by Lay, Graeme
Inclining his head towards the cabin wall, the naturalist scowled. ‘Listen to that drunken carry-on. Don’t they realise that we are on the eve of our Lord’s birthday? That this is a sacred occasion?’
Clerke looked at the ceiling and sighed; the others shook their heads. Forster stood up. ‘I am going to bed,’ he said, patting his wig and giving the others his most disagreeable look. ‘Although I do not expect to get much sleep.’ He attempted a smile. ‘Merry Christmas to you all.’
On Christmas morning, bosun Gray reported that many of the crew were still inebriated and unable to carry out their duties. Angry at this over-indulgence, James ordered Gray to put the culprits ashore and leave them there until they became sober. It took them a whole day to do so and their heads still ached when they returned, shame-faced, to the ship.
They departed the fragmented coast on 28 December, now well provisioned and overlooked by the snow-capped alps of Tierra del Fuego’s interior. Resolution rounded Cape Horn a day later, and thereafter they took a north-east course for Staten Island, named by Dutchmen le Maire and Schouten in 1615.
On the last day of 1774 they anchored off a smaller, rocky but level island on the east coast of Staten, a home for innumerable penguins, sea lions and fur seals. The pinnace and launch were hoisted and launched, filled with armed men and rowed ashore.
The slaughter began immediately. Able seamen, midshipmen, marines and officers all waded into the colony, killing everything they encountered: penguins, sea lions, seals. Mindful of the need to conserve powder and ball, the assailants killed with their other weapons: Tongan clubs, Marquesan clubs, swords, bayonets, axes and knives. The cumbersome sea lions bellowed and trumpeted as they were stabbed, the seals and their babies shrieked as they were clubbed. From the air above, hundreds of gulls shat on the killers, but while the smell was unpleasant, it did not stop them. The orgy continued unabated. Hacking, stabbing, slashing, the Resolutions moved among the hapless creatures in a frenzy of killing. It was as if, having been liberated from their confinement on the ship, they would celebrate their release with uncontrollable bloodlust. Those with clubs moved about, providing the coup de grace for the wounded, crying animals. The air reeked with the smell of death and shit; blood poured from the stabbed and hacked creatures and ran down the crevices in the rocks and into the sea, turning the water crimson.
At last they stopped, exhausted and bloodied, grinning at each other with satisfaction at a job well done. The island was covered in corpses of all sizes, baby seals, adult seals, corpulent sea lions, little penguins. Then the processing began. The sea lions were dismembered on shore for their blubber, which was stuffed into puncheons and taken aboard for rendering into oil for heating and the lamps. The carcasses of the seals and penguins were tossed into the boats, carried out to the ship and processed on the deck. Resolution became an abattoir, her decks slippery with gore and blood, while squadrons of screaming skuas and gulls flew lower and lower then dived greedily on the viscera that was tossed overboard.
When the gutting and dismembering was over, the men returned to the island and threw themselves into the sea, ripping off their bloodied clothing, scrubbing it clean with handfuls of sand, then spreading it out on the rocks to dry. Then, clean and refreshed, they returned to the ship to celebrate the New Year.
The seal and penguin meat was salted, packed into barrels and stowed. The Resolutions would not go hungry during the voyage that lay ahead of them.
Twenty-eight
10 FEBRUARY 1775
Dearest Elizabeth,
Resolution has been deep in the South Atlantic these past six weeks. Although the daylight hours are still long the temperatures are constantly cold and gales and blizzards frequent. Your scarf is again being put to good use! My intention was to explore that part of the ocean west of the course we took after leaving Cape Town two and a half years ago, in the hope that we might find the ever-elusive landmass it is hoped lies in this region. Alas, we have encountered only fragments of land—mountainous islands whose valleys are filled with ice and snow, or barren outcrops which are hospitable only to seals and seabirds, and the floating ice mountains which loom and crack when their sides split and fall away. We are often beset by fog, which makes navigation among them hazardous.
