by Rob Mundle
Fully supportive of Cook’s emerging talent, John and Henry Walker offered the 26-year-old the position of master aboard Friendship in the summer of 1755. However, his mind was by then focused on a world that extended way beyond coal runs across the North Sea. He had decided to move on, to ‘take his future fortune’ in a different direction – namely, with the Royal Navy – so he politely declined the Walkers’ offer, and with it a virtual guarantee of a secure career in the merchant marine.
Cook surprised many by choosing to enlist. He would have to start in the service’s lower ranks, and it was rare for a man from the merchant marine to make that choice. Should someone in his position have wanted to escape the mundaneness of working aboard a coastal collier on short voyages, he always had the option of joining another company and crossing the Atlantic or sailing to the Far East and beyond. In fact, by opting for the navy in 1755, Cook chose a career path that entailed everything most men would want to avoid.
One of Britain’s most acclaimed writers of the eighteenth century – and the man who gave the country its first dictionary – Dr Samuel Johnson, best explained a seafarer’s life in this era when he wrote: ‘No man will be a sailor who has contrivance enough to get himself into jail; for being in a ship is being in a jail, with the chance of being drowned.’ More than two centuries later, highly respected Cook biographer John Cawte Beaglehole, OM CMG, reflected on this quote of Johnson’s when comparing life in the Royal Navy with that in the merchant marine:
Men enough went to sea to give the lie to that remark; the merchant service at least was adequately manned. The navy was a different matter. Its physical conditions were worse; its pay was worse; its food was worse, its discipline was harsh, its record of sickness was appalling. To the chance of being drowned could be added the chance of being flogged, hanged or being shot, though it was true that deaths in battle were infinitely fewer than deaths from disease. The enemy might kill in tens, scurvy and typhus killed in tens of hundreds.
Sailor that he was, Cook would have contemplated all these things when considering his future. If he felt any apprehension about advising the Walkers of his decision, it would have been quickly erased when John Walker assured him he had no hesitation in writing a positive reference recommending him for the service. This was yet another example of the rapport and mutual respect the two men grew to enjoy. Cook was forever grateful for Walker’s support and guidance during their nine years together at Whitby. He wrote to him regularly, and on the rare occasions when he visited his family in Great Ayton, he always tried to see Walker as well.
Around this time, Cook’s father retired from his role as foreman at Aireyholme Farm, and he and Grace subsequently either built or renovated a two-storey residence nearby. Later, when fame came to James Cook junior through his exploits as a navigator and explorer, this cottage became recognised as ‘Cook’s Cottage’, due to a misguided belief that the seafarer had spent his younger years there. In 1933, by which time the residence was a derelict structure, it was purchased by Sir Russell Grimwade of Melbourne, who subsequently gifted it to the people of Victoria as part of the state’s centenary celebrations the following year. Grimwade had the cottage transported – brick by brick, tile by tile, with even the attached ivy included – to Melbourne, where it was carefully rebuilt in the city’s Fitzroy Gardens as a tribute to the great explorer.
The cottage stands today as the oldest building in Australia, and the original English ivy continues to grow on its walls. While the residence has been billed as having been Captain Cook’s home, history suggests that he did not live in this house for any period of time, if at all. Furthermore, it’s about half the size it was in Cook’s day: a section was demolished, apparently to make way for a roadway in Great Ayton.
CHAPTER TWO
Life on the Lower Deck
Cook signed up with the Royal Navy on 17 June 1755, in Wapping, close to Execution Dock on the north bank of the Thames. While this dock was a point of arrival and departure for navy and merchant ships, its macabre name was most appropriate: it was the site for public hangings of felons and Royal Navy offenders. One of the most gruesome, and famous, executions occurred more than fifty years prior to Cook’s enlistment. On 23 May 1701, the legendary British pirate Captain Kidd was hung at Execution Dock (it took two attempts because the noose broke on the first occasion), then his body was gibbeted (hung on public display) for years thereafter as a deterrent to others.
