by Lay, Graeme
Wales looked up at the hill from which he had taken his observations. ‘I have to point out, sir, that your recorded figure is 40 seconds too far west.’ He pressed his hands together apologetically. ‘It is but a minor error, sir.’
James’s eyes were fixed on the astronomer. He said firmly, ‘No recorded error of longitude or latitude can be considered minor, Wales.’
The astronomer looked away. ‘But the mistake is excusable. You and Green had only the lunar tables in 1770. You did not have the benefit of a K1 timekeeper.’
For some moments James did not reply. He did not doubt Wales’s finding, for the man was a meticulous surveyor. But the error embarrassed him deeply. In the establishment of co-ordinates, exactitude was everything. One degree of longitude equalled nearly 70 miles, measured at the equator; so in these latitudes a 40 minute error would amount to a significant distance. Even a 10 minute error on a chart could prove fatal. He would have to amend his chart of the sound to correct his mistake. Still feeling dismayed, he said, ‘Thank you for detecting that inaccuracy, Wales. Your work is of inestimable value to this expedition.’
Wales nodded appreciatively, then gathered up his instrument box and went hurriedly below.
As October drifted into November and the temperatures became milder, James once again examined the charts he had drawn earlier of Queen Charlotte Sound. He had corrected the longitude figure. Now he was reminded that on his chart the western and eastern areas of the sound were still blank, and since it was likely that this would be his last visit here he was determined to survey these parts, including the top end of the elongated inlet.
On 5 November James, Pickersgill and the Forsters were rowed up the sound in the pinnace. Near the southern extremity of Arapawa Island, George Forster pointed to a canoe which had appeared and was coming towards them. ‘Look! Is that not Pitere and his people?’
It was. The trio greeted them warmly. By gestures George explained their intentions, waving further south. Pitere made negative motions, pointing instead towards the end of Arapawa Island, then made circular gestures with his hand. ‘He says we should go around to the other side of the island,’ said George. ‘There is a better way on that side, he says.’
‘We’ll do it,’ said James.
After doubling the island they entered a long channel, bordered by the heights of Arapawa Island to their left and an equally high, irregular peninsula on their right. Both sides of the channel were heavily forested and the shoreline consisted of broken brown rocks. Headlands slid down into the water, their ends dark and rounded like the snouts of sleeping badgers. They rowed on along what was a long corridor of water, sheltered by the hills on both sides. The channel water was smooth, the air warm and still. The pinnace was watched from the narrow shoreline by dozens of men, women and children who called out greetings to them. When they went ashore in a bay they were greeted cordially by an elderly chief and his people. The chief pressed noses and told them his name was Te Ringapuhi. When James pointed further up the channel and asked, ‘Raukawa moana?’ the chief nodded and said, ‘Ae, ae, Raukawa.’
They rowed on. Now they could feel the tidal flow in the channel strengthening, and see sinews of current streaming past the pinnace. The oarsmen began to strain. Half an hour later the channel narrowed then swung right. To their left was a high hill whose forested slopes swept down to a sandy bay; to the right the irregular peninsula was beginning to taper. The channel swung past the bay. Minutes later, they saw it: Cook’s Strait, and in the distance the vast, shadowy shape of the northern island, the Maoris’ Te Ika a Maui. The peninsula on the right, resembling in profile a dragon’s tail, had tapered away to just a rocky point. The pair of promontories on either side of the opening to the channel formed a portal, barely 100 yards apart. ‘Row right to the entrance,’ James ordered.
Between the two promontories the water was green and churning, but beyond it they saw that the great strait was unusually calm, allowing a clear view of the rugged coast on the far side of the strait. ‘Had we known of this entrance earlier,’ said James ruefully, ‘it would have saved us much hard sailing to Ship Cove.’ He took his sketch pad from his bag. ‘But we can now chart it,’ he said, and began sketching the channel’s surrounding features.
Atop the headland on the northern side of the entrance was a pa, strategically placed and surrounded by palisades. A crowd had gathered on and around the headland and were watching the boat. The rowers and their oars strained against the powerful currents.
