Secret Life of James Cook

by Graeme Lay

  ‘Yes. Following the Treaty of Paris, they are the only part of Newfoundland not now under British sovereignty.’

  The three men from Niger grunted with satisfaction at this statement. Then, half-closing his eyes as he stared at James, Banks said, ‘Your voice defines you as a Yorkshireman, if I’m not mistaken.’

  ‘You are not mistaken. I was born in Marton and raised in Great Ayton, near Cleveland.’

  The younger man pursed his lips. ‘Not an area it has been my good fortune to visit. Although I once went to Whitby to stay with Phipps.’

  James turned to the naval officer. ‘I undertook my seaman’s apprenticeship in Whitby. Did you live in the town, lieutenant?’

  Phipps smiled condescendingly. ‘My family lives outside the town.’ He paused, then said pointedly, ‘In Mulgrave Castle.’

  James began to feel uncomfortable.

  ‘And I have workers on my estate who are from Yorkshire,’ Banks put in. ‘That is why your dialect is not unfamiliar to me.’

  The man’s mocking tone was unmistakeable, and James felt himself colouring. He was insulting his accent, something he abhorred. Staring hard at the young man, he said, ‘And where might you be from, Banks?’

  ‘My estate is in Revesby, in Lincolnshire, but I live in London. I am an Oxford graduate, in the botanical sciences.’ He turned to his friend. ‘Phipps and I were at Eton together.’ He paused. ‘The great public school, near Windsor.’

  James felt an urge to reach out and cuff this privileged puppy over the ear. He may be a gentleman and a landowner, but he had no right to patronize anyone in this manner. Having no wish nor reason to continue the conversation, James was about to excuse himself and prepare to return to the ship when to his surprise the governor stepped forward. Having sensed the awkwardness which had arisen between the two men, Palliser said hurriedly, ‘Cook is the King’s Surveyor. He works from the brigantine Grenville, which entered port today.’

  The expressions of Captain Adams and the two younger men sharpened. Adams said carefully, ‘You are the James Cook who surveyed the St Lawrence before the battle of Québec?’

  ‘I am.’

  The other man’s face was transformed, the tone of his voice was now respectful. ‘Cook, my deepest apologies, I did not realize. I first saw a copy of your chart of Gaspé Bay not long after it was published. It is magnificent.’

  Banks put in, ‘And Captain Adams employed your chart when we entered the St Lawrence Gulf. That, and the one of the river.’

  Adams nodded. ‘Indeed, it was indispensable.’

  James remained unsmiling as he said, ‘I am pleased that it proved useful.’ He still felt slighted that Adams had not recalled meeting him, even if it had been some years before.

  Addressing the sole civilian in the group, James said, ‘So Banks, you and I have come to Canada for very different reasons. You collect plants, I collect coastlines.’

  The governor clapped his hands and smiled with relief. ‘Good, good. Now we know who we are and what we do.’ His expression was still a trifle anxious, however. ‘And you will all dine with me, yes?’

  James exchanged glances with the others. Adams nodded emphatically, Banks gave a wry smile, Phipps looked away. James nodded, gratified that his credentials had now been recognized. He would stay after all. Parker and the other men deserved a decent time ashore: they had a long voyage ahead of them. ‘Thank you, Governor, I will accept your invitation.’

  They dined at a long table in the adjoining room. The cook, a tall, angular woman from Portsmouth, wheeled in the dishes on a trolley, and her husband, the bald doorman, served the food. Palliser unstoppered a decanter of red wine and filled the men’s goblets, explaining, ‘The French send the wine to their community in St Pierre, and we get it shipped in from there. It’s from Bordeaux.’ He smacked his lips. ‘It’s rather good, don’t you think?’

  The others drank. Banks nodded appreciatively. ‘Very good. The French have many weaknesses, as we Englishmen well know, but wine is not one of them.’

  When the main course arrived, the botanist showed an equal appreciation of the food. Holding up a chunk of fish on his fork, he said, ‘This, sir, unless I am mistaken, is Atlantic cod. The species Gadus morhua.’

  Palliser nodded. ‘It is, Banks. Poached cod. We almost live on it here.’

  ‘It’s a fine fish,’ James put in. ‘And plentiful in these waters.’

