James Cook's New World

by Lay, Graeme

  James now set Resolution on a new course. He watched from the quarterdeck as Master Gilbert ordered the helm put over so that she stood to the north. Helmsmen Bordall and Cave swung the wheel to port; the men fumbled at the sheets with frozen fingers. Stiff with frost, the canvas slowly filled, making whip-cracking sounds, and the ship again began to make way. James could not conceal the huge disappointment that he felt. These last weeks he had taken Resolution along the edge of the great ice sheet, following the 60th parallel, sailing across a vast expanse of the Antarctic Ocean. They had succeeded in crossing the Antarctic Circle, but this achievement had been diminished by encountering no landmass and losing contact with Adventure. Now every man jack aboard was relieved that they were quitting these latitudes and putting the cold astern.

  James’s first plan had been to make for Van Diemen’s Land to determine whether it was part of the continent of New Holland. But after making latitude 50 degrees they encountered adverse winds and so made only slow progress. Resolution’s supplies of water, food and wood were running low, so after conferring with his officers James set a revised course north-east, to the south-western coast of New Zealand’s southern island which he had sailed past in Endeavour three years before.

  Although the spirits of his crew lifted at this news, the new course gave James little satisfaction. He remained troubled, even guilty. A sense of failure began to weigh upon him. New Zealand was a land he had already circumnavigated and charted. Magellan had discovered the Dangerous Archipelago, the Spanish had discovered the Marquesas Islands, Tasman had discovered Van Diemen’s Land, other Dutchmen had discovered New Holland, Wallis had discovered Otaheite. But what had he, James Cook, discovered? Nothing. He had merely charted what others had first found. As for the Great Unknown Southern Land, that must be, as he had long suspected, a figment of the unenlightened medieval imagination. Nowhere in this vast expanse of frigid sea had they seen evidence of land. Then he thought again. Unless such a landmass lay in the highest latitudes of the South Pacific Ocean, to the south and east of New Zealand. That remained a possibility, and one he must explore. For his own sake, and for England’s, he had to find some undiscovered land, somewhere no civilised man had been before.

  He looked upwards to where young Vancouver was aloft at the main topgallant crosstrees. They now had a following wind and Resolution was making a steady five knots. The ice mountains and snow were at last behind them. The ship had taken a fearful beating these past weeks, but her sails were now billowing and she was rolling steadily eastwards. Warmth had returned to the air. Now they were well and truly on a different course.

  Thirteen

  ‘LAND! LAND! OFF THE LARBOARD BOW!’

  The cracked, though delighted, cry came from young Vancouver, at the main masthead. It was mid-afternoon on 25 March. The crew peered towards the eastern horizon, but as yet could not see it. James and Clerke climbed to the topgallant crosstrees and put their spyglasses to their eyes. Just above the horizon they saw it, a purple wall, appearing continuous. As he lowered his spyglass, Clerke’s expression was one of joy. ‘New Zealand,’ he said, heaving a sigh of relief. ‘Real land, at last.’

  James nodded, but his emotions were mixed. Holding this course, at latitude 45 degrees 74 minutes, and with the following south-west wind, they could make the coast and Dusky Bay the next day. Staring at the inky, rampart-like coast, memories came rushing back. Nearly three years ago in Endeavour they had sailed right past the entrance to the bay that lay within those cliffs, in the face of Joseph Banks’s protestations. He had wanted to enter the bay but James insisted they pass it by and continue north because once inside it they could be embayed for weeks. Located in the extreme south-west of New Zealand’s southern island, the bay entrance’s towering cliffs were forbidding and a large island lay across the entrance. In view of the darkness of the surrounding cliffs, James had named the gap ‘Dusky Bay’ and his adamant decision to pass it by and carry on north had then been the correct one. Now, though, there could be no question of not seeking an anchorage within the bay. The Resolution’s crew—seamen, officers, marines and supernumeraries—were weary and in need of recuperation. It was almost three months since they had set foot on land. The ship’s rigging and sails were badly in need of repair. Provisioning had to be carried out, astronomical observations taken. But just what, James now wondered, lay within that breech in the massive wall?

