Secret Life of James Cook

by Graeme Lay

  The plane table, compass, sextant and sheets of drawing paper had been packed into his canvas carry-bag and Griffiths had already carried the equipment down to the rocky shore. Crouching beside the dying fire, James reached out and tossed the dregs of his tea onto the embers. Griffiths, lit pipe still clamped between his teeth, bent over the embers and began to cover them with earth, using a spruce branch for a brush. As he did so his powder horn slid around his hip, tilted, and its contents spilt into the remains of the fire.

  Seconds later the world erupted in a ball of orange fire. Through the fireball James glimpsed Griffiths being flung back and hurled against the trunk of the tree. Staggering backwards, James stared at the gory mess that was his right hand and wrist. His left hand’s grip tightened on the wrist as he instinctively applied a natural tourniquet to it. He brought the hand up to slow the flow of blood, and saw that the explosion had opened a gash, from the webbing between his thumb and forefinger and across his palm to the wrist. The right hand felt as though it was clutching red-hot coals.

  Appalled at the sight, and at the implications of the injury, he looked away. His right hand, his drawing hand, his writing hand. How could he work with such an injury? Grenville carried no surgeon, so how would he be treated? He looked across at the crumpled figure of Griffiths, lying against the tree trunk. His face was a bloody mask.

  Still gripping his right wrist, James staggered down to the shore. He heard shouts from the cutter and was dimly aware that it was being rowed towards him. The men must have heard the explosion. At the water’s edge, he fell to his knees, closed his eyes and waited.

  James opened his eyes. He was in his berth. Parker was clumsily wrapping a bandage around his hand and trying to tie it to the bookshelf above. The blood flow had been staunched, James saw, but the pain was unrelenting. ‘How is Griffiths?’ he asked from between gritted teeth.

  Parker shook his head. ‘Not good. The blast took him in the face.’ Dimly, James was aware of the windlass grinding.

  ‘Why are we weighing anchor?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m taking the ship round to Noddy Harbour.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘So we can get there before nightfall. The French fishing ship we came alongside four days ago, Sablon, she’s probably still anchored there. And she carries a surgeon.’

  He closed his eyes. Grenville began to move. The rolling and creaking of the ship was comforting, but the burning and the throbbing in his hand was worsening. More painful, though, were the thoughts that tumbled over and over in his mind. Will I lose the hand? What are the prospects for a man with one hand? How will I support Elizabeth and the child?

  Hours passed. He was semi-conscious, but aware that darkness had fallen and that there was another man with Parker. Both men carried lanterns. Parker came forward.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is M’sieur Jacques Aubert. He is the surgeon from Sablon. He has come to treat your wound. He speaks little English, but I know French.’ He stood back, respectfully. ‘M’sieur Aubert. C’est James Cook. Le capitaine.’

  The Frenchman wore a pale blue frock coat. In his late twenties, he had a thin, sallow face but kindly brown eyes. Placing his medical bag on the floor of the cabin, he knelt beside the bunk and said, ‘Votre main, s’il vous plaît, m’sieur.’

  Parker translated. ‘He wishes to examine the hand.’

  When James presented it to him, still wrapped in its blood-sodden bandages, the surgeon carefully removed the crude dressing, turned the hand outwards and studied the wound. The blood was crusted and streaked with black. He asked a question in French, and Parker said, ‘He wants to know if you can move your fingers.’

  James opened and closed his hand, very slowly. The surgeon grunted, then spoke again, this time directly to Parker, who again addressed James. ‘He thinks there are no bones broken. Now he needs warm, salted water and brandy to clean the wound. I’ll get him some.’ After Parker vanished the surgeon again peered intently at the injured hand, his brow puckered. He opened his bag and took out what looked to James like a pair of shiny pliers, a square of muslin, a roll of bandage and a large cotton reel through which a needle had been skewered. The surgeon laid out his equipment at the foot of the bunk, and as he did so Parker returned with an enamel bowl filled with water and a bottle of brandy.

