by Graeme Lay
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands that the rod of empire might have sway’d,
Or wak’d to extasy the living lyre.
But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page
Rich with the spoils of time did ne’er unroll;
Chill Penury repress’d their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.
Do you see what I mean, James, about these lines? I thought they were so beautifully written.
Perhaps Jane, Mary and Mary, and William and John, could have achieved what you have, had they but survived.
There is an epitaph to Mr Gray’s poem. It concludes:
Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth
A Youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown.
Fair Science frown’d not on his humble birth,
And Melancholy mark’d him for her own.
With these doleful but heartfelt lines I will end this letter, James. I hope it finds you, Elizabeth, and your two boys well. No doubt little James and new baby Nathaniel are growing quickly. Please write if you are able to spare the time to do so. I always enjoy hearing news from you, as does Father. Even more so now.
Your loving sister,
Christiana
James walked to the study’s dormer window and stared out over the slate roofs, the pewter sky, the smoking chimney pots and the trees of the distant common, but saw nothing except his mother’s sunken cheeks and weary grey eyes. She had always seemed old to him, but such was her fortitude that he had thought she would endure for many more years. Now dead. He closed his eyes and put his hand to his face, picturing her in her small world. In the cottage, preparing meals. In the garden, tending her vegetables and flowers. In the church, following the service.
The death of his mother, the person who had borne him, cared for him those many years, tended his cuts and abrasions, scolded him when he needed it. He remembered the time when, while climbing Roseberry Topping, a thorn had pierced his foot and lodged there. Back at the cottage his mother had heated a poultice and applied it to the wound, holding it in place with a bandage. The poultice was so hot that he had cried out several times, but she had determinedly held it in place, telling him that it was the heat that would draw the thorn and its poison from the wound. And she was right: the wound had healed. ‘I had to be cruel to be kind, Jimmy,’ she had said to him later. ‘Sometimes yerr have to be cruel to be kind.’ As for his decision to go to sea, he knew that she had never understood it, could not understand how the sea had entered his being, was baffled by the way he had to be away from home for months on end.
She had seen the sea only once, when his parents had come to Whitby to visit him. The summer of 1753, it had been. He had taken them down to the harbour, thinking it would be a treat for them. But it was not. They had stared out to sea, then turned away, not able to comprehend the immensity and strangeness of it. Frightened of nothing or no one on land, but he could tell from the looks on their faces — part fear, part awe, part confusion — that they found the sea unfathomable.
Neither were they able to comprehend why their second son was making this frightening environment his life. But how could he have hoped to explain to them what he could not fully explain to himself? That with each voyage he took the sea seemed to run deeper into his being. He had never been able to explain this feeling to his mother. And now he never would.
As he stared through the study window, his vision became blurred. I loved you, Grace Cook, there was no finer mother. And suddenly he was overcome with sorrow that he had not been there to talk with her, to help care for her, to comfort her before she passed on. If he had known of her illness he could have taken the coach north, stayed with her for a few days at least. But how could he have known until it was too late? The guilt he felt at this dereliction of filial duty lodged in his throat like a fishbone. His mother had died without him, and his father would now be alone. Lifting his head, he closed his eyes, but the image of her stayed in his mind’s eye. He was astonished to feel tears streaming from his eyes, running uncontrollably down his cheeks. He tried to blink them away, but could not, so he let them run. Grace Cook, who had loved him, whom he had loved, now gone forever from his life.
Nine
ONCE THE FOG HAD CLEARED, the day was warm and still, the sky clear. Grenville was near the Burgeo Islands, off Newfoundland’s southern coast. As James stood in the cockpit, his eyes kept returning to the sky. The date was 5 August 1766. Would astronomer Leadbetter’s prediction prove correct? Would it actually happen today? The ship was at anchor off the islands, and on her deck the crew was going about its routine tasks, two men scrubbing the foredeck, another two greasing the pulleys and mast with pork fat. Deliberately, James had not informed the crew about the predicted event as he was curious to see how they would react, should it actually occur.
He waited, still staring upwards, holding his telescopic quadrant and a piece of smoked glass at the ready. Then, out of the blue, the sky began to darken. The crew looked up, their mouths agape. The sun began to disappear; the day darkened further.
Parker ran up from below and entered the cockpit, his expression bewildered. ‘What is happening, sir?’
‘A cosmic event. A solar eclipse. The moon is passing across the face of the sun.’ James held the smoked glass up in front of his eyes.
Parker gave him a wry look. ‘Were you aware that this would occur, sir?’
James kept staring at the shadowy orb. ‘I was. Or at least I knew it was predicted.’
In awed silence they all looked away as the shadow moved on and the day grew dimmer. James kept watching through the smoky glass, thrilled by the sight. Leadbetter had been right yet again, about the place and time of the event. What a prophet the man was! For some moments the sun’s face was completely covered, and the day briefly turned to night. The shadowy figures on the deck were silent and still. James could almost feel their fear. This event, which he knew was entirely natural, seemed to the sailors below to be quite the opposite. Then a glimmer appeared on the sun’s eastern rim, its rays burst forth, and gradually the glowing ball was revealed again. The crew looked at each other with undisguised relief.
