by Graeme Lay
James looked around at the dejected faces. ‘We can sail west, to Siberia, and survey that coast. Or return south to the Aleutians and winter there before sailing north again next summer.’
There was a perceptible shudder around the table, unconnected with the cold. James looked over at Clerke. ‘What say you?’
Clerke blinked to clear his streaming eyes. ‘We need a base, that’s certain, one where we can carry out refits to both ships and obtain fresh food. That island, Providence, could provide for our needs.’
There were nods around the table. After their near-foundering off its coast, the island had provided a good anchorage. There was a harbour where the ships could be heeled. But a whole winter there? Snowed in for six months or more?
‘What if we were to return to Nootka Sound, Captain?’ This suggestion came from Lieutenant Harvey. ‘That was a place that furnished many of our requirements. The timber there could be used to replace our damaged spars.’
‘Nootka’s winter would be almost as bad as Alaska’s,’ James replied curtly.
Among the Admiralty’s orders was one that instructed him that if a refit base was needed in this region, they were to make for the Russian port town of Petropavlovsk, on the Kamchatka Peninsula. Yet lying idle and snowbound in that freezing place for six months was not a prospect that appealed either.
He remembered another of his mother’s sayings: ‘The devil makes work for idle hands, Jimmy.’ More and more these days he was remembering his mother. Grace Cook also appeared regularly in his dreams, usually delivering one of her homilies. And there was truth in her adage. Most of the lapses in discipline he had faced as a commander were a consequence of men spending long periods ashore with little to do. No, frigid Petropavlovsk was not the place in which to winter. The morale of the men was low enough already. Like him, they’d had a gutful of the cold. And glancing over at Clerke’s haggard face, he wondered if a man suffering from the consumption could survive another winter in these climes.
There was another location James now considered, one that the Admiralty Lords had never thought of because they were unaware of its existence. Just as he had been unaware of it too, until last January.
He got to his feet. Palms pressed down on the table, he announced: ‘We will continue west and coast Siberia, charting its features. We will then return through the Bering Strait and complete a survey of the Alaska coast. After that we will call at Providence Island to carry out repairs to the ships and obtain supplies.’ He paused, then said decisively, ‘We will then return to the Sandwich Isles. We will survey them thoroughly and provision there, before returning to the Arctic next summer to resume our search for the North-east Passage.’
All around the table, gloom vanished. Faces broke into smiles of relief and anticipation. The Sandwich Isles! Winterless. Warmth. Fruit. Fresh food. Friendly natives. A return to Elysium.
The remainder of August was spent coasting the Chukotsky Peninsula of northern Siberia. The entire coastline was rocky and unremarkable. And over the month the weather worsened. The temperature fell below zero, there were constant snow showers, and the winds were frigid and often disadvantageous. But the sloops plunged on, managing not to lose one another.
They passed through the Bering Strait in early September and explored a deep sound on the west coast of North America which they thought might lead to a passage north. It did not. James named it Norton Sound after Sir Fletcher Norton, the Speaker of England’s House of Commons. Then they slowly traversed the rest of the Bering Sea, reaching the sheltered anchorage on the eastern coast of what James had called Providence Island in early October.
Resolution was careened on the shore of an inlet and her sheathing partly removed. Cleveley confirmed to James what they had suspected since the ship had begun taking on water weeks ago. Clicking his tongue in frustration, he said, ‘The leak is serious, sir. It’s below the waterline, under the starboard futtock. It’ll need to be plugged. Again.’
Yet again James cursed the Deptford contractors. He’d like to keelhaul the incompetent swine. Over and over again. He told Bligh, ‘Get the holds cleared out, to give better access to the pump wells. When the holds are pumped dry, re-caulk the seams. Then re-sheath her.’
