Resolution

by A. N. Wilson

  When they had been moored several days in Cape Terawhiti, Cook was leaning on the rail of the quarter-deck. The rain spattered into his tobacco-pipe.

  —It is too wet for me to go on an expedition, Kapitän, not this morning.

  —For once in a way, Dr Forster, I agree with you. Ee ay. It’s miserable.

  It was the persistent, grey, soaking rain which got into your clothes, however many layers you were wearing, and which made work impossible. The previous day they had started boot-topping the starboard side of the Resolution but this morning that was impossible. Some of the crew – the sail-makers and coopers – were able to work on shore in the gigantic tents which had been erected for the repair and construction of equipment.

  —They can get on wi’ things – we can do nowt! said Cook with a bitter laugh. Leastways they can work wi’out you putting your head round the flap o’ their tents and giving ’em Horace.

  Though they’d only been there three days, they had all tired of trahuntque siccas machinae carinas (‘tackles are hauling dry hulls towards the beach’) and today, nothing could be less appropriate than the epithet siccas.

  This was almost friendly. The Captain’s banter. He suggested that Reinhold joined him in the cabin for a glass of Madeira. When the servant had departed, leaving them with the decanter and two glasses, Cook leaned forward. Reinhold should have known the Captain did not appear to do anything without a purpose. He was not the man, even on a filthy, grey, rain-sodden morning, to go indoors to chew the cud over his wine-table just for no reason.

  —How’s Nally? he asked.

  —Our servant.

  —Nally.

  The tone implied, reasonably enough, that after sixteen months, the name of Reinhold’s servant might be familiar to him.

  —He slops my shaving water. I say, there might be a swell, a list, so to say, but fill the bowl less full – just look, I say, at the water slipping off. Somewhen will he learn this, I think.

  —Happen. But there’s been no trouble?

  —Do you mean does he steal? Irish are like children, but I see nothing missing. Now these New Zealand savages – they will steal.

  —I didn’t mean stealing. Well, I may as well be plain with you, Dr Forster. Nally’s made a bit of a nuisance of hee-sel’ with Odiddy. He’s a boy who takes things to heart. He was crying.

  —Nally hit him?

  —No – not that. Odiddy said – he’s quite expressive, is our Odiddy, seeing he only has a hundred words of our language. He says – Nally try make me lady boy and I no his lady. I man.

  —I don’t understand you, said Reinhold.

  The Captain drained his glass.

  —Ay, you’re right there. But let me know if there’s trouble, like. I’d hate your George to be bothered. He’s a good lad, your George.

  The next day the weather cleared. A number of natives came out to the Resolution in canoes. There was the usual exchange of sex, or fresh fruit, for nails and buttons. Taking Odiddy and the two Forsters, the Captain went ashore in the pinnace. They took picnics, sketch-books and measuring instruments, intent upon making a day of it. It was a relatively crowded boat, since they took with them four hogs, three sows and one boar, two hens and three cocks and carried them to the very bottom of the bay, leaving them with ten days’ worth of food. Together with the Forsters and Odiddy they tramped half a mile or so inland through gentle green brushwood to visit the settlement where, on his last visit, Cook had left various farm animals. Alas, as far as they could make out, no breeding had taken place. The goats and fowls had been eaten, and one rather scrawny old sow limped about in the mud.

  —Ask ’em what happened to the boar, said Cook.

  —No get.

  —Ask ’em. Man-pig. Is man-pig alive?

  It seemed on investigation that the boar had been taken to a different part of the island – news which made the Captain smite the middle of his forehead with the palm of his hand. George even wondered if exasperation would make Cook dance one of his heevas.

  —How’s they going to breed if they’re on opposite sides of the . . . ye Gods! – but he was laughing at the folly of it.

  Hodges and George both sketched some of the hut-dwellers, while Wales and Reinhold went botanizing, returning with two new specimens – Dracaena, and a new plant they could not identify. It was several hours since they had left the shore when Pickersgill, one of the young Lieutenants, burst through the undergrowth shouting,

  —Captain, Captain!

