by Graeme Lay
Dedication
For the Cabin Fever Club
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Introduction
London, 15 July 1771
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
15 July 1771, London
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Other Books by Graeme Lay
Copyright
Introduction
The year is 1745. Sixteen-year-old James Cook leaves his parents and siblings in their inland Yorkshire village and walks 20 miles to a coastal town to begin an apprenticeship as a grocer’s assistant. There, for the first time, he sees the sea and falls in love, events which dramatically alter the course of his life. And the course of world history.
The year is 1771. Forty-three-year-old Lieutenant James Cook RN, recently returned from a circumnavigation of the world, is presented to King George III at St James’s Palace, London. A national hero now, the one-time village farm boy has proved himself the greatest seaman the world has known.
How did this remarkable transformation occur? What qualities did James Cook possess that enabled him to overcome his humble beginnings and rise to the summit of his profession? And what of his young wife, Elizabeth, who bore his children and had to cope with his prolonged absences from hearth and home?
The Secret Life of James Cook is a fictionalized account of Cook’s youth, early naval career and first round-the-world voyage. With the licence which fiction allows, it tells the story of James Cook not only as naval commander but also as son, husband, father and family man.
London, 15 July 1771
THE COACH MADE ITS WAY through crowded Whitechapel, then passed into Mile End Road. When he saw the street sign James leaned out the window and called up to the coachman: ‘Assembly Row. Number seven. Another one hundred yards, on the right.’
‘Very good, Lieutenant Cook.’
James, Banks and Solander had come ashore from Endeavour the day before at Deal. A week short of three years it had been since they left. Almost three years, and scores of thousands of nautical miles. It seemed like half a lifetime. But he had kept his promise to Elizabeth: he had returned safely to her and the children. His official journals had already been delivered to the Admiralty, in Whitehall, and he was wearing the crisp new uniform the Navy had issued him. On top of the coach, his cabin trunks were crammed with mementos of the world voyage: for little Elizabeth, native dolls; for the boys, miniature weapons and what the New Holland natives called ‘boomerangs’; for his wife Elizabeth, Tahitian bark cloth and Maori jade pendants, several of Parkinson’s landscapes and botanical illustrations to hang on the walls of their house and, at the bottom of the trunk, the other journal. For Elizabeth’s eyes only.
The inside of the coach was stifling in London’s mid-summer heat, and James took the handkerchief from inside the jacket sleeve of his uniform and passed it over his face. It was not merely the heat that was causing the outbreak of dampness. So much had happened to him during the three years, but what had happened to her, and to the children? Would things be the same between them? Could things be the same, after such a time apart?
As the coach drew up outside the terraced brick house, he saw a shadowy movement behind the curtains of an upstairs window. Elizabeth. He had instructed the Admiralty people to send word to her that he would be arriving late this morning, in order that she and the rest of the family would be prepared for his arrival.
He placed his tricorn firmly on his head, then stepped down from the coach. Assembly Row was dusty and rutted with scores of coach wheel tracks. Almost-forgotten smells — horse dung in the street, gin from the nearby distillery — filled the air. As he went to help the coachman take down the trunks he felt himself swaying, as if he was still at sea. The sailor’s sway. It would last for weeks, he knew.
The front door of number seven opened, and she was there, running to him.
‘James! Oh James!’
He held her close, murmuring her name, feeling the yielding shape of her body against his, drinking in the lavender scent of her fair hair, touching the softness of her cheeks and neck. She said nothing, but he could feel her sobbing, hear the sporadic intakes of her breath, as if she had just ceased running. Still holding her, blinking away the moisture from his own eyes, he looked over her shoulder. The two boys were standing on the step, dressed in the miniature Royal Naval uniforms she had sewn for them. James, now eight, Nathaniel, now seven. They were silent, staring at him with grave, apprehensive eyes, as they might be eyeing a complete stranger. Releasing Elizabeth, he went to them, bent down, and said softly, ‘Lads, my lads, how you’ve grown, both of you.’
Then, looking around for the other children, he turned back to his wife. Perplexed, he said, ‘But where is little Elizabeth? And our newest child?’
One
THE LAD STEPPED OUTSIDE THE COTTAGE and looked up. The sky was overcast, but beyond the peak of Roseberry Topping there was a slash of blue. It was mid-summer, 1745, and fair conditions for the longest journey of his life. There was no wind, but he knew that in an hour or two there would probably be a north-easterly breeze, blowing up from the Tees. His boots were beside the door of the cottage. As he bent down and pulled them on, his mother appeared in the doorway. She was holding a gunny sack. When he finished lacing up his boots she passed it to him. ‘There’s a clean shirt and vest, the scarf and the two pairs of socks I’ve knitted, and jam butties and the fruit cake I baked yesterday. Two apples, an’ all.’
‘Thank you, Ma.’
Her expression was anxious. ‘You’ll need water along the way …’
‘Aye, Ma.’ He smiled down at her. ‘But the road follows the river so I won’t stay thirsty long.’
