One

THE COACHMAN AND THE BOY’S FATHER hefted the trunk onto the rack at the back of the coach and strapped it down. The Cook family then gathered on the pavement beside the coach, standing awkwardly. They were at the Charing Cross coaching depot to farewell James, the elder son. Just a few weeks short of his thirteenth birthday, he was leaving home to begin his training at the Royal Naval Academy in Portsmouth.

There were three other passengers: a wizened elderly woman dressed entirely in black, her equally aged, hunched husband and a young woman whose eyelids were swollen from crying. They climbed into the coach, leaving the family beside the open door. The quartet of horses pawed the dusty road, impatient to be off, while the coachman and his co-driver walked around them, adjusting the bridles and reins.

Young James Cook was resplendent in a new outfit: polished boots, white breeches, black tricorn hat, navy-blue frock coat and a matching waistcoat which his mother had sewn for him. Doing his best to conceal his nervousness, he fiddled with the waistcoat’s brass buttons. His mother handed him a small bag containing mutton sandwiches and some fruitcake. Then she hugged him, and the boy’s nervousness was replaced by embarrassment. He blushed and pulled away, flexing his shoulders. He was now taller than she was.

‘Work hard at your studies,’ his mother said. ‘And make sure you write to us, regular.’

The boy nodded. A line of pale down was noticeable on his upper lip.

His mother stepped back, allowing the boy’s father to come forward. Looking at his elder son, he was filled with love and pride. Extending his hand, he said firmly, ‘Safe journey, lad. And best wishes for your studies. It’s a fine academy, so you’ll be well taught.’ He handed over a purse containing five one-guinea coins. ‘This’ll help you on your way. But mind you don’t spend it all straight away.’

‘I won’t. Thank you, Papa.’

Closing one eye, James’s father cocked his head in a gesture of reassurance. Father and son looked each other straight in the eye for some moments, but said no more.

Through misty eyes, the boy’s mother thought how alike they were, the boy already strong-limbed, his expression also hawkish. Her husband clapped his hand on his son’s shoulder, gripped it momentarily, then stepped back and beckoned his other son, Nathaniel, to come forward.

James’s brother was twelve. He held his hand out. ‘Bye,’ he said shyly. They shook hands quickly, then Nathaniel looked at the ground. Although the two boys were close, their parents were aware that their temperaments were markedly different. James was decisive and confident, Nathaniel was reserved and sensitive. Next year he too would be attending Portsmouth’s Royal Naval Academy. Seven years earlier their father had registered both boys on the muster roll of a ship he had commanded, listing them as ‘servants’ to the vessel’s third lieutenant and its carpenter. This common naval practice had afforded the brothers notional sea service, which would entitle them to earlier promotion when they eventually went to sea.

James gave his brother a straight look. ‘Look after the frogs, Natty.’

‘Yes, I will.’ He sniffed, then turned away.

The old man in the coach looked out the window, scowling at the family, obviously resenting the delay. His wife’s glare mirrored her husband’s.

The boy’s father again put his hand on James’s shoulder. ‘Time to go lad,’ he said.

James smiled tightly at his parents and brother, dipped his head respectfully then climbed aboard. His father closed the coach door, then said firmly to the driver, ‘All set. Off you go.’

The driver cracked his whip and shouted, ‘Yay! Off!’ The horses jostled, settled, then trotted off down Charing Cross Road towards London Bridge.

It was a mild autumn morning. The air was hazy, and an odour of tidal sludge and brine wafted up from the Thames, mingling with the horse-dung smell of the street. Coal smoke drifted from the chimney pots of the terraced houses in the distance.

In a few minutes the coach was out of sight.

Captain James Cook RN, his wife Elizabeth and their younger son Nathaniel crossed the street to a line of waiting hackneys and drivers. They would take one of them and return to their home at 7 Assembly Row.

The date was 11 September 1775. Just two months earlier, Captain Cook had returned from a successful second circumnavigation of the world. And two days before they farewelled their elder son, Elizabeth had learned that she was again with child.