  ‘So plentiful,’ added Captain Adams, ‘that when you put down a line baited with six hooks, you can bring up twelve fish.’

  Banks smiled. ‘So this is a suitable area for me to frequent then.’

  When the others looked puzzled, he added, grinning at his own joke, ‘Well, the cod-fishing grounds are known as the “Grand Banks”, are they not?’

  The visitors exchanged stories. Adams, Banks and Phipps had been to Labrador, where Banks had collected botanical specimens to take back to London. He had gathered hundreds of plants never before catalogued, he said with undisguised glee, and was a supporter of the move to establish a special exotic botanical garden in London. He and Phipps had also shot many small animals in Canada, he added, which he had preserved and was taking back to England.

  James listened, impressed and resentful in equal measure. Impressed by Banks’s practical bent, but resentful of his air of superiority. Back in the drawing room, over crystal glasses of tawny port, they continued their reminiscences of Canada. Banks asked James, ‘Have you visited any of the interior yourself?’

  ‘I have seen Québec, naturally, following our victory in 1759.’ He set down his glass. ‘Apart from that, my travels have been confined to the coasts.’ To remind the others of the importance of his work, he added, ‘In the course of my surveying and charting.’

  Phipps nodded. ‘We ventured inland in Labrador and met some Indians while Banks was collecting his specimens.’

  ‘Were you threatened at all by the natives?’ asked the governor with concern.

  Banks shook his head. ‘No. And there was a contingent of marines accompanying us so we were not afeared.’ He grinned. ‘But we need not have been anyway. The natives were uncommonly hospitable. Their chieftain gave us two young squaws for the night, in exchange for a handkerchief each.’

  The governor leaned forward. ‘What were they like?’

  Banks laughed. ‘Delectable.’

  Phipps made a face. ‘Once you got past the smell.’ But he was smiling, too, at the memory.

  Banks chuckled. ‘Phipps and I exchanged our squaws at first light,’ he said. ‘It was a very agreeable business.’ He turned to James. ‘You have partaken of the local women, I assume, Cook?’

  James again felt himself colouring, and not just from the port. He sat up. ‘I am a married man, Mr Banks,’ he said reprovingly. ‘And the father of young children.’ He adjusted himself in his chair. ‘I also believe that as Englishmen and the bearers of a civilized way of life, we should set a moral example to savage peoples. In this way we can bring our enlightened ways to them.’

  Banks did not hesitate. ‘And I also believe we should set an example to them. Of shared pleasure.’ His grin widened. ‘To show the natives that we are truly human in our urges, and thus so not very different from them.’

  When James did not reply, Banks continued. ‘The natives also traded us four dried scalps for a small mirror.’

  ‘Human scalps?’ said James.

  ‘Yes.’ Banks’s expression was again gleeful. ‘They trepan the skulls of their defeated enemies, then keep the scalps as trophies.’

  ‘I have seen them,’ Captain Adams added. ‘They have the appearance of dried fungus, but with hair attached. Black hair, naturally.’

  ‘We shall present them to Marmaduke Tunstall’s Museum upon our return,’ Banks added. ‘Tunstall is a close friend of mine.’ He smiled at the governor. ‘The port is very agreeable, Palliser. I’m sure that Cook would like another glass. I certainly would.’

  They parted on the waterfront. There were a
few lights from the taverns along the quay, but everything else was in total darkness. Although James shook the captain’s hand warmly, then those of the two young men, in truth he was still resentful of their superior demeanour. Thank God that by the time the governor’s ball took place — an event that the two upstarts had discussed for far too long during the evening — he would be at the helm of Grenville, being borne along by westerly winds and the Gulf Stream, London-bound. The governor’s ball — what a frivolity!

  ‘Goodbye,’ James said stiffly.

  Lieutenant Phipps said, ‘May the rest of your chart-making go well.’

  Banks added, ‘And take care, Cook.’

  ‘I always do.’

  ‘Good luck, Cook,’ said Captain Adams.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said James to the officer. He nodded curtly at the other two.

  Phipps untied Niger’s painter and the three men climbed down the stone steps and into the boat where two oarsmen were waiting, one holding a lantern. James stood and watched the trio being rowed away into the blackness. As he did so, he thought: Captain Adams is of sound character as one would expect of a commander in His Majesty’s Navy. But Banks and Phipps — what smug, impudent pups. I wouldn’t care a jot if I never saw either of them again.

