by Graeme Lay
They weighed anchor on 6 May and set sail north once again in favourable weather. The following day they passed a narrow gap in the coast between rocky, layered cliffs. Through the gap James spied a deep, capacious harbour. Although they had no need of it then, he marked it on his chart as Port Jackson after Sir George Jackson, second secretary of the Admiralty. This gave James particular satisfaction as Sir George was the brother of Mrs Skottowe, the wife of his family’s landlord from long ago in Great Ayton.
Two weeks later, just south of the Tropic of Capricorn, Nicholas Young spied from the mainmast another inviting bay. Aware that the water casks needed replenishment James ordered Endeavour to be brought into the bay. When she was at anchor he ordered most of the crew stood down while he and a landing party went ashore. Although Banks and Solander collected several new plants and Gore shot a plump bustard James found the soil to be sandy and infertile, the vegetation mainly mangroves. They saw smoke in the distance but encountered no natives, and after nightfall the party returned to the ship.
As they descended to the afterdeck from the lower deck came the sounds of shouting, laughter and fiddle-playing. ‘The men are making the most of their leisure hours,’ Banks observed wryly.
James smiled. ‘They will need to. There is much hard sailing ahead.’ He would name this place Bustard Bay, he decided, as they dined on the bird that evening, finding it delicious.
There was hammering on the door of his cabin. James sat up in his cot. What was happening? From behind the door came an anguished cry and more hammering. It was just after dawn. He pulled on his trousers and shirt in the dim light, then hauled the cabin door open. ‘My God, Orton—’
James’s clerk was leaning against the wall, his hands held to the sides of his head. He was barefoot and his shirt was shredded. But what shocked James was the sight of Orton’s head. His forehead and hair were covered in blood. His cheeks were drained of colour, his eyes screwed up with pain. James grabbed his arm. ‘What happened, man? Did you fall?’
Eyes tightly closed, Orton shook his head. Then his hands dropped to his sides. James inhaled sharply. The tops of both the clerk’s ears had been cut away, and blood was oozing from the lacerations. James led him, stumbling, to the cabin’s chair and sat him down. As he did so he caught the thickly sweet smell of stale rum on the young man’s breath. He knelt in front of him. ‘Who did this?’ he demanded.
Eyes still firmly closed, Orton shook his head. ‘Don’t know.’
‘Where were you last night?’
‘Below. In the crew’s mess.’
‘Who were you with?’
Orton thought for a few moments then began to recite, painfully. ‘Johnson, Ravenhill, Magra, Saunders, Wolfe, Moody, Collett, Cox.’
‘Were you all on the grog?’
‘Yes.’ He groaned. ‘After my third tankard I passed out and knew nothing more. Then a few minutes ago I awoke, in great pain—’ He couldn’t continue.
James stood up. ‘Wait here. I’ll get Monkhouse to attend to you.’ Rage began to build inside him. ‘And I’ll go below and discover who committed this atrocity.’
On James’s instructions, Bosun Guthrey ordered the eight seamen Orton had named to report to the lower deck mess. They sat on the benches there, unshaven, heads bowed, all obviously much the worse for the night’s heavy drinking. Assailed by the reek of farts and rum which permeated the mess, James stood, hands behind his back, glowering. ‘Last night, while he slept, and the worse for drink, Dick Orton was deliberately and callously mutilated by a member of this crew. His ears were cropped, his clothes slashed.’ His eyes roamed over the assembled men. ‘You were all drinking with him so suspicion falls on all of you.’ He glared at them. ‘Whoever is guilty of the assault own up now.’
A heavy silence descended on the mess. The men looked down at the tables, avoiding each other’s eyes as well as James’s. Feeling the impenetrable silence weighing heavily in the mess, the anger that James felt intensified. How dare they form a conspiracy! He strode up and down, eyes flashing furiously from one man to the next. ‘Whose hammock hangs next to Orton’s?’
Moody raised his hand. ‘Mine does, sir.’
‘Did you see or hear anything last night?’
‘No, sir.’ He looked perplexed as well as frightened. ‘I were on the grog something bad meself, sir. I can’t remember even slinging my hammock.’