James Cook’s homecoming this time could hardly have been more different from that which he had received when Endeavour returned in 1771. Then it had been the wealthy young naturalist Joseph Banks who was the principal subject of public fascination and news-sheet exposure. Banks the great naturalist, Banks the great collector of native artefacts, Banks the great seducer of exotic women—the Londoners could not get enough of him and his colourful reports. And he had responded by providing the clamorous public with just what it wanted: colourfully embroidered versions of his experiences, particularly with the women of Otaheite. The story that Banks had taken as a lover, among many others, Purea, the putative Queen of Tahiti, quickly became the accepted truth.

However, James Cook and others who had shared the ship with Banks were well aware that all but a few of these accounts were fevered fiction.

As for James’s part in Endeavour’s epic voyage, it drew relatively little attention, something that rankled deeply with him. It was he, James Cook, who had taken the little converted collier around the world and safely home. Banks had been a mere character actor during the voyage, but upon their return had promoted himself shamelessly as its leading man.

Now, however, James had been accorded his rightful place in naval history. He had recently been promoted post-captain and had had his commission personally handed to him by King George III, during an audience at which Queen Charlotte was also present. When he explained carefully to the sovereign couple that he had proved that a Great Southern Continent did not exist, and that instead there was only a vast sheet of impassable ice in the high southern latitudes, the King and Queen accepted this disappointment philosophically.

Shortly after his latest promotion, James was surprised to receive a note from none other than Joseph Banks. It read: ‘I would like to meet, and hear more of your triumphant voyage. I am sure there are parts of it which have not been reported by the Grub Street press. Shall we say the Cheshire Cheese, at 1 pm next Friday?’

Still surprised, and wondering if Banks was being ironic in his use of the word ‘triumphant’, James nevertheless replied in the affirmative.

The following Friday was a cool but windless autumn day, and the two men greeted each other outside the public house before entering and taking a seat under a window facing the street. Banks seemed uncharacteristically ill-at-ease, James observed, speaking hurriedly and avoiding looking him in the eye. His discomfort stemmed, James concluded, from Banks’s foolish actions back in 1772, when he had presumptuously attempted to dictate the design of the second expedition’s main vessel, HMS Resolution, and then withdrew from the expedition altogether when he was unable to get his own way.

The Cheshire Cheese was busy, with two serving maids dashing back and forth from the scullery, carrying trays of pies and pints of ale. The place was thick with pipe smoke and smelled of beer, baking pastry and resin from the sawdust floor. Banks ordered two pints and they were brought to the table. Raising his to James, he said, ‘Welcome back to civilisation, Captain. It’s good to see you safe and sound.’

Safe, certainly, but not so sound, James thought. The pains in his right leg and his stomach troubles were still bothering him. But he raised his own mug, clinked it with Banks’s and replied, ‘Thank you. It’s good to be back.’

As Banks drank, James noticed that the naturalist had aged somewhat. Although still only 32, his face was flushed and puffy, and the brass buttons of his waistcoat strained to contain his midriff. He was larger, certainly, but was he wiser? Perhaps. He seemed more subdued, less cocksure. Yet his dress was as dapper as ever. The cuffs of his jacket were of cream silk, matching the scarf at his neck. His waistcoat was crimson. And when he moved on to his second pint, his manner became more like that of the Banks of old, although he retained a slightly defensive air. Probably, James thought, he now deeply regretted not having gone on Resolution’s circumnavigation. His defensiveness also stemmed, James felt sure, from the fact that the expedition had completely disproved the existence of a Great Southern Continent. The notion of such a landmass had been one of Banks’s obsessions. He had been convinced that there was such a continent.

They talked, each man still a little wary of the other. Banks spoke only briefly of his expedition to Iceland, undertaken in a fit of pique after he was dismissed from Resolution’s voyage (‘Iceland? Stony and barren. Once you’ve seen one lava field you’ve seen them all’). The naturalist showed little open remorse concerning the extravagant demands he had made over Resolution, which had ultimately been rejected by the Admiralty, while the subject of the not-so-Great Southern Continent was avoided by both men. Instead Banks pressed James for details of Resolution’s experiences in the tropical Pacific, particularly the nature of the flora and the artefacts they had collected. He also questioned him over the nature of the women of the Friendly Isles, New Hebrides and New Caledonia, as James had named these islands.

