James Cook’s Lost World

by Graeme Lay

  ‘How?’ The question came from Gascoyne.

  ‘A death occurred, of a seaman, William Watman. He was buried ashore, in full view of the natives. This clearly demonstrated that we were not immortal. Also …’ King hesitated, then plunged on. ‘The carnality with the men became widespread. The women thus discovered that the crews’ urges were the same as their men’s. This fornication was a great leveller, one might say. This proved that, like them, we were ordinary mortals.’

  ‘Not godlike,’ suggested Sandwich.

  ‘Certainly not.’

  A silence descended on the room, disturbed only by the scratching of Stephens’s quill. Then Sandwich resumed his questioning. ‘You mention Cook’s anger. Are we to understand that he lost his temper frequently?’

  ‘Yes. As you know, I had not served on Captain Cook’s ships until this voyage, and I was told by those who had served with him previously that on the earlier voyages his temper was mostly controlled. But I witnessed several instances when he flew into a wild, uncontrolled rage. In the Society Isles, the Friendly Isles and the Sandwich archipelago.’

  ‘What do you think was the reason for this?’

  ‘He was, I believe, in pain for much of the time. Not just from his old hand wound; I often saw him grimacing and pressing his gut. His face often betrayed pain. He also grew very fatigued towards the end of the voyage. Surgeon Anderson told me that the captain complained to him that he slept very poorly.’ King sighed. ‘So his temper bursts were probably a consequence of these factors—pain, fatigue and sleeplessness.’

  ‘Did he share his health problems with others?’ asked Man.

  ‘Not to my knowledge. He did consult Anderson. But after Anderson died and Law became Resolution’s surgeon, the captain said nothing of his symptoms to anyone else.’

  King paused. ‘Pain often causes people to become angry, in my experience, and I believe Captain Cook often lashed out at those around him for that reason. Although he was stoical with regard to his health, I am sure he was suffering greatly from his afflicted gut.’ King’s voice became lower. ‘This not only led to temper outbursts, it also adversely affected his decision-making.’

  ‘Including just before his death?’ asked Lord Mulgrave.

  ‘Yes. The punishments he meted out became increasingly severe. After Discovery’s cutter was stolen, the captain reacted so strongly that he alienated the natives. Much earlier in the voyage, in New Zealand, he had been more tolerant.’ King shook his head sadly. ‘Too tolerant, others thought. Many considered he should have executed the killer of Adventure’s men at Grass Cove, when we were in Queen Charlotte Sound. The captain had been told who the leader of the killers was, and met him, but took no action against him. Consequently, our men thought the captain was soft on the natives.’

  ‘Did you agree with that view?’ This question came from the Earl of Lisburne.

  ‘No. I was aware that the commander was following the Royal Society’s instruction that the natives must always be treated humanely, except in self-defence. We had to demonstrate to them that we were an enlightened race. However, on occasions, notably on Moorea and in the Friendly Isles, the captain acted in breach of the Society’s strictures. There the transgressing natives were brutally punished. But I believe, as I said before, that his actions were principally a consequence of physical pain.’

  There were nods of understanding at this statement; Stephens wrote frantically. King then remembered something else important he had to report: ‘The captain was also often furious at the condition of the sloops. Throughout the entire voyage, the rigging, canvas and caulking were found wanting. Both vessels leaked from the time the first gale struck us in the Atlantic. The masts and spars were in poor condition. And every time the materials failed, the captain lost his temper. He cursed the dockyard contractors, time and time again, for their scrimping and incompetence. Nothing made him angrier. He felt betrayed by them.’ King’s eyes narrowed. ‘We all did. It is entirely conceivable, in my opinion, that had Resolution’s foremast not sprung after we left Kealakekua Bay, Captain Cook would still be alive today.’

  Around the table, there were shocked expressions. Brow furrowed in disbelief, Sandwich said, ‘You are certain that the ships were dispatched from Plymouth in an unsatisfactory condition?’

