by Graeme Lay
Now, breaking the silence, he said to Elizabeth, ‘Two weeks more and it will be the winter solstice.’
She smiled. ‘Do you always think of the year in such terms, James? I only think December means that Christmas is on its way.’
‘I suppose it is because of my concern with astronomy. At sea I live with the moon and stars as much as the sun.’
‘It is a life that suits you?’
‘I cannot imagine one without it.’
She looked thoughtful, then asked, ‘And when will you return to sea?’
‘When I am ordered to. In the spring, I presume. The decision is not mine to make.’
She frowned, but nodded, too. ‘Yes, I know other naval people. That is how it must be.’
Turning towards her, he placed his hands over hers. ‘But in the meantime, I am quite happy to be on land.’ He looked earnestly into her eyes. ‘Elizabeth, forgive me, I am unused to speaking in this way—’ He hesitated, then pressed on. ‘But I must tell you that these past few weeks, walking out with you, speaking with you, getting to know you, have been the happiest of my life.’ She met his gaze, felt his big hands tighten around her much smaller ones, smiled. ‘And through you, I have discovered something about myself that I did not know existed.’ He looked down at their joined hands, and Elizabeth waited for him to continue. ‘That discovery was that I am capable of loving a woman.’ Hastily, awkwardly, he corrected himself. ‘Not just “a woman”, but you, Elizabeth.’
There was another, longer pause. She could see that he was struggling to find the words he needed, and as she watched him her feelings for this big, strong but awkward man flooded through her. He looked up again and said, decisively now, ‘Elizabeth, I love you, and I wish to marry you. Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?’
Elizabeth stared into his craggy face, into the deep-set grey eyes that seemed to be at one with hers. She, too, felt the strength flowing from his resolution, felt his hands on hers, felt a stirring within her that seemed to flow up and towards him. Leaning forward, she placed her lips against the side of his neck. Then she drew back, took her hands from his, put her arms around him and said, ‘I will, James. I will.’
On 21 December 1762 they walked across the meadow outside Barking to the parish church of St Margaret’s. No banns had been issued: neither of them thought it necessary to do so. Eschewing any ceremony or fuss, the couple were married in a plain ceremony at St Margaret’s before three witnesses whom the minister, the Reverend George Downing, had arranged, and whom neither James nor Elizabeth had met before. This was of no concern to them. The most important thing was that they were now man and wife. After their unadorned nuptials they moved into Elizabeth’s parents’ old house in Upper Street, Shadwell. And there they made further discoveries about each other, ones which brought both of them great happiness.
They had been married just four months, during which time James had been carefully going over the engravings of his St Lawrence charts, when a messenger on horseback delivered a letter to Upper Street. The envelope carried the seal of the Admiralty Office, Whitehall. Surprised and curious, James opened it in front of the fire, Elizabeth watching him intently as he did so. For a few moments he said nothing. Instead he stared at the page, his brow set.
‘What is it, James?’
‘I am ordered to sea again. On HMS Antelope. Under the command of Thomas Graves.’
‘As master?’
‘No.’ He peered at the notepaper. ‘As a supernumerary. I am to be—’ He began to recite: ‘“employed in making surveys of the coasts and harbours of Newfoundland, and in making drafts and charts thereof.”’ Looking up, he could not withhold a note of pride from his voice. ‘I am to be the King’s Surveyor. On the schooner Grenville. And I am to be paid ten shillings a day for carrying out these duties.’ He inhaled sharply. ‘Ten shillings a day—’
She went to him, put her arms around him, set her face against his chest. ‘Oh, James, that is wonderful news. Congratulations.’ Then she drew back and stared up at him. ‘I have news, too. I meant to tell you later, but after hearing this, I must tell you now.’
He looked down at her. ‘What is it?’
‘I had a consultation with Dr Bartlett last Thursday.’ She reached up and touched his lips gently. ‘I am with child.’
