Ten

12 SEPTEMBER 1776

Dearest Elizabeth,
We have now been at sea for eight weeks. It seems a great deal longer. It was my hope that we would meet our support vessel, Discovery, when we called at Porto Praia in the Cape Verde Islands. She was not there, however. I worry about the fate of Clerke. Will he be released or not? It seems that we will have a lengthy stopover at Cape Town, waiting for Discovery to catch up with us. Delays are inevitable, but this voyage has already had more than most.

We are now in the Southern Hemisphere and on a course for Cape Town. The weather has been humid and gloomy in these latitudes. Such conditions can bring on illness, so I have insisted that the crew dry their clothing at every opportunity and that the ship’s interior is aired with fires and smoke. These exercises are rendered more complex by the fact that the ship is exceedingly soggy in all her upper works. The wetness is so bad that the officers in the gunroom have all been driven out of their cabins.

To remedy the leaks the men were set to work with caulking hammers, oakum and pitch as soon as we gained fairer weather. The inside weather-works have been re-caulked, along with the decks. However, the leaking topsides cannot be caulked while we are at sea, as it is too great a risk, so these must wait until we reach Cape Town. This means that the wetness below decks persists. I cannot overstate the contempt I feel for those whose carelessness allowed the ship to leave England in a sub-standard condition.

I have by now formed firmer impressions of my shipmates and will share these with you. As this letter will be dispatched to you from Cape Town, you will be able to envisage the company I am keeping during the remainder of the voyage.

John Gore is proving as dependable as I hoped. He is a diligent first officer whose considerable voyaging experience is an asset to the company, although his knowledge of navigation is surprisingly deficient. His love of firearms is stronger than ever, and he shoots at any creature that moves, fish or fowl. In this he is strongly supported by our Society Islander, Omai, who learned to shoot in England. Yesterday Gore brought down a gannet, judging his shot so finely that the bird fell into the fore topsail, then dropped onto the mid-ship deck. Our cook baked the bird and had it served to the officers for dinner today, which we all partook of willingly. So long as Gore’s powder and ball are not used on humans, his shooting is acceptable to me.

My second officer, 26-year-old James King, is a Lancastrian and the son of a vicar. He is a well-educated young man with a thoughtful, sensitive nature. When I sentenced one of the seamen to the lash for neglect of duty just after we left the Azores, King tried to go below rather than witness the flogging. But I insisted he stay. A follower of the new Abolitionist Movement, King has studied natural philosophy in Paris and at Oxford, and has a sound knowledge of astronomy and so shares the astronomical duties with Bayly and myself. He also assists us in the care of the sea-clocks. I find it a great comfort to have an educated man like King aboard, as he and I can discuss matters of science and nature at some length. He is greatly looking forward to observing the natives of the South Sea, he tells me, but without any of the salaciousness that the others inevitably display when the subject arises. Yet he is not preachy the way Johann Forster was; he is merely curious. Everyone likes King.

Our third lieutenant, John Williamson, is an unusual fellow. He keeps to himself, says little, and what he does say is generally of a negative nature. For instance, he commented the other day of Omai: ‘As an Englishman, I don’t like dining with a nigger.’ The others took issue with this statement, as Omai is proving a popular shipmate who shares his knowledge of his islands with everyone. King remarked to Williamson; after hearing his comment: ‘The word nigger to me is offensive, Williamson, it smacks of the slave trade. Besides, Omai is our guest!’ Williamson looked at King coldly, but said nothing more. Although he carries out his duties diligently, he doesn’t mix easily with the other officers. And I wonder, since he has stated his strong aversion to natives, how will he relate to those we encounter in the South Sea?

Our sailing master, William Bligh, was virtually born to the sea, his father having been employed with HM Customs in Plymouth. He has seen active service, is very well qualified in navigation and hydrography and shows a fine aptitude for cartography. A most serious, conscientious young man, he requested to see my South Sea charts. When I gave him permission to visit the Great Cabin and see them, he pored over them as if they were medieval manuscripts containing all the secrets of the world. He asks endless questions about the coastlines of Otaheite, New Zealand and the Friendly Isles, and my techniques of surveying. Yet at the same time he remains oddly standoffish, is tight-lipped and humourless. He is quick to take offence, too, and has publicly quarrelled with our bosun, Ewin, over the matter of feed for the sheep. An unusual fellow is Bligh, but undeniably talented. I predict he will have a long naval career once he matures and learns to get on with others.

