by Lay, Graeme
Ship’s master Gilbert and master’s mate Burr were perpetually anxious as they worked to keep the ship clear of the ice, a task made more difficult by the fickleness of the winds and the persistent fogs which descended upon them. After the fogs came down the winds died, leaving the sails not only frozen but unfilled, and the ship unmanoeuvrable.
As 1773 drew to a close they edged across the Antarctic Circle. When the weather briefly cleared, James and Wales made astronomical observations, measuring their calculations of longitude against Kendall’s still-ticking timekeeper. The figures varied but little: James’s calculations gave their longitude as 133 degrees 37 minutes; by Kendall’s timekeeper the figure calculated was 133 degrees 34 minutes. Although this minimal difference gave them satisfaction, frustration still gnawed at James. The relentless cold was causing the morale of the crew to sink. It was a case of ‘the higher the latitude, the lower the spirit’. Finding no continent, nor any signs of one, in frustration James ordered the ship to bear away on a north-east course.
The relief below decks was palpable as they moved away from the ice mountains and the temperatures rose. By mid-January they had reached the 45th parallel and the ice mountains were well behind them. The spirits of the crew rose correspondingly.
Alone in the Great Cabin, James huddled over his charts, trying to ignore the pain in his gut. The dividers he held hovered over the sheet of chart paper before him. For a week now they had been on their northward course. What lay to the south-east was yet to be explored, but time was limited. From now on the days would be shortening. And again, he had discovered nothing. No continent, not even an uncharted island. This knowledge was becoming intolerable to him. Even that swankpot Byron had discovered islands, back in 1720. Staring at the blank space south-east of their current position, James thought it was possible, just possible, that a continental portrait could be painted upon that blank canvas. He swung one point of the divider across the chart and around from the north-east to the south-east. Dammit, they would try again. The business must not be left unfinished.
After he had announced this alteration to his officers that evening, Cooper’s brow creased with concern. ‘South again, sir?’
‘Yes. We will proceed southward, and again cross the Antarctic Circle.’
Cooper looked away. Clerke’s frown mirrored Cooper’s. Looking glum, fiddling with his port glass, Pickersgill said quietly, ‘I’m bound to say, Captain, that this news will not be greeted with enthusiasm on the orlop deck.’
James felt anger flaring. He glared at Pickersgill. ‘Perhaps not. But this ship is commanded from the quarterdeck, not the lower deck. And south-east is the course we will now follow.’ His right hand began to ache, and he flexed it. ‘We cannot return without having fully explored the Southern Ocean.’
Cooper swallowed. His eyes evading James’s stare, he said, ‘Very well, sir. I shall inform Gilbert of our southern course.’
Dismay went through the ship like a shuddering earth tremor. South again. South again. Out of hearing of the officers, curses could be heard. Back to the sodding ice mountains, to the sodding fogs, to the sodding sleet. More torn, bloody fingers and frigid toes. The gentlemen retreated to their separate berths. Johann Forster took to his cot and turned his face to the bulkhead, his dog Keziah curled up across his feet. Resolution had become an unhappy ship.
NEW YEAR 1774
Dearest Beth,
We are on a south-eastward course, intending to settle once and for all the matter of the existence or nay of the Great Southern Continent. Resolution is quite alone now in the Southern Ocean, having been separated from Adventure during a gale last month near Cape Palliser and not reunited. Furneaux and his crew may be lost, or by now found. We have no way of knowing. To you I can confide, Beth, that Furneaux has been a disappointment as commander of our consort ship. He lacks the application and rigour necessary for the enforcement of shipboard discipline, particularly with regard to the maintenance of an anti-scorbutic diet. While I have not lost a man to scurvy, Furneaux has. This was wholly avoidable and a blemish on his record as a naval commander. The Admiralty will of necessity hear of this laxity upon my return.
