by Anthony Hill
‘She’s a coal carrier, no more’n a bark,’ remarked the boatman by the ship’s ladder. ‘Funny thing to take to the South Seas. Still, she’s got a good hold and sturdy round bottom, and I dare say her master knows what he’s doing.’
A head appeared over the ship’s side.
‘Permission to come aboard,’ cried the ferryman. ‘One young gentleman, name o’ Manley, with sea chest.’
‘Aye aye.’
And turning to Isaac he murmured, ‘Up you go, lad.’
Though as he stood, the boy’s doubts rose with him. ‘Do you think . . .?’
‘I reckon they might make something of ye. I’ll see to your trunk.’
Isaac gave his promised sixpence, and began to climb.
If ever the time came when Isaac had command of his own ship, he knew he’d be piped aboard with all due naval ceremony. But on that first morning there was no one to help him as he struggled up the side, not sure where to put his feet, until he sprawled gangling onto the deck. No one except an urchin-faced boy, younger and smaller than himself, lounging on the rigging and watching.
‘Landlubber!’ the boy laughed. And swinging down as lightly as any cat, he sauntered off to join the body of seamen hauling up the main topsail yard.
Isaac scrambled to join them. But they were far too busy to take notice of a city lad so clearly out of place. Besides, they were shouting a language he barely understood.
‘On halyards and tops’l yard lifts! Heave away! Haul away!’ And two dozen sweaty men responded.
When Isaac politely tried to ask, ‘Please, where’s the Captain?’ a seaman told him to get out from underfoot. And when he persisted, the sailor hissed that ‘Cap’n would nae wanna see ye. Go talk to yon one-handed cook.’
‘Now, Mr Sutherland, that’s none too mannerly,’ said a plain Yorkshire voice behind him. ‘This Captain’s always willing t’ oblige if he can, even on busiest days. What is it, lad?’
Isaac turned to a tall man in a blue naval frock coat with brass buttons, dark hair curled and tied behind. A raw, high-cheeked workman’s face, perhaps: but his deep brown eyes were shrewd, and he spoke with authority.
‘I must find Mr Cook. I’ve a letter from my father.’
‘You’ve found him. Let me see what he says . . .’
The Captain read quickly.
‘He thanks me for having you aboard, and hopes you’ll succeed in my service.’ Lieutenant Cook folded the letter. ‘Ye’ve already been recommended by the Lordships at t’ Admiralty – your father’s influence no doubt. And as for success, Mr Manley, that’s entirely up to thee. I can only repeat what my Master said when I started on a collier, just like this, out o’ Whitby. Show willing. Jump to thee orders. And never stop learning, for t’ sea teaches endless lessons.’
The Captain paused a moment, looking at the boy. ‘Ye’ll find us a strange school at first, with our own ways of doin’ things. But wi’ time and perseverance it might become your way as well.’
Then he snapped to attention. ‘Right. We’ve a ship to rig, man and store for a long voyage. I’ve assigned thee as servant to the Master, Mr Molineux. He was with Captain Wallis on the Dolphin when they discovered Tahiti. A very useful man. He’s just come aboard, and is down below. Seek him out, and follow his orders in all things – after my own orders, of course!’
‘I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t know the way . . .’
‘Nay, thou don’t. Hi – you – boy – Young Nick!’ Cook called to the scamp who’d laughed at the landlubber. ‘Show Isaac to his hammock space, and then take him to t’ Master.’
‘Aye, Cap’n.’
Lieutenant Cook turned to more urgent matters with the topsail yard.
‘It’s Nick Young really,’ muttered the boy, ‘though they all say me name stern abart, just because I’m eleven. Silly joke.’ Nimbly he skirted cables, barrels and spars, and shinned down the steep companion steps. Isaac, following awkwardly, almost fell headfirst through the hatch.
‘Come down backwards, lubber, and hang on to the knotted man-rope.’ It was the voice of experience. But Young Nick spoke more kindly as Isaac stepped from the sun into the half-light of the mess deck where the seamen ate, slept and passed their few hours off duty. ‘Don’t worry. You’ll soon get used to it.’
He sneaked a couple of apples from a barrel near the galley stove and tossed one to Isaac, as the cook – who indeed had only one hand – waved his stump and called them ‘a pair of young divils’.
