Secret Life of James Cook

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Secret Life of James Cook Page 13

by Graeme Lay


  There was a large oak tree at the top of the hill. Its branches were bare and acorns littered the ground beneath it. James leaned against the trunk of the oak and Elizabeth leaned against him. Looking down at the building site, James said, ‘London grows. Faster and faster, and further and further outwards.’

  ‘It is already the world’s largest city, they say.’

  He nodded. ‘Yes. England prospers, Elizabeth. Something that gives me great pride.’

  He put his arms around her. For some moments there was silence. Then he announced, ‘That letter that came yesterday was from Captain Palliser.’

  ‘Oh? He writes to you often, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Necessarily so, since he oversees the Newfoundland survey.’

  ‘And what is the purpose of his latest letter?’

  ‘He is pleased with my charts. So much so that he has recommended to the Lords of the Admiralty that they be published.’

  ‘James, that is wonderful.’

  ‘It is satisfactory.’

  ‘More than satisfactory, surely.’

  He looked troubled. ‘But the survey is not complete.’

  ‘And you will complete it over the coming summer?’

  ‘That is my assumption.’ He released her, then squatted at the base of the oak tree. ‘Palliser wishes to meet with me again, presumably to discuss the survey programme.’ He picked up a stick, and in a patch of dirt made a rough sketch of Newfoundland. Then he marked two sections of the northern coast with crosses. ‘These parts remain to be surveyed.’

  Elizabeth nodded. He had shown her the charts that he had completed. Adjusting her shawl over her shoulders, she said, ‘When will you meet Captain Palliser?’

  ‘The day after tomorrow.’

  Elizabeth’s brow crimped. ‘James, has he mentioned again the matter of a commission for you?’

  He gave her a cross look. This was a subject that had come between them ever since he had reported to her that Palliser had mentioned he would recommend James be promoted to lieutenant. That was now six years ago. Looking away, he said, ‘Palliser has not raised the matter again with me.’

  Elizabeth frowned. ‘But no one is more deserving of a commission than you, surely? Your war service, your surveying, your charts. What more do you have to do for the Navy before they make you an officer?’

  He was silent for a time before he said irritably, ‘I am content to be the master of Grenville. It is a role that suits me.’ But even as he said it, he knew it to be a lie. He had long harboured an ambition to be an officer, and he knew that Palliser had suggested to his friends in the Admiralty that he be offered a commission. To no avail. He could only assume that to the lords he remained someone who had been born into the labouring class of Yorkshire, and such men did not become officers in the King’s Navy. So he well understood Elizabeth’s resentment because it was a feeling he shared. Yet he was too proud to allow his wife to know this.

  Hoping to silence her protests, and aware that she knew the value of money, he said with feigned indifference, ‘And I am paid ten shillings a day as master. Were I a lieutenant, I would not be paid at that rate for a week.’

  Elizabeth sighed, then said philosophically, ‘Well, I suppose that is something we cannot disregard with a growing family to feed and clothe.’ She slipped her arm through his. ‘Our new child is due in August, Dr Bartlett says.’

  ‘Captain Palliser, good day, sir.’

  ‘Cook, good day to you. Are you well?’

  ‘Apart from a slight chill, yes.’ James took a handkerchief from inside his cuff and wiped his runny nose. ‘This London air is not as healthy as an Atlantic breeze. Or even a Labrador fog.’

  ‘Indeed it is not. I cannot wait to be at sea again myself. I’m having a pint of ale, will you join me?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  They sat in the window seat of the Devil’s Tavern, so named because it was once frequented by pirates. Below them, on the river, vessels of all kinds, including barges and colliers, were moving down on the ebbing tide; smaller boats were rowing people from the north to the south bank of the Thames. The river’s mucky brown sides were exposed by the low tide, and a pair of ragged mudlarks were collecting bits of coal from the water’s edge and putting them into a sack which they held between them.