  ‘Undoubtedly. I saw irrefutable evidence of poor workmanship in the rigging and on the decks. Everyone was aware of the sub-standard work and suffered from it. It was disgraceful. Captain Cook’s fury at this was totally justified. And I am certain Lieutenant Gore will endorse this view.’ He looked hard at the lords. ‘An enquiry into this state of affairs is warranted, I believe.’

  There were audible exhalations around the table, and an exchange of embarrassed glances. Sandwich told Stephens, ‘Make a note. The head of the Navy Board will be ordered to attend a meeting here at the soonest possible date after the ships’ return. Someone must be called to account for this dereliction.’

  He then returned to events at Kealakekua Bay. ‘Following the murder of Captain Cook, and before you finally departed from the Sandwich Isles, what was the nature of your relations with the Indians?’

  ‘They became largely positive again. There was reconciliation, strongly encouraged by Lieutenant Clerke. The Indians again supplied us with gifts and provisions, and the women continued to be obliging. Just before we unmoored, a group of chiefs came aboard. They presented us with more of Captain Cook’s remains—his jawbone, his feet, one of his boots and a piece of his tricorn—all of which they had recovered after the hostilities had ended. One of the O-why-heean king’s sons, a lad called Keoua, also came out to the ship. He had been the captain’s guest on board on several occasions. He cried as he spoke of his fond memories of the great Lono. This confirmed that a mutual reconciliation had been achieved. Although I also believe that the common people were again relieved when we left for the second time. After all, we had killed many of their people following Captain Cook’s murder. Seventeen natives were killed in the affray, including four chiefs. Many more were wounded by our weaponry, and several other natives were killed in the days that followed. Brutally killed by our sailors.’

  There was another awkward silence. This was not what the lords wished to hear. Sensing this, King added, ‘Not all agreed with this arbitrary retribution. I did not, and neither did Clerke.’

  ‘Then who did?’ demanded Sandwich.

  King hesitated. Did he wish to implicate his shipmates? No, but he would not resile from apportioning blame where it was due. He said firmly, ‘Of the officers, Lieutenant Williamson was the one who had often accused Captain Cook of treating the natives leniently. Williamson regularly urged harsh retribution for their misdemeanours. Our sailing master, William Bligh, was also an advocate of severe punishment of the natives. Bligh and Williamson were the most unforgiving.’ Again King hesitated, but again he knew he had to speak up. How else could the record be set straight? ‘Williamson was also partly blamed by the crew for Captain Cook’s death. When he had the opportunity of taking his launch in and rescuing the commander, instead he told his oarsmen to pull further out, away from the fray.’

  There was a stunned silence. Sandwich said, ‘Do you believe that Captain Cook could have been rescued by Williamson’s boat?’

  ‘I cannot say for certain, my Lord. But I believe that if Williamson had come further in with his men and muskets, this might well have deterred the captain’s assailants. However, in his own defence, Williamson stated that he interpreted a gesture of the captain’s as meaning that his launch should pull away.’

  Sandwich and Stephens exchanged glances. The others looked grim. Sandwich said, ‘Williamson and the other officers, and the sailing masters, will be brought before this board upon their return.’ He looked down at his notes. ‘Now, to resume your account of the remainder of the voyage …’

  The questioning continued for another two hours. King was asked about the route they had taken after they left Kealakekua Bay on 22 February.
He told the meeting how they had returned to two other Sandwich Islands they knew, Kow-ay-ee and Nee-ee-how, to take on wood and water. Then, endeavouring to fulfil the Admiralty’s Instructions, they set forth northwards for the Bering Sea, the Arctic Ocean and the putative North-east Passage. ‘We reached the Chukchi Sea, but near the place where we were forced back a year earlier, at over seventy degrees North latitude, the ice shelf again defeated our attempts to proceed further north. The ice mass was impenetrable and we were again forced to turn back. Then, when we were off Petropavlovsk, on the Kamchatka Peninsula, Lieutenant Clerke passed away. On the twenty-second of August.’ King stopped, his throat too tight to continue.