The lofty figure of his father appeared behind her, in vest, woollen trousers and socks. Older brother John and younger sisters Margaret and Christiana pushed their way past their father and stood beside James. Although their eyes were shining, their smiles were crimped. He smiled at them, tightly. This day had been a long time coming, and now that it had come he needed to be gone quickly. No sense in drawing out the leaving business. From inside the cottage he could hear the gurgling from his cradle of baby William, whom he had already kissed goodbye. He hoisted the sack over his left shoulder, pulled his cap down hard on his head. His mother came forward, he embraced her and felt the bulk of her body against his.
‘Bye, Ma. I’ll write. And Christiana will read my letters to you.’
Christiana nodded.
His father held out a big, calloused paw and clutched James’s right hand. ‘Good luck, laddie. And take care. Look after yerself.’
‘I will, Pa.’ He tried to smile. ‘And I’ll work as hard as you do.’
Then he held his mother again. There were tea
rs working their way down the creases in her cheeks. Holding her at arm’s length, he smiled down at her, but he was thinking, she is looking so careworn. She managed a smile. ‘Bye, Jimmy. God bless, God bless.’
‘Bless you too, Ma. Bye.’
The others came up one by one, embraced him, then stood back. Christiana’s blue eyes glistened, John tugged at his thumbs awkwardly, mumbled, ‘Bye brother.’ His father hesitated, then came forward again with a rush and took him in his arms. They held each other for a moment. Then his father backed away and said, ‘Bye, Jimmy. We’re proud of you, laddie.’ Then he looked at the ground, shaking his head, as if bewildered by his own feelings.
Later, after he had left Ayton and was on the path across the moors, passing the alum works on the far side of Roseberry Topping, James realized — and the thought came suddenly, and jolted him — that it was the first time in the sixteen years of his life that he and his father had held each other in such a way.
By mid-morning the sun had broken through the clouds. He came down from the moorland and rested under a willow tree, beside the river that wound its way through the lowland. After drinking gratefully from its icy waters he ate several of the chunks of bread and plum jam his mother had packed for him, and one of the apples. Where the track joined the road a milestone declared ‘Staithes 7m’. He saw that the sun was high. Near midday, he reckoned. Mr Skottowe had told him when he farewelled him the previous day that it would take him half a day to reach the coast. So another three hours should see him there.
He removed his boots and socks and sloshed across the ford, the water chilling his feet and ankles. On the other side he dried his feet with tufts of grass, pulled his socks and boots back on, then resumed his journey. He thought back to the conversation he’d had with Mr Skottowe four months earlier when the landowner had ridden up and spoken to James and his father as they were digging out a weed-infested drain beside Aireyholme Lane.
‘Well, young James, what are your plans?’
‘Plans, sir?’
‘Yes. For the future.’
Mr Skottowe dismounted from his roan. Taking this as a sign that a discussion was coming, James and his father stepped up from the drain. Their landlord removed his cocked hat and wiped his brow. Addressing James’s father, he said, ‘The lad did well at his schooling, Cook; in arithmetic in particular. Even better than I expected when I had him enrolled.’
‘Aye, sir. Thanks to you, my family now has someone who can read and write, besides Christiana.’
James felt himself reddening.
Mr Skottowe nodded. Then, looking at young James, he said, ‘And it’s time that he put his schooling to good use.’ He grunted. ‘He needs to get right out of the ditch. Don’t you agree, lad?’
‘Aye, sir.’ James sensed that this conversation was going somewhere unusual. But where?
The owner of Ayton Manor took a pipe and a wad of tobacco from the pouch slung across his chest and began to pack the pipe bowl. As he did so he said, ‘Last week I was in Guisborough for a sitting of the North Riding Quarter Session along with other justices of the peace. Afterwards, over dinner, I was speaking with William Sanderson, a Staithes businessman. He told me he was looking for an apprentice.’
Frowning, James’s father asked, ‘What is Mr Sanderson’s line of business, sir?’
‘He is the proprietor of a grocery store and haberdashery.’
‘A sound business, is it, sir?’
‘It is. Sanderson is a well-known merchant, with an estimable reputation in the district. When mention was made of the apprenticeship I immediately thought of your second son. The one who can read and write.’ He looked solemnly at James. ‘What say you to the idea, lad?’
James’s thoughts tumbled. An apprenticeship. In Staithes. He had never been further than Ayton, but he knew that Staithes was a seaside town. A chance to get away from the farm, and from Ayton. A chance to make his own way, to live his own life. Frowning at the landowner, he said, ‘What is the term of the apprenticeship, sir?’
‘Three years. Sanderson will teach you the skills of the retail trade. It would be a chance to put your arithmetic skills to practical use. Giving change, tallying up the day’s takings. Board and lodging will be provided at the store, along with a small allowance.’
James Cook looked hard at his son. ‘What d’you say to the master’s suggestion, lad?’
‘I think I will accept it, Papa.’ He nodded at Mr Skottowe. ‘Thank you, sir. Thank you very much.’
