‘Yes, Mr Molineaux. Her eyes should be clear and bright,’ recited Isaac. ‘If her eyes are cloudy or teary there’s something wrong. Her coat should be smooth and shiny. If she’s all fluffed up she might be sick, and if she’s all hunched and droopy she’s sick too. And I have to watch her feet in case they need trimming.’
‘You have it, lad. And Mr Manley?’
‘Yes, Mr Molineaux?’
For the first time the master was smiling at him. ‘Remember where you are, up there. Captain’ll be watching you. A bright lad like you can take advantage of that.’
‘Yes, Mr Molineaux,’ said Isaac.
CHAPTER 10
Isaac
September 1768
Europe was behind them now. The Endeavour headed onwards towards Madeira. The weather stayed clear, the fresh breeze filled the sails. On Monday, the 12th of September, as Isaac sat by the Goat on the milking stool, listening to the squirt of milk into the bucket, he heard the lookout call. The steep green slopes of the volcanic island of Porto Santo were in sight. By noon the main island of Madeira was visible, too.
By Tuesday night they were anchored at Funchal, their first port since Plymouth, next to another British Royal Navy ship and other merchant vessels.
Cook and the gentlemen went ashore, to stay in the house of one of the chief merchants of the town. But the rest of the crew stayed busy, fumigating and scrubbing their quarters and airing the bedding and clothes, while the ship’s caulking was renewed by the dock workers.
Even the view from the deck was fascinating: the work on the many other ships in port; horses and mules carrying the stores of fruit and vegetables the captain had ordered (carts and carriages couldn’t be used, as the island had no paved roads); dark-skinned couriers carrying goat skins of wines on their heads. There was a steady stream of those, as Cook had ordered three thousand and thirty-two gallons of the strong local wine.
It was all extraordinarily exciting, especially for a boy who’d never been more than twenty miles from home before. Only the Goat seemed unmoved, munching her hay and staring at the scene as though she’d seen it all before.
It was strange after even so short a time at sea, thought Isaac, to hear land noises again, and feel the purposeless bobbing of a boat at anchor. He lay in his hammock that first night and wondered what the rest of Madeira was like. If only there were time for shore leave here.
But there’d be months at Tahiti, he reassured himself. And Tahiti was far more exotic than Madeira, where every merchant was an Englishman. Tahiti had only been discovered by Captain Wallis on his last voyage.
Suddenly a noise woke him fully. He sat up, making the hammock swing. ‘What is it?’
There was a mutter from the hammock next to him, ‘Sounds like some fool didn’t make the anchor fast.’
‘Is it dangerous?’
‘Nah. Go to sleep, will you? They’ll fix it right t’morra.’
Isaac lay down again. And this time he slept.
The tragedy next morning happened so fast that it was hard to believe it had happened at all. One moment Isaac was scrubbing the quarterdeck around the goat pen and watching the scene below—the dockyard men with their barrels of pitch, the hawkers on the dockside, the ship’s boat with three men in it, carrying the anchor around to its proper position.
Then there was a splash, as they shoved the anchor from the boat, and a yell…
Isaac dropped his scrubbing brush and ran to the rail. What had happened?
There were only two men in the ship’s boat now, not three, frantically pulling up the anchor that had been dropped overboard only a few seconds earlier.
Up, up, it took so much more time to pull up an anchor by hand in a small, dangerously rocking rowboat than to drop it over. And then they had it, but with the anchor now there was a bundle of old clothes.
But it isn’t, thought Isaac blankly. It’s a body.
He ran down the companionway onto the lower deck. ‘Who is it?’
The youth at the rail turned. It was Jonathan. ‘Mr Weir,’ he said shortly.
Weir was the master’s mate and quartermaster: a mild man, and good at his job.
‘Is he…is he all right?’
‘What do you think?’ Jonathan still stared down at the body in the boat. Then he looked at Isaac and his look softened. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘He got caught on the anchor and it dragged him down. They couldn’t get…It’s your first death at sea, isn’t it?’
Isaac nodded. ‘Well, there’ll be more,’ said Jonathan. ‘Get used to it.’ But his voice was gentler than his words. He gestured back at the body in the boat. ‘At least he’ll have a proper grave here and not be buried in Davy Jones’s locker.’
The boys watched as the boat with the rag-like body was slowly rowed to shore.
The Endeavour stayed another four days, taking on board fresh beef, onions and more of the green vegetables Cook was so keen about, and refilling the ship’s barrels with wine and fresh water.
Isaac watched as the sailor Henry Stephens and the marine Thomas Dunster were tied to the grate and given twelve lashes each for refusing to eat their fresh beef. The lash cut into their backs, and their blood splattered on the deck. Isaac found it hard to believe that the two men would risk a whipping just because they didn’t want to eat the beef. Yes, it was tough, and the men’s gums were swollen and toothless from long years of scurvy and eating poor food, but they could have cut it into tiny shreds with their knives then sucked at the meat till it softened enough to swallow, like most of the older sailors.
I wonder if I’ll ever find it hard to eat fresh meat, thought Isaac, and have to be lashed till I’ll eat it, for the sake of my health.