  As James reported on his progress with the charts, Palliser listened, nodding approvingly from time to time. His eyes were small and beady, like a gull’s, his forehead broad below the wig-line, and a faint smile seemed always to play about his mouth. He told James that he would be returning to Newfoundland for the summer for what he thought would be his last tour of duty there.

  The discussion then turned to the transits of Mercury and Venus. James had been reading a paper by the late Edmond Halley which described how transits of the planets Mercury and Venus across the face of the sun, when scientifically observed in a parallax from selected, widely separated points, could be used to measure the precise distance from the Earth to the sun, a crucial step forward in the scientific surveying of the cosmos. James was aware from his astronomical studies that transits of Venus recurred at intervals of 8, 121.5, 8 and 105.5 years. As the last transit had occurred in 1761, there would be another next year, 1769.

  Both men were also aware that, years before his death, Halley had drawn up a plan for the observation of the 1761 transit of Venus. The Royal Society had enthusiastically sent several astronomers to observe the passing of the planet across the sun’s face. Other nations, including France, Russia and Italy, had done the same, their astronomical instruments spread widely over the known world, from Siberia to China to the Cape of Good Hope. But the results had been disappointing. Cloudy skies had rendered most of the observations imprecise and they were poorly coordinated.

  Palliser set his pewter mug down on the table. ‘You are aware of the exact timing of the next transit of Venus, Cook?’

  ‘The third of June next year.’

  ‘Precisely. And the next transit after that will not be until 1874.’ Hugh smiled, ruefully. ‘When we will both be long dead.’

  ‘Yes. Just one more transit this century.’ Why all this transit talk, James wondered.

  Palliser’s gimlet eyes bored into his. ‘Last week I was speaking with the Astronomer Royal, Nevil Maskelyne, at Trinity House. He reported to me that the Royal Society is going to do its utmost to ensure that the 1769 transit of Venus is scientifically observed and accurately recorded. There will also be a transit of Mercury, in November 1769.’ He paused. ‘It is Maskelyne’s considered calculation that both transits will be most favourably observed from points in the South Pacific Ocean.’

  James nodded. ‘I’ve read that, too. They say also that the weather in such a location is likely to be more favourable for an observation.’ He gave a little laugh. ‘There is just one problem. No one knows what lies in the centre of the South Pacific Ocean.’

  Palliser stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘Samuel Wallis may be able to tell us, when he returns on the Dolphin. His instructions were to traverse the South Pacific from east to west.’

  ‘Wallis has not been heard of since he left last year. Nor Captain Carteret on the Swallow, which accompanied Dolphin.’

  ‘True, but if Wallis does return safely, it will be with knowledge of the region in question. And thus perhaps with a suggestion for a suitable location for the observation.’ Palliser closed one eye, conspiratorially. ‘It is a tasty proposition, Cook, and one which could considerably enhance Britain’s standing in the scientific world. Momentum for a transit observation is gathering. The King has agreed to support the expedition, and a suitable ship is being sought.’

  James considered all this in silence.

  The implications of what Palliser was reporting were profound. And not just for scientists. An exploratory voyage to the South Sea, to observe an astronomical occurrence which would not occur again for more than a hundred years, and in all probability to claim new lands for the King. What a prospect. He ran the mid
dle finger of his left hand along the scar on his right palm and wrist.

  Palliser picked up his mug and drained the last of his ale. As he did so, James asked, with undisguised curiosity, ‘And should this expedition to the far side of the globe take place, who is proposed by the Royal Society to lead it?’

  ‘Alexander Dalrymple.’

  ‘Dalrymple, Elizabeth. They are proposing that he lead an expedition to the southern hemisphere to observe the transit of Venus.’

  Although she looked up from her knitting, the steel needles kept shuttling. She now spent any spare time she had in knitting for their new child, working so dextrously that it seemed to James that booties dropped from the end of her needles as steadily as wax from a candle. She said calmly, ‘Dalrymple? I don’t know that name.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘And?’

  James leaned closer towards her. ‘He’s a high-born Scotsman and a hydrographer. He’s worked for the East India Company, in Borneo and China. And he’s a fellow of the Royal Society.’

