Off the Map

by Fergus Fleming

  A crowd of Hawaiians materialized, armed with clubs, spears and daggers. They did not come close, but threw stones from a distance, one of which knocked down a marine. Cook shot the stone-thrower; then, on being advised by his sergeant that he had shot the wrong man, he shot another one. The Hawaiians responded with more stones. The marines replied with a volley of lead, whereupon the Hawaiians retreated. Cook could still have faced them down, but his marines had other ideas. It would take at least half a minute to reload their muskets, in which time they might be rushed by a horde of infuriated warriors. Most of them therefore dropped their weapons and fled for the boats. Heartened by their enemy’s retreat, the Hawaiians moved in. The marine corporal, who had just finished reloading his musket, was stabbed in the stomach. The officer, Lieutenant Molesworth Phillips, went down. And then, one by one, the remaining marines were despatched with spears and stones. Those who had fled were now scrambling into the nearest boat, which threatened to sink under their weight.

  Amidst the carnage, Cook remained calm. Preserving his dignity, he strode slowly down the beach, one hand behind his head to protect him from stones, the other clutching a musket. For a while his bravado worked: the Hawaiians dashed towards him but halted at the last moment, apparently fearful that he would turn round. But when Cook reached the sea one man summoned the courage to club him. It was not a fatal blow, but it was strong enough to make him stumble and drop his musket. Another man stabbed him in the neck. This time Cook went down, in knee-deep water just four yards from the boat, and a horde of Hawaiians fell on him. He managed to fight them off, calling meanwhile to the boat for assistance; but, whether from shock, fear or incompetence, the marines did not come to his rescue. Still defiant, Cook struggled towards some nearby rocks. Here, however, the fight ended: the last his men saw as they rowed to safety was a frenzy of warriors stabbing and clubbing his corpse.

  Aboard the ships, the Britons reacted with confusion and shock. Their first impulse was to shell the village – which they did – then, while the cannon blasted away, they began to argue over who was to blame for Cook’s death and what they should do by way of more specific retaliation. Clerke, who now had command of the expedition, ordered the immediate evacuation of the carpenters, whose workshop was on the other side of the bay from the village. Next, he sent 40 men ashore to recover the bodies; but they had long since been dragged away, and all they got was a promise from a terrified chief that he would return Cook’s corpse. The following day they received a small bundle containing a slab of partially roasted flesh from Cook’s hip. The priest who delivered it to the Discovery apologized sincerely for the smallness of the parcel: Lono’s remains, he explained, had been distributed across the island, but he would do his best to retrieve them. His apologies were undermined by the appearance of a man in a canoe, who hoisted Cook’s hat on a stick then bared his buttocks. On shore, meanwhile, a group of jeering Hawaiians waved the marines’ red jackets and likewise showed their buttocks. The British fury was uncontrollable. More cannon-fire ensued and an armed party wreaked further destruction on Kealakekua village, shooting everyone they saw, decapitating several men and hoisting their heads on poles. As a finale, they burned the entire village to the ground. In return, they were given Cook’s hands, scalp, skull, shins and feet. The rest had been either eaten or destroyed.

  Nothing more could be accomplished at Hawaii. Cook’s remains were buried at sea, those of the marines were abandoned and, on 23 February 1779, the Resolution and Discovery left on a survey of the Sandwich Islands. That done, they sailed for Kamchatka and a second attempt at the North-West Passage. The surgeon died of tuberculosis, as did Clerke; they made no progress through the passage; and when they reached London on 2 October 1780 they were greeted with dismay. They had failed in their main purpose, had lost their captain, their second-in-command, their surgeon, a sergeant, a corporal and seven marines, and had taken four years and three months to do so. Cook, the perceived giant of exploration, had acquitted himself ignobly: any geographical advance had been made by Clerke’s sailing master, William Bligh, who took meticulous observations of the Sandwich Islands, Alaska and every coast from Kamchatka to England.*

  In a very English way, however, their failure became a national triumph. Cook was lauded as ‘one of the greatest navigators our nation or any other nation ever had’. The London Gazette said his demise was ‘an irreparable Loss to the Public ... for in him were united every successful and amiable quality that could adorn his Profession; nor was his singular Modesty less conspicuous than his other Virtues’. Encomiums were written – by Banks, among others – describing his manifold achievements. People squabbled over his possessions, and mementos changed hands at vastly inflated prices. Not until the death of Nelson in 1805 would the nation be seized again by such hysteria.

