James Cook’s Lost World

by Graeme Lay

  There was a surprised silence, then Gore asked, ‘Not north, Captain, to America?’

  ‘Not yet. We will spend more time in these islands. At Raiatea, then Bora Bora.’

  Williamson loured and said, ‘But why should we linger in these islands?’

  James glared at him. ‘I should have thought that obvious, Williamson. We need to fully provision the ships. On Raiatea there is plentiful fruit, pork and water. My taio Reo at Hamanino Bay will provide us with everything we require.’ He paused to inhale, then winced. The belly pains were still there. Hoping the others had not noticed, he continued. ‘And on Bora Bora I wish to salvage the anchor that Bougainville lost there in 1768.’

  The others looked perplexed. Gore said quietly, ‘That will mean a further loss of time, Captain. Do we really need another anchor?’

  ‘We need the iron, Gore. Our supplies of nails and axes have been depleted, the clerks report. So the armourers will convert the anchor to tools.’

  Silence descended on the cabin. All knew they had already lost one season. At this rate, might they lose another? The silence was broken by King, who said hesitantly, ‘When do you anticipate our arrival in New Albion, sir?’

  James folded his arms. ‘By February next year. We will thus be well placed to survey the entire west coast of America during the northern summer, then seek the North-east Passage. That will take several months.’ He looked around the table. An edge of challenge in his voice, he said, ‘Any more questions?’

  Although the others shook their heads, their thoughts were similar. February 1778. Several months of sailing. Uncharted waters. Within the Arctic Circle. Months, possibly years more of gruelling sailing. Whenever would they be back in England?

  James stood up. ‘That is all. We will weigh at first light tomorrow and make for Hamanino Bay.’

  Twenty

  21 NOVEMBER 1777

  Dearest Beth,

  The island of Raiatea, where we are now anchored, is considered by the natives to be the most sacred place in the Society Isles. You may recall that while here three years ago I visited the island’s great marae, Taputapuatea. I also became friends with an important chief, a man called Reo. Our friendship has now been renewed, as well as my acquaintance with his comely daughter, Poetua, who is now about seventeen years old and married, and his young son, Rongo. When they visited the ship, artist Webber was smitten with Poetua’s youthful beauty. He requested that she pose for a portrait. She consented to do so, and stood by one of the windows in the Great Cabin, wearing a bark-cloth skirt, her dark hair flowing down over her shoulders and with a tiare bloom behind each ear. I hope that Webber’s finished portrait does justice to the young woman’s beauty and dignity.

  This is another sublime anchorage. Overlooked by mountains and forests, it lies adjacent to a lagoon Raiatea shares with its neighbouring island, Tahaa. The tallest mountain we can see from here is called Tapioi, and it is usually wreathed in swirling clouds. In the distance to the west is the island of Bora Bora, with which the people of Raiatea and Huahine have an often hostile relationship. There have in the past been wars between these islands, and the Bora Bora people consider themselves conquerors of the other two. I have no intention of taking sides in any dispute between the island leaders, even though Reo is my friend. It would be fatal to do so. I have met the regent of Tahaa, a man called Boba, and Puni, the elderly chief of Bora Bora, and am on good terms with both. I wish to maintain that amiability.

  On board both our ships are women from the islands already visited who have formed relationships with my men. I have tolerated the presence of these vahines, as they provide comfort for the men and make them less aggressive towards one another. The crews are also learning something of the language of the native women, which assists our intercourse with those ashore. My men relish the beauty of this island and its inhabitants and are in no hurry to move on. But move on we must, if the discovery of the North-east Passage is to be made.

  We are all conscious of the fact that it will not be long before we finally quit the Society Isles, and before we do the women will have to leave the ships. The men know this and do not relish the prospect. I am concerned that some of the men may attempt to desert, in order to stay with their women.

  The next few months here will bring abundant seasonal rainfall (it is teeming with rain as I write this) and temperatures averaging over 90 degrees. In this constant heat and heavy precipitation the breadfruit trees in particular flourish, and we will be taking aboard good supplies of this most useful fruit. The men have developed a great liking for it, especially when it is baked. Other fruits such as coconuts, sweet potatoes and sugar cane are also abundant here, and we will be stocking up on these as well.