Cook’s decision as a 26-year-old to volunteer as an able seaman for naval service was both bold and well calculated. Most men looking for a life on the quarterdeck had been enlisted during their early to mid teens by their father or a family friend with ties to the navy. Cook was not concerned by this. The Royal Navy was where he wanted to be; it promised the life and opportunities he desired, so, if in the early stages it meant he played a subordinate role to men many years his junior, then so be it. It was the future that mattered. Even so, there was nothing pleasant about being on the lower deck of any ship of that era: the calibre of men making up the crew left a lot to be desired. Cook’s early years in the navy would later be seen as a valuable time in his career, since, unlike so many officers, he experienced first-hand the bottom rung – the tough side – of shipboard life. There is no doubt this contributed to him being a great leader of men in the years to come.
At the time when Cook presented his papers to the navy, England was involved in what was referred to as the ‘Phoney War’ with France – a chest-beating period of confrontation between the two nations that served as a build-up to history’s first global conflict, the Seven Years War. Hostilities would be formalised once Great Britain, under King George II, officially declared war on the French in May 1756, and Louis XV of France made a counter declaration a month later. As was always the case, the threat of impending war meant that the navy was desperate for recruits: men skilled or unskilled who could man the ships. The number required was quite astonishing – an expansion from 16,000 to 80,000 was needed, and as quickly as possible if Britain was to go onto a full war footing. With insufficient volunteers to fill the quota, the Royal Navy’s infamous press gangs took over the recruitment drive – by coercing, or simply forcing, men into the service. The majority of their hapless victims came from the merchant marine, but sometimes they were just ragamuffins and ruffians from the streets.
This being the case, one can only imagine the look of surprise on the face of the lieutenant who received Cook, on that day in June 1755. Here was a fit and healthy, nine-year veteran of the merchant marine, with excellent qualifications – sufficient to be a master, no less – who was abandoning all that to become an underling in the Royal Navy: an able seaman with a monthly wage of just £1 4 shillings. For the under-manned Royal Navy, it was almost too good to be true. So little wonder that, after the lieutenant checked the new recruit’s credentials, plans were swiftly made for Cook to go to Spithead, the anchorage off the south coast at Portsmouth, where he would board HMS Eagle, a 58-gun 147-foot fourth-rate ship with a complement of 400 men.
Eight days later, on 25 June, Able Seaman Cook was rowed in a navy longboat across the Solent from Portsmouth and out to Eagle. Once there he clambered up the side of the ship, stepped onto the deck and reported for duty.
While everything about Eagle was considerably larger, and cleaner, than the likes of Freelove, he could not have been overly impressed by what he saw. The ten-year-old ship had come out of dry dock in Portsmouth on 8 May, following a refit and completion of repairs after she was damaged by a storm while in the dock. It was now some six weeks later, and despite the entire ship being abuzz with the frenetic activity of shipwrights, riggers and crew going about their tasks, Eagle was still a long way from being ready to put to sea – another six weeks in fact. It would have been a lot easier to have this work carried out while the ship was in the dry dock, but with crew at such a premium and often difficult to retain, ships were usually moved out to the anchorage in the Solent whenever possible to stop would
-be deserters from getting ashore.
Eagle had a new commander, Joseph Hamar, a captain with no glorious past and, it would soon transpire, an inglorious future. Hamar’s initial orders required him to sail Eagle to the south-west coast of Ireland and undertake a lone patrol, intercepting and inspecting any suspicious-looking vessel that came within sight – all part of the overall plan to frustrate any attempts by the French to transport cargo or military men between foreign ports. The first contact came off the southernmost point of the British mainland, The Lizard, only four days after the ship had weighed anchor at Spithead and headed west on the English Channel. Cook, who was keeping a journal detailing the voyage, recorded the moment: ‘Friday 8 August. Fired a shot and brought to and examined a ship from Antigua bound to London out of which we impressed 3 men …’
Cook’s lowly rank ensured he had little, if any, contact with the captain. However, his considerable sailing experience with the Walkers obviously brought him to the attention of Eagle’s sailing master, Thomas Bisset, because a month after joining the ship he was promoted to master’s mate. His new role was to report to Bisset on everything that related to the actual sailing of the ship – rigging, equipment, anchoring and sails. Most importantly for Cook, the promotion meant that Bisset would help him to better understand the operation of this Royal Navy vessel, which was around four times the tonnage of a Whitby collier, with a ship’s complement some twenty times the size of anything the Yorkshireman had previously experienced.