‘The flow must be approaching four knots,’ said Pickersgill. ‘A flood tide.’
‘But the entrance could admit a ship,’ replied James, his eyes moving from the headland to his sketch pad and back again. ‘I believe this passage represents a notable find.’
The next day Pitere and his companions returned to Resolution. Grateful for their assistance, James admitted Pitere to the Great Cabin and presented him with a suit of used clothing. A decanter of wine was broached, and Pitere joined in the drinking. Still determined to find out what had happened to Furneaux and Adventure before they left the sound, James cross-examined his guest, with George Forster’s assistance. ‘How long ago had the other great ship left this place?’ he asked.
Pitere, his words now becoming slurred, indicated that it was about ten months.
‘And how long had she stayed here?’
‘About 20 days.’
James put his face close to Pitere’s. ‘And was there any killing while the other ship was here?’
Pitere belched. ‘Kaore,’ he said, adamantly. No.
On 10 November Resolution was unmoored and she was taken out of the cove in preparation for departure. She was now well stocked with fish, fowl meat, wild celery and scurvy grass. The water casks were full and the repairs had been carried out with what remained of their spares. The boats were hoisted aboard and made fast; the cannons fired a last salute.
At daylight AM weighed and stood out of the sound with a gentle breeze at WNW. At eight, hauled round the two brothers and steered for Cape Campbell which is at the SE entrance of the Strait. In the morning the wind veered round by the west to south and forced us more to the east than I intended. At 7 o’clock in the evening the Snowy Mountains bore WBS and Cape Palliser North half west distant 16 or 17 leagues. From this Cape I shall, for the third time, take my departure. After a few hours calm a breeze sprung up at North with which we steered SBE all sails set, with a view of getting into the latitude of 54° or 55°. My intention is to cross this vast Ocean nearly in these parallels, and so as to pass over those parts which were left unexplored last summer.
The long haul home had begun.
Twenty-seven
30 NOVEMBER 1774
Dearest Elizabeth,
Resolution has made great progress these past three weeks, aided by favourable westerlies and a following sea. During one four-day period, for each 24 hours we logged between 140 and 183 miles, the latter figure being an exceptional distance. This course has taken us from New Zealand almost to the coast of South America. What a fine ship Resolution has proved to be!
It is now my intention to steer for the western entrance to the Straits of Magellan and sail down and chart the western and southern coasts of Tierra del Fuego. If this ambition is successful, it will be of more advantage to navigation than anything I could expect to achieve in a higher latitude. We will then pass through the Strait le Maire, a pathway to the South Atlantic which I well remember from Endeavour’s voyage (although sailing in the opposite direction).
I have thus done with the South Pacific Ocean and have proven beyond all doubt that no landmass exists in its high latitudes. I flatter myself that no one can think that I have left it unexplored, or that more could have been done in one voyage towards obtaining that end than has been done in this. By the New Year, barring any mishap, we should be in the South Atlantic and hence truly homeward bound. But first there is further exploring in the high latitudes of that vast ocean, pursuing lands described but
of course never visited by that great Scotch fraudster, Alexander Dalrymple. Such lands as may lie deep in the South Atlantic I believe will be mere fragments, and of a bleak and inhospitable nature. Although it is my duty to chart such scraps, it is also my anticipation that they will amount to little.
I am still wracked with worry over the fate of Furneaux and Adventure. Whether the vessel foundered off Cape Palliser, or was attacked by Maoris, or simply returned home, we have no way of knowing. Furneaux’s failure to leave a message stating his intentions constitutes a dereliction of duty, I believe. It would have been so simple an act, yet he still did not think to do so, causing us endless anxieties regarding Adventure’s fate.
From the South Atlantic we will bear north bound for Cape Town, the first outpost of civilisation we will have visited since we were last in that very colony, in October 1772. A full two years and much hard sailing ago. I hope against hope that waiting in Cape Town will be news from you, dearest Beth, since I did advise you that our return course would take us back to Southern Africa. Cape Town is a port-of-call whose facilities are extensive, in contrast to the pestilent cesspool that is Batavia, which it was Endeavour’s misfortune to experience on my earlier voyage. How I now regret that we did not return to England via Cape Horn and Cape Town in 1771. That course may well have saved lives.
