by Graeme Lay
He placed the quill back in its holder, then leaned back. Feeling the pain returning to his lower right leg, he flexed it. This didn’t help. Instead it sent a stab of pain up the leg and into his groin. Wincing, he stretched the leg again. Gout?
The sporadic pains had begun over two years ago, in New Zealand. He had done his best to cope, largely by ignoring them. Then a more distressing complaint—constipation—had beset him a few months later when Resolution was in Antarctic waters. The bilious colic had been assuaged by dog broth, provided unexpectedly by Johann Forster. Yet the gut pains had never vanished entirely, and now they were returning more often. James had once considered illness a weakness, but since his own health had shown signs of faltering he had begun to doubt this view. Was pain just another aspect of life, an inevitability to be stoically borne? Probably. But as one who until now had seldom been ill, he was perturbed by the various pains.
He got up and walked over to the window. Before him was the river, in the distance London Bridge, the dome of St Paul’s and scores of house rooftops and church spires. The river and the densely packed buildings of the city were smothered by a brown haze from hundreds of coal fires. The Thames made a meandering pathway through the city. It never ceased to amaze him how in a little over a century, following the Great Fire of 1666, not only St Paul’s but the entire central city had risen from the ashes. And the traffic on the river was as hectic as ever. London grew and grew, spreading outwards, not merely nibbling at but munching the countryside surrounding it.
As always, James’s attention drifted to the vessels on the Thames. Ferries pulled by pairs of oarsmen were crossing the river in both directions, dodging the sloops that moved downstream, all sails unfurled, desperate to collect what little wind was on offer. He put his spyglass to his eye, training it on the various vessels and the activities of their crews. Occasionally a ship of the line appeared in his vision, flags flying proudly, making its slow way upriver to the Deptford yard for repairs, in readiness for the trans-Atlantic crossing and the war against the insurgents in the American colonies.
Closely watching the sailors working among the shrouds and the topgallants, James yearned to be up there with them. Commanding them, going aloft, reading the wind and tide, feeling the roll of a ship beneath him. He could not deny it: he envied those crews. Although the hospital provided him with everything he needed, he felt confined here. Shackled, even. For him, the place was more a prison than a hospital.
Staring down at the river, he recalled how as a lad many years ago he had been apprenticed to the owner of a grocery store in Staithes, Yorkshire. There too he had been within sight of the sea and its various vessels, but had been unable to break the bonds that confined him to the land. Now he was again removed from his beloved sea, obliged to live merely on memories of voyages past. What the old salts said was true: once the sea had entered your bloodstream, it flowed on in there for the rest of your life. It followed that to impede that flow was to deny the very reason for your existence.
He turned away from the view, thinking that life on land could never compensate for the feeling of a sea breeze at his back, of spray in his face, of the moods and scents of the ocean, of the vastness of the sky and stars from the masthead. Only a few months ago he had plotted and pursued courses through the oceans of the entire Southern Hemisphere. Now he was confined like a caged circus bear. He sorely missed the ‘wooden world’, as the old-timers called it, the watery way of life, and its special customs and traditions. Even its superstitions. At sea he had never suffered from what some called cabin fever, but here he was certainly suffering from bureau fever.
His writing had been recently interrupted by sittings for the portraitist Nathaniel Dance. Dance had accepted Banks’s commission to undertake the portrait, which required James to take the coach to Charing Cross for sittings in the artist’s studio. Dance was tall, with a long face and nose, and receding hair swept back from a broad forehead. He insisted that James be attired in full dress uniform, and seated, looking to one side. He placed an open chart in his hands and told him to place his tricorn on a table beside him. His right hand was to remain resting on the chart, the middle fingers extended. Not only did James find this position restful, it also allowed him to conceal the scar on his right hand, a relic of the powder-horn explosion that had nearly blown his hand off in Newfoundland back in 1764.
