by Lay, Graeme
Banks’s counterpart on Resolution is the Prussian naturalist, Johann Forster, assisted by his son George. I must say that I find the older Forster a strange fellow. He is a man of the cloth and sanctimonious with it. Clerke has termed him the ‘god-botherer’, an apt appellation. Before the midday meal he insists on saying a lengthy grace, something which annoys the rest of us. I have no objection to a simple giving of thanks before dining, but Forster would give us no less than a sermon, until I told him to desist. Excessive piety has no place on a ship, I told him. He took offence at this, but did obey, now confining his grace to a brief statement of gratitude for what we are about to receive. I have no doubt that Forster’s dedication to the natural sciences is sincere and thus his collection from the voyage will prove of great value. However his vexatious nature, along with his piety, presents a potential difficulty to me. His son George, however, presents no such problems to the rest of us. A considerate and sober young man, he must take after his mother.
I miss Sydney Parkinson a great deal. As Pickersgill said to me yesterday, ‘Tis a great pity, sir, that Sydney is not still with us. He was a fine young man, as well as a gifted illustrator.’ I could only concur with these sentiments. Of our many losses on Endeavour, it was Sydney’s I felt most keenly. That prompts me to tell you something of his counterpart on Resolution, William Hodges. At 28 he is just a year older than Sydney would have been, but appears much older due to the fact that he has already gone quite bald. Sharp of nose and small of chin, he is unprepossessing in countenance, except for his eyes, which are a piercing blue and very observant, as befits an illustrator of people and landscapes. While in port at Praia I came upon him sketching the island from the afterdeck. We chatted and he told me how greatly surprised he was to be chosen by the Admiralty to accompany us as the first official artist on such an expedition. ‘But I am determined,’ he added, ‘to justify the Lords’ faith—that is the Admiralty Lords, not Forster’s deity—in my ability.’ He later showed me his official instructions proudly. He is ‘to observe, draw and paint peoples and sights whose existence had been perceived in Europe almost entirely through fantasy and fable’. Never having left England before, he is already struck by the intense tropical light of these latitudes. ‘It imbues everything beneath the sun with a clarity which is wondrous to me,’ he said. I agreed, then told him that if he is giddied by the Atlantic light, then that of the Pacific will intoxicate him. ‘Then I cannot wait to experience it,’ he replied. ‘Landscapes are my great love.’ I am hoping that he will produce illustrations of real worth during our voyage.
Our second casualty occurred on 20 August. Henry Smock, one of the carpenter’s mates, fell while working over the side of the ship on the scuttles, and was drowned. We could not recover his body.
Astronomical observations taken by James and Bayly on the morning of 9 September confirmed that they would cross the line later that day. The event was first signalled by gunner Anderson firing a cannon from Resolution’s deck, which was answered by one from Adventure. Both ships moved closer to one another in faint winds, then stood to at close quarters while the equatorial baptisms were carried out. There were many seamen and midshipmen who hadn’t crossed the line before, and the shellbacks who had done so took great delight in ridiculing and dunking these novitiates. The gentlemen all sold a pound of sugar and a gallon of rum to King Neptune rather than undergo the ritual, then crowded the decks to watch the baptism.
The proceedings were overseen by Resolution’s bosun Gray and the bosun’s mate, Anderson. Much heavy drinking accompanied the actual crossing, and the shouts and farting blasts from a trumpet on Adventure’s decks carried across the water, letting the Resolution know that a similar carry-on was happening there. Mid-decks on Resolution, Gray was dressed as Neptune and Anderson—in a nightgown—as his mistress. The novitiates were smeared with dung and feathers from the animal and poultry pens before their dunking, which most took with great humour.
James and Clerke watched the immersions and accompanying charades in amusement from the quarterdeck. ‘You first went through this on Dolphin with Byron, I presume,’ said James.
‘I did, sir. Took a dunking. Harmless fun.’
‘Aye.’
