by Anthony Hill
3
BOUND FOR RIO
Across the Atlantic, October to November 1768
There was no going home. Nor, in truth, did Isaac want to. When he wrote his first letter to Mamma and Papa, the boy spoke only of his continuing health and capital appetite. Doubt and anxiety he dared not mention – for his parents’ sake, as well as his own. Indeed, as Endeavour left Madeira and headed across the Atlantic for Brazil, she met with fair winds and good, following seas. And in these sunlit tropical waters there were times of languid content to counter, if not erase, more sombre island memories.
One day they saw the volcanic peak of Tenerife far in the distance; and that evening it continued to glow soft pink and golden above the clouds long after sunset, like an ethereal beacon showing their way.
Sometimes, on hot nights, the boys would bring their blankets on deck. They’d lie there happy in their growing friendship – Nick, the ragged dockside imp and Isaac, the well-bred second son – listening to the watchmen singing softly to the plangent music of a fiddler playing a shanty.
Farewell and adieu unto you Spanish ladies,
Farewell and adieu to you ladies of Spain . . .
An awning was stretched amidships. And sometimes when the morning work was done – cabins cleaned, decks swabbed, brass bell polished raw – Isaac would sit in the shade awhile, watching Captain Cook and his officers with their sextants on the quarterdeck reading the midday sun to calculate their position. The young Midshipmen were hard practising at it too. Cook, the navigator, insisted on it.
‘There’s no point learning to sail a ship,’ he explained, ‘if you don’t know where you’re sailing to, or can’t lay it down rightly on a chart once ye’ve got there.’
And to the astronomer, Charles Green, sent by the Royal Society to supervise the observations of Venus at Tahiti, Cook added, ‘I know the mathematics are not easy, but anything can be mastered with perseverance.’
Isaac knew the time would come when he would also have to master the skills of finding his latitude and longitude at sea. But not yet. The ’prentice boy was still too new, with so much else to learn, to push himself that far forward.
So he would sometimes cast a line with other men of an afternoon, hoping to catch something, though rarely succeeding. More often than not he’d see the flying fish whirring by, silver and black. Some landed on the deck, which saved the trouble of fishing for them. One even flew inside the cabin porthole of Mr Green, who presented it after breakfast for Sydney Parkinson to sketch.
But from time to time the fishermen got a bigger bite than anticipated.
Late one morning, a shark was seen trawling behind the ship. At once a baited hook was thrown, and to Isaac’s delight it was taken. But what a fight the shark put up! Thrashing and struggling, it tried to break free: mouth gnashing, blood staining the water. Yet the men hauling it in were too strong. An iron gaff pierced the flesh. With a final Heave away, bullies! the creature was hoisted aboard.
It was only young, not much more than six or seven feet long. But it had the defiance of age. It lay gasping for life in its own crimson pool on the deck, eyes flashing hate to the end, and teeth aimed like knives at its enemies.
Eventually the ship’s butcher, Henry Jeffs, killed it with a blow. A number of sucking fish on the body were given to Mr Banks to preserve for science in his spirit jars. The rest of the shark was cut up and – even though it was almost midday and dinner time – cooked by John Thompson into a stew. It was considered excellent fare in the Great Cabin and at the officers’ table in the wardroom. The gentlemen, it seemed, would eat anything! But down on the mess deck there were the usual suspicions.
‘Eh, ’ave you boys ever eat shark?’ asked old John Ravenhill, the sailmaker. At forty-nine, he was one of the most experienced hands aboard – kept afloat, it was said, by his long experience with the rum ration. ‘’Ave you ’ad such vittles afore?’
‘No,’ said Isaac. ‘First time.’
‘Well, there be something to know about sharks.’
‘What’s that, John?’ enquired Nick Young.
‘Sharks can smell death followin’ in the wake of a ship. They be man-eaters, too. And if a man – or boy – feeds of a shark . . . why, it be almost cannibalism.’
Isaac pushed his wooden trencher aside. So did the others. But the dishes were soon pushed back again. The cat-o-nine-tails hanging in its red bag, and the livid scars on Henry Stephens’s back, reminded them of the punishment awaiting people who refused their victuals.
