James Cook’s Lost World Read online

  Banks nodded, understandingly. He had changed for the better, James thought. He was less the strutting cock. More thoughtful, more reflective.

  As he began his third pint Banks asked airily, the pinkness in his cheeks deepening, ‘Have you given consideration to having your portrait painted?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then you must.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you are now a famous personage.’

  James considered this. ‘You’ve had yours painted, have you not?’

  ‘Yes. By Benjamin West.’ He made a face. ‘I was not entirely pleased with the result. The effect was overly theatrical. Too many props. For you I would suggest instead the portraitist Nathaniel Dance. He studied under the illustrator Francis Hayman and was one of the founders of the Royal Academy. He has a studio near Charing Cross. I’m acquainted with him. If you are agreeable I’ll commission him to undertake the painting.’

  ‘You’ll commission him?’

  ‘Certainly. It will be money well spent.’

  James shrugged. ‘Well, it can do no harm, I suppose. Thank you.’

  The discussion then moved on to the matter of the killing and eating of ten of Adventure’s men by Maoris at Grass Cove in Queen Charlotte Sound, an atrocity that by now had been exhaustively reported in England. Banks set his mug down. ‘Do you remember when we came upon the remains of cooked humans, at that bay in Queen Charlotte Sound?’

  ‘The one you christened “Cannibal Cove”? Yes, I remember.’

  ‘It was your belief that the Maoris only ate the bodies of those they had conquered in battle.’

  ‘Yes. And I still think that. They believe that by eating their vanquished enemies they absorb their spirits and so are made stronger.’

  Banks leaned forward. ‘But the men of Adventure were not their enemies, surely. So why did they kill and eat them?’

  ‘I don’t know. But it’s my belief that Adventure’s men must have insulted the Maoris in some way, provoking them into a fight. One that they obviously lost.’

  Banks looked sceptical. ‘Perhaps. But it would be good to know for certain.’

  The talk then turned to Omai, the Society Islander who had been brought to England on Furneaux’s Adventure. ‘How goes he here?’ James asked.

  Banks laughed. ‘He’s getting on famously. James Burney has become his best taio here.’ Banks smiled as he recalled the Otaheitian word for ‘friend’. ‘They speak Otaheitian together, or did until Burney left for America to fight the rebels. Omai has been to the ballet and the theatre. He has even learned to waltz and play chess. He’s been to a race meeting at Leicester and to the House of Lords to hear the King’s speech.’

  James smiled at the images this statement conjured. ‘Quite the English gentleman, then.’

  ‘Oh, yes. He’s even had his portrait painted by Joshua Reynolds, dressed in my Otaheitian bark-cloth robes. And with a turban. In the portrait he appears more like a Moor than a man of the South Sea. He’s very popular with the London ladies, and has squired a number of them. They evidently find him an exotic specimen of manhood.’ Banks sniggered. ‘My theory is they just want to examine his cock, to see if it differs from that of an Englishman.’

  Ignoring this, James said, ‘How is his English?’

  ‘He speaks it like a native. As you might say.’

  ‘Does he intend to stay in England?’

  ‘I think not. The last time we spoke he said he wanted to marry an English woman and take her back to Huahine with him.’ He waved a hand dismissively. ‘Ridiculous. I’ve become tired of him. Frankly, the man bores me now.’

  James gave him an irritated look. This was the arrogant Banks of yore. He said, ‘I need to meet him and talk to him about his future. How can I arrange it?’

  ‘James Burney’s family has given him a room at their home in St Martin’s Street. I’ll get a message to him there if you like.’

  ‘That would be good.’

  Again Banks leaned forward. Leering, he said, ‘The women of the New Hebrides, did anyone examine and draw their pudenda?’

  James was asked to attend twice-weekly meetings at the Admiralty in Whitehall. There, in the grand Meeting Room, he was received with great respect by the Sea Lords, including the First Lord, John Montagu, Fourth Earl of Sandwich. Hitherto, Sandwich had been inclined to condescend to the Yorkshireman who had had the temerity to come up through the hawsehole, in naval parlance—rising through the ranks from able seaman to commissioned officer.

  On 12 August a note from Sandwich was delivered to James at home. It read:

  I wish to show a friend over Resolution while she is moored at Woolwich. Can you meet me there at 2 pm this coming Saturday?