As an ardent astronomer himself, James had read of the eclipse’s coming while at home the previous winter in Leadbetter’s Compleat System of Astronomy. Unlike the rest of the ship’s crew, however, he realized that what he was witnessing was something which had implications for ocean navigation. Eclipses and transits, Leadbetter had postulated, could be used to establish the precise distance between the Earth and its sun. An eclipse provided the opportunity, in Leadbetter’s words, ‘to determine the true Difference of the Meridians between London, and the Meridian where the ship then is; which when reduc’d into Degrees and Minutes of the Equator is the true Longitude found at sea’. James had also read that another eminent astronomer, Edmond Halley, who had died twenty-four years earlier, concurred with this belief.
James was fully aware that the lack of a method to accurately determine longitude represented a great gap in navigational certitude. Determining latitude was a relatively simple matter, measuring the sun’s varying angles to the Earth’s surface but, without an accurate timepiece, to ascertain how far one had sailed west or east was largely a matter of approximation. And because he always strived for complete accuracy, James disliked approximation. He was aware that the men of science were confident that the gap in astronomical knowledge would eventually be filled, but when? He had been told that instrument-makers had been working for some time to develop a precisely accurate marine timepiece which could be taken aboard ship and used to measure the progress of voyages westbound or eastbound from London. In particular, James had heard the name John Harrison mentioned in connection with this work. Evidently, though, Harrison’s timepiece was as yet insufficiently accurate. Successful navigation, James was well aware, demanded precision. Hence, any means which could be f
ound to fill the longitude-measurement gap, he and others of the nautical profession would welcome.
When the crew had resumed their duties, he retired to his cabin and there began to write a detailed account of the eclipse, accompanied by sketches he had taken. Its significance may be of interest to the Admiralty, he thought. Or even to the Royal Society, the academy of distinguished scientists who met in Crane Court, London, to discuss and debate such events.
As he made his notes, James gave further consideration to astronomical matters. He knew full well that it was not possible to harness the heavens, but he was aware that a study of cosmic phenomena — such as solar and lunar eclipses, and transits of the planets of Earth’s solar system — allowed navigators, scholars and scientists to better comprehend the universe which all men of the world shared. And the desire for such comprehension was something he felt too, with increasing keenness.
Nine months later a paper written by James Cook RN, the King’s Surveyor, was read to the Royal Society by Dr John Bevis, and published in the Society’s journal, Philosophical Transactions. It described the eclipse Cook had witnessed. Bevis extolled the paper. It had made it possible, he said, to estimate the longitude of Newfoundland’s Burgeo Islands. The Royal Society was impressed by the detailed account of the eclipse. Thus the name James Cook, nautical surveyor, became known to the Royal Society, a body of men whose influence in scientific affairs was growing.
James worked HMS Grenville in as close to the St John’s waterfront as he safely could. It was 27 October 1766. Eighteen months earlier, at his urging to the Admiralty and under his supervision at the naval dockyard at Deptford, Grenville had been converted from a schooner to a brigantine. The resulting additional sail pleased him as her staying was now much more dependable when they came upon unexpected hazards. His affection for Grenville had grown over the years. She was a fine little vessel who had served him and the surveying programme faithfully.
This afternoon the St John’s harbour was crowded, mainly with fishing boats flying a variety of flags: Spanish, French, Portuguese. There were also several larger vessels in port flying the Jack. Raising his telescope, James noted their details. A Royal Navy frigate, HMS Niger. Instinctively, he counted the cannons. Thirty-three, a fifth-rater. Alongside her were two other Royal Navy warships, HMS Favourite and HMS Zephyr, along with Governor Palliser’s ship, Guernsey. Noting that the tide was ebbing, James made a quick calculation. It was now mid-afternoon, so the following day they would weigh anchor just after midday to take advantage of the outgoing tide. Grenville had been fully provisioned earlier in the day from the warehouses at the other end of town for her latest Atlantic crossing. Fourteen casks of pickled cabbage were stowed in the hold, along with the other victuals. James knew the crew would make the usual grumbles about having cabbage served with all their meals, but since he had made it a flogging offence not to eat it, their protests were soon followed by clean plates.
He returned to the business of docking Grenville. The harbour was sheltered and the wind was slight. Fifty yards from the sea wall he turned the wheel hard to larboard, bringing the brig around and into the breeze. Her sails drooped and she stalled. ‘Let go the anchor,’ he called to Parker on the foredeck, and seconds later Grenville was swinging at anchor. James ordered the launch hoisted.
The ship’s boat drew up alongside the long sea wall, the bosun made a line fast to a bollard, and James stepped from the boat onto the stone steps. He called down to the bosun. ‘The governor will doubtless want to discuss the survey, Parker, so I may be some time.’ He smiled. ‘You and the men will find a friendly tavern in which to pass the time, I dare say. But one of you must stay here with the boat at all times.’
Parker nodded. ‘Aye, sir.’
