by Lay, Graeme
Cooper frowned. ‘Decorated? How?’
‘Their members were not only covered in a sheath, but their pubic hair was interlaced with the tendrils of a climbing plant, complete with tiny flowers.’ Clerke grinned. ‘Curious about this custom, I presented one of the men with a stocking. He immediately drew it over his cock. I then gave him a string of beads, and he promptly used it to tie the stocking on to his member. Warming to this custom, I gave him a medallion, and he tied it to the end of his cock.’
The others laughed. Except Johann Forster. His cheeks colouring, he said, ‘You were quite wrong to encourage such a custom, Clerke. It is unseemly to draw attention to such a private part of the anatomy.’
Clerke shook his head. ‘Not on this island. They obviously celebrate such a “private part of the anatomy”,’ he said mockingly, and grinned. ‘Such decorations are very becoming. I think I will introduce the custom to London society when we return.’
Again they all laughed, except Forster. Frowning, he said, ‘I have closely examined the genitalia of several men on the island. And I observed that their foreskins had all been split.’
The others looked startled. Cooper said, ‘They allowed you to examine their genitals?’
‘Oh yes. They were happy to show them to me. It was in the interests of science to do so. I have sketched the split foreskins, too.’
Clerke asked, ‘And did you similarly scrutinise the genitalia of the female villagers you encountered?’
Forster looked indignant. ‘Certainly not. That would have been indecent.’
The others put their hands over their mouths, suppressing guffaws.
At that moment there was a loud knock on the officers’ mess door. ‘Come!’ said James, and the agitated face of bosun Gray appeared. ‘Excuse me, sir, but there’s been an accident. It’s Monk, sir. He’s fallen down the for’ard ’atchway and cracked ’is ’ead. We can’t rouse him, sir.’
Monk died early the next morning from a skull fracture. He had been Resolution’s butcher, and had the cheery nature typical of that occupation. His death brought a sombre mood to the ship, above and below decks. His body was rowed outside the reef and committed to the sea, with James officiating. But although he mourned the death of poor Monk, and wrote his name in the ‘Discharged Dead’ roll, he also thought: still not a man on board has died from scurvy.
Keen to survey the new land’s coasts, James first ordered the ship to go north, but at the island’s extremity they observed so many shoals and reefs that it seemed imprudent to persist, so they went about and made their way down the eastern side. This coast too was hazardous, with complex protruding reefs and sprockets of land impeding their passage. But they ascertained that New Caledonia was elongated—220 nautical miles in length—and when they doubled its southern end and swung west, that it was about 30 nautical miles wide.
A small island 28 nautical miles to the south of the main island James named the Isle of Pines after the very tall, straight trees that grew there. A party landed, the botanists examined the towering trees and gave them the name Araucaria columnaris cooki. Looking up admiringly at the trees, ship’s carpenter Bevan commented to James, ‘Fine for ship’s masts, sir.’
James nodded. He had been thinking just that.
The next day he set a course directly south for New Zealand. Ship Cove called, once again. There they would provision before setting out on their west-east crossing of the southern Pacific Ocean.
Keeping a weather eye on the blurred horizon, James stared ahead. At the helm before him, quartermasters Atkin and Bee kept Resolution on a south-south-east course. There was a steep chop on the sea, and white caps, but they were making good progress, helped by the steady westerly. Yesterday they covered 80 nautical miles. Since leaving the Isle of Pines the temperature had dropped markedly, and most of the deck crew were wearing their heavy weather gear.
One hand on the larboard rail, James reflected on what they had achieved. They were now well into the voyage’s third year. More than two long, hard years. And what had it amounted to? The crossing of the Antarctic Circle, much charting of previously found islands, the discovery of a few others, notably New Caledonia. No Great Southern Continent had been found. But now he felt not greatly disappointed. He remembered reading something, in a London journal of science, which postulated that the disproving of a theory could be just as important as the proving of one. So disproof of the Great Southern Continent was an advancement of sorts. It meant that no more costly and protracted expeditions need be mounted in search of a non-existent landmass. One day, perhaps, men would explore the Antarctic ice mass and assess any resources it may possess, but for the time being it could be left to the seals and penguins who inhabited it.
