Cook

by Rob Mundle

  An additional, unassociated drama came that same evening when, during an ‘excessive hard storm of wind and rain’, two of the ship’s three boats that were tied alongside Endeavour – the longboat and the yawl – broke their mooring lines and rapidly disappeared downwind into the darkness. The longboat had no-one aboard, and while the men aboard the yawl did everything possible to save it from being wrecked on rocks, they were quickly fighting to save themselves. It was a tense few hours, for, as well as fearing for the safety of his men, Cook had to accept that two of the ship’s assets, both vital to the success of the mission, might well have been lost. Later that night, when the storm eased, it seemed that fortune was on the side of the expedition: the men aboard the yawl made their way back to the ship. The undamaged longboat was recovered the next day.

  On 21 November, in a message to Cook, the Portuguese viceroy, who was a soldier and not a sailor, finally revealed why Endeavour and her crew were being treated so poorly: he held no comprehension of the transit of Venus, and therefore believed that this expedition was a guise for something more sinister. He compared Endeavour’s lines with other ships he had seen, and became convinced she was not a Royal Navy vessel at all. Cook’s journal noted that the viceroy ‘still keeps up his Doubts that she is not a King’s ship, and accuseth my people of Smuggling, a thing I am very Certain they were not guilty of’. Another of the viceroy’s theories was that she was a merchant vessel.

  Finally, by 1 December, all doubts had cleared and peace was achieved. That done, Cook was able to purchase the fresh provisions he required and put them aboard. At this time, all operations were generally running smoothly, but the ‘persuader’ – the cat-o’-nine-tails – had to be called on to deal with two wayward crew-members: Robert Anderson, who attempted to desert the ship while on duty ashore, and a marine, William Judge, who used abusive language towards the Officer of the Watch. Both received the maximum twelve lashes at the hand of the bosun’s mate, John Reading – but the captain deemed that Reading had been too easy on the men. The result was that he too received twelve lashes, for ‘not doing his Duty in punishing the above two Men’.

  It was 2 December when Endeavour was moved towards an offshore anchorage as part of her preparation to sail on the next stage of the passage to Cape Horn. While this was happening, Banks made a note in his journal that succinctly expressed the general feeling held by the men when it came to their time in Rio de Janeiro: ‘this Morn thank God we have got all we want from these illiterate and impolite gentry, so … we sailed …’

  As brief as this relocation to the anchorage was, there came another tragedy involving a crewman. It was an incident that reminded all on board how one slip almost always brought fatal consequences on a difficult-to-manoeuvre ship such as this. ‘Peter Flower, Seaman, fell overboard,’ Cook wrote, ‘and before any Assistance could be given him was drowned …’ Despite this note being in his usual succinct form, the loss was particularly poignant for the captain, as Flower was a close associate: Cook had sailed with him since his early days of survey work in Newfoundland.

  On 5 December, the final stage of Endeavour’s move towards the open sea came to a dramatic halt due to an unanticipated incident that actually threatened the ship. It was flat calm, and as the boats were towing the ship towards a new anchorage near the harbour entrance, they came in close proximity to the town’s principal fortification at Santa Cruz. At the moment when the fort was off the starboard beam, two thundering cannon-blasts burst forth, one sending a cannonball hurtling just over the top of the mainmast while the other fell short of the ship. An understandably enraged Cook ordered progress be halted immediately and the anchor dropped, then directed an officer to go ashore to the fort in a boat ‘to know the Reason of their firing’.

  It was soon apparent that there had been a mistake: each time a ship was departing the harbour, orders were to be sent from the town to the fort declaring that the vessel could depart, but in Endeavour’s case this had not happened. Embarrassed officials apologised profusely for the breakdown in communications between the army brigadier in town and the fort. Endeavour was then allowed to proceed.

  By 3 am on 9 December, Rio de Janeiro was, thankfully, long gone in Endeavour’s wake. The atmosphere on board was calm as the ship made her way south through the night on a gentle breeze.