  Whether Cook deserved the hero-worship is debatable. His navigation was not as impeccable as legend would have it: he failed, for example, to ascertain that Tasmania was an island. Many of his discoveries were mere gap-fillers in the broader sweep of Dutch and French exploration. Apart from the circumnavigation of Antarctica, his exploits were no more remarkable than those of his contemporaries and less important than those of his predecessors. He was also an inconsiderate, sometimes brutal, ambassador for European civilization. On the other hand, he was the most professional explorer the world had yet seen. For a decade he went wherever he was ordered, tackling the Antarctic, the Arctic and the Pacific with the same smooth efficiency. His anti-scorbutic diet, of which he was so proud, became a model for subsequent expeditions and for all long-distance sea-travel. If he made the odd mistake, his charts were generally accurate – nobody has bettered his maps of some sub-Antarctic islands. And his voyages, particularly the first, in association with Banks, were of outstanding benefit to science. For 80 years, until sail was ousted by steam, he was the example against which all sea explorers were compared.

  THE CONQUEST OF MONT BLANC

  Horace-Bénédict de Saussure (1760–88)

  From childhood, the Swiss aristocrat Horace-Bénédict de Saussure was besotted by the Alps. They glimmered tantalizingly on the horizon, clearly visible from his home town of Geneva but, although so near, they remained a mystery. Nobody had explored their peaks, nobody knew what mysteries they contained. Rumour told of dragons, witches and demons who tumbled rocks onto the heads of unwary travellers. Saussure gave these tales little credence, but he wanted very much to visit the mountains that gave rise to them. It was not until 1760, however, when he was a 20-year-old student studying natural philosophy (with emphasis on geology), that he walked the 50 miles from Geneva to Chamonix to inspect the Alps at close quarters.

  Set in a narrow valley, high in the Kingdom of Savoy, Chamonix charmed him with its clean air, its forests and its quaint hamlets. It seemed ‘a new world, a sort of earthly paradise, enclosed by a kindly Deity in the circle of the mountains’. He was entranced by the needle-like peaks, or aiguilles, that sprouted like cathedral spires, and by the glaciers that flowed between them, presenting ‘one of the noblest and most singular spectacles it is possible to imagine’. Led by a guide, he went on geological forays that rendered him almost speechless with excitement. Of all the area’s wonders, however, none impressed him so much as the mountain that rose on the valley’s south side: Mont Blanc. He had already gained a sense of its majesty from Geneva; but here, close to, it appeared overwhelming. At 15,771 feet it was not the highest mountain then known to Westerners – South America’s Mount Chimborazo claimed that prize – but Saussure reckoned it was the highest in Europe, Africa and Asia. As such it had to be conquered, both for the glory and for the scientific benefits that would accrue from standing on top of the Old World. When he returned to Geneva he put a price on its head. The exact sum he offered is unknown, but it was probably princely, given that he also promised to recompense anybody who failed for the time they spent trying. To show that he meant it, he repeated the offer on a second visit in 1761 and had it posted around th
e valley.

  Again and again Saussure returned to Chamonix, his adoration of Mont Blanc increasing with every summer to the extent that on the approach he chose his auberges less for their comfort than for their views of the mountain. But he never received the news that he desired. It wasn’t that his bounty was inadequate or that there was a shortage of people willing to tackle the mountain – several locals had a go; the Precentor of Geneva Cathedral made repeated attempts; Saussure himself gave it a try in 1785 – it was more that Mont Blanc was impenetrably rugged and horribly high. Apart from a few souls who earned a precarious income hunting chamois and gathering crystals, the locals did not go above the snowline if they could help it. Of those who did, none had ventured far up Mont Blanc for fear of its crevasses and avalanches. There was no known route to its summit; few people had the mountaineering skills to forge one; and the only available climbing aids consisted of a crude, two-pronged crampon and a six-foot stave, or alpenstock. Besides, it was unknown if humans could even survive at that altitude. By 1785, a quarter of a century after he had advertised his bounty, Saussure wondered gloomily if Mont Blanc would have to be conquered by balloon.