  How strange to think that for you in London, autumn will soon be sinking into winter, with its short, dark days and frosts on the common, while here the cold is virtually unknown.

  I remain, yours always,

  Your loving husband,

  James

  It was Gore who reported to James what he had told Beth he feared might happen. He went to the Great Cabin, where James was studying Sir Francis Drake’s chart of New Albion, and announced, ‘Captain, the marine Harrison has absconded from the shore camp.’

  James got to his feet. ‘When?’

  ‘During the night. And he’s taken his musket and ammunition with him.’

  James knew that unless Harrison was quickly captured and punished, this could be the first of many desertions. Rolling up the chart, he said briskly, ‘Tell Phillips to assemble the other marines. Immediately.’

  Now Omai was no longer with them, the interpreting duties had passed to marine Samuel Gibson. On Otaheite back in 1769 he had deserted with a native woman. Though subsequently captured, one benefit of his attempted absconding was that he spoke Otaheitian. His fluency had been refined by further fraternisation on his second visit to the island, in 1774.

  The launches were pulled along the east coast of the island, inside the reef. Temehani, Raiatea’s highest mountain, dominated the skyline above them and rain swept in from the north, drenching the marines, whose muskets and powder horns were covered with tarpaulins. At every coastal village they came across, with Gibson translating, James demanded if the inhabitants knew of Harrison’s whereabouts. Looking afraid, the people shook their heads. ‘Aita.’ No.

  But at a village on the shore of Vairahi Bay, the people who had gathered at the edge of the lagoon ran inland when they saw Resolution’s boats appear. Surmising this could be evidence that the deserter was nearby, James and the party beached the boats, went ashore and began to search the village.

  Vairahi consisted of a dozen huts spread over a large clearing surrounded by coconut palms, plantains, hibiscus shrubs and breadfruit trees. A few mangy dogs appeared to have the village to themselves, slinking away as the strangers approached.

  In a thatched hut on the outskirts of the village, they found the deserter. He was fast asleep, lying on a pandanus mat atop a bed of ferns. There were two naked women, one on either side of him. He wore a loincloth and there was a wilting garland of red and white flowers around his neck. His uniform and hat were in a heap in one corner of the hut. ‘Harrison!’ James shouted, taking aim with his pistol.

  The marine sat bolt upright, then shook his head in fright and confusion. Both women stirred and opened their eyes, blinking with sleep. One was young, barely 16; the other was noticeably older. Clearly frightened, they sat up. As they did so, the party stared at the naked women with a mixture of lust and envy. Their resemblance to one another—the broad faces, the large dark eyes, the dimpled chins—was unmistakeable. They were mother and daughter.

  Phillips also pointed his musket. ‘Get up, Harrison!’

  He did so, sullenly, raising his hands. The women cowered as they eyed the pistol and muskets aimed at them. They covered their faces with their hands and began to cry.

  Still with his pistol aimed, James barked at Harrison. ‘Your musket?’


  He reached under the mat and drew it out. He had had to conceal it, James realised, otherwise the native men would have stolen it.

  Harrison handed the weapon to Phillips, butt first. Another marine, Kich, picked up his uniform.

  As Harrison’s wrists were being shackled outside the hut, a thickset, elderly man emerged from the forest and approached them. His long hair was grey and he wore a shiny pearl shell on a cord around his neck. In one hand he held a leafy branch, in the other a small pig. Inclining his head to James and the others, he said, ‘Ia ora na, Ia ora na. Maeva.’ He held the branch and the pig out to James.

  Still angry at Harrison’s defection, James waved the offer away. The man muttered something, then turned and stalked off. The women remained in the hut, crouched and weeping.

  Harrison was marched down to the shore and shoved into the launch, and the party pushed out into the lagoon. The absconder sat in the bow, morose and red-faced.

  As the oarsmen pulled the boat along they looked back at the shore. Dozens of warriors stood on the black sand, brandishing clubs and spears. The elderly man, also waving a war club, was leading them. The ship’s party had escaped a confrontation by only minutes. James wondered, How can we ensure that there will be no more desertions?