  Regaining control, he went on. ‘He had been ill for most of the voyage, coughing blood, hardly sleeping. His lungs were completely wasted. But he never complained. He was a fine officer, admired by us all. Following his death I was given the command of Discovery by Lieutenant Gore and we took the ships to Japan, then Macao and Canton, on the China coast.’ He gave a dry laugh. ‘There we sold our sea otter pelts for huge profits. This provided some compensation for our grievous personal losses. We then sailed south, and west, crossing the Indian Ocean to Cape Town, then up the Atlantic. Gales forced us to the west coast of Ireland and Scotland, before we anchored at Orkney on 22 August. Exactly one year after Lieutenant Clerke passed away.’

  The lords looked deeply thoughtful as they absorbed all this. Sandwich broke the silence with a further question. ‘Is there, do you believe, a North-east Passage from the Arctic Ocean through to the Atlantic?’

  King shook his head. ‘After twice seeking one, it was our conclusion that a passage from the Arctic Ocean through to the North Atlantic is unattainable.’

  He concluded his report with a statement that he remembered vividly. ‘Captain Cook was one of our finest ever leaders, I believe. He was also a deep thinker who had many insights. He realised, for example, that our discoveries were not necessarily beneficial to the natives we encountered throughout the Pacific.’ King smiled tightly. ‘He once remarked to me: “It seems that having discovered a whole new world, we have been doomed to then lose it.”’

  King walked out into the pale autumn sunshine. He was exhausted. But he was also relieved that important—even vital—truths had been aired to the authorities. The lords had listened, and had absorbed his report. The journals and charts would enable them to fill out the picture. They had even invited him to consider the role of editing the documents that had recorded the voyage, for their eventual publication.

  This proposition appealed to him. At the age of 30, he needed other gainful employment. He would return to the sea in time, but for the moment he yearned for a period ashore. He needed to visit his parents, who were now living in Northern Ireland, where his father was Dean of Raphoe.

  There was also one more essential duty he had to undertake. One he owed Captain Cook and his family. Tomorrow he would carry it out.

  King took a hackney from Piccadilly Circus and directed the coachman to the address the Admiralty had supplied: 7 Assembly Row, Mile End. In his briefcase he carried a document that the lords must never see.

  The door of the modest brick house was opened by a young woman in a maid’s plain brown gown. After King introduced himself and asked to see Mistress Cook, the maid showed him inside, saying, ‘She’s upstairs, but I shall fetch her for you, sir.’

  It was early afternoon and warm in the parlour, although there was no fire. As he waited, King studied the objects on the walls and mantelpiece. Framed charts of Otaheite and New Zealand, a patterned square of tapa cloth, a portrait of a New Hebridean chieftain, a Maori club of greenstone, a conch and several pearl shells.

  Intrigued, he stared at the artefacts, and at the portrait in oils that hung above the fireplace. The subject was seated, hatless and wigged, wearing the dress uniform of the Royal Navy, the jacket unbuttoned at the front. The artist had portrayed his subject looking slightly away. His expression was both pensive and authoritative. His right hand held a quill and rested on a chart, obviously of his own drawing, and his naval hat had been placed on a desk in the background.

  ‘It’s a fine likeness, don’t you think?’

  Startled, King looked up. The woman coming down the stairs was about 40 and wore a long, black crinoline gown. Mourning dress. The gown was done up tightly at the neck; her sleeves and bonnet were both edged in white lace. There was a pendant of pearl shell on a gold chain around her neck. Her face was pale and lined, her eyes clear blue, the chin small and well shaped. Her greying hair was tied back in a bun.

  ‘Mistress Cook, I am James King. Lieutenant James King. I sailed with your husband on his last voyage.’

  She stepped into the room and fixed him briefly with a firm look. Then her eyes returned to the portrait. ‘Don’t you agree that it’s a fine likeness?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ He hesitated. ‘But done some time ago, I presume.’

  ‘In 1776. By Nathaniel Dance. I like it, I like it very much. I believe there are others, by Hodges, but I’ve no wish to see them. James did not like them. So this is the only one I wish to have.’

  She waved her hand towards a wing chair under the window. ‘Please, be seated.’ She took a matching chair by the fireplace. Clasping her hands, she asked, ‘Would you like tea?’

