James Cook’s Lost World Read online

  ‘That is not so! It is because I see it as a chance to serve my king and country. Once again.’

  ‘Once again?’ Her voice became a cry. ‘You cannot stop this voyaging, it seems. The sea has cast a spell over you, demanding that you follow its dictates. So when this voyage is over, there will be another, and another.’

  ‘No. When the North-east Passage has been discovered and charted, there will be no more discoveries to make. The world’s map will be complete.’

  Elizabeth shook her head. ‘I wish I could believe you, but I cannot, because I know how strongly you are driven. You cannot stop, because the sea is an addiction for you. It is like a drug that holds you in its thrall.’ She looked at him balefully. ‘This year you will turn forty-eight. That is not an age to be sailing into the unknown and risking what remains of your life.’

  ‘There are many serving mariners of that age. And older.’

  ‘Perhaps. But they do not command ships that sail into uncharted and frozen seas. You were ill during your last voyage. What if that affliction returns? And worsens?’ Her voice rose in pitch, her face was flushed. ‘You have risked your life often enough. You need not do so again.’

  He met her accusing gaze. His voice also rising, he said, ‘It is necessary, and I will be equal to such challenges as the voyage presents me with.’

  From upstairs came the sound of a door opening and closing. Nathaniel came down the staircase from his room, in vest and hose, his feet bare. He ran his hand through his hair, looked confusedly from his mother to his father then back again. ‘What is it? What’s happening?’

  James got to his feet, picked up his hat and went to the door. As he passed his son he said sourly, ‘Ask your mother.’

  He walked through Shadwell, past the now-silent rope works, cooperages and sugar refineries, until he came to the riverbank and a Thames-side tavern he knew, the New England, which was popular with mariners. It was rare for him to resort to drink, but now it seemed fitting to do so. He sat in an alcove of the tavern, a glass of brandy and his hat on the table before him. The only light came from a couple of lanterns dangling from a ceiling beam, so that the other customers were just shadowy, muttering shapes in the other alcoves.

  He took a mouthful of the brandy and felt it pooling warmly in the pit of his stomach. But that was the only warmth he felt. His wife’s words had been wounding. They were the consequence, he concluded, of sudden anger at his unexpected announcement. Not her true feelings. Once she had had time to adjust to the idea, she would feel better. Time was what it would take to mollify her.

  He took a second swallow of brandy. Another thought entered his consciousness and lodged there like a jagged hook. Could she be right? Had he changed? Was he acting from pride and vanity? No, he told himself, never. His motives were never personal; they were patriotic. Love of country was what was driving him, as it always had.

  He took another sip. As he set the glass down, a figure rose from one of the nearby alcoves and came unsteadily across the room towards him. It was a man holding a half-empty mug of ale. ‘Captain Cook? Captain James Cook?’

  James looked up. ‘Yes?’

  The man was about 40, unshaven and of medium height, with tangled black hair and a flattened nose. He peered at James through reddened eyes and chuckled. ‘I told me mates over there that you was the famous sea captain, but they didn’t believe me.’ He thrust out a hand. ‘I’m Will Parker. I’m a carpenter at the Deptford dock. I seen you there, once, when Endeavour was being refitted.’

  James nodded, took the calloused hand and smiled thinly. ‘Parker,’ he said.

  ‘That’s me name, Captain.’ He chuckled again. ‘Now I’ll be able to tell me mates at the yard that I’ve shook the hand of the famous Captain Cook.’

  James stood up, nodded curtly at the fellow, picked up his tricorn and walked across to the tavern door. He didn’t like being accosted by dim-witted strangers. Another reason to go to sea again.

  He walked back through the dark streets, his cape drawn tightly around his shoulders against the cold. Despite the unwanted encounter, the brandy had warmed him considerably and brightened his outlook. He would come to an agreement with Elizabeth, as he had before his two previous voyages. He would again keep a personal journal for her, in which he would record his intimate thoughts and feelings. She had received the earlier journals with the greatest pleasure, especially when he read them aloud to her upon his return. He would promise to do so again; that would appease her.

