by Graeme Lay
James alighted from the cab outside the prison’s main entrance. Dozens of people were loitering about the front steps. Many women and a few men, all dressed in bedraggled clothing, stood about, their expressions glum. Relatives of the inmates, James presumed. It was raining, which added to the general atmosphere of despair. Most of those standing about had no protection from the weather other than shawls or the turned-up collars of their jackets. A few mangy dogs lay on the cobblestones or slunk among the crowd. Two boys were roasting chestnuts over a brazier, presumably in the hope of selling them for a few farthings. Spotting James in his naval uniform, a man thrust out a grubby hand. ‘Shillin’ for me bruvver, unjustly gaoled?’ he called.
Brushing past the mendicant, James climbed the short flight of steps and went inside. Behind a grilled desk in the foyer sat an elderly man smoking a cob pipe. The superintendent, James presumed. He wore a dark grey jacket buttoned up to his neck, but was unshaven, and his wig was yellowed with smoke.
James spoke through the grill. ‘Cook. Captain James Cook, Royal Navy. I wish to speak to one of the inmates here.’
The man closed his right eye and said slackly, ‘Which inmate, Cap’n?’
‘Clerke. Lieutenant Charles Clerke.’
The man cleared his throat nosily and looked down at the notebook on his desk. Licking his forefinger, he flicked over the pages, then said, ‘Clerke. Level three, cell eight.’ He looked up quickly. ‘You’re here to pay his brother’s debts?’
‘No. As I told you, I wish to talk to him.’
Then man pointed. ‘Down that way. Third level, near the end.’ He turned and called through the door behind him. ‘Kippert!’
A sallow-faced young man in the same grey uniform appeared. On his belt were a cudgel and a short sword.
‘Show the Cap’n to level three, cell eight.’ The superintendent peered at James. ‘Did yer say yer name was James Cook?’
‘I did.’
‘The explorer James Cook?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, very pleased to be of help, Cap’n.’ He smiled, revealing a row of sulphurous teeth.
A central flag-stoned corridor ran the length of the prison; on either side of it were the four levels of barred cells. The air was dank and fetid, reeking of rotting vegetables, smoke and sewage. Water trickled down the brick walls and ran into gutters on either side. As James and the guard walked along the passage a pair of brown rats emerged from a drain hole and scuttled along ahead of them. Gagging at the stench, James followed the guard as they climbed a steel staircase to level three. They walked along a metal gantry and James glanced into the cells. Some contained three men, others had only one occupant. There were no beds and no windows; the only light came from candles in brackets on the walls, and there were palliasses and blankets on the floors, on which the prisoners huddled. In the corners of the cells were tin chamber pots, filled with piss and shit. James thought the conditions and the stink worse than any lower deck he had experienced in all his navy years. The all-knowing Dr Johnson should see this, he thought.
‘Cell eight,’ the guard announced, then walked away.
‘Clerke!’ James called through the bars.
The figure lying on the palliasse turned over. Then, seeing who the visitor was, his face lit up. ‘Captain!’ he exclaimed. Scrambling to his feet, he held his hand out through the bars. ‘It’s so good to see you.’
He wore stained grey calico breeches, a matching jacket—outsized, its sleeves frayed—and his feet were encased in holey socks. His usually ruddy face was pale and drawn, and he was wigless, his hair matted.
They talked for 20 minutes. Charles said that he passed the time reading, and writing an account of his experiences on Resolution. He had had to provide everything he needed out of his own pocket: blankets, cutlery, plates. (‘Not so different from the navy in that respect, sir.’) After Clerke said he had no hope of raising the £4000 to repay his brother’s debt, James told him about the hoped-for statute regarding experienced naval officers. ‘In the meantime,’ he added, ‘Burney will take command of Discovery.’
Clerke’s expression became desolate. ‘I cannot bear the thought of missing the voyage.’
‘Cleave to hope, Clerke. If the parliamentary Act is passed, then the command will revert to you. But time is of the essence, so Resolution must sail first. Discovery will, I hope, follow her under your command.’