  Frowning with concentration, the surgeon worked very slowly, dipping the muslin cloth into the water bowl, to which he had added half the contents of the brandy bottle, then dabbing the wound. James closed his eyes against the pain. It was as though his hand was being held over a flame. At one stage the Frenchman made a clicking noise with his tongue and muttered something to Parker.

  ‘What does he say?’ asked James, keeping his eyes closed.

  ‘Gunpowder. He is trying to remove all the gunpowder from the wound before he inserts the stitches.’

  James drew a deep, agonizing breath. ‘Yes, yes.’ Then he was struck by a thought. ‘How is Griffiths now?’ he asked Parker.

  ‘He will live.’ The mate’s voice was just above a whisper. ‘But he has lost his eyesight.’

  17 AUGUST 1764

  Dearest Elizabeth,

  I trust that you and our baby son are well. I have been thinking of you both, keeping each other company in Mile End Road and perhaps walking in the meadow if the weather conditions have made such activities possible. I already look forward greatly to seeing you again, and little James, and to walking out with him by the river. I hope that the odours from the distillery have not been as bad as they were during the previous winter. Gin is a vile spirit in both smell and taste, in my opinion, and the proximity of the distillery to our property, along with the density of the coach and wagon traffic along Mile End, leads me to think that we should give consideration to moving to a larger house upon my return. Mile End in other respects suits my professional purposes, as you know, being home to so many other naval men of my acquaintance, and so close to Trinity House, but the reek of gin cannot be good for you or the child. As far as the cost of buying a more commodious dwelling is concerned, I am confident that I will be in possession of sufficient accumulated capital to make this possible.

  Your mother is doubtless proving of great assistance to you in your domestic duties. For that I am truly grateful as I know how much of the administration of the household you would otherwise have to bear alone. You must know how much I am looking forward to seeing you and little James again. Sadly, I will miss the very day of his first birthday celebrations, but we will still be able to enjoy festivities to mark the occasion, albeit some weeks after the event. I have a birthday present for the little one, a ship in a bottle, a model of Grenville, made by one of my crewmen, Daniel Parsons. It is a very fine creation, fashioned by Daniel over the winter months. When he is a little older, James will appreciate it, I am sure.

  Our new child grows too, no doubt, and I hope that your confinement is as comfortable as can be expected. It is possible, but by no means certain, that I will be home in time for the next birth. If I am not, it is of little consequence as a man can play no useful role when it comes to the arrival of a child, save perhaps in the choice of its name.

  I have also been applying myself to the matter of a name for the new little one. I thought Elizabeth, after your good self, if it should be a girl, and Nathaniel if it should be another boy. Nathaniel after no particular person, but I very much like the musicality of the name.

  You will surely have noted by now the disorderly nature of my handwriting in this letter. An explanation of this follows.

  Two weeks ago a calamity occurred which has greatly disrupted my surveying work. A powder horn exploded accidentally, causing a grievous injury to a member of the ship’s crew, Jimmy Griffiths, who was blinded, and a severe wound to my right hand. As Grenville carries no surgeon, the ship’s master was obliged to make contact with a nearby French vessel, whose surgeon treated my injury. It was poor Jimmy who bore the brunt of the explosion, and I am af
raid that this will be his last voyage. The Navy will, I hope, award him a pension for his service. That will certainly be my recommendation, as his assistance with my surveying duties has been invaluable.

  I have been confined to my cabin and the decks for two weeks now, unable to draw or write, which has caused me the greatest frustration. I am impatient for the programme to proceed as the work yet to be completed is immense, and the knowledge of what remains to be done only compounds my frustration. The injury to my drawing hand could hardly have come at a less opportune time.

  It was my greatest fear after the explosion that I would lose my hand, and hence my naval career, and indeed this was a possibility. However, when the surgeon, Monsieur Aubert, returned to Grenville to dress the wound again three days later, he was able to report that the healing process had begun, aided by regular rinses with alcohol. Two days after that he cut away the stitches with his scissors and was able to confirm that the gash had closed. There will be a scar, but no permanent impairment. My gratitude for the surgeon’s skills was immense, although inexpressible, given my inability to speak his language.