His thoughts turned to home and family, as they often did. In two weeks young James would turn 11, Nathaniel was only a year younger, baby George had had his second birthday. He had missed so much of their lives. And later this month he would turn 46. When he returned it would be for good. No more voyaging, no more attempts at discovery. The globe was now known, explored and charted.
The ship rose, slid into a trough, rose again. As it crested a large swell, spray flew from the bow, dousing James’s cape, and there came a cry from the masthead. ‘Land! Land! Off the larboard bow!’
James looked up, startled. More land? In this latitude? There couldn’t be.
There was. It was another uncharted island, whose position Wales fixed at 29 degrees 2 minutes south and 167 degrees 57 minutes east. As Resolution came closer, James and Pickersgill climbed to the masthead and examined the island through their scopes. The northern coast towards which they were heading consisted of rocky cliffs, a series of headlands and a few sheer-sided islets. Gashes in the cliffs showed patches of bright red earth. Above the cliffs was a plateau covered in tall pines, similar to those they had seen in New Caledonia, but much more numerous. The pines were hundreds of feet high, with regularly spaced branches and tapering trunks. A heavy surf broke on the shore. Glass still to his eye, James said, ‘We must land.’
Pickersgill looked doubtful. ‘It is a lee shore, sir, and the breakers are formidable.’
‘We will land here,’ James affirmed, ‘and venture inland.’
When he invited the botanists to go ashore with him, Johann Forster took one look at the breakers, shuddered, and shook his head. ‘You collect for me,’ he told James, who could not help a derisive laugh. This was the same Forster who had urged him, only weeks ago, to take him ashore on an island’s unsafe coast. Now the man was turning down an opportunity to botanise on a new, uncharted island. Fool.
Gilbert ordered two anchors dropped and the boat was hoisted out. As they rowed closer, James saw a shingle beach. ‘Put in there,’ he ordered Gray, who was on the tiller. The beach was between two of the islets, which broke the force of the waves. Hundreds of gannets roosted atop both the islets, while petrels and terns rode the wind currents above them. The boat was manoeuvred between the rocky outcrops, shot forward, then slid up onto the shingle. Leaving Gray and three able seamen with the boat, James, Pickersgill and Cooper climbed up the long rocky slope and out onto the undulating land at the top.
The vegetation was dense. Its dominant feature was the innumerable spruce pines, each one hundreds of feet high. In every direction they looked, there were the towering evergreen trees with their spoke-like branches. Between them, and much lower, grew cabbage palms with spiky leaves. Gaudy red-and-green parakeets flew from branch to branch, looking at them curiously; grey pigeons and white doves fluttered among the foliage. The trio pushed on through the undergrowth, which consisted mainly of ferns, then along a red earth ridge. On either side of the ridge there were damp hollows where flax bushes grew prolifically. ‘The same species as grows in New Zealand,’ James observed. He broke off a flax flower and put it in his rucksack, to give to the botanists, then stared around at the scene. ‘Fine timber for spars and masts, flax for cordage. This island will be bountiful for Englishmen.’
For several hours they walked across the plateau, which afforded wide views of the island’s valleys and coastlines. Everywhere there was rainforest, dominated by the towering pines, with an undergrowth of lianas and ferns. Continuing inland, they filled their water bottles from a clear stream, then climbed to the western side of the island. There, on the edge of a high cliff overlooking a bay and a pink sand beach, Cooper said, ‘Tis a comely island, sir, but where are the people?’
‘There appear to be none,’ James replied, staring towards the western coast, where there was a smaller, humped island. During their exploration they had seen no smoke, no garden plots, come across no houses, not even a deserted village. The island was utterly devoid of people. The only living creatures visible were half a dozen gulls gliding on the air currents below the cliff. Neither did there appear to be any coral reefs, to break the force of the ocean swells.
They wiped the sweat from their brows. Although the air was cooler than that of New Caledonia, the sky was clear, the sun’s rays strong. ‘A fertile but uninhabited island,’ Pickersgill mused. ‘The first I have ever encountered.’
