by Rob Mundle
However, the morning of the 26th was different. Cloudy as it was, there was an encouraging north-westerly component to the breeze, and it looked like it would hold, if not strengthen. The captain discussed the situation with his senior officers and decided that the day had arrived.
With that, the master ordered a small complement to take the pinnace – the captain’s official boat – into the port to collect Messrs Banks and Solander, who had opted to stay onshore after their carriage had rattled along the cobblestoned streets and into Plymouth from London ten days earlier. At the same time, the master ordered the crew on deck to ready the ship for sailing, and in an instant, men went up the ratlines on all three masts, heading for the yards, while others tended the lines at the mast base. Those aloft quickly released the sails, which had been firmly lashed to the yards, and they were then ready to be hauled down and set.
As the ship’s bell was rung four times to signal that it was 2 pm, the anchor was being weighed and calls were coming from the quarterdeck for the sequential setting of the sails – some set aback and others trimmed normally, as small gangs of tars hauled away in unison on the sheets and braces, so Endeavour would fall away from the wind, then onto the chosen southerly course towards the wide open waters of the English Channel. Before long, the burble of the bow and quarter waves was confirming that the ship was making headway: she was on her way to King George’s Island, some 13,000 nautical miles distant – and beyond.
As everyone on deck watched the coastline around Plymouth gradually fade into Endeavour’s meandering white wake, the feeling was of excitement, suspense and speculation on just how many years they might be away from home and what might occur along the way. They were destined to be sailing unknown seas and possibly towards lands that had been waiting to be discovered by the outside world since the beginning of time.
Soon after departure, the captain made the first entry in his journal relating to the voyage: ‘At 2pm got under sail and put to sea having on board 94 persons including Officers, Seamen, Gentlemen and their servants, near 18 months provisions, 10 carriage guns, 12 Swivels with a good store of Ammunition and stores of all kinds …’
As was the case in this era, the times Cook entered in his journal throughout the voyage were ‘ship time’. A ship’s calendar day started at midday: twelve hours before ‘civil time’ – the time on land. So, at 2 pm aboard ship, which was two hours after the new day became the 26th, it was two o’clock in the afternoon of the 25th on land. Ship time was a custom of captains during the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, based around sun observations for navigation. When the sun was at its zenith, it was midday on the meridian where they were located – and that was deemed to be the start of a new day.
The wind remained light overnight, so Endeavour moved at a crawl – only around 3 knots. Then, soon after first light, the lookout reported the faint outline of The Lizard, the southernmost point of England, around 15 miles to the north-west. This sighting meant that the ship had sailed about 50 nautical miles since departure. Six days later, the situation was very different: Endeavour was near 400 nautical miles west of south from The Lizard, and well into the Bay of Biscay, which was living up to its reputation as a cauldron for savage storms. All on board were getting their first taste of a howling and harrowing Atlantic tempest, where the decks were constantly awash as seas broke across the heavily rolling ship.
As the weather deteriorated and the wind increased in velocity, so men went aloft to secure the sails that had been furled, and to lash down the reef points on those few sails still being carried. While these men were high in the rig, it was realised an iron fitting that supported rigging on the topmast had carried away and needed to be reattached to prevent a possible mast breakage. There were dilemmas on deck as well:
Very hard gales with some heavy showers of rain in the most part of these 24 hours, which brought us under our two courses [sails], broke one of Main topmasts Futtock plates, washed overboard a small boat belonging to the Boatswain and drowned between 3 and 4 dozen of our poultry, which was the worst of all. Towards noon it moderated so that we could bear our Main topsail close reefed …
The worst of the weather lasted for two days. From then, Endeavour made relatively good time towards Madeira, where she was to take on supplies of water and wine for the voyage. She anchored off Funchal, on the southern side of the island, in the early evening of 13 September, having sailed 1200 nautical miles in eighteen days.