  Thrusting his hands into his pockets, he strode on towards Assembly Row, increasing his pace. To be the first to find a North-east Passage, what a triumph that would be. It would fix his name in history. Yes, the voyage would be dangerous, but no more dangerous than the others. And he had survived those.

  The house was in darkness when he returned. He unlocked the door, removed his boots and hung his hat and cape on the hallstand. He climbed the stairs and entered the bedroom. Elizabeth’s deep breathing came from one side of the bed. He removed his clothes, got in beside her, put his arm around her.

  She stirred, turned. ‘James?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where did you go?’ Her voice was slurred with sleep.

  ‘For a walk. I needed to get some fresh air. And to think.’

  There was a long silence. Then, less sleepily, ‘Did you think about what I said?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She turned and he felt her eyes upon him. She said—and it was not a question—‘You will withdraw from the expedition.’

  His reply was immediate. ‘I will not. It is something I must do.’

  With a cry, she turned away.

  He left their bedroom and went across the landing to the room where Nathaniel slept. He knocked, then entered. The room was in darkness, but moonlight shone through the curtained window onto a mound in the bed. ‘Nathaniel?’

  The mound moved and a head appeared. The boy sat up, rubbing his eyes. ‘Yes?’

  James sat on the end of the bed. ‘I’m sorry you had to hear your mother and me quarrelling.’

  His voice anxious, Nathaniel said, ‘What was the quarrel about?’

  James told him, concluding with the words, ‘I can understand your mother’s concern. I have been absent from this house, and from you and your brother, for too long. The deaths of your little sister and brothers must have been terrible for you all. But the command I’ve been offered, to lead a special expedition, will never come again. I had to agree to do it.’

  The boy rubbed at his hair. ‘Is the expedition to the South Sea?’

  ‘Yes. And other places.’

  ‘Will it be dangerous?’

  ‘Yes. But no more dangerous than when I sailed to the Antarctic. And I came back from there, didn’t I?’

  Nathaniel looked down, fiddled with his hands. ‘Do you remember when James and me were little and you used to tell us bedtime stories about when you were in Canada?’

  ‘Fighting the French?’ James smiled. ‘I do remember.’

  ‘My favourite was your story about just escaping from wild Indians, on that island in the St Lawrence River.’

  ‘Ah, yes, just before the battle for Quebec.’

  ‘Well, although it was my favourite story, it made me frightened, too. Sometimes it gave me bad dreams.’

  ‘Really? You never told me that.’

  ‘I didn’t like to.’ He hesitated. ‘And when you were away for so long on Resolution, and when we were never able to hear from you, we all worried about what had happened to you. We thought cannibals might have eaten you.’

  James reached out and tousled the boy’s hair. ‘Well, they didn’t. And no one will eat me this time, either. I’m too old and tough to be eaten. Besides, my ships will have marines on board, and cannons and muskets. They will allow us to fend off any attacks. The Indians only have bows and arrows, and clubs and spears. I promise you, I will return safely to our family. All right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Nathanie
l, you still wish to go to sea yourself, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes. But first I will go to the academy, won’t I?’

  ‘Yes. Like your brother. And after that, you will go to sea, and serve our King and country, and make your father—and your mother—proud of you.’

  ‘Yes.’ But his voice was dull. He slipped downwards in the bed, so that only his face was visible, then murmured, ‘We will miss you, Papa.’

  ‘And I will miss you, son. And your mother. And James.’ He stood up. ‘And when I get back, I will have lots of exciting stories to tell you all. And there will be a new baby brother or sister for me to get to know.’

  ‘Yes. ’Night, Papa.’

  ‘’Night, son.’

  James left the boy’s bedroom and went downstairs to the parlour. He would sleep there tonight, under a blanket on the sofa.

  Then he stopped and inhaled sharply. The stabbing pains in his gut had returned.