It was mid-afternoon and the land was rising to the east when he first caught the strange smell. He stopped and sniffed the wind. A salty tang filled his nostrils. He walked on, upwards. Then, just before he reached the brow of the hill, he heard a sound like none he had ever heard. He stopped, inclined his right ear towards the sound. It was like steam escaping from a kettle spout, but a thousand times stronger. The noise rose and fell, rose and fell, but even when it fell it did not cease altogether. Instead it seemed to fill the air and race up towards him. Although he had felt weary before, he now increased his pace, striding forward on the track which zigzagged up the slope, his heart pumping with anticipation.
The track turned once more, then opened out to a grassy clearing. There was a railing at the edge of the clearing before the land fell away where a bonneted woman and a young boy were standing. A dog was racing back and forth behind them, its tail wagging furiously.
James went to the railing, a little way along from where the woman and the boy were. He stared down. Oatmeal cliffs, a foot bridge and houses huddled around the mouth of a river. He looked out at what lay beyond the cliffs, beyond the town, beyond the estuary, to the source of the salty aroma and the roaring. Waves, driven by the north-east wind, racing in towards the land; waves, breaking as they came closer to the land, and white water like the streaming manes of galloping horses. Further out the sea was an expanse of grey, flecked with white, and he could see the triangular sails of several small vessels. Beyond the sails, the great expanse reached to a cloudy horizon. The German Ocean. He stood for some time, entranced by the sight. Then, with a spring in his step, he began to make his way down the track that led to the town.
James quickly came to know Staithes. Its face was turned to the sea and the townsfolk lived off its bounty. It was relatively prosperous, he came to realize, compared to Great Ayton. Its income was based on its fishing fleet, augmented — he was informed after a time — by the nocturnal smuggling of brandy, wine, perfumes and other high-excise contraband from the Continent. Rough and functional, Staithes’ houses were nevertheless more substantial than those of the village he had come from. Its streets were cobbled, and there were alehouses as well as shops. Littering the seafront were oars and boat-hooks, lobster pots and fish nets stretched out on poles to dry. The raucous cries and bickering of seabirds were a constant chorus to the town’s waterfront activities.
William Sanderson’s shop was located on the waterfront. There was a drapery on one side of the building and a grocery on the other. The shop sold standard commodities from its two sides: bolts of cloth, made-up clothing, ribbons and reels of cotton from its haberdashery side; biscuits, ham, bacon and poultry from the other. Of the two sides of the shop James preferred the grocery with its aromas of bacon, cheese, kippers and the mushrooms that were collected from the fields above the town and sold to Mr Sanderson by Zachariah Gillon, Staithes’ half-wit.
The Sanderson family — the parents and a young boy and girl — lived above the shop, while James slept downstairs. Although the shop was a modest enterprise, William Sanderson was a prosperous businessman who owned several other properties in and around Staithes. He showed an early trust in James, and after instructing him in the presentation, cost and dispatch of the goods, allowed his young assistant to serve the shop’s customers without close supervision.
At the end of the week James added up the takings from Monday to Saturday, passed the list to Mr Sanderson, and on a separate sheet wrote down the goods which n
eeded ordering. And on the Saturday Mr Sanderson paid him his allowance of two shillings. Of the two shillings, James saved one. This was not difficult — the Sandersons provided him with all his meals, which he ate from the grocery counter. And he slept under the same counter, on a palliasse, with a straw-filled pillow and covered with a pair of blankets. It was comfortable enough. And he liked the independence he had in Staithes, compared to the Ayton cottage and the constant demands of his brothers and sisters. His closest companion in the shop was Isabella, its tabby cat, who slept at the foot of the palliasse and from time to time brought in a dead rat which she would place triumphantly at James’s feet.
Before long he knew all Mr Sanderson’s customers.
‘Morning, Mrs Acklam. It’s a cool wind we have today.’
‘Aye, it is, but we mustn’t grumble. How is Mr Sanderson?’
‘Well. He’s in Guisborough until Friday.’
‘Ah. Business, I presume.’
‘I presume so, ma’am.’
The woman’s husband, Samuel Acklam, was also a businessman in the town. A hawk-faced man in his mid-thirties, Samuel bought fish from the men who operated the small boats the locals called cobles, and the larger smacks. He had the fish split and wood smoke-dried in a warehouse at the far end of the town, then sold them on to fishmongers in the region’s larger towns: Newcastle, Durham and Stockton. It was also rumoured, a boatman had told James, that Samuel Acklam dealt in goods which were fishy in another sense of the word — mainly cognac and perfumes from France. How else to explain the Acklams’ grand house at the top of Church Street, and the fact that the household could afford to employ two servants?
‘How is Mrs Sanderson?’ Mrs Acklam asked.
‘Well, although the children keep her very busy, ma’am.’
‘Yes, yes.’ Drawing her dark blue shawl up over her shoulders, she said, ‘I need some ribbon, James, to edge the hem of my daughter’s gown.’
‘Certainly, Mrs Acklam. What colour?’
‘I think …’ Placing her wooden-handled bag on the counter, she stared at the row of reels behind him. ‘The red, I think. The dark red.’