  The Captain, still in a mood between exasperation and good humour, was deep in a conversation with two of the Maoris, about how to keep the new hog and the sows together in order to produce piglets. Odiddy had to convey most of this message by sign language, so that Cook’s forthright pieces of advice about the breeding of livestock turned into a charade which made everyone, Europeans and New Zealanders, laugh.

  Pickersgill’s facial expression, and the anguish of his bellowing, made smiles die.

  —Captain.

  —Mr Pickersgill – what’s the matter?

  —The beach – we must – all – go – to – the beach.

  The words came out in tragic gulps. George waited with Hodges, who took the longest to disassemble his equipment, a small portable easel, and they ran through the bushes to the bay. By the time George and the painter had caught up with the others, it was clear enough what they had discovered. Pickersgill and Clerke, strolling idly about the beach, had come upon the remains of a boy on the sand. His head had been stuck on a forked stick. Part of the skull had been broken, and some of the lower part of the face had been torn away, but it was clearly that of a fourteen- or fifteen-year-old lad. The heart had also been pronged on a primitive wooden fork – but this was sticking up as a sort of mast or totem pole in the canoe which was pulled up on the sand. Other parts of the boy’s body could be seen in the prow of the canoe.

  George could never completely account for what happened next. Years later, when he read Captain Cook’s strange sentences about the matter, he realized that Cook wished to establish before witnesses that the New Zealanders were cannibals. For he commanded the Maoris to bring the remains of the boy back to the Resolution.

  There were as many as fifty Maoris clustered either about the sloop in their canoes, or actually on deck, and the arrival of the beach party with their gruesome load caused every man aboard to stop what they were doing and stare. For it was obvious why the parts of this boy had been skewered on forks. He had already been partially cooked in readiness for consumption. Was it, George asked himself in after years, Cook’s simple prudence which kept him so calm? Did he judge that a violent reaction to this terrible sight, of the half-cooked boy, might occasion a massacre of his entire crew? After all the whole of the Adventure had gone missing, and so far, Odiddy could get no coherent message from any New Zealander about the ship’s fate – though one or two Maoris had nodded that there had been ‘big boat’ – two moons since. Or was there a vein in Cook of pure, pitiless curiosity? Did he observe these people’s behaviour with – inner revulsion, yes – but also with a sort of cold interest, as he might in Nature observe any other predatory animal feasting on its prey? The sentences which he wrote about the incident, and which chilled George’s soul, were:

  I concealed my indignation and ordered a piece of the flesh to be broiled and brought on the quarter-deck where one of these Cannibals eat it with a seeming good relish before the whole ship’s Company which had such effect on some of them as to cause them to vomit.

  Odiddy was in tears – great convulsive sobs. Nally had crossed himself – as had several of the Irish or Scottish sailors.

  After the obscene feasting was over, Captain Cook asked the cannibals to leave the vessel. They seemed to be in jocund humour, perhaps not aware of the enormity they had committed. They, and their fellow New Zealanders, clambered down the rope ladders and into their canoes with no more awkwardness than if they had been eating plum duff.

  It was a perfect spring
day. The blue water was calm, as the cannibals and their women left in their canoes. Afterwards, that evening, or perhaps the next day, Odiddy told Cook and the gentlemen that there had been a war of some kind and there was a custom among the New Zealanders that those killed in battle were eaten by their victors.

  —I had to see it, Cook said quietly. There’d been so much debate – with Mr Banks and others – as to the likelihood of New Zealanders being cannibals. I had to see it wi’ me own eyes.

  A shocked silence had descended on the Resolution, broken only by the half-hourly ringing of the bells. The men returned to their work and duties, but there was none of the usual roaring, swearing, banter, jokes or songs. At six o’clock in the evening, the view of the shore from the quarter-deck was of shimmering spring foliage, of birds – oyster-catchers and curlews wheeling overhead, shags gliding with yellow-eyed, dark-feathered innocence over calm waters which now seemed polluted. Spontaneous church services were usually a cause of grumbling, even if they only took ten minutes. This evening, the men came to the quarter-deck not merely with willingness but with the positive need of some purgation, some cleansing – to hear the Captain pray.

