by Lay, Graeme
James took a very deep breath. ‘Margaret has said you can go and live with her. In Redcar.’
‘She has five bairns. There would not be room for me.’
‘She assures me that there will be. It’s a large house, she says. You would have your own room. And with the money from the sale of this house, you could have your own capital to live on. Buy a few luxuries for yourself.’ But after he said it James wondered, what luxuries could these be?
There was a long silence. His father sipped his whisky, his eyes flicking from side to side, worriedly. James felt sorry for him, conscious of his dilemma. At last the old man put his whisky down, then said in a trembling voice, ‘Margie’s husband’s a good man. He’s called James an’ all.’
It was a kind of decision, James thought.
Five
TWO DAYS AFTER CHRISTMAS JAMES, MARGARET and Elizabeth took a coach to the coastal town of Redcar, 15 miles away. There they met James Fleck, a fisherman, and his and Margaret’s five children. Fleck was swarthy-faced with curly black hair, a beard and a ring through each ear, so that he looked more like a pirate than a fisherman. But he was an affable fellow, and as another man of the sea James warmed to him. The Flecks’ house—which James Fleck had inherited from his parents—was right beside the harbour and was indeed spacious. Chatting to his nieces and nephews—two boys and three girls—James and Elizabeth both concluded that the suggestion that Papa move there was a practical one. Here he would be well looked after and could watch his grandchildren growing.
James and Elizabeth had taken a room at a local inn, the Yorkshire Lass, and by day they took walks on the long, windswept beach beside the town. Staring out to sea, observing the chopped waves and feeling the keen north wind on his face, James felt a longing to be upon it again. Its briny tang was like an intoxicant to him. He felt nostalgia too, being back on this coast. This was the very sea upon which he had trained for his merchant seaman’s rating, where he had learned his ropes as a young man on Whitby cats. He had sailed the collier Friendship past the mouth of the Tees—whose turbulent bar he could discern in the distance—many times. The German Ocean was like an old friend, a disorderly one, but a valued friend still.
However, this was the first time Elizabeth had seen the sea, and its power and immensity disturbed her. The only seawater she had seen until now was a flowing tide in the Thames.
Averting her eyes, she kept her gaze landward and drew her shawl more tightly about her and the bonnet tied firmly under her chin. ‘It frightens me, James, the sea.’
‘How so?’
‘The endlessness of it. And the waves.’ He felt her shudder. ‘They are like wild creatures.’
He drew her closer. ‘You need not be frightened. You need not go upon it.’
She raised her face to his, and her brow creased. ‘Yes, but you go upon it. And now that I have seen it, and know its power, I worry that when next you do, it will—’ She did not continue.
Knowing that there was little he could say that would console her, James hugged her and they walked on. Two gulls pecking at a fish carcass, and each other, rose reluctantly into the air as they approached. They stepped around a wrack of seaweed entangled with the remnants of a fishing net. Within the crook of his arm, James felt Elizabeth shivering and was aware that it was not just from the cold. The sea had come between them before, and doubtless would do so again. But the ocean pathway was the one he had chosen and there could be no taking a different path. A lubberly life was unthinkable to him.
They continued along the pebbly strand, his arm still around her to protect her from the bitter wind. The sky was dead grey, the sea murky green. Instinctively, James kept looking up and sniffing the wind. Nor-nor-east, ten knots, gusting to about 15. Satisfactory for a southerly course to the Downs, but standing well off from the Wash. There were no colliers at sea at this time of the year, though. They would all be laid up in Whitby until at least February.
As they walked on, Elizabeth staring straight ahead, James’s eyes kept straying seaward. Even here in Yorkshire, surrounded by his family, his thoughts kept returning to London, and to Deptford in particular. How were the refits progressing? Would the Naval Board agree to his latest requests? Who would Banks and Sandwich appoint as the expedition’s astronomer? Would Harrison’s new timekeeper be completed by the time the ships sailed? But he kept these considerations to himself, knowing that the expression of them would only remind Elizabeth of his planned departure, and induce another melancholia in her.