One mountainous, ice-bound island we encountered I have named South Georgia after our sovereign. We landed upon it, as Johann Forster was hopeful of finding new specimens, but because of the intensity of the cold the place was largely devoid of plant life—the naturalists found only a few tussocks and mosses—and home only to penguins and sea lions.
As we sailed down the island’s eastern coast on 20 January I commemorated my loyal lieutenants, Cooper, Clerke and Pickersgill, by naming three islands in Possession Bay after them. They deserve nothing less. Proceeding still further to the south, we sighted three more stark islands, one of which I called Southern Thule after the ancient voyagers. A pass between these islands I named Forster’s Passage, in the hope that it might placate our peevish naturalist, but he seemed unappreciative. ‘Do you not think I deserve an entire island?’ was his sour response. To which my reply was a terse, ‘Not yet.’
Mindful of the fact that upon my return I will be in need of the Admiralty’s support in my desire to obtain a shore-based occupation—as explained to you in an earlier entry—I have called this outcrop Sandwich Land. I am aware of your distaste for Lord Sandwich, after his unseemly conduct when you met him, but it is important for my future employment that I am on good terms with the man. This naming will appeal to his vanity. Such men love nothing more than to know that there is somewhere in the world a landform which forever bears their name. Never mind that these islands are some of the bleakest and most sterile places on Earth. One island in particular possessed such a threatening swell and precipitous flank that I considered it the most horrible coast in the world. And when we bore on an easterly course, a very strong northerly gale attended, accompanied by a heavy fall of snow. The quantity which fell into our sails was so great that we were obliged every now and then to throw the ship up into the wind, to shake the snow out of the sails, otherwise neither them nor the ship could have supported the weight.
I know that it will be difficult for you, from the comfort of our London home, to imagine such desolate and hazardous scenes as I describe. But upon my return you will be able to more readily do so. Allow me to explain.
This afternoon I came upon our artist, Hodges, on the afterdeck, drawing. His brow was pleated with concentration, his long nose red-tipped and shiny from the cold. He was drawing a particularly vast ice mountain, and the sky above it. I observed him for some time rendering the scene faithfully. This, and other Hodges images, will provide a wonderful visual record of this inhospitable ocean for those at home. ‘My sketches will later be transformed into oil paintings,’ he explained. I envy Hodges his talent, and his dedication. He is willing to sit on the deck in freezing conditions, hands mittened but still able to draw dextrously. When I complimented him on this ability, he replied, ‘Although the world here is colourless, the shapes of the ice mountains and the texture of the sky above them fascinate me.’ Without looking up, with just a few strokes he deftly added a gliding albatross to his scene. Hodges is, I believe, a remarkable artist and an inspired appointment on the part of the Admiralty.
I hope the winter has not been too arduous for you and the boys. I hope young James’s schooling is proceeding satisfactorily. Nathaniel too must be now of a teachable age, but little George will not begin his formal learning until after my return.
I am so much looking forward to that day!
Your loving husband,
James
A fortnight later, on 21 February, after another futile attempt to find Cape Circumcision or any other landmass, James wrote in his official journal:
I had now made the circuit of the Southern Ocean in a high latitude and traversed it in such a manner as to leave not the least room for the possibility of there being a con
tinent, unless near the Pole and out of reach of navigation; by twice visiting the Pacific Tropical Sea, I had not only settled the situation of some old discoveries but made there many new ones and left, I conceive, very little more to be done even in that part. Thus I flatter myself that the intention of the voyage has in every respect been fully answered, the Southern Hemisphere sufficiently explored and a final end put to the searching after a Southern Continent, which has at times engrossed the attention of some of the maritime powers for near two centuries past and the geographers of all ages.
‘Gentlemen,’ he announced to his officers at supper a day later, ‘tomorrow we will turn northwards and proceed on a course for Cape Town.’
Around the table, there were sighs of relief.
As the latitudes lessened, the air temperature rose. The sun’s rays were higher and stronger, warming the decks so that the crew had no more need of caps or jackets. Sodden clothing was pegged out to dry; torn sails were repaired as best they could be. The spirits of the crew rose—at last they were bound for a civilised haven.