  —O Eternal Lord God, who alone spreadest out the heavens, and rulest the raging of the sea; who hast compassed the waters with bounds until day and night come to an end: Be pleased to receive into thy Almighty and most gracious protection the persons of us thy servants, and the Fleet in which we serve . . .

  The next day, the gentlest of spring days, with bright sun catching the tree-tops and streaming upon the distant hills, they unmoored. Several Maoris came out in their canoes to wave a smiling farewell.

  As the little sloop made its way northwards in increasingly blustery conditions, all minds were on the officers, crew and gentlemen of the Adventure – where were they, and what had befallen them? There was no chance of the Adventure being stranded on the coast, round most of which the Resolution had sailed before casting anchor.

  —I am convinced – the Captain told the crew the next evening when they assembled in choppy weather on the quarter-deck – that no ill has befallen the Adventure. Rather, for reasons known to Captain Furneaux, I believe they have left for home. But we came forth on our journey for a purpose. To find the Southern Continent. You are the most heroic bunch of men with whom it was ever my privilege to serve. I know what you endured when we last went into the icy hell, but I am determined, with your approval, that we should make another attempt. It can only be done with common consent, common courage. Are you with me?

  A roar of agreement. A raising of arms. Had the high wind allowed it, there would no doubt have been the throwing of hats, but had such an exuberant gesture been tried, the tars’ hats would have blown southwards with the speed of leaves blown from autumn trees or a flock of starlings borne across a sky at evening.

  —We have hardship ahead. We have ice and snow ahead. But we will face them like men. And if we are permitted by God’s grace to descry new lands, future humanity will thank us. Not just thank James Cook. Not just thank Mr Gilbert—

  There was laughter.

  —Not just thank our learned gentlemen – Dr Forster and Mr Wales.

  This really broke the sombre mood and led to outright guffaws.

  —No. Humanity itself will bless you – the brave boys of the Resolution! So God bless you. And God bless His blessed Majesty King George III! And to put us in the mood for a hard voyage, my lads, we’ll double today’s ration of grog!

  A tumultuous roar greeted the announcement – with the bo’sun leading hip-hip-hip-hoorahs for King George, the Captain and just about everyone else, and the men went to work in the blowy sails and flailing ropes and rigging to the airs led by the shanty-man – they sang ‘Hearts of Oak’ and an alphabet song:

  A is for Anchor as everyone knows, and

  B is the sharp bit that we call the bows . . .

  So hi derry, do derry, hi derry dee,

  No man on the land’s like a sailor at sea

  So turn the glass, ring the bell, keep sailing along.

  When it’s time for our grog then it’s time for this song.

  E is for Ensign – at the stern it’s now seen – and

  F is for fo’rard there to liberty clean – and

  G is for gangway to shoreward we goes – and

  H is for Harlot, whose body we’ll know.

  —I wonder at their coarseness, said Dr Reinhold Forster. Songs, yes, by all means, but is it really requisite that they should— but his voice was drowned by

  I is for inches, she’s going to get fed

  And J is the jouncing we’ll do on her bed

  as the sloop Resolution, without its chaperone the Adventure, bounced and heaved its way towards the icy south. They sang of drink. They sang of buying boys’ bottoms for sixpence and pretty boys for half a crown. They sang of Good King George – as the southern skies grew colder and the curlews circled. Snow fell in the middle of December, and as they altered course eastwards, and floating ice came into view, they were once more issued with their protective winter clothing. There were no more birds in the sky.

  II

  1791

  — IN ORDER TO ENSURE PUBLIC TRANQUILLITY, TWO HUNDRED thousand heads must be cut off. It seems a little – what should one say? Intemperate.

  Sömmerring was holding a French paper, L’Ami du Peuple.