  Not everyone shared his pessimism. In Chamonix there were two men – Michel-Gabriel Paccard and Jacques Balmat, one a local doctor, the other a farmer-cum-crystal-gatherer – who both thought they knew a way to the top. Paccard had the greater experience, having climbed the mountain several times before, reaching 11,400 feet with Saussure in 1785. But Balmat had the better physique – as he liked to boast, ‘I had a famous calf and a stomach like cast-iron, and I could walk three days consecutively without eating’ – and he had the more carefully planned route. After many months’ reconnaissance, he thought it would be possible to ascend from the village of La Côte via the Glacier de Taconnaz to the rocky outcrops known as Les Grands Mulets. From there he would proceed to the snowy mound of the Dôme du Goôter and thence, if luck was with him, to the summit itself.

  On 5 June 1786 Balmat put his plan to the test. He scrambled to Les Grands Mulets without mishap and then, finding his way blocked by cloud, decided to stay where he was until morning. This was unheard of: people had climbed to Les Grands Mulets before, but nobody had ever spent the night there. Moreover, Balmat’s only sustenance was a loaf of bread and a bottle of brandy. Huddled on a small ledge, with an 800-foot drop below him, he sat on his knapsack, beating his hands and feet to keep warm. ‘My breath was frozen,’ he recalled, ‘and my clothes were soaked ... soon I felt as if I was stark naked. I moved my hands and feet faster, and began to sing to drive away the thoughts that were seething in my brain ... Everything was dead in this ice-bound world and the sound of my voice almost terrified me. I became silent and afraid.’

  He waited another day and night for the mist to clear before admitting defeat. On the way down, however, he was outraged to meet a party of three Chamoniards heading the way he had just come. He was not fooled when they said they were looking for lost goats: ‘I felt that the men were trying to deceive, and at once surmised that they were about to attempt the journey which I had just failed to achieve.’ When they invited him to join them he accepted at once. By 3.00 a.m. on 8 June all four men were standing on the Dôme du Goûter where, to Balmat’s inexpressible disgust, they were joined by another two men. This time the excuse was that they had a wager to see who could climb the highest. Unwilling to share Saussure’s prize with these interlopers, Balmat wandered off on his own, towards a narrow ridge that seemed to lead to the summit. His path was blocked by a clump of rocks but, sitting astride the ridge, he saw a field of ice below – the Grand Plateau – that looked promising. When he returned to the Dôme the others had gone home, so he took advantage of their absence to reconnoitre his new find. For the rest of the day he traversed the Grand Plateau and then spent his third consecutive night on Mont Blanc. It was no more comfortable than the previous two. Far below, he saw the lights of Chamonix extinguished one by one. For a while he was comforted by the sound of a dog barking in the village of Courmayeur, several miles away on the other side of the mountain. But the barking stopped at midnight, and thereafter all he heard was the crack of glaciers and the occasional rumble of an avalanche. ‘No man is made of iron,’ he confessed, ‘and I felt far from cheerful.’

  He started his descent at 2.00 a.m. on 9 June and reached home six hours later. It had been a record-breaking journey. He had climbed higher than anyone yet, had found a potential route to the summit and had survived three nights on the mountain with virtually no food. Little wonder that when he arrived, utterly exhausted, he threw himself onto a pile of hay and slept for 24 hours. When he woke he was so badly sunburned that he had to seek medical attention. The man to whom he turned was Dr Michel-Gabriel Paccard.

