by Graeme Lay
A stony silence settled over the decks. The men looked askance at one another. No landing? Eventually anchor? What did that mean? Most of those who had the pox knew it. Some suspected they had it but the symptoms were not yet visible. The latter group had no intention of not going ashore. They hadn’t put up with years of hard sailing, with the cold, the lash and putrid food, to forego the delights of these tropical islands. Sod that!
King touched James’s sleeve. ‘Captain, look.’ He pointed towards the neck of low land separating the two sections of the huge island. A double-hulled canoe had put out from the isthmus and was being paddled through the choppy swells towards the ship.
The group of men from the canoe climbed to the deck. They were young and athletic, wearing loincloths and cloaks decorated with red feathers. A few had helmet-like headdresses. They greeted James and his officers with broad smiles, handing them baskets of pork, crabs and bundles of sugar cane. One of them also handed over the ship’s black cat, Rufus, whom they had come across swimming in the sea as they approached the ship. Lieutenant Harvey took the bedraggled creature aside and dried its fur with a towel. Furious and humiliated, Rufus immediately disappeared below deck.
Gibson and King conversed with the men in halting Otaheitian. The men told the Resolutions their island was called Mow-wee, after one of their great gods. Their people had lived there for many, many years, they said, after sailing from the island of Hawaiiki, or Raiatea, as the ships’ crews knew it.
After these preliminaries, one muttered something incomprehensible to King, drew his loincloth aside and pointed to his genitals. They were inflamed. A second did the same, then a third. Each one grimaced as he displayed his organs, which were encrusted with pustules and weeping sores.
Appalled at the sight, James asked Law to examine the men. The portly surgeon crouched down, peered at the affected men’s genitals through his thick-lensed spectacles, then stood up. ‘They have a venereal disease, Captain. Gonorrhoea, I would say.’
In disbelief, James challenged Law. ‘They cannot possibly have contracted our venereals. They have never known Europeans. Carnally or otherwise.’
‘That may be so, but the symptoms are definitely those of gonorrhoea.’
Gibson asked the men more questions in Otaheitian. After they replied, waving their hands towards the north-west, he told James, ‘Some months ago people from Mow-wee visited Nee-ee-how Island. They were there for some time, during which they were made very welcome. They fornicated with many of the women of that island. And after they returned their organs became diseased.’
Law said quietly, ‘It is eleven months since we were on Nee-ee-how. Time enough for a venereal disease to be contracted and disseminated.’
James cast his mind back to his injunction of September last. No women had been permitted to stay on the ships, and none of the men had been allowed to sleep ashore. The only exception had been … He looked around for his first officer. ‘Gore!’
He came forward. ‘Captain?’
Towering over the stocky Virginian, James demanded, ‘How many days were you confined on Nee-ee-how because of that storm?’
Gore thought for a few moments. ‘Three—no, four—nights we were forced to sleep ashore.’
‘And did our men have carnal knowledge of the women there?’
‘Not that I was aware of.’ Avoiding James’s gaze, he added uncertainly, ‘There were importuning women there, I do recall, but whether the men took advantage of their offers I cannot say.’
‘You “cannot say”?’ James’s tone was contemptuous. ‘Well, I can say. As you must know, a sailor from the lower deck will never decline a woman who offers her body to him.’
He strode over to one of the diseased native men and drew his loincloth aside. At the sight of the scabrous organs, Gore winced. The man looked anxiously at James, who continued. ‘There can be only one explanation for this infection. The men you were in charge of conveyed the gonorrhoea to the women of Nee-ee-how, and they later transmitted it to the men of Mow-wee.’
Law stepped forward. Clasping his hands in front of him, he said nervously, ‘Sir, there is another disease of the tropical climes, which exhibits similar symptoms to gonorrhoea. It’s called yaws. These men may be suffering from that disease, rather than the other.’
Gore guffawed. ‘What’s mine is yaws, you might say.’
