Two

‘THIS WILL BE YOUR PLACE OF work. Your Great Cabin on land, as it were.’

Philip Stephens ushered James into a long room on the second floor of the Royal Hospital for Seamen. It was carpeted in bright blue, the ceiling was pressed zinc, the walls wainscoted in dark wood. A line of six candelabra hung from the ceiling and a polished oak table twenty feet long, supported by criss-crossed legs, occupied the centre of the room. Set into the rear wall was a fireplace with a cast-iron register, on either side of which were open shelves filled with books. Two portraits hung above the fireplace, one of King William III, who had authorised the establishment of the hospital, the other of his wife, Queen Mary II, whose idea it had been. The bookshelves, study table and thick carpet gave the room a muffled, studious air.

Designed by Sir Christopher Wren and built between 1696 and 1751, the Royal Hospital for Seamen at Greenwich—to give it its full title—was a colonnaded complex on the south bank of the Thames. Twin cupolas—smaller versions of the one that crowned St Paul’s Cathedral, rose above the two central blocks of the hospital, which were separated by a Grand Square. A statue of King George II by John Michael Rysbrack stood on a pedestal in the square. Providing facilities for disabled or pensioned-off seamen, the naval equivalent of the army’s Chelsea pensioners’ hospital, Greenwich also offered a selection of distinguished Royal Navy captains the opportunity to write and record their naval experiences for posterity. ‘It’s a soft option,’ Stephens had told James with his usual frankness. ‘Your only official duty will be to visit and chat with the inmates from time to time.’

James went over to the mullioned window in the wall that faced the river. A wide bay contained a cushioned seat long enough for a person to stretch out on. On one side of the window was a row of rolled-up sea charts; on the other, more bookshelves. He stared out the window, from where there was a panoramic view of the Thames and the north bank of the city. Barges, ferry boats and a square-rigger were moving up the river on the incoming tide.

‘Well? What do you think?’ Stephens was pouting, waiting for a reaction.

James nodded approvingly. ‘It’s a great deal more spacious than the Great Cabins of either Endeavour or Resolution.’ He looked around the room. ‘Do I share it with the other post-captains?’

‘Good gracious, no. Each of the four has his own study. Although you will all share one servant.’

‘It’s very agreeable. Thank you, Stephens. I cannot wait to begin here.’

The position carried an annual salary of £230, a per diem of 1s 2d and free fires and lighting. All writing materials were provided. Had he wished to, James could also have been accommodated in the hospital, but as it was only a half-hour ferry ride from the Cooks’ home, he decided to travel there and back daily. Elizabeth had been delighted when he told her this. ‘It’s wonderful to know you’ll be so close. And that you’ll be here for the birth.’

Although he nodded, spurs of doubt had pricked at him. Would he come to regret he had decided to be a lubber? That he would never have another naval command? That he would not participate in the war in America? That for him, sailing days were over? Then he dismissed these doubts. The reality was that the writing of the account of Resolution’s three-year voyage was vitally important for science and history, and would take months of hard work to execute.

He endeavoured to cross the river by ferry to Woolwich and be at the study table by nine, six days a week. Almost always he met this deadline. He took midday dinner with the pensioners in the hospital’s spacious dining hall. Most of the veterans were missing a leg, an arm or an eye; all had yarns of their naval experiences which they were eager to share with James over dinner in exchange for his own stories.

He sat at the table, his back to the fireplace. In front of him were his writing materials: reams of notepaper, an inkwell, blotting paper and a pot sprouting turkey-feather quills. His captain’s log, his primary reference, was close at hand. His spyglass was also on the table, for keeping watch on the river.

The stationery was brought up from the hospital’s storeroom by Elias Denbigh, the post-captains’ servant. Elias had served against the French as a gunner on HMS Medway and had had his left leg blown off in battle in May 1757. Now a permanent resident of the hospital, he was remarkably nimble for a man with a wooden leg, and cheerful with it. Tall and lantern-jawed, he delivered James’s writing materials to his study every morning, along with a pot of freshly brewed coffee.