‘Collett?’
‘It were not me, sir. I were grogged to the gills as well.’
James then remembered something, an incident which had been reported to him after they left Otaheite. It had involved Magra but, considering it unimportant at the time, James had taken no action. His gaze fell upon the boyish New Yorker. ‘Magra?’
‘Sir?’
‘I believe you have previously quarrelled with Orton. Is that correct?’
Magra shuffled uneasily on his bench. Avoiding James’s intense gaze, he said in a low voice, ‘I did, sir, months ago. But I am innocent of this offence.’ He looked up, his expression pleading. ‘I swear it, sir.’
‘Is it true that you tore Orton’s shirt on the other occasion?’
‘Yes, I did. We were both under the influence of the grog. We were wrestling, on the floor here, playfully, and I ripped his shirt off.’ He appeared contrite. ‘There was no malice involved, sir.’
Although James glared at the midshipman, he believed he was telling the truth. But he still deserved punishment. ‘You are dismissed from the quarter deck until further notice, Magra,’ he announced coldly. He took a step backwards before addressing the group once more. Eyes narrowing, he said, ‘It is my determination to get to the bottom of this sorry business. Once more I ask you, who was responsible for the attack on Orton?’
When the silence persisted and their eyes stayed downcast, James spun about and strode from the cabin, cursing under his breath. He was as angry as he had been at any other time on the voyage. A valuable crew member had been callously attacked by one of his own shipmates, and he, James, was unable to discover who, or why. It was intolerable. He went straight to the surgeon’s cabin. There Monkhouse reported that he had washed and bound Orton’s wounds and relieved him of his duties for three days, adding, ‘The lacerations I believe may have been inflicted with the sailmaker’s shears.’
It was the next day that James noticed a small piece of folded paper under his cabin door. He picked it up and unfolded it. On it had been written a single word. Buggaree.
As he stared at the word the rage that had been simmering within him boiled up again. Orton was the victim of the assault so was he also the object of another man’s lust? Or had he come between two others with feelings for each other? And if so, who? Was it he, Orton, who was guilty of the unnatural vice? Or could it be Moody? Screwing up the little piece of paper, James went through to the Great Cabin which, mercifully, was unoccupied.
It could be any of them if truth be known, he thought, so suspicion falls on all eight. He went to the seat under the stern window and stared out without really seeing. Sodomy happened, everyone knew it, capital offence or no. It was the unspoken crime of any navy. With men confined for long periods without the relief of women, what else could be expected? But it must never be admitted. This now was his dilemma — someone knew that the unnatural act had been committed below decks, and that someone knew that James now knew as well.
Turning away from the window at last, he knew what he would do. For the time being, nothing. He wanted no distractions from the arduous navigations that lay ahead. Every man on the ship would have to play his part, and willingly. But when they reached civilization again he would announce a plan to discover the identity of Orton’s assailant. In the meantime, the matter would remain a dark secret.
Towards the end of May, and with favourable airs, Green informed James that from his observations they were approaching the Tropic of Capricorn. A double-checking with sextants confirmed this. From the top of the mainmast James observed several islands to starboard and reefs
to larboard, and ordered that from this time the boats would go ahead during the daylight hours, take soundings, and that at night the ship would lie at anchor. From now on, he was well aware, the tropical waters would allow the growth of more and more coral polyps, meaning that there would be an increasing number of shoals and reefs to negotiate. An undetected coral reef was capable of tearing Endeavour’s hull apart as if it was wet paper.
In this manner, slowly and cautiously, they made their way further north and into the true tropics. At sixteen degrees south, they passed a low, wooded island two leagues off the coast, which James named Green Island in recognition of his astronomer’s work. Green was delighted at the gesture, so much so that he drank himself into a stupor that evening. But now the water supplies were again running low, and the coastal land — mainly undulating hills covered with scrubby bush, and acres of spreading mangroves — was unpromising. From the mastheads they could see the spreading dark-brown shoals surrounding them like a stain, with patches of deep, jade-green water between them. They were sailing through a labyrinth.