As they watched, a young seaman was swung in a sling from the main starboard yard, then released to plunge into the sea. He was pulled up by six eager hands on deck, then the rope was promptly let go again. The young man came up spluttering, then was swung up onto the deck. He stood there, dressed only in trousers, dripping, then shook his body like a dog. Someone tossed him a length of towel and, grinning good-naturedly, he began to dry himself.
‘Who is that?’ asked James.
‘Able seaman Vancouver, sir. George Vancouver, from King’s Lynn.’
‘He seems a spirited lad.’
‘He does, sir. And only 14.’
‘An officer in the making, perhaps.’
Another young man stepped forward, grinning, to receive his smearing and ducking. Slightly older than Vancouver, he was tall with blond hair tied in a queue. ‘Which one’s that?’ James asked his lieutenant.
‘Jem Burney. A friend of young Vancouver’s. He comes from King’s Lynn too, from a distinguished family. His father is Charles Burney, a musician.’
James gave him an inquisitive look. ‘How do you come by such personal information, Clerke?’
The officer coloured slightly. ‘I’ve met Burnley’s sister, Fanny. She had read my description of Patagonia from the Dolphin’s voyage and wrote to me to say how much she enjoyed it. We took tea together in Piccadilly one afternoon. Jem was there too. Fanny has an ambition to be a writer herself, she told me. I’m rather fond of her.’
James nodded, pleased for him. Then he squinted up at the almost cloudless sky. ‘Carry on, Lieutenant, while I go below and make my journal entry.’
‘Very good, sir.’
Before he descended the companionway James glanced forward. Jem Burnley, half naked and smeared with sheep shit, was flung from the yardarm, into the oily sea. He was dunked, twice, then hauled from the water and swung back on board, greeted by hearty cheers.
1 OCTOBER 1772, 7 ASSEMBLY ROW
‘Mistress! Mistress!’
Susan’s cry came from upstairs. Elizabeth rushed to the staircase, called up. It was late morning. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
‘It’s little George. He’s not breathing!’
Gathering up her gown, Elizabeth climbed the stairs. Even before she reached the landing, grief began to overcome her. The little one had been poorly for days, bringing up her breast milk, gasping for breath, hardly sleeping, crying constantly. Over the last week she had seen him wasting away, and could do nothing. He had become weaker and weaker, his tiny arms and legs barely moving. It was because of her fall, she felt certain. Tumbling down the staircase had caused the poor mite damage in utero, and had precipitated his early birth.
Susan was standing beside the cradle, her face stricken, hands held up in supplication. Most of the colour had drained from her normally ruddy cheeks. Moving away, she covered her face with her hands to muffle her sobs. Elizabeth came closer, bending forward over the cradle. George’s little face was waxen, the eyes clouded, the mouth open and frozen. She sank to her knees, closing her eyes, unable to look. Resting her arm on the end of the cradle, she began to rock it, softly. Tears streamed from her eyes. Making no effort to stem the flow, she allowed the tears to fall into the cradle and onto the embroidered counterpane. Yet another child gone. And this one not yet three months old. Thank the Lord little James and Nathaniel are not here, she thought. They were spending the weekend with her mother and stepfather. She felt Susan’s arms wrap around her and the two women stayed locked in an embrace for some time. Elizabeth’s mind was a black hole of grief, mixed with a rising tide of anger. Always, through the births and deaths, she had had to face these tribulations alone, with no husband at her side. If James had still been here this might not have happened to tiny George, Joseph
and Elizabeth. Five children, and only James and Nathaniel still living. Now poor George would join the others in the graveyard of St Dunstan’s. Through her tears she looked once again at the deadened, doll-like body in the cradle. James Cook, she vowed, I will never permit you to leave me and our children again.
30 OCTOBER 1772
Winds NNW. Latitude in South 33° 53´. Fresh gales with rain in the night. At 2pm saw the land of the Cape of Good Hope, the Table Mountain which is over Cape Town. Bore ESE, distant 12 or thirteen leagues. A 7am anchored in Table Bay (the Adventure in company) in five fathom, distance from shore one mile. Sent an officer to notify our arrival to the Governor and on his return saluted the garrison with eleven guns which was returned. Moored NE and SW a cable each way, hoisted out the longboat and began to prepare to heel and water the sloop. At this time we have not one man on the sick list, the people in general have enjoyed a good state of health ever since we left England.