For you and our three sons, Christmas is approaching. You will doubtless be savouring the autumn days in London, with the oaks, elms and chestnuts on the common clinging to their last leaves, and the morning mists drifting on the river. I picture in my mind James and Nathaniel playing conkers and roasting chestnuts, two of my favourite autumn pastimes when I was a boy in Great Ayton. I am greatly looking forward to taking you all to Yorkshire after my return. There I will introduce our boys to Christiana, Margaret and my father, and show James, Nathaniel and George my rural haunts. I will climb Roseberry Topping with them, and show them the views of the Tees Valley. And I will take them to Whitby, where they can meet my good friends, the Walkers.
Last week marked my 46th birthday, an advanced age for a Royal Navy mariner. The advent of that date reminded me not only of my own mortality, but the fact that I have missed so much of my family’s life. My love of the sea and determination to discover, explore and chart new lands cannot conceal the fact that for these past 20 years I have neglected those other, equally vital considerations. There is the distressing fact too, that my health has suffered during this voyage, and continues to give me concern. The bilious colic and the constipation, although intermittent, have not left me. I often sleep poorly.
Consequently, I have been giving serious thought to my life subsequent to this voyage, and have come to an individual decision that, while wishing to remain in the King’s Navy as one of its most loyal servants, I will seek some shore-based service which will permit me to live at home. There I will relish the company of you and our children, while writing a full and honest account of the two great voyages I have made. There can be no more global voyaging for me. I have done all that I was instructed to do, and to the best of my ability. It is my hope that the Navy will provide me with a pension which will support me in this ambition. Naturally, I have spoken of this to no one. For the time being my energies must go into the satisfactory culmination of this circumnavigation, returning Resolution to England with no further loss of life.
Thereafter, it is my intention that my life will be shared with you and our children, at Assembly Row. Until then, dearest, I am, Your loving husband, James
On 17 December they sighted Cape Desado, on Desolation Island, then proceeded south-east. The South American coast here was a maze of small high islands, and James kept Resolution some distance from the coast until a few days before Christmas, when they moved closer to the shore of Tierra del Fuego. It appeared bleak and threatening, with spikes of jagged rock soaring from the sea. James was chary of landing anywhere here. But mindful of the long sweep of ocean they had just endured and the need for rest and provisioning, he decided that they should seek a haven somewhere on this coast, however inhospitable it appeared. When they espied a narrow passage between two rock towers, James ordered the helmsmen to enter it. Minutes later the wind fell away, leaving them at the mercy of a powerful current.
‘Leadsman! A sounding!’ James shouted from the quarterdeck. Resolution was drifting helplessly. From around the decks, the crew stared at the surrounding rocks fearfully. This was a terrible shore on which to end their lives.
The leadsman’s call came: ‘One hundred and seventy fathoms!’
Impossible to anchor at such a depth. James’s response was immediate. ‘Hoist out the boats!’
The 16 oarsmen pulled, for all their worth, and Resolution slowly followed the towing boats, just bettering the current. Two hours later, off the starboard bow, they spied a sandy cove. As night began to fall, the ship was dragged slowly towards it. Off the cove the leadsman called a sandy bottom at 30 fathoms. Resolution’s kedge anchor and a hawser were carried out, holding the ship at a temporary anchorage. The next day the boats were put out and found a more suitable one, off a shingle beach, overlooked by a wooded valley. A clear stream flowed through the valley, in which a colony of geese had made their home, so the location offered the Resolutions all they sought: fresh meat, water and wood. Wales measured the bay’s co-ordinates as 55 degrees 25 minutes south and 69 degrees 40 minutes west.
Two days before Christmas, late in the evening, the marine sentry showed midshipman Vancouver into the Great Cabin. The young man was visibly upset. Getting to his feet, James said, ‘What is it?’