Clerke’s eyes grew watery. Gripping the bars of the cell door, he said haltingly: ‘I am so sorry, sir, to cause your expedition such uncertainty.’ He turned and looked at his accommodation in disgust. ‘I will make up for it when I am released from here.’ He cleared his throat harshly and began to cough. Pulling a dirty handkerchief from his sleeve, he blew his nose.
James opened his bag and gave Charles the apples and the book. It was a translation of Louis Antoine de Bougainville’s Voyage Round the World. ‘To remind you of the delights of Otaheite,’ James said, smiling. ‘As if you had need of such a reminder.’
Clerke recovered. Taking James’s hand again, he said breathlessly, ‘Thank you, sir, thank you. I will make it up to you after I’m released from this pestilential place.’
As James left the building, he passed the superintendent’s office. In response to the man’s simpering grin, James glared at him. ‘This place is disgraceful. Filthy from top to bottom.’ Shoving his tricorn down on his head, he pushed through the wretched crowd and out into the square. He would put all the pressure he could on Stephens, who was also the Member of Parliament for Sandwich, to ensure that Clerke was released as soon as possible.
Seven
SPRING CAME EARLY THAT YEAR, and with a rush. The daffodils on nearby Bethnal Green burst from the ground, flecking the hillsides with gold, and the oaks and elms erupted into leaf, each the most perfect, palest green. The Thames was crowded with vessels, most bound for America’s eastern seaboard, where the war drums were beating with increasing fervour. It was reported in the April news-sheets that at the beginning of March the Americans had begun shelling British troops in Boston. They had also occupied the Bahamas. On the Thames and around the docks the neighing of horses on the transport vessels became a familiar refrain, and the scarlet jackets of the drilling militia brought colour to the river.
James felt strangely detached from all this. Although once he would have seized the chance to serve King and country in defence of Britain’s territories, his future was now bound up with the other side of the American continent. As he watched the transports and the militia preparing to cross the Atlantic, he felt sympathy for them but little envy. He had served his time in battle, against the French twenty years ago. That was a duty that had now passed to other, younger men. Yet his forthcoming mission was just as important to the nation, as it would surely increase Britain’s prosperity. By peaceful means.
Fortunately, King George’s enthusiasm for James’s American expedition had not been diminished by the unhappy news from his 13 colonies. The sovereign’s financial and moral support for the voyage was unwavering. In an audience with the King at St James’s Palace last August, when James had been presented with his post-captain’s commission, the sovereign had listened to his summation of his second voyage, beamed with delight, then told him: ‘Captain Cook, I intend those islands of ours in the South Sea to be converted to pastures as productive as those of Sussex and Kent, upon which graze sheep, cattle and horses that we have introduced to them, and where fields of corn and oats ripen. I have a further vision, Captain, of the savages who presently inhabit those islands—the ones you have described so vividly to me—laying down their weapons, living in harmony with one another and worshipping our Saviour, Jesus Christ. In churches that we have built for that very purpose.’
Although James had smiled inwardly at his monarch’s idealised images—he could not imagine corn and oats ripening in Otaheite, or churches full of Maori worshippers in Queen Charlotte or Dusky Sounds—he supported the spirit of King George’s vision, aware tha
t it was genuinely held. Not for nothing was he known as the Farmer King. His religious beliefs were unquestionably sincere, too. And in order that the King’s pastoral vision be realised, James knew that Resolution and Discovery would carry a great many livestock, even more than on the earlier voyages.
But as April slipped into May, the intended departure date of the vessels again came and went. The refits had still not been completed, and Charles Clerke remained incarcerated in King’s Bench Prison.
Meanwhile, at the house in Assembly Row, another arrival date impended.
‘How are you now, Beth?’
‘Bearing up. What is the date?’
‘The fourteenth.’
‘The child is due before the month’s end, the doctor assures me.’ Elizabeth put her hands across her bulging belly and smiled at him tightly. Lately she had seemed more resigned to his leaving again, but still showed little enthusiasm for the expedition. Even after he learned that the Royal Society was going to award him its premier prize, the Copley Medal, for his work in combating scurvy, she remained unimpressed. Wanly she said, ‘I wonder if the Society will ever award a gold medal to a woman for her achievements.’