As he was rowed ashore in his dress uniform, James stared up at the great slope and slab of Table Mountain which loomed over the town. There was little wind and the afternoon was intensely hot, with streaks of cirrus high above the mountain. Several merchant ships were at anchor in the harbour and James observed them closely. Most were flying the flags of the Dutch East India Company or the British East India Company. Two French frigates were anchored some distance away. Launches were being rowed from the ships to the waterfront and back, laden with casks. This reminded him that Cape Town was a truly international port, a re-provisioning and recovery outpost, midway between Europe and the Far East.
Although nominally a colony of the Dutch government, real authority in Cape Town lay with the Dutch East India Company. James vividly recalled the last occasion he was in this port, in March last year with Endeavour. How different the circumstances between then and now! Endeavour had by then become a death ship, her crew beset by illness and disease. On the two-month voyage from the Far East Dutch settlement of Batavia, 22 men had died. The ship could barely be worked for the loss of hands. And although the facilities at Cape Town had allowed the afflicted to recuperate, five more had died here or on the way home.
As the launch approached the dock, James’s mood lifted. Now, on Resolution, the crew were fit, healthy and eager for the adventures which lay ahead. He was aware that his strictly enforced regime of cleanliness below decks, regular washing of clothes and an anti-scorbutic diet had combined to produce the crew’s robust state of health. The pissing and shitting monkeys, except for Forster’s, had been dispatched. All this afforded James satisfaction. The consort vessel had not fared so well, though. Last night Furneaux had come aboard and reported that two of his midshipmen had died of fever. His first officer was also unwell, so much so that he couldn’t continue. After a discussion it was decided that Lieutenant Kempe be appointed First Lieutenant in his place, and that Resolution’s Jem Burney be promoted and sent across to Adventure.
Although satisfied with the expedition’s progress to date, James was far from complacent. The two deaths and the other illness on Adventure troubled him. Had Furneaux been lax with his hygiene orders? After leaving this port and venturing into the high southern latitudes it would be far more difficult to keep the ship and its crew in prime condition, so James had ordered that while they were in Cape Town, both ships would be thoroughly scrubbed and caulked.
The launch’s painter was tossed up and made fast and James stepped onto the dock. Pickersgill had already volunteered to go ahead and notify the office of the Governor of Cape Colony that James would be calling this afternoon to pay his respects. Others of the company had dispersed. Furneaux was ashore with the clerks, overseeing the purchasing of provisions, Hodges was outside the town with his easel, making drawings of Table Mountain, and the Forsters had gone inland on horseback with a local guide to botanise.
James walked past the warehouses and chandleries. The afternoon was windless, sunny and very hot. Cape Town’s cobbled streets were laid out in a grid pattern behind the dock and a network of canals connected the port with its hinterland. Both the streets and the canals were congested, the latter with narrow, horse-drawn barges piled high with goods. He came to Strand Street, which was crowded with open carriages, shirtless, barefoot Hottentots pulling handcarts, promenading white women in hooped gowns, Dutch burghers on horseback and lumbering ox teams drawing carts laden with wine and water casks, sacks of cereal and mounds of potatoes. The shops lining Strand Street were crammed with produce. There were wine shops, tea and coffee houses and taverns. Sailors, merchants and men in Dutch and French military uniforms milled about the pavements. The prosperity of the town was obvious and James found its bustle and business invigorating. Although he had no great affection for Dutch authority, it was good to be here.
Stepping around heaps of steaming dung in the street, he made his way to the residence of the governor, whom he had first met while here with Endeavour. It was built in the Dutch style, with a high, ornately rounded gable and whitewashed walls. Window boxes bright with petunia and geranium blooms stood out against the whiteness. The flag of the Vereenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie—the Dutch East India Company—hung from a pole above the entrance to the residence, which had a portal of teak and a moulded plaster architrave. A flight of wide steps led up to the front door. An elderly Negro retainer with frizzy white hair answered James’s knock and ushered him into a large drawing room.