Although the weather remained bitterly cold, Providence Island was in other ways not disagreeable. They had fresh food again, in the form of the halibut which abounded in the island’s waters. The crew hauled up these delicious fish, one of which weighed 254 pounds and took three men to pull aboard. And as it was now autumn there were ripe berries in abundance all over the bushes that grew on the island. Spruce trees, too. Clerke and cook Morris brewed beer from the berries and tree leaves, and the crews enjoyed its refreshing, mildly intoxicating flavour.
Furthermore, there was a kind of civilisation here in the form of a Russian settlement on the other side of the island. They learned this from a group of native Aleut men who came into the inlet in the canoes they called kayaks. Their name for this island was Unalaska, they told James. The Aleuts were short and stocky, with swarthy complexions and Asiatic eyes. They wore fur caps, knee-length animal-skin coats and leather boots. They all smoked or chewed tobacco. Well adapted to their harsh environment—their canoes were light but strong—they hunted sea otters for the Russians, who, as Clerke had guessed, paid them for the pelts in tobacco. They told the Englishmen all this by sign language.
‘I believe they are addicted to tobacco,’ King said.
James nodded. ‘It’s a clever ploy of the Russians, to keep them hunting.’
A man with a weather-worn face and a wispy black moustache handed James a basket woven from sea grass. Curious, he accepted it. Inside were two round loaves of some sort. The man said something like ‘Ee-qua-lug-ruaq’ then pointed to the water and mimed swimming movements with his hands.
‘Ah.’ James understood. ‘Fish. Fish loaves. Thank you very much.’
The Aleut then drew an envelope from inside his heavy jacket and passed it to James. He opened it, drew out a sheet of notepaper, frowned. It was in Cyrillic script. Showing it to King, he asked, ‘Can you read this?’
King shook his head. He said to the Aleut who had produced the letter, ‘Roo-ee-ski?’
The man nodded. ‘Da. Roo-ee-ski’. He pointed to the west.
‘We must make contact with the Russians,’ James decided. ‘They may have useful charts. I’ll send Ledyard to find them, with a gift of rum.’ To the Aleut men he said, ‘Thank you very much for the loaves.’ He took a wad of tobacco from his pocket and handed it to the leading man. The others all held their hands out to the leader.
That night in the officers’ mess they shared the loaves. They contained salmon, heavily spiced, and were delicious.
Next day marine Corporal Ledyard went off across the island with Samwell, who insisted on accompanying him, to find the Russian settlement. Three days later they returned. They reported that they had met the Russians, including their governor, who was carrying out a census of the Aleuts on the island. The Russians drank heavily, Ledyard said, and loved the rum. They had invited the governor to come over and meet James and Clerke, and he had said he would come soon, by boat.
Samwell said he and Ledyard had stayed in an Aleut house for two nights. The natives lived in a longhouse, he reported. This consisted of a wide depression dug into the ground and roofed with driftwood covered with turf. Access was by ladder through a hole in the roof. Another hole let out smoke from their cooking fire. The Aleuts possessed Russian kettles, bowls and blubber-oil lamps. ‘There was a large bowl in the centre of the room. It held the occupants’ urine, so that the big room stank of piss and smoke. And fish, their main food.’
Characteristically, Samwell’s other news was of a carnal nature. Waiting until James was not present, he boasted, ‘We took the women promiscuously, according to our fancies. I bedded the family beauty, twice, for just a wad of tobacco. Then, later in the night, a less comely lass approached me for some weed. I had her too, for just a fe
w leaves.’ He chuckled. ‘The husbands and brothers stood around and watched the whole business with great interest.’ The Russians, he said, disapproved of fornication with the native women. ‘The only fur the Russkies caress is that of the sea beaver.’
Several days later the governor arrived in a canoe with two of his aides. Wearing a blue tricorn, a cape over a crimson frock coat and gold waistcoat, Gerassim Ismailov was about 40. He was wigless, and had curly auburn hair, a matching moustache and green, wide-spaced eyes. His face had an intemperate flush.
Speaking a little English, he said he was familiar with the achievements of James’s two earlier voyages. ‘The great Cap-i-tan Cook,’ he declared upon his arrival. ‘It is my undoubted honour to greet you.’