Breaking the long silence, he said, ‘We must go next to Whitby, Beth, to visit my old employer, John Walker. I would like you to meet him. And other old friends there.’
‘I cannot go,’ she replied firmly.
He stopped, and stared down at her. ‘Why not?’
She looked up at him, her expression set. ‘I cannot contemplate another coach journey.’
‘Whitby is not far. It cannot compare to London. Or even to York.’
‘I know. But the child—’ She put her arms across her midriff, held them there, then looked up at him imploringly. ‘I do not mean to sound feeble, but all this coaching, in my condition, has been a trial to me. I do not look forward to the return journey.’ She smiled tightly. ‘You go. I’ll remain here and prepare for our return to London.’
The coach took North Yorkshire’s cliff-top road, passing through villages James only half-remembered on its 30-mile journey: Boulby, Hinderwell, Raithwaite. The road then descended steeply to the coastal enclave that was Whitby, with its shops, houses, boatyards, warehouses and chandleries clustered along the river Esk. A number of bare-poled sloops were at anchor in the estuary. Atop the hill opposite was the gaunt ruin of the abbey. Staring about, noting Whitby’s well-remembered features, James was inundated with memories. This town, he knew, would always hold a special place in his heart. Carrying his rucksack, he walked along the embankment, across the bridge that connected the riverbanks, then up to Grape Lane.
The house was just as he remembered it: three-storeyed, grey stone, slate-roofed, the panelled front door black-lacquered. He rapped its knocker three times. Moments later it was opened by an elderly bonneted figure with a deeply seamed face and grey eyes. When she saw who was on the doorstep the face and eyes lit up. ‘Oh, honey James, how glad I is to see thee!’
Removing his tricorn, James bowed. ‘Mistress Prowd. It’s so good to see you, too. After all these years.’
A male figure appeared behind her, and declared in admonishing tones, ‘Mary Prowd, mind your manners! “Honey James”? He’s an officer now, in the King’s Navy!’
His old teacher and employer stepped forward. ‘James, James Cook. Welcome back.’
‘Sir, thank you. It’s very good to be here.’
They shook hands vigorously. John Walker was shorter and stouter, his cheeks and nose more veined. His shoulders sagged and his wig seemed rather too large for his head. But in other respects he had not changed: his green eyes were as sharp and penetrating as ever.
As Mistress Prowd fussed about them in the ship-owner’s study, bringing them tea and carrot cake, the two men covered the events of the last 16 years since James had exchanged his career in the merchant marine service—in defiance of Walker’s advice—for one in the Royal Navy. Over the ensuing years, James had written regularly to his mentor, sending him letters from London, Plymouth, Halifax and St Johns. And this evening James presented Walker with a memento from his world voyage—a carved whalebone tiki he had bartered for from a Maori chief in Queen Charlotte Sound. Walker held the lovely object up in wonder. ‘All the way from the other side of the world. Thank you, James, thank you.’
Sipping his tea, the ship-owner smiled and said, a trifle ruefully, ‘I have to admit, James, that your decision to leave the mercantile service was the right one. Your achievements have been remarkable.’ He shook his head in wonder. ‘I read in a newspaper that you have even had an audience with the King.’
James nodded. ‘His Majesty was
greatly interested in Endeavour’s voyage.’
‘Understandably so.’ Walker eased himself in his chair. ‘And I also read that you are to command a second voyage. Tell me about it.’
They talked well into the night, after Mistress Prowd brought them supper. James was pleased that he had come. He could never forget Whitby, or not express his gratitude to this man who had taught him so much, whose vessels he had worked on from here to Tyneside, the London docks and the fiords of Scandinavia. John Walker’s Quaker integrity, too, had been absorbed into James’s philosophy, even though they had disagreed about the morality of war. While Walker detested armed combat as a way of solving political differences, James had argued that England’s sovereignty must always be defended when it was threatened. However, now that the Paris Treaty of 1756 had brought an end to conflict with France, and with Britain’s trade and commerce prospering, there was no mention of war or anti-war by either man. The Walkers were dedicated men of commerce, trade flowing through their veins as strongly as the German Ocean tides.