On 12 March, under a sunny sky and in light airs, James called the ship’s company together. They gathered together on the mid-deck. Flanked by Cooper and Pickersgill, James addressed the men from the quarterdeck. ‘No written record of this voyage is to be retained by the author. All journals, logs and diaries must be handed in to me before we arrive in Cape Town. I will have them wrapped and sealed, and dispatched to the Admiralty. My officers will shortly search your personal chests for any concealed journals.’ Seeing the men’s perplexed looks, James explained. ‘You may have written of the lands we have seen and charted. These lands have been claimed for our sovereign, George III. To prevent other powers becoming aware of their existence, nature and potential for colonisation, it is vital that the places we have discovered are known only to our sovereign and the Lords of our Admiralty.’ His eyes swept the assembly below. ‘Moreover, you are not to discuss the details of our discoveries with any foreign persons while you are ashore. Is that entirely clear?’
There was an outbreak of nodding and mutterings of ‘Aye, aye’ from the deck below. Most of the crew could not read, let alone write, and so were indifferent to the instruction. But the few who had kept personal journals in the hope of later publication were displeased. However, one literate crew member was determined to make his writing public very soon. This was able seaman Thomas Perry, a 42-year-old Londoner. On 17 March James received a note from him: ‘Captain, I am the author of a verse song about our voyage, a tribute. I have been writing it, and rewriting it, for many days. I would like to perform it for you, on the deck and in the company of the others. Tomorrow afternoon, if the weather is favourable. Will you permit me to do so?’
A verse song? James smiled. Well, it could do no harm.
Perry was a small man, only three inches above five feet. Although his crown was bald, his greying side hair hung down to his shoulders. He had sunken cheeks and eyebrows like uncut hedgerows. While James and his officers stood behind the quarterdeck rail, Perry stood in front of all the assembled crew who were not on duty. Fellow able seamen Blackburn and Elliot stood on either side of him. There were light airs, and Resolution rolled gently in the swell. The men in the shrouds peered down on the scene as, sheet of notepaper in hand, Perry announced: ‘As we are now on the final leg of our great voyage, I have written, and will now read—along with my friends Blackburn and Elliot—some verses I have composed, as a celebration of our voyage and a tribute to our commander, Captain Cook.’ Perry coughed, twice, looked first at Blackburn, then Elliot, held the sheet up higher. Then the trio began to read, loudly, their eyes fixed on the paper.
It is now my brave boys we are clear of the ice
And keep a good heart if you’ll take my advice;
We are out of the cold my brave boys do not fear,
For the Cape of Good Hope with good hearts we do steer.
There were cries of ‘Yay’, ‘Aye’, ‘Right-o’ and ‘Huzzah!’ from the crowd behind the readers.
Thank God we have ranged the Globe all around,
And we likewise have the South Continent found;
But it being too late in the year as they say,
We could stay there no longer the Land to Survey.
So we leave it alone, for we give a good reason,
For the next Ship that comes, to survey in right season;
The great fields of Ice amongst them we were bothered,
We were forced to alter our course to the Northward.
So we have done our utmost as any men born,
To discover a land so far South of Cape Horn,
So now my brave Boys we no longer will stay,
For we leave it alone for the next Ship to survey.
It was when we got into the cold Frosty air,
We were obliged our Mittens and Magdalen caps to wear,
We are out of the cold my brave boys and perhaps,
We will pull off our Mittens and Magdalen caps.
We are hearty and well and of good constitution,
And have ranged the Globe round in the stout Resolution,
Brave Captain Cook he was our Commander,
And has conducted the ship from all eminent danger.
We were all hearty seamen no cold did we fear,
And we have from all sickness entirely kept clear
Thanks be to the Captain he has proved so good
Amongst all the Islands to give us fresh food.
And when to old England my brave boys we arrive
We will tip off a Bottle to make us alive;
We will toast Captain Cook with a loud song all round,
Because that he has the South Continent found.