Finally a giant bullock was taken on board, too—fresh meat on the hoof, to eat in the weeks to come.
And then they sailed again, with John Thurman ‘pressed’ from one of the other ships in harbour to take the place of Weir.
But this time they had a new master’s mate, as well. Isaac Manley, promoted to Weir’s position. His duties were much the same—any fetching and carrying that Molineaux needed doing. But it was a sign that his hard work was appreciated.
CHAPTER 11
The Goat
October–November 1768
Life settled into a routine for the Goat. She missed her kids—for weeks she still started at each creak of the ship, wondering if they were far off, calling her. But this was the life she had known for three years: wide skies and wide seas; the rock of the boat and the smell of salt spray; the sails billowing above her; now a Boy to attend to her needs.
She liked the Boy. His hands were gentler than the sailor who’d looked after her on board the Dolphin, and who’d left her tethered in a corner of the dockyard at the end of the voyage without a farewell glance.
She liked the Boy’s smell. She liked the way he talked to her as he milked. Most of all she liked the way he checked on her in rough weather, taking her below at the first sign of a storm, even though it meant more work for himself.
Madeira was behind them, and the high peak of Tenerife. The ship sailed south southwest towards the sunsets, into the heart of the Atlantic Ocean.
There was always something for the Goat to watch during the day. A flying fish flew through the porthole and into Mr Green’s cabin on the quarterdeck. The Goat heard his sudden laughter as he came out of his cabin onto her deck, the giant fish in his arms. Banks’s servants caught a shark, and Banks and Solander had it for dinner. But most of the sailors refused to touch the meat—sharks ate drowned sailors, and anyone who ate a shark was no better than a cannibal.
Nights were quieter. The Goat shared her deck with the officer of the watch. It was company for both of them. Sometimes quiet Mr Gore would bring her a bit of ship’s biscuit. And as the voyage went on, even the captain sometimes paused to rub her ears, and feed her a wisp of hay.
The Goat liked the nights. The stars were sharp and clear above her, and even on moonless nights the ocean glowed
about the ship. Even the waves seemed bright.
The stars changed as they approached the equator. Day and night were equal here, neither longer than the other, and the sun seemed to dive into the sea, instead of drifting into dusk.
The heat was like a blanket. The Goat watched as anyone who had never crossed the equator before was ducked three times into the ocean. Her Boy was ducked—seated on a cross of wood, with ropes to steady him, then pulled up high above the ship and dropped, so he fell down into the waves.
The Boy gasped and spluttered as he was pulled up and dropped twice more, which worried the Goat. The Boy was hers! But he was laughing as he was finally hauled on board.
Mr Banks and the captain had never crossed the equator either, but they chose to pay a fine of four days’ spirits ration rather than be ducked. Mr Banks even had to pay the fine for his two greyhounds.
The Goat, of course, had already crossed the equator twice.
The weather was so humid now it felt like you could scoop fresh water from the air. All the iron on the ship began to rust, and the Goat heard Mr Banks complain his books had turned mouldy.
The airless heat continued. The Goat had no wish now to do anything more than lie on her straw and watch the world. And there was always something happening: sailors fishing, or hauling in a dolphin—Cook had issued them all with fishing lines for relaxation as well as the chance of catching fresh food. There were always officers coming and going, and the tall figure of the captain, checking, always checking.
By now the captain knew where to scratch her ears, just as she liked it. The captain had known goats before. She never even tried to nip him these days. Or hardly ever, anyway.
At daybreak on the 8th of November the sailor on watch high up in the rigging spotted the coast of South America. They sailed south, along the coast, past high green mountains, to the busy Brazilian port of Rio, held by the Portuguese.
Rio was noisy. The Goat hated the noise, and the disturbance to her routine. Even worse, the crew and the captain were upset too—the Portuguese governor refused to believe they were a scientific expedition and it took days of arguing for Cook to get the supplies of food and water—and fresh grass for the Goat—that they badly needed for the next leg of their journey.
When the fresh grass was finally brought to the Goat it tasted wrong. It was wiry and too coarse. She nipped the Boy, to show him what she thought of it, and tried to kick the milk pail. But the Boy just laughed, and moved the pail out of the way.
Then the Boy vanished for a whole day! Someone else had the hide to come up onto her deck and try to milk and feed her. She did manage to kick the bucket over then—the fool didn’t even notice she was about to kick.
The Goat called for the Boy several times during the day, her sharp ‘eeegh’ mingling with the strange voices, the sounds of carriages as well as the more familiar noises of a dockyard anywhere.
But the Boy returned for the evening milking, bringing her a present of carrots and an apple, soft but still sweet. She ate the carrots from his hand, then nibbled his fingers in a friendly way, to show that she had forgiven him for leaving her. She didn’t even try to kick the milk bucket over. He smelled of strange food now, and excitement.
‘Eeegh,’ said the Goat, to welcome him. And the Boy smiled, and rubbed her ears.
CHAPTER 12
Isaac
November 1768
Isaac leaned over the rail as the ship was towed from the harbour, and gazed at the docks as they grew smaller and smaller. He’d been looking forward to his first leave in a foreign port. Jonathan had promised he could join him and a couple of the other midshipmen. But the Portuguese had been so unfriendly—even locking up a group of seamen buying stores—that no leave had been granted.