Vancouver swallowed. ‘It’s Wedgeborough, sir. He became drunk, went to the head, and hasn’t returned. We fear that he’s fallen overboard and drowned, sir.’
James cursed under his breath. Wedgeborough was a sot. He had fallen overboard while drunk before, off Erromanga, and had had to be rescued. He had recklessly killed a man on Tanna. And now he was drowned. Then he felt a surge of sorrow. Yes, Wedgeborough might have been an irresponsible fool, but he didn’t deserve to die like this, so far from home. He was the expedition’s fourth fatality. But again, James consoled himself, none had died from the scurvy. He clapped a comforting hand on Vancouver’s shoulder.
CHRISTMAS EVE 1774
The day had been warm and still, the daylight hours long. The shore party which James led had shot more than 60 of the big geese at point-blank range, the creatures having no fear of firearms. ‘Not so much sitting ducks as sitting geese,’ Clerke observed wryly. The birds were brought back to the ship, where they were handed in to the galley to be prepared for next day’s Christmas dinner.
On Christmas Eve a party of Fuegans came alongside the ship in a canoe and indicated that they wished to come aboard. The crew stared in astonishment as the male natives climbed up onto the deck, leaving their women and infants in the canoes. The men were short, squat and bow-legged, and all walked awkwardly, their toes turning inwards. They looked malnourished, shivered from the cold, and wore only pieces of sealskin over their shoulders.
As they walked about the deck, some of the sailors held their noses. The Fuegans’ bodies were smeared with dirt mixed with seal fat which had turned rancid. Their long hair was thick with the same substances. Their leader, a hunched fellow with long matted hair, pointed to himself and said, ‘Yamesk-una.’ He carried a harpoon made of bone.
From the quarterdeck, Johann Forster stared at the group, then turned away in revulsion. ‘They are simian,’ he declared. ‘They lack only tails, or else I should immediately classify them as members of the monkey tribe.’
‘Cheerful little people, nevertheless,’ said Clerke.
They were looking around, grinning at the crew, touching the mast and rails in wonder. Their leader looked up at James and grinned, showing several missing teeth.
James nodded in agreement with Clerke’s summation. ‘Yes, though it would seem they have little to be cheerful about.’ He shook his head. ‘Now is their summer. Imagine what it is like in
this land in winter. Wretched.’
He walked down onto the main deck and greeted them. ‘Welcome aboard, gentlemen.’ He gestured towards the companionway. ‘I invite you to join me in the Great Cabin.’
Forster looked at James in disbelief. ‘You are allowing these creatures to go below?’
James gave him a frosty look. ‘Certainly. As we are guests in their land, so we are obliged by the laws of hospitality to return the favour.’ He turned and winked at Clerke. ‘I shall make a point of first showing them your cabin, Forster.’ As he led the natives towards the companionway, Forster’s expression became apoplectic.
Yet within the confines of the Great Cabin, even James found the Fuegans’ bodily stench intolerable. He quickly pressed upon the leader three knives and several medallions, then ushered the group back up to the deck. They climbed down and joined their women and children in the canoes, then paddled away, some waving goodbye delightedly.
Below decks, the Christmas Eve drinking began, James having sanctioned the broaching of their very last cask of Madeira and another of port wine. While it was still twilight, riotous laughter, fiddler’s music and the skirl of bagpipes began to ring through the ship, while in the Great Cabin the officers and gentlemen sipped their port and reminisced about Christmases past. James recounted the visit he and Elizabeth had made to Great Ayton, three years earlier, to introduce her to his family; Pickersgill recalled his boyhood white Christmases in West Tansfield, also in Yorkshire. Clerke spoke of his snowbound Christmases on the family farm in Essex. There was acclamation in the cabin when James announced that he was naming this isolated anchorage Christmas Sound.
The port continued to flow, along with more reminiscences. Only Johann Forster failed to join in the festivities. Declining to drink, he became morose and silent. Attempting to jolly him along, Clerke put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Forster, what is it? What’s wrong?’