Although some of the crew were troubled at the separation of the two ships, my men are once more showing the resolve which befits the name of this vessel, although the westerly winds are frequently gale force and the temperature only a little above freezing point. Paradoxically, the hours of daylight lengthen the further south we proceed. Last night the sun sank below the horizon at 11pm then reappeared at 1.30am! Astronomer Wales and I were able to ascertain that yesterday we crossed the longitude line of 180°, and so we were thus at the precise Antipodes of London. We were also able to record that there is no land whatsoever at your Antipodes. The only creatures which are the counterparts of London’s hordes of men, women and children are the seals, penguins and petrels which abound in these southern waters. The ice islands which are the homes of these creatures become more common by the day. Some are the size of St Paul’s Cathedral! Working the ship is gruelling for the crew. As the sleet falls it freezes to the rigging making the handling painful, and getting the lines through the blocks is arduous in the extreme. When the blizzards come the crew resembles snowmen as they stumble about the decks.
While our dedicated artist Hodges draws the ice islands faithfully and George Forster keenly observes them and the penguins which make them their home, his father Johann is terrified of the ice. So much so that he has taken to his cabin to avoid even the sight of the ice islands. (While on Otaheite, both Forsters acquired young dogs from the natives there. Forster the elder has christened them Keziah and Jemima after two of Job’s daughters. The dogs also loathe the cold. Keziah accompanies the elder Forster below deck and sleeps under his blankets. I believe the dog is the only friend he has in the world.)
Hearing a knock on the door of the cabin, James carefully covered Beth’s journal with a chart then called, ‘Come.’
It was marine private Phillips, on sentry duty. ‘Excuse me, Captain, but it’s Mr Wales to speak with you.’
Wales wore a cape and had a woollen hat pulled down over his ears. Face red, clearly excited, he said, ‘I’ve just taken our latitude, sir. Seventy-one degrees, ten minutes! And there is a sight that you must see, sir. Can you come up on deck?’
James set down his quill and followed the astronomer up onto the quarterdeck, where Cooper was the officer on watch and Hodges sat at his easel, sketching rapidly, his head moving up and down like a pecking bird. Although it was 4 am there was broad daylight. The sky was clear, the sun low on the eastern horizon and the air unusually mild. There was not a breath of wind and the ship was drifting, her sails rigid. Samuel Bordell and William Bee stood idly by the wheel as Resolution rocked almost imperceptibly in the swell.
Cooper pointed up ahead. ‘Look at what we have come to, sir,’ he murmured in awe. James stared up ahead, past the masts, sails and rigging. His jaw dropped. Blocking Resolution’s passage was a massive sheet of ice, extending east and west as far as they could see. A translucent ice cliff connected the green sea and the top of the shelf, which must have been over 100 feet high. Still staring, James said to Wales, ‘We are at latitude 71 degrees south, you said?’
The astronomer nodded. ‘And ten minutes. I double-checked only minutes ago.’
James continued to stare at the vast, impenetrable sheet of frozen water. Beyond it, and surprisingly bright, was a range of ice mountains whose summits reached up to and vanished into a wig of white cloud. They may have discovered no landmass, but they had certainly found an icemass. ‘I believe,’ James said quietly, ‘that we are now closer to the South Pole than anyone who has sailed before us.’
Wales nodded, his blue eyes shining. ‘I believe so too, sir.’
Cooper stared at the ice, mesmerised. ‘It feels as if we have come to the end of the world,’ he murmured.
‘Aye,’ said James. ‘And to attempt to proceed further would be perilous. Even if there
is a passage through the ice, we could be crushed within it.’
Wales and Cooper showed expressions of relief at this judgment, and both nodded. Hodges, head bobbing, continued his drawing.
James removed his hat and handed it to Wales. ‘Hold this. I won’t be long.’ He walked down to the mid-deck, then strode past the mainmast and up into the bow. The several sailors on duty looked at him curiously. What was the commander doing up here? Young midshipman Vancouver, caped and mittened, was watching a pair of seals cavorting under the larboard bow. Nodding curtly as he passed him, James walked up onto the prow of the ship, knelt, then began to climb up onto the bowsprit. ‘Sir!’ Vancouver called in alarm. ‘Sir!’