  There was, however, a very large swell running, a leftover from a recent Atlantic storm. This was often bringing a sudden, violent motion to the ship, so much so that at one stage, those on deck were alarmed to hear a loud, splintering crack come from above: the whip-like shock-load on the rig from one of these big waves was so strong that it caused the fore topgallant mast (the top one-third of the mast) to snap like a dry twig. Instantly, the shout went out from the quarterdeck for men to get aloft and contain the wildly gyrating section of mast, yard and sail, so that any further damage to the remaining rig and sails was minimised. By dawn, the broken section was on the deck and the ship’s carpenter was already shaping a new one from timber that was on board for such an event.

  On a number of occasions, Endeavour’s efforts to reach Cape Horn were thwarted by brutal storms that swept in from the south. At one point, when it was not possible to make any headway, Cook had to call for only two of the very smallest sails to remain set, and reefed at that, so that his ship could lie-to. Here, for the first time on this voyage, another virtue of her powerful design could be appreciated, even by a non-seafarer like Joseph Banks. He wrote that the ship had ‘shown her excellence in laying-to remarkably well, shipping scarce any water though it blew at times vastly strong; the seamen in general say that they never knew a ship lay-to so well as this does, so lively and at the same time so easy’.

  Even so, it was the ‘liveliness’ that, at times, made shipboard life barely tolerable, especially for those men in the cramped quarters below deck who were trying to sleep in their hammocks during their off-watch. The problem was that each time the ship bucked and tossed with some level of severity, those in the hammocks – which were slung closely together between deck beams – continually banged into one another, making sleep next to impossible for the occupants.

  It was even uncomfortable in the captain’s great cabin. This was an area usually assigned to him exclusively, but in this case, with so many guests aboard, it was crowded every day and night. Banks noted the difficulties he was experiencing: ‘Wind foul, blew rather fresh so the ship heeled much which made our affairs go on rather uncomfortably …’

  It was in rough conditions such as these that the use of the ship’s latrines – the heads or ‘seats of ease’ – became both a difficult and dangerous exercise. These facilities were nothing more than two broad planks extending beyond the bow of the ship (one each side of the bowsprit) with an appropriately sized circular hole cut in them, and canvas tubes extending downwards for about 3 feet to reduce the undesirable effect that any updraught of wind or sea spray might have. This feature was of particular importance if the windward-side head had to be used. As the pre-eminent researcher on the design and construction of Endeavour, Ray Parkin, explained, safety wasn’t completely ignored on these seats of ease: ‘There [were] also two spars nailed to the hull at an angle on the forward side of the platforms with a lifeline/guardrail … for the safety of the occupant during devotions.’

  Whenever possible, Cook and the other Royal Society observer, Charles Green, spent much of their time comparing lunar navigation observations each had taken to plot Endeavour’s position on the chart. While timepieces in the mid eighteenth century were notoriously unreliable, the accuracy that these two men achieved was quite remarkable, particularly when it came to the very difficult calculation of longitude. Also, through his quest for perfection as a navigator, Cook was continually searching for answers to the problem of variations experienced in the direction of the magnetic compass needle. He recognised that the needle changed direction significantly according to the course being steered, but he was unable to deduce that the compass needle was
, in the main, being influenced by the magnetic attraction of metallic objects and fastenings located close to the compass. It was not until 1805 that one of Cook’s greatest admirers, Matthew Flinders, discovered the reason for this anomaly and came up with a solution – the Flinders Bar.

  Even when Endeavour was being slowed by contrary winds, Cook did everything possible to get to Cape Horn as quickly as possible. Once there, he and everyone else aboard fully expected to be met by the worst imaginable conditions, so every preparation that could be made to ensure the safety of the ship was being undertaken, including the re-caulking of the ship’s decks to prevent leaks below, and the replacement of any suspect sails with new ones. To increase stability, six of the large and very heavy carriage guns were stowed in the lowest part of the hold, and as each cask of fresh water in the same hold was emptied, it was filled with salt water. Additionally, with the weather getting colder and icy blasts expected, the captain ordered that each man receive a new issue of clothing – Fearnought heavy woollen jackets and trousers – ‘after which I never heard one Man Complain of Cold,’ Cook said.