The other officers also welcomed Ismailov to the Great Cabin; he was the first European they had spoken to since Cape Town, nearly two years ago. Over the brandy carafe—the governor was demonstrably fond of hard liquor—the men discussed the British voyage. Ismailov had brought some of his compatriots’ charts of the region and presented James with one of the Kamchatka Peninsula. James in turn showed the governor the charts he had made, in particular the ones of the Chukotsky Peninsula and Norton Sound. When Ismailov showed intense interest in these, James promised he would make copies for him.
Quietly proud of the fact that no Russian explorer had ever gone as far north as he had, James was also quick to notice several errors in the Russian charts of southern Alaska. Later he wrote in his official log:
This is all the information I got from these people relating to the geography of those parts, and which I have reason to believe is all they were able to give; for they assured me over and over again that they knew of no other islands but what were laid down on this chart and that no Russian had ever seen any part of the Continent to the northward.
However, the Russian charts did prove one crucial fact: that Alaska and the American continent were contiguous.
James warmed to Ismailov, sufficiently so that he entrusted him with copies of some of his charts, along with a lengthy letter to the Admiralty in London, summarising the progress of the voyage thus far. The letter also pledged that next summer he would again sail north to seek and chart the North-east Passage.
Governor Ismailov assured James that the charts and report would be forwarded to London with all haste. They would go first by a Russian ship from Unalaska to Petropavlovsk, then overland by dog-drawn sleigh and coach to Moscow, and on to St Petersburg. Then by sea again to London.
Resolution and Discovery weighed and set sail from Unalaska on the morning of 26 October, on a southward course. On their second day at sea, James Cook turned 50.
Twenty-eight
3 NOVEMBER 1778
Dearest Elizabeth,
It was young James’s 15th birthday three weeks ago. I hope he was able to celebrate the day in Portsmouth, in the company of Nathaniel and his college friends. How those 15 years have flown. For far too many of them I have been absent from the lad’s life, something I deeply regret.
Last week also marked my own birthday. I only remembered it myself when I entered the date at the head of that day’s log. Then I realised, with a shock, that I was now half a century old.
There are several unpleasant reminders that I have joined the ranks of the infirm old men. The deep rheumatic pains in my right leg, which were successfully treated by massage in Otaheite, have returned. These I can just tolerate. Less tolerable is the abdominal colic which still affects me, at times unbearably, and the constipation. It seems that there is nothing that can be done to ease my distress from these afflictions.
They also continue to provoke in me bursts of intemperance. It is as if I blame those around me for my physical pain, and so must lash out at them, punishing them for my suffering. These outbursts of temper come upon me like the squalls that appear over the horizon without warning and strike my ships. After my own temper squall has passed I feel remorseful, but cannot express my regret publicly. As commander I must always remain aloof.
The spectral James Cook still appears at night and continues to haunt me, usually when I am in a state of deepest melancholy. At such times, try as I might, I cannot rid myself of him. He looks down, taunting me, reminding me of my imperfections. I loathe him.
I derive a modicum of comfort from the fact that I can at least share these difficulties with you, Beth. I can mention them to no one else, not even to my kindly second officer, King, who shows concern when he observes my discomforts. But I discuss with him only astronomical and maritime matters. Writing to you is the only means I have to express my intimate concerns, and I am also consoled in the knowledge that upon my return I will share these personal reminiscences with you.
Enough complaining! There are other, much more important matters at hand. Driven by favourable trade winds, we are now bound for the archipelago I discovered last January and named the Sandwich Isles, to recover from the hardships that have beset us for the past eight months. Unfavourable weather is not yet behind us, though. Yesterday the wind veered unexpectedly to the south and a great gale struck us. We were forced to reef all sails and bring to. Our fear was that we would sever our connection with Discovery, as by 8 in the evening we had lost sight of her. But by the following morning the storm had abated, and to our relief we saw our sister ship just a league away. The wind then shifted to WNW, so we were able to make sail again and resume our southward course.
