by Graeme Lay
Between squalls and after consulting James, Molyneux ordered the officer of the watch to shorten canvas. Hicks ordered the men to their stations, and a squad of jacketed crewmen let loose the sheets. Others hurried aloft. James called down from the afterdeck to Molyneux and Pickersgill. ‘Ready the ship to bring her about!’
When he returned to the Great Cabin, Banks was sitting at the long table. In front of him was a crystal goblet half-filled with brandy. His eyes were bloodshot and he hadn’t shaved. Looking up as James entered, he said reproachfully, ‘You gave up too soon.’
James took the seat opposite him. He said evenly, ‘Do you suggest that I should have sailed the ship right to the polar circle?’
‘If necessary. If that is where the Great Southern Continent lies.’
James snapped, ‘For God’s sake, man! Further south the temperature will fall below zero, and there will be ice mountains in the sea! The constant squalls and heavy seas have already put great strain on our masts and rigging.’ He brought his left fist down upon the table like a gavel. ‘Would you prefer it, sir, that I should put my ship and crew at risk in half-frozen seas, just for you to pursue your fantasy of a continent?’
Banks took another sip of brandy. ‘It is no fantasy. And you were over-hasty in turning back.’
James said frostily, ‘I followed my instructions, to the letter, as I am obliged to do.’ He went to his desk, took out the sheet of paper and began to recite the Admiralty’s words: “You are to proceed to the southward in order to make discovery of the Continent abovementioned until you arrive in the latitude of forty degrees unless you sooner fall in with it. But not having discovered it or any evident signs of it in that run, you are to proceed in search of it to the westward between the latitude before mentioned and the latitude of thirty-five degrees until you discover it, or fall in with the eastern side of the land discovered by Tasman and now called New Zealand.” He stared across the table at the naturalist. ‘That instruction is perfectly clear to me.’
‘And which seer decreed that forty degrees marked the limit of our exploration?’
‘No seer, Banks, but the Lords of the Admiralty.’
Banks looked scornful. ‘Who have never themselves sailed south of the line.’ He gave James another accusing look. ‘Suppose the Great Southern Continent lies at forty-two, or forty-three degrees south. It would mean we will have missed it.’
‘There has not been a single portent of land, Banks. No currents, no driftwood, no land birds, no seaweed. Just great swells, coming up from an empty ocean.’ He placed the sheet of notepaper carefully back in the desk. ‘Even your Indian, Tupaia, has no belief in such a land.’ He sat down again and, seeking some sort of conciliation, said quietly, ‘It may be that New Zealand is a large landmass. It could even be a continent. In which case you will have your discovery and many new specimens, human and animal.’
At that moment the ship rolled heavily. The cabin tilted and the brandy goblet slid down the table. Banks snatched at it, but was not quick enough. Goblet and contents flew from the table and crashed to the floor, the glass shattered and the brandy slopped across the boards. Banks put his head in his hands and James put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Get up on deck. You need to witness our new course.’
Twenty-two
29 SEPTEMBER 1769
Latitude 38° South, Longitude 170° West
Strong gales and squally the first part, the remainder fresh breezes and settled weather. At 1 pm was obliged to take in the topsails, but set them again at 4. At 11 am saw a bird something like a snipe only it had a short bill. It had the appearance of a land bird. At 4 pm saw a seal asleep upon the water, and some seaweed. Several albatrosses, pintado birds and shearwaters about the ship, and a number of doves.
‘Land! Land! Off the starboard bow!’
The triumphant cry came from the masthead, from Nicholas Young. It was two o’clock on the afternoon of 6 October. Young Nick pointed westward. Crew and officers rushed to the rail but, not being as elevated, could see nothing but ocean. And as the breeze was soft they could get the ship no closer to the shore.
James ordered the ship kept on close tacks all night to stay near the land, but without running her aground. Earlier in the evening in the Great Cabin they had celebrated the landfall with a double issue of rum, and James had presented a grinning Nick, the loblolly boy, with a gallon of grog, telling him wryly, ‘Take care that Monkhouse does not purloin it all, lad.’