But at least he’d had a day ashore, helping unload stores.
Suddenly a yell came from the other side of the ship:
‘Man overboard!’
And then another voice, ‘Lower the boat!’
Isaac ran across the deck as Jonathan came up the companionway. ‘Who is it? What happened?’
Isaac shook his head. The two boys peered over the side, but there was no sight of the sailor. And then his body appeared, floating upwards. It was too late. Two dead already, thought Isaac, and we are still at the start of our voyage.
Even then they weren’t to leave Rio in peace. The fort fired two cannonballs at the ship, thinking they were leaving without permission. And when finally the ship was brought out into the open sea, there wasn’t enough wind to fill her sails.
‘Cursed place,’ muttered Mr Gore, as Isaac brought the milking bucket and stool up onto the quarterdeck. ‘What next I wonder?’
Suddenly Isaac gave a grin. ‘Look, sir!’ he said.
A giant cloud of butterflies was heading towards the ship. As they watched the bright creatures began to land on rigging, rails, even on the crew.
One tried to land on the Goat’s nose. She snapped at it, then looked surprised at the flapping morsel in her mouth and spat it out.
A full day later, the wind rose and filled the sails, and Rio and its harbour vanished behind them.
CHAPTER 13
The Goat
January 1769
The ship headed south again, towards the tip of South America, three thousand miles away. Every day it grew cooler as they headed south towards the Antarctic, then cooler still.
The Goat was even more glad to have the Boy to look after her now. All down the coast the storms buffeted them, and giant waves that reared above the ship or carried her up, up, up, and then crashing down. It was too rough even for the sure-footed Goat up on the deck. She was kept below on a closed lower deck, with the other animals about her; sometimes ankle-deep in filthy water, no proper bedding, no hay to graze at while she watched the clouds go by.
She didn’t like it, and she made her disapproval known. Mr Banks’s greyhound limped for days after a good kick from the Goat.
The sailors were on a four-hour watch now—four hours on duty, four hours off, all through the day and night: a hard regime made necessary by the constant battering.
It was too rough for the men to spend their spare time up on deck. When the Boy was off duty he kept the Goat company, even down in the stinking airless hold. Most of his time on watch he spent with her as well, holding the pannikin of oats for her to feed from, so they weren’t spilled as the storms shook and lashed the ship, and steadying the milking bucket between his knees so the precious fluid wasn’t lost either. Now he was used to it, Lieutenant Cook liked her milk as much as Wallis did, and it was a mark of his favour to offer his officers a cup.
The weather grew worse. At last, on the 11th of January, 1769, the lookout saw land to the southeast. It was Tierra del Fuego, the most southerly land that any European sailor had yet reached, a place of cold dark mountains and high snowy plateaus, where the sky always seemed to be low and grey.
Now the most dangerous part of their voyage was before them.
Isaac had heard the older sailors talk of ‘rounding the horn’. Ferdinand Magellan had been the first person to find a way, or passage, down past South America to the ocean he called the Pacific way back in 1519. Two Dutchmen had found another passage through the islands at the tip of South America, past the southernmost island they had named after the town of Hoorn in Holland.
Both passages were desperately dangerous, Jonathan had told him, with waves that could reach many times higher than the biggest sailing ship, especially where the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans met. Jonathan seemed to remember anything he’d ever heard or read. But the riches from the Spice Islands in the Pacific were so great that merchants and governments were willing to risk their ships—and the men who sailed in them.
Isaac felt the cold bite deep into his bones as they sailed south. The wind rose to a shrieking gale. Cook issued the crew with their fearnoughts, the heavy felted jackets and trousers that kept you warm even in the wet, with strict instructions that the crew were to wea
r them at all times. Cook was obsessed with keeping his men healthy. They’d not only eat as well as he could provide for them, they were to be kept warm and dry as well.
And still the seas grew wilder.
Cold green water washed over the ship. White foam crowned even the highest rigging. Isaac took the Goat down to the lower deck, with bales of hay about her to soften her falls. Even the steady-footed Goat couldn’t keep upright as the ship lurched up the giant waves, then lunged down into the depths between them.
Again and again Cook tried to get his ship into the Le Maire Straits, the six hundred miles of water between Tierra del Fuego and Staten Island, that ships had to pass to get from the Atlantic to the Pacific Ocean. But the waves were too high and the wind was too strong.
They made it on the fourth attempt.
By now everyone was longing for time on shore, and a break from the endless pounding seas. The ship needed fresh food, firewood and water, as well as grass for the Goat, and Banks and his men were eager to look for the new plants and animals that they hadn’t been allowed to search for at Rio.
The ship dropped anchor in a bay the captain called Good Success. Even here, in the shelter of the harbour, icy gusts lashed the ship. The air smelled of snow.
It was warmer down in the hold, but the Goat was glad to be on her deck, and able to check on what was happening on her ship. She watched as Cook and a party of sailors went ashore in the ship’s boat, then turned as the Boy approached.
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