Today, wearing the hospital’s blue uniform, Elias rested on his one good leg, then placed the coffee pot on the table, along with a cup and a small jug of milk. His concave cheeks were greyly stubbled. ‘There we are, Cap’n. Anything else you’ll be wanting?’

‘No, that’ll be all. Thank you, Denbigh.’

‘Very good, Cap’n.’ He cocked his head cheerily. ‘Go well with yer writin’.’

James opened his journal at the page he had left yesterday, took a fresh sheet of paper, dipped his quill into the ink and began to write. In his mind were clear memories and images of a particular place. He was also conscious of the fact that he was the first person to write in English of the island being described—the Dutch and the Spaniards didn’t count—and the great responsibility this placed upon him.

He wrote:

THURSDAY, 17 MARCH 1774 (OFF EASTER ISLAND)

No nation will ever contend for the honour of discovery of Easter Island as there is hardly an island in this sea which affords less refreshments and conveniences for shipping than it does. Nature has hardly provided it with anything fit for man to eat or drink, and as the natives are but few and may be supposed to plant no more than sufficient for themselves, they cannot have much to spare for newcomers. The produce is potatoes, yams, taro or the edoy root, plantains and sugar cane, all excellent in its kind. They have also gourds and the same sort of cloth plant as the other isles but not much, cocks and hens like ours which are small and but few of them and these are the only domestic animals we saw among them, nor did we see any quadrupeds, but rats which I believe they eat as I saw a man with some in his hand which he seemed unwilling to part with. Land birds we saw hardly any and sea birds but a few, these were men of war birds, noddies, egg birds etc. The sea seems barren of fish for we could not catch any although we tried in several places with hook and line and it was very little we saw among the natives. Such is the produce of Easter Island which is situated in the Latitude of 27° 6' South and the Longitude of 109° 51' 40" West. It is about 10 leagues in circuit and hath a hilly rocky surface, the hills are of such height as seen 15 or 16 leagues …

Their houses are long, low and narrow and have much the appearance of a large boat turned bottom up whose keel is curved or bent, the largest I saw was 60 feet in length, 8 or 9 feet high in the middle and 3 or 4 at each end, its breadth was nearly the same; the door was in the middle of one side, built like a porch so low and narrow as just to admit a man to creep in upon all fours. The framing is made of small twigs and the covering the tops of sugar cane and plantain leaves and extends from the foundation to the roof so that they have no light but what the small door admits. These people dress their victuals in the same manner as at the other isles.

He carefully blotted the paragraphs, then noticed through the study window a ship of the line sailing slowly up the river on the tide. He picked up his spyglass and held it to his eye. HMS Catherine. A three-decker, 60 guns. Her ensign fluttering, her men clinging to the shrouds. What a grand sight she was. Distracted by the spectacle, it was some time before he was able to return to the task in hand.

‘Omai! Ia ora na!’

‘Cap-i-tain Tute, good day, sir!’

The two men shook hands in the hallway of Newton House, the home of the Burney family. The servant who had opened the door, an elderly wigged man in white hose and blue velvet frock coat, took James’s cape, then stood back.

Omai wore a suit of Manchester velvet lined with white satin and finished with ruffles of white lace. His boots were brilliantly polished, a sword hung from his belt and his lustrous black hair hung down over his shoulders. With his almond eyes, prominent cheekbones and well-shaped nose, he was an exotic, strikingly handsome figure.

A petite young woman emerged from a doorway further down the hall. She had a perfectly oval face, reddened cheeks, a small chin and cupid mouth. Her hazel eyes were quite wide apart and her brown hair was coiled and pinned on the top of her head. She wore an emerald-green gown with lace cuffs, and a necklace of tiny cameos. ‘Captain Cook?’ She smiled warmly. ‘I’m Fanny Burney, James’s sister. Please, come through to the drawing room.’