He replied to Banks’s questions with deliberate taciturnity (‘My men did not find the New Hebridean women as desirable as those of Otaheite and New Zealand’) before turning the conversation to Johann and George Forster, the father-and-son naturalists who had taken the place of Banks and Daniel Solander. James felt he could speak candidly on this subject, since it was Banks whom Johann Forster had replaced. ‘The son proved well suited to the demands of the work. His illustrations are excellent. But the father …’ He described in some detail how tiresome the ship’s company had found Forster the elder. How his piousness and complaining had irked his shipmates. ‘He was such a belly-acher, in spite of the fact that he was handsomely remunerated,’ James complained. ‘He was paid ten times my salary.’

Banks clicked his tongue sympathetically. ‘An incubus, by the sound of him.’ Then he asked: ‘Will he publish an account of the voyage?’

‘Eventually, I’m sure. He certainly kept copious notes. But he cannot publish his until my account appears. There is an agreement with the Admiralty to that effect.’

‘Quite right, quite right.’ Loosening his scarf, Banks said, ‘Have you met Tobias Furneaux since your return?’

‘No. I would have liked to speak with him. There were aspects of his command of Adventure I found unsatisfactory. But he’s gone to serve England’s cause in America, commanding the frigate Syren.’

Banks nodded, understandingly. He had changed for the better, James thought. He was less the strutting cock. More thoughtful, more reflective.

As he began his third pint Banks asked airily, the pinkness in his cheeks deepening, ‘Have you given consideration to having your portrait painted?’

‘No.’

‘Then you must.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you are now a famous personage.’

James considered this. ‘You’ve had yours painted, have you not?’

‘Yes. By Benjamin West.’ He made a face. ‘I was not entirely pleased with the result. The effect was overly theatrical. Too many props. For you I would suggest instead the portraitist Nathaniel Dance. He studied under the illustrator Francis Hayman and was one of the founders of the Royal Academy. He has a studio near Charing Cross. I’m acquainted with him. If you are agreeable I’ll commission him to undertake the painting.’

‘You’ll commission him?’

‘Certainly. It will be money well spent.’

James shrugged. ‘Well, it can do no harm, I suppose. Thank you.’

The discussion then moved on to the matter of the killing and eating of ten of Adventure’s men by Maoris at Grass Cove in Queen Charlotte Sound, an atrocity that by now had been exhaustively reported in England. Banks set his mug down. ‘Do you remember when we came upon the remains of cooked humans, at that bay in Queen Charlotte Sound?’

‘The one you christened “Cannibal Cove”? Yes, I remember.’

‘It was your belief that the Maoris only ate the bodies of those they had conquered in battle.’

‘Yes. And I still think that. They believe that by eating their vanquished enemies they absorb their spirits and so are made stronger.’

Banks leaned forward. ‘But the men of Adventure were not their enemies, surely. So why did they kill and eat them?’

‘I don’t know. But it’s my belief that Adventure’s men must have insulted the Maoris in some way, provoking them into a fight. One that they obviously lost.’

Banks looked sceptical. ‘Perhaps. But it would be good to know for certain.’

The talk then turned to Omai, the Society Islander who had been brought to England on Furneaux’s Adventure. ‘How goes he here?’ James asked.

Banks laughed. ‘He’s getting on famously. James Burney has become his best taio here.’ Banks smiled as he recalled the Otaheitian word for ‘friend’. ‘They speak Otaheitian together, or did until Burney left for America to fight the rebels. Omai has been to the ballet and the theatre. He has even learned to waltz and play chess. He’s been to a race meeting at Leicester and to the House of Lords to hear the King’s speech.’

James smiled at the images this statement conjured. ‘Quite the English gentleman, then.’

‘Oh, yes. He’s even had his portrait painted by Joshua Reynolds, dressed in my Otaheitian bark-cloth robes. And with a turban. In the portrait he appears more like a Moor than a man of the South Sea. He’s very popular with the London ladies, and has squired a number of them. They evidently find him an exotic specimen of manhood.’ Banks sniggered. ‘My theory is they just want to examine his cock, to see if it differs from that of an Englishman.’