  Sandwich, First Sea Lord

  James wrote back, agreeing to the appointment. The friend, he assumed, was one of Sandwich’s cronies, perhaps another member of the notorious Hellfire Club. And no doubt they would be accompanied by Sandwich’s usual entourage of hangers-on.

  However, when they met on the Woolwich wharf, James was surprised to see that Lord Sandwich was in the company of only one person, a woman. She looked to be in her early twenties. Small, and with an upturned nose, heavily rouged lips and a prominent bosom, she wore an enormous wig and a pink gown which showed her décolletage to great effect. She carried a matching pink parasol.

  Sandwich inclined his head respectfully to James, then introduced his companion. ‘Captain James Cook, this is Miss Ray. Miss Martha Ray, Captain Cook.’

  Aware that Sandwich had a wife, James quickly deduced that Miss Ray was not the woman who held that position. He bowed to her in greeting then led the pair to the gangplank, where a solitary marine stood on guard.

  As James showed Sandwich and the woman he assumed was Sandwich’s mistress over the ship, he noted with consternation that Resolution was still badly in need of repair. In one of his reports to the Navy Board he had itemised the work that needed to be carried out before she was fit to go to sea again. But obviously nothing had been done. With the war in America now absorbing so much money, priorities were going to the army and to transport vessels, he had heard. But the obvious neglect of Resolution bothered him. Her deck needed recaulking—there were visible gaps in the planking, much of her rigging was frayed and some of her sails were split. The spars needed re-varnishing. Her neglected topsides gave her the appearance of a hulk.

  But once below decks, and especially in the Great Cabin, James felt a glow of affection for the vessel that had been his home for over three years. Memories came flooding back of courses plotted, of post-supper discussions, of native guests welcomed here—Otaheitians, Maoris, New Hebrideans, Fuegans. The less pleasant recollections—his illness, the tiresome Johann Forster, the Antarctic frigidity—were, to his surprise, already fading.

  Walking about the cabin, Miss Ray peered here and there, wrinkling her upturned nose at the stale air, putting James in mind of a mouse in a larder. Her wig smelled strongly of talcum powder. While she moved about curiously, Sandwich stood by one of the windows, staring at her bottom.

  ‘I found Endeavour to be a fine ship,’ James told Miss Ray. ‘They are both square-riggers, but Resolution surpassed Endeavour’s performance as a voyaging vessel. There is evidently something special about the boat-builders of Whitby, where both were built, that produces exceptional vessels.’

  Miss Ray placed an extravagantly ringed hand on his arm and smiled coquettishly. ‘And fine commanders such as yourself, Captain Cook. John has informed me that you learned your sailing skills in Whitby.’

  James felt abashed at receiving this unexpected praise.

  Continuing her inspection, Miss Ray looked up at the circular brass object hanging by a chain from the cabin ceiling. ‘What’s that for?’

  ‘It’s a compass,’ James replied. ‘It hangs there, face downwards, so that the captain can note in which direction the ship is sailing, at any hour of the day or night.’ He paused. ‘There’s another, the steering compass,
on the binnacle.’

  ‘The binnacle?’

  ‘A pedestal immediately in front of the wheel. So the helmsmen can follow the correct course.’

  ‘Aah.’ Behind her, Sandwich smiled smugly at the fact that his mistress was so clearly impressed with the tour.

  Back topsides, as Miss Ray wandered about the quarterdeck, Sandwich gripped the starboard rail, squinted across the river and tugged at his large nose. ‘How goes your account of Resolution’s voyage?’ he demanded of James.

  ‘Very slowly, my Lord. I have had a great deal to attend to since returning. Scientific papers to prepare, recommendations for promotion of those who served under me, reports to the Naval Board on the condition of this ship …’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Sandwich interrupted irritably. He turned to Miss Ray and patted her rear. ‘Go down onto the main deck, my dear. I have something I wish to discuss with the Captain in private.’ She lifted her chin and looked at him crossly, but nevertheless obeyed, turning and moving awkwardly down the steps to the mid-deck.

  Sandwich gave a rasping cough and blew his noise violently on a handkerchief. ‘Three days ago I was informed that Captain Clements, who held one of the four post-captains’ positions at Greenwich Hospital, died. Of the flux.’

  James frowned. What had this to do with him? He had never met Captain Clements.