The men are already relishing the rising temperature and looking forward to the fresh victuals that the Sandwich Isles will provide. It is my hope that such fare will also ease my bilious colic. But there will be no time spent in idleness in the archipelago. The ships are sorely in need of further repairs, there must be intercourse with the natives, and I intend to thoroughly survey the coasts of all the Sandwich Isles.
I try to suppress my chagrin at not having discovered a North-east Passage this year. Next summer, however, we will be much better positioned to return to the Arctic and probe its eastward passages. My determination to do so is unwavering. Failure is never to be contemplated.
Your loving husband,
James
‘Land! Land ho! An island! Dead ahead!’
It was just after daybreak on 26 November when the rapturous cry came from able seaman Watson atop the mainmast. James immediately ordered Bligh to stand for the island, which was about three leagues away. ‘Another of the Sandwich Isles, surely,’ James remarked to Gore. Both had their scopes trained upon it.
‘Aye,’ said Gore. ‘And an even bigger one.’
King climbed down from the masthead, clutching his sextant and notebook. ‘Latitude, twenty degrees, forty-eight minutes North,’ he announced. ‘And longitude one hundred and fifty-six degrees, twenty minutes West. There’s another, smaller landmass to the east, joined to the main island. And there’s a bay between the two.’
The north-east trades had brought the two sloops to a different landfall from that of their earlier visit. After hearing King’s co-ordinates James realised that Kow-ay-ee and Nee-ee-how must be north-west of here.
The island they were making for was a massive green triangle looming from the dark ocean. Turned into the wind, Resolution rolled gently in the swells. Discovery was also hove to, half a league away. The sky was clear, the sun’s rays already scorching. Officers and crew stared at the huge island, mesmerised. Closer now, they could see white sand beaches, waves and veils of spray, dark green forests, verdant valleys. What enticements, after the icy, sterile shores of Alaska, the Aleutians and Siberia! It was not hard for the officers to read the crews’ thoughts and imagine their cravings, because they shared them. Fruitful land, luxuriant forests, tropical warmth, fresh food, exotic natives. Exotic native women.
Staring at the island from the quarterdeck, acutely conscious of the men’s anticipations, James was confirmed in a decision he had made days earlier. He called down to Ewin and Doyle. ‘Call the crew together on deck. All must attend.’
They gathere
d on the mid-deck, clad now in light clothing, mostly barefoot, their sun-reddened faces looking up expectantly at their commander.
His back to the island, James said, ‘As you can see, we have come upon another of what I have named the Sandwich Isles. In order to remind you of the responsibilities we bear in these waters, and to uphold naval discipline, I will read you the Articles of War.’
The crew looked at one another, perplexed. The time for the commander to proclaim the cast-iron Articles of War was at the beginning of the voyage. As he had done, more than two years earlier. Why was he repeating them now?
James recited the 35 articles, along with the grim consequences of any violations of them, whether it was ‘sleeping upon his watch’, or ‘forsaking his station’, or ‘sodomy with man or beast’. The penalties were reiterated, with one recurring noun: ‘shall suffer death’, ‘pain of death’, ‘punished with death’.
He closed the commander’s handbook then continued, his tone still harsh. ‘We will not be landing on this island. I will make a running survey of its coast.’ The crew’s frowns deepened. ‘The reason is that like the inhabitants of Kow-ay-ee and Nee-ee-how, the natives of this island will never have encountered Europeans before. They will therefore be in an uncontaminated state. It is our duty to ensure that they are in no way corrupted by us, either by our firearms or by the venereal distempers that some of you carry. So you will all submit to a genital inspection by our surgeon. When we eventually anchor, to carry out repairs and provision the ships, no infected men will be permitted to land. And no native women will be allowed to stay on either ship at any time. I will order Captain Clerke to issue identical instructions to the men of Discovery.’