  Christmas Day 1768 saw Endeavour 1000 nautical miles south of Rio and approximately 1200 nautical miles from Cape Horn. Despite their isolation, captain and crew could see no reason not to celebrate, as Banks recalled: ‘Christmas Day; all good Christians, that is to say all hands, get abominably drunk so that at night there was scarce a sober man in the ship. Wind, thank God, very moderate or the Lord knows what would have become of us …’

  At every possible opportunity since setting sail from Rio, Banks and his associates continued to spend their time collecting samples of the wildlife they were observing, by snaring or shooting birds, catching or netting fish, and even catching butterflies that had been blown offshore by strong winds. There was one particular day when the presence of butterflies was quite amazing: ‘the air was crowded in an uncommon manner with Butterflies chiefly of one sort, of which we took as many as we pleased on board the ship, their quantity was so large that … many thousands were in view at once in almost any direction you could look, the greatest part of them much above our mastheads …’

  Instead of going around Cape Horn, Cook could have sailed through the Straits of Magellan to reach the Pacific, but he decided on the former option after hearing unfavourable reports from captains who had attempted to sail through the straits. This 300-nautical-mile shortcut through the southern regions of South America has its entrance 200 nautical miles to the north of the cape. While the waters there were always smooth, the challenges were great: the wind was renowned for changing direction and strength in an instant, there were fast-flowing foul tides to be faced, and ships attempting the passage needed to anchor regularly to hold ground against wind and tide. This constant call to anchor caused great fatigue for a ship’s crew, something that Cook did not want for his own men.

  By mid January, though, he could well have been questioning his decision to round the Horn. Endeavour, which was then in Le Maire Strait, between the southern point of Argentina and Staten Island, was being hammered by horrible weather – snow, hail, lightning, thunder, strong winds, and a sea so powerful that she was pitching to the point where the bowsprit was being plunged underwater. Each time a thunderstorm approached, there was a call to haul the lightning chain to the top of the mainmast, in a bid to protect the ship should there be a direct hit.

  Despite the cold, when Banks and his team went ashore at Success Bay on the southern coast of Tierra del Fuego, they were astonished by how little clothing was worn by the natives, who were ‘of a reddish Colour nearly resembling that of rusty iron mixed with oil’. They wore cloaks of seal skin thrown loosely over their shoulders, but the men, in particular, held few inhibitions about concealing their ‘privy parts’.

  On the morning of 16 January 1769, Banks, Dr Solander, the artist Alexander Buchan, four servants, two seamen, plus Monkhouse and Green, went ashore with the plan to penetrate as far as they could into the hills and investigate the flora and fauna. It was a cool but sunny day and they were making good progress towards the top of one of the summits when Buchan suffered a seizure, probably through fatigue. A fire was lit to create a warm environment for him, and while those who were most tired were directed to stay and comfort him, Solander, Green, Monkhouse and Banks pressed on.

  When high on the alp, a snowstorm arrived virtually unannounced, so severe that Banks realised that while they would be able to return to Buchan and the others, there was no hope of getting back to the ship that night. Banks was amazed by the intensity of this summertime snowfall – it was unlike anything he had ever seen or been aware of in Europe. While every effort was being made to keep everyone alive in the bitterly cold conditions, by morning Banks’ two ‘negro’ servants, Thomas Richmond and George Dorlton were dead. The remainder of the party, weak as they were from being exposed to the elements, then battled their way down to the beach before rowing back to the ship.

  The surging seas and powerful winds that accompanied the snowstorm caused Endeavour to remain holed up in Success Bay for four days. During this time, Cook was anxiously watching for the weather to turn in his favour, and this came at 2 am on 21 January. There was no time to be lost: the call was for all hands to their positions for setting sail and weighing anchor. Cape Horn lay 100 nautical miles to the south-west, and once around the legendary landmark, Endeavour would enter the South Pacific and sail northwest to the welcome warmth of King George’s Island. With westerly winds certain to prevail for much of the time, the captain’s strategy for rounding the Horn was to sail well to the south so that the ship could, when the timing was right, be tacked and sail a safe course towards her destination, well clear of the western coast of South America.