  Five

  THE FOLLOWING WEEKS WERE ONES OF TURMOIL, with insufficient hours in the day for everything James needed to do. Along with the time spent at Greenwich, he continued to have portrait sittings. Not only for Nathaniel Dance, but also for Joshua Reynolds and the artist from Resolution’s voyage, William Hodges. Everyone, it seemed, wanted to capture James Cook’s likeness. Sitting for Hodges was diverting: while the artist worked the pair of them reminisced about their voyage through the South Sea. Hodges also showed him one of the paintings he was working on from the voyage, of Matavai Bay, Otaheite. It portrayed Resolution and Adventure at anchor, with outrigger canoes and natives in the foreground. James was entranced by it. ‘I feel as if I am back there again,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you!’ the artist replied. He squinted at the canvas. ‘It took me a great deal of time to capture the early morning light on the mountains.’ He had given the forested range in the background a blush, while the trees in the foreground were shadowy. The painting exuded natural and human beauty.

  ‘I wish you were coming on my next voyage,’ James remarked, as Hodges’s attention returned to his current canvas. As ordered by Lord Sandwich, James had not disclosed the aim of the forthcoming voyage, saying only that it was for the repatriation of Omai.

  Hodges sighed, nodding. ‘I wish it were so myself. But having had no knowledge of a further South Sea voyage, I accepted a commission from the East India Company to portray aspects of India.’ He looked up at James. ‘Has the Admiralty appointed an artist for the next voyage?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  James tried to work at Greenwich for at least four days a week, all day and half the night. Once a week he took Nathaniel with him. The boy loved being on the river, thrilled especially by the sight of the ships of the line, their colours flying, cannon ports gaping, gunners and marines drilling on deck, fifes and drums sounding.

  While James worked in the study, Nathaniel browsed through the naval histories in the library, listened to lurid battle stories related to him by the veterans, roamed the hospital grounds and took walks along the river paths. He was growing to be a thoughtful, inquisitive lad, keenly interested in all naval matters. James watched him maturing with great pride.

  Sometimes James slept at the hospital, in the dormitory room provided for the captains. Attempting to cope with Elizabeth’s resentful moods was making life more and more difficult at home. She seemed to be withdrawing into herself, saying little, seeming to want to cut him out of her life. There was nothing he could do in the face of this rejection but accept it and continue with his work. Completing his journal and preparing for the forthcoming voyage were now matters of urgency.

  The Admiralty officials sent a stream of instructions to the Navy Board regarding the overhaul of Resolution. James would have liked to travel to the Deptford dock to check on the refitting but there was no time. Instead he had to rely on Stephens’s verbal reports, which were in themselves second-hand. ‘A new rudder has been ordered,’ ‘The rigging is being overhauled.’ ‘The damaged strakes are being replaced.’ ‘The copper sheathing proceeds.’ ‘The caulking will begin shortly.’ Placing his faith in the Navy Board and its contractors, James accepted these reports without question.

  With the rebellion in the American colonies spreading, river traffic on the Thames was becoming more hectic. Demands on the Navy Board for provisioning the trans-Atlantic transports and the ships of the line were growing. Reports of the uprising dominated the news-sheets. In a way James was grateful for this, as it drew the public’s attention away from his forthcoming expedition and eased acceptance of the semi-fiction that his South Sea voyage was for the return of Omai to his home island.

  James met regularly with Sandwich, Stephens and Palliser, and one evening was the guest at a dinner with this powerful triumvirate. When he arrived at Whitehall an elderly retainer answered his knock on the door, took his top-coat and ushered him into the dining hall. Sandwich and Stephens were already there, standing by the fireplace, wine goblets in hand. The atmosphere was convivial: a fire was burning and the big candelabra were all ablaze. On a trolley beside the dining table were decanters of red wine, sherry, port and brandy.

  The two men greeted James enthusiastically. Sandwich’s face had a ruddy glow. ‘A drink, Captain?’

  ‘Brandy, thank you.’

  Sandwich picked up a crystal goblet and filled it from a decanter. Stephens smiled and raised his glass. ‘Your good health!’