James gave him a withering look. ‘A poor attempt at humour, Gore.’ Accusingly, he told his first officer, ‘You were in charge of that landing party. It was your responsibility to carry out my instructions and ensure there were no ruttish contacts between the crew and the women on Nee-ee-how. You failed to do so. As a consequence, its people were defiled, and that defilement has spread.’ He now addressed the entire deck furiously. ‘We will coast this island, then move on to the next, and coast that one. As well as any others we may discover. We will not land. All trade with the natives will be carried out on the water. King!’
‘Sir?’
‘Convey that information to these people!’
He did so. The visitors returned to their canoe and paddled away, clutching their gifts of nails and beads.
James then made another announcement to the assembled crew: ‘All grog rations will henceforth be stopped. We will save what remains for our return to the Arctic next year.’ He picked up a stick of the sugar cane that had been brought aboard and waved it at them. ‘This plant makes fine beer. We will brew it, and you will drink it in place of the grog.’ He was almost shouting now. ‘That will be all!’
The following day the chief of Mow-wee came out to the ship in a large canoe. Named Kahekili, he was accompanied by several muscular warriors, all wearing woven helmets. Kahekili was aged about 40, and barrel-chested, with a curly beard and a shaven, elaborately tattooed scalp. James greeted him, accepted his present of two piglets, then took him below to the Great Cabin, where he gave him a chisel and a medallion.
While the chief was below, several outriggers came out and circled the ship. In them were young women wearing only loincloths. They called greetings up to the crew. Then, giggling, they stood up and displayed their cunnies. The men stared at them, enthralled. But they could do nothing more. Ewin and Doyle were patrolling the decks, wielding knotted rope starters to enforce the commander’s decree: no women on board.
Realising they were being rejected by the crew, the women began to make mocking gestures. They pulled faces, scorning and taunting them. Some turned, bent over, pulled up their loincloths, bared their naked backsides and flaunted their hairy clefts. Then they paddled away.
Throughout the ship, frustrations mounted. Curtailed food supplies, grog ration revoked, fucking prohibited—what next? All the men could do was stare at the departing females and Mow-wee’s shores and crave its forbidden allurements. Their mutterings of discontent grew.
‘Captain?’ King had a sheet of paper in his hand and an anxious expression on his face.
‘What is it?’
‘The men wish you to read this, sir. Midshipman Charlton passed it to me.’
James took the sheet. The message was written in block capitals:
CAPTAIN COOK SIR WE ARE NOT HAPPY WITH THE FOOD SUPLIES YOU MAKE US HAVE AND THE GROGG WITCH WE DO NOT GET. THE SUGER KANE BEER IS NOT PROPPER GROGG, SIR. WE NEED MORE MEET AND DECCENT GROGG.
YOUR CREW
James stared at the sheet, incredulous. This was mutinous stuff; the perpetrators could be hanged. ‘Who wrote this?’ he demanded.
King coloured. ‘I don’t know, sir. It was handed to Charlton by Ewin. He said one of the men penned it but did not name him, sir.’ King’s expression became forlorn, his voice tense. ‘The men on the lower deck are unhappy, sir.’
‘Unhappy? Unhappy? Dammit, King, this is a sailing ship of the King’s navy, not a floating rest home for Chelsea pensioners.’
‘I know that, sir.’
James thrust his face forward so that it came close to King’s. ‘I have drunk the sugar-cane beer and it is
perfectly fine. Moreover, it is healthful. It helps to ward off the scurvy. So they will make do with it.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘The grog cask will be struck down in the hold. If they won’t drink the sugar-cane beer, then they will make do with water.’
‘Yes, sir. And the food rations?’
‘We can trade with the natives for fresh hog meat. The crew cannot complain. They have nothing to complain about!’ James crushed the sheet of paper into a tight ball.
King nodded. ‘I will relay that message to the men, sir.’ But as he walked away, he felt terribly uneasy. The captain’s moods were so unpredictable. And in stopping the meat ration he was neglecting the crew’s interests. Why was he doing this? What was happening to Captain Cook?
Three days later armourer’s mate Thomas Price was caught by Lieutenant Williamson emptying a cask of the sugar-cane beer overboard. When this action was queried, Price shrugged. ‘The brew had gone bad. Too much sun on it.’