  And now at last I can manage to put quill to paper again, albeit clumsily.

  However, I now face other worries, dear wife. The days have already begun to draw in, and in another month or so conditions will not permit our coastal survey to continue. But I return to my onshore duties the day after tomorrow. This also means, I believe, that Grenville will be ordered to sail for England in November.

  It will not be a great deal longer before I am with you and little James, and our second child, a prospect which I anticipate with the utmost pleasure. The wifely warmth and comforts which you provide me with have been the object of my thoughts on many a long and lonely night, both on Grenville and during my times ashore.

  Once again, Elizabeth, my apologies for the untidy nature of this missive, but having been fully informed of the facts leading to its construction I am sure that you will well understand the reasons for it. I managed to procure extra sheets of paper, surplus to my surveying notes, to ensure that you have been given all details of the regrettable events of 4 August. And I will arrange for this letter to be dispatched from St John’s in the next ship bound for home, in the anticipation that you will receive it at the earliest possible juncture.

  My deepest love to you and our little boy,

  James

  While he slowly recuperated from his injury, James’s role and that of William Parker were reversed. Parker continued the survey of Cape Norman ashore while James remained aboard and took sightings of the north-west Newfoundland coast from the poop deck. This arrangement, although unavoidable, James soon found unsatisfactory. Parker’s drawings were cursory and crude and, James suspected, lacked accuracy. Then, a fortnight after the accident, his frustrations were compounded by the behaviour of other members of his crew.

  Able Seaman Joseph Carstairs came up from below, lurched across the main deck, then fell in a heap in front of the mast. Then Peter Flower, an assistant surveyor, emerged from the companionway. He staggered towards Carstairs, tried to pick him up, but fell over himself. The two seamen lay in a heap, giggling in a mindless manner.

  James hurried down to the main deck. ‘What is it?’ he demanded of both men.

  Flower looked up at him crookedly. ‘Nothing, sir.’

  As James bent down, he caught a whiff of something strange. Not grog, something else. ‘Nothing, is it?’

  ‘No, sir.’ Flower’s eyes were bloodshot. He looked away.

  ‘What have you and Carstairs been drinking?’

  ‘Nothing, sir.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me, man. What have you been drinking?’

  Flower looked sullen. Then, realizing the game was up, he said, ‘A kind of spirits, sir. Made from wood chips and sugar.’ He looked at the other man. ‘Carstairs brewed it. In a pot. In the galley.’

  James felt a flash of fury. No wonder the crew had become so idle and derelict lately. Thinking to take advantage of his indisposition and not content with their grog ration, they had resorted to distilling extra spirits, a serious breach of naval regulations. How dare they? He turned and called up to Billy Corry, who was on the foredeck greasing the windlass. Corry had assumed the bosun’s responsibilities since Griffiths’ dreadful injury. ‘Corry, report here!’

  Corry, grease pot in hand, looked at Carstairs and Flower, who were now standing in front of James, hangdog expressions on their faces. He set his hands on his hips. ‘These two men are to be punished with a gantlope, Corry. Immediately. Order all the rest of the crew on the main deck.’

  They formed two parallel lines, on either side of the mast. Each man held a kittle — a length of knotted rope — and awaited the order. Carstairs and Flower stood at the head of the lines, heads down, naked from the waist up. Corry had thrown buckets of seawater over them to sober them up for the punishment. Staring at the abject figures, James felt particularly angry at Flower’s transgression. The young man had worked well on the survey until now, and regarded James as a kind of foster father. But now all sentiment was set aside. Foster son or nay, Flower must be punished.

  Standing on the afterdeck, James announced loudly to the crew: ‘By distilling and consuming unauthorized spirits, for the theft from the ship’s sugar supply, for being drunk and disorderly and neglecting their duties, these men have committed serious breaches of naval regulations. They will each run the gantlope.’ He nodded at the bosun’s mate. ‘Carry on, Mr Corry.’