Our artist John Webber is 25. He joined Resolution just before we sailed and has adapted quickly to shipboard life. Born in London, his father is Swiss, and a sculptor, Webber tells me. His family name is Waber but was anglicised, his mother being English. His parents sent him to Switzerland when he was six, and he was raised there by an aunt, so his accent is noticeably Germanic. He has studied painting in Bern and Paris, as well as at London’s Royal Academy, and held his first exhibition in London this year. He produced some fine sketches of Santa Cruz Harbour and Boa Vista Island. The two artists on my previous voyages set a very high standard. You will recall what fine depictions of the landscapes and natives of the South Sea were produced by William Hodges during Resolution’s earlier voyage. It will be Webber’s challenge to work to the same standard, and to the standard of Sydney Parkinson, on Endeavour, as he makes drawings and paintings of the people and habitats we encounter. A rather shy fellow, Webber has a pointed nose and eyes as watchful as a gull’s. Since the ability to observe people closely is, in my experience, an essential prerequisite for a successful artist, this augurs well for his work. He approached me a few days ago and requested that I sit for him, for a portrait. I admit to having been surprised at this request, and informed him that I had already sat for Dance and Hodges. Webber fixed me with his beady eye and said, ‘I will perhaps see you in a different way. And therefore will depict you differently.’ I agreed to sit for him in Cape Town, if time permits.

I must end now, as my watch approaches. I trust that you and little Hugh are well and enjoying each other’s company. My love to Nathaniel also.
My love to you, as always,
James

The surgeon, Anderson, had a plump, kindly face and deep-set brown eyes. He had recently grown a beard, so that he now resembled a friar. He asked James to remove his trousers and undergarment and get up onto Anderson’s cot. ‘Where exactly is the pain, Captain?’

James pressed the flattened fingers of his left hand onto his belly, between his sternum and his navel. ‘Just there.’ He flinched.

‘Mmm.’ Anderson applied his own fingers to James’s belly and pressed gently. ‘Breathe deeply,’ he instructed. James did so, while the surgeon tilted his head and stared into the distance. ‘When did your bowels last move?’

‘Two days ago.’ James thought again. ‘No, today is Tuesday. So three days ago.’

Anderson moved his fingers to James’s left side. ‘Does that cause you pain?’

‘No.’

The surgeon’s fingers moved to the right. ‘And that?’

James inhaled sharply. ‘That is … discomforting.’

Anderson grunted. ‘All right. Get down now, Captain.’ They moved into the Great Cabin and sat on the long seat under the stern window. Looking thoughtful, the surgeon said, ‘You also suffered from constipation on your last voyage, you told me.’

‘Yes. It was particularly bad between Otaheite and Easter Island.’

‘And you had the stomach pains as well?’

‘Yes. Johann Forster came to my rescue with a broth made from his dead dog.’

‘Well, we have no dogs on this voyage. Only sheep, pigs and goats.’

‘Which are for the new lands, for New Zealand, Otaheite and the Friendly Isles. They must not be sacrificed.’

‘Quite so, quite so.’ Anderson folded his arms, still thoughtful. ‘However, it’s my belief that your problem is dietary.’

James smiled. ‘So you don’t believe that our health is dependent on the four humours?’

The surgeon snorted. ‘Good Lord, no. The belief that blood, yellow and black bile and phlegm control our health and so must be kept in balance is medieval thinking.’

‘My difficulty is not caused by an irregularity of the humours, then?’

‘No. I believe it is dietary. You’ve read the findings of my compatriot, James Lind, as to the causes of scurvy?’

‘Yes, years ago. And I’m a strong believer in his prescription for warding off the scourge. A combination of diet, fresh air, cleanliness, personal hygiene and exercise. And of those, diet is the most important. That’s why I insist that every man on this ship takes sauerkraut, malt and wort. And when we can gather them ashore, fresh greens. Those are effective anti-scorbutics. As you’re aware, on both Endeavour and Resolution’s last voyage we lost not one man to scurvy.’

Anderson nodded. ‘A remarkable feat. And doubtless a result of your enforced regime.’ He walked across to the starboard window and peered out. ‘And yet while at sea we must also ingest large quantities of salt beef and pork, ship’s biscuit—often mouldy—and stale water.’ He turned back, frowning. ‘As well as enduring the dampness below decks. The leaking planks and the resulting damp will cause our health to suffer.’

‘I agree. Which is why proper caulking will begin immediately after we anchor at Cape Town.’ James placed his hand on his stomach. ‘And in the meantime, what of my difficulty?’

‘For the constipation, which is undoubtedly the cause of your stomach pain, I prescribe an increased daily intake of wort. From one quart to two.’

‘Two quarts per day?’

‘Yes. That should ease the problem.’ The surgeon gave James his friary smile. ‘Your visits to the officers’ head will then become a pleasure, instead of a pain.’