Williamson reported this to James and he flew into another rage. ‘Call the crew together. They are to report to the mid-deck. Now!’
He had his Adventure Bay stick with him, and as he spoke he underscored his words by striking the quarterdeck rail with it. ‘The letter one of you wrote I consider a mutinous proceeding. There will be no more of that!’ He brought the stick hard down on the rail. ‘And now one of you has been found throwing away perfectly good sugar-cane beer. Price!’
A bow-legged, lank-haired figure shuffled forward, hands clasped in front of him. He had already been punished twice on the voyage. ‘Did you write that pathetic letter?’ James demanded.
Price shook his head. ‘I canna write nor read, Captain.’
For a moment James was disconcerted. Then his fury flared again. ‘For throwing away a cask of perfectly good beer, you will receive twenty-four lashes. Doyle!’
‘Captain?’
‘Tie him to the grating and give him the twenty-four. And Doyle …’
‘Sir?’
‘Lay it on!’
The cat drew blood after the 11th stroke. The rest of the crew looked on, brooding. As Price’s flogging continued, Doyle’s strokes were accompanied by much panting and grunting.
By the 18th lash, blood was pouring from Price’s shredded back and he was uttering strangled cries. Doyle let the cat hang down. Clearly exhausted, sweating heavily, he turned and looked up at James. ‘Twenty-four, Captain,’ he gasped.
James nodded. ‘Good. Untie him.’ His menacing look swept the crew. ‘Any other violations and there’ll be many more of you kissing the gunner’s daughter. Now, get back to your work!’
The men mooched away, muttering to one another. What else could go wrong on this sodding voyage?
During the last week James’s gut cramps and constipation had become worse. His bowels had not moved for four days. Unable to sleep, he rose before dawn and went to the officers’ head. Drawers down around his ankles, he squatted in the darkness, straining, hearing the sloshing of the sea against the bulkhead beside him. Next to him was the water bucket holding the head’s rope arse-wiper.
For some time nothing happened. Around him, the darkness was gradually giving way to a lemony light. The cramps and pain continued. Then, just when he thought he could stand it no longer, he leaned back and let his hands fall to his side. At that moment something inside his guts gave way. He felt his bowels ease, then deluge. Seconds later the outpouring stopped. Gasping, he sat up. Relief, relief. He waited for a time, then reached for the rope wiper. He used it several times, then shoved it back into the bucket of water.
Then he stared into the bucket. The water was stained red. He had been passing blood as well as shit.
Later that morning James approached Lieutenant King on the quarterdeck. His face pale and drawn, he said flatly: ‘I’ve reconsidered the crew’s allowance. The meat rations can be reinstated. But the grog ration will not be restored. Inform the other officers and the clerk.’
Twenty-nine
OVER THE NEXT WEEKS, ALTHOUGH THEY were usually in sight of the various islands of the archipelago, no one set foot on land. The islands they sailed past were called—they learned from the native men who came aboard the ships—O-why-hee, Oh-a-hoo and Molo-kayee. The most impressive of these was O-why-hee. It was enormous. And when the clouds above this island parted one morning they were astonished to see that its summit was white. ‘Snow!’ exclaimed King. ‘At the latitude of twenty degrees!’
Canoes came out to the ships regularly, and whenever they did, a brisk trade in pig meat, fresh fruit, sweet potatoes and sugar cane followed. The men in the canoes told them that the great mountain they could see was called Mauna Kea.
In late November, while they were still off the east coast of O-whyhee, its paramount chief was brought out to the ship. The Resolutions had been told that Kalani’opu’u was renowned as a great warrior. He was also the avowed enemy of Mow-wee’s leader, Kahekili. But when he came aboard, they did not think Kalani’opu’u looked the part. He was elderly, with bloodshot eyes, scaly white skin and palsied hands. ‘Probably the result of habitual kava drinking,’ Law observed. ‘I saw others with those symptoms in the Friendly Isles.’