‘Truth is, I’m not s’posed to be ’ere at all,’ Nick confided. ‘No place for me yet on the muster book. But blimey! I’m sailin’ anyways.’
Nick dodged mess tables hanging on ropes, with sea chests for benches, until he came to a low bulkhead.
‘They’ve put in a new deck and extra cabins for the scientific gents what are comin’ to the South Seas,’ he explained. ‘Everyfing’s a lot more cramped. So watch your ’ead – though I ’spect it will take a few bangs on the noggin afore you remember.’
There was only four and a half foot of headroom, and both boys had to stoop and scuttle crabwise aft to the officers’ quarters at the rear of the ship. Nick stopped short, however, and pointed up to a beam.
‘We lads sling our hammocks here. Fourteen inches of space between you and me, Issy, and that’s home for the next two or three years.’
‘It’s not very much . . .’ Isaac forgot. He stood upright. Whacked his head sharp on the timbers. And Nick Young, laughing at him again, observed that ‘At least it ain’t far to fall out o’ bed at night. Look to, now! Master’s cabin is starboard astern.’
‘Starboard?’ Isaac rubbed the first of many lumps he’d get on his noggin.
‘Right-hand side of ship looking for’ard. Larboard is opposite. And don’t confuse the two, or you’ll wreck your own ship one day.’
There was more headroom aft, where they found the Master, Robert Molineux, unpacking his gear and also complaining at his quarters.
‘Look at this, Dicky,’ he was saying in a faint Lancashire accent to his Mate, Richard Pickersgill. ‘My first day as Master with a brand new warrant in my pocket, expecting a berth up top, only to find meself squeezed out to make way for botanists and artists.’
Molineux spoke with a navy man’s disdain for such lubberly occupations. Pickersgill tried to look sympathetic, for the two were old companions, having sailed as Master’s Mates around the world on the Dolphin. ‘It’s not just you, Robert, down here on the half deck, but the two Lieutenants and surgeon as well. And Captain’s giving up his own cabin to the head man – name o’ Banks.’
‘First time I’ve heard of scientists on board a naval ship.’
Molineux spoke truly: for a new spirit of scientific enquiry – of reason and human enlightenment – was informing the educated world. Thus the novelty of Pickersgill’s response. ‘It’s a scientific expedition! To observe the Transit of Venus across the sun at Tahiti. That’s why we’re on board. We’ve been there. Mr Cook wants our advice. And then to make new discoveries in the South Seas.’
‘Oh, aye? The great unknown continent. Perhaps.’ Molineux smiled. Then, catching sight of the boys in the doorway, he called, ‘What do you lads want?’
‘I’ve brung your new servant,’ said Young Nick, full of cheek. ‘His name’s Isaac and he don’t know nuffing.’ And pinching Isaac on the arm, he darted off up top.
Molineux bestirred himself. ‘To work, Dicky. So . . .’ casting an eye over Isaac, ‘lubber still, are ye? Quite the young gentleman, to be sure. Officer material, d’ye reckon?’
‘Maybe. One day.’ Isaac was hesitant. ‘If I show willing and follow orders, as Mr Cook said.’
‘Quite right. Keep your eyes and ears open, mouth shut, and any light fingers to thyself. That’s lesson one. Lesson two, you’ll attend to my wants without complaint. And lesson three is to start knowing your ship. Mr Pickersgill is about to show me over Endeavour. You’ll come with us. After you serve our dinner, you’ll tidy my cabin. P
ut away my books and papers. Don’t touch my navigational instruments, sextant and such like. Make up my cot. Take particular care of my clothes, for I’ve a new uniform today and silver buckles in my shoes. In short, master Isaac, you’ll keep me and my berth shipshape. Oh, and after that I’ve a dozen cases of good wine to be stored below.’ He winked at Richard Pickersgill. ‘Understood? Right, then, come along!’
So unfolded the first exhausting day of Isaac’s new life. Robert Molineux was a young red-headed gent of only twenty-two, with sharp, intelligent features, and he set a brisk pace. As Master, he was responsible for the stowage and trim of the ship, the rigging, sails and cables, and – under the Captain’s direction – their navigation.