‘Cook, James Cook. Of His Majesty King George III’s naval vessel, Resolution.’
‘Baron Joachim van Plettenberg. We meet again, Captain. Please be seated.’
In his 50s, the governor was short and stout, with a chubby chin and a pale, moonish face. His frock coat was black, his waistcoat bright orange, his wig heavily powdered. He spoke English but with a heavy Germanic accent. And there was a wariness about him, James sensed. Was he going to be obstructive in some way? Coffee was brought in by the Negro servant and they sipped it on the sofa under the window. There was a large bureau beside the fireplace, a globe table in the corner, a glass-fronted bookcase across one wall and large portraits of William V, Prince of Orange, and his wife, Princess Wilhelmina, on the other.
Setting his coffee cup down, the governor said, ‘I have read something of your long voyage in Endeavour, Captain.’
‘In the news-sheets, I presume. The full account will not be published for some time yet.’
‘Yes. In the news-sheets.’ His expression became clouded. ‘You have claimed New Holland for England, the reports said.’
‘I have. And I named the continent New South Wales.’
The governor looked distinctly unimpressed. ‘Were you unaware, Lieutenant, that my country had discovered New Holland many years earlier?’
James returned the governor’s haughty stare without flinching. ‘I was aware of the discovery.’ He added, pointedly, ‘Just as I was well aware of the Englishman William Dampier’s arrival on the western shore of the continent in 1699.’ He paused to allow this salient fact to be registered. ‘The Dutch explorers did not venture past the Gulf of Carpentaria. My expedition charted the continent’s entire east coast, and the strait to its north. And claimed the land for England.’
Looking uncomfortable, the governor waved his hand airily. ‘New Holland is a barren place, from the accounts I have read. Not worth having.’ He coughed several times, then recovered. ‘But this continent,’ he said, pointing to the north, ‘is endowed with great riches, my explorers tell me. Fertile soil, fine timber, precious minerals, navigable rivers.’ He smiled smugly. ‘Once we have cleared all the niggers out of the way, it will make a priceless addition to the Dutch empire.’
James did not stay for much longer. Over their coffee and cake they discussed the provisioning of Resolution and Adventure, then the governor began to question him as to the intent of his voyage. Since James was not at liberty to disclose this information, the meeting came to an abrupt end. James excused himself, bade the governor farewell and walked back to the dock. On the
way he thought that the Dutch were welcome to Africa and its savages—he and his expedition had bolder ambitions. Greater continental ones.
Clerke had been ashore for some days. Back on Resolution, in the Great Cabin after the midday meal, he reported to James. ‘I spent some time in the taverns of this town, sir. I talked with a man from Bristol who is involved in the wine trade here. He was a mine of information about the vessels lately in this port.’
‘Such as?’
‘Recently a French navy sloop has been here. Its sailors told the Englishman that the sloop had been on a voyage of discovery, out of Mauritius.’
‘Where to?’
‘On a line of longitude directly south of Mauritius.’ Clerke lowered his voice. ‘The Frenchie sailors said that last February, sailing due south, they had come upon land at latitude 48 degrees.’
James began to feel discomfited. The French, trespassing, again. And no doubt in search of the Great Southern Continent. He said, ‘What did they report of this land?’
‘They coasted for 60 leagues, eastward, then came upon a bay in which they thought to anchor. Boats were hoisted and the bay was sounded to find suitable ground for an anchorage, but a storm blew up and the ships were driven off the coast.’ The officer’s expression darkened. ‘They left the men in the boats to fend for themselves.’
‘They did not return for them?’
‘No. And the land was bleak and barren. So doubtless they perished.’
‘And did the French claim this land for their king?’
‘No. There was no opportunity to do so, the sailors told the innkeeper.’