Secret Life of James Cook

by Graeme Lay

  On the way back the priest told James that to complete one pahi took from two to three years, but if they were blessed properly and looked after well, they would last for many voyages. Standing up, he held up his left hand and waved it towards all points of the compass. ‘Sail to many, many islands, far, far away, but always return to Raiatea.’

  They reached the place where the sound met the lagoon, then turned north in the direction of Endeavour, the four oarsmen pulling steadily. The sun had dropped below the mountains whose slopes were in shadow. One hundred yards further on they heard shouts coming from the shore. James saw a small headland at the edge of the lagoon, and upon it two strange figures beckoning frantically. They were caked with dark brown mud, their long hair matted, their garments torn and filthy. Local shamans perhaps? He directed the coxswain to turn in to the shore, and only when they were a few yards away did he see that the figures had canvas packs on their backs. He then recognized them. It was Banks and Solander.

  As the pinnace touched the shore, James called to them. ‘Well, gentlemen, did you collect your flower?’

  Banks wiped his face and gave him a furious look. ‘No. We couldn’t get to the top of the accursed mountain.’ He wiped his mucky thighs. ‘There was no track, only mud, just like ordure. Everywhere. No footing. And very, very hot. We scrambled halfway up, hand over hand, then gave up and slid most of the way down.’ Solander just nodded gloomily, seeming incapable of speech.

  James tried not to smile. Then he said sternly, ‘Get into the water and cleanse yourselves. I do not wish my ship to become as filthy as you are.’

  As the pair washed and rinsed themselves in the lagoon, scrubbing at their naked limbs and soiled breeches with handfuls of coral sand, Tupaia said quietly to James, ‘Tiare apetahi is sacred flower. So maybe better not to take it from the mountain Temehani.’

  That evening, after supper, James and Tupaia walked up onto the afterdeck. Tupaia had requested that after supper they speak in private. The profile of the island’s great volcanic tumescences stood out darkly against the moonlit sky. From the other end of the ship came the plaintive sound of a sailor’s fiddle. As the ship’s bell rang nine times, the pair leaned on the taffrail and stared towards the island. Holding his hands up high as if in a benediction, the priest said quietly to James, ‘Soon we leave my island, Tute.’

  ‘Yes, once the victualling is complete.’

  There was a pause. ‘We must sail that way.’ Tupaia pointed westward.

  James pointed ninety degrees away. ‘No. We will sail south.’

  The priest turned, and brought his face close to James’s. He pointed west again. ‘That way many islands. Many large islands for King George.’

  ‘No.’

  James explained that when Samuel Wallis went westward he had found only two small, barren islands, naming them Boscawen and Kepple.

  Tupaia’s lip curled. ‘Wallis did not know what Tupaia knows. His course must have been wrong.’ He pointed again, this time more to the northwest. ‘Too far that way maybe.’ He presented his strong facial profile to James. ‘I show you the way to the big islands, that way. West.’

  James felt highly annoyed. This was what he had feared, that the Indian would attempt to usurp his authority. He said carefully, ‘My king has ordered that the ship go south, Tupaia. To look for a great land there. So we must go south, to find it.’

  With a derisive grunt, Tupaia waved his hand dismissively. ‘No great land that way. Only small islands.’

  ‘How can you be certain?’

  ‘Tupaia has been to the small islands. Others have gone south. Many, many years ago. They found no great land. Only other islands, so cold that crops would not grow there.’

  James considered this. Could he mean the land Tasman had stumbled upon in 1642? New Zealand? That was at longitude a hundred and seventy-two degrees west, Tasman had estimated. That left a huge void which had not been explored. But curious about Tupaia’s disclosure, he said, ‘Did your people return to the cold land?’

  ‘Yes, from Raiatea. After a war, many generations ago. After that, they did not come back.’ He paused. ‘But that way,’ he said, pointing due west, ‘are many big islands. Like Otaheite, but very bigger.’ He chuckled. ‘King George would like to have those big islands, I think.’

  Turning away, James said, ‘King George would also like a very big land. What we call a continent. Your taio, Banks, believes this land is to the south. And I need to find out, for the English king.’ He concluded tersely. ‘So when we leave here, we will sail southward.’

