by Anthony Hill
It was all so exotic and enticing. Isaac bought ripe scarlet melons with a shilling in his pocket, and felt more than a little drunk on the nectar. The others were just as heady. The lads walked through Rio as if enchanted, all thoughts of lurking danger forgotten. Time passed too quickly, and before they realised it the boys had wandered further than they thought. The street was darker and emptier. In the distance they heard a clock striking. Half past ten.
‘Already?’ Isaac sounded reluctant to part.
‘We’d better go back.’
They tacked about – and at once were jolted from their dream. Coming towards them they saw a patrol of Portuguese soldiers. Five or six soldiers, armed with muskets and led by a corporal with a burning torch. Worse: in the flames they saw the military stop a couple of men just ahead, and shout at them, as if demanding papers and explanations.
Things had suddenly become serious.
‘We can’t stay here,’ muttered Isaac. ‘What if they question us?’
‘Don’t be daft,’ said Tom Matthews.
‘We shouldn’t risk it,’ Isaac cautioned. As they stood dithering, a quick-witted London imp knew what to do.
‘Hurry!’ urged Nick Young. ‘This way. We’ll hide till they’ve gone past.’
They dodged down a narrow lane, stinking of dung and stale cooking. Squalid houses opened into it, from which came sounds of crying children. Mosquitoes bred in the fetid mud, and they found soft British flesh delectable. Before long the boys were slapping themselves as itchy lumps erupted on bare arms and faces.
‘Bloomin’ ’ell!’ cried Tom. ‘I’m out of this.’
The others followed. But their noise roused a drunken beggar asleep in the shadows. As the boys hastened from the lane they stumbled over the man. Hands reached out from the slimy darkness, grabbing and rifling for money.
‘Dinheiro! Dinheiro!’
The lads ran in sudden fright. And almost collided with the military patrol.
‘Quem são vocês?’ yelled the corporal. Who are you? ‘I’m truly sorry, sir,’ stuttered Isaac in his native tongue. Forgetting.
‘São ingleses?’ The corporal was astonished. ‘Parem!’
But the English boys had no intention of stopping, and fled up the street to secrete themselves in the promenading crowd. The corporal shouted again, but soon gave it up. The night was too hot for a chase. And Graças a Deus! His patrol had the two earlier men in custody, and that would make his captain happy.
Safe in the light again, the boys slowed and breathed, and allowed themselves to feel relief.
‘At least we’ve got rid of the soldiers,’ Isaac murmured. ‘A lucky escape, I’d say.’ He spoke too soon.
It was one thing for the boys to lose the soldiers – but quite another to realise they were themselves lost. Isaac had noted a church near the alley where the boat landed, and a tavern with a ship’s sign. But there were several churches in the street. Many taverns by dark alleys. None of them seemed familiar. And if they weren’t back by eleven . . .
The lads ventured down endless lanes, desperately searching for the inn where they’d left Forby. Each time they found nothing, except more grasping hands, and they scurried back to the wide street to try again. And again. Becoming ever more confused.
‘I don’t know where we are!’ Isaac confessed. Sweat flowed freely now. ‘It all looks the same . . . and different . . .’
Fear swelled like the wind-filled sails of a ship. They heard a bell chime – eleven o’clock, and the boat wouldn’t wait! The boys began to rush, blindly bumping into strangers who abused them in a language they didn’t understand. There was no one to ask. No one to whom they dared speak for fear of betraying themselves. Look! More soldiers over there. They’d be seized, and thrown into a dungeon, and . . .
The city that had seemed so wondrous became utterly threatening. Sweet melon juice turned to acid in Isaac’s gut. He wanted to retch. When across the gulf of his panic he heard a familiar Orkney voice shouting, ‘Och, there be the young villains! Come along o’ ye, quick now.’ And Forby Sutherland took the three adrift lads in tow.
Once safe aboard Endeavour again, the boys stuck to her – desiring only Captain Cook’s orders to sail.
Isaac finished his letter, for Mr Molineux said his servant could send it with the officers’ mail on the next ship home. The shark, sauer kraut and crossing the line were all there; but not a word about terror in the streets of Rio.