  Lit by the sinking sun, the coast came into clearer view. Around the decks there were murmurings of expectation from the crew. James again climbed the mast and put his telescope to his eye. He spied the entrance to the bay, which resembled a gaping mouth with one front tooth missing. Would the place prove barren and inhospitable? Or providential? He called down to Resolution’s master. ‘Steady as she goes.’

  The ship was brought to for the night, half a league from the coast. Next morning, when they were opposite Dusky Bay, there were gale-force winds. They stood off to the south under close reefed topsails until 11 pm, when they stood to the north. By first light next morning the wind had abated and in light airs and a gentle swell Resolution was worked through the entrance. It was wider than James had estimated, about a league across from north to south. After he ordered the ship brought to near an island on the northern side of the entrance, soundings revealed 60 fathoms in the main channel. He ordered the boats hoisted and a suitable anchorage sought.

  Two hours later Pickersgill located an ideal location on the sound’s southern side. It was a snug cove overlooked by tall trees. A clear stream flowed through the trees. The trunk of one tree grew out horizontally over the water, so that by warping Resolution beneath its crown and anchoring her, they had a natural gangplank over the larboard gunwale. The cove was protected and tranquil. Securely moored, and overlooked by the towering slopes of the surrounding mountains, Resolution’s scale was reduced to that of a ship in a bottle.

  The crew fell upon Dusky Bay like famished men at a banquet. After months of privation and cold, here was an abundance of warmth, water and wild food. The bay was a place of dramatic beauty, an enclosed, entirely natural world. Its sheer sides were covered in luxuriant evergreen forest, so dense that from a distance it resembled a closely woven carpet of green. Clouds covered the summits of the mountains; brooks flowed down their sides, cataracts leapt from rocky outcrops and as if by magic, rainbows sprang from them when the showers passed. Everywhere they looked there was fresh, sweet water. Although downpours were frequent, the rain was warm. The forest resounded with birdsong, and the birds themselves had no fear of the men. Small inquisitive birds with tail-feathers like fans flitted down from the trees and perched on the muskets’ muzzles.

  That first week was one of industriousness and discovery as Dusky Sound—for that was what they now knew the inlet was—was explored and put to good use, becoming the Resolution’s encampment, larder, hunting and fishing ground. This niche in the remote New Zealand west coast was turned into an outpost of European civilisation.

  The sailmakers and carpenters worked on repairs while others dropped fishing lines and brought up blue codfish by the dozen. They shot the wildfowl and seals that made their home in the sound. On board the ship they dined on duck meat, cod and seal. On land Clerke and Ramsay the cook brewed beer from the leaves of some of the trees, mixed with molasses in buckets, and they happily imbibed the result. Charged with the responsibility of taking astronomical readings, Wales selected as his site a promontory just north of where Resolution was moored. After he and two of the able seamen had cut a section of forest and scrub which obscured the northern sky, Wales set up his observatory on the highest point, using the stumps of the felled trees as a base for his instruments. He and the others erected tents and camped in the clearing, which James promptly named Astronomer’s Point. After taking numerous observations of the moon, sun and stars from the clearing, Wales recorded its longitude as 166 degrees 18 minutes 9 seconds east of Greenwich and its latitude as 45 degrees 47 minutes 26 seconds south.


  Both Forsters spent most of their time ashore, collecting and drawing bird and plant specimens. On another patch of cleared and dug-over land, George planted peas, parsley and mustard seed. Johann netted a fish in the stream which flowed into the cove, a kind of trout, which George drew beautifully, along with a native grey duck and a bush falcon. William Hodges set up his easel and between showers sketched the land and seascapes.

  They now had plentiful fresh water and food. What they still craved, after three long months at sea, was women. Where were the natives? And more to the point, where were their females?