  Flower ran first, feet bare, head down. In the hands of his shipmates the knotted ropes rose and fell, rose and fell, striking him on his back and shoulders with short, dull thuds. When he reached the end of the gauntlet, he staggered and turned, head thrown back with pain.

  Then Carstairs began his run, squealing as the knots struck home.

  The blows kept raining down, the cries kept coming, Corry keeping a watchful eye on the lines and the beating ropes. Withholding meted punishment was also an offence.

  By the time Flower and Carstairs had done the run their backs were striped, livid and leaking blood. Panting, their faces crimson and streaming with sweat and tears, they crouched by the rail. As the two lines of men dissolved, Corry picked up his bucket again and threw half its contents over Carstairs, the other half over Flower.

  Surveying the scene from the afterdeck, James felt a curious kind of satisfaction. He had been given the authority to have men flogged, and now he had done so. This was authority. This was command. He made a further announcement. Voice ice-cold, he declared: ‘Conduct on this ship over the past two weeks has become lax. Duties have been neglected, doubtless because some of its crew have been indulging in distilling and consuming illegal spirits. This indulgence must never occur again. If it does, the culprits will run the gantlope twice.’ He glared down at the silent, chastened crew. ‘Is that understood?’

  They nodded, and mumbled, ‘Aye, sir.’ ‘Aye, sir.’ ‘Aye, sir.’

  The scar on James’s right hand was aching. He clenched and unclenched his fist, slowly. ‘Very well. Now resume your duties.’

  Eight

  JAMES?’

  ‘Yes?’

  Elizabeth appeared in the study doorway. She was holding the baby, Nathaniel, under her left arm, and in her right hand was an envelope. ‘A letter has been delivered to you. I think it is in Christiana’s hand.’

  He got up from his desk and took the pale brown envelope from her. The letter was addressed to ‘Mr James Cook RN, Assembly Row, Mile End, London’ in Christiana’s distinctively looped handwriting. It was some months since they had heard from her. Now, no doubt, she was writing to wish him well for his next Atlantic crossing. Picking up his bone paperknife, he sliced open the envelope. Inside were two sheets of notepaper.

  20 FEBRUARY 1765

  My dearest brother,

  This letter will, I hope, reach you before you leave once again for North America.

  It is with much distress that I must inform you that our d
ear mother died, on the fifteenth day of February. She had been visiting Ann Skottowe at Aireyholme Farm, in order to carry out some cleaning duties at the house, and upon returning home in the late afternoon was caught in a bitterly cold rainstorm and drenched. That evening she developed a chill which quickly worsened. A fever developed the next day, and although Papa sent for Dr Rossiter, he was unable to arrest her decline. She passed away two days later. Although she had reached the fine age of 63, her health until then had been sound, and her passing shocked us all.

  The funeral service was held at All Saints’, in Great Ayton, and was attended by a great many in the community, as Mother was deeply respected for her devotion to the care of others as well as her remaining family. Alas, our sister Margaret and her husband were unable to attend the service as he was away on a fishing expedition, leaving her alone in Redcar to take care of the children.

  Father is bereft, as you can imagine. It was always his assumption that he would pass away before Mother, and the shock of his loss is still much with him. Margaret and I will do what we can to assist him recover from his grief. Although he is adamant that he does not wish to leave Ayton, it is the earnest wish of Margaret and I that he comes to live with each of us in turn.

  Mother was interred alongside our brothers and sisters in the graveyard of All Saints’, in accordance with her wishes. Father has arranged for her name to be added to the family tombstone. A simple inscription: ‘Grace Cook, born 1702, died 1765, a faithful wife and devoted mother, much loved’.

  Shortly after the funeral, I was reading a collection of poems by the writer Thomas Gray. They were published some years ago, I think. One long poem in particular moved me greatly. It is called ‘Elegy Written in a Country Church-Yard’, and is a kind of lament. I thought as I read it that it could well have been addressed to our poor dead brothers and sisters, and that the country churchyard could well have been All Saints’, our church in Great Ayton. Here are some lines from Mr Gray’s poem.