  Elizabeth’s needles clicked on. ‘He would seem, then, to be well qualified for such a voyage.’

  James shook his head. ‘Not so. I have read what he postulates about the far side of the globe. He claims that a great continent lies in the South Pacific Ocean.’

  Elizabeth frowned. ‘Why does he hold such a belief?’

  ‘Mainly because the Spaniard, de Quirós, observed a large cloud bank in the South Pacific when he was there in 1606. Dalrymple wishes to explore the ocean merely on that basis. The man is a fantasiser.’

  Elizabeth paused in her knitting. ‘But might there not be such a continent in the Southern Ocean?’

  ‘It is possible,’ James conceded. ‘To balance our planet’s northern continents and so ensure its stability. And there is the land Abel Tasman touched upon in 1642, New Zealand. John Byron, too, claims he found a southern continent, when he passed across the tropical latitudes of the Southern Ocean last year.’ He undid two more buttons of his waistcoat. ‘But I believe this was a figment of his inflamed imagination. He actually found only a few low islands.’ James heaved a sigh. ‘Elizabeth, it is the task of a skilled navigator to first determine whether or not there exists such a landmass and, if there is, to chart it faithfully. Precise surveying and practical recording is called for, skills which Dalrymple does not possess.’ His voice becoming a mutter, he added bitterly, ‘He is not a trained astronomer and he is not a naval officer. What he is, in my opinion, is principally a geographical speculator.’

  ‘But as a fellow of the Royal Society, its members will favour him, surely?’

  James made no reply. He recalled the last occasion when a non-naval man had been given the command of a naval vessel. The case had become legendary in Admiralty annals. The year was 1698, the vessel was HMS Paramour and the man was Edmond Halley. The voyage of scientific investigation — of the laws governing the variations of the compass — to the South Atlantic had been characterized by insubordination from the naval officers aboard, who resented being commanded by a civilian. But Elizabeth was undoubtedly correct, James thought. Dalrymple had friends in high places, and his experience in the Orient was undeniable. So be it. He, James, had other matters to attend to.

  He stood up. ‘I’m going up to my study, Elizabeth. I have more work to do on the charts.’

  Still knitting rapidly, she nodded. Then she looked up. ‘If the child is another girl, I think we should call her either Grace or Margaret. Which name do you prefer?’

  At the same time that James was completing a final copy of his chart of the south-western coast of Newfoundland preparatory to sending it to the engraver, Captain Hugh Palliser was taking a coach to the office of the Admiralty, a neo-classical building at the north end of Whitehall. It deposited him outside the colonnaded screen which ran in front of the building. Palliser passed through the arched gate and walked up the steps to the door.

  He rapped on the door. As he waited he thought back to the meeting he had attended two days earlier in Crane Court, just off Fleet Street, in a two-storeyed, half-timbered building. The building housed an institution whose influence was increasing at a pace which matched the growing advancement of scientific enquiry — the Royal Society. The great Isaac Newton himself had acquired this home for the Society, of which he had been made president, in 1703.

  Palliser, wearing his full naval regalia, had taken with him to the society’s headquarters a leather case into which he had carefully packed several documents. He was met at the door and shown into the study of the Royal Society’s current president, James, Fourteenth Earl of Morton. After ushering Palliser into his study, Morton indicated that he take a seat on the chair facing his desk on which was one of Sir Isaac Newton’s reflecting telescopes along with a litter of papers. Cabinets filled with reference books covered one wall of the study, and above the fireplace was a large portrait of an imperious Sir Isaac Newton, painted by Godfrey Kneller.

  A Scotsman and a noted astronomer, Morton was a tall, stooped man of sixty-five, with sunken cheeks, a stern countenance and eyebrows like overgrown hedgerows. His jacket was crumpled, and the front of his waistcoat was marked with what looked like dried egg stains, causing Palliser to think that a peer of the realm should not appear in public with egg stains on his waistcoat. Still, he was a scientist, and they were known to be a different breed of men. He had not met Morton before, and he sensed a guardedness about the man as they faced each other across the desk. The tension between the Admiralty and the Royal Society which had arisen after the Halley–HMS Paramour fiasco had never quite been forgotten, and Palliser thought that this might explain the president’s wariness. But he was aware, too, that the Society’s Southern Ocean expedition could not proceed without the support of the Navy.