  It soon became obvious that Dusky Sound was not an area of Maori settlement. There were no villages, no pallisaded settlements. They saw only a few canoes in the sound, whose male crews merely stared at Resolution. Marine Samuel Gibson, who had absconded with a local woman in Otaheite in 1769 and so spoke the language, called out to the natives. ‘Ia orana ana! Maeva! To’u i’oa ’o Samuel!’ The New Zealanders responded to his greeting with non-comprehending looks. Later James, the Forsters and Wales took a boat to the cove where they had seen the canoes, but found only a few primitive huts. James left some trinkets on the site, but for another week they saw no natives, male or female.

  On board in the Great Cabin, over dinners of codfish, rock lobster and duck, washed down with Clerke and Ramsay’s cabin-brewed beer, they discussed the sound and its bounty. The only member who was dissatisfied with their circumstances was the expedition’s naturalist. Johann Forster wiped his mouth with the napkin he had tucked about his neck. He cleared his throat loudly. ‘It is a great pity, Captain, that our arrival in this place was so late.’

  James frowned. ‘Why?’

  ‘It is now April. That means that the plant flowering season of the southern summer is over.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘You are obviously not a botanist. Having no flowers means that I cannot classify the New Zealand trees and plants by the Linnaeus system.’

  James said carefully, ‘We could not have closed this coast earlier. We had to explore the Antarctic waters, which we were ordered to do. It was impossible to be here in the southern summer. And you have collected specimens of the plants, have you not?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Forster again cleared his throat. ‘But that brings me to another matter.’ He ran his tongue around his lips. ‘I must have better quarters.’

  James stared at him. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘My cabin is not adequate. With all the specimens—plants, fish, birds, shells and so forth—my berth is overcrowded. I must have more room.’ The others at the table looked at one another grimly. George Forster’s cheeks coloured. It was by now common knowledge among the company that the elder Forster was being paid a fortune to be on this expedition, and there was not a man aboard who didn’t resent it. Giving him his coldest look, James said: ‘This is not a London museum, it is a sailing ship. Quarters are necessarily constricted. For everyone.’

  As if James had not spoken, Forster continued in his peevish tone. ‘And not only is my cabin cramped and stinking, it lacks light. The trees overhanging the ship make it dark by day as well as night. I must use a candle when making my notes, even during the daytime. That is a waste of good candles.’

  Through gritted teeth, James said, ‘You will make do, Mr Forster, like all of us. There is room in the hold for your specimens, so I suggest you stow them there.’

  Forster’s eyes popped. ‘In the hold? My specimens? Where they could be damaged or destroyed by a common crewman?’

  James shrugged. ‘That is a risk you will have to take. Either that or put up with their stench. It goes with your work, surely.’

  Making unpleasant sucking noises, Forster got up and left the table. His son, still red-faced, followed him. Clerke chortled. ‘I thought perhaps, Captain, that you were going to suggest he move his quarters to the for’ard hold. A suitable location.’ In the Great Cabin’s now-relaxed atmosphere, they all laughed.

  James spent as much time ashore as he could, sloshing across streams, probing the forest, taking a running survey of the coastline from the pinnace, climbing to the summits of the islands and taking observations. With the aid of Kendall’s timekeeper he was able to confirm the co-ordinates that Wales had earlier established on Astronomer’s Point.

  For the first time since giving titles to features on the east and north coasts of New Holland two years before, James experienced the pleasure of naming landmarks. As before, he called them after his men or on geographical grounds: Pickersgill Harbour, Passage Point, Cooper’s Island, Five Fingers Peninsula. After a shooting party returned drenched to the ship from a branch of the sound, he later named the inlet Wet Jacket Arm.

  As he was rowed across the sound, past the rugged island he had already called Resolution, James stared up at the precipitous slopes of the sound and thought back to that day in March 1770 when he and Banks had quarrelled. Now, James confessed to himself with the wisdom of hindsight, Banks might have been right. Already Pickersgill had reported that there was a navigable passage on the northern side of the sound that led directly back to the open sea. James decided that when they left that would be the route they would take. Again he looked up at the forest, from where came the sweet sounds of birdsong. But Banks was foolish, too. If not for his pride and vanity he could have been here on Resolution, relishing the fauna and flora which the Forsters were now collecting and cataloguing for science.

