by Rob Mundle
Mr. Cook, the surveyor, has returned. The accident to him was not so bad as it was represented. Nor had it interrupted his survey so much as he [Captain Palliser] expected. He continued on the coast as long as the season would permit, and has executed his survey in a manner which, he has no doubt, will be satisfactory to their Lordships. I have ordered him to proceed to Woolwich to refit his vessel for the next season, and to lay before the Board, Draughts of his surveys with all his remarks and observations that may be useful to Trade and Navigation in those parts …
Grenville duly docked at Woolwich, to the east of London, on 12 December, although the actual overhaul was done at Deptford. Cook was able to make his eagerly awaited return to his family two days later. It would be a far happier reunion than he could ever have anticipated. For, on that very same day, Elizabeth gave birth to their second son, Nathaniel.
As usual, Cook spent much of the winter preparing charts and details of his observations ready for publication by the Admiralty. He was also in contact with the Lords regarding a more pressing problem: the condition of Grenville. Her hull below the waterline was ‘Very much eat with worms’, he advised their Lordships, and a survey had condemned most of the sails and the rig. The latter point presented an opportunity to make her a considerably better, and more manageable, vessel, Cook told them, adding that the rig should be changed from that of a schooner, which featured only fore-and-aft sails, to one that also carried square sails. On this last issue, he reasoned as follows:
Permit me to set forth the utility of having her rigged into a Brig, as I presume it may now be Done without much additional expense to the Crown, for Schooners are the worst of vessels to go upon any Discovery, for in meeting with any unexpected Danger their staying [tacking] cannot be Depended upon, and for want of sail to Lay a Back they run themselves ashore before they wear [go onto the opposite tack] … [I] pray you will be pleased to take these [reasons] into your Consideration, and if they appear reasonable, to order her to be rigged into a Brig, as I Cannot help thinking but that it will enable me to Carry on the Survey with greater Dispatch, and Less Danger of Losing the Vessel …
The Lords agreed, and the new-look Grenville was relaunched for the 1765 survey expedition rigged as a brig. In December that year, eight months after departing from England, Cook returned home bearing a considerable amount of highly valuable survey data and reports, all of which brought well-deserved accolades, especially after they had been published and brought to the attention of fellow mariners. At the same time, he was happy to report to the Admiralty, the new rig configuration made Grenville a far better ship.
Cook was headed back to what was, by then, very familiar territory on the opposite side of the Atlantic for the summer of 1766. This time, though, there was an additional objective. He had been commissioned to observe a natural phenomenon, one that appealed to him immensely: an eclipse of the sun.
It was 20 April when Grenville sailed down the Thames on the ebb tide and headed for the open sea. She arrived at the incredibly beautiful and mountainous Bonne Bay, on Newfoundland’s west coast, on 1 June. After a few days there, Cook set a course for the Burgeo Islands, just off the southern coast, the place he decided was most suitable for observing the eclipse and accurately recording the duration of the transit. That might have been the case in a perfect world, but it was an anxious wait leading up to the event, as the region was shrouded in fog, thick cloud and misty rain. Fortunately, clear weather reappeared and the job was done. While there is no direct reference from him about this undertaking, he was no doubt pleased with the success that was achieved, which would later be recognised by the Royal Society.
It was somewhat ironic that a person he was yet to meet, and who would play a most influential role in the next period of his career, happened to be in St John’s when Cook returned there from the Burgeo Islands on what was his thirty-eighth birthday, 27 October 1766. Joseph Banks, an emerging light within the Royal Society in England, was in Newfoundland aboard HMS Niger to sate his scientific interests in the region. It is unlikely that the two men met at this time, however, as their overlap in the port was brief. Niger sailed for England the following day, while Grenville departed six days after that – with an Indian canoe that Banks had collected, strapped onto her deck. It was a relatively fast and comfortable passage for the small brig, as favourable westerly winds prevailed for the majority of the passage. Nineteen days after leaving St John’s, Grenville was abeam of Beachy Head, on England’s southern coast, and making good speed up the English Channel towards the entrance to the Thames, and home.