Seven
15 JULY 1763, ST JOHN’S, NEWFOUNDLAND
Dear Mr Walker,
Firstly, my thanks to you for your letter of congratulations upon the occasion of my marriage, which I received shortly before departing for Canada. I was very touched by your message of goodwill and ensured that Elizabeth, my wife, shared your letter with me and the good wishes it contained.
My thoughts have of late been with you all in Whitby, busily engaged in your mercantile activities. With the population of London growing so rapidly, as I have read, no doubt the demand for Tyne coal continues unabated. Please remember me to your family, and Mistress Prowd. Your daughters and sons must now be almost grown up. Do the boys intend to train for a career at sea?
I write from St John’s, on the island of Newfoundland, the base for my surveying activities. Governor Thomas Graves has placed a schooner, HMS Grenville, at my disposal while the coastal survey of the island is carried out. As I am her master, Grenville represents my first command in the Navy. The surveying project will be a lengthy one, as the island has a long and complex coastline (its total length, I estimate, is more than 10,000 miles) with a great many bays, promontories, estuaries and smaller islands, all of which must be thoroughly charted. It will be a task requiring several years of work, that is certain.
You will doubtless want to learn of Grenville’s characteristics. She was built in Massachusetts, in New England, and named after George Grenville, our First Lord of the Admiralty. A compact vessel, she is 55 feet in length, has a 17 foot beam, and at only 69 tons is quite suited to working in the inshore waters which are the object of my expedition’s survey. But she is also well capable, I believe, of making the eastward Atlantic crossing.
To carry out the survey of this island, I spend most of my time ashore. There I first set up a base line, and with my compass accurately determine the direction of north. I then choose the most prominent geographical features — usually a headland, hillock or islet — and once selected, use them as triangulation points. Bearings are then taken on these features, employing a plane table and sextant.
The charts drawn up as a result comprise a merged image of the coastal features, to which are added the depth soundings taken from the water by William Parker, Grenville’s master’s mate. I also add, where fitting, recommendations for potential anchorages, advice for pilotage, fisheries and future settlements as, given the likelihood of future English migration to this large and strategically situated island, such information will be essential.
As the summer here is brief — even briefer than in the north of England — it is imperative that the surveying continues unabated while the weather permits us to do so. Those who have lived here for some time quip that ‘There are three seasons only in Newfoundland — July, August and winter’, and I am bound to agree that it is a saying which contains much truth. But it is also true that I have become hardened to the cold and wet, so that it seldom interferes with my work. This is no doubt due in part to my Yorkshire upbringing, which thus has much to recommend it.
So, sir, that is my news for now, from the far side of the Atlantic. I trust you will receive this letter — dispatched from St John’s by the governor’s secretary — within the next two months. It is my intention to spend most of December and January in London with Elizabeth and her family, but if time, work and weather permit, I will also journey north to Yorkshire to visit my parents. When I do, be assured that I will also call at Whitby to visit you and your family.
I am,
Yours most sincerely,
James Cook
After HMS Grenville was safely at anchor in the harbour at St John’s, James was taken ashore to the res
idence of Thomas Graves, lately commander of HMS Antelope and now Governor of Newfoundland. It was October, 1763. James’s first question to the governor was, ‘Is there a letter from home for me? From my wife?’
There was no letter from Elizabeth, but there was one from the Admiralty. It contained an order that he put to sea for England in HMS Tweed no later than the end of October. This was a command which he had been expecting so it did not disconcert him. But the timing was poor. Their child had been due in early October, Elizabeth had informed him in her latest letter, meaning that it would probably have been born by now. A letter took at least a month to cross the Atlantic, as Elizabeth well knew, just as she was aware of the approximate date of his departure from Newfoundland. That unfortunate combination of circumstances meant that there was no way that she could inform him of the birth until his return to London.