Yet James Cook was learning too. Endeavour was his first major command, and he realised he couldn’t flog healthy diets into men. A more subtle approach was needed. So, when it came time to open the barrels of sauerkraut, he let it be known it was a delicacy intended for the officers and gentry. Ordinary sailors could have some if they chose – but that was up to them.
‘It don’t smell too good,’ said the Gunner, Stephen Forwood, as Isaac passed by with a bowl of fermented cabbage for the wardroom. ‘Stinks, in fact.’
‘They like it up top. Say it’s delicious. Good against scurvy, too.’
‘Well, give us a taste, then.’
‘I don’t think I’m allowed. It’s meant for the Master and Lieutenants. Mr Banks’s gents, too.’
‘And not for us swabs!’ butted in Forwood’s mate, Alex Simpson. ‘’Ere, let me try it.’
Able Seaman Simpson leaned across and grabbed a handful of sauerkraut. He shovelled it into his mouth, chewed awhile, rolled his eyes, and finally pronounced his verdict. ‘It ain’t up to my old muvver’s pickle. But if it’s good enough for the wardroom, I say it’s good enough for me.’
‘Give me some, then,’ said Gunner Forwood.
‘And me along o’ ye,’ cried Forby Sutherland.
‘It would go down better wiv a mug o’ rum.’
And so on. Over the next few days most of the mess deck partook of the cabbage. By the end of the week the Quartermaster had to ration it – such value did men place on a dish said to be for their superiors, though they would have despised sauerkraut had it been compulsory.
Thus, they sailed ever sou’-west, through days of calm and sudden squalls. Mare’s tails and mackerel scales make tall ships carry low sails. ‘Long wispy clouds and scaly ones show the barometer’s falling. Storms are coming, so reduce canvas.’
Easing sheets and hauling on clews . . . ease away, haul away!
The boys’ hands chafing and toughening on the rope.
Come up . . . belay there . . . and make up your lines . . .
Through heat and damp, when iron rusted and leather went mouldy. Through luminous nights, when men drew into themselves, saying nothing, but looking heavenwards as the stars slowly turned and the first constellations of velvet southern skies appeared. For on the morning of 25 October, they crossed the equator. With it came Isaac’s next instruction on the lore of the sea.
Lieutenant Gore was in charge of proceedings. Just after dinner he went to the Great Cabin with a petition signed by ‘The Ship’s Company’, requesting permission to examine everyone aboard who’d not crossed the line before – the ship’s cat and Mr Banks’s two dogs included. The nanny goat, having already once circumnavigated the world, was excused.
‘But of course, Mr Gore,’ replied the Captain with much good humour. ‘And I trust ye’ll not overlook myself and the other gentlemen here.’
‘I sure won’t, suh.’
When all were assembled that afternoon on deck, John Gore produced his Black List and proceeded to trial.
‘Sam Jones: is this your first time over the line?’
‘Aye, Lieutenant.’
‘Will you be ducked in the sea, or pay the forfeit?’
‘What that be?’
‘You must pay a bottle of rum.’
‘Oh, I could never do that, sir. I’ll have to take my chances wi’ the other kind of drink!’ And everyone cheered.
True to his word, Mr Gore did not forget Captain Cook or Josep
h Banks. But in their case the penalty was willingly paid. They promised a large ration of brandy-wine from their stores: which was what the crew wanted all along.
The boys were given no option. They were ducked as a matter of course. So Isaac and the other youngsters lined up by the rail with twenty men stripped to the waist.
A block had been fixed to the mainsail yard, with a line reeved through it to which three pieces of wood had been fixed. When Isaac’s turn came he was told to sit on the lower crosspiece and hold the bar above. The upper timber was to prevent him from hitting the spar as it was raised.
‘Try not to struggle,’ murmured the chief ducker, as Isaac was tied for safety to the line. ‘And hold your breath when you hit the water. Haul away!’
They swung out and Isaac found himself being hoisted forty feet above the ocean. He felt no real apprehension, for the boy had shot the rapids of London Bridge. Why should he fear this placid deep? He was jerked higher, until the line stopped. A pause. Then, ‘Let ’er go!’
The rope ran free, propelled by the weight of Isaac’s body. He scarcely had time to feel the rush of air and shut his mouth before he hit the surface.
The sea opened to receive him. Down, down, through her turquoise embrace, bubbles strung like diamonds, and into her depths. The boy felt strangely intoxicated, as if wanting to give himself to her cool, liquid caress. When suddenly the line came to.