James walked across the cobbled waterfront and made his way to the governor’s imposing, grey stone residence. Above the entrance, the British flag hung limp from its projecting pole. After he rapped the knocker on the panelled front door, it was opened by a short, bald, bow-legged man of about thirty-five. James introduced himself to the doorman who led him into the drawing room, then withdrew to inform the governor of James’s presence. Minutes later Hugh Palliser appeared, his hand outstretched. ‘Cook! Good day! I watched you come in. How good to see you again.’
‘Governor. It’s good to see you, too.’
Hugh Palliser had been appointed Governor of Newfoundland two years earlier. As they shook hands warmly, James noted the extent to which Palliser’s face had filled out since he had been appointed to his post. The sweep of his nose was now slightly capillaried, his complexion rubicund. He had always been fond of food and drink, and James supposed that his present position permitted him the maximum of opportunity to indulge in both. But his sardonic smile and decorous manner were the same. James had always liked this man, and not just because he, too, was from Yorkshire. More helpfully, he had been an unstinting supporter of the drawn-out Newfoundland surveying project. ‘You’ll dine with us this evening, Cook, I hope,’ said the governor.
‘If that is convenient, sir.’
‘Certainly, certainly. And you’ll take a glass of sherry now? We broached a cask of best Jerez only last evening.’
‘A small glass, thank you.’
The drawing room was capacious and carpeted. Although it was only mid-afternoon, the light was dim, there was a log fire burning and already the chandelier candles had been lit. A portrait of an elegantly robed Charlotte of Mecklenburg-Strelitz, the King’s consort, hung above the fireplace. On both sides of the fireplace were glass-fronted bookcases crammed with large volumes. Several cut-crystal decanters were arrayed on a sideboard beside the door that led through an entrance to the adjoining dining room. Ornately framed oil paintings, mainly of autumnal English landscapes, and a huge one of the 1588 defeat of the Spanish Armada by English naval forces, painted by Hendrick Vroom, adorned the other walls. A large globe stood on a circular table in the centre of the room. Canada and India were now both coloured red, James noted with satisfaction.
As he took in the room’s décor and contents, he thought again how outlandish this residence was, grafted on to the very eastern rim of North America. It could have been a house or club somewhere in the wealthiest parts of the City of London, yet he was aware that Newfoundland — claimed by the Genoese voyager John Cabot for Henry VII of England in 1497 — was Britain’s oldest colony, and St John’s its oldest settlement. This consolidation of British authority abroad James found reassuring. The knowledge that this, too, was now the domain of the King of England justified the loss of all those lives at Québec and elsewhere.
The governor gestured at the seats in front of the fire and both men sank down with their sherries.
As they sat and chatted, the pinkness of Governor Palliser’s face became more pronounced. He seemed a little unsettled, too, James thought. From time to time he peered through the mullioned window opposite, frowning as he did so. Noticing James’s curious expression, by way of explanation the governor said, ‘I am expecting other visitors from home shortly.’
‘Oh? More naval people, sir?’
‘Partly. They are from the frigate you no doubt saw in port.’
‘Which one?’
‘Niger.’ He patted his wig. ‘As you are sailing for London tomorrow, in another day you would have missed her — and her shore party, which is coming here to discuss arrangements for the governor’s ball.’
At that moment there was a rapping on the door and the doorman passed along the passageway beside the drawing room to answer it. As Palliser moved swiftly across to the doorway, James took in more of the large room’s details: the known outlines of the continents on the globe, the Armada vanquishing painting, the crimson drapes with their golden tassels. What a comfortable life a governor led. But how little James envied his position. This place was the very opposite of the freedom that the command of a ship offered. Hugh Palliser had authority, certainly, but his life must be as constrained and boring as that of a tethered
gelding.
The governor led the latest arrivals into the drawing room. ‘Mr Cook, meet the commander of Niger, Sir Thomas Adams, and Lieutenant Constantine Phipps, both of the Royal Navy, and Mr Joseph Banks.’
The men removed their hats and shook hands with James. Captain Adams looked familiar, leading James to think that perhaps he had met him some years before. In Québec, was it? However, since Niger’s commander gave no indication that he remembered him from an earlier meeting, James felt disinclined to prompt him. Adams was stout, with a broad forehead, a fleshy face and a double chin. He wore a naval captain’s full dress coat, waistcoat and white cuffs.
Banks was in his early twenties, a tall, slim young man with thick brown hair which curled down both sides of his head, a pointed chin, narrow face and a well-shaped nose. He wore civilian clothes, including a maroon velvet jacket.
Lieutenant Phipps was of a similar age, but short and stocky, with wavy blond hair, olive skin and blue eyes. He wore a lieutenant’s dark blue dress coat, gold braid-edged waistcoat and white cuffs, attached to the jacket with brass buttons.
The governor poured the other men glasses of sherry. They clinked glasses, toasted His Majesty, then the man named Banks turned to James and said in a tone of pronounced uninterest, ‘So Cook, what brings you to St John’s?’
‘I have been surveying the coast of this island. Lately, Cape Anguille in the south-west, and the west coast in the direction of Pointe Ferolle.’
The young man sipped his sherry. ‘The islands of St Pierre and Miquelon are still in the hands of the Frenchies, is that correct?’