Early the next day the first land they had seen for seven weeks revealed itself, fully lit by the rising sun at their backs. They saw a panorama of white cliffs, undulating, forested hills and, further inland, a series of mountainous ridges. Crew, officers and gentlemen all stared, entranced. A new land!
After Endeavour was worked in closer to the shore they saw that a long, white sand beach curved north from the promontory James had declared last evening would be named Young Nick’s Head. They could also now see, on the foreshore, canoes and houses. James approached Parkinson on the afterdeck where he was already seated at his easel, sketching the coastline. The artist pointed at the northern end of the bay to a conical hill whose slopes were surrounded by rows of palings.
‘What do you make of that feature, sir?’
Training his spyglass on the hill, James said, ‘It seems to be a settlement of some sort.’
‘Or a deer park perhaps,’ suggested Parkinson. ‘And the white cliffs put me in mind of Beachy Head.’
They were joined at the rail by Banks, telescope in hand. Already booted and dressed for shore, he was beaming. ‘A continent if ever I saw one, gentlemen,’ he declared jubilantly.
Quietly satisfied that he had successfully brought the ship across the Pacific Ocean to this coast, James could not ignore the possibility that Banks’s glee was justified. Yet doubt still nagged at him, prompted by the navigator’s holy writ: facts. The facts of this position were that the longitudinal measurements taken by Tasman and himself indicated that this land was probably an elongated island. Unless Tasman had been wrong. James was confident that his own longitudinal observations were correct, but he could not be so certain that the Dutchman’s were. He said to Banks, ‘Much more charting is necessary before we can be sure.’
Banks continued to stare at the land. ‘Let us proceed then to prove it. Who will go ashore first?’
‘Me, you, Solander and Green will go in the yawl with four of the men. The marines will go in the pinnace.’ He put his scope to his eye again. ‘There is a river mouth at the foot of the hill. For ease of landing we will put both boats in there.’ Still peering at the river, he added, ‘And we will all bear arms for defence. Tasman found the New Zealanders a hostile people.’
The estuary was wide with sandy banks. The yawl ferried James and his party across to the west bank of the river, then it was left with the men. The pinnace with its uniformed marines was rowed upriver. The sky was clear, the air still and crisp. A little way inland, James and the others came across what appeared to be a recently abandoned village. There were a number of sturdy houses, thatched with broom-like material. Banks and Solander eyed the surrounding foliage eagerly. There were tall, glossy-leaved trees trailing ropy epiphytes, and plants with long, spiky leaves and orange flowers. ‘Marvellous, marvellous,’ exclaimed Solander, snipping off one of the flowers. As he did so a throaty but melodious song came from a nearby tree. Looking up they saw a pair of fowl the size of blackbirds, perched side by side on a bough. They had iridescent black plumage, and cravat-like tufts of white feathers grew from their throats. Banks snatched up his fowling piece and was about to shoot the birds when from the direction of the river mouth they heard the crackle of musket fire.
That evening the atmosphere in the Great Cabin could not have been more different from that of the night before. Although the lanterns were alight, gloom seeped through the cabin like a London fog and James could feel the depression in the air. There had been nothing like it since the day the Otaheitian had been shot, long ago
in April.
Now one New Zealand native was dead, shot through the heart by the pinnace’s coxswain after a party of warriors had advanced on the boat which had been left unattended when the men went to explore a nearby beach. The warrior’s body had been abandoned on the riverbank by his comrades. Coming upon the grim scene, all James and his party could do was place some beads and nails upon the corpse and return to the ship.
He had called this meeting to discuss what they should do from now on. As supplies were very low, he told them, it was essential to take on water and firewood so they must go ashore again. But how could they do so and avoid confrontation with the natives?
Banks had remained deep in thought during James’s statement of their dilemma. Now, thumbs tucked into his waistcoat, he said, ‘I suggest we take Tupaia with us tomorrow.’