On his return to England, Cook delivered details of his observations to Dr John Bevis, a dedicated astronomer and highly respected Fellow of the Royal Society of London for Improving Natural Knowledge. Although a modest man, Cook was no doubt pleased to hear himself later described as ‘a good mathematician, and very expert in his business’. The detail that Cook presented to the Royal Society provided its members with the opportunity to accurately calculate the difference in longitude between the Burgeo Islands and the English town of Oxford – a valuable exercise, as the calculation of longitude, which involved lunar distances, still frustrated navigators of this era. The British were acutely aware of the consequences of navigational error, particularly relating to longitude. Fifty-nine years earlier, in what became known as the Scilly Naval Disaster, four large British ships in a naval fleet of twenty-one were driven ashore onto the Scilly Isles, 25 miles south-west of Land’s End, at the height of a storm, resulting in the loss of 1400 sailors. It was later accepted that the inability of the navigators to calculate longitude was the reason for the tragedy. This ongoing problem for navigators caused the British Government, in 1714, to offer £20,000 to anyone who could provide a ‘generally practicable and useful method’ of establishing longitude within an acceptable level of accuracy.
There is little doubt that Cook’s highly detailed report on the eclipse brought him into favour with influential members of the Royal Society. Such notability would have enhanced his chances of being selected for a project that became the next chapter in his remarkable life: namely, sailing to the South Pacific for observation of the transit of Venus across the sun in 1769.
Happy to be back in his warm family environment, Cook set about his now usual routine of preparing all the survey information he had collected over the previous summer in Newfoundland in readiness for presentation to the Admiralty and, ultimately, publication. This included the details he had gathered from the observation of the solar eclipse, and it was from this particular part of his presentation that a new interest was roused for him: that of the calculation of longitude using lunar observations. Because of this, he suggested to the Admiralty, in a letter dated 11 March 1767, that the most valuable piece of new equipment they could provide him with, for what would be his fifth and final season in Newfoundland, was a reflecting telescope. The Secretary of the Admiralty agreed and passed on a recommendation to the Lords.
While Cook’s activities in Newfoundland in 1767 were relatively straightforward, both his departure from England and the end of the return voyage were not uneventful. The 1st of April was a miserable day, with fog and rain. After the pilot came aboard, the ship was warped away from the dock on the Thames and anchored so that she could lie in wait for the ebb tide to flow and carry her downstream. Suddenly, as Grenville’s log reveals, another ship emerged through the murk: ‘at 8 am a Collier Named the Three Sisters … of Sunderland in Coming Down the River fell athwart our hause [anchor cable] & carried away our Bowsprit, Cap & Jib Boom.’
Cook was most unimpressed, as were his crew, who delivered a tirade of abuse towards those aboard the offending vessel. His eyes scanned the deck of Three Sisters in search of the master, so he could vent his anger in that direction. But the moment he sighted his target, Cook recognised him – it was Thomas Bloyd, a former schoolmate from back in Great Ayton. With that, Cook’s anger abated, apologies were delivered and accepted, and his crew then set abou
t repairing the damage.
Months later, when Grenville sailed back to St John’s at the conclusion of that year’s survey work, she was minus her topmast. It had been lost during a gale while working the west coast in late September. The broken spar was quickly replaced and on 23 October, Grenville’s bow was once again pointing towards home.
This passage across the Atlantic was nothing out of the ordinary, but on reaching the English Channel, the ship paused off Deal to take on board a pilot before sailing on past Dover and into the Thames Estuary on 10 November. They were then on the home stretch, but that didn’t stop a vile storm from descending on the waters that Grenville was traversing.