Dance sat on a stool before his easel, drawing and chatting, his eyes darting from subject to canvas, his right hand moving in short, deft strokes. To his surprise James found the experience oddly satisfying, although it was tiring trying to maintain the same pose. He and the artist exchanged travel stories. Dance told him of his time studying portraiture in Italy and James regaled the painter with accounts of life in the South Sea. When Dance asked about the arts practised by the natives of the region, James explained, ‘They have no paintings. They express themselves through stone and wood carvings instead. But in these they’re highly skilled.’
Dance looked unimpressed, so James persisted. ‘The carvings in jade by the New Zealand Maoris are true works of art. I’ll show you one, to prove it.’
Before the next sitting commenced he showed Dance the hei tiki he had obtained at Uawa, on New Zealand’s east coast. The artist held the smooth green object and stared at it admiringly. ‘The carver fashioned this without a steel chisel?’
‘Yes. Carved with an adze, made from the same jade. Then polished with shark skin.’
‘Remarkable.’ Handing it back, Dance said, ‘Now, Captain, take your seat.’
Dance insisted that James not see the result until the portrait was completed, which was frustrating, but he reassured him from time to time. ‘Yes, Captain, I’m working on your expression now. That’s the crucial part: capturing your authority.’
Sitting in the studio, wearing his commander’s uniform, chart in hand, James’s mind kept drifting back to what he had accomplished. And how much he missed the command and the oceans. Now, in his study, attempting to shake off these thoughts, he turned away from the view of the Thames and resumed his seat at the table. Picking up his quill, he transported himself back to the archipelago he had christened the New Hebrides after the isles of Scotland. His mind returned to the sea, although in truth it had hardly ever left.
SUNDAY, 4 SEPTEMBER 1774
… went with two boats to view the coast and to look for a proper landing place, wood and water. At a sandy beach where I could step out of the boat without wetting a foot, I landed in the face of a great multitude with nothing but a green branch in my hand. I was received very courteously … in short I was charmed with their behaviour. Soon, however, I had to give orders to fire, as they now began to shoot their arrows and throw darts and stones at us. The first discharge threw them into confusion but another discharge was hardly sufficient to drive them all off the beach and after all they continued to throw stones from behind the trees and bushes.
Although James worked largely in solitary confinement at Greenwich, he was not entirely cut off from the naval world. A source of dockland information was Elias Denbigh, who seemed to gather naval gossip as a dog collects fleas. One morning in January, as Elias was banking the fire from the coal scuttle, his peg leg braced against the hearth surround, he said, ‘They tell me, Cap’n, that the Navy Board has bought a companion vessel for your ship. For Resolution.’
James looked up quickly. ‘What for?’
‘Some sort of voyage in the offing.’ Panting, Elias stood back from the fire, scuttle still in hand. ‘They tell me it’s another collier the board’s bought.’
‘Whitby-built?’
‘I believe so, sir. Another square-rigger. Diligence, she were called, now renamed as Discovery. She’s been sent to the yard at Deptford for refitting.’
James allowed a silence. ‘And this voyage, Denbigh, what do you know of it?’
‘Nothing at all, sir.’ Elias’s eyes looked ceiling-ward. ‘For the war in America, proberly.’
James nodded
. Yes, no doubt the collier was being converted to a transport vessel to accompany Resolution across the Atlantic. Supplies would be desperately needed in the colonies should the insurrection there turn to outright war.
Twisting his quill between his fingers, James considered further. Refitted colliers were usually deployed for longer voyages than just ‘crossing the pond’ to North America. The vessel’s new name, Discovery, implied something rather more than that too.
He dipped his quill in the ink, then held it poised above a blank sheet of paper, trying without success to rid his mind of this unsettling thought.
Three
A TERSE NOTE WAS DELIVERED TO JAMES at Greenwich, on 10 January 1776:
My dear Cook,
There is an important matter we need to discuss.
Please arrange to meet me at my office this Thursday (12 January) at noon.
I am yours,
Stephens, Secretary to the Admiralty
‘Cook. Good day, sir. How goes your journal writing?’
‘Slowly. But I have reached New Caledonia.’
