by Lay, Graeme
Shaking his head with disbelief, James said, ‘The Icelanders would best be forewarned, Clerke. That Banks is shameless.’
‘A little too late for that now, sir, I would say,’ Clerke replied, chuckling.
The last trip of the launch brought, along with yet more oranges and onions, the Forsters. Bulging packs on their backs, they climbed the steps to the midship deck, their breeches streaked with dark brown mud, their boots caked with it. The younger Forster carried a long canvas bag containing his drawing materials. James went down and greeted them. Both men were dishevelled and unshaven, their faces sunburned. Johann unslung his shoulder bag and dumped it on the deck, scowling. George gave James an abrupt nod, then went quickly below.
‘How was Madeira?’ James asked Johann, concerned at his filthy appearance.
‘Terrible.’
‘How so?’
Forster raised and opened his left hand, then began to count on his fingers. ‘One, the people are hopeless. Niggers who do nothing except sit about under the trees, chewing betel nut and drinking wine. Two, they speak no languages apart from their own.’ Flecks of spittle began to fly from his mouth. ‘Three, when we found horses for hire the cost was stupendous. Four, in the hills we found no new specimens—’
James raised his hand. ‘One moment, Forster. Did I not tell you that Banks, Solander and Parkinson had already collected specimens here in 1768?’
‘You did. And I am familiar with their collection, and Parkinson’s drawings.’ He sniffed. ‘But that does not mean there are other plants, which they did not find.’
‘Yet you found none, you just said,’ James pointed out.
‘No. Because the terrain was too steep, even for the horses. So we tied them to a banyan tree, then walked. Or tried to. Then it rained and everywhere turned to mud.’ He gestured at his filthy breeches and boots. ‘And the mud is like ordure.’
Giving Forster his most pointed look, James said, ‘Madeira is not Prussia. Nor London. And neither are any of the other places we will be sailing to. The climate is different, the land is different, the people are different. You must understand that.’
Forster pouted. ‘I am a man of science, not a rich man on a Grand Tour. It is my vocation not only to botanise, but to bring civilisation to any species of humanity we encounter.’
Staring down at the agitated little man, James said coldly, ‘Then behave like an enlightened man, Forster. And be aware that there are other civilisations besides ours, and very different from ours. Not as advanced as we are, certainly, but if we demonstrate our superiority to them arrogantly we will never achieve their cooperation. And always we will need the cooperation of the native people we encounter. I learned that in Otaheite and New Zealand, and New Holland, and elsewhere.’
Jerking his thumb back over his shoulder at the island, the botanist declared, ‘People such as that have nothing to offer men such as me.’ He screwed up his face. ‘And in the town, everywhere there are women of ill-repute, plying their disgusting trade. Even near the steps of the Cathedral. I spoke to some, urging them to follow the ways of our Lord Jesus.’
‘And?’
‘They scoffed at me.’ He shook his head. ‘Papists, undoubtedly. And beyond salvation.’
‘That too is something you will have to become used to. In most of the places we will go to, there is no such thing as Christianity.’
‘Then it will be, among my many other duties, to bring Christ’s teachings to them.’ He snatched up his rucksack and strode towards the companionway.
Watching him, James thought, that one has much to learn.
At first light the next day, the anchors were weighed and both ships set sail on a south-south-west course. Conscious that Cape Town was still hundreds of miles away, James had decided that the ships would call at Porto da Praia, in the Cape Verde group, to again replenish the water casks and purchase more provisions.
Six days later they reached St Jago, both ships anchoring in the roadstead at mid-afternoon.
PORTO DA PRAIA, ST JAGO. 14° 55´ NORTH, 23° 30´ WEST OF GREENWICH
Co-ordinates established and confirmed after a consultation on deck with astronomer Wales, James then went below to check the timekeepers. Reassured that K1 and the other three devices were showing identical Greenwich time, he confidently entered the latitude and longitude of Praia in his log: 15 degrees of longitude was the equivalent of precisely one hour, and James and Wales’s calculation had progressed from estimation to exactitude.