  ‘His death has created a vacancy at the hospital.’ Sandwich placed his hands behind his back. ‘The Admiralty is offering the vacancy to you. You can use the time and the facilities there to write your account of Resolution’s voyage.’

  James’s mind tumbled. He knew of the Greenwich Hospital positions, of course. But little did he think he would ever be offered one. They were considered some of the most privileged appointments the Royal Navy had to offer, well remunerated and on par with the offer of a command at sea, but with minimal responsibilities and far fewer risks. Sinecures. This was not a proposition that could be rejected. He nodded. ‘Thank you, my Lord. I am honoured to be offered the position.’

  With the accounts of Resolution’s remarkable circumnavigation still newsworthy, James now received invitations to attend meetings of the illustrious Royal Society, at its headquarters in Crane Court. There its members pressed him for details of his latest voyage, particularly descriptions of lands such as New Caledonia, New Zealand and Norfolk Island, and their prospects as part of an empire for Britain. Towards the end of 1775 he was nominated, then elected, as a Fellow of the Society. His equally esteemed nominators included Joseph Banks, Daniel Solander, Nevil Maskelyne and Philip Stephens.

  This recognition brought James quiet satisfaction. At home, Elizabeth was more demonstrative.

  ‘Oh James, I am so proud of you. A Fellow of the Royal Society!’

  Taking her in his arms, he said, ‘It is an honour, certainly.’

  ‘Yes.’ She laid her head on his chest. And I’m so pleased that you’ve accepted the position at Greenwich Hospital.’ She looked up. ‘It means so much to me to have you home for good.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘I was working it out today. Do you realise that until now you’ve been at sea for thirty years? With but a few months at home between voyages.’

  He drew her closer to him. ‘I was aware of that, yes. Nearly half a lifetime.’ He put his face in her hair. ‘Shall I read you more from my Resolution journal tonight?’

  ‘Yes, I’d like that.’

  He put his hand gently on her midriff. ‘How is the little one?’

  ‘She or he grows.’ She hugged him. ‘It’s so good that you’ll be here for the birth. The first time you will have been.’

  He gave a little grunt of assent to cover his feelings of guilt. Five children born, all while he was away at sea, and three of them dead, also while he was at sea. He said quietly, ‘If it is a girl, I would like to name her Grace after my mother.’

  Laughing lightly, Elizabeth asked, ‘And if she is a boy?’

  ‘Hugh. After Hugh Palliser. He has been a stalwart for me for nigh on twenty years.’

  ‘Yes.’ Elizabeth laughed again. ‘Yes. And furthermore, he’s also a Yorkshireman.’

  Two

  ‘THIS WILL BE YOUR PLACE OF work. Your Great Cabin on land, as it were.’

  Philip Stephens ushered James into a long room on the second floor of the Royal Hospital for Seamen. It was carpeted in bright blue, the ceiling was pressed zinc, the walls wainscoted in dark wood. A line of six candelabra hung from the ceiling and a polished oak table twenty feet long, supported by criss-crossed legs, occupied the centre of the room. Set into the rear wall was a fireplace with a cast-iron register, on either side of which were open shelves filled with books. Two portraits hung above the fireplace, one of King William III, who had authorised the establishment of the hospital, the other of his wife, Queen Mary II, whose idea it had been. The bookshelves, study table and thick carpet gave the room a muffled, studious air.

  Designed by Sir Christopher Wren and built between 1696 and 1751, the Royal Hospital for Seamen at Greenwich—to give it its full title—was a colonnaded complex on the south bank of the Thames. Twin cupolas—smaller versions of the one that crowned St Paul’s Cathedral, rose above the two central blocks of the hospital, which were separated by a Grand Square. A statue of King George II by John Michael Rysbrack stood on a pedestal in the square. Providing facilities for disabled or pensioned-off seamen, the naval equivalent of the army’s Chelsea pensioners’ hospital, Greenwich also offered a selection of distinguished Royal Navy captains the opportunity to write and record their naval experiences for posterity. ‘It’s a soft option,’ Stephens had told James with his usual frankness. ‘Your only official duty will be to visit and chat with the inmates from time to time.’

  James went over to the mullioned window in the wall that faced the river. A wide bay contained a cushioned seat long enough for a person to stretch out on. On one side of the window was a row of rolled-up sea charts; on the other, more bookshelves. He stared out the window, from where there was a panoramic view of the Thames and the north bank of the city. Barges, ferry boats and a square-rigger were moving up the river on the incoming tide.