‘Bring ’er up, bully boys!’
Isaac found himself dragged away and returned to the sun, all dripping and spluttering, aware of merriment. But only for a moment, before being plunged back into the dazzling sea.
Three times Isaac was ducked. Then he was reefed in, unbound, and stood somewhat disconsolate – though undoubtedly refreshed – as Young Nick was tied to the ducking seat and the sailors expressed their glee.
‘You should see y’self, matey. Seaweed draped over y’r head like King bloody Neptune!’
The gaiety went on late into the night as the ship’s company imbibed on the forfeit wine and brandy.
Oddly, Nick didn’t enjoy the ceremony. Where Isaac had seen brilliants, Nick saw only the sea’s dead shades. He tried to be grown up and nonchalant, as always. Secure in his hammock, however, the little boy whispered, ‘I can’t swim, Issy. I was scared I might drown or get took by another shark, and go to Davy Jones too soon.’
The needs of friendship ran both ways. And Nick’s time was not yet, as Endeavour billowed with the trade winds across the aquamarine ocean. At last came the dawn, a fortnight after they crossed the equator, when they heard the lookout cry, ‘Land ahoy!’ And hurrying on deck, Isaac saw the mountains of South America lifting from the pale horizon.
They coasted south for several days, until one clear morning Endeavour stood in for the grand harbour of Rio de Janeiro: deep, and blue, and surrounded by high peaks. The ship eased past a rocky tor standing like a sugarloaf at the entrance. Slid beneath the guns of Santa Cruz castle. And dropped anchor just outside the town.
Captain Cook had sent his First Lieutenant, Zachary Hicks, ahead with a letter for the colonial Governor, requesting permission to replenish his ship. After two months at sea, everyone was anxious to refresh himself in Rio’s welcoming delights.
‘Oh, the women! Sweet, and ebony-eyed . . .’
‘They reckon the rum be pretty good an’ all.’
But it was not to be. For the pinnace returned with news that Lieutenant Hicks had been detained. A boatload of Portuguese soldiers arrived to guard Endeavour, followed by a party of officers to question her Captain. Where had she come from? Wither was she bound? How many men and guns did she carry?
Cook resented being cross-examined, but he had no choice except to respond. After which the officers said the Governor was looking forward to hearing his account in person. Meantime, Mr Hicks would be returned. Nobody else was allowed to leave the ship. And the guard boat made sure of it.
The Captain went ashore next morning. He returned no better satisfied.
‘That damned impudent fellow!’ Isaac heard him bellow to Mr Molineux. ‘The Governor says we may board provisions – but the only gentlemen permitted ashore are myself and Dr Monkhouse, to buy stores. With the necessary crew, of course. Even then we are to have a military escort everywhere we go. He says anyone else found there without authority will be arrested. It is an affront to the British flag!’
‘The men will not take kindly to this,’ Molineux remarked.
‘We may be sure of that, Robert. No botanising for Mr Banks. No visits by my officers to the gentry of this place. Nay, nor to the low places either, for the crew.’
‘What reasons does he give?’
‘His Excellency says he has orders to treat every foreign ship like this. But the fact is, he doesn’t believe a word I say!’ Cook paced the Great Cabin in anger. ‘He says we don’t look like a ship of the Royal Navy. We don’t dress as smart British officers. He can’t accept that any of His Majesty’s fleet would carry a party of scientists around the world to make an astronomical observation. In short, gentlemen, he thinks we’re British spies.’
He banged his fist on the table, and Isaac just about prevented an inkpot from spilling over a chart and a sheet of Sydney Parkinson’s drawings.
‘I shall certainly write a letter protesting in the strongest terms.’
‘I should be circumspect,’ advised Lieutenant Hicks. ‘Those Portuguese were mighty doubtful of me. They could deny us supplies altogether if provoked.’
‘Aye, Mr Hicks, I shall be discreet. But His Excellency will know my mind.’
A paper war began, in which strongly worded salvos were fired between ship and shore. Like most of these battles it was hot and noisy, but ultimately futile; and Mr Cook was careful not to let any stray shots sink his expedition.
