by Anthony Hill
A grave had been dug in the sandy soil not far from the freshwater stream. They laid Forby in it, the first European to be buried on this coast, which the Captain acknowledged by calling the head of the cove Point Sutherland.
His name is still remembered in the Shire of Sutherland – though no one aboard Endeavour could have guessed the great city of Sydney would one day grow and spread over this land from a convict settlement planted eighteen years later at Port Jackson.
‘The finest harbour in the world,’ Governor Phillip called it when he arrived with the First Fleet in 1788: though curiously Cook never saw it. Not long before Endeavour left Botany Bay he went walking on the heath across the cliff tops, but not far enough to sight the sparkling harbour. While he spied the entrance as they sailed north – marked and named it on his chart, reckoning it would give safe anchorage – he didn’t go through the heads. And Isaac always felt the Captain would have regretted that, had he known.
Regretted, too, what befell the Aborigines who faced them that first day with shield and fighting spear on the sandstone littoral. Within decades of European settlement, the Gweagal had almost disappeared from the shores of Gamay. Drink, and disease, and the power of the white man’s weapons saw to their destruction. It was much the same story everywhere Endeavour went, and the ships that followed her across the South Seas. And they were brave men.
Warra! Warra wai!
Northwards Endeavour men sailed through May, towards nightmare visions of their own destruction. Northwards, as day by day the outline of the land was fished from the sea: caught in their nets of compass bearings and mapping grids, tagged with names that still fringe the charts . . .
Port Stephens – named for the secretary of the Admiralty, a friend of Isaac’s father . . . Cape Byron and Mount Warning where New Holland swings nor’-nor’-west, as if on a needle point. Moreton Bay . . . the jutting promontory of Sandy Cape, where they found shoal water – and not long after that, the first of the coral reefs.
Now, in tropical seas, the boats were out all day sounding a passage for the ship through a maze of shallows and coral out-crops hidden just below the surface. Leadsmen cast from the ‘chains’ – the channel platforms which secured the rigging on either side of Endeavour’s bow – and the sweating air rang with their calls . . .
By the mark thirteen!
Deep nine!
At night they usually anchored safely offshore. Sometimes they sought refuge in sheltered bays – but mosquitoes, mangrove swamps, and lack of fresh water made them inhospitable places to stay.
Heat, and the slow-going strain of feeling their way along the coast, began to tell on men’s nerves – sailors and officers alike. Isaac noticed they drank more heavily, became more quarrelsome, jostled to assert themselves in cramped, confined spaces. And at a place called Bustard Bay, named for a bird that Mr Banks shot and had cooked into a pie, animosities erupted in an act of violence that threatened the Captain’s authority.
His clerk, Richard Orton, had been drinking all evening in the Midshipmen’s quarters below the foredeck. He was a rather vain young man, and a fractious drunk. The drunker he got, the more he argued with his companions – especially the American, James Magra, and his mate Patrick Saunders. Midshipman Magra had once cut the clothes off Orton’s back in their drunken frolics, and had been heard boozily to say that he’d murder Dick Orton – ‘if Ah weren’t afeared of hangin’ fer it.’
Awake in their hammocks, Isaac and Nick were distantly aware of them quarrelling again in the forecastle. Eight bells had sounded and the middle watch gone on deck, before the lads heard Orton stumbling down the companionway and into his cabin aft to sleep off the grog.
But oh! the shrieks next morning when Orton woke to find not only had his clothes been cut off again, but that someone had also sliced into both his ears. Blood had spurted from the lobes and down his neck, staining the blanket. Half-conscious with pain and a hangover, this time Orton thought he really had been murdered.
The Captain was furious when he heard about it.
‘Mr Orton is not a man without his faults!’ he exclaimed, ‘and his injuries are more apparent than real. But this breach of discipline is a direct challenge to me as commander of this ship. It could undermine our whole expedition!’
