarred right hand, which had begun to ache again. And his bowels had not moved for three days.
Ten
12 SEPTEMBER 1776
Dearest Elizabeth,
We have now been at sea for eight weeks. It seems a great deal longer. It was my hope that we would meet our support vessel, Discovery, when we called at Porto Praia in the Cape Verde Islands. She was not there, however. I worry about the fate of Clerke. Will he be released or not? It seems that we will have a lengthy stopover at Cape Town, waiting for Discovery to catch up with us. Delays are inevitable, but this voyage has already had more than most.
We are now in the Southern Hemisphere and on a course for Cape Town. The weather has been humid and gloomy in these latitudes. Such conditions can bring on illness, so I have insisted that the crew dry their clothing at every opportunity and that the ship’s interior is aired with fires and smoke. These exercises are rendered more complex by the fact that the ship is exceedingly soggy in all her upper works. The wetness is so bad that the officers in the gunroom have all been driven out of their cabins.
To remedy the leaks the men were set to work with caulking hammers, oakum and pitch as soon as we gained fairer weather. The inside weather-works have been re-caulked, along with the decks. However, the leaking topsides cannot be caulked while we are at sea, as it is too great a risk, so these must wait until we reach Cape Town. This means that the wetness below decks persists. I cannot overstate the contempt I feel for those whose carelessness allowed the ship to leave England in a sub-standard condition.
I have by now formed firmer impressions of my shipmates and will share these with you. As this letter will be dispatched to you from Cape Town, you will be able to envisage the company I am keeping during the remainder of the voyage.
John Gore is proving as dependable as I hoped. He is a diligent first officer whose considerable voyaging experience is an asset to the company, although his knowledge of navigation is surprisingly deficient. His love of firearms is stronger than ever, and he shoots at any creature that moves, fish or fowl. In this he is strongly supported by our Society Islander, Omai, who learned to shoot in England. Yesterday Gore brought down a gannet, judging his shot so finely that the bird fell into the fore topsail, then dropped onto the mid-ship deck. Our cook baked the bird and had it served to the officers for dinner today, which we all partook of willingly. So long as Gore’s powder and ball are not used on humans, his shooting is acceptable to me.
My second officer, 26-year-old James King, is a Lancastrian and the son of a vicar. He is a well-educated young man with a thoughtful, sensitive nature. When I sentenced one of the seamen to the lash for neglect of duty just after we left the Azores, King tried to go below rather than witness the flogging. But I insisted he stay. A follower of the new Abolitionist Movement, King has studied natural philosophy in Paris and at Oxford, and has a sound knowledge of astronomy and so shares the astronomical duties with Bayly and myself. He also assists us in the care of the sea-clocks. I find it a great comfort to have an educated man like King aboard, as he and I can discuss matters of science and nature at some length. He is greatly looking forward to observing the natives of the South Sea, he tells me, but without any of the salaciousness that the others inevitably display when the subject arises. Yet he is not preachy the way Johann Forster was; he is merely curious. Everyone likes King.
Our third lieutenant, John Williamson, is an unusual fellow. He keeps to himself, says little, and what he does say is generally of a negative nature. For instance, he commented the other day of Omai: ‘As an Englishman, I don’t like dining with a nigger.’ The others took issue with this statement, as Omai is proving a popular shipmate who shares his knowledge of his islands with everyone. King remarked to Williamson; after hearing his comment: ‘The word nigger to me is offensive, Williamson, it smacks of the slave trade. Besides, Omai is our guest!’ Williamson looked at King coldly, but said nothing more. Although he carries out his duties diligently, he doesn’t mix easily with the other officers. And I wonder, since he has stated his strong aversion to natives, how will he relate to those we encounter in the South Sea?
Our sailing master, William Bligh, was virtually born to the sea, his father having been employed with HM Customs in Plymouth. He has seen active service, is very well qualified in navigation and hydrography and shows a fine aptitude for cartography. A most serious, conscientious young man, he requested to see my South Sea charts. When I gave him permission to visit the Great Cabin and see them, he pored over them as if they were medieval manuscripts containing all the secrets of the world. He asks endless questions about the coastlines of Otaheite, New Zealand and the Friendly Isles, and my techniques of surveying. Yet at the same time he remains oddly standoffish, is tight-lipped and humourless. He is quick to take offence, too, and has publicly quarrelled with our bosun, Ewin, over the matter of feed for the sheep. An unusual fellow is Bligh, but undeniably talented. I predict he will have a long naval career once he matures and learns to get on with others.