  Peering at Palliser from beneath his untidy eyebrows, Morton said, ‘Your letter said you wished to meet me in connection with the proposed expedition to observe the next transit of Venus.’ His voice was wheezy. Palliser wondered whether he was consumptive.

  ‘That is correct, my lord.’

  ‘A highly significant astronomical event, which the Society is determined to obtain funding for. And suitable leadership.’

  ‘Rightly so, my lord. And it is the second aspect which you mention that brings me here today.’

  ‘The leadership?’ Morton blinked. ‘What of it?’

  ‘It is my understanding that Alexander Dalrymple is favoured by your Society to lead the expedition.’

  Morton wheezed. ‘Your understanding is correct, captain. The council of the Society intends to offer him the post of senior observer on the expedition.’

  ‘I see. And who will command the ship?’

  The earl hesitated. ‘Alexander Dalrymple has also stated that he wishes to manage the ship which will transport the expedition.’

  Perturbed, Palliser said, ‘But it must be an armed naval ship, my lord. It must carry cannon and marines.’

  ‘Indeed. But that does not disqualify Dalrymple from such a role. He is a man of proven courage, and his experience in the East Indies will be invaluable.’

  ‘With respect, my lord, I would point out that it is proposed that the transit of Venus will best be observed from a point in the central area of the Southern Ocean, not the East Indies.’

  The earl’s expression darkened. ‘I am an astronomer, Captain Palliser. I am well aware that that is the case.’ He waved his hand airily. ‘I merely meant that Dalrymple is experienced at navigating in exotic seas. But continue.’

  ‘I would like to suggest, my lord, that there is a far better contender for the leadership of the expedition to the South Sea than Alexander Dalrymple.’

  The earl’s eyebrows knitted. ‘Oh? Who?’

  ‘One James Cook, of the Royal Navy.’

  ‘Cook.’ The earl harrumphed. ‘Is that the one who observed and wrote of the 1766 solar eclipse off Newfoundland?’

  ‘It is, my lord. And it was that same paper which Dr John Bevis presented t
o your society.’ Palliser allowed a pause. ‘I was informed that Cook’s description of the eclipse was well received.’

  The earl nodded. ‘Indeed it was. And from the description Dr Bevis was able to calculate the longitude of the Burgeo Islands where Cook carried out his observation.’

  Palliser saw his chance. Reaching for his leather document case, he said, ‘I have more strong evidence with me here, my lord, of James Cook’s abilities as a surveyor.’ Opening the case, he drew out the completed chart of Newfoundland’s Cape Anguille.

  The Admiralty door opened and Palliser was greeted by Philip Stephens, Secretary to the Admiralty. Aware that Stephens was almost as influential within the Admiralty as the lords themselves, Palliser had earlier written to him requesting a meeting with their lordships with regard to James Cook, and this had been duly arranged. Palliser was aware that Stephens had met and corresponded with Cook and held his work and reputation in high regard.

  The two men entered the meeting hall. It had a high, ornately decorated ceiling and a floral-patterned carpet in shades of pink and blue. At one end of the room were twin cabinets filled with naval histories, separated by a large globe of the known world. A chart of the Thames estuary and paintings of significant sea battles, including Admiral Vernon’s capture of Portobello in 1739, hung from the wall at the opposite end of the hall. There was a long, polished oak table surrounded by upholstered chairs in the centre of the room, and large windows in the wall that faced the street. A coal fire burned in the fireplace in the opposite wall. Numerous charts of different parts of the world were rolled up and attached to the wall above the fireplace. While Stephens went to summon the lords, Palliser stared around the hall. He immediately felt at home here, surrounded as he was by naval depictions and tradition. Far more so than in the untidy confines of the Royal Society’s headquarters.

 

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