The island of St Jago was pear-shaped and mountainous, the port of Praia located at its southern extremity. While both ships rode at anchor James stayed aboard Resolution and Lieutenant Pickersgill was rowed ashore to pay the expedition’s respects to the governor and invite him to dine that night in the Great Cabin. The Forsters again went ashore to botanise, artist Hodges accompanying them with his sketchpad. Resolution’s clerk, Daniel Clark, visited the market in order to purchase supplies. A group of able seamen was also given leave to see the town.
When Pickersgill returned to the ship later that day he reported to James that he was less than impressed with Praia. ‘A dismal town, Captain. The governor is a slovenly Portuguese officer unworthy of the title, and his residence is little better than a shack. I extended your invitation to dine with us, but he declined.’
James nodded. ‘Not my loss. But I was duty-bound to extend him the courtesy.’
They were standing on the poop deck. Resolution’s launch was preparing to return to port to collect the Forsters, Hodges and the crew members who had been ashore. ‘And the provisioning?’ James asked.
‘Clark reports that the supplies here are of poor quality, including the water. Only the fruits are satisfactory.’
‘Then there is no need to linger here. I’ll send word across to Furneaux that we’ll weigh at first light tomorrow.’
It was later that day, his course for Cape Town set and the master, Gilbert, given his instructions, when James went up on deck again. The sky was turning an apricot shade, the heat was intense and he was sweating profusely inside his heavy jacket. As a concession to the conditions he had removed his wig and left his waistcoat in the Great Cabin. Given favourable winds he calculated that they should cross the line during the first week of September. Looking out over the quarterdeck rail, he observed the activities below. Barrett the cook’s mate was emptying slops over the starboard rail and a gang of seabirds was squawking and foraging for them. Six crewmen were preparing to hoist the launch aboard. Hodges and Forster the younger were in the forecastle sketching the coastline of the island. James then noticed Johann Forster amidships on the larboard side. He was behaving oddly, dancing some sort of jig, holding one hand up high. Curious, James moved across the deck to get a clearer view.
The botanist was indeed dancing, but not solo. His partner was a grey monkey, which was prancing about on the rail, tethered to Forster’s wrist by a leather lead. Peering down, James saw the creature leap from the rail to the shrouds and begin to climb. It came abruptly to the end of its tether, stopped with a jerk and fell to the deck.
Intensely displeased by the sight of such a creature on his ship, James called down to the naturalist. ‘Just what are you doing with that animal, Forster?’
The botanist looked up. ‘Exercising him. He is my pet.’ He placed the monkey back on the rail.
‘Your pet?’
‘Yes. I bought it in the town market. It is a Callithrix monkey. Chlorocebus sabaeus. Found throughout West Africa. I have named him Carl, after the great naturalist, Linnaeus.’
James took a very deep breath. ‘And just where on the ship will it be kept?’
‘I will tie it to the pig pen railing by night, then release it by day.’
The monkey looked up and bared its teeth defiantly at James. It had pale fur, a black face and the tip of its tail was yellow. It dropped to the deck, squatted, and shat at Forster’s feet. He stepped back, reached down and patted the small head.
James raised h
is voice. ‘Clean up that creature’s mess, Forster. Now.’
Forster looked annoyed, but made his way towards the mainmast where there was a bucket and mop. The monkey trailed along after him.
After they sailed again it soon became obvious that other monkeys had been pressed into service on Resolution. Several sailors had bought the creatures in the town market and carried them back to the ship, tied to their wrists. The animals resisted this restriction so firmly that the men were soon forced to release them, whereupon the creatures scampered about the decks and rigging, fighting, hissing, pissing and shitting. Some of the males sat on their backsides and worked fiercely at their bright red penises with their paws.
By the third day out of Praia, James had had enough. The hygiene of the ship was in jeopardy. He ordered Gilbert and Burr to capture every monkey and throw them overboard. Few of the crew resisted. As well as their shit and piss, the creatures had brought an infestation of fleas and lice to the orlop deck.
‘No, you cannot get rid of Carl!’ Forster’s face was the colour of a pink camellia. He began to wrestle with Burr, who was attempting to seize Forster’s monkey. In the confusion the creature bolted, then scampered up the starboard shrouds, trailing its lead. Forster stumbled after it but it was soon well beyond his reach. Burr shrugged, then walked away. Carl was by now well aloft, swinging from a sheet by his tail, looking down, baring his teeth.