The three of them sat in an alcove on upholstered chairs with curved legs. Red velvet drapes hung from rails on both sides of the alcove. Carpeted in deep brown, and with heavily embossed floral wallpaper, the room had a large fireplace and a huge central chandelier. There was a grand piano with a raised lid in one corner of the room, and portraits in ornate gold frames of Burney family members—men, women and children—hung on the walls.

Sitting between the two men, her hands together in her lap, Fanny said, ‘It’s such an honour to have you here, Captain Cook. Your great voyages have been widely reported in the news-sheets. Regrettably, my mother has an appointment this afternoon, so is unable to be here. My brother often spoke of his time with you on Resolution.’ She gave a tinkling laugh. ‘I do so enjoy listening to him and Omai speaking Otaheitian.’

James nodded. ‘I was sorry when he had to leave my ship and go over to Adventure to replace the ill officer. But he proved an able lieutenant to Furneaux, it was reported to me.’

‘Yes, he is dedicated to the naval life. Has been since he first went to sea.’ Fanny’s face fell. ‘But the discovery of the killing of the men in Grass Cove shocked him. He has nightmares about it still, he told me.’

Not wanting to dwell on this disturbing subject, and aware that Omai was following their conversation closely, James merely frowned and nodded. Then he said to her, ‘Your brother told me it is your intention to become a writer. Is that correct?’

She blushed slightly and looked down at her lap. ‘It is. So far I have published only some of my journal writing, but I have a desire to write novels.’

James smiled. ‘As one who is writing a voyaging account, I can understand the challenges that ambition must represent.’ He paused. ‘How is Dr Burney, your father?’

Tucking an errant lock of hair behind her ear, Fanny said, ‘He’s well. He’ll be disappointed that he’s missed meeting you. At the moment he’s teaching music theory at Cambridge. He’ll be home for Christmas, though. As will James, we hope.’ She smiled demurely.

‘On which vessel is your brother serving?’

‘HMS Cerberus. As second lieutenant.’

The elderly retainer entered, carrying a silver tray. ‘Drinks?’ asked Fanny.

Omai’s eyes lit up. ‘For me, port wine,’ he said keenly.

‘A small brandy for me, please,’ said James.

Luncheon was served in a dining area that led off the drawing room. They were served cold cuts of pork and mutton, with boiled potatoes, parsnips and green peas, followed by Stilton and Wensleydale blue cheese. James noted that Omai wielded his knife and fork dexterously, said little during the meal, ate wolfishly and asked for his port glass to be refilled three times.

The meal over, James and Omai chatted while Fanny observed them closely, seeming content to just listen. From time to time she blinked, slowly, like a contented cat.

James said to Omai, ‘Banks has told me something of your experiences here in England. You’ve been enjoying life in this country, I hear.’

Omai nodded vigorously. ‘Yes, yes.’ His eyes bulged. ‘I have met King Tosh!’

‘Yes. What did you say to him?’

‘I say to him, “How do, King Tosh?” He seemed very please. So please he gave me this.’ Standing up, he patted the sword at his side, then sat down again. He finished his port. ‘Yes, Tute, I like very much England. I learn to dance the English way, and I play cheese.’

‘Chess, Omai,’ Fanny put in patiently. She said to James, ‘Omai is quite the boulevardier these days.’

Omai frowned at her. ‘What is this word, boul, boul—?’

‘Boul-e-var-dier,’ said Fanny. ‘It’s a French word. It means a man about the town.’

He frowned. ‘Man about the town. About London town?’

‘In your case, yes,’ Fanny replied, laughing. She stood up. ‘I know you two still have much to discuss, so I’ll leave you to it.’ Gathering her gown up in one hand, she inclined her head. ‘It was a great pleasure to meet you, Captain Cook. Ring for the servant when you need a hackney. Charles will hail one for you.’

James and Omai returned to the alcove. Although he was impressed with the way in which the Raiatean was so obviously assimilating into English life, James was also concerned that he was spending such a long time here, so far from his homeland. He said, ‘You cannot live in England forever, Omai. You will have to go back to your own islands one day.’

Omai grunted. ‘Yes. I miss my islands. I think often about my islands. So Omai must go back. To Huahine or Raiatea. But how? And when?’