  Feeling a sudden sharp pain in his right foot, James winced and stretched his leg, pushing it against the aft thwart.

  ‘What is it, sir?’ asked Chapman, one of the able seamen oarsmen.

  ‘Nothing,’ replied James, flexing his leg. ‘Just a little pain.’ Then he felt it again, shooting up his leg and stabbing into his groin. Dammit, he thought, what’s this?

  APRIL 1773, DUSKY BAY, NEW ZEALAND

  My dearest Elizabeth,

  We are now in the relative warmth and security of a sheltered sound in New Zealand’s large southern island. Although the rain falls in torrents, the forest and tranquillity of this place are balm to us. It has been my privilege, as well as my duty, to survey and name most prominent landmarks of the sound (which we have ascertained is sufficiently large to accommodate the entire Royal Navy’s fleet!).

  You may be surprised to learn that we have brewed beer in this remote location, taking advantage of the clear stream at the head of the cove. Lieutenant Clerke and Ramsay our cook are the principal brewers, assisted by the Swedish naturalist, Sparrman. Since your stepfather may be interested in the process involved, the recipe for our beer is as follows:

  We first made a strong decoction of the leaves of a type of spruce tree, called by the natives ‘rim-moo’, mixed with the foliage of a shrub they call ‘man-ooka’, names we are familiar with from the Endeavour visit. We achieved the decoction by boiling the foliage in a copper for three or four hours, until the bark could be easily stripped from the branches. After removing the leaves and branches from the copper we mixed with the liquor a quantity of molasses and inspissated juice (one gallon of the former and three of the latter is sufficient to make a puncheon, or eighty gallons of beer). After letting this mixture just boil, to it was added an equal quantity of cold water, then after allowing it to become warm, some little grounds of yeast were added (or any other substance which would allow a chemical change to occur, such as rum or brown sugar). In a few days the beer is fit to drink. Its taste might best be described as ‘unusual’, but it is a refreshing and healthy drink which effervesces like champagne. I have encouraged it to be served to the men, as I believe it may contain anti-scorbutic properties. It may be some time, however, before the Dusky Sound brew is served to the customers in the Bell!

  It is now Autumn in this land and the temperature in the sound is constantly mild and most agreeable. Notwithstanding this, I am troubled by a pain in my right foot and a swelling in my groin, hampering my ability to fully explore the land when ashore. I have no idea what the cause of this ailment
might be, save the suggestion that it may be attributed to the wetness in my boots for prolonged periods. The pain is alleviated somewhat by the application of a heated cloth to the affected areas, but this step I take only when alone, as I have no wish for anyone else to see that I am in this way afflicted. Illness is something a commander cannot allow to be shown, I believe. Physically and morally he must display no weakness, so I have not divulged my complaints even to Resolution’s estimable surgeon, James Patten. Hence my earnest desire for privacy in this matter. Only you, dearest Elizabeth, can know of any illness which may befall me. By the time we are together again and I can read this account to you, my physical difficulties will be a matter long past.

  The other and more welcome development here in Dusky Sound is that we have at last made proper contact with the natives.

  James, Hodges and the two Forsters were rowed in the pinnace across to the north side of the sound. There they came across a small bay whose waters teemed with ducks. A waterfall cascaded down a cliff overlooking the bay and the ducks playfully splashed at the place where it entered the bay, rebounding waters creating a delicate rainbow, its colours kaleidoscopic in the mist. James blasted shot after shot into the flock with his scattergun, killing 14 in all, which the oarsmen gleefully collected and piled into the pinnace. Setting his fowling piece aside, James said to Hodges with a smile, ‘This place names itself. Duck Cove it shall be.’