Twenty-four hours later, while the empty casks were being taken ashore, and the bosun and his men were busy caulking the leaks that had developed in the topsides and deck during the worst of the gale, there was a tragic accident involving the master’s mate, 35-year-old Alexander Weir. During the night, the hawser on the small stream anchor had slipped, so the anchor needed to be reset. Once daylight came, the offending anchor was hove up and suspended beneath the longboat in order for it to be relocated further away from the ship.
The men, including Weir, were in the process of releasing the anchor when the buoy-line attached to it wrapped around his leg. In an instant he was ripped over the side of the longboat and dragged down with the heavy load. There was no hope for him. Shouts of distress to those aboard the ship saw crewmen respond immediately, by rushing to the windlass and raising the anchor. When it finally broke the surface, Weir’s body was found still tangled in the rope.
Back in London, over the period of this passage from Plymouth to Madeira, emotion had swung from joy to sorrow for Elizabeth Cook. Obviously unbeknown to the captain, she had given birth to their third son, Joseph, on the day that Endeavour departed from Plymouth. Eerily, the baby boy died on the day the ship reached Funchal. It was a heartbreaking event that Cook would not learn of until his return home almost three years later.
The success of such a long voyage as this, which was being undertaken through widely varying latitudes and weather conditions, would greatly depend on the health of the crew, so even before Endeavour reached Madeira, Cook was implementing his theories on how best this could be achieved. His biggest challenge was to minimise the impact of the dreaded and usually fatal curse of all seafarers – scurvy. Reinforcing this desire was his awareness of the impact that the disease had had on George Anson’s expedition of 1740–42, a venture that was not dissimilar to his own. Anson’s effort was also an east–west circumnavigation, and by the time he returned to England, scurvy had claimed around 1300 of the 2000 men who were aboard the small flotilla making up the expedition. It was this tragedy that inspired a Royal Navy surgeon, Scotsman James Lind, to study the disease and try to find a cure. Eleven years after Anson returned home, Lind published his findings in a book, A Treatise of the Scurvy. He declared his belief that scurvy was a nutritional disease, and that during his research, men who were given oranges and lemons, in particular, recovered. Lind’s publication was one of many dealing with scurvy in this era, and this no doubt led to Cook deciding to introduce the most nutritional diet possible for his crew. Most importantly, this involved the inclusion of green vegetables whenever he could. Because of this, Cook is, quite justifiably, credited by many for virtually eliminating scurvy aboard his ship, although it is quite possible that he didn’t realise what elements were responsible for this success.
In knowing that he would not be able to supply his men with a regular supply of citrus fruit on this long voyage, Cook looked for an alternative, and this led to him turning to greens. Until now, experienced sailors were used to little more than hard tack like ship’s biscuits, salted meats and unappealing soups for their daily diet, so there was no doubt that he would face a challenge when it came to implementing the new dietary regimen.
The captain’s plan was to have his crew consuming what he believed to be healthy foods such as wort (a malt extract), cabbage (or sauerkraut), wild celery and scurvy grass (a cress-like plant that is found close to the sea in Europe). He later explained that when any man showed a symptom of scurvy – lethargy, bleeding from the gums, the
loss of teeth, or open lesions – the sailor in question was to receive a liberal serving of wort, adding that ‘by this Means and the care and Vigilance of Mr M[o]nkhouse, the Surgeon, this disease was prevented from getting a footing in the Ship’.
The resolve to ensure his crew were well fed became apparent in Madeira when, on 16 September, Cook noted in his journal, ‘Received on board Beef and Greens for the Ship’s Company …’ Then, the following day, his determination to implement discipline among the men when it came to diet led to this note: ‘Punished Henry Stevens, Seaman, and Thomas Dunster, Marine, with 12 lashes each, for refusing to take their allowance of Fresh Beef …’ It was a punishment that delivered the appropriate message to the entire crew. They needed very little inducement over the remainder of the voyage to follow the captain’s orders on diet.