Eagle reached the coast of Ireland a few days after the initial intercept and commenced her patrol. It proceeded without incident until 3 September, when a storm intervened, carrying winds so powerful that Hamar became convinced that the mainmast had been overloaded to the point where it had ‘sprung’ – fractured – between the decks. Cook’s journal entry for that Monday morning reads: ‘6AM A very hard gale. Lost the driver boom overboard. 7AM Reefed the fore sail and balanced the mizzen. 9AM Brailed up the main sail … 10AM Found the main mast to be sprung in the lower partner …’
The captain decided that the damage was sufficiently serious for Eagle to head to the Devonshire port of Plymouth for repairs. Once there and the anchor was set, the Royal Navy’s local master mast-maker inspected the structure and declared it to be sound. Hamar would now have been expected to return to his patrol immediately, but for some inexplicable reason, he showed a distinct reluctance to do so. Instead, he elected to dock the ship so that the bottom could be cleaned and tallowed. It was an action that did not impress the hierarchy of the Admiralty, and their response was swift. Within a few days Hamar was declared to be an ‘incompetent officer’ and was relieved of his duties. This proved to be his last posting as a sea-going captain, and, as fate would have it, his demise greatly benefited Cook’s career.
Eagle’s new commander, 32-year-old Yorkshireman Hugh Palliser, was one of the Admiralty’s preferred people; an officer who was rising impressively through the ranks and destined for far greater things. He had just returned from escorting a convoy of transport ships across the Atlantic to the British colony of Virginia, so the posting to Eagle was a logical progression for him. Palliser’s naval career had started at age twelve, when he first went to sea in the company of an uncle. By the time he was eighteen, he had passed his qualifying exam to become a lieutenant, but he had to wait for the actual promotion because he was too young.
Palliser’s presence on the ship reminded new recruit Cook just how far down the ranks he was within the service. Palliser was only five years his senior, yet he had twenty years’ more naval experience. He took up his first command on a Royal Navy vessel in the same year as Cook joined the Walkers in Whitby.
It is not known when the new captain and the master’s mate first met, but the evidence suggests that there was a solid bond from the outset. Palliser realised he had a talented man of considerable seafaring experience in Cook, and before long the foundation of what would become a lifelong friendship had been established. In particular, he taught Cook much about navigation and mapping. This relationship saw Palliser mentor Cook, much like the championing that the younger Yorkshireman had enjoyed from Great Ayton’s Lord of the Manor, Thomas Skottowe, more than a decade earlier.
Captain Palliser had the sails set and Eagle leaving Plymouth in her wake on 8 October. She sailed under orders to join a large squadron patrolling the western approaches of the Channel, where the British were desperate to apply a stranglehold to French maritime activities – naval and merchant. Any ship they captured was to be sailed back to England as a prize. For much of this time, the Channel was in a foul mood, making everything about the deployment unpleasant. Adding to the wretchedness, the majority of vessels that Palliser and his crew hunted down, stopped and searched turned out to be friend, not French.
Eagle’s first success came with the interception and detention of a French fishing vessel, which was returning home laden with a catch taken off the coast of Newfoundland. Some 150 French prisoners were transferred to Eagle before a small crew were sent aboard the French prize to sail her back to England. She certainly wasn’t the most exciting catch, but it was a start. Further success came a week later with the capture of a more valuable prize: a French snow – a two-masted merchant vessel similar to a brig.