Cook had the Master bring in the men, and he questioned them closely. But apart from Orton’s accusations, he obtained no admissions from either Magra or Saunders. He suspected their involvement, but in justice this wasn’t enough to press charges. Still, the Captain took advantage of their acknowledged drunkenness to demote them: Saunders was disrated from Midshipman back to Able Seaman, and Magra was denied the quarterdeck for three weeks: suspended from any duty aboard.
‘He’s one of those young gentlemen frequently found on board the King’s ships that can well be spared,’ Cook raged into his journal. ‘Or to speak plainer, good for nothing.’
And the matter brooded on his mind for months.
Certainly, whenever Isaac thought of his own humiliation at being made to stand in the shrouds at Stingray Harbour, he knew how much worse his punishment might have been. Not that he could have been demoted lower than a ship’s servant: but all hopes of his further advancement in the navy might have been blocked for ever.
So he made himself as useful as possible to the Master: being on hand whenever wanted, and applying himself by study and practice to better understand the principles of navigation. Molineux saw, and approved, and once again shared with the boy the knowledge of his own seamanship. He even had Isaac in the boats to help with the sounding, for it was strenuous and time-consuming work as Endeavour threaded her way ever northward among the shoals . . .
Across the Tropic of Capricorn and into June . . . past the lovely islands they discovered on Whitsunday rising from the deceptive sea . . . Magnetic Island, where the compasses acted very strangely . . .
‘See here, boy,’ Molineux pointed it out to Isaac. ‘We know there’s always a difference between true north and magnetic north, because the earth or even a metal object nearby can cause the compass to deviate from magnetic north. How do we correct for it?’
‘By reading the sun or moon with the azimuth compass.’
‘Quite true. Look at this . . . the sea compass is swinging all over the place like a cock on a weathervane. Yon island must be a veritable magnet.’
Isaac saw smoke from the land, where the Aborigines still mostly ignored them . . . and to seaward, a small green atoll – the first true coral island he’d seen off New Holland.
Ever northward. Ever more dangerous. All unbeknown, Endeavour had entered that zone where the Barrier Reef narrows towards the coast, squeezing the ship into a tapering funnel between the land and the perils of the coral.
From a height it is easy enough to see the reliable, ultramarine blue of the deepwater channel weaving between the coward yellow shoals. But from the surface – even from a masthead – the ever-changing sea, like a chameleon, is glassy and deceitful, reflecting the shadows of passing clouds as well as sunken rocks. The wonder is the ship had sailed as far as she had without disaster. But that was due to the fine judgement of her Captain and the skill of his crew.
Until Monday 11 June, when they were abreast a point on the mainland that Cook was to name Cape Tribulation, ‘Because here began all our troubles.’
That night, Endeavour struck the reef.
10
AGROUND!
Endeavour Reef, June 1770
It was just before eleven o’clock, and the ship was burdened with sleep: the Captain yawning over his journal notes, Mr Banks undressing for bed. The mess deck was already snoring, though the wind still carried the leadsman’s chant to the furthermost corners of sailors’ dreams.
Deep twenty!
On deck, the watch looked out to a calm, moon-shimmering sea. Thoughts turned to their own hammocks at the end of the next hour. For Mr Cook had decided to sail through the night. He meant to anchor at sunset: yet Endeavour had foun
d deep water, and as the evening shone clear he thought there could be no danger.
By the mark seventeen!
But before the lead could make another cast, there was a hideous jolting and scraping. The ship convulsed. Her masts jerked in a whiplash. The wheel spun in the helmsman’s hands. Men and boys were flung off their feet and out of their slumber shouting, ‘She’s aground! We’ve hit the reef!’
‘All hands on deck!’
The brass bell rang. Feet bounded up the companionways. The Captain rushed to the quarterdeck in his shirt and stockings.
‘Bring in all sails! Lower the boats! Mr Molineux, you’ll inspect the damage.’
‘Aye sir.’
Hands were already climbing aloft. They knew without orders the need to stop the ship driving further onto the coral.
‘Where’s Mr Satterley?’
‘Down in the hold to see what water we’re taking.’
‘Well done. And Master . . . when the boats are out, we’ll strike topmasts and yards to ease the weight on t’ ship.’