  On Thursday, 26 January – a hazy day with ‘fresh gales’ coming out of the west – the distinct profile of the promontory that was the cape on Hornos Island could be recognised faintly, about 18 miles off the ship’s starboard bow. This was the start of Endeavour’s planned course towards the high latitudes of the Southern Ocean.

  Sometimes the gain over a single day was merely a few miles, as westerly winds forced Endeavour onto a course that was little more than due south. This ship, like all other square-riggers, was barely capable of sailing to windward, even in light winds. In those conditions, Endeavour’s bluff bow caused her to bullock her way through the Southern Ocean swells that were rolling her way. For Cook, his first rounding of the cape was nowhere near as bad as he expected, but even so, he and every other man on board was experiencing another form of brutality that comes with being in this part of the world: the biting cold, rain, hail, sleet and snow.

  Occasionally there was some level of respite when the weather had a complete about-face and the wind went calm; and while the rolling seas remained, this did not deter Banks and his men from seizing the opportunity to launch a small boat and take what samples of nature they could find in close proximity to the ship. While Cook and his seafarers considered these conditions benign, the captain noted that the majority of the ‘land men’ were incapacitated with what Banks referred to as ‘a bilious attack’. Today it is called seasickness.

  The push to the west eventually saw Endeavour 250 nautical miles to the south of the great cape. Unknown to Cook at the time, another 250 nautical miles to the south of that position was an icy isthmus – part of the yet-to-be-discovered snow-covered land of Antarctica. The world would not know of the existence of this continent for another half-century.

  Remarkably, the wind gods continued to look favourably on Endeavour: on 1 February they even delivered an east-south-easterly breeze, and this enabled her to achieve a very welcome 106-nautical-mile gain to the west in twenty-four hours. By this time, Cook and his officers were starting to feel comfortable about their rounding of the Horn; the log entry revealed that the ship’s course had then been changed dramatically, to west-by-north. This meant that she was virtually aiming at King George’s Island, which was still more than 4500 nautical miles
ahead. A few more days of this weather pattern would provide certainty that they were well clear of the dangers associated with rounding Cape Horn and on a safe course towards their destination. Still, the motion from the large Southern Ocean swells was doing Banks and his men few favours: ‘During all last night the ship has pitched very much so that there has been no sleeping for land men,’ Banks wrote.

  By 13 February, Cook’s lunar observations confirmed that Endeavour was north, and well to the east, of the western entrance to the Straits of Magellan. It had been a remarkably easy passage around the much-dreaded cape, one that had taken a surprisingly short period of twenty-three days to execute. The captain wrote in his journal that the most amazing aspect of this particular part of the passage was that the winds never reached a point where he had been forced to call for even the topsails to be reefed – sails that would normally have been the first to be reduced in area in the event of strong winds. Cook continued:

  [This was] a Circumstance that perhaps never happened before to any ship in those Seas so much dreaded for Hard gales of Wind; in so much that the doubling [rounding] of Cape Horn is thought by some to be a mighty thing, and others to this day prefer the Straits of Magellan … I am firmly persuaded from the Winds we have had, that had we come by that Passage we should not have been in these Seas [this far advanced], besides the fatiguing of our People, the damage we must have done to our Anchors, Cables, Sails, and Rigging, none of which have suffered in our passage round Cape Horn.

  Banks was particularly gratified to have disproved the oft-held belief of land-based theorists that the imagined Great South Land existed in this part of the world, some saying that its presence would counterbalance the existence of the great landmasses in the northern hemisphere. He wrote with considerable emphasis: ‘It is … some pleasure to be able to disprove that which does not exist but in the opinions of Theoretical writers.’