  Although James nodded, that toast now seemed ironic. Lately the bilious colic had returned, and the pains in his stomach were more persistent. But he made no mention of this to anyone; it was just something he had to live with. Sea air would help cure the ailment, he was sure.

  As the three men drank, the servant opened the door and announced, ‘Sir Hugh Palliser.’

  Hugh shook hands with the others, then requested a glass of sherry. His round face was greyish, but his eyes were as lively as ever. As they drank and chatted, James again thought about how far he had come over the last few years. As a consequence of his successes, these men, the elite of the Admiralty, now listened to him, consulted him, deferred to his judgments. The days of being condescended to by men like Banks and silver-spoon naval commanders like Wallis were over. No one now mocked his North Riding accent or belittled his lowly origins.

  They sat at the dining table, Sandwich at the head. He addressed James. ‘The first thing to say, Captain, is how delighted we are that you have accepted the command of our next expedition. There is no commander in England better suited to lead this great search, probably the last great geographical quest on Earth.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ Stephens and Palliser said together. James nodded his acknowledgment.

  ‘You are confident that you can make the Strait of Bering by the summer after next?’

  ‘We will have to, if we are to make the most of the thaw. So I will ensure that we do.’

  Stephens said, ‘The choice of officers for the voyage, on both ships, will be of paramount importance. Have you given consideration as to who they might be?’

  James set his glass down. ‘Certainly. My preference for the command of Discovery is Charles Clerke. He’s a fine seaman and has already been on three world voyages.’

  Palliser frowned. ‘I’ve heard, though, that he’s overly fond of two things: liquor and women. Might these fondnesses interfere with his nautical performance?’

  ‘No. It’s true that Clerke is no stranger to the glass or the ladies. But he is not alone in that regard.’ Stephens looked down, trying not to smile. ‘More importantly, Clerke is an excellent officer, courageous and able. The men not only respect him, they also like him, which is rare. His exuberance and sense of humour are well developed, and these qualities are of great value during a prolonged voyage. And his loyalty is beyond question.’

  Stephens nodded. ‘True. He told me recently that he’d agreed to act as a guarantor for his brother, Sir John Clerke, who has many investments in the City.’

  That Clerke should command Discovery was unani
mously agreed, as was the appointment of the equally respected James Burney as his first officer. Burney’s fostering of Omai in London was cited as evidence of his commitment. The appointment of a first officer for Resolution now arose. Sandwich declared, ‘It would seem that John Gore is the most suitable candidate.’

  Palliser and Stephens both shot meaningful looks at James. It was commonly known that he had had occasion to severely reprimand Gore during the Endeavour voyage for the unprovoked shooting of a Maori at Mercury Bay. Probably as a consequence, Gore had gone off with Banks on his Iceland voyage rather than on James’s second circumnavigation. Yet, James thought, this was no time for bearing grudges. He said, carefully, ‘Gore is greatly experienced, and has matured. He must now be how old?’

  ‘Forty-six,’ said Stephens promptly.

  James grunted. ‘Only a year younger than myself. His experience will be valuable. I accept that Gore is a suitable choice.’

  A servant knocked, then wheeled in a trolley bearing their dinner on silver salvers: roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, baked potatoes, parsnips and carrots. But where are the greens? James wondered, as the salvers’ lids were lifted.

  The food was served and goblets filled with red wine from the Côtes du Rhône. Sandwich held his glass up high and proclaimed: ‘Gentlemen, the King!’

  ‘The King!’ came echoing cries.

  ‘And the North-east Passage!’ The others laughed, and drank.

  Over the meal, the discussion turned to the civilians who might be taken on the voyage. Stephens said, ‘As we’ll need an artist, I thought I would write to William Hodges and offer the position to him. I’ve seen his work and it’s remarkable.’ Addressing James: ‘Have you seen any of his landscapes?’

  ‘I have, and I agree his work is extraordinary. Regrettably, though, he’s unavailable for the next voyage. He will be in the employ of the East India Company this year.’