Ignoring him, James lay down on the bowsprit, then began to shuffle forward, inching his way along the protrusion until he came to its very end. Wrapping his arms around it, he stared up at the ice cliff, now only 50 yards away. Then he carefully turned around and crawled back along the bowsprit to the deck, pausing only to reach down and pat the snarling hound figurehead beneath it. Vancouver said nervously, ‘That were a trifle dangerous, sir. Why—?’
A faint smile flickered at the corner of James’s mouth. He declared loudly, ‘I can now truly say I have gone further south than any other man.’
The faces of the swaddled seamen on deck broke into grins. Then they began to clap, standing aside as James made his way back to the quarterdeck. Passing Gilbert, he said loudly, ‘We will now go about and stand to the north. Ready the crew!’
From those on the deck and in the icicled rigging came cries of delight.
James’s personal triumph was short-lived. That evening he resumed his private journal entry.
I have to tell you, Beth, that the spasmodic abdominal pains and bilious colic which began to afflict me in Dusky Bay have returned. When these gut pains come it is as if my entrails are being tightened in a vice, and I can barely stand. I am also beset by constipation. Our surgeon Patten, a kindly fellow, has ordered me to remain in my berth for the time being, which I agreed to do with great reluctance, temporarily relinquishing command of Resolution to Robert Cooper. I did not want the rest of the ship’s company to know of my disorder, but was unable to prevent them learning of it, through a word from my servant, no doubt. There can be few secrets kept on a vessel of this size, regrettably. Patten has prescribed the syrup of an emetic plant called ipecacuanha, along with doses of camomile tea and castor oil. My subsequent vomiting was drastic and uncontrollable. The surgeon also applies poultices to my belly in order to ease whatever obstruction lurks in my guts, but without success.
As you know, Beth, I have been in generally robust health for most of my life and so find any affliction not only inconveniencing but greatly frustrating. Before this I was inclined to believe that any illness represented a kind of weakness. I hold this belief no longer. Illness is a kind of curse. No matter how I struggle, I cannot persuade my bowels to move. It is as if my innards have been caulked as tight as a tarred deck. The combined vomiting and constipation are weakening me, undeniably, and I can barely stir. Patten surmises that it is the monotonous shipboard diet which is to blame for my affliction, and he may be correct. We are running very low on fresh provisions. Yet I have been on many prolonged voyages before and have not suffered as I do now. I can only hope that fresh food from our next place of call will ease my troublesome guts. In the meantime, Cooper commands the ship and reports on its progress to me daily.
The men are discontented, Cooper reports, and I have no reason to doubt his word. There has been drunkenness and outbreaks of fighting below decks and after one particular incident was reported to me, I ordered an intemperate midshipman, Charles Loggie, flogged and turned before the mast. Other of the seamen broke into the liquor hold, stole some brandy and drank themselves senseless. I ordered bosun’s mate Doyle to flog three of them for intoxication and neglect of duty. It is obvious from these reports of indiscipline, and an increasing incidence of illness—including scurvy—that we must seek a warmer clime and supplies of fresh food and water. The ship has become unhealthy, and it is not only myself who suffers. Both Forsters and their servant are ill, and Patten too, with stomach cramps like my own. All these afflictions are worsened by the coldness of the air which surrounds us.
I must end now, Beth, as the pain is nearly intolerable and the quill threatens to slip from my hand.
Your loving husband,
James
6 FEBRUARY 1774
At 1pm took the second reef in the top-sails and took down topgallant yards which was no sooner done than it fell calm and soon after had variable breezes between the NW and East, attended with snow and sleet. In the AM we got the wind from the south, loosed all the reefs out, got topgallant yards and set the sails and steered north-easterly, with a resolution to proceed directly to the north, as there was no probability of finding land in these high latitudes, at least not on this side of Cape Horn. Instead we will look for Easter Island, to supply the provisions we are sorely in need of, although the situation of which island is so variously laid down that I have little hope of finding it.