Cook’s journal also revealed that all ‘the people’ were served potable soup and sauerkraut regularly, but that not all were enthusiastic about the sauerkraut. So here he applied another form of psychology to ensure it was consumed: ‘The Sour Krout the Men at first would not eat until I put in practice a Method I never once knew to fail with seamen, and this was to have some of it dressed every Day for the Cabin Table, and permitted all the Officers without exception to make use of it and left it to the option of the Men.’ There was one other interesting addition to the diet, which came in Madeira: ‘Issued to the whole Ship’s Company 20 pounds of Onions per Man.’
Cook was also a great advocate of cleanliness – personal hygiene – during this voyage and those that followed. He insisted that each member of his crew bathe regularly, while it was also everyone’s duty to ensure that conditions below deck remained as fresh and hygienic as possible. In fact, his edict on this matter went beyond a Royal Navy regulation that stated: ‘The Captain is to be particularly attentive to the cleanliness of the men, who are to be directed to wash themselves frequently …’
The men bathed, as such, by splashing themselves with cold water from a bucket. They laundered the few clothes they had with them by scrubbing the items on deck before hanging them to dry. Unfortunately, with the air so often laden with salt, these clean clothes could prove to be abrasive to the skin when worn. At times, when any large amount of laundry needed to be done, including linen from the great cabin, it was tied in a bundle, tossed overboard on a line, and towed behind the ship so that the turbulence of the wake could wash it clean.
Regardless of these calls for cleanliness, there was still one problem that plagued every ship on the high seas in this era – rats! They thrived on the provisions that were carried in the hold, and any other morsels of food they could find. The solution came in the form of cats, but unfortunately, on most voyages, the birth rate of the rats exceeded the consumption rate of the cats.
On 18 September, Endeavour was ready to continue the voyage, this time with an additional 3032 gallons of wine, 270 pounds of fresh beef and a live bullock on board. At midnight, the sails were set, the anchor weighed and a gentle breeze began propelling her towards Cape Horn – probably via Rio de Janeiro. It was a decision that would depend on the weather they experienced while closing on the coast of South America.
The men were to spend the next fifty-six days at sea, and during that time Banks and others put to good use any time the ship was becalmed by going out in one of the boats and using guns and nets to collect birds and fish samples for research. They also collected barnacles and any shellfish they could find attached to driftwood. Their most intriguing prize during these excursions was Portuguese man-of-war jellyfish.
Back on board, to allow for the stifling heat that came with being in the equatorial regions, Cook decided to make life more tolerable for his men by introducing a new watch system. The crew, which had until then been divided into two watches, was split into three so that each man would have an eight-hour break when not on watch. The captain was also pleased to realise by now that Banks and his ‘people’ were definitely not passengers: as they sailed deeper into foreign waters, they took their research efforts to new levels. Most satisfying for Cook was that he and Banks greatly respected each other’s talents, even though the young naturalist tended to demonstrate an assertive manner at times.
While progress was slow in the generally light breezes, the crew had to be forever vigilant for what they called ‘white squalls’. These were savage gusts of wind that would seemingly appear out of nowhere, to the point where, if they were not anticipated with precautionary measures such as easing the sails, the rig could be seriously damaged by the force. Fortunately, when one such squall hammered Endeavour on 24 October as she neared the Equator, the men were quick to act and therefore avoid any damage occurring. When it came to navigation, the captain and senior officers spent a considerable amount of time each day taking sun, moon or star sights using a sextant so they could calculate the ship’s position. This involved a mathematical procedure based around the time the sight was taken and the angular measurement of the celestial target at that time. The Nautical Almanac, detailing the coordinates of the moon, planets and fifty-seven stars, provided much of the information required in the process. Once the ship’s position was placed on the chart, the course could be checked or a new one plotted.