‘Mr Pickersgill, you’ll take the call.’
Mr Banks and the gentlemen appeared with a lantern: white of face, hair loose, and breeches unbuttoned.
‘What’s happened, Captain? Are we sinking?’
Cook at first seemed to take no notice.
‘Mr Satterley,’ as the carpenter’s head appeared at the hatch, ‘what’s below?’
‘Holding fast, sir, and taking little water at present.’
Cook turned to his passengers.
‘Nay, Mr Banks, we are not sinking. Not yet. But you may get a few things ready in case we do. Oh, and Mr Banks . . .’ as the botanist was about to go below.
‘Captain?’
‘No more lights on deck, if you please. They ruin our night vision as we work. Eyes get used to t’ darkness.’
Isaac knew this was very true. Even without starlight the night was never really black, merely shades of grey on deeper grey, to which his eyes quickly adjusted. And tonight they had the moon.
‘Mr Hicks!’ The Captain gave his full attention to saving the ship. ‘When the longboat is clear, we’ll take out t’ stream and coasting anchors. We may be able to heave her off – if not, they’ll hold her until we can!’
‘Aye, aye.’
Nick and Isaac shared the same terrors of shipwreck as Mr Banks. Beneath their feet they could hear coral grinding the timbers as Endeavour shuddered on the reef – and they all knew there wasn’t enough room in the boats for everyone. Most would drown miles from shore, and become food for the sharks!
Isaac could feel panic welling deep inside. Was this the sea’s revenge for his whistling in the storm those months ago? He dared not ask, for fear of shaming himself in front of others. So Isaac struggled to force it back. Everyone knew the dangers they faced: yet men in the rigging or at the boats worked with controlled determination, in which barely a seaman’s curse was heard.
They took their cue from the Captain. And when Molineux passed on his way to the yawl, he stopped and said, ‘Stand fast, lads. Don’t give way to thy fancies.’
‘I want to come with you,’ Isaac murmured.
‘Nay, not this time. We shall be working by moonshine, and need only experienced hands. There’s more than enough to do on board. Attend to Mr Pickersgill and your duty.’
For all his disappointment, Isaac knew that Molineux was right. The topmen furling the sails, preparing to cast off the network of lines to lower the yards and masts – and as neatly made good, ready to raise them again – threaded their way aloft in the silvery shadows as deftly as spiders in gossamer. Much better for the boys to give their strength where it could do most good: at the end of a rope on deck.
Standby on halyards and lifts . . . haul away . . . ease away . . . come up, come up . . . belay, and make fast your lines!
Orders were given as necessary; but mostly men kept their voices low to hear news from elsewhere on the ship.
‘What’s to report, Mr Molineux?’
‘We’ve hit the edge of the coral, sir. Deep water . . . eight to twelve fathom astern and to starboard . . . a mere few feet for’ard.’
‘Damage to the hull?’
‘A few broken planks – strakes – afloat . . . and part of the false keel.’
‘So the main keel may be unharmed?’
‘God willing, Captain.’
‘To be sure, Mr Molineux.’
The ship had gone aground close to high tide. With three smaller anchors out, all available deckhands strained upon the capstan and windlass, trying to heave Endeavour off the reef.
Two . . . six . . . HEAVE bully boys . . . HEAVE away . . .
But to no avail. The ship was caught fast. Six hours . . . the tide was dropping as dawn approached; and with spars and masts stowed, Captain Cook gave orders to lighten the ship by all means possible.
‘We’ll try to refloat again at noon.’
They went down to the hold. Stone ballast and iron ingots were lifted through a hatch aft by the officers’ cabins, and man-and-boy-handled to the stern ports and cast into the sea. Lads scurried to the stores, and anything not immediately required was likewise carried up and heaved overboard.
Decayed food, iron barrel hoops, oil jars . . . all went into the sea. Marines seized the capstan bars and, as if they were undertakers, lifted the six deck cannons and tipped them corpse-like into the deep. The gun carriages followed.