Isaac struggled after him. Down to the gloomy hold, smelling of tar, ballast and bilge pumps, where the water barrels were stacked in tiers, and the biscuit, salt beef and other provisions stored safe and dry as they were brought aboard. For’ard to the magazine, where the gunpowder and ammunition were kept (no naked candles there). To the sail room, carpenter’s and boatswain’s stores on the mess deck. Then back up the steep companionway (Isaac clinging to the man-rope for safety) to the upper deck for Molineux to inspect Endeavour’s bewildering array of parts, whose names and purposes had as yet no meaning for Isaac.
Clews and buntlines, stays and tricing lines, timberheads, belaying pins, cat falls and snotters . . .
It was a worn-out boy who sat to his supper of cold meat and beer, wondering why he’d wanted to join the navy, and desiring only sleep. At home, a servant would have drawn the curtains of his feather bed. Here, Isaac was the servant, and he had to draw and sling his own hammock.
‘Nuffing to it, lubber,’ said Young Nick in his nightshirt. ‘This long line at each end’s called a lanyard, see. Pass it over the beam and through the grommet ring – twice – and then make it off snug with a neat rolling hitch. Easy!’
It wasn’t easy. It was a seadog’s breakfast, and it took Isaac ages to sling the other end. And when at last he gingerly sat in the middle of the hammock and tried to roll himself on, he almost rolled off the other side again.
Nick thought it funny as a picture. ‘I hope you did a good hitch, Issy.’
‘Why?’
‘You’ll find out.’
Isaac lay on his back, scarcely daring to breathe. He felt squeezed like a sausage in its skin. Sleep deserted him. He heard Endeavour’s every creak; Nick snoring beside him; the laughter of sailors and their wives drinking in the galley; the ship’s bell ringing the half-hours of the watch.
Suddenly he heard the nearer sounds of rope slipping. The hammock jerked. The rolling hitch unravelled. And with all the rush of shooting the bridge again, Isaac was pitched on his arse to the deck.
Nick Young cackled. This was better than a circus.
‘I told you!’
‘Will you sling it for me?’ Every part of Isaac ached.
‘I’ll show you once more. After that, lubber, you’ll have to do it over and over till you get it right.’
Isaac picked himself up, hit his noggin again, and fumbled for the end of his hammock.
It took him three nights to sleep in it. That first evening Isaac barely got a wink, and not many more on the second. By the third night, however, Isaac was so weary he’d have slept anywhere. And in time, like any seaman, his hammock became home and heart to him, and he slumbered sweet.
So, as the weeks went by, did Isaac begin to learn his ship. His rolling hitches stayed in place, as did his reef knots, clove hitches and bowlines when he mastered them. He understood starboard from larboard. Remembered to keep his head down, below. Could tell the shrouds and ratlines of the standing rigging from the halyards, clews and bunts that worked the sails. Knew where Mr Molineux meant when he called him to the ship’s waist or to the quarterdeck. And changed his fine clothes for canvas sea britches as they loaded casks of salt pork, flour and something that smelt awful.
‘What’s that?’ he asked Young Nick.
‘Fermented cabbage. They calls it sauerkraut. Cap’n says it’s good for scurvy.’
‘I’ve never eaten sour cabbage, and won’t start now.’
In short, Isaac Manley began to turn into a sailor. Sometimes on Sundays his family came to visit. They went to the seamen’s church of Saint Nicholas at Deptford, where the gatepost had a death’s symbol of skull and crossbones, adopted by pirates for their flag. And Isaac showed his brothers and sisters over the ship with all the confidence of one who knew a little and thought he knew everything.
‘This is the capstan and that’s the windlass to bring up the anchor. Maria and Louisa! Go backwards down the companionway hanging onto the man-rope. John! Robert! Watch that low bulkhead or you’ll crack your noggins . . .’
Until the morning came for Isaac to say goodbye.
Mamma, somewhat tearfully, said it wasn’t too late to reconsider such a dangerous venture. But father disagreed.
‘It’s all settled, Ann. His elder brother John is down for the army, and Isaac for the navy. He’s our second son, and has to make his way in the world. We agreed. Besides, I’ve already laid out good money.’
Papa laid out a little more by giving Isaac ten gold pieces to add to his purse; and mother unclasped a silver locket set with her miniature portrait.