Without bothering to knock, Forster sought out James in the Great Cabin, where he was poring over the chart of the West Africa coast. ‘Captain?’ Wig awry, the botanist’s face was even pinker, his expression accusatory.
Annoyed at the interruption, James said, ‘Is it urgent, Mr Forster? I am busy here, as you can see.’
‘It is urgent, and important.’ He drew his lips back from his teeth, so that he partly resembled a monkey himself. ‘Did you give the order to throw them overboard?’
‘The apes?’
‘Not apes. Chlorocebus sabaeus. Commonly called green monkeys. Did you?’
‘I did. The animals brought filth to the ship and so threatened its hygiene.’
Forster waved his hands about. ‘There are already animals on the ship. The swine, the sheep, the goat, the hens.’
‘Do not try my patience with illogic, Forster. You well know that our livestock are put to good use, for food and trade. A monkey is good for nothing.’
Forster’s expression became pious. ‘They are all God’s creatures.’
‘That may well be. But monkeys have no role on my ship. They have gone overboard, and God is welcome to them.’
‘And what of my monkey? What of Carl?’
‘He will join the others over the side.’
Forster spun about and scuttled out of the cabin. As James’s attention returned to the chart, he thought, Banks’s dogs had been bad enough, but monkeys? And what else would the Prussian insist on bringing aboard?
‘Sir?’ Now it was George Forster who approached James, in the officers’ mess. He looked ill at ease. Feeling rather sorry for the lad, James greeted him airily.
‘George, how are you? How was the botanising on the island?’
‘Unremarkable, sir. The flora was sparse. Due to the low amount of rainfall, I surmise.’ The young man paused, still looking uncomfortable. ‘Sir, my father’s monkey—’
‘What of it?’
‘He wishes to keep it, sir, in order to study its habits. And being a lover of animals, he is fond of the creature.’
‘Its habits are objectionable to me. Like the other apes, its filth contaminates the ship.’
‘I understand that, sir. But if we agree to not let Carl below decks—’
‘Carl?’
‘That is the monkey’s given name, sir.’
‘Oh yes. So?’
‘He will not be allowed below, we will keep him tethered on the forecastle deck. And I will guarantee to immediately deal with any mess Carl makes on the deck, sir.’
The lad had his hat in his hands and his eyes were downcast. James continued to feel sympathy for him. Already he had observed that the father’s actions and reactions embarrassed his son in front of others. ‘Very well. The creature can stay. But on no account may it go below. Should it do so, it will go overboard. And its messes must be cleaned up instantly. Is that understood?’
The young man looked up, his expression one of relief. ‘Yes, sir. Thank you. You have my word.’ He turned, then another thought struck him. ‘And that of my father.’
‘Man overboard! Man overboard! Off the larboard bow!’ The dreaded cry came on the morning of 18 August. Carpenter’s mate Edward Dawson had been edging along the larboard bowsprit arm, helping to reef the jib during a squall. As Resolution came off the crest of a swell and plunged into a trough, the ship rolled heavily and Dawson was caught off-balance. Losing his footing, he dropped, snatched at the arm, missed and plummeted into the sea.
‘Man overboard! Off the larboard bow!’ The cry from the arm was directed at the officer of the watch, Cooper, who shouted immediately to the helmsmen, Lockton and Whelan, ‘Man overboard! Luff the ship, hard down on the helm!’ The helmsmen obeyed, the ship came around into the wind and was hauled aback. Those on deck rushed to the larboard rail. Dawson surfaced, his right arm raised, his dark hair slicked, his head rising with the next swell. His cries reached those at the rail as he floundered, sank, then rose again. Like all the rest of them he couldn’t swim, but by treading the water he wasn’t going under. Richard Collett, Dawson’s friend, rushed to the bow, snatched up a bundled line, untied it and hurled it out over the water. It spun down, then landed a few feet from Dawson. Open-mouthed, still flailing at the water with open hands, he saw the rope and lunged for it. But before he could grab it a triangular fin appeared to his right, slicing through the water a few yards away. From the deck they saw a second fin, then a third, all converging on the stricken seaman. Below the fins were three sinuous shadows.