Stephens fixed James with his usual wry smile. His cheeks had a pinkish tinge, his hazel eyes sparkled. He was casually dressed, as always: his waistcoat frogs were undone, exposing his white vest, his brown hair drawn back in a queue and tied with a blue ribbon. He gestured towards his office table. ‘Take a seat. I’ve ordered coffee and shortbread.’
A coal fire burned in the grate, radiating welcome warmth after the cold of the street. There were navy-blue drapes on either side of the double-hung sash windows that faced Whitehall. The floor was carpeted in matching blue, patterned with gold fleur-de-lys designs. There was a large globe table under the window; an oil painting of the 1759 Battle of Quiberon Bay, in which the English fleet under Sir Edward Hawke had defeated the French, hung above the fireplace. On the other wall was a series of framed cartoons from the Spectator, most depicting the rebels in England’s North American colonies as backwoodsmen with ape-like features.
A manservant brought in the coffee and shortbread on a tray and placed it on the table. He left, and James and Stephens sat facing each other across the table. They chatted, Stephens filling James in on the latest reports from North America. ‘The rebels’ so-called “general”, Washington, has hoisted a flag above his headquarters, our spies report. He says it represents the “Continental Union”.’ Stephens scowled. ‘The man needs a good beating. And he’ll get one, have no doubt about that.’
As James sipped his coffee, eyes fixed on the man opposite him, he kept wondering what this meeting was really about. Stephens had not summoned him here just to chat about what had already been prominently reported in the London news-sheets. The secretary remained one of the Admiralty’s most influential figures; it seemed to James that there was nothing that went on in the upper echelons of the Royal Navy without Stephens being aware of it.
The secretary picked up a piece of shortbread, dunked it in his coffee and nibbled it. He licked his lips then said carefully, ‘Tell me what you know of the North-west Passage.’
James thought for some moments. ‘Such a passage has been sought for centuries. Frobisher tried to find it in the 1570s. So did Davis. Hudson tried twice, and died in the second attempt. In 1610, I think it was.’
Stephens nodded, obviously impressed. ‘Hudson’s men mutinied, then left him and his son to die from the cold in the great bay that now bears his name.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘For centuries there have been stories about a passage linking the two oceans, ever since the Spaniard de Fuca sailed up the western coast of America in 1592 and claimed to have found a great inlet there.’
He got up and went over to the globe table. ‘Come and have a look at this.’ Stephens stroked the globe and it spun smoothly on its axis. Set into a circular frame of polished elm, it was a fine combination of form and function. Stephens placed his hand on the globe to halt its turning and said, ‘This is the very latest model. Delivered here last week from Hearne Bros, the cartographers of Cannon Street.’ He stroked it again and the Southern Hemisphere appeared. ‘You’ll notice that it incorporates your latest discoveries. New Caledonia, Norfolk Island and …’ He moved the globe again. ‘Sandwich Land, South Georgia and the Antarctic landmass.’
James nodded. It was true that the world map had been partly redrawn through his discoveries. He reached out, flicked the globe and brought New Holland and Van Diemen’s Land into view. They were joined by a blank patch. Putting his forefinger on it, James said, ‘I very much regretted not discovering whether Van Diemen’s Land is actually part of the continent of New Holland, or if there is a strait separating them.’
Stephens went across to the fireplace and stood with his back to the glowing coals. ‘That omission will doubtless be rectified in time. And it’s only a minor gap in the picture. Like one piece in those new puzzles that are so popular. What do they call them?’
‘Jigsaws.’
‘Ah, yes, just one missing piece of a jigsaw. But the North-west passage …’ Stephens turned the globe again, exposing the Northern Hemisphere and placing his palm on Canada. ‘This much is now known and charted. Davis Strait, to the west of Greenland; Hudson Strait, leading into Hudson Bay.’ His hand moved further north to where the hemisphere became blank. ‘But north of the Arctic Circle, all is terra incognita.’ He turned and stared at James, his eyes shining. ‘The last great global discovery, a passage from the North Atlantic through to the North Pacific. Imagine the advantages for trade between the Orient and Europe. As you’re aware, the Ottoman Turks currently control the overland routes across Eurasia to China, closing that trade avenue to us. But a passage through to the East via northern North America: imagine that! No more doubling of Cape Horn or the Cape of Good Hope. A saving of months of sailing.’