He walked out onto the St John’s waterfront. Beyond the fleet of local fishing boats, Tweed was at anchor in the harbour, her poles bare. Over the next few days he would supervise the provisioning of the schooner in preparation for their departure. The voyage would take over a month, even with favourable winds. Childbirth was a dangerous business. In Great Ayton village, several women whom the Cook family knew had died giving birth. Sometimes the child had died too. If it survived, the grieving father had been left to raise the child alone. In James’s mother’s case, she had been exceptional, bearing eight children who had survived, even though five of them subsequently died. Yet childbirth and death were never far apart, it seemed. So he wondered constantly, what was the fate of Elizabeth and their child? When he returned home, would it be as a father or a widower?
This was a worry which he took aboard Tweed and which was stowed firmly in his mind for the next five weeks. At nights he lay in his cabin, sleeping fitfully, feeling the heave of the sea, listening to the little ship’s straining timbers and the howl of the wind in the shrouds, knowing that each day’s hard sailing brought him closer to home and news of Elizabeth.
At last, on 29 November 1763, Tweed was brought into the Solent, sailed past the ancient Round Tower and docked beside Portsea Island. After making sure the ship was secure he went directly to Navy headquarters. There, a letter awaited him. It was dated 16 October 1763 and was addressed to ‘James Cook, the King’s Surveyor, The Admiralty, Portsmouth’. As he had hoped, it was in Elizabeth’s small, well-formed handwriting.
My dearest James,
By now, I hope with all my heart that you will be safely back in England, having completed your surveying duties for the year. If so, you will receive this news before you prepare to return home here.
Three days ago I was safely delivered of a son. My labour began in the early hours. My mother sent immediately for the midwife, Miss Ella Thompson, who arrived here just after daybreak and was of great assistance and comfort to me.
The child was delivered two hours later. He is a bonny baby and as hungry as a horse. When he wishes to feed, his lusty cries fill the house. He wakes from his crib about every three hours, demanding more milk, which I am delighted to provide him with. People ask who he resembles and I have to say his father as he has the nose of a typical Yorkshireman. He is a Cook, indisputably, and so perhaps a sailor in the making. Mama adores him already and is like a second mother to the little chap, fussing about him so. I have not yet had the chance to take him outside, but will do so when the weather becomes favourable.
You will remember that we discussed what we would call our child before you left in April. We agreed that if it was a son he should be a James, after your father and yourself, and that is still my wish.
I will be writing to Christiana to inform her of the birth, and will also request that she notifies your parents and Margaret of the glad news. I have arranged for the little one to be baptized in St Paul’s in Shadwell by the Reverend Arlridge, on Sunday, the first of November. The ceremony will be followed by tea and cakes here at the house. It is a great pity that you will not be able to attend the baptism but, the Lord willing, you will see our child not long afterwards.
Oh James, I cannot tell you what joy it is to be the mother of such a healthy child. Now there are two Jameses in my life, and I have the greatest love for them both. My only regret is that you are not here to share my happiness. But in your last letter you said that you would be home by Christmas, and that the Admiralty would inform me as to the approximate time that would be.
So, husband, my next wish is for safe passage for you to Portsmouth, and thence to London. Perhaps over the winter weeks, if you have time to spare from your chart-making, we can search for a house of our own. That is another dream that I have for us.
Take every care, James. I cannot wait to be safe in your arms again, my darling, and for you to see our beautiful son.
Your loving wife,
Elizabeth
Thus was established his working timetable: sailing from England to Newfoundland in the spring, then spending summer engaged in hydro-graphical work on the coast of Newfoundland and adjacent islands. When there happened to be time to spare, he wrote letters to friends and family: to Elizabeth, to his parents and Margaret via Christiana, and to John Walker. The surveying work occupied him until late autumn, when he again made the eastward crossing of the Atlantic to London, the precious drawings, notes and soundings locked in his sea trunk. Once at home in London he spent the winter drawing the final drafts of his charts. And in the spring he sailed westward, to his summer home, the island of Newfoundland. In this way the months passed industriously and peaceably. Until 4 August 1764, at Quirpon, Newfoundland.