‘All of us are anxious to leave this place and head for the South Seas,’ was the most he could bring himself to write. Indeed there were only a few more days to wait – though whatever Isaac told his parents, they went too soon for some who’d not yet exhausted the joys of Rio. Robert Anderson was flogged for trying to desert ship. So was a marine, Will Judge, for abusing the officer of the watch. Then Cook had the flogger, John Reading, himself flogged for not punishing them hard enough.
The Captain was satisfied with that. And so was almost everyone else on board, as Endeavour at last bore down river and set her course southwards . . .
Farewell and adieu unto you Spanish ladies,
And perhaps never more we shall see you again!
4
CAPE HORN
Into the Pacific, December 1768 to April 1769
Isaac stood at the masthead and felt the power of the ship flowing beneath him. Wind glanced off the streaming sea, stinging his face and stretching the canvas like a bow. Nowhere, in that silver expanse of light arching to the horizon where sky and water met, could Isaac see another thing.
‘Clear ahead,’ he murmured to the lookout.
‘Aye.’ The sailor lapsed into silence. And Isaac was glad.
Somewhere to the west, South America tapered to the dagger’s point of Cape Horn. Rio was far astern. The city had been unkind to the last. Even as they left, Peter Flower had fallen from these very shrouds and drowned. Poor Peter. He’d sailed with Cook for five years: had joined him at only thirteen. Isaac’s age.
The boy flinched at the memory. Then dismissed it. He’d be luckier than that, for he was young and invincible. The world flew, and Isaac soared with it. Though, with shades of Peter Flower about, he was careful climbing down.
As Endeavour settled again into the rhythm of life at sea, Isaac often took time to be alone with his thoughts. They all did. There was no other solitude, except in the mind. Eating, sleeping and working were crowded with everybody else.
Even going to the lavatory was a communal event. You could always pee over the side or into one of the copper-funnelled ‘piss-dales’ near the quarterdeck. The other was a different matter. Officers and gentlemen had their own privy chamber pots which the boys, like Isaac, emptied. But ordinary seamen had to lower their britches on the forecastle (‘fo’c’s’le, matey’) and take their place on one of the two ‘seats of ease’ over the bows, near the cat-heads that held the anchor cables. Hence every day Isaac found himself ‘going to the heads’. When finished, he washed himself with the frayed end of a rope flushed in the sea. Which was all right in the tropics. But as they sailed further south during December, it became colder and coarser, and Isaac thought it was like wiping himself with sandpaper.
The weather grew sharper. South Atlantic gales bore down, and the ship sometimes ran before them for days under close-reefed sails. When wind backs and glass falls, be on guard for rain and squalls. Whenever he could, Isaac willed himself up with the topmen: hands freezing as he hauled the canvas and hitched the gaskets, eyes fixed above the wave mountains to stop himself from vomiting. And all the time his body was becoming more weather-hardened.
He could have stayed below among the so-called ‘idlers’ – the carpenters and other tradesmen who didn’t have to go aloft or stand watch. But it would not have taught Isaac his seamanship; and his readiness to go up stood to his credit. Working the ship became more demanding, and every hand was required.
Cook changed the three-watch system, which gave each man up to eight hours off duty, to two
watches. Watch and watch about. Four hours on and four hours off. It meant more hands were on deck in these heavy seas approaching the Horn – but it gave barely enough time for sleep. On the whole the sailors didn’t resent it. This was the discipline of survival. Indeed, men spoke of how well Endeavour rode out the storms, and what a tonic they were doing her.
‘There’s nowt like a good shakin’ to loosen her joints,’ declared old John Ravenhill over his midday rum. ‘She’ll settle even better after next one.’
Whatever the ship, Isaac’s own joints were stiff and sore. Ice was in the air. Tom Richmond and George Dorlton felt it worse than anyone. The two Africans, huddled in their blankets, still shivered.
‘We thought it was supposed to be summer in the south, Mr Isaac, but this is bitter as Christmas in England.’