Our artist John Webber is 25. He joined Resolution just before we sailed and has adapted quickly to shipboard life. Born in London, his father is Swiss, and a sculptor, Webber tells me. His family name is Waber but was anglicised, his mother being English. His parents sent him to Switzerland when he was six, and he was raised there by an aunt, so his accent is noticeably Germanic. He has studied painting in Bern and Paris, as well as at London’s Royal Academy, and held his first exhibition in London this year. He produced some fine sketches of Santa Cruz Harbour and Boa Vista Island. The two artists on my previous voyages set a very high standard. You will recall what fine depictions of the landscapes and natives of the South Sea were produced by William Hodges during Resolution’s earlier voyage. It will be Webber’s challenge to work to the same standard, and to the standard of Sydney Parkinson, on Endeavour, as he makes drawings and paintings of the people and habitats we encounter. A rather shy fellow, Webber has a pointed nose and eyes as watchful as a gull’s. Since the ability to observe people closely is, in my experience, an essential prerequisite for a successful artist, this augurs well for his work. He approached me a few days ago and requested that I sit for him, for a portrait.
I admit to having been surprised at this request, and informed him that I had already sat for Dance and Hodges. Webber fixed me with his beady eye and said, ‘I will perhaps see you in a different way. And therefore will depict you differently.’ I agreed to sit for him in Cape Town, if time permits.
I must end now, as my watch approaches. I trust that you and little Hugh are well and enjoying each other’s company. My love to Nathaniel also.
My love to you, as always,
James
The surgeon, Anderson, had a plump, kindly face and deep-set brown eyes. He had recently grown a beard, so that he now resembled a friar. He asked James to remove his trousers and undergarment and get up onto Anderson’s cot. ‘Where exactly is the pain, Captain?’
James pressed the flattened fingers of his left hand onto his belly, between his sternum and his navel. ‘Just there.’ He flinched.
‘Mmm.’ Anderson applied his own fingers to James’s belly and pressed gently. ‘Breathe deeply,’ he instructed. James did so, while the surgeon tilted his head and stared into the distance. ‘When did your bowels last move?’
‘Two days ago.’ James thought again. ‘No, today is Tuesday. So three days ago.’
Anderson moved his fingers to James’s left side. ‘Does that cause you pain?’
‘No.’
The surgeon’s fingers moved to the right. ‘And that?’
James inhaled sharply. ‘That is … discomforting.’
Anderson grunted. ‘All right. Get down now, Captain.’ They moved into the Great Cabin and sat on the long seat under the stern window. Looking thoughtful, the surgeon said, ‘You also suffered from constipation on your last voyage, you told me.’
‘Yes. It was particularly bad between Otaheite and Easter Island.’
‘And you had the stomach pains as well?’
‘Yes. Johann Forster came to my rescue with a broth made from his dead dog.’
‘Well, we have no dogs on this voyage. Only sheep, pigs and goats.’
‘Which are for the new lands, for New Zealand, Otaheite and the Friendly Isles. They must not be sacrificed.’
‘Quite so, quite so.’ Anderson folded his arms, still thoughtful. ‘However, it’s my belief that your problem is dietary.’
James smiled. ‘So you don’t believe that our health is dependent on the four humours?’
The surgeon snorted. ‘Good Lord, no. The belief that blood, yellow and black bile and phlegm control our health and so must be kept in balance is medieval thinking.’
‘My difficulty is not caused by an irregularity of the humours, then?’
‘No. I believe it is dietary. You’ve read the findings of my compatriot, James Lind, as to the causes of scurvy?’
‘Yes, years ago. And I’m a strong believer in his prescription for warding off the scourge. A combination of diet, fresh air, cleanliness, personal hygiene and exercise. And of those, diet is the most important. That’s why I insist that every man on this ship takes sauerkraut, malt and wort. And when we can gather them ashore, fresh greens. Those are effective anti-scorbutics. As you’re aware, on both Endeavour and Resolution’s last voyage we lost not one man to scurvy.’
Anderson nodded. ‘A remarkable feat. And doubtless a result of your enforced regime.’ He walked across to the starboard window and peered out. ‘And yet while at sea we must also ingest large quantities of salt beef and pork, ship’s biscuit—often mouldy—and stale water.’ He turned back, frowning. ‘As well as enduring the dampness below decks. The leaking planks and the resulting damp will cause our health to suffer.’
‘I agree. Which is why proper caulking will begin immediately after we anchor at Cape Town.’ James placed his hand on his stomach. ‘And in the meantime, what of my difficulty?’
‘For the constipation, which is undoubtedly the cause of your stomach pain, I prescribe an increased daily intake of wort. From one quart to two.’
‘Two quarts per day?’
‘Yes. That should ease the problem.’ The surgeon gave James his friary smile. ‘Your visits to the officers’ head will then become a pleasure, instead of a pain.’
Eleven
10 NOVEMBER 1776, CAPE TOWN
Dearest Elizabeth,
This is the third time I have visited this port, so it is a place I am well familiar with. Our arrival here was greeted by a great crowd of Dutch people and Hottentots on the dock, and when I go ashore I find myself the centre of much public attention, something I do not welcome. I have been the guest of the governor, Baron van Plettenberg, an immensely boring fellow who boasts of his countrymen’s authority and influence here at the southern end of the African continent. This attitude encourages me to do all I can to ensure that England’s power eclipses that of the Netherlands in the world. I was obliged to point out to the governor, among other things, the great difference between my map of New Zealand and that of his compatriot, Abel Tasman. The latter’s is perfunctory, mine comprehensive. Tasman did not even land in New Zealand, I reminded the bloated baron. This had the effect of silencing him.