By day the crew worked hard. The ship was scraped, and recaulked with oakum hemp and tar to prepare her for the hazardous voyage around Cape Horn. Rigging was repaired. Water casks renewed. Barrels of rum were purchased. More fresh beef and greens came aboard, eaten without benefit of the lash – though John Thurman, still resentful at being press-ganged from Madeira, was flogged for refusing to help old Ravenhill mend the sails.
But at night men were permitted only to stand by the rail and watch the lights of Rio dance across the water, and listen to her laughter carried on air sultry with temptation. Nor did the city’s siren song go unanswered. It was not long before Endeavour’s crew began sneaking into Rio for an evening of illicit pleasures.
They grew bolder. Mr Banks sent his people off in broad daylight to collect specimens from the nearby woods. He and Dr Solander even let themselves down by a rope from their cabin window to be rowed ashore. But the two negro servants were reluctant to go with them.
‘This is a slave colony, Mr Isaac,’ Tom Richmond explained. ‘There are thousands of black men here, brought from Africa. Just as our people were.’
‘If any soldiers stopped us,’ George Dorlton added, ‘we’d be put in chains.’
‘Yes, and sent to the gold mines until we was dead.’
Their fears were only too real. Crewmen who took Mr Hicks to deliver one of Cook’s letters were seized, beaten, and spent the night in a filthy dungeon with dozens of black slaves, shackled and awaiting transportation to the fever-ridden mines of Brazil. Even free men who helped with Endeavour’s lading were imprisoned, such were the Governor’s arbitrary suspicions.
None of which stopped the crew from infiltrating the city after nightfall to enjoy her guilty charms.
One evening Isaac and Nick begged to join them.
‘Get away wi’ ye,’ exclaimed Forby Sutherland. ‘Ye’re just wee lads and too young for Rio after dark.’
‘Oi! I knows me way around the stews of London well enough,’ boasted young Mr Young.
‘Can’t we have some fun . . .?’ pleaded Isaac.
‘Well . . .’ Forby weakened. ‘If ye run into trouble wi’ soldiers, mind, the young gentleman mun get ye out of it.’
‘What trouble?’ asked Nick. ‘We’ll look sharpish.’
They gathered aft, just outside Molineux’s cabin, with Forby, Alex Simpson and several other seamen. Tom Matthews, the cook’s boy, came along at the last moment.
‘I’m boilin’ ’ot from that stove,’ he exclaimed. ‘I need a breaver.’
‘Then hoosh ye’r noise!’ hissed Forby. ‘Or we’ll all end up in the stew!’
He stuck his head out a square stern port, through which masts and spars were loaded, and gave a low whistle. It was answered by another from below. ‘All clear.’ One by one they clambered through, holding onto a knotted rope, and descended to the waiting boat.
Silently they cast off, muffled oars dipping the inky water. The moon hadn’t yet risen, but still they kept a keen eye for the guard. The soldiers’ sweethearts were visiting, however, and they were too busy with chicken thighs and sweet wine to notice another boat crossing the bay. Furtively. Out of the darkness and into the flaring light.
The risks Isaac and Nick were taking loomed more clearly too. Yet no one wanted to turn back and, as the craft scraped on a beach, its eager passengers jumped out.
‘Get ye back here by eleven, mind, when the clock strikes,’ warned Forby. ‘We must be aboard for the midnight watch, and yon boat won’t wait.’
The men disappeared into the nearest tavern, roaring with rum and carousal. The boys wanted to see more than that, however. After all, it was their first time in the New World. And although they weren’t supposed to be in Rio, with soldiers everywhere, that only added to the sense of adventure.
‘Just don’t give ourselves away by talking out loud in English,’ whispered Isaac. On foreign soil Master Manley took the lead – and Young Nick, for all his experience of London, was glad to let him.
They set off up the alley and into a thoroughfare jostling with people taking the night air. Fine Portuguese colonists, the gentlemen throwing scented flowers and kisses to young women – meninas – leaning from balconies. Merchants and artisans, smelling of garlic and onions, out with their senhoras. Sad, dispossessed Indians, wrapped in ponchos, looking in shop windows. Black African slaves in hand-me-downs, attending their masters. Noise and hustle. Lamplight streaming through open doors. And everywhere music! Guitars strumming and raucous singing from the taverns. An organ playing as the lads passed a church. Latin hymns chanted as a procession of choir boys carried a religious image around the sinful town.