James sighed. Vexed questions. ‘One day King George’s ships will sail again to Otaheite. And you will be able to go with them.’

Omai’s eyes widened. ‘Yes. Yes. And when I go, I take guns from England to kill enemies of Raiatea and Huahine. Enemies from Bora Bora.’

James held a hand up. This was what he had feared: that the Indian would see his return as an opportunity to start a war against his islands’ traditional foe. ‘No. There will be no weapons for you. It would only lead to much killing.’

Omai’s dark eyes flashed. ‘Yes, yes! My people will use England guns to kill our enemy!’ He leapt to his feet. ‘And Omai will then be the ari’i rahi—the great chief—of Huahine.’

‘No. The ari’i rahi of Huahine is my taio, Ori.’

Omai sank back down. ‘Ori will be finished when Omai takes guns to Huahine.’ He sneered. ‘Ori is old, old man.’

Regarding him coldly, James said, ‘You will not take guns to Huahine. I will tell King George to forbid you to take guns. You may take tools and other English goods. Seeds for planting. Books, too. But no guns.’

Omai slumped in his chair, offended. James decided it was time to leave. He was aware that, unlike Tupaia, who had travelled on Endeavour from Otaheite to New Zealand, New Holland and the Dutch East Indies, and was a respected arioi, or priest, Omai was a lower class person. As such, given the Otaheitians’ propensity for born-to-rule hierarchy, Omai would have little status back on Huahine, no matter how many fine English clothes he wore. Yet he had to be returned home. This conundrum was one to which as yet he had no answer.

He stood up. ‘I must leave now.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m glad you’re enjoying my country, Omai. And I’m pleased that your English is so good.’

Omai shook James’s hand vigorously, his amiability restored. ‘Thank you, Tute. I like to talk with you.’ He paused. ‘Except about the guns.’

In the hackney on his way back to Assembly Row, James was deep in thought. If the Indian must be returned to his homeland, when would it be? And just who would take him there?

Weeks passed, and the London autumn descended abruptly into an early winter. James continued his routine, travelling by ferry to the hospital six days a week, occasionally attending meetings of the Royal Society at Crane Court and savouring the respect its members now accorded him. As he told Elizabeth after one meeting, ‘They now treat me as an equal. No longer am I the clodhopper from the North Riding.’

To which she replied sternly, ‘James, you were never the clodhopper.’

In November Stephens informed James that Resolution had finally gone into the dockyard at Deptford to undergo an overhaul. Pleased to hear this, James would have liked to have had a hand in the refit, but was much too preoccupied with his writing.

He wrote in sections, each one covering about a month of the voyage. When a section was completed to his satisfaction he collated the sheets and dispatched them to the man the Admiralty had commissioned to edit the journal. This was 55-year-old Scotsman John Douglas, a scholar and Anglican bishop, who lived at Lambeth. James didn’t know Douglas, but Stephens reported that he was a rigorous academic, Oxford-educated and also a Fellow of the Royal Society.

The Bishop’s replies to James, and his annotations, certainly showed attention to detail. Rather too much so, James thought. Whereas he preferred longish sentences, Douglas often truncated them. He also questioned James’s spelling of some islands (‘Espiritu Santo, you call it. But the Frenchman, Bougainville, called it “Great Cyclades”. Make clearer.’ And: ‘Of the Friendly Isles, Abel Tasman named one island “Rotterdam”. You call it “Annamoka”. Which is the correct nomenclature?’). But Stephens had also let James know that Douglas had remarked of his writing, ‘’Tis rough-hewn but honest, like the man himself. It’s my task to polish his prose so that it takes on a shine.’ Although sometimes irritated by Douglas’s queries, James did his best to respond to them patiently. But he continued to be disconcerted by the amount of rewriting that was deemed necessary. At this rate the project would take even longer than he had anticipated.