  Ten

  THE CARRIAGE STOPPED IN FRONT of the house in Mile End Road and James stepped out. Another year had passed. It was mid-morning on 10 November 1767, and the air was heavy with frost. Grenville had docked at Wapping at first light, two hours earlier. The driver took James’s bags from the roof and set them down beside the front step. As the carriage moved off, the front door opened.

  ‘James!’

  Elizabeth wrapped her arms around him. For some moments he held her, burying his face in her hair, revelling in the smell of it and the softness of her body against his.

  When she looked up, her eyes were brimming with tears. ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There was a message from the Admiralty. To say that Grenville had been sighted in the Downs, making for the Thames estuary. That was Wednesday. So I expected you three days ago. Where have you been?’

  Looking over her head, he saw two small figures appear in the doorway. They were wearing the uniforms of Royal Navy officers, complete with blue jackets, blue tricorns and white hose. Officers in miniature. Releasing Elizabeth, he went to them. ‘James, Nathaniel. How are you both?’

  The little boys smiled shyly as their father shook their hands. James was markedly taller than Nathaniel, but both were sturdy and ruddy-faced. ‘Why are you so late, Papa?’ asked James.

  Frowning, Nathaniel said, ‘We been worried, Papa.’

  Their father smiled. ‘I’ll explain when I’m inside.’ Picking up his bags, he smiled at Elizabeth. ‘I would love a cup of English tea.’

  He settled in the parlour in front of the coal fire, the boys at his feet, Elizabeth alongside him on the divan. She had made tea and toasted bread on the kitchen fire. James sipped the hot tea gratefully. The room was so warm, his family so close now. Baby Elizabeth was crawling about on the floor, gurgling happily. Hearth and home — after seven months away, it was so good to be back. Unbuttoning his waistcoat, he told them what had happened.

  ‘The ocean crossing was uneventful, with Grenville averaging four to five knots throughout. And with a following wind we made good progress moving up the Channel. By dawn on Wednesday we were in the Downs. But by late afternoon the wind grew stronger, and by the time we were approaching the Nore, it had increased to gale force.’

  Little James looked puzzled. ‘What is the Nore, Papa?’

  ‘A large sandbank, at the mouth of the Thames. It is marked by a lightship, so I knew to keep Grenville well clear. But the sandbank steepened the sea, so that the waves were very large. I was obliged to reduce all sail and put out anchors, to hold the ship until the gale blew itself out.’ He took another sip of tea. ‘But the sea was too shallow, the waves too big, and the anchors wouldn’t hold. An anchor line broke, we tailed into shoal water and Grenville struck the sandbank. Hard.’

  Elizabeth’s hand went up to her mouth. ‘Oh, no. What did you do?’

  ‘We jettisoned everything we could — the ballast, guns and remaining provisions. But because she was lying on her larboard bilge, stuck fast on an outgoing tide, we had to take to the boats. The seas were driving hard, but we were able to row shoreward, and with difficulty eventually made Sheerness, on the north coast of the Isle of Sheppey.’

  Little James, who had been following this conversation intently and with widened eyes, said, ‘But what happened to your ship, Papa?’

  ‘She was fast on the shoal, so we had to wait for the seas to go down before we could return to her. When they did, the next day, we rowed out on the high tide, boarded her, pumped out the bilges and when she was upright, floated her off.’ Setting down his tea cup, he said matter-of-factly, ‘That was why I was late.’

  ‘But what of your charts? Your surveys?’ asked Elizabeth.

  ‘All my drawings and drafts were taken off the ship with me when we took to the boats. They were wrapped in canvas, and are undamaged, thank the Lord.’

  ‘So you will be working on them again over the winter?’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘And will you go back to Newfie, Papa?’ asked little James.

  ‘Unless the Admiralty orders otherwise. My survey of the island is not complete. And the charts must be copied.’

  Little James frowned. ‘What is a chart, Papa?’

  James considered the question carefully. How to explain it all to a four-year-old? ‘Do you know what a map is?’

  The little boy nodded. ‘It’s a picture. A drawing.’