Ignoring this, James said, ‘How is his English?’

‘He speaks it like a native. As you might say.’

‘Does he intend to stay in England?’

‘I think not. The last time we spoke he said he wanted to marry an English woman and take her back to Huahine with him.’ He waved a hand dismissively. ‘Ridiculous. I’ve become tired of him. Frankly, the man bores me now.’

James gave him an irritated look. This was the arrogant Banks of yore. He said, ‘I need to meet him and talk to him about his future. How can I arrange it?’

‘James Burney’s family has given him a room at their home in St Martin’s Street. I’ll get a message to him there if you like.’

‘That would be good.’

Again Banks leaned forward. Leering, he said, ‘The women of the New Hebrides, did anyone examine and draw their pudenda?’

James was asked to attend twice-weekly meetings at the Admiralty in Whitehall. There, in the grand Meeting Room, he was received with great respect by the Sea Lords, including the First Lord, John Montagu, Fourth Earl of Sandwich. Hitherto, Sandwich had been inclined to condescend to the Yorkshireman who had had the temerity to come up through the hawsehole, in naval parlance—rising through the ranks from able seaman to commissioned officer.

On 12 August a note from Sandwich was delivered to James at home. It read:

I wish to show a friend over Resolution while she is moored at Woolwich. Can you meet me there at 2 pm this coming Saturday?
Sandwich, First Sea Lord

James wrote back, agreeing to the appointment. The friend, he assumed, was one of Sandwich’s cronies, perhaps another member of the notorious Hellfire Club. And no doubt they would be accompanied by Sandwich’s usual entourage of hangers-on.

However, when they met on the Woolwich wharf, James was surprised to see that Lord Sandwich was in the company of only one person, a woman. She looked to be in her early twenties. Small, and with an upturned nose, heavily rouged lips and a prominent bosom, she wore an enormous wig and a pink gown which showed her décolletage to great effect. She carried a matching pink parasol.

Sandwich inclined his head respectfully to James, then introduced his companion. ‘Captain James Cook, this is Miss Ray. Miss Martha Ray, Captain Cook.’

Aware that Sandwich had a wife, James quickly deduced that Miss Ray was not the woman who held that position. He bowed to her in greeting then led the pair to the gangplank, where a solitary marine stood on guard.

As James showed Sandwich and the woman he assumed was Sandwich’s mistress over the ship, he noted with consternation that Resolution was still badly in need of repair. In one of his reports to the Navy Board he had itemised the work that needed to be carried out before she was fit to go to sea again. But obviously nothing had been done. With the war in America now absorbing so much money, priorities were going to the army and to transport vessels, he had heard. But the obvious neglect of Resolution bothered him. Her deck needed recaulking—there were visible gaps in the planking, much of her rigging was frayed and some of her sails were split. The spars needed re-varnishing. Her neglected topsides gave her the appearance of a hulk.

But once below decks, and especially in the Great Cabin, James felt a glow of affection for the vessel that had been his home for over three years. Memories came flooding back of courses plotted, of post-supper discussions, of native guests welcomed here—Otaheitians, Maoris, New Hebrideans, Fuegans. The less pleasant recollections—his illness, the tiresome Johann Forster, the Antarctic frigidity—were, to his surprise, already fading.

Walking about the cabin, Miss Ray peered here and there, wrinkling her upturned nose at the stale air, putting James in mind of a mouse in a larder. Her wig smelled strongly of talcum powder. While she moved about curiously, Sandwich stood by one of the windows, staring at her bottom.

‘I found Endeavour to be a fine ship,’ James told Miss Ray. ‘They are both square-riggers, but Resolution surpassed Endeavour’s performance as a voyaging vessel. There is evidently something special about the boat-builders of Whitby, where both were built, that produces exceptional vessels.’

Miss Ray placed an extravagantly ringed hand on his arm and smiled coquettishly. ‘And fine commanders such as yourself, Captain Cook. John has informed me that you learned your sailing skills in Whitby.’

James felt abashed at receiving this unexpected praise.