Kalani’opu’u greeted Resolution’s company cordially and presented James with his distinctive helmet and feather cloak. The name for such a helmet was mahiole, he said. Made of woven fibre, the finely crafted helmet had a high narrow crest with rows of yellow and black feathers stitched to it. ‘Mauruuru,’ said James, lapsing into Otaheitian in his gratitude. Kalani’opu’u grinned, understanding. James then withdrew his hanger from its scabbard on his belt and presented it to the chief. Kalani’opu’u tested its sharp tip against his palm appreciatively. ‘Maholo nui loa.’ Thank you so much.
With the winds coming mainly from the north-east, the islands’ eastern coasts were exposed. Suitable anchorages could not be found. James made his running surveys and all aboard the ships admired the huge mountains and precipitous cliffs of the islands they passed. But by December the winds had become unfavourable, north-easterly gales forcing them to stand well off from the shore. In this weather the sloops became separated for nearly two weeks.
They were taking a beating, too. After more of Resolution’s bolt-ropes parted in a gale, she had insufficient canvas to enable her to sail safely off a lee shore. For the hundredth time James cursed the naval-yard contractors after Bligh showed him yet another piece of parted cordage or torn canvas. Equally frustrated, Bligh uttered his own expletives.
A water shortage on Discovery was also becoming dire, Clerke reported when he came across to Resolution. ‘And in the heat the boards are shrinking. After I ordered the upper decks swabbed, the water poured through the cracks to the deck below. This also happens when it rains.’ His expression was grim. ‘The top deck urgently needs recaulking.’
They needed to make landfall, desperately. But where?
Six days before Christmas, Resolution was blown by gale-force winds close to the easternmost point of O-why-hee. The wind then dropped and a powerful current took them to within half a league of a rocky shore pounded by enormous waves. When a squall struck the ship, rending her topsail and the main topgallant, Bligh and the helmsmen were only just able to beat Resolution off from the rocks.
In contrast, Clerke had kept Discovery well off from the shore and out of danger. When the storm had passed he signalled that he needed to come across to Resolution to talk.
The two commanders met in the Great Cabin. James’s servant brought them coffees, which they sipped under the seal-oil lamp hanging above the table.
As they talked, Clerke felt concern at James’s weary, burdened appearance. At the same time, James had similar thoughts about his fellow commander. The once-dashing Clerke was now gaunt and ashen. His constant companion was the handkerchief he held over his mouth when he coughed.
Clerke set his coffee mug down. ‘Our need to go ashore is urgent, sir.’
‘I’m aware of that,’ James snapped. ‘But I’ve seen no sh
ore in these islands that looks in the least suitable for an anchorage.’
Peering through the larboard window, Clerke said, ‘Since the prevailing winds are from the north-east, the west coast of O-whyhee will offer shelter.’
James nodded. ‘I’ll set a course for the west coast. But we’ll first need to double the southern cape of the island.’
‘Yes.’ Clerke paused, then added, ‘The men are all sorely in need of recreation.’
James looked at him sharply. ‘Do you mean of the carnal sort?’
Clerke smiled. ‘No doubt that will be their interpretation.’ His breathing was laboured. Regaining breath, he said, ‘Do you remember the book you gave me when I was languishing in prison?’
‘I do. It was Bougainville’s account of his world circumnavigation.’
‘That’s it. I’ve been reading it again. His descriptions of Otaheite make entertaining reading. All that sensuality. The Frenchman thought it paradisiacal. He called the island New Cythera.’
James snorted. ‘Yes. After being there only ten days. And knowing nothing of the bloody civil war that was brewing on the other side of the island at that very time.’ He swallowed more coffee. ‘New Cythera was a foolish name to bestow on Otaheite. Blood must have rushed to Bougainville’s head.’
‘As well as to other parts of his anatomy.’
James smiled in spite of himself. Then he became serious again. ‘It distresses me greatly that we have introduced the venereals to these islands. Those men who showed us their diseased private parts … nothing in this part of the world has shocked me quite as much as that.’
‘Not even the cannibalism in New Zealand? Or the human sacrifices in Otaheite?’
James shook his head. ‘No. Those are customs indigenous to the South Sea. The introduction of the venereals is entirely our responsibility.’
‘So after we find an anchorage, you will still forbid any infected men from going ashore?’