‘What is now to become of Endeavour?’ Walker asked, aware that she was originally a Whitby collier, the Earl of Pembroke.
‘She’s being refitted. Although she served me well, she took a fearful battering over the last year. She’ll now carry stores to the Falkland Islands, I’ve heard it said around the docks.’ James took another mouthful of cake, then added, ‘But be assured, sir, the two ships we’ll take on the next voyage are also Whitby-built.’
Walker nodded. ‘Yes, I met the officials from the Navy Board last month at the Fishburn yard. They were overseeing the purchase of the Marquis of Granby and the Marquis of Rockingham. I know them. Both fine vessels, James.’
‘They will need to be. The Great Southern Ocean will test the strongest ships.’
‘Yes.’ Walker stood up. It was after 11 o’clock. ‘Well, I’ll turn in now. Your old room is ready for you, and Mistress Prowd has put a warming pan in the bed.’ He held out his hand again. ‘It’s been a pleasure to talk, James. Good night.’
Lying once again in the narrow bed that he had slept in for nine years, staring at a sliver of new moon through the dormer window, James thought how important this place had been to him. Not just his maritime training—the knowledge he had acquired of navigation, lunar tables, ship construction, rigging and all the rest of it—but the personal example that John Walker and the other members of Whitby’s Society of Friends had set. Although James did not share their religious beliefs—preferring now to think of himself as what was known by the Enlightenment men as a ‘humanist’—he respected the Quakers’ unshakeable integrity, temperance and sense of honour. He had modelled his own behaviour to a large extent on that of his former employer. The maritime service—whether merchant or Royal Navy—needed more men like John Walker, James concluded as he drifted off to sleep.
After seeing in the New Year of 1772 with Walker and his family, and visiting other old friends in Whitby, James returned by coach to Redcar. From there he and Elizabeth farewelled the Fleck family and returned to Great Ayton. After further discussions, James’s father agreed to sell his cottage and move to Redcar, the knowledge that he would perhaps have 50 pounds of his own—a small fortune—evidently outweighing his emotional attachment to the house.
‘I could buy a grandfather clock,’ he told James and Elizabeth. ‘I’ve always hankered after having a grandfather clock. A big ’un that chimes the hours.’
James smiled and nodded his approval. That would be a fine luxury for the old fellow.
With the New Year less than a week old, they said their farewells to the folk of North Yorkshire and began the long journey back to London. Although the coach made several breaks during their four days on the road, these were not enough to prevent Elizabeth from feeling unwell for most of the journey. And when at last they reached home and were reunited with little James and Nathaniel, she wept with relief.
Six
JAMES SPENT THE LONG DARK JANUARY DAYS in the upstairs study at Number 7, Assembly Row, working by lamplight to painstakingly complete his journals and charts from Endeavour’s voyage. Over that same period the London newspapers continued to ‘foam at the mouth’, as James put it to Elizabeth, about the forthcoming South Seas expedition, and specifically, about Joseph Banks’s role in it.
‘Look at this, Beth.’ He handed her the copy of the London Chronicle. It was headed, ‘Famous Naturalist Prepares for the Great Southern Continent’ and sub-headed, ‘Joseph Banks Finalises Plans for His Second World Circumnavigation’.
Sitting beside the parlour fire, she read the story, her face becoming creased with concern. Then she looked up and said, ‘There is scarcely a mention of you, James. It is as if Mr Banks will be commanding the ship.’
‘Both ships, more like. And did you read about his, what is the word? For the others he will be bringing with him?’
Elizabeth’s eyes returned to the page. ‘His “retinue”?’
‘Yes. His retinue will include 12 servants and secretaries—and flugelhorn players.’
‘What is a flugelhorn?’
‘I have no idea, but I’m sure that a ship doesn’t need one. A foghorn, yes, but not whatever the other sort is.’ His exasperation mounting, he said, ‘Both ships are sloops, formerly colliers. There will be no accommodation for such luxuries.’ He snorted. ‘Banks seems to have forgotten that the expedition is a scientific one, not a floating concert hall.’