  They reached Resolution and Harrison was shoved aboard. James said to Ewin: ‘Take him below and put him in irons. Tomorrow he’s to get two dozen lashes.’

  Next day, tied to the grating, arms spread, Harrison received his flogging. Face grim, Doyle laid it on, while James and his officers watched from the quarterdeck. The sixth stroke opened Harrison’s back; by the 10th it was well striped. Blood poured from the slashes on his shoulders and back and dripped onto the deck. When he was untied, barely conscious, he slid down into a heap. Ewin tossed a bucket of seawater over him, and he began to writhe and howl with pain.

  To the crew members who had witnessed the flogging, James announced: ‘You all know the punishment for desertion. Should any of you be contemplating this heinous crime, do not take it any further. Should you do so, I vow you will be apprehended.’ His voice rose. ‘And you will receive four dozen strokes of the cat.’ He stared at the crew. ‘Remember, the natives here value their chiefs’ friendship more than they do ours. So they will always be more loyal to them. That ensures any deserters will always be turned in, eventually.’

  The men brooded. Although the captain’s policy was clear, there was scarcely a man among them who wasn’t contemplating desertion. These islands, with their women, their fresh food and their constant warmth, seemed idyllic. The men had been assured by their taios that if they stayed on the island they would be granted land as well as wives. On the ships they faced privation, cold and sexual abstinence. The choice was stark, and all knew it.

  Three days later, two more desertions occurred. Alex Mouat, a midshipman, and Thomas Shaw, gunner’s mate, both from Discovery, absconded from the shore camp. Both had fallen in love with local women. Now it was Clerke’s turn to track down the runaways. Mouat’s desertion in particular shocked him because Mouat’s father was a fellow naval officer and a friend.

  Better organised than Harrison had been, Mouat and Shaw and their lovers had been taken off Raiatea by a native friend even before Clerke had dispatched a search party. One of Discovery’s officers, Lieutenant Rickman, told Clerke, ‘I’ve been told the deserters may be on Tahaa or Bora Bora.’

  This was a further blow. Drastic measures were now called for. If the two men were not caught, there could be mass desertions. Clerke consulted James, who was equally furious that more men had run. ‘Take hostages,’ he ordered.

  Clerke instructed Rickman, ‘Go ashore and find the noblewoman Poetua. Tell her that I have gifts for her, her husband and her brother. If they come out to the ship I’ll give them English cloth and beads. Tell her we will make them very welcome.’

  The aristocratic trio stepped onto the deck, attired elegantly in bark-cloth cloaks, their hair decorated with multi-coloured flowers. The marines immediately seized them, took them below, locked them in Clerke’s cabin and nailed boards across the cabin windows. Poetua cried out; her husband and brother yelled and thumped on the locked door. They were the sounds of desperation and despair. Clerke told Burney, ‘Tell them they will be kept there until the deserters are returned.’ Burney did so, shouting the words through the cabin door.

  After Reo was told what had happened he came immediately out to Resolution. He pleaded with James: ‘Tell Tate’—the Raiateans’ name for Clerke—‘to release my children. They have done nothing wrong.’

  James shook his head. ‘If the men from our ship are not brought back, we will take your family away with us. They will be gone from you forever.’

  Reo stared at James in disbelief. This was his special taio, his old friend. How could he approve of such a thing? Why had he changed so much? Raising his fist and issuing what was unmistakeably an imprecation, Reo stormed from the ship and was taken back to shore. As he passed Discovery he saw several canoes gathered around the stern of the sloop. In them were the friends of Poetua and her husband and brother, weeping and calling out lamentations. ‘Aue! Aue!’

  There was a river pool a little way inland from Hamanino Bay. Overlooked by ferns, plantains and red-flowered puarata trees, the pool was secluded and deep. James and Clerke had bathed daily in its cool water. After his confrontation with Reo, James thought it prudent not to bathe there again, as it could make them vulnerable to attack. But Clerke was undeterred, as the cool river water eased the feverish heat of his consumption. Mindful of James’s misgivings, however, he kept his pistol on the riverbank, primed and within easy reach.