The others agreed that this discovery was unique. ‘We won’t linger here,’ said James. ‘But we must claim the place for England. It’ll make a fine settlement.’ He stared out across the island. ‘I’ll name it after one of England’s noble families,’ he concluded, feeling a glow of satisfaction at the prospect.
Above the landing place Cooper carved the date—9 October 1774—and the event into the trunk of the tallest pine. Back where the boat was drawn up, the sailors showed them dozens of bream they had hauled from the sea when fishing from the rocks. They had also cut the hearts from several of the cabbage trees which grew nearby. That night the Resolutions feasted on fish and fresh greens, and toasted the fertility and promise of King George’s newest possession, Norfolk Isle.
17 OCTOBER 1774
PM Fresh gales northerly and cloudy weather. At 4pm sounded no ground with a line of 140 fathoms. Midnight, heavy squalls with rain, thunder and lightning. Wind shifted to SW, remained unsettled: split the jib to pieces, lost a great part of it, remains good for little, being much worn. Daybreak saw Mount Egmont (covered with everlasting snow) bearing SEE; sounded 70 fathoms, muddy bottom, distance offshore 3 leagues. Wind westerly a fresh gale, steered SSE for Queen Charlotte Sound. Noon Cape Egmont ENE distant 3 or 4 leagues, the Mount hid in the clouds, judged it to be in one with the Cape. Latitude observed 39° 24´, Longitude 173° 1´.
They anchored the following morning in Ship Cove, with light rain falling. ‘Here,’ James said, ‘we will refresh the company and put the ship in a condition to cross the eastern Pacific.’
But first they needed to find if Furneaux had received their message and left notice of his intentions. James was rowed ashore and went straight to the tree beneath which they had buried the bottle. It had gone. James looked around in frustration. ‘No message for us. A thoughtless omission.’ There were tree stumps nearby, bearing recent saw and axe marks, confirming that Adventure had survived the storms and eventually re-entered the sound. She had come and gone. But when? And where to?
‘It would have been so simple an act for Furneaux to leave a reply under the tree,’ James remarked angrily to Cooper as they returned to the ship. Cooper grunted his agreement. Their consort ship had proved to be no loyal consort. As they rowed back to the ship, the rain began to fall more heavily.
Something had changed in the sound. No canoes came out to greet them. James ordered one of the ship’s cannons fired to alert the Maoris of the district as to their presence. The boom shattered the cove’s silence, and reverberated around the surrounding hills. The ominous silence descended once more. Still no canoes appeared.
For several days Ship Cove was assailed by wild spring weather, with gales and rain from the north-west confining most of the company to the ship. The others seined and gathered greens, while the Forsters blasted dozens of plump pigeons—the ones the natives called kereru—from the trees. They were plucked, gutted and baked into pies. Once again the Resolutions had fresh fish, meat, celery and scurvy grass on the menu, and clean water from the streams which flowed into the cove. This healthful intake revived their spirits.
There was much refitting to be done to Resolution after her lengthy traverse of the western Pacific, and when the weather improved all hands set to. The fore and main topmasts were unrigged, the damaged sails repaired or replaced, the hull scoured and the deck planking re-caulked.
And still no Maoris came.
James and the Forsters visited Motuara Island and found that the vegetables they had planted, though neglected, had survived and gone to seed. They also heard pig squeals and goat bleatings from the bush above the cove. The transplanted animals had survived too, it seemed. Yet no canoes arrived to trade with them. Motuara Island was uninhabited, and the family at Cannibal Cove had disappeared. An eerie emptiness had seeped into the area like a miasma. George Forster summed up this lack of human contact: ‘It is as if the people of the sound have vanished into the air.’
‘Yet there is no sign of recent war,’ James replied. ‘No burned huts, or fires. Perhaps they have moved on in search of better settlements.’ The natives here, as they had observed before, live in fragmented groups, appearing to have no paramount chief, or unified tribe, as the Maoris of the northern island had. But the lack of any contact continued to mystify them.