True. Christmas Day was just like home: braw, though thankfully calm. For it was celebrated in the traditional way, too. Almost everyone got drunk. The Captain and gentlemen in the Great Cabin. Officers in the wardroom. Men and boys around the stove on the mess deck. There was scarcely a sober man to steer the ship.
Rum flowed, mixed with water into grog for the lads. An extra ration of beef and sauerkraut was served. Cheeks reddened. Tongues wagged. And as they edged closer to the tip of America, came tall stories of Patagonia and the terrors of rounding the Horn. These were unknown waters to most sailors, and the few who had sailed them were listened to agog by every man and boy.
‘They reckon there be giants in Patagonia,’ said a carpenter, Francis Haite, who’d been with Captain Byron on the Dolphin’s first voyage in ’64. ‘Men twice as big as Mr Cook. Though they kept ’emselves well ’idden when we wuz there.’
‘We saw a horseman on Tierra del Fuego built like a colossus,’ remarked Charles Clerke, one of the Master’s Mates. ‘Wearing wild animal skins he was, and hideous face paint. I felt like a pigmy.’
‘No, they were the pigmies,’ corrected Francis Wilkinson. ‘The Indians we met with Captain Wallis two year ago were small and stank abominably. Ate raw seals and fish caught straight from the water. Head first, look you, like seagulls.’
‘Why?’ asked Isaac, genuinely interested.
‘So the gills won’t get stuck in their throats going down backwards. Stands to reason, boyo.’
‘Oh, he still don’t know nuffing much yet,’ Nick teased, until Isaac silenced him with threats of another ducking in icy seas.
‘Those waters, where three oceans meet!’ mused Richard Pickersgill. ‘Worst in the world. Fogs, lightning and tempests, even in the height of summer. It took us nearly four months to get through the Strait of Magellan and into the Pacific. Beaten back each time by storms.’
‘And ’ere we are facing ’em ag’in!’ cried Francis Haite. ‘It’ll take stout ’earts and strong stomachs to get through, bullies. Fortified wiv much Christmas rum. So pour out another and give us a song . . .’
We’ll rant and we’ll roar like true British sailors,
We’ll rant and we’ll roar across the salt sea . . .
Giants! And four months to round Cape Horn! Isaac’s heart quailed. As he mixed himself and Nick another tumbler of grog, he wondered how many other true British sailors were feeling the same?
Cook well knew the risks of the Strait of Magellan, with its myriad small islands and shipwrecked coasts. He decided to sail further south through Strait le Maire between Tierra del Fuego and Staten Island. The Admiralty didn’t recommend it: but Cook thought it offered a clearer and safer passage. So as the new year came, every weather eye looked westward for land.
‘Look!’ cried Isaac from the foremast tops. ‘Mountains off the starboard bow!’
‘Let’s see ’un,’ squinted Henry Stephens at the grey, building mass on the horizon. ‘No, no, boy . . .’ after a long moment. ‘They be no more’n cloudbanks. “Cape Flyaway” we calls ’er. You’ll find ’un often on a long voyage.’
The weather grew bleaker.
Whales appeared, ‘like bloomin’ sea monsters on maps!’ exclaimed Young Nick to Isaac, clinging to the mizenmast shrouds. ‘Who would ’a believed it? I thought they was just stories.’
Antarctic penguins swam about the ship in black-and-white bathing costumes. The crew were issued with thick woollen ‘Fearnought’ jackets, and even the officers forsook their knee breeches and wore sailcloth trousers. But nothing kept the chill from Tom Richmond, who lay numb in his blanket and cried.
At last in the second week of January came the real shout, ‘Land ho!’ But Endeavour received such another violent shaking from wind and sea that she was some days getting into the Strait and – with her joints thoroughly loosened – anchored in the Bay of Good Success.
Or so they hoped it would prove. But tragedy had berthed there as well.
The Captain went ashore to look for water, and returned with three native visitors. There was no colossus among them, for the men were no taller than the average sailor. Neither did they stink, though their copper skin was smeared with animal grease, and their broad faces painted with red and black streaks.