A few forays ashore found no fresh water. Monkhouse reported to James that Tupaia was complaining of swollen gums, and livid sores had appeared on his legs — the scourge of scurvy had beset him. Others began to be similarly afflicted, and the surgeon prescribed extract of lemon for them. But it was insufficiently fresh and had little effect. The need for fresh fruit and water was becoming desperate, but the coral that surrounded them was becoming ever more labyrinthine.
As there was a full moon on 10 June James ordered that they would sail through the night with topsails close-reefed and a leadsman taking constant soundings. Accordingly, at 11 o’clock that night the man in the chains made the call, ‘By the mark, seventeen!’ In this depth the ship was safe, and as her course was held the leadsman prepared to cast his line again.
He never did. At that very moment came the terrible sound of wood against rock, a graunching and tearing, followed by a series of shuddering thumps as Endeavour’s hull impaled itself on the reef.
Twenty-seven
JOLTED FROM HIS COT, James pulled on his shirt and breeches and sprinted up to the deck. Although Endeavour was still upright she was immobile. Gore was in the bow, Pickersgill at his side. The full moon cast a creamy light across the black water, but the reef itself was invisible.
‘Order all sails taken in!’ he called to Evans, who had been at the helm with Gray. And to Gore he demanded, ‘Have the pumps manned. And both boats hoisted. We need to take soundings, fore and aft.’
‘Lower all sails!’ came the cry. ‘Look fast there!’ The stricken ship became alive with dark figures climbing like spiders amid the rigging. Lines were dragged in, sails furled and tied, the boats hoisted, all the deck lamps lit. In their pens, the goat and the remaining sheep began to bleat with fear, and the pigs were all squealing, reacting to the panic of the men around them.
As the boats were being let down Parkinson and Banks joined James and the other officers in the bow. ‘I was almost thrown from my berth,’ said Banks indignantly.
‘Is it bad?’ asked Parkinson, eyeing the water nervously.
‘We’ll know soon enough,’ James replied, his eyes on the lowering launch.
The tide was high, and depths varied from eighteen to twenty feet on the larboard side to more than thirty to starboard. Endeavour’s bow was lying north-east so James calculated that she was lodged on the southwestern edge of the reef. The only decent depth, the leadsmen reported, was one hundred feet astern of the ship.
James ordered an anchor and cable lowered into the launch. Carried out to the starboard quarter, the anchor was dropped, the cable fed back to the ship and attached to the windlass. But even with all hands to the capstan, and the slack brought in and hove taut, the ship remained immoveable.
The only sound now, in the dead of the night, was the sporadic rush of water being pumped into the sea. And with the tide beginning to ebb the ship began to rock in the draining current. Every man on board could imagine the extra pressure this was putting upon her wounded hull.
Pickersgill appeared at James’s side. ‘Shall we carry out the other anchor?’ he asked.
‘No. It would make no difference.’ James’s eyes darted to the stern. ‘We need to lighten her before the tide falls further.’ He called down to Hicks. ‘Overboard with all weight! Get the men to go below and bring up the ballast, the rotten stores, water casks—’
‘Water casks?’ Pickersgill looked askance.
‘Yes, damn it, have them brought up and thrown over. And the carriage guns, and the balls.’
With the sky lightening and the tide still dropping, over the side they went: cannons, cannonballs, full casks, stinking stores, stored staves and hoops.
As the jettisoned items fell the impact threw up another ominous sight — Endeavour’s sheathing boards floating on the surface. Then, to James’s further chagrin, her false keel appeared alongside, indicating that the damage must be even worse than he had thought. Under his breath, he once again cursed his decision to sail through the night.
He knew now that the all-important factor was the tide. Next high at 11 o’clock in the morning would be the best time to try to refloat the ship. But more buoyancy was essential. He ordered spare spars and masts brought up from below and lashed together to create rafts. The men worked in grim silence at this task, aware that they were struggling against overwhelming odds. The rafts were then lowered alongside and made fast to the hull at the waterline.