The following day, Endeavour crossed the Equator, cruising along at 4 knots on a west-by-south course in what Cook described as ‘a Gentle breeze and clear weather, with a moist air’. The ‘crossing of the line’ into the southern hemisphere on any vessel always demanded an initiation for those on board who had not previously ventured south of the Equator. On this occasion, it included the captain, who recalled:
Every one that could not prove … that he had before Crossed the Line was either to pay a Bottle of Rum or be Ducked in the Sea, which former case was the fate of by far the Greatest part on board; and as several of the Men chose to be Ducked, and the weather was favourable for that purpose, this Ceremony was performed on about 20 or 30 …
Not surprisingly, Cook willingly paid his ransom in the form of a bottle of rum, and thereby bought exclusion from the more humiliating act of being dunked. Banks did likewise, but he had to pay three times the fare because of the two dogs he had with him. Others in the crew were chosen to pay a sum on behalf of the ship’s cats. Those sailors who opted for a dunking over having to part with a bottle of rum were placed in a crude wooden chair, which was attached to a halyard, before being hoisted to the outboard end of a yard and then dropped unceremoniously into the water. With the dunkings completed, the celebration continued until midnight, during which time there was a considerable amount of wine, rum and beer consumed.
On 27 October, Cook had cause for his own celebration as he turned forty. Yet there was no evidence of this in his journal, which simply recorded that a fresh gale was blowing and, in essence, the ship was progressing according to plan.
Five weeks after the Equator was crossed, Endeavour was well clear of the exasperating conditions that prevailed in the doldrums. She was then bowling along; churning out a bold bow wave while harnessing a brisk north-easterly trade wind with everything suitable set, including studding sails, spritsails and the mizzen. With the ship making such good speed, it was decision time for the captain: ‘I now determined to put into Rio de Janeiro in preference to any other port in Brazil or Falkland Islands, for at this place I knew we could recruit our Stock of Provisions … and from the reception former Ships had met with here I doubted not but we should be well received …’
He could not have been more wrong about the reception. Having sailed down the coast of Brazil for five days, Endeavour then inched her way into Rio de Janiero’s harbour before anchoring off the Isle of Cobras, adjacent to the town’s waterfront. While his ship was gliding towards the anchorage, Cook followed formal procedure by sending two officers ashore in the pinnace to advise the town’s viceroy of their arrival and the reasons for their presence. However, when the pinnace returned, neither officer was aboard. When asked the reason, the coxon replied that the men would be det
ained ‘until the captain went ashore’.
Next, a small boat, with twelve armed local soldiers on board, arrived on the scene and started circling the ship. Fifteen minutes later a desembargador (judge), together with a colonel from a Portuguese regiment, went aboard Endeavour. After initially indicating that the ship wasn’t welcome in port, the judge did an about-face and advised that the viceroy, in Banks’ words, ‘would give us every assistance in his power’. Finally, Cook was told that he was welcome to go ashore if he desired, but everyone else must remain with the vessel.
More confusion came the following day, 14 November, when the visitors were told who among them was permitted onshore. This list did not include Banks and his entourage, ‘the passengers’; they were ‘particularly objected to’ and had to remain on the ship. Banks, who refused to accept this directive, put it to the test – and failed: ‘in the Evening [we] dressed ourselves and attempted to go ashore under the pretence of a visit to the Viceroy, but were stopped by the Guard boat whose officer told us that he had particular orders which he could not transgress, to Let no officer or Passenger except the captain pass the boat …’
The stand-off, which continued for forty-eight hours, deteriorated further when Cook realised that the sentinel who was put aboard his launch, supposedly in recognition of the captain’s authority, was actually a guard under orders to control his every movement. Cook tried to remonstrate with the viceroy over the treatment he and his men were receiving, but this went nowhere. In fact, three days after he’d complained about the situation on his launch, he learned that one of his lieutenants and crewmen were taken into custody for refusing to have guards aboard their boat. This crew would later report to Cook that the soldiers had beaten them, according to Banks, and that they were thrown into a dungeon ‘where their companions were chiefly Blacks who were chained’.