The ship’s company revel in the temptations of the Cape Colony. The advance pay the men received is disappearing quickly, I imagine, as their time ashore is given over to much wine-drinking and many licentious activities. How much easier it is to maintain discipline while a ship is at sea! Over the last two weeks I have ordered nine of the crew to be lashed, for offences such as not reporting for duty, drunkenness, and selling their necessaries to the natives. This I find dispiriting. We need to sail again as soon as possible.
However, our unmooring cannot be soon, as we must still wait for Discovery and there is much maintenance to be undertaken on Resolution. The caulkers and carpenters are busy attending to the work that ought to have been properly carried out before we left. Fortunately the dockside facilities here furnish all our maritime needs, while there are also ample supplies of fresh fruit and greens, bread, beef and mutton available. A great deal of fodder is being taken aboard too, to feed our growing menagerie and ensure that the animals reach their South Sea destinations in good condition.
Webber has been ashore for some days, drawing landscapes and portraits of the local inhabitants. From what I can so far ascertain, although he lacks Hodges’s gift for painting landscapes, he does possess an uncanny ability to capture the appearance and character of people. He is back on board now and I have agreed to sit for him. We have had several sessions together. I insist on wearing a glove on my right hand, to cover my old wound, as this hand is exposed in the stance that Webber has me adopt while he draws.
When time permits I go ashore and take coffee with Thomas Mawton, British consul to Cape Colony, whom I met on my last visit here. He is a droll fellow who knows everything and everyone in the colony, so is a useful source of information. I introduced him to Omai, in order to emphasise the ostensible reason for our expedition, since even Mawton must not know of its real intent. Anxious to practise (and show off) his riding skills, Omai then went off into the interior on horseback with King, for a day and a night.
As always, I am impatient to weigh anchor. Much hard sailing lies ahead of us as again we venture into the known, then the unknown. This letter I will send to you, along with ones for James and Nathaniel, on an East Indiaman, the Bay of Bengal, which leaves here for London at the end of the week. I trust you will receive the letters by Christmas. Thereafter my personal journal to you will be kept faithfully until my safe return. My deepest love to you, Nathaniel and little Hugh.
Your loving husband,
James
Under Bligh’s close supervision, Resolution’s defective rigging was replaced, and her decks resounded with the pounding of caulking hammers. The caulkers worked from low seats, moving along yard after yard, plugging the gaping seams with oakum and tar. The ship reeked of boiling pitch. Other men dangled from ropes and planks hung over the bulwarks, laboriously working oakum and pitch into the ship’s topside strakes. The repair work was made difficult by strong winds and a run
ning sea in Table Bay, which caused the ship to roll constantly. The caulkers cursed as they worked, looking frequently landward, envying those onshore.
Then there was more dismaying news. Bligh was waiting for James on the mid-deck after he returned to the ship following a morning ashore. Brow creased with concern, Bligh announced grimly, ‘The mizzen topmast’s sprung.’
‘What? Surely not.’
‘It is, sir. I was aloft checking all the masts this morning. The others are sound, but the mizzen topmast is badly cracked. It probably won’t bear sail in a high wind.’
James looked up at the mizzen. ‘When do you think it happened?’
‘The crack is not new, so it seems to me that it must have left England in that condition.’ Bligh shook his head. ‘We’re just lucky it didn’t fail in the Bay of Biscay.’
Again James felt a surge of anger. Even a cursory inspection by the naval contractors would have revealed the crack, surely.
‘Shall we order a replacement?’ Bligh asked.
‘Yes. Have the rigging removed and the mast brought down. And tell the clerk to take the specifications to a mast-maker in the town.’ He thought, furiously, Another delay.
To facilitate the ship’s maintenance and provide the stock with fresh fodder, most of the animals were transferred ashore, to graze on the pastures in Cape Town’s hinterland. The bull, two cows and their calves did so contentedly, but the 16 sheep were attacked in the night by feral dogs. Several were mauled to death, while the others ran off, terrified by the attack. Six were found the next day but the two rams and two of the healthiest ewes could not be found. James ordered the clerks to purchase local sheep as replacements. Knowing that this would be their last chance to do so, he also arranged for the purchase of four horses, some rabbits and more poultry.
James took refreshments with Thomas Mawton in Schouten’s coffee house on the waterfront, a place always filled with prosperous-looking Dutch burghers who smoked cigars and scoffed cakes and pastries. Through the mullioned windows, James could see their bonneted womenfolk gathered in groups on the cobbled street, chatting, while Hottentot men lugged sacks of produce to and fro along the dock. It was a fine spring morning and Table Mountain’s angular profile was silhouetted against the sky.