  With a disagreeable grunt, Tupaia turned away, muttering. As he watched the priest walk off, James wondered again — was the decision to bring this stubborn, opinionated Indian along the right one?

  14 AUGUST 1769

  Dearest Elizabeth,

  We spent several more days on Tupaia’s island, and although the winds were in the main adverse, being onshore, we were able to call at neighbouring Tahaa and sail to Bora Bora. This island, the home of people Tupaia calls ‘pirates’, has a block mountain core of spectacular size and only one pass. There was no conflict with the Boraborans, thank the Lord. (During our months in these islands, only one native has died at our hands — the thief shot by one of the marines. Compared to Wallis’s visit, when many natives were killed, our stay has been in the main cordial, I am pleased to relate.)

  We witnessed something of the society of Raiatea when we called at Tupaia’s family marae, at a pleasing bay called Hamanino. There members of the priestly class, the people they call ‘arioi’, performed dances and plays for us, accompanied by much drumming and singing, dressed in elegant costumes of bark cloth, feathers and headdresses. The Indians call this a ‘heiva’. There was feasting and gift exchanges, although Tupaia remains resentful that his family’s lands are now occupied by the Boraboran usurpers.

  Banks and Solander have been heavily engaged in botanizing, and Parkinson in his illustrating, on the islands of Raiatea and its near neighbour, Tahaa. The former the Indians consider their most sacred island. Parkinson’s depiction of the marae of Taputapuatea captures much of the dark presence of that melancholy place where so many rituals and sacrifices have been carried out.

  After leaving Bora Bora we sailed west to a small but high island which Tupaia told us was called Maupiti, but there being only narrow passes through its reef we did not tarry there. Instead we sailed south and after three days sighted an island called Rurutu. Banks was anxious to go ashore, but not only were we greeted with some hostility when we approached, but this island seemed a sterile, rocky shore in comparison with those we had lately visited.

  So Otaheite, Eimayo, Tetiaroa, Huahine, Raiatea, Tahaa, Bora Bora and Maupiti have been charted. Most are islands of surpassing beauty, as well as being luxuriant and fertile. I believe that there are few other places on Earth to rival their splendour and loveliness. And their inhabitants are on the whole of a generous and amicable disposition, after discounting their predilection for thieving and inter-tribal warfare. It has been my privilege to claim all these islands for King George.

  It has also been my prerogative to name the islands, collectively. As they are in such close proximity — most being within sight of one another — I am calling them the Society Islands, as they are a group whose geography and inhabitants have much in common. I have further divided them into the Windward and the Leeward Islands. The former — Otaheite, Eimayo and Tetiaroa — lie directly in the path of the trade winds and thus are wetter; the latter — Huahine, Raiatea, Tahaa, Bora Bora and Maupiti — lie to some extent in the shadow of the wet winds, and hence are drier. But the whole comprises a uniquely beautiful archipelago. (The members of the Royal Society may well assume that the Society Islands are named after their institution. If they do, that assumption is a harmless one and I will not disabuse them of it.)

  We are now resolved to stand to the southward, in search of the Great Unknown Southern Land, the second ambition of our expedition. We are truly headi
ng into the unknown, for apart from Tasman’s discovery of a scrap of coastline he named New Zealand, no Europeans have been here before us.

  Although I am so far from you, you may take some comfort from the fact that your birthday, and each of our children’s birthdays, is marked by a private, heartfelt toast, here in the Great Cabin of Endeavour.

  As we depart for the unknown and the unfathomable, it is the known and the beloved who are uppermost in my thoughts.

  Your loving husband,

  James

  Twenty-one

  JAMES STOOD ON THE AFTERDECK, one hand on the taffrail. His gaze moved constantly from the sun to the horizon, from the horizon to the sun. By his and Green’s observations, the previous day they had crossed the Tropic of Capricorn. Although the temperature was still a mild sixty-eight degrees Fahrenheit, in the Great Cabin the previous night there had been murmurings of unease about the inevitability of the deteriorating conditions which would face them from now on. Any day now the fearnoughts would have to be brought out of the lockers for the crew. Banks had already issued Tupaia with Buchan’s Magellan jacket. The naturalist remained optimistic, anticipating the discovery of the great continent, but Tupaia had said little, evidently still resenting their southward course.