Twenty-one
FOR THE NEXT TWO WEEKS, JAMES’S COLIC and constipation persisted, confining him to his berth, where he lay in pain and frustration at his afflictions and at the expedition’s failure to discover anything except ice. The officers reported to him regularly on the ship’s progress, but desperate as he was to return to the quarterdeck, he was physically incapable of doing so.
On 15 February, at just after midday, there was a knock on his cabin door. ‘Yes?’ James called, ill-temperedly. He had had a particularly bad morning, with the gut cramps now almost constant.
The unwelcome visage of Johann Forster appeared around the door. His face was pale and drawn, reminding James that he too had been ill lately. In his hands he carried a large ceramic bowl. James closed his eyes and put his hand to his brow. ‘What is it?’
The naturalist held up the bowl. ‘You are still unwell, obviously.’
‘Yes.’
‘I have here a broth which may assist you.’
‘Broth?’ James opened his eyes.
‘Yes. A meat soup which Cook Ramsay has made for me.’ He made a face. ‘I too have been poorly these past days, and I requested that he concoct a broth for me.’ He held out the bowl, and a spoon. ‘It gave me strength, I found, and I have partially recovered.’ After James had taken the bowl, Forster said, ‘I will leave you with it.’ He bowed his head and declared in his nasal tones, ‘For the blessing of this food, may you be truly thankful to our good Lord Jesus.’
After Forster left him, James leaned forward. It would make a change, at least. He sipped the warm soup. It was un-thickened, but filled with chunks of meat and slivers of onion. It was flavoursome. Penguin, perhaps? He had another mouthful, then another. Delicious, the tastiest food he had had since the cod of Queen Charlotte Sound. The chunks of meat tasted like veal. In minutes he had finished the bowl, and after placing it and the spoon on the cabin floor, he lay back with a sigh, the liquid forming a warm pool in his stomach.
‘Captain?’
It was Forster again. ‘Did you like the broth?’
James nodded. He felt renewed strength in his arms, and an unfamiliar sensation low down in his belly. Could his bowels be ready to move again? ‘It was very good, thank you, Forster. Was it made from penguin?’
‘No. It was Keziah. My dog. She passed away from the cold yesterday. So I took her body down to the galley and gave it to Ramsay, with instructions to skin and dismember her and turn her into soup.’
James started, but only briefly. After all, he had eaten dog before, in Otaheite and New Zealand. But there the creatures had been roasted in an earth oven. This was more nourishing and, in his condition, more digestible. He pointed at the empty bowl. ‘Keziah has made very fine broth, Forster. Please, bring me another bowl.’
Maintaining their north-east course, they were bound for the island which the Dutchman Jacob Roggeveen had c
ome across at Easter in 1722. There James hoped to find the much-needed provisions which would restore the health of Resolution’s company.
There was a report of Roggeveen’s time on Easter Island in Alexander Dalrymple’s Account of the Discoveries made in the South Pacifik Ocean, a copy of which was in the Great Cabin’s bookcase. Still unable to rise from his berth, James read it by candlelight, trying to ignore the fact that Dalrymple was a man he had little time for. He was the Scotch upstart who had decided that he, not James, should have led the expedition to observe the 1769 transit of Venus. He had to concede, though, that Dalrymple’s Account of the Discoveries was a useful reference. He read the relevant chapter:
On April 5 of 1722, a small fleet of three Dutch vessels commanded by Admiral Jacob Roggeveen arrived at the island. As that day was Easter Sunday, Jacob Roggeveen baptised his discovery with the name that is universally known, Easter Island. According to the islanders’ oral tradition, in the first encounter of a native with Europeans, a man that was in a canoe was invited to come on board. He was offered a glass of wine and food. The islander, instead of eating or drinking, took the glass of wine and poured it on his own head. It is believed that he thought that they were trying to poison him.