  While Clerke was ashore, one of his crew’s lovers, a girl from Huahine, reported to James that she had heard that Reo was planning to take Tate and Tute hostage and hold them until his family was returned. James immediately dispatched a contingent of his marines to the river pool.

  On the way there the marines came upon a group of warriors armed with clubs, also making their way towards the pool. Phillips fired a shot above their heads. Startled, the warriors abandoned their planned ambush, fled to the beach and went off in their canoes.

  Mouat and Shaw were still at large and the situation remained dire. James lay in his cot, unable to sleep. The deserters had to be caught, but where had they gone? If they were not on Raiatea or Tahaa, they must be on Bora Bora, a day’s sail away to the west.

  Only one person could find and have the deserters apprehended: Reo. James invited the chief aboard and told him, with King translating, ‘Taio, I am sorry that Tate needed to take your family hostage. But we must get the two men from Discovery back.’ Reo stared at James, his expression a mixture of disenchantment and defiance. ‘The men must be found and returned to the ship,’ James went on. ‘We need them badly. Can you find the missing men for me? When they are returned, Poetua and her husband and brother will be released immediately.’

  Reo thought for some moments then gave one brisk nod. ‘Oia.’ Yes.

  He left Raiatea in his double-hulled canoe the next day, accompanied by several warriors. Five days later they returned, accompanied by other canoes. Mouat and Shaw lay, trussed and silent, in the big canoe. They had been captured on the island of Tubuai, in the Austral group, whither they had fled from Bora Bora. Reo’s family was released, accompanied by many placatory gifts from James and Clerke—lengths of linen, handkerchiefs and scarves, hatchets and mirrors.

  Although Poetua and the others eyed James and Clerke mistrustfully, they accepted the presents. When James shook Reo’s hand, saying, ‘Mauruuru roa, taio,’ the chief nodded briskly and said, ‘Ei, ei, ei.’

  What cemented the reconciliation was the family’s sighting of Webber’s portrait of Poetua. ‘It is not yet complete,’ the artist pointed out as he held it up, rather bashfully. ‘There is more detail to be added to the backdrop.’

  They stared open-mouthed at the portrait. Poetua’s delicate facial features and perfect breasts had been faithful
ly depicted. Her small, sensitive mouth, alluring eyes, elegant bare arms and swirling gown lent her an unmistakeable resemblance to Venus, the Roman goddess of love. When this was pointed out to Webber by King, he looked slightly uncomfortable but did not deny it.

  Poetua, hand over her mouth, was transfixed by her image. Looking at Webber, she patted her chest, indicating, For me?

  The artist shook his head. ‘No. It is for the King of England. For King George.’

  The Raiateans nodded, approvingly. It was assuredly a painting fit for a king.

  The deserters were taken below and clapped in irons. Shaw was then given four dozen lashes. He passed out, bleeding profusely. As a midshipman, and a 16-year-old, Mouat could not be flogged. Instead he was demoted from his berth amidships and sent before the mast, to be quartered in the forward part of the ship with the common crew.

  The next day an outrigger drew up beside Resolution. A youth climbed the hull steps and approached James. ‘From Omai,’ he said. Then he handed James some white beads.

  ‘So he is well,’ James said, pleased with the message.

  ‘Oia,’ the youth replied.

  King came and translated the rest of the news. ‘Omai is well, but his goat has died.’

  James said, ‘Tell Ewin to take one of the nannies from the pen and send it back with this fellow.’ He smiled. ‘Lord Omai must not be deprived of milk for his tea and coffee.’

  At the end of the first week of December, a meeting was held of all the officers of both sloops. James announced, ‘It is now time to execute the second aim of this expedition. We will first sail directly north with the south-east trade wind on the starboard beam, and work through the doldrums as best we can. Then, picking up the north-east trades, also on the starboard beam, we will proceed north out of them. As you well know, square-rigged ships such as ours cannot beat against the trades. It is better to use them to make latitude and then, with the help of the westerlies beyond, make our run eastwards for New Albion.’ His gaze went from one officer to the next. ‘Are there any questions?’