Continuing her inspection, Miss Ray looked up at the circular brass object hanging by a chain from the cabin ceiling. ‘What’s that for?’

‘It’s a compass,’ James replied. ‘It hangs there, face downwards, so that the captain can note in which direction the ship is sailing, at any hour of the day or night.’ He paused. ‘There’s another, the steering compass, on the binnacle.’

‘The binnacle?’

‘A pedestal immediately in front of the wheel. So the helmsmen can follow the correct course.’

‘Aah.’ Behind her, Sandwich smiled smugly at the fact that his mistress was so clearly impressed with the tour.

Back topsides, as Miss Ray wandered about the quarterdeck, Sandwich gripped the starboard rail, squinted across the river and tugged at his large nose. ‘How goes your account of Resolution’s voyage?’ he demanded of James.

‘Very slowly, my Lord. I have had a great deal to attend to since returning. Scientific papers to prepare, recommendations for promotion of those who served under me, reports to the Naval Board on the condition of this ship …’

‘Yes, yes,’ Sandwich interrupted irritably. He turned to Miss Ray and patted her rear. ‘Go down onto the main deck, my dear. I have something I wish to discuss with the Captain in private.’ She lifted her chin and looked at him crossly, but nevertheless obeyed, turning and moving awkwardly down the steps to the mid-deck.

Sandwich gave a rasping cough and blew his noise violently on a handkerchief. ‘Three days ago I was informed that Captain Clements, who held one of the four post-captains’ positions at Greenwich Hospital, died. Of the flux.’

James frowned. What had this to do with him? He had never met Captain Clements.

‘His death has created a vacancy at the hospital.’ Sandwich placed his hands behind his back. ‘The Admiralty is offering the vacancy to you. You can use the time and the facilities there to write your account of Resolution’s voyage.’

James’s mind tumbled. He knew of the Greenwich Hospital positions, of course. But little did he think he would ever be offered one. They were considered some of the most privileged appointments the Royal Navy had to offer, well remunerated and on par with the offer of a command at sea, but with minimal responsibilities and far fewer risks. Sinecures. This was not a proposition that could be rejected. He nodded. ‘Thank you, my Lord. I am honoured to be offered the position.’

With the accounts of Resolution’s remarkable circumnavigation still newsworthy, James now received invitations to attend meetings of the illustrious Royal Society, at its headquarters in Crane Court. There its members pressed him for details of his latest voyage, particularly descriptions of lands such as New Caledonia, New Zealand and Norfolk Island, and their prospects as part of an empire for Britain. Towards the end of 1775 he was nominated, then elected, as a Fellow of the Society. His equally esteemed nominators included Joseph Banks, Daniel Solander, Nevil Maskelyne and Philip Stephens.

This recognition brought James quiet satisfaction. At home, Elizabeth was more demonstrative.

‘Oh James, I am so proud of you. A Fellow of the Royal Society!’

Taking her in his arms, he said, ‘It is an honour, certainly.’

‘Yes.’ She laid her head on his chest. And I’m so pleased that you’ve accepted the position at Greenwich Hospital.’ She looked up. ‘It means so much to me to have you home for good.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘I was working it out today. Do you realise that until now you’ve been at sea for thirty years? With but a few months at home between voyages.’

He drew her closer to him. ‘I was aware of that, yes. Nearly half a lifetime.’ He put his face in her hair. ‘Shall I read you more from my Resolution journal tonight?’

‘Yes, I’d like that.’

He put his hand gently on her midriff. ‘How is the little one?’

‘She or he grows.’ She hugged him. ‘It’s so good that you’ll be here for the birth. The first time you will have been.’

He gave a little grunt of assent to cover his feelings of guilt. Five children born, all while he was away at sea, and three of them dead, also while he was at sea. He said quietly, ‘If it is a girl, I would like to name her Grace after my mother.’

Laughing lightly, Elizabeth asked, ‘And if she is a boy?’

‘Hugh. After Hugh Palliser. He has been a stalwart for me for nigh on twenty years.’

‘Yes.’ Elizabeth laughed again. ‘Yes. And furthermore, he’s also a Yorkshireman.’