‘Keep it safe, son,’ she said, pressing it into his hand. ‘We will pray for you every day you’re away. One year . . . two years . . .’ Mamma began to weep again, ‘in the unknown.’
Isaac embraced her for a last time, and Papa too. And when the family had gone ashore, he hid the coins and silver locket in a black velvet bag among the clothes in his sea chest, tears of departure starting to his young eyes, until Mr Molineux called him on deck. For all his apprehensions, Isaac was glad of activity. Lieutenant Cook had given his orders. Endeavour was making ready to sail on the next tide.
It was only a short, shakedown run to begin with, along the coast to Plymouth. Here they loaded the last of the provisions; took on a party of red-coated marines; received two months’ pay; and had the Articles of War read to them, as a reminder of their duties under naval law.
At length the sails were loosed as a signal to Mr Joseph Banks and his party of scientific gentlemen to come aboard. And with a fair wind on the afternoon of 26 August 1768, Endeavour weighed anchor and headed out of harbour.
Isaac stood by the rail and watched as the green headland of Plymouth Hoe faded astern. His voyage had begun. Ahead lay America, the island of Tahiti, and all the wonders – known, and yet to be discovered – of the world beyond.
2
ATLANTIC STORMS
To Madeira, September 1768
Endeavour was a different ship at sea. In port she lay restrained and anxious, like a tethered creature. But once freed from her moorings, the wind filling her sails, she bounded joyfully into the open water. Isaac, climbing the mainmast with Nick Young, could feel all her vigour and tension released. Her bowsprit rose and dipped, flinging high the wild spray. And putting his ear close to the thrumming ropes, the boy could hear the ship sing, This is what I was made for.
Going aloft was a different thing, too. In the river, the bark was quiet and stable, and let the lads clamber about her rigging easily enough. Here, bending to the wind and rolling with the swell, it seemed to Isaac that Endeavour was constantly trying to throw him into the waves.
He clung to the thick, tarry shrouds, bare feet feeling for the ladder-like rungs of the ratlines. Isaac was giddy and conscious of the strain on the rigging, afraid it might break and that every step upwards would be his last.
‘Don’t look down!’ Nick called from above. ‘And climb wiv ’er pitchin’.’
Little by little, Isaac rose one step at a time as the ship rolled away from him. Held fast as she heaved back. Another roll. Another foothold. And up.
Isaac was beginning to feel rather pleased with himself – when suddenly the next step almost was his last. Seamen found bare feet better than shoes. They gave a sur
er grip once the skin toughened. But Isaac’s feet were still young and raw, and ached on the thin, biting ratlines. Reaching for the next step, the boy moved too quickly. His foot slipped. His hold slackened. All at once he was dangling over the green, mouthing sea as the ship started to swing back on him.
‘Nick!’
But Nick was too far ahead to be of use. Isaac could only grab the shrouds with all his strength, silently calling on Mother, until Endeavour rolled away on the next wave. He was flung against the rigging. Found a toehold. And the boy stuck there, like a fly in a web, sobbing and vowing not to climb another step.
‘Come on!’ cried Young Nick, who had seen what happened. ‘You can do it. Follow me . . .’ For he had run away to sea a year before, and led every time.
Isaac swallowed the salt air. Waited. And seizing the moment, hauled himself up step by painful step, gradually getting used to the ship’s motion. He even began to believe he’d mastered it, and that danger was past. Until he came to the worst part of all: climbing over the tops.
On some ships, the rigging passed through an opening called a ‘lubber’s hole’ and onto the mast’s platform – the ‘fighting tops’, where marines could fire down on enemies during a battle. But Endeavour didn’t have a lubber’s hole. To get onto the tops, you had to climb a short section called the ‘futtock shrouds’, which came at an angle to the outer edge of the platform, and clamber over that way.
Hanging upside down like a monkey from the futtocks, Isaac was sure he’d be hurled into the sea’s hungry maw this time. But one of the sailors, Henry Stephens, was waiting for him by the spar with words of encouragement.
‘Take it easy, lad. Same as before. Learn from the ship’s own rhythm.’
Slowly the boy mounted. Forward and up as the ship swung out. Clinging on for dear life as she returned. Not daring to look down, nor too far above, until at last he felt the iron hand-bar on the platform. Isaac lifted himself. And with a groan he tumbled onto the tops.