What was logged as ‘a hard Storm of Wind & Excessive heavy Squalls and showers of Rain’ struck with such violence that the crew struggled from the outset to keep the ship under control. They took in sails at a frantic rate and lowered the yards and topmast to reduce windage, while the helmsman tried desperately to hold a course that would keep them clear of the threatening shore around Sheerness, off to leeward. Despite these determined efforts, they were losing the battle against an extremely powerful wind and roaring seas, so their only option was to drop anchor and hope it held – but it did not. Grenville’s log related the story: ‘let go Best Bower and Veered away … Struck yards & Topmasts. At 6 the Best Bower parted & we trailed into shoal water & at 7 She Struck very hard …’
The shuddering thump that came as ‘she struck very hard’ reverberated through every one of Grenville’s planks, and simultaneously delivered a frightening message for the captain and his crew: they were aground on a lee shore and instantly in grave danger. There was every chance they could lose the ship, and with that, their lives would be in peril.
Nothing more could be done. The crew could only hang on and hope that the storm would soon abate, but that was not the case. When the tide turned and began to flood, their predicament worsened, as Cook recalled: ‘She lay pretty Easy until the flood made when the Gale still continuing she … lay down upon her Larboard [port] bilge; hoisted out the Boats & hove everything overboard from off the Decks [including, apparently, Banks’ Indian canoe] & Secured all the Hatchways …’
At midnight, when there was still no sign that their situation would improve any time soon, and there being every chance that the vessel would break up, Cook ordered his men to abandon ship. Some were directed to make for the shore in one of the boats, while those aboard the ship’s small cutter were to head for the Royal Navy yard at Sheerness and raise the alarm. There was no guarantee that either of these efforts would succeed – these boats could easily have been swamped and the men drowned – but it was the only chance they had if they were to survive.
By next morning, the weather had moderated, and at 10 am Cook and his crew, along with men from the Sheerness yard, made their way out to the ship, which was still lying on her side. Once aboard, all were delighted to find that she had sustained little damage. A salvage effort commenced immediately. Anchors were carried by some of the boats out to deeper water, while other men on board Grenville began to lighten her load, jettisoning everything possible – including the pig iron and shingle ballast – so that she would have the best chance of being re-floated on the incoming tide. Their efforts were suitably rewarded: ‘At high water, the Vessel floated, hove her off & made Sail for Sheerness. At 5 anchored between Sheerness & the Nore light, Employed Clearing the Decks & putting the Hold to rights …’
Repairs to the rigging were also made there, before Grenville headed for home. On 15 November, a very relieved crew were no doubt pleased to see the smooth waters of the Thames. Then their anchorage at Deptford hove into view. Finally: ‘At 9am lashed alongside the William & Mary Yacht off Deptford Yard …’ It had been a dramatic homecoming for everyone, but for Cook, it turned from dramatic to something very special. The moment he walked through the front door of his home on Mile End Road, Elizabeth greeted him with yet another child – their first daughter, also named Elizabeth.
While he settled back into home life and worked on translating his surveys into charts, other forces were working in his favour behind the scenes within the Royal Navy. His work to date had left only the best impressions with his superiors. So much so that when Captain Palliser met with the French Ambassador in London later that year, and produced a chart drawn by Cook while they were discussing fishing grounds around Newfoundland, Palliser described his fellow Yorkshireman as ‘the King’s Surveyor’.
Palliser’s proclamation was not premature: it was recognition that had been hard earned, and, accordingly, it was well deserved. Cook was a pioneer; a man who, primarily through self-education, developed and applied techniques not previously considered for the science of maritime surveying. As a consequence, throughout his life and to this day, it is universally accepted that the remarkably detailed and accurate charts and documents he created from his time in Newfoundland set new standards.