  —It’s obvious, said Brand, their English visitor. France is descending into chaos. Lafayette lost control when he started firing on the crowds in Paris.

  —How else would you control a mob? It’s anarchy . . .

  —Thank God that the baby has stopped crying, said Therese.

  They were all too ill – Therese, George, Rosechen, Clara, the baby Luisa – to have one of their evenings. They had been passing round a heavy cold – hacking cough, unstoppable catarrh – for what felt like weeks, and it would have been more sensible to put up the shutters and to instruct Mattias and Inge, their invaluable ‘treasures’, to tell their friends that Frau Forster was not At Home. They had the English visitor – Mr Brand – to entertain. He was the son of a former Prime Minster, Lord North: en route to Greece. Mainz was a stopping place on his Grand Tour. They felt obliged, since he had stopped to meet the Circumnavigator, to parade their more intellectual friends. Filling the apartment with company, moreover, was a remedy against the demons who inhabited it if they were there simply en famille. None of the friends, not even Caroline, guessed the full truth until the marriage was decidedly over. Even Caroline, who had known Therese since childhood, accepted that the pink-cheeked, boring Huber was no more than the lodger, and entered in to Therese’s brittle jokes that Huber was the latest of George’s crushes. The two men spent the best part of each morning together on their translation work. Together they had done Beaumarchais’s Mariage de Figaro, Mrs Piozzi’s Anecdotes of Dr Johnson, Sir William Jones’s translation of the Indian drama Sakontala. They had just received two more English books from Voss, their publisher in Berlin: Captain Bligh’s account of the Mutiny on the Bounty, and Burke’s Reflections on the French Revolution.

  —You should be in bed, Caroline said to the four-month pregnant Therese, who stood beside the fire-screen honking with bronchitis.

  —They are all in their way stories of Revolution, George was saying to Sömmerring. Christian and his men rose up against the tyranny of Bligh; Figaro the servant is wiser than his masters – I’ve yet to read Burke, but I am sure that he who lambasted the brutality of the British in India and who defended the American colonists—

  —That’s where you’re wrong, said Huber who had been at work on Burke’s first few pages. He is a counter-revolutionary.

  —Read on, read on! said George, with a tremendous sniff, his own version of the cold turning more to sinusitis – at this stage at any rate – than to the chest.

  —We are all just exhausted, Therese was saying. Poor little Luisa has been awake two nights running, and although Inge is a saint and Karin is a good
nurserymaid – a mother wakes. This is the first time the child has slept in – oh, I can’t count the days.

  —Dearest, said Caroline, should we all just go?

  —If being a Jacobin means believing that the Revolution cannot be held back, must go on until Justice and Freedom are extended throughout France – throughout Europe – then yes, I am a Jacobin. But believe me, reason will prevail. The huge majority of the Assembly are moderates – the Feuillants.

  —And if two hundred thousand don’t want freedom and equality, said Sömmerring, you’ll be brotherly enough to cut their heads off?

  —It won’t come to that, spluttered George from behind a handkerchief. He swigged some schnapps. That paper, L’Ami du Peuple – it was written by a man we know. When my father was lucky enough to secure our position on the Resolution, he had to leave his teaching post. Dr Marat succeeded him at Warrington as the language master. Do you really think Mr Wedgwood and Mr Priestley would have engaged a homicidal maniac to teach the good Protestant boys of Northern England? No. Dr Marat is an enthusiast, but of course . . . he doesn’t mean—

  A giant sneeze interrupted him.

  Someone else was saying,

  —The Girondins now call for open war against any of France’s neighbours who harbour refugees. That rather puts us in the firing line. There’s not a boarding house in Mainz – not an inn, not a monastery – that is not filled with French marquises and abbés.

  —The Royal Family made a cardinal error trying to escape.

  —The Queen was trying to cross the border – to get to her brother the Emperor in Vienna.

  —It played into the revolutionaries’ hands. Of course, after that, they suspended the monarchy. She and Ludwig were making themselves the enemies of France. There’s a Republic now.