Meeting Stephens’s stare, James said pointedly, ‘Yes, but you’re ignoring the fact that for nine months of the year the seas and land north of the Arctic Circle—north of the sixtieth parallel, in fact—are frozen over. There cannot possibly be a passage through the ice from the Atlantic to the Pacific.’
‘Aha!’ Stephens’s expression became gleeful. ‘And you’re ignoring the fact that for three months of the year they are not frozen over. From June through to August, possibly even to September, the thaw would allow a sea passage to be made, if one exists. The Russians have already charted the Bering Strait and have built some settlements in the extreme east of their vast country. You’ve studied the charts of Vitus Bering, I presume? And von Stahlin’s more recent one?’
‘I have. But the Russians haven’t surveyed beyond the seventieth parallel. No one else has, either.’ James frowned. ‘Why this talk of the Bering Strait? Surely a further search for the North-west Passage should approach from the Davis Strait in the North Atlantic.’
Stephens leaned forward, so that his face was close to James’s. ‘No,’ he said emphatically. ‘It’s the Admiralty’s considered view that a new exploration should be from the west. From the North Pacific. A search for a North-east Passage, so to speak. And that exploration, the Admiralty, the Royal Society and the King all believe, should be made soon.’ He swallowed. ‘So earnest is the desire of the authorities for such a passage to be discovered, they have offered a reward of £20,000 to those who find it.’
‘Twenty thousand?’
‘Yes. To be shared among the companies of the ships that discover it.’ Stephens closed one eye conspiratorially. ‘And it’s my belief that such an expedition should be led by you.’
James was stunned into silence. His mind whirled. Another world voyage. And one with profound ramifications. Venturing into the extremes of the Northern Hemisphere, from the west. Uncharted waters. Ice mountains. Months of cold. Frozen sails and rigging.
Finding his voice, he said quietly, ‘It would take at least a year to reach America’s west coast from here. When would such an expedition depart?’
‘To reach the Bering Strait by the northern summer of next year, and presuming the ships would sa
il for the Pacific Ocean via the Cape of Good Hope …’ Stephens blinked, rapidly. ‘By April this year.’
There was a long silence, during which Stephens watched James intently. ‘You look a trifle confounded, Captain. Does such a voyage not interest you?’
James looked away. ‘I’m rocked, more than confounded. I considered myself done with world voyaging.’
Stephens said challengingly, ‘Then whom would you prefer to lead such an expedition? Tobias Furneaux? John Gore?’
‘No. I know both men well. And neither would be a suitable leader.’
‘That is precisely why I’m suggesting you. There is only one Englishman with the experience and ability to seek a North-east Passage, and that is yourself. No one other than you could bring such a search to fruition.’
There was another long silence. James’s mind continued to spin. At last he said, ‘Such a voyage would take at least three years.’
‘Yes, yes.’ Stephens’s tone now betrayed irritation. ‘But the rewards, think of them. And I don’t just mean the twenty thousand pounds.’ He clenched his left hand. ‘To be the first man to discover a passage from the northern Pacific through to the Atlantic.’ He pointed to the globe table. ‘The consequent trade would bring enormous wealth to England. The silks of Cathay, the teas of India, the spices of the East Indies, brought with relative speed to European markets by English ships. Untold riches for our nation.’ He paused meaningfully. ‘And immortality for the man who discovered the passage and so allowed such trade to happen.’
‘I’m well aware of the significance of such a discovery,’ James replied quietly.
‘Then you will agree to lead such a voyage?’
Avoiding Stephens’s expectant stare, James said, ‘There are other matters to take into consideration.’
‘Such as?’
‘My Resolution account must be completed.’
‘Yes. By April. Is that possible?’