Elizabeth continued to peer at the story. ‘It says here that Mr Banks will be bringing Dr Solander and Dr James Lind. I know that Dr Solander was with you on Endeavour, but who is Dr Lind?’
‘A Scotsman. The namesake of the one who wrote a book on the likely causes of scurvy. I have no quarrel with his presence, or Solander’s.’
She looked down again. ‘And Johann Zoffany?’
‘A portrait painter. From Germany.’ James grunted. ‘I don’t know him. But we will need an artist, that I concede. But hornists? And 16 servants? Who does Banks think he is, the Lord Mayor of London?’ Getting to his feet, he picked up the poker. ‘I need to talk to Hugh Palliser again,’ he said, thrusting the iron deep into the glowing coals.
‘Cook, how are you?’
‘A little chilly, but otherwise well.’
‘Splendid. Please sit. I’ve ordered coffee.’ Palliser indicated a seat at an alcove a little way along from the fireplace, beneath a large oil painting of an East Indiaman in full sail, the Jack flying at her stern.
A coal fire was burning in the grate at Will’s coffee house, suffusing the room with smoky warmth. Several frock-coated men sat at other tables, sucking on pipes, reading newspapers or chatting. Outside, the city air was icy, and James had taken a hackney to Charing Cross rather than his customary walk along the river. He removed his tricorn, cape and scarf, and hung them on a stand by the fire but kept his naval jacket on.
The two men took seats opposite each other in the alcove. Palliser’s pipe rested in an ash tray on the table between them. He too wore his naval uniform, his dress jacket buttoned to the neck. The jacket bulged at the midriff, James noticed, and his cheeks and nose had a rosy hue. Life ashore must be proving agreeable to him, he thought. The serving girl placed their coffees on the table then moved away. Lacing his fingers, Palliser leaned back in his seat, his expression sombre as well as curious. ‘You said in your note that what we needed to talk about was urgent.’
‘It is.’
‘Let me guess what it is about.’
‘Guess away.’
Palliser flicked his eyebrows. ‘A certain naturalist and his plans?’
James nodded. ‘You’ve read in the broadsheets of his demands?’
‘I did not need to read about them in the broadsheets, I’ve been coping with them at the Admiralty.’ He harrumphed in irritation. ‘Philip Stephens and I get more demands from Banks by the week. Last week I took him down the river to Deptford to inspect Resolution. When we had completed our tour of the ship and were standing dock
side, he looked at her and declared, “This vessel will not do. She must be replaced.”’
James leaned forward. ‘Replaced? Why?’
‘He said she is too small. He demanded a frigate.’
James let his arms drop to his sides. Fixing Palliser with a firm gaze, he said, ‘You did not acquiesce to his demand, surely.’
Palliser laughed mirthlessly. ‘Have no fear of that. I reminded Banks that you had recommended the purchase of both Resolution and Adventure, and that the Navy Board had authorised their acquisition and their refits. I said that there was no possibility of obtaining a bigger ship. Or ships.’
‘Good. Banks has to be stood up to. Otherwise he will declare himself master and commander of both vessels.’
‘However—’ Palliser’s expression became hooded. ‘There will be modifications made to Resolution.’
‘Modifications? Of what nature?’
‘Banks insisted that another deck be added. That her waist be raised. And that the poop deck be lifted too.’ He added, with obvious embarrassment, ‘To accommodate his entourage.’
For a few moments James was speechless. Then, leaning forward, he said, ‘You told him that was out of the question, I presume.’
‘I did.’
‘Good.’ James gave a low laugh of relief. ‘What he proposed was ludicrous. The expense alone. It would have cost a king’s ransom.’
Picking up his pipe, Palliser began to fiddle with it. Then, avoiding James’s eyes, he said flatly, ‘The modifications are going ahead. There will be a top hamper added to Resolution and her poop will be raised. The carpenters begin work on her next week.’
‘But you said—’
‘I said no to Banks’s demands.’ Palliser exhaled defeatedly. ‘But the First Lord overruled me. And overruled Stephens, who agreed with me.’ He gave James a telling look. ‘Banks and Sandwich are as thick as thieves. As I’m sure you know full well.’