They followed their well-established routine. While William Parker, the very capable master’s mate, sailed Grenville slowly along the coast and the calls of the men casting lead and line were recorded on board, James, assisted by Bosun Jimmy Griffiths, worked ashore with a plane table, sextant, theodolite and flags, taking fixes on the most prominent landmarks and sketching them. Grenville shadowed the little shore party, standing a few hundred yards off wherever they went. Although she was but a minnow compared to the great ships of the line he had served on during the war years, James had already developed an affection for the schooner. She was a suitable vessel for the work, being able to be worked in close to the shore, although her lack of a back-sail sometimes gave him cause for concern as this made it difficult to avoid unexpected hazards such as reefs and shoals.
When he returned to the ship and sat at the chart table in his cabin, drawing and recording, James revelled in the work. There was such beauty, as well as such utility, he thought, in a finely drawn chart. A headland, a cove, a reef, a contoured hill, a cliff slope — being able to capture and depict such features on paper, along with precise soundings of the inshore depths — this was work that absorbed him fully. He felt as a portrait painter must when rendering his subject faithfully on a canvas, making meticulous observations in order to reproduce the essence of his subject, not just for current reference but for generations to come. But whereas the portraitist worked with the human face and frame, he worked with the face of the land and its many diverse features. His first published map, the draft of the harbour and bay of Gaspé, which had appeared six years earlier, he was inordinately proud of. But he was aware that that survey had been a relatively straightforward exercise. Gaspé was regular in shape, its profile reasonably predictable, unlike the coast of Newfoundland, which was infinitely irregular. Thus, every section of the island’s coastline presented a challenge.
Griffiths unslung his musket and leaned it against the trunk of a tall spruce. They had made an encampment at the foot of the tree. ‘When shall we be returning to the ship, sir?’
‘In an hour or two.’ James glanced over to the west, where the sun was already low. ‘It’s mid-afternoon now, by my estimation.’
‘Shall I boil tea for us?’
‘Yes. I’m going to climb the headland again, to check the sightings. And I’ll be as thirsty as a hunting hound when I get back.’
The t
wo men had been working together on the survey for nearly a year and a half now, and each knew the other’s habits well. Ginger-bearded Griffiths carried James’s equipment and their food and other supplies in his pack, and while James worked on the survey, Griffiths erected the canvas shelters they slept under and heated food and brewed tea for them both. From Swansea in South Wales, the bosun was also a skilled fisherman, and most days cast a line from the rocks and brought in a cod or a halibut which he would then cook for them over a fire.
A man of few words, Griffiths always had a lit pipe in his mouth, on which he puffed away like an Indian chief. James sometimes wondered: Does any man love tobacco as much as he does? It’s a wonder he doesn’t smoke his pipe in his sleep. Also, as the Admiralty had instructed, Griffiths always carried a musket, a full powder horn slung over his shoulder and a bag of musket balls at his waist, although in truth they had seen neither Indians nor even a French fisherman for over a week now. Still, the musket did have a practical application. When conditions were misty, as they often were in the early mornings, Griffiths would fire it to alert Parker and the others working on the cutter as to their precise location.
This was James and Griffiths’ third day ashore and James knew they must return to the ship before nightfall. It would take him at least two days to make decent drawings of this, the eastern side of Quirpon Bay. Now, with the sky already dimming, he took a swallow of tea from his tin cup, then declared, ‘That’ll do for today, time to get back to the ship. Call the cutter in.’
James had decided that after the evening meal on the ship he would retire to his cabin and work late by lantern on the charts. He felt increasingly concerned about the project. There was perhaps another six weeks’ surveying possible before winter came and the ice chunks returned, and only half the northern coast had been surveyed. Could he complete the remainder of the survey in the time they had left? He thought not. It would mean returning to Newfoundland next summer, a prospect that did not dismay him. But the decision was the Admiralty’s to make, and whether they agreed to send him again depended upon how they regarded the work he had accomplished so far. His report to the Admiralty would be important, he knew, but would it be enough? He had done his very best, he was certain of that.