There was a moment when Isaac – everyone – feared they’d soon join them.
As the water receded, the coral rock was exposed. And with a sickening lurch, Endeavour heeled several degrees to starboard. She lay with her deck angled, three or four strakes further into the water, her topmasts down, as if she were a wreck already. Her crew could only cling to the hope that, if the ship did start to break up, the sea would stay quiet.
Please God! They’d have time to make rafts and paddle to two small islands – Hope Islands, the Captain named them – visible a few miles away in the morning sun. For everybody knew the boats could carry at most only one-third of their company.
The midday tide flooded in, covering the reef again. Higher it rose around the stranded ship – but not high enough. For all that they’d heaved fifty tons overboard, and every heart and sinew was striving on the cables, Endeavour remained trapped.
Isaac could hear more coral ripping as the ship ground and rasped upon it. More timbers floated to the surface. And as the tide receded, water began to flow greedily into the ship. She’d been holding well until now. But as the afternoon wore on, it took two pumps to keep her clear.
The two bower anchors were carried out by the longboat – the best bower to starboard, the other astern – and hove taut with block and tackle.
‘The evening tide is usually higher,’ the Captain observed to a worried Mr Banks. ‘I’ve hopes the big anchors will bring us off.’
So did they all. For every seaman knew the ship could not withstand this much longer. It was a mercy the weather had been so kind these twenty-four hours. But when a wind blew up and the sea roughened . . .
Don’t think about it and give way to thy fancies!
Men ate cold meat and biscuit and drank their grog, to keep up strength and spirits, as evening gathered and the tide began to turn . . . dark fingers of water feeling about Endeavour’s hull. They found her weakness – and the sea gushed even more quickly through the breach, so that two pumps were no longer enough.
The Captain ordered hands to all four pumps – long, hollowed elm trees, worked with handle and plunger, that descended from the upper deck near the mainmast to the well in the deepest part of the hold. It was gruelling labour, especially as only three pumps would work . . . and even more especially when, at nine o’clock in the darkness, Endeavour suddenly righted herself with a stagger, and the predatory waves – as if sensing another victim – rushed further in.
‘The water is gaining on us, Captain!’ the carpenter reported, coming up from the hold. Everyo
ne knew what danger that posed to the ship when they got afloat. Still they held fast, conscious that Mr Cook had only one option when he replied, ‘Thank you, Mr Satterley. But we must risk all, and try to heave her off if we can.’
The flood tide swelled. As many hands as possible went to the windlass and capstan, their turn at the pumps taken by the gentlemen. In this emergency there was no place for idlers and supernumeraries: all were souls in peril on the deep.
HEAVE bullies . . . HEAVE away for your lives . . .
And not long after ten o’clock, with a sighing, wrenching sound, Endeavour finally floated free. Quickly she was hauled astern, the boats out ready to bring up the stream anchor and make her fast in deep water for the night.
Cracked, exhausted voices cheered their release. At last, there really was a chance they might reach Hope Islands!
But elation didn’t last long. Once afloat, the leak increased as feared, and every hand aboard took his turn at the pumps – the boys, the Captain and Mr Banks included – working in fifteen-minute spells. Muscles stretched and ached . . . and as the black water was sucked up from the bilge and spilled across the deck, all felt they must surely be making some progress!
Mr Satterley reported the water measured three feet nine inches in the hold. Shortly afterwards, however, the Carpenter’s Mate came up to say he’d taken another reading, and the sea had gained a further eighteen inches.
Their chances of survival seemed lost. Only room in the boats for a few . . . and even they would be marooned as castaways on a barren coast. Better, perhaps, to drown quickly and plunge with the ship to Davy Jones!
Isaac knew a servant boy would be the last to be saved. And into his mind came the picture in his mother’s locket, and remembrance of Heimata’s shining pearl.
Yet the bonds of that naval discipline Mr Molineux sought to instil stayed firm. Whatever their private alarms, men didn’t yield to them, but redirected their minds to the pump handles and the release of physical exertion.
Don’t give way to thy fancies!