  Foam flew from the crests of the swells which rolled towards them from the south-east. Although the sky overhead was clear, dark billowing clouds extended across the horizon. Storm clouds. The tropicbirds had gone, but the albatross which had followed them for days still soared above their wake, watching them like a sentinel. Much smaller pintado birds skimmed the swells.

  Endeavour plunged on, heeling to starboard, with Anderson and Gray at the helm. Squinting at the dark horizon, aware that they were bound where no ship such as theirs had gone before, James wondered to himself what was out there. Land, or merely ocean and more ocean? And how far must they go before they will know? But as he stared at the vast, empty ocean and felt the spray on his face, he also felt exhilarated. Where they had lately been, others — Magellan, Drake, Roggeveen, Byron, Wallis — had been before them. But no other Englishmen had ever taken the course they were now on, and this knowledge stirred him. He felt no fear as that was an emotion he could not afford, but he did feel apprehension as he peered ahead through the shrouds, watching the swells which came towards them like rolling mountains. He knew it would require all his knowledge and experience to bring this next stage of the voyage to its fruition.

  ‘Cook?’

  Turning, he saw it was Banks. His tan was fading, and for the first time in weeks he wore a jacket. Gripping a sheet, he asked, ‘Any signs?’

  ‘No. Nothing but ocean.’

  ‘This morning I studied the Ortelius map of this ocean. Do you know it?’

  ‘Of course. Maris Pacifici.’

  ‘That’s it.’ Banks lurched as Endeavour breasted a swell, then regained his footing. ‘The more I studied it, the more I became convinced that a continent lies out here. Between South America and Africa there cannot be merely nothing.’

  ‘There is not nothing, Banks. There is New Holland.’

  ‘New Holland is in the lower latitudes. And its extent is uncertain. I refer to where we are heading.’ He raised his voice above the wind. ‘When I study the disposition of the Earth’s northern landmasses and the Ortelius map, it seems certain to me that a similar landmass must exist here in the south.’

  James nodded indulgently. ‘Perhaps. That is our undertaking, to prove or disprove its existence.’

  Banks closed one eye slyly. ‘Can I make a wager with you? Twenty guineas says such a continent is there.’

  ‘I never wager, Banks. It is against my beliefs to do so.’

  The naturalist flicked his eyebrows. ‘Have it your way.’ He turned to walk away, then stopped and chuckled. ‘But when we encounter the continent, I will have pleasure in presenting you with twenty guineas anyway.’

  24 AUGUST 1769

  Latitude 32° 44' South; Longitude 147° 10' West.

  Winds variable. Course SSE. The first part light airs and calm, the middle moderate breezes and cloudy, the latter part very squally with rain.

  At noon took in the topsails and got down the topgallant yards. Saw a water spout in the NW, it was about the breadth of a rainbow, of a dark colour, the upper end of the cloud from where it came about 8° above the horizon.

  2 SEPTEMBER 1769

  Dearest Beth,

  I write on the third birthday of little Lizbeth. My thoughts have been much with our daughter, and with you and the others. Did you bake our little Beth a special cake? Perhaps you sewed her a new gown with matching bonnet. I think of you all going to the autumn fair on Stepney Heath, as part of the little one’s celebrations. No doubt the other children joined in, along with their devoted grandparents.

  We are now in the ‘roaring forties’, as I call them, in conditions which are inclement. Temperatures are low, averaging fifty degrees, and are made worse by persistent squalls and gale-force winds. The men are grateful for their jackets and fearnoughts.

  The poultry and hogs we took aboard in Tahiti died after refusing to eat their rotted fodder, and the crew’s fresh provisions are depleted. In order to keep scurvy at bay I have instructed the men to take their daily ration of wort and pickled cabbage. They grumble at this, as always, but obey, none wishing to be flogged for disobedience.