‘Sharks! Sharks!’ cried Collett. Seconds later their snouts broke water, jaws agape. There was a scream, then another. Dawson’s arm rose and fell, twice. Then he was gone. All at the rail stared, helpless and horrified.
Minutes later, on the water where Dawson had been, a stain appeared, a terrible darkness, spreading like ink spilt on a baize cloth.
A mood of gloom descended upon the ship. Men went about their duties without speaking, too shocked to describe what they had witnessed to those who hadn’t. Most had seen men drown at sea, it was an all-too-common occurrence, but none had seen a shipmate eaten alive. Over the next few days, below decks, many a dream became a nightmare at the memory. All were aware that what had happened to Dawson could happen to anyone, and this knowledge brought to the ship a sobriety which lasted until Resolution emerged from the doldrums and began to make her way steadily south, approaching the line of zero degrees latitude.
Eleven
25 AUGUST 1771
Dearest Beth,
I write from a few degrees north of the line. The west coast of Africa bulges unseen, many leagues to our west. We have been at sea now for almost six weeks, barring two calls for provisions at Funchal and Praia. A month and a half at sea is time enough for me to have formed impressions of those of the ship’s company with whom I associate most closely, impressions which I will now share with you.
My officers, Charles Clerke, Richard Pickersgill and Robert Cooper, are all fine men, the first two well known to me from the Endeavour voyage. You have read my accounts of their inestimable worth in my earlier journal. Clerke, who hails from Weatherfield in Essex, was offered a berth on Banks’s petulant alternative expedition to Iceland, but declined this dubious distinction. Further proof of his sound judgment. Clerke is something of a humorist, and keeps us amused with his quips, an attribute which is important on a long voyage, where laughter can be in short supply. You may recall that three years ago a letter of his was published, a chronicle of his voyage with Byron, entitled ‘Accounts of Very Tall Men, Seen Near the Straits of Magellan�
��, in which he claimed the men of Patagonia were nine feet high. This falsehood was exposed when Endeavour called at the region in 1769, causing Clerke acute embarrassment. We all laugh about that, still. He is also greatly interested in brewing, and has brought aboard supplies of hops and malt for this purpose. Already he has several puncheons in the hold fermenting, and yesterday tapped one and gave me a mug to taste. It was agreeable enough, and since the beer may well have anti-scorbutic properties, I have recommended it to the men, who consumed it enthusiastically.
Pickersgill, who you may recall I promoted to master on Endeavour last year after Robert Molyneaux died, also possesses many talents and his elevation is thoroughly merited. He has well developed surveying skills and also enjoys acting the part of diplomat. He volunteered to go ashore at Funchal and Praia and pay the expedition’s respects to the governors of those islands, duties which I was more than willing to grant him, given my dislike of petty officialdom. You are well aware how impatient I become with such people!
First Lieutenant Cooper is 29 and hails from Lincolnshire. A cousin of my friend and loyal supporter, Hugh Palliser, Cooper has served on HMS Niger in Newfoundland and in stations in the West Indies. He is as steady and reliable a young man as one could hope to find, and confided to me that he too is keeping a journal, perhaps from the example set by Clerke. Pickersgill is doubtless hoping that his account will also eventually appear in print.
Of the non-commissioned men, Resolution’s sailing master Joseph Gilbert stands out as a model of discipline and dedication. I believe this is due to his mature age. At 39 he is only five years younger than myself, a fact which makes me sympathetic to him. The fact that he assisted Palliser with the surveying of Newfoundland and Labrador gives us even more in common.
Now, the gentlemen.
Let me first say that I do not miss Joseph Banks for a moment. It occurs to me that had he sailed with us this time I would have found his antics intolerable. The best thing that could have happened was the demolition of the additions to Resolution, as it terminated Banks’s involvement with the expedition and so freed us from his extravagant behaviours. I even find myself fervently hoping that we do discover the Great Southern Continent, so that he will fume at his failure to be party to the discovery. A mean-minded thought, Beth, but one which I cannot deny.