James did not bother to reply. Nothing he did or accomplished moved her any more, it seemed to him. He began to stay in the post-captains’ dormitory rooms at the hospital, usually working until well after midnight. There, on 21 May, at nine in the morning, Denbigh delivered a note to him.
Dear Papa,
Mama’s baby is coming. Miss Thompson the midwife is here. Please come soon.
Nathaniel
It was mid-afternoon by the time he reached the house, breathless after rushing up from the Shadwell jetty. An anxious Nathaniel met him at the door.
‘What’s happening?’ James demanded.
The boy’s eyes bulged with concern. ‘Mama has been crying out for hours. I ran to fetch the midwife at six this morning. She and Susan are with Mama, upstairs.’ He glanced up at the staircase. ‘I’ve been taking towels and water to them, heated on the hob. Miss Thompson told me to.’
Pushing past him, James strode into the parlour. From the foot of the stairs he heard a cry from Elizabeth, then another. He hesitated. Turning, he saw that Nathaniel’s expression was now one of bewilderment. James too felt lost. What to do? This was the first of their children whose birth he had been here for, yet he felt totally useless. He placed a foot on the bottom stair hesitantly. Should he intervene?
Then from upstairs came a reedy cry, then another, lustier than the first. Then another. Then a wailing. Their maid Susan appeared at the top of the stairs, bonnet-less, her hair damp and dishevelled. She was holding a metal dish. Seeing James, her eyes widened. ‘Sir, you’ve come!’
‘Yes. What is it? Is your mistress all right?’
‘She’s very drained, sir, but the baby has come, and is well.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘It’s another boy.’
She came down the stairs and he saw that on the dish was a gory blob, to which was attached a pink tube. Seeing him staring at it, Susan said, ‘The afterbirth, sir. I shall bury it in the garden.’ And she brushed past him, holding the dish well out in front of her.
James made his way slowly up the stairs, hesitated on the landing, then walked through the bedroom door. The midwife was wiping Elizabeth’s forehead with a towel and making soothing noises. Ella Thompson was a broad-hipped, middle-aged woman with auburn hair which was tied back. She wore a grey gown under a brown apron, streaked with blood.
Elizabeth was sitting up, her back against the bedhead, holding a bundle in her arms. Her face was blotchy, her eyes closed, her breathing audible. Her fair hair was dark with sweat; the skin around her eyes was swollen and red. Opening her eyes and seeing him, her lips moved but she was unable to speak. All James could see of the child was a crumpled red face and a mop of golden hair: the rest was swaddled in the multi-coloured blanket Elizabeth had crocheted for him.
James came closer to the bed. Ella moved over to the washstand and squeezed out the towel. ‘He’s a fine wee chap, Captain Cook, and your wife is doing well.’ Returning to Elizabeth, she peeled the blanket back and urged, ‘Put him to the breast, ma’am.’
Elizabeth did so, and the baby begun to suck greedily, his tiny eyelashes fluttering, his wrinkled face growing redder.
James stared in wonder at the tiny head. A boy. Hugh. A replacement for the lost ones. Feeling a floodtide of elation, he reached out and stroked the baby’s wet hair. It pulled away from the nipple, opened its mouth and began to wail. James started and withdrew his hand.
Elizabeth shook her head irritably and guided the baby’s mouth back to the nipple. As he began to suck again she looked up and met James’s gaze. Her tired blue eyes gave a flicker of pleasure, then her gaze returned to the child. Her face too was filled with wonder, as if she could not believe what she was seeing.
Awkwardly James reached for her damp hand, and held it. ‘Beth, Beth,’ was all he could say.
The baptism was held the following Sunday at the parish church of St Margaret’s, in Barking. James and Elizabeth had been married there, 14 years before. Neither of them wanted the baptism held at St Dunstan’s, in whose graveyard their other three children lay buried. The ceremony was conducted by the Reverend George Downing, who had married James and Elizabeth, and was attended by Elizabeth’s mother, Mary Blackburn, and her stepfather, John Blackburn. Nathaniel and Susan were also present. All were dressed in their Sunday best; James wore his dress uniform and Elizabeth had bought a new bonnet for the occasion, edged with white Bruges lace.