  The ship rolls constantly in the endless swells, making every activity, from employing the sextant on deck to writing and drawing in the cabin, most onerous. Parkinson was tossed from his berth last night and suffered a bruised shoulder. Banks is ill again and our Indian, Tupaia, spends most of his day staring at the ocean and shivering miserably. He appears to still be sulking because I did not follow his preferred course. Surgeon Monkhouse, who is compiling a lexicon of Tahitian words, says that Tupaia told him he is suffering from not only the cold but also what he calls ‘heama’. This, Monkhouse informs me, is an internal condition, an Indian form of melancholia. In the Otaheitian’s case, it is a mixture of anger, embarrassment and sullenness, causing intense shame. Used to being treated as nobility in his islands, he is now feeling that he is not being accorded respect by those on the ship, including his friend, Banks. It seems that the botanist, having secured the largest specimen in his exotic collection, is now content to lock him away with his other creatures — birds, fish and plants — then largely ignore him, something which I suspected might happen. Banks lives in constant expectation of sighting the Great Southern Continent, and more than once has mistaken mere clouds for land.

  Last week in the Great Cabin we celebrated the second anniversary of our departure from England. A cask in which a chunk of best Cheshire cheese had been preserved was opened, and one containing port wine was tapped. Consuming both with gusto, we were able to pretend for a short time that we were in an English country inn, albeit one whose floor rolled constantly. Our Otahetian, Tupaia, liked the cheese, but not the wine, screwing up his face in distaste when he sampled it.

  There has been another death, this one self-inflicted. John Reading, an Irishman and the bosun’s mate, died after consuming three half-pints of rum, foolishly supplied to him by Thomas Hardman. I severely admonished Hardman for this action because Reading was known to be overly fond of the grog. I am not averse to the crew consuming their allotted ration of grog, but three half-pints in a short time is excessive, as Reading’s death proved. We can ill afford the loss of a hand when we are in no position to impress a replacement seaman.

  I will set aside my quill now, dearest Beth. My deepest love to you, to the four little ones, and to all our family and friends,

  James

  Shortly before noon James went up onto the stern deck with Green. Both were carrying their sextants. It was the fifth day of September. Banks was already on deck, Tupaia alongside him at the midships rail. Banks had his telescope to his eye. The weather was still foul, the seas heavy, with squalls coming at them relentlessly from the south. Endeavour was rolling vi
olently. The sea was slate-grey, the only colour in sight the scraps of blue sky that briefly followed the squalls. Sam Evans, heavily jacketed, was at the helm, James Gray on one side of him, Bosun John Guthrey on the other. Between squalls, Molyneux ordered the fore topgallant and the maintopsail reefed, and a squad of jacketed crewmen let loose the sheets while others hurried aloft to the yards to take in the sails.

  James and Green stood on the starboard side of the afterdeck. When the next squall had passed and the sun appeared James said to the astronomer, ‘Take your observation now, and I’ll take mine.’ Both men brought their sextant’s telescopes to their eyes, taking sights towards the east. Using the noon sun method, they separately calculated the zenith distance, then took into account the sun’s current declination of ten degrees.

  A few minutes later, with the ship still rolling heavily and yet another squall coming in across the white-capped water, James looked at Green expectantly. ‘Well?’

  ‘Forty degrees, seven minutes south.’ He looked at James. ‘And yours?’

  ‘Forty degrees, eight minutes. A minimal difference.’

  James folded the sextant and placed it back in its case. Then he called down to the bosun. ‘Order all hands on deck!’

  The crew, wrapped in their jackets, many visibly shivering, assembled amidships. They and the scientists were looking up at him expectantly, anticipating something significant. James addressed them from the quarter-deck, speaking loudly because of the howling wind. ‘Men, gentlemen. This morning we passed through the line of forty degrees south latitude and an estimated longitude of a hundred and forty-six degrees west of Greenwich.’ Feeling his cocked hat beginning to lift in the wind, he pushed it down harder on his head. ‘We have thus taken Endeavour as far to the southward as I was ordered to. We will now immediately go about and take a nor’-nor’west course, intending to discover the east coast of the land Abel Tasman touched upon in 1642, to determine whether or not that land — New Zealand — may be the Great Unknown Southern Land. We face several weeks’ more sailing before making landfall.’