  He noticed a gold ring on one finger of her left hand. It contained a large violet stone. An amethyst? ‘No tea for me, thank you. I apologise for coming unannounced, but I’ve only just returned to England. I’ve been away for over four years.’

  ‘Were you on Resolution or Discovery?’

  ‘Resolution, mainly. As second officer. I shared the astronomical responsibilities with William Bayly.’

  She stared at him for some time, her expression thoughtful. Then she said quietly, ‘So you must have come to know my husband well, before he …’

  King intervened quickly. ‘I did, Mistress Cook.’ He hesitated. This was proving more difficult than he had imagined. But he pressed on. ‘Firstly, allow me to express my condolences for your terrible loss. Your husband was a great man—one of England’s greatest—and it was a privilege to serve under him.’

  She inclined her head, but only slightly, continuing to scrutinise him. Uneasy at this inspection, he wondered what her expression meant. Resentment? Melancholy? Definitely, she was unhappy, and when she spoke again her unhappiness was tinged with bitterness.

  ‘I didn’t want him to sail again. I urged him not to. I somehow knew that if he went again, he would not return.’ She inhaled deeply, then sighed. ‘But that is as it was. He went, and now he is dead. Were you present when James was killed?’

  ‘No. I was there, but I did not actually witness the event.’ He leaned forward. ‘Mistress Cook, I did not come here to talk of your husband’s death. I came to give you something.’ He reached into his briefcase and withdrew a large notebook. ‘I was deputed by Lieutenant Gore to gather together your husband’s effects, his official log and journal. When I did so I came across this in his locker. I opened it briefly, just long enough to see that it was intended for you. So I read no further.’

  He handed the notebook to her. She opened it at the first page and read aloud:

  15 July 1776, the Bay of Biscay.

  Dearest Elizabeth,

  As before, my personal journal to you will be kept here in the Great Cabin …

  She sent King a knowing look. ‘His third journal to me. I have two others, from the earlier voyages.’ She gave a mirthless laugh. ‘We had a kind of pact, you see, Lieutenant. James said that if I would give him my blessing, then he would keep an intimate journal for me during the voyage.’

  Tears were now spilling over and beginning to run down her cheeks. Putting her hand to her forehead, she closed her eyes. ‘But I did not give him my blessing for the third voyage. I resisted his leaving me again.’ Her eyes returned to the journal. ‘And now he is dead. And all I am left with is this.’ Clutching the journal, she added quietly, ‘And the love of
my remaining three sons.’

  She showed him to the door. As she did so she held up the hand holding her ring, then pressed the side of the violet stone. It sprang open. Inside was a curled lock of brown hair. Touching it, she said, ‘This is his. I snipped it from his head before he left on his first voyage in 1768. I’ve kept it ever since, in this ring he gave me when we married. I shall never take it from my hand. And I shall wear black until the day I die.’

  King nodded. Almost overcome by sorrow, at the same time he realised that here was a woman of stoical strength, someone whose capabilities must have complemented her husband’s. Someone who, although she had been left for very long periods of time, had been the person to whom he had constantly written, and to whom he always returned. She must have been his beacon, his guiding light. Steadfast, loyal, maternal. King hoped that in time he too would find such a woman.

  ‘Thank you for bringing me the last journal,’ she said, as they parted on the doorstep.

  ‘I considered it my duty to do so, Mistress Cook. The last duty I could perform for my captain.’

  Then he turned and walked away, in the direction of the Thames.

  Elizabeth read by candlelight, sitting up in bed. The two other journals were on the bedside table. She had read them many times, in the company of James when he had returned home.

  Again she was moved to tears by his expressions of his feelings: towards her, towards the children, towards his shipmates. Through his words and his intimacies it was as if he were with her again.

  Certain phrases in his long, flowing hand leapt out at her.

  As we depart for the unknown and the unfathomable, it is the known and the beloved who are uppermost in my thoughts … I write on the third birthday of little Lizbeth. My thoughts have been much with our daughter … My deepest love to you, and to our four little ones … Be assured that my fondest thoughts are with you all, wherever I may be … Convey my deepest love to our three sons and assure them that they are constantly in their Papa’s thoughts. As are you, my beloved wife …