James frowned. ‘For what reason?’ He was reluctant for the Otaheitian to be elevated to membership of a landing party. Tupaia was haughty enough as it was.
Banks met James’s exasperated stare. ‘Being a native himself, he may aid our intercourse with those of this land.’
There was silence as the others considered this. Then Surgeon Monk-house said, swirling his claret, ‘The Indian knows how to handle a gun now. Shoots as straight as any Englishman.’
‘I mean for peaceable communication with the natives, Monkhouse,’ Banks replied, coldly.
Parkinson raised his hand, in his usual diffident way. ‘I agree with Mr Banks’s suggestion. The natives may well react favourably to someone of a similar hue to themselves.’
Solander said quietly, ‘We will have nothing to lose by having him accompany us.’
James nodded. It would be worth an attempt. ‘Very well. When we next go ashore, he will come with us.’ He ran his left forefinger along his hand scar. ‘But mind you remain by his side at all times, Banks.’
They faced each other across the river, the Endeavours on the east side, the native war party on the western bank. Behind the Englishmen, the bunched, stiffened body of the slain warrior remained where he had fallen, his feather cloak matted with dried blood. The warriors across the river wore feathered cloaks and skirts of long narrow leaves; their hair was tied in topknots. Most had spiral tattoos on their faces; all held long, sharpened staves. As the Englishmen lined up alongside James, the warriors began an unmistakeably aggressive dance, chanting, thrusting their arms in the air, pushing out their tongues and stomping their feet in unison. Although brown-skinned like the Tahitians, they were sturdier and more muscular.
James turned to the marine sergeant, Edgcumbe. ‘We must respond to this. Fire a shot.’
The scarlet-jacketed marine stepped forward and brought his musket up to his shoulder. ‘At the natives?’
‘No. Into the air!’
When the musket fired with a loud report the war dance stopped instantly. The warriors looked at one another in confusion. Then Tupaia stepped forward. ‘I will speak to them,’ he said, and before James could respond he walked boldly to the edge of the river, took off his cocked hat, raised an arm in greeting and called across the water. ‘Ia orana ana! Ia orana ana! Maeva! To’u i’oa ’o Tupaia!’
The warriors froze. Mouths agape, they stared at the strange figure who looked like them, was dressed like the other aliens who had entered their domain, but spoke a language which they partly recognized. A very tall warrior with a broad, rounded forehead came to the front and called back to Tupaia, who nodded and replied loudly, ‘Ay, ay, ay—’
A further conversation ensued. James stood behind the Otaheitian, requesting a translation. Tupaia told him, ‘This place is called by them Turanga-nui. Their leader is called Te Rakau. He wishes to know why we are here. He calls us—’ He groped for the right English word. ‘Goblins. They also wish to know why you killed their comrade with the stick that explodes.’
James spoke up loudly. It was essential to emphasize that he, and not Tupaia, was the commander. ‘Tell them that we very much regret the death of their comrade. That was caused by a misunderstanding. Tell them that we come in peace and that we wish to trade with them. We will give them some of our goods in exchange for food, firewood and water. Can they provide us with these things?’
Tupaia related all this slowly, hesitantly, repetitively, observing the New Zealanders’ consternation as they struggled to fully understand him: ‘Ua tipae mai nei matou i to outou na fenua. E mea fano mai matou mai te fenua ra o Peretane e Otaheite. Te haere mai nei matou na roto i te hau. Te haere mai nei matou e ani i te pape, te maa e te raau, no to matou pahi. E nau toa rii rau ta matou no outou ei tapihooraa no te pape, te maa e te raau. Ua tia anei ia autou i te tauturu mai i ta matou nei mau aniraa?’
Te Rakau entered the water and waded out to a large rock in the middle of the river. Assuming that a reciprocal gesture was required, without hesitation James handed his musket to Monkhouse then also waded out to the rock. In thigh-deep water the two men met. James held out his hand, but instead of taking it, the native thrust his face forward and, to James’s consternation, brought his nose against his. Then he turned and waded back to the others. James did the same, wondering does this nose-touching mean we have made a breakthrough?