  ‘Well? What do you think?’ Stephens was pouting, waiting for a reaction.

  James nodded approvingly. ‘It’s a great deal more spacious than the Great Cabins of either Endeavour or Resolution.’ He looked around the room. ‘Do I share it with the other post-captains?’

  ‘Good gracious, no. Each of the four has his own study. Although you will all share one servant.’

  ‘It’s very agreeable. Thank you, Stephens. I cannot wait to begin here.’

  The position carried an annual salary of £230, a per diem of 1s 2d and free fires and lighting. All writing materials were provided. Had he wished to, James could also have been accommodated in the hospital, but as it was only a half-hour ferry ride from the Cooks’ home, he decided to travel there and back daily. Elizabeth had been delighted when he told her this. ‘It’s wonderful to know you’ll be so close. And that you’ll be here for the birth.’

  Although he nodded, spurs of doubt had pricked at him. Would he come to regret he had decided to be a lubber? That he would never have another naval command? That he would not participate in the war in America? That for him, sailing days were over? Then he dismissed these doubts. The reality was that the writing of the account of Resolution’s three-year voyage was vitally important for science and history, and would take months of hard work to execute.

  He endeavoured to cross the river by ferry to Woolwich and be at the study table by nine, six days a week. Almost always he met this deadline. He took midday dinner with the pensioners in the hospital’s spacious dining hall. Most of the veterans were missing a leg, an arm or an eye; all had yarns of their naval experiences which they were eager to share with James over dinner in exchange for his own stories.

  He sat at the table, his back to the fireplace. In front of him were his writing materials: reams of notepaper, an inkwell, blotting paper and a pot sprouting t
urkey-feather quills. His captain’s log, his primary reference, was close at hand. His spyglass was also on the table, for keeping watch on the river.

  The stationery was brought up from the hospital’s storeroom by Elias Denbigh, the post-captains’ servant. Elias had served against the French as a gunner on HMS Medway and had had his left leg blown off in battle in May 1757. Now a permanent resident of the hospital, he was remarkably nimble for a man with a wooden leg, and cheerful with it. Tall and lantern-jawed, he delivered James’s writing materials to his study every morning, along with a pot of freshly brewed coffee.

  Today, wearing the hospital’s blue uniform, Elias rested on his one good leg, then placed the coffee pot on the table, along with a cup and a small jug of milk. His concave cheeks were greyly stubbled. ‘There we are, Cap’n. Anything else you’ll be wanting?’

  ‘No, that’ll be all. Thank you, Denbigh.’

  ‘Very good, Cap’n.’ He cocked his head cheerily. ‘Go well with yer writin’.’

  James opened his journal at the page he had left yesterday, took a fresh sheet of paper, dipped his quill into the ink and began to write. In his mind were clear memories and images of a particular place. He was also conscious of the fact that he was the first person to write in English of the island being described—the Dutch and the Spaniards didn’t count—and the great responsibility this placed upon him.

  He wrote:

  THURSDAY, 17 MARCH 1774 (OFF EASTER ISLAND)

  No nation will ever contend for the honour of discovery of Easter Island as there is hardly an island in this sea which affords less refreshments and conveniences for shipping than it does. Nature has hardly provided it with anything fit for man to eat or drink, and as the natives are but few and may be supposed to plant no more than sufficient for themselves, they cannot have much to spare for newcomers. The produce is potatoes, yams, taro or the edoy root, plantains and sugar cane, all excellent in its kind. They have also gourds and the same sort of cloth plant as the other isles but not much, cocks and hens like ours which are small and but few of them and these are the only domestic animals we saw among them, nor did we see any quadrupeds, but rats which I believe they eat as I saw a man with some in his hand which he seemed unwilling to part with. Land birds we saw hardly any and sea birds but a few, these were men of war birds, noddies, egg birds etc. The sea seems barren of fish for we could not catch any although we tried in several places with hook and line and it was very little we saw among the natives. Such is the produce of Easter Island which is situated in the Latitude of 27° 6' South and the Longitude of 109° 51' 40" West. It is about 10 leagues in circuit and hath a hilly rocky surface, the hills are of such height as seen 15 or 16 leagues …