Soon afterwards, Cook had his first exposure to the full force of a naval battle, albeit as an observer. Eagle stood by on 15 November, as ordered, while other RN ships blasted the French 50-gun Espérance into submission before she sank. ‘Received on Board from the Esperance 26 Prisoners at 4 o’clock,’ Cook wrote that day. ‘The Esperance on fire there being no possibility of keeping her above water …’
By now, with winter approaching, the storms became more frequent and severe. The cold was taking a toll on the men and the punishing conditions were damaging the ships, including Eagle. At times the combination of a howling wind, flogging canvas and a pounding sea sent earthquake-like shudders through the entire vessel. Eagle had already suffered mast failure during this patrol, and now the power of the storms was causing structural problems as well.
Palliser and his men were no doubt pleased, therefore, when Eagle and five other ships were ordered by the patrol commander, Vice-Admiral John Byng, to return to Plymouth for repairs and a refit. Eagle arrived there on 23 November and, after off-loading more than 200 French prisoners, she went into dry dock. She remained in port for the entire winter, not returning to active service until 13 March the following year.
While the patrol was considered successful, Palliser went ashore in Plymouth a frustrated man. Four days later, he fired off a missive to the Admiralty in London complaining most strongly about the standard of his crewmen: ‘When their Lordships shall think proper to Complete this Ship’s Complement I hope they’ll be pleased to Order her a few good Men, for I assure you I have been much distressed this last Cruise having so very few Seamen on board …’
Master’s Mate Cook was obviously one of those ‘very few’, because on 22 January he was advised by the captain that he was to be promoted. Cook’s reference to this in his log was simple: ‘AM had a Survey on Boatswain’s [bosun’s] Stores, when [I] Succeeded the Former Boatswain …’ This new supervisory position brought him a salary of £4 per month and made him responsible for the maintenance and repair of all parts of the ship, on deck and aloft, plus the boats.
When Eagle returned to patrol duties in the Channel and off the coast of France in March 1756, she was under orders very similar to those of the previous operation. Initially there was little success, except for the interception of two very small sloops that were smuggling tea and brandy from Guernsey to England.
Sunday 4 April marked another important first in the seafaring life of James Cook, when he was directed by Palliser to go aboard a British cutter that was part of their squadron and take command. The following day, while on patrol, Cook took time to make a small sketch of the features, man-made and natural, of the coastline around Morlaix in Brittany, in the north-west of France.
It is believed that this was the first time that he revealed his impressive talent, one that was essential for explorers of that era.
Cook remained as master of this vessel for some weeks, no doubt revelling in the responsibility that came with being independent and in command. The experience ended when he and his crew were transferred to the commodore’s ship, HMS Falmouth, and returned to Plymouth. They were then put aboard the 60-gun HMS St Albans for more patrol work on the Channel.
Shortly before Britain’s declaration of war against the French on 18 May, Cook was transferred back to Eagle. From the moment he went aboard, he was shocked to see so many members of her crew either extremely ill or dying, primarily because of exposure to the elements. It was an image that became so firmly embedded in his mind that it would influence his later life as a ship’s commander.
Fortunately, then, Cook’s return to Eagle was a brief episode. Soon he was directed to take command of a French prize, Triton, and sail her with an English crew back to Plymouth. On reaching port, he was then ordered to sail Triton on to London, which he reached without incident at the end of June. Six weeks later, though, Cook was back aboard Eagle in Plymouth and faced with distressing news. Illness was again sweeping through the ship and had taken a terrible toll: twenty-six of the crew, including the ship’s surgeon, had died, and 130 others were in hospital.
There was an obvious solution to this unacceptable situation, and Palliser made sure that the Admiralty knew it. Most of his crew were ‘landsmen’, who came aboard without clothing suitable for seafaring, and the navy’s allowance for slops did nothing to help. Palliser wrote: ‘Naked when they came on board being for the most part Vagabonds not one in Twenty of them that had more than a Shirt and one ragged Coat …’ The Admiralty took note and ordered Palliser to ‘let the men be supplied with what they absolutely want and no more, and take care they do not sell any part thereof ’.