  ‘Right. Of a place, though, not a person. And a chart is a kind of map, but of the sea. Of the place where the land meets the sea. And it shows what’s under the sea, as well as on the land.’ He glanced up at Elizabeth, who was smiling lovingly at them both. Nathaniel’s thumb was in his mouth and he was beginning to doze. His father continued. ‘A chart shows things like rocks and headlands and beaches. It shows how deep the sea is, beside the land.’ He paused. ‘Later, when I’m working on my charts, I’ll show you how it’s done.’ The little boy nodded keenly.

  Elizabeth stood up. ‘You must be hungry.’

  ‘In truth, I am. There was no time for me to breakfast, after we made Wapping. And that was four hours ago.’

  ‘Come into the kitchen. There are scones in the oven. And I’ll cook beef sausages. Your favourite.’

  The boys’ bedroom was upstairs, in one corner of the house. That evening they kissed their mother goodnight in the parlour, then James led them upstairs, both in their night-shirts. He called into little Elizabeth’s room and kissed her gently, then tucked first Nathaniel then James into their beds, which were close together with a chair between them. Clutching the piece of cloth which he carried with him whenever he was tired, little James said, ‘Tell us a story, Papa.’

  His father nodded. ‘Which story would you like?’

  ‘Indian story,’ said Nathaniel promptly.

  ‘Yes, how you fought against the Indians,’ said his brother.

  They never seemed to tire of hearing this one, which had happened before the battle of Québec, in July 1759, when he was sounding the St Lawrence River. ‘I was in a small boat on the river with some other sailors, taking soundings and putting buoys in the water.’

  Nathaniel said sleepily, ‘Why putting boys in the river, Papa?’

  ‘Not boys like us,’ little James put in. ‘The other buoys. The things that float.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘All of a sudden, four canoes came out from the shore, full of French soldiers and wild Indians. The Frenchmen carried muskets, the Indians carried axes they call tomahawks, and bows and arrows. Their faces were painted in bright colours. They began to attack us.’ James paused. ‘We knew it was no good fighting back because there were too many of them so we began to row o
ur boat towards a big island in the river, called Ile d’Orléans, where there was a hospital for our soldiers. Musket shot and arrows were flying through the air towards us, and the canoes were catching up.’

  The boys lay completely still, their eyes very wide. Little James clutched his piece of cloth, Nathaniel sucked hard on his thumb.

  ‘We reached the island with the Indians right behind us, and jumped out onto the shore. Two Indians leapt into the stern of the boat, yelling and waving their tomahawks, just as we were jumping out of the bow. I thought we were doomed, but as we ran up towards a forest on the island a group of English soldiers appeared through the trees, carrying muskets. They had been guarding the hospital, had heard the cries of the Indians, and came running. As we ran towards them they fired at the Indians and the Frenchmen who stopped, then turned away. They scrambled into their canoes and paddled away. We were safe.’

  The boys sank deeper into their beds. Nathaniel’s eyes closed. ‘Night, Papa.’

  He kissed each of them on the forehead. How precious they were to him. ‘Good night, good night.’

  They walked on the common, following the winding path that led to the top of the hill. It was nearly three months since James’s return. The boys were at the house, in the care of twenty-three-year-old Frances Wardale, James’s mother’s great-niece and his second cousin. A plump, apple-faced young woman, she had come down from Middlesbrough, at James’s sister Margaret’s suggestion, to help Elizabeth in the house. Although Frances worked hard at the cleaning and washing, Elizabeth found her complaints about life in London tiresome. Dirty crowded streets, the smell from the river, street urchins, the cost of food; there seemed nothing that she didn’t find wanting about life in the city. When Elizabeth reported this to James, he listened, then urged her to be patient. ‘It’s all so different for her,’ he said. ‘She will become used to life here. As I had to after I left the North Riding for Whitby and London.’

  They reached the top of the hill, then stood to admire the view. It was early February, and bitingly cold. Patches of snow like tufts of white hair were scattered across the common and their breath was visible in the air. Below, in the Pool of London, they could see a winter forest of ships’ masts, and a pall of smoke from a thousand coal fires hung over Wapping, Stepney and Shadwell. At the foot of the hill, horse-drawn carts filled with bricks, sand and timber were being unloaded in front of rows of half-completed terrace houses.