His high standing among maritime surveyors was made most apparent some 120 years later, when Admiral William James Lloyd Wharton, hydrographer to the Admiralty between 1884 and 1904, wrote of Cook’s works:
The Charts he made during these years in the schooner Grenville were admirable. The best proof of their excellence is that they are not yet wholly superseded by the more detailed surveys of modern times. Like all first surveys of a practically unknown shore, and especially when that shore abounds in rocks and shoals, and is much indented with bays and creeks, they are imperfect in the sense of having many omissions; but when the amount of the ground covered, and the impediments of fogs and bad weather on that coast is considered, and that Cook had at the most only one assistant, their accuracy is truly astonishing …
CHAPTER SIX
The Captain and His Ship
During the brisk English winter of 1767–68, Cook spent much of his time at his desk at home dedicated to his cartographic work, compiling data from the surveys he had completed during the previous season in Newfoundland and applying it to highly detailed charts. He also wrote the instructions, notes and explanations needed to accompany those charts. Each document was crafted with deft and delicate strokes from an ink-laden quill, a writing implement that had been part of everyday communications for the preceding 1200 years. Occasionally he would pick up a small knife – a pen knife – and sharpen the nib of the quill to a finer point so he could create more intricate detail.
While absorbed in this task, Cook had no reason to think that 1768 would be any different from the previous five years: he would be spending another summer season in Canadian waters under orders from the Admiralty. Yet behind the scenes within that upper echelon of the Royal Navy, fate was shaping a dramatic change of course for James Cook.
The first indication that new horizons were emerging came at the time his latest works were ready for publication. On 12 April 1768, the Admiralty announced that Michael Lane, who had been Cook’s assistant aboard Grenville the previous year, had been appointed ‘to act as Master of the brig Grenville and surveyor of the coasts of Newfoundland and Labrador in the absence of Mr Cook, who is to be employed elsewhere’. There was no hint as to the meaning of ‘elsewhere’. For Lane, the appointment led to him spending the next seven summers charting the waters around Newfoundland and along adjacent coastlines.
As history would subsequently reveal, the Admiralty’s move had been influenced by a meeting of the Royal Society on 12 November 1767, three days before Cook’s return from St John’s. The meeting was called at the Society’s headquarters in Crane Court, off Fleet Street, to discuss the fact that the orbit of the brightest planet in the night sky, Venus, was due to reach a point where it would transit the face of the sun on 3 June 1769 – little more than eighteen months hence. In the world of science and astronomy, such an event was considered to be of immense significance. This was especially true of the century-old Royal Society, which viewed the transit as a scientific project that formed part of the foundation for its very existence.
The scale of the
solar system posed one of the great conundrums of the eighteenth century. It was a puzzle that, if it could be solved, would bring an entirely new and far more accurate dimension to navigation, and a far greater understanding of the solar system itself. At that time in history, scientists knew of only six planets orbiting the sun – Uranus was not discovered until 1781, Neptune in 1846, and Pluto as late as 1930. But the distance of each of the identified half-dozen planets from the sun was unknown, as was that of the Earth from the sun.
The opportunity to solve such a celestial puzzle lay with the transit of Venus, and as this particular event was to be the last one for more than a century, its importance for the future of scientific endeavour was immeasurable. Transits of Venus come in a dramatically irregular pattern: two happen just eight years apart, after which there is a span of around 120 years before the next occurrence. The upcoming transit was the second within this eight-year cycle, and the observations taken in 1761 had failed to provide accurate data. After 1769, it would be well beyond a lifetime before this planetary phenomenon could again be observed.
When gliding across the face of the sun, Venus would appear, through a telescope, as a small but easily identifiable black speck. The key to being able to calculate the approximate distance of Venus from Earth, and the sun, on its elliptical orbit was to observe the transit from at least three different places on Earth, and the further apart those sites were the better. The reason for this was that the information gathered from each of these points – the duration of the transit at that site and the angle of the sun from Earth at that time – would differ considerably. Once the Royal Society’s mathematicians in London had this data, they could, by applying the principles of parallax, come up with the answer: a ‘eureka’ moment that scientists and astronomers rarely get to celebrate. Using this information, the previously unknown distances between planets in the solar system could then be calculated. In addition, the same knowledge would greatly assist those eighteenth-century navigators who used celestial navigation to calculate the position of their ships while at sea, particularly when it came to the vexing issue of longitude. There would be a similar benefit for explorers mapping new territories, as they would now be able to pinpoint topographical features more accurately.