Te Rakau then came back across the river, this time accompanied by the other warriors. As they did so James ordered a box of nails brought forward. He held out a fistful of the nails to the leader, but the native waved them away dismissively. Instead he pointed first to the short sword at Green’s side, then at Edgcumbe’s musket, and handed James a carved, flat club of jade. The gesture was obvious — he wanted an exchange of weapons. Tupaia stepped forward and spoke firmly to the chief. Turning, he said to James, ‘I tell him, we only give them nails, not swords or exploding sticks.’
In response the leader lunged for Green’s sword, attempting to draw it from its scabbard. Green reeled back and as he did so Banks raised his fowling piece and fired at the native’s legs. Crying out, he clutched his shins. Monkhouse immediately raised his musket and fired at Te Rakau, at close range. The ball entered his chest and he fell to the ground. Two other warriors ran forward and attempted to wrest the musket from Monkhouse, and while they were doing so Tupaia raised his firearm and blasted their legs with small shot. A short, thickset warrior rushed forward, deftly snatched the jade club from James’s hand and, grimacing, waved it aloft wildly. Seeing that the club had been retrieved, the other warriors all turned quickly, waded into the river and returned to the other bank.
Blood was gushing from a gaping hole in the chest of the dead man. James led the others a little distance away and when they had grouped around him said, ‘A most regrettable development, gentlemen. It was my belief that a truce was in the offing.’ Monkhouse stared at the ground and said nothing. James turned to Edgcumbe. ‘Leave the body for his comrades.’ Glancing back at the river and observing that the warriors had disappeared, he told the marine, ‘Cut a staff and we’ll run the Jack up it.’
When this had been done and the pole was planted, they stood around the flagstaff at attention while James declared, ‘I hereby claim this land and all it holds for our king, George III of England.’ The marines raised their muskets and fired a volley. It echoed from the nearby hillside, then there was a deathly silence.
As they trudged silently back to the boats, James thought back to the Earl of Morton’s instructions. An English peer in London could hardly have envisaged the circumstances James’s party now found themselves in. And other thoughts racked him. The natives would clearly now view them as belligerent intruders, those who could kill from a distance. So just how were they to establish relations with these people in order to obtain their much-needed supplies?
Water was the paramount need. The river had proved brackish so James ordered the boats to row along parallel to the shore in search of another stream. However, a strong swell was now running, and as the waves were breaking heavily he ordered the boats to return to Endeavour. The oarsmen had just begun to row out into the bay when Tupaia pointed and crie
d out, ‘Canoes!’
There were two, each holding seven paddlers. As one approached the pinnace James told Tupaia, ‘Tell them we wish to be friends.’ Standing in the bow, the priest called out to them in the language they now knew the New Zealanders understood, at the same time gesticulating dramatically.
The canoeists’ response was immediate. One stood up and hurled his paddle at Tupaia like a javelin. It missed him by inches. Another threw a wooden spear, which landed a few feet from the pinnace. Then all the fishermen began to throw objects at the Englishmen: more spears, an anchor stone, and a number of fish, one of which hit Banks in the face. Furious at this unprovoked aggression, picking up his own primed musket, James called to Banks and Solander, ‘Fire at them!’
Shots rang out. Two of the fishermen clutched their chests and dropped to the bottom of their canoe; two others, grievously wounded, slid over the side into the water and sank from sight. The remaining three scrambled overboard and began to swim shoreward. ‘Apprehend them!’ James commanded the oarsmen. The pinnace pursued the trio, reached them, and they were hauled aboard.
They were mere boys. As they were taken up on Endeavour’s deck, grass skirts dripping, they looked around the ship with terrified eyes. Two of them were very young, with thin arms and knobbly knees. The third was much taller and physically more developed. He mumbled something to Tupaia, at the same time putting his hand over his face.