Then, at last, some Maoris appeared. Two canoes paddled past the point at nearby Shag Cove. However, when they saw Resolution at anchor the occupants quickly paddled away. ‘They are avoiding us,’ Cooper concluded. From the quarterdeck, he and James had seen the canoes appear, then rapidly disappear. ‘Could it be something to do with Adventure’s second visit here?’
‘We need to find out,’ James replied. ‘We’ll take the pinnace around to Shag Cove.’
There were a few huts built on a rise above the cove, and as James, his officers and the Forsters walked up onto the foreshore, three people—two middle-aged men and a younger woman—emerged. The men had spiral facial tattoos and the woman a chin moko. All three wore feather cloaks and sandals made of flax. They were strangers: none of them had been in the area on the Resolution’s earlier visits. When they saw the Europeans approaching their faces froze, then turned fearful. The woman put her face in her hands and the men became cowed, like dogs expecting to be struck.
James stopped and called, ‘Tena koe.’ They hesitated, still obviously anxious, then came forward. James presented his nose in greeting. In turn the two men, then the woman, pressed their noses to his. Obviously relieved that the visitors were not going to kill them, the trio immediately became animated. The taller of the two men did a little dance, like a jig, and chuckled, the other one grinned and said, ‘Haere mai, haere mai.’
They beckoned the party into the huts, where they sat on mats and attempted to converse. But the talk was frustrating. George Forster asked the trio where all the other Maoris had gone, and the men tried to explain, talking and pointing southward. George shook his head. ‘I cannot fully comprehend,’ he said to James. ‘They use the word “maa-tay”, meaning death, and “patu”, meaning killing, but I cannot understand to whom this refers. This older one is called Pitere’—at the mention of his name the man nodded—‘and he says there have been recent killings, and that many people have moved across Raukawa Moana, across Cook’s Strait, to live.’ George clicked his tongue in frustration. ‘If only Hitihiti was still with us, to converse properly.’
James nodded. He had been thinking just the same thing. They badly needed a Hitihiti or a Tupaia. But the meeting had brokered something of a breakthrough, and for that James was thankful. From his bag he brought out a square of red cloth and a spike nail, which he presented to Pitere, who accepted the items with delight. The woman picked up a flax basket filled with fresh cod and gave it to James, who thanked them and invited the trio to visit the ship the next day.
They came, bringing bone car
vings and more baskets of fish, which were exchanged for a hatchet and more squares of cloth. They then set up a camp on the shore, near the stream which emerged from the forest. After they moved on a few days later, others came—also people they had not previously encountered—and traded pounamu, along with dogskin cloaks and wooden carvings, for nails and bark cloth.
The repairs to the ship continued. After inspections of Resolution with the sailmaker and carpenter, James realised that the ship was in worse shape than he had thought. Several sails needed replacing, but their supplies of canvas were so low that they were only patched or replaced with some of the canvas from the ship’s boats. There was no more pitch, tar or varnish, so that they were forced to substitute a mixture of gunners’ chalk and pork fat for the caulking.
Meanwhile, astronomer Wales had gone ashore to set up an observatory on the hill above the cove, taking with him Kendall’s faithful timekeeper. ‘I will take observations,’ he said, ‘to establish the cove’s co-ordinates.’ James smiled tolerantly. ‘I have already recorded them,’ he pointed out, ‘in 1770.’
The astronomer wiped his broad forehead. ‘With respect, Captain, you did not have this instrument.’ He held up K1, the timekeeper which had been ticking away faithfully in the cabin for the last two and a half years.
When Wales returned later in the day, he sought James out on the quarterdeck. His face was flushed, his greying hair damp, and the collar around his fleshy neck was stained with sweat. Clearly uncomfortable, he said, hesitantly, ‘Captain, I have established that the longitude of Ship Cove is—’ He looked down at his notebook. ‘One hundred and seventy-four degrees and 11 seconds east of Greenwich.’
James was startled. ‘But after you went ashore, I checked my 1770 chart. It records the longitude as 173 degrees and 74 seconds. Charles Green and I established that figure.’