Isaac watched fascinated as they walked the deck, wearing only guanaco hides like cloaks, and sealskin shoes. At every new thing they saw – the capstan, wheel and binnacle – the chief raised his voice as if, Isaac thought, he were chanting to the gods for protection.
The Indians were friendly enough, having known Europeans before. They wore bead necklaces, loved red cloth, and their arrows were tipped with glass. The visitors were familiar with ship’s food too.
‘Give ’em a biscuit,’ suggested Forby Sutherland. They nibbled the hard tack, laughed, and chewed some more.
‘What about salt beef?’ said John Thompson, bringing a piece from his galley. The natives seemed to enjoy it – though they kept most of the meat uneaten, to share with their families later.
They wouldn’t drink alcohol, however. The crew tempted them with rum, but the men merely sipped it, made faces, and spat it out. Most seamen considered it funny: but those who remembered the lost Indians of Rio staring in tavern windows thought it the best thing they could have done.
Work began next morning. Empty water casks were floated ashore and filled. Men cut wood for the stove. Others harvested wild celery and scurvy grass, for the men who’d sailed the Dolphin also knew how valuable fresh herbs were for keeping sickness at bay. The Midshipmen were out in the yawl, mapping the harbour. Isaac and Nick were scrubbing officers’ cabins. And, it being a fine day, Mr Banks took a party of gentlemen inland, with his servants, dogs, and two seamen to collect plants and insects.
‘It’s too cold for botanising,’ complained Tom Richmond to Isaac as they left.
‘Africa was never like this,’ George Dorlton said through chattering teeth.
‘Don’t worry!’ Jim Roberts, one of Banks’s young servants from Lincolnshire, tried to cheer them. ‘The walk will warm us up, and we’ll be back by evening.’
But they weren’t.
As the day wore on, chill settled more deeply. Clouds rolled in and snow began to fall. Isaac tried to hide his concern, but others said the party was out enjoying the long twilight! When they’d not returned by nightfall, seamen joked that landlubbers always preferred to camp ashore.
‘They’ve taken provisions and a bottle o’ rum to keep ’em happy,’ laughed the cook’s lad, Tom Matthews.
Isaac, snug in his hammock, didn’t share the mirth. He was afraid. It was still snowing, and he wanted only the dawn when his companions would surely return.
There was no sign of them all morning. It wasn’t until one o’clock that men on the beach heard shouts, and saw Mr Banks with his friends struggle out of the woods. Of the twelve who’d set out, only ten returned to Endeavour – three of them so ill they had to be carried aboard.
Neither of the two negro servants was among them.
‘Where are they?’ Isaac asked Jim Roberts. ‘Where’s Tom? Where’s George?’
‘They’re both dead.’ Into the sudden silence.
‘They froze to death in the snow.’
‘What happened?’ Tears started.
‘I’m too exhausted to say,’ wept Jim. ‘I’ll tell you later.’
That night, after a sleep and hot food, the sixteen-year-old felt able to tell the tale to the mess deck.
‘We made pretty good going all morning,’ Jim began. ‘Past the Indian village with their huts like beehives. Uphill through the woods, until mid-afternoon when we came to a plain, and beyond it a peak Mr Banks wanted to climb. Trouble was, the plain turned out to be a bog covered with low, scrubby bushes ripping away at us.
‘We were almost there when Alex Buchan fell into one of his fits. You’ve seen him – the other artist – drop sometimes, shaking with epilepsy. Shouldn’t have come at all, I reckon. Anyway, Mr Banks told us to light a fire and look after Alex while his party went to the summit. But it was hard to strike a tinder in that cold damp. And then it started to snow as the gents returned. So once Alex felt a little better, we headed back to the woods.
‘But the going was no easier. Dr Solander said he was so cold he couldn’t walk another step till he had a sleep. Which he did! And Tom Richmond the same.
‘“I can’t go on no more, Mr Banks, sir.”
‘“But you’ll freeze to death, man, in this weather.”
‘“Then I’ll just have to lay me down and die, sir.”