Blessed be to his wife and his family too,
God prosper them all and well for to do,
Blessed be unto them as long as they shall live,
And that is the wish to them I do give.
As the three readers bowed to James and his officers, the men behind them clapped and cheered. Perry beamed with delight, revealing his yellow teeth. James allowed the applause to subside, then said, ‘Thank you, Perry. And Blackburn and Elliot. It is a fine poem, a suitable summary of what we have achieved on this voyage. Although it must be said that the only South Continent we found was all ice.’ There was a ripple of laughter. ‘I am certain that the achievements could not have been made without the loyal and steadfast crew that I have been so fortunate to possess.’ He stared up at the topgallants. ‘And this fine ship of ours, which has served us all so faithfully.’ His eyes returned to the assembly. ‘Thank you again, Perry. I would be grateful to receive a copy of your verses.’
Perry nodded. ‘It will be a pleasure for me to present you with one, Cap’n.’
At that moment there came a cry from the masthead. ‘A sail! To the westward!’ A few minutes later the cry came again. ‘A second sail! To the nor’west!’
Twenty-nine
PICKERSGILL, SPYGLASS TO HIS EYE, called down to James from the masthead, ‘She carries Dutch colours, sir. A Dutch East Indiaman.’ He squinted into the glass. ‘The Bownkerke Polder.’ She was massive, compared with Resolution, well armed and standing high in the water.
‘We’ll tack and stand to the west,’ James replied, ‘and send a boat across to her. She may have news from the Cape. You go, and take Clerke with you.’ Pickersgill trained his spyglass on the second ship, which was several leagues distant. ‘That one is also an East Indiaman. But British.’
‘We may be able to visit her as well,’ James replied. He called to the sailing master on the mid-deck, ‘Gilbert, have the pinnace hoisted out.’
When Pickersgill and Clerke returned from the Dutch ship their expressions were grave. They went directly below, to where James was making an entry in his journal. He looked up. ‘Well? Were you received cordially?’
Clerke nodded. ‘Very. The ship is returning from Bengal. The commander, Captain Cornelius Bosch, gave us a quantity of sug
ar and arrack. And he also had news of Adventure.’
James’s expression sharpened. ‘What news?’
With Pickersgill interjecting occasionally, Clerke reported what they had been told by some Englishmen who were serving aboard the Dutch vessel. Adventure had arrived at Cape Town 12 months earlier en route home. Furneaux and the others had told the local authorities of the Grass Cove massacre, and of the boat’s ten crew being killed, dismembered and eaten by the Maoris. As they made their report, the faces of Clerke and Pickersgill were ashen.
James put his left hand to his brow. For some time he was silent. As he had feared, an atrocity had occurred. That explained the absence of the Maoris from Ship Cove when Resolution appeared, and their reticence after the ship had moored. No doubt the New Zealanders had feared a reprisal from Resolution’s men. But for what reason had the massacre happened? Staring at his lieutenants, James said, ‘Did Furneaux say why his men were killed?’
Clerke shook his head. ‘No.’
James went to the stern window. Bownkerke Polder was turned into the wind, her sails slack. In the distance, the British ship was bearing down on Resolution, obviously intent on a rendezvous. Thoughts crowded into James’s mind. A massacre, a terrible event. But why? They had always been on friendly terms with the Maoris of Queen Charlotte Sound since their first visit, give or take a few incidents of thieving. During Adventure’s stay, had Furneaux’s men transgressed in some way? And if so, how? He looked at Clerke, who was still visibly distressed, and at Pickersgill, who remained very pensive. James had seldom felt so downcast. Becoming separated from Adventure, then the killings, represented a double failure, and James detested failure, especially one leading to the loss of innocent lives. But why, why had it happened? Then he recalled the cheek cooking and eating incident on the deck of Resolution. Could that have been the catalyst? Could the family of the victim—the young warrior—have heard of it and determined on utu? That was possible, but if so, to kill and eat ten men in response … He resolved that upon his return to London he would immediately arrange a meeting with Furneaux and Burney, to investigate the tragedy of Grass Cove and determine its possible causes.