At late morning the tide rose, then ceased. Slack water. The crew heaved at the anchor lines like a tug-of-war team, struggling to free the ship from the reef’s grip. But the morning tide did not reach its previous high mark, and she remained stuck hard. Pickersgill rushed up from below. ‘She’s taking on water. Fast.’
‘All hands to the pumps,’ James ordered Pickersgill. ‘Organize half-hour shifts.’
What he remembered most vividly later was the way they all worked in unison, sailors and midshipmen, officers and gentlemen, scientists and seamen. Only the one-handed cook, Thompson, was spared. He worked instead on keeping his fire hearth stoked, heating beef-bone broth for the pumpers. All were aware, though no one said as much, that if they did not succeed in saving the ship, they would be doomed to a ghastly death on this desolate coast. Natives, probably hostile, awaited them on shore, even if they succeeded in landing there. The nearest European outpost was thousands of leagues away in the Dutch East Indies. There were two low islets visible to the north of the stricken ship, a league or two away, but they would provide no real sanctuary. As the Endeavours worked frantically below, knowing that they had to get as much water out of the hull as they could before the next high tide, they knew they were pumping for their lives.
Deciding to risk all and try to heave her off, at nightfall James ordered as many hands to the capstan and windlass as could be spared from the pumps. Grunting and sweating, they heaved at the capstan. And at twenty past ten o’clock they felt the ship move, faintly. She stopped for a few moments, then shifted again. All on deck held their breath. She moved again, shifting backwards, then fell free. She was afloat! Under the deck lamps, men looked at each other and suppressed the urge to cheer. Knowing that the battle was far from won, James ordered the carpenter, John Satterly, into the hold to measure the depth of the water there.
Ten minutes later, Satterly returned. He was exhausted, barefoot, and water ran from his trousers onto the deck. ‘Three feet nine inches, sir,’ he reported. Hearing this news, the others on the deck now looked at each other in dismay. At that rate, and with the leak overtaking the pumps, they were doomed.
James grimaced. Impossible odds. But that figure needed to be checked. To Benjamin Jordan, who was standing by for the next pump shift, he said, ‘You take a reading, too, Jordan.’
‘Aye, sir.’ He disappeared below. Under the full moon the ship was rocking gently in the swell and beginning to list to starboard. At this rate she wouldn’t last the nig
ht. James wondered whether he should order the men into the boats; shuttle them across to the islands.
Jordan returned, his expression bewildered. ‘My reading shows only a fraction over two feet of water, sir,’ he panted.
‘Two feet? Are you certain?’
‘Yes, sir. I double-checked.’
Mutterings broke out among the others. A considerable difference. The pumps might be able to cope at that rate, James thought. Then a tall, willowy figure appeared at his side. It was midshipman Jonathan Monkhouse. ‘Sir, if I might make a suggestion?’
‘Yes?’ James replied impatiently. What could this lad possibly do to help?
‘What about we fother the breach?’
‘Fother it?’ James frowned. He knew of fothering but had not himself experienced it. ‘You are familiar with the procedure, Mr Monkhouse?’
‘Yes, sir. Three years ago, while I was on the Lady Pamela, crossing the Atlantic, her hull sprang a bad leak. After a gale. The captain had her fothered with an old sail. And it worked, sir. The pressure of the water forced the canvas over the breach, and she ceased taking on water. We were able to complete the voyage.’
James considered this. It would be worth trying. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Where is Ravenhill?’
‘He’s working the pump, sir,’ came a voice from near the grating.
To the midshipman, James said, ‘Go below and tell him to get out one of the old sails.’ To Bosun Guthrey, he said, ‘We’ll need pitch and oakum, too. And Mr Monkhouse—’
‘Sir?’
‘You are to oversee the fothering.’
‘Aye, sir.’
The big canvas bandage was spread out on the deck then smeared filthily on one side with pitch, oakum and dungy sheep wool. Monkhouse attached lengths of ropes to each of its corners. Then, with men working on both the starboard and larboard decks, the canvas was slung over the side near the bow. It was dragged under the hull and the ropes made fast to the bollards on both sides of the deck, midships. The bandage was in place, but would the bleeding be staunched?