Before the ceremony James noticed the Blackburns standing back and conversing with one another in low tones. Odd, he thought.
They stood around the granite font, Elizabeth cradling the baby in her arms. The Reverend Downing, a burly bewigged fellow with heavy dewlaps, poured water over little Hugh’s brow. He began to yell. Everyone laughed at the volume of noise coming from so tiny a creature. Then, after a final blessing from the minister, they all walked outside into the early summer sunshine, Elizabeth still cradling the child. They walked down the churchyard path, past the mossy gravestones protruding from the turf, towards the lych-gate. There was no wind. High above, kapok clouds appeared to float on a sea of blue.
James walked beside Elizabeth and the baby, her mother and stepfather following some distance behind with Nathaniel and Susan. Although his thoughts kept returning to the repeatedly postponed departure date of Resolution, he was basking in the knowledge that he had been present at little Hugh’s birth and baptism. Part-fulfilment, at least, of his paternal duties.
John Blackburn had organised an afternoon tea at the public house he still owned, the Bell, in Wapping. There they gathered around two tall tables and were served tea and fresh scones with whipped cream and raspberry jam. Baby Hugh, who had slept on the way there from the church, began to cry again and Elizabeth withdrew to a side room to feed him. After she left, Blackburn, who had said little all day, spoke to James tersely: ‘If you don’t mind, I’d like a word with you, sir.’ He was a short, portly man of 66, with fluffy grey sideburns, black currant eyes and a receding chin. He nodded towards an unoccupied table a little way away. ‘We can sit over there.’ With tea cups on the table in front of them, Blackburn coughed self-consciously and gave James a guarded look. ‘Permit me to speak frankly, Captain. My wife and I are not happy that you are again leaving Elizabeth and her children.’
James regarded him with surprise. For some moments he did not reply. Then he said, carefully, ‘You have not mentioned this subject to me before, Blackburn.’
The older man inclined his head in acknowledgment of that fact. ‘We knew that the first two voyages were necessary. But we all …’ by stressing the last word, James realised he was including Elizabeth, ‘we all feel that a third is a voyage too many. Of the last seven years, you have been away at sea for six, by my reckoning.’
‘Your reckoning is correct,’ James replied coldly. But he was thinking: How dare
this little man interfere with my life?
Blackburn pressed on. ‘Elizabeth tells me that you will likely be away for another three years.’ He shook his head reproachfully. ‘That is an abandonment of your family.’
James stared at him and Blackburn’s eyes slid away, unable to meet his gaze. There was a red splash of jam on the front of his waistcoat. James said frostily, ‘I am an officer in our nation’s Royal Navy. I hold the high rank of post-captain. It is my sworn duty to go where my sovereign and superior officers command me to go. I am to lead an expedition of vital importance to England.’ He thrust his face forward. ‘Can you not understand that?’
‘Vital importance? Taking a native home?’ Blackburn sneered.
Realising the man had of course read only the news-sheet reports of the expedition’s purpose, and that he was not himself at liberty to divulge the true nature of the voyage, James simply said, ‘I am following the King’s orders. As I am bound to do.’
Blackburn’s expression became truculent. ‘I am thinking of the welfare of my stepdaughter and her surviving children. She will be husband-less, and they will be fatherless, for another three years. Perhaps longer.’ The creases in his brow deepened. ‘Do you not understand what pressures this brings upon your wife?’
‘Naturally I do. And I’m grateful to your wife and to you for the support you offer her in my absence. But this absence must not be interpreted as neglect of my family. The Admiralty has arranged for my salary to be paid to Elizabeth during my time at sea. My allowance is generous, as it should be for a man in my position. Financially, she will want for nothing.’
Blackburn became sullen. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bouncing. ‘You may be a national hero but that is of little comfort to Elizabeth, who must cope alone. No success can atone for failure in the home. It seems that you only come ashore to father children.’