In mid-December a letter was delivered to James at home. When Elizabeth handed the envelope to him he looked curiously at the handwriting. It was unfamiliar to him. Certainly not Douglas’s heavy, confident hand. This writing was thin and very neat. He sliced open the envelope with his bone paper-knife.

12 December 1775

Captain James Cook RN You will doubtless be interested in the fact that the manuscript of my account of the voyage of Resolution is now in the hands of a London publisher. My chronicle, which has been sanctioned by the Admiralty, is the result of several months’ work. I am confident that my chronicle will be received with great approbation, not only by the scientific world, but the general reading public of England. It is my earnest intention that you will obtain a copy of my Resolution account in due course, and read of the voyage which we shared for over three years with such enthusiasm.

I am yours,
Dr Johann Reinhold Forster

James studied the letter in disbelief. Noting his consternation, Elizabeth looked up from her crocheting. ‘Who is it from?’

‘Johann Forster.’

‘What does he want?’

James handed the letter to her. She put her crocheting aside, read the note, then looked up quickly. ‘He is publishing an account of the voyage? Before yours appears?’

‘No. He cannot do so. The first account published is to be mine. There is an agreement between me and the Admiralty. For me to write of the voyage first.’

Looking confused, Elizabeth said, ‘Then that agreement must be enforced.’ Her frown deepened. ‘But how can that be possible, if Forster’s version is already with a publisher?’

‘I will let Stephens know. Forster’s claim that the Admiralty has approved his account must be a falsehood. He seeks to make more profits from his scribbling.’ Clenching his fist, James said angrily, ‘We must have his publication halted.’

This assessment that the claim was a falsehood proved correct. Stephens was equally livid at this development. ‘A clear breach of contract,’ was his summation. ‘There was no such agreement for him to write a full account of the voyage. Only that he would publish some papers of a botanical and zoological nature. The man is seeking to make capital from his experiences, over and above the outrageous sum he was paid to participate in the expedition.’

Lord Sandwich was informed, and the Admiralty’s notary contacted. On his advice, Sandwich dispatched a letter to Forster, advising him that he was forbidden to publish an account of the voyage before James’s appeared. Instead, Sandwich suggested, Forster should write an account of the scientific findings he made during his stay in Dusky Sound. If this paper was acceptable to the Admiralty, then Forster could publish other accounts of the voyage, provided he shared the profits of his writings with James.

James was not mollified by this. ‘I do not approve of it at all,’ he told Elizabeth when Stephens informed him of the Admiralty’s overture to Forster. ‘I have no wish to share the profits with that man. And he has no right to trespass on my territory.’

‘Certainly not.’ Elizabeth had heard many accounts from James over these past months of Forster’s bothersome behaviour during Resolution’s voyage.

He continued his own writing, working several hours a day at the hospital. When time permitted, he also wrote letters to his mentor John Walker in Whitby and his sister Christiana in the North Riding, informing them of his circumstances and progress.

Just before Christmas, during another meeting with Stephens, James was informed that the Admiralty had received a sample chapter from Forster, describing his stay at Dusky Sound. Stephens reported, ‘The Admiralty has rejected Forster’s work.’ He smiled mischievously. ‘His writing was as bad as we hoped. So the story is entirely yours to tell.’

James nodded, gratified. ‘Forster should never have been appointed naturalist to the expedition.’

Stephens arched his eyebrows. ‘He’s returning to Prussia, I heard.’

‘Good. Let’s hope he stays there.’

Christmas 1775 was spent by the Cook family at the house of Elizabeth’s mother and stepfather in Upper Shadwell. Because it was the first Yuletide in several years that they had all been together, Mary and John Blackburn put on an enormous spread, with mince pies, a roasted goose stuffed with chestnuts and served with potatoes and parsnips, a bottle of wine from Burgundy and plum cake laced with brandy. Young James had returned from the Royal Naval Academy for a week’s break, and he afforded his family great pleasure by describing the content of his courses, the vagaries of his instructors and the characteristics of his fellow students. ‘Astronomy is my favourite subject,’ he told them. ‘In the last examination I came top of my class.’ He said to his brother, ‘It’ll