  While Paccard applied the salve, Balmat explained his ambitions. He knew how to reach the top of Mont Blanc and was confident that he could do it. But he needed a companion, a man of learning, a man who could read barometers and thermometers, a man whose word the outside world would respect. Such a man might be an academic, a cleric, a lawyer or, perhaps, a doctor. Paccard had been climbing Mont Blanc for the last three years, and between ascents had been studying it through his telescope. He accepted immediately.

  They would have left at once were it not for their work schedule and the weather. Paccard had patients, Balmat the harvest, and for weeks Mont Blanc was shrouded in fog. As Balmat knew, it was impossible to find one’s way in poor visibility; more importantly, if nobody could see them on the summit they might as well not have been there. The clouds cleared on 6 August 1786 and the following day, with a clear sky beckoning, Balmat knocked on Paccard’s door. They set out at 5.00 p.m., spent the first night above La Côte, between the glaciers of Bossons and Taconnaz, and at 2.00 a.m. began their assault on the mountain.

  According to Balmat, whose boastful account of their journey is the only one that survives, Paccard was nervous and hesitant, ‘but the sight of my alertness gave him confidence, and we went on safe and sound’. Above Les Grands Mulets they were hit by violent gusts of wind that carried Paccard’s hat away and ‘passed whistling over our heads, driving great balls of snow almost as big as houses before it... At the first respite I rose, but the Doctor could only continue on all fours.’ Apparently, Paccard did not regain his feet until the Dôme du Goûter where, Balmat having arranged for the villagers to be on the look-out for them, he was forced to stand up from ‘considerations of self-respect’. If Balmat’s violently partisan account is to be believed, the effort was too much for Paccard.

  ‘Having used up all his strength in getting to his feet, neither the encouragement from below, nor my earnest entreaties could induce him to continue the ascent. My eloquence exhausted, I told him to keep moving so as not to get benumbed. He listened without seeming to understand ... I saw that he was suffering from the cold, while I also was nearly frozen. Leaving him the bottle, I went on alone, saying that I should very soon come back to find him. He answered, “Yes! Yes!” and telling him again to be sure not to stand still, I went off. I had hardly gone thirty paces when, on turning round, I saw him actually sitting down on the snow, with his back turned to the wind as some precaution.

  ‘From that time onward the route presented no very great difficulty, but as I rose higher the air became much less easy to breathe, and I had to stop almost every ten steps and wheeze like one with consumption. I felt as if my lungs had gone, and my chest was quite empty. I folded my handkerchief over my mouth, which made me a little more comfortable as I breathed through it. The cold got worse and worse, and to go a quarter of a league took an hour. I kept walking upward, with my head bent down, but finding I was on a peak which was new to me, I lifted my head and saw that at last I had reached the summit of Mont Blanc!

  ‘I had no longer any strength to go higher; the muscles of my legs seemed only held together by my trousers. But behold I was at the end of my journey ... Everything around belonged to me! I was the monarch of Mont Blanc! Ah, then I turned
towards Chamonix and waved my hat on the end of my stick. I could see through my glass the response. My subjects in the valley perceived. The whole village was gathered together in the market place.’

  Returning to fetch Paccard, he found the doctor curled on the snow ‘just like a cat when she makes herself into a muff’. His only response when Balmat told him of his victory was, ‘Where can I lie down and go to sleep?’ Balmat pushed and cajoled him into continuing the ascent and finally, at 6.23 p.m. on 8 August 1786, they both stood on the summit. Paccard produced his instruments, and for half an hour took readings – though the ink froze in his pen when he tried to record them – while Balmat admired the view. Above them the sky was dark blue and, although the sun was shining brightly, it was possible to see the stars. ‘Below, was nothing but gaunt peaks, ice, rocks, and snow. The great chain which crosses the Dauphine and stretches as far as the Tyrol was spread out before us, its four hundred glaciers shining in the sunlight. Could there be space for any green ground on earth? The lakes of Geneva and Neuchâtel were specks of blue on the horizon. To the left lay the mountains of my dear country all fleecy with snow, and rising from meadows of the richest green. To the right was all Piedmont, and Lombardy as far as Genoa, and Italy was opposite.’