Pump, pump, pump. The world was only darkness and cold water.
There was no way the stricken ship could get to shore like this. No way the men could keep on going, without food, without sleep, with hardly a break to get their strength.
But they did.
‘Isaac!’
Isaac lifted his head from the deck, where he’d been trying to gather strength for another turn on the pumps.
It was Jonathan. ‘Dung! We need dung!’ ’What?’ For a moment Isaac thought that he was dreaming.
‘I went to see the captain. I had an idea! If we can coat a sail in oakum and wool and dung to make it waterproof, we can use that to seal the ship.’
‘You’re crazy,’ muttered Isaac.
‘No I’m not! I’ve seen it work before. The captain says we can try…’
Isaac staggered to his feet. Would it work? Was it insane? Old sail and dung.
There was no way that it would work. But it was the only hope they had.
CHAPTER 36
The Goat
12th June, 1770
The Goat wasn’t happy.
Her udder was so tight she was in agony. She was hungry too. Worse, she had been ignored.
Even she could sense that things were desperate. But at least the men were free to move around the ship. She was trapped inside her pen. She bleated, but no one came.
Instead, men spread about the deck, stretching out a piece of sail, unpicking rope for oakum, shearing the sheep. The goat felt miffed at that. Why should the sheep be attended to and not her?
But the sheep didn’t appreciate the attention. They struggled and bleated while the exhausted men cut off their wool.
‘Eeegh,’ complained the Goat, as a stench started to seep across the deck. It was the smell of sheep dung, her dung. Even worse, the men were depositing their own droppings there, too. Men’s droppings were foul and putrid, far worse than the wholesome smell of those of the grass eaters.
The Goat watched disdainfully as the men guided the stinking sail under the ship with chains. Creaking, swearing…the ship began to list again as the water rose inside her hull.
Suddenly they cheered.
CHAPTER 37
Isaac
12th June, 1770
‘It worked!’ whispered Isaac. ‘It really worked!’
The suction of the water on the wool and dung and oakum had washed the sail into the hole and stopped up the leak. They could get the ship to shore! They could mend her there—or at least break her up to build smaller boats to sail to Batavia.
The other sailors were lifting Jonathan high on their shoulders in jubilation and triumph. Isaac felt a slash of jealousy cut through the joy he felt for his friend, for them all. Jonathan had saved the ship!
If only it had been me, thought Isaac. So far he’d made no real contribution to the voyage at all. Except to milk a goat.
The Goat!
Isaac ran for the bucket. There wasn’t even any warm water that he could use to soothe her swollen udder. The fires had burned out in the galley long ago.
She was going to nip him for this. He’d get a kicking too, for sure. Her udder would be hot and sore by now.
But it didn’t matter. They were going to live!
And though she didn’t know it, the Goat was going to live as well.
CHAPTER 38
The Goat
18th June–19th July, 1770
It was a good spot for a goat.
The Goat was on shore again for the first time since they’d left England, with a rope around her neck and the other end tied to a stake in the ground. The newly named Endeavour River flowed smooth and wide in front of her; the hills rose behind. Even better, the grass in some spots was short and sweet. Other animals had cropped here; the Goat could smell them, especially their small round droppings. But luckily—for them, thought the Goat belligerently—the sounds and smells of so many people kept them away.
So there was just her, to eat all the grass she wanted. And the sheep of course, but they hardly counted, and the few pigs left from Tahiti. One sow had farrowed a litter of piglets just the day before.
But the pigs and the sheep were on the other side of the cluster of tents, near the blacksmith’s forge that had been hurriedly set up when the Endeavour had finally pulled up next to the steep beach for repairs. The Goat was able to ignore them.
It was strange being on land after so long at sea. For a while her legs had wobbled and the world had swayed, so she was thankful to lie down while the Boy hammered in the stake.
There was plenty to look at now. The blacksmith banging at bits of metal to make new rivets, red hot from his charcoal fire. Old Cookie Thompson happy with his big fires—unlike the small one that was all he could manage in his cramped galley—able to cook enormous fish, or steam giant turtles in their shells, or have the strange animals Mr Banks’s party shot turning on the spits, dripping their juices into the flames.
There was the ship to look at too. Part of the Endeavour was pulled up onto the beach, so that the carpenters could work on her great gaping holes and the other smaller ones. One of the biggest holes had been plugged by a piece of coral as big as a man’s fist, which had helped stop water flooding into the ship. The other half of the ship was still in the waters of the river.
There were the local people for a curious goat to watch as well, fishing in their outrigger canoes, like the ones the Goat had seen from the ship at Tahiti. The local people visited the ship and the camp often now, to talk to the newcomers or bring them gifts of fish. Their skins were darker than the Tahitians, and they wore necklaces and bracelets of shells or seeds, or bark headbands and bones through their noses, but nothing else.
But after a few days even these sights grew boring. The only things that really interested the Goat now were the new greens the Boy brought her, branches of this and that, or strange-smelling herbs or fruits. She didn’t like most of them, but they were interesting to try, especially when she had all the good, short-cropped grass she wanted to eat as well, and water that tasted of rain and hills, not sour salty barrels, too long in the sun.
She’d also taught the Boy to call to her now.
‘Eeegh!’ she’d cry, when she wanted food, or water, or just attention. And wherever he was in the camp she’d hear him call ‘Eeegh!’ back to her.
The Goat had just finished eating the Boy’s latest offering, a light-coloured weedy plant that Cook had decided could be added to the men’s rations, when suddenly she smelled something.
Fire.
For a moment she paid no attention. She was used to the smell of smoke from the blacksmith’s fire, the cooking fires, and the fire under the big black pot filled with seawater, boiling it down to make strong salty brine to preserve the meat from Mr Banks’s kills.
But this smoke smelled different.
The Goat scrambled to her feet, and stared around. Where was it coming from?
She knew that smell now! Grass smoke!
And suddenly she saw them, to one side of the camp. Flames! High, snarling flames, fed by long, dry grass. And they were heading right for her!
She had to escape! The Goat tugged at the rope. But the peg held firm.
‘Eeegh!’ she called. ‘Eeegh!’ And waited for the boy to reply.
But now there was too much noise for her to hear him—shouts and yells, screams from the pigs. Did the Boy even know she was in danger?
‘Eeegh!’ she cried again. She could feel the heat of the flames now, and smell the sickening stench of burned flesh.
‘Eeegh! Eeegh!’
But there was no reply.
CHAPTER 39
Isaac
19th July, 1770
It was like shipwreck, thought Isaac. One moment you could be sailing on what you thought were safe calm seas till suddenly the rocks lurking below seized you…
And now this.
Two hours ago it had seemed as though everything was finally going right for the crew of the Endeavour
—they’d found a wide safe river only a short sail away from the reef where they’d been wrecked, instead of a long voyage in a crippled ship looking desperately for a safe harbour. Here was a sloping sandy bank, on which the ship could be beached, while hawsers pulled her over on her side so her hull could be patched by the carpenters working on their hastily constructed raft.
Fresh water, all the fish and turtles and meat they could eat; strange but good-tasting native fruits and fresh greens; a chance to relax while they repaired the ship; and friendly locals who brought them fish and showed them how to cast a spear.
How had it all gone wrong?
It had started a couple of hours before. Isaac had been set to putting the charcoal braziers below decks, so the hot air would rise and create a draught that pulled fresh air in. Even now that the ship was beached, Cook insisted that the twice-weekly fumigation be done—one of his newfangled ideas of keeping the ship’s crew healthy by getting rid of the stale air down below.
Suddenly there’d been a commotion up top. Isaac had climbed the companionway to find the deck alive with giant turtles—and Mr Banks and the gentlemen laughing at the giant animals crawling in desperation over the deck, trying to escape as though they guessed the purpose of the cooking fire waiting for them on shore.
Isaac was about to go below again when a couple of canoes pulled up at the side of the ship and a party of the native people climbed aboard. Isaac lingered; the local people fascinated him. They were of slender build but so incredibly strong—they could make their spears hit a target fifty yards away! Many had great lumpy scars marked out in red paint across their chests, or wore white paint on their faces.
He wondered if any of this group were women. So far no women had approached the ship, but he’d seen some in the distance. They looked to be naked too, except for their shell necklaces and the flowers in their hair.
But the visitors were all men, with bones through their noses and bark rope tied about their heads. One—evidently the spokesman—crossed to Mr Banks, who they guessed to be one of the leaders of the ship, to ask for a couple of the turtles.
The man spoke in his own language, but his meaning was clear. Like many on the ship, Isaac now spoke a few words of the local language—Mr Parkinson, the artist, had even been compiling a dictionary of their words, like the great Dr Johnson’s dictionary back home. But to Isaac’s surprise Mr Banks shook his head rudely, then walked away.
Isaac shrugged. You never knew with Mr Banks. There were more turtles than the crew could eat—not to mention the fish and meat and oysters that had been caught, shot or gathered. But Mr Banks had a very clear idea of what was his.
The small dark man stared at Mr Banks’s back, as though he couldn’t believe that Banks would refuse to share when they had so much. The man looked angry. He shouted something, and gestured to his friends. The nearest grabbed a couple of the giant turtles and began to drag them across the deck.
‘You!’ yelled Banks to Isaac. ‘Stop them!’
Isaac ran forwards, with a couple of the other crew members and grabbed the other end of the turtles. He tugged, the dark men tugged, the turtles struggled…
Isaac was trying not to laugh when Cook climbed down to the main deck.
‘What’s going on?’
‘Thieving savages,’ said Banks.
Cook took in the situation at a glance. It was plain that his sympathies were with the locals, not with Mr Banks, but the great Mr Banks had to be placated at all costs.
‘Manley, bring up some bread. Fast.’
Isaac dashed down the companionway, grabbed some ship’s biscuits, and climbed up again. Cook held the biscuits out to the angry men. ‘Please take these,’ he said, ‘with our compliments.’
There was no way the men would understand the words, but the meaning was clear. We are sorry we have offended you. Please take these with our apologies.
The leader looked at the biscuits contemptuously. Isaac didn’t blame him. The biscuits were years old now, and crumbly with weevils. They were a poor exchange for giant turtles—and the local men had given the ship so much. But apart from Mr Banks’s turtles the biscuits were the best food the ship had to offer.
The men abruptly turned their backs. They began to climb down the ladder to their canoes.
‘Good riddance,’ said Banks. He began to discuss his day’s collecting with one of his servants.
Isaac wasn’t so sure. He looked out over the rail at the angry men.
‘Sir!’ he said suddenly. ‘They’re heading over to our camp!’
Cook ran to the rail and looked out. ‘Sound the alarm!’ he called.
Isaac was already clambering down the ladder. By the time he reached the ground, the men had run to where they had left their spears.
Were the men going to attack? What were they planning? The alarm call was going through the camp now. But even as Isaac watched, one of the native men ran to the campfire and grabbed a burning branch from under a pot of bubbling pitch.
Isaac ran. But it was too late. Before anyone could reach him, the man ran along the edge of the camp, where the uncut grass was five or six feet high, touching the burning branch to the long grass. It burst into flame. The wind fanned the flames even higher. Within seconds a wall of fire headed towards the camp.
‘My collection!’ Banks began to sprint towards the tent where his specimens were held.
Other men ran to the tent where the sick lay recovering from scurvy. The flames were nearly there already, so high now that they dwarfed the ship. The sudden heat was incredible.
‘To me, you fools!’ shouted Banks, furious that anything could be more important than his collection.
The Goat! She couldn’t escape, Isaac realised. He couldn’t see her through the flames. Was she all right? Or had the fire reached her already?
What was more important? Mr Banks’s tent or the Goat?
Isaac didn’t hesitate.
CHAPTER 40
The Goat
19th July, 1770
The flames were coming nearer, nearer…
The Goat bleated desperately. Where was the Boy?
She had to escape! But there was no escape. The rope held her tight.
She pulled with all her strength. She could hear the flames now and feel their heat. They hid the rest of the camp from her.
The sheep were bleating. Through the crackle of the flames she could hear the shrieks of the sow, and the smell of burning pig flesh. The flames had got to the pigs. Was she next?
Again she pulled, but the rope held firm.
‘Eeegh!’ she screamed.
And suddenly the Boy was there. His face was black with smoke. He kneeled beside her, his voice soothing, as he fumbled frantically at the knot that tied the rope to the peg in the ground.
Then she was free. The Boy grabbed her collar and they both ran, the Boy stumbling as he leaned down to keep hold of her collar, the rope in his other hand, as he led her away from the flames, down to the beach, safe by the cool water. Safe.
The Goat took a deep breath of the blessedly clean air. And then she nipped his wrist, just to show her displeasure, but gently, so she didn’t break the skin.
‘Ow!’ said the Boy. Sweat had streaked through the black on his face, but he was grinning. And then he hugged her, and tied her up to one of the stunted mangrove trees and went to help the others.
CHAPTER 41
Isaac
19th July–21st August, 1770
The blacksmith’s forge was burned and one of the piglets had died, but the men had managed to drag Mr Banks’s tent down to the water.
‘Look!’ yelled someone.
Isaac looked over to the grass where the Endeavour’s fishing nets and linen were drying. The grass there was burning now. How many fires was the native man going to light? Was he determined to kill them all? Would more natives come soon, armed with the massive, deadly spears?
Isaac tore a green branch from one of the trees and followed the rest of the
crew as they raced to the new fires. They formed a rough line as they beat at the flames with their branches. Over the snicker of the flames and the yells of the men, Isaac could hear Cook ordering a musket filled with small shot be fired at the native men.
The musket blared. A man screamed. Isaac winced in sympathy. Small shot was usually not enough to kill a man, but it must hurt.
Cook himself fired now.
‘They’re heading off, captain!’ called one of the sailors.
Isaac glanced up. The men had vanished. But how many would return?
The attack never came. Soon after the last of the flames had been beaten an old man came up, carrying a lance without a point, which Cook believed was a sign of peace. The natives left their spears against a tree and the Endeavour’s crew returned the spears that they had taken.
Relations stayed peaceful after that, but the local people refused to come on board the Endeavour again, nor did the Endeavour crew again see the man who had been shot. Isaac hoped that he hadn’t been badly wounded. He’d seen some drops of blood on the washing when they finally brought it in. Surely the man had been so far away that the shot wouldn’t have penetrated far?
Meanwhile there was the ship to stock with provisions for the voyage ahead—and it would be a hard one, too, trying to thread their way through the reefs that they could see ahead.
There was plenty of fish, shellfish, stingray, turtle, shark and greens, like the wild ‘kale’. But none of them would keep long at sea. Cookie had tried salting some of the meat from the animals the locals called ‘kangaroo’, boiling up a giant pot of brine till most of the water evaporated, leaving it even saltier than before, then adding hunks of the strong meat. The crew had managed to dry some of the local fruits too, as well as greens to add to the pease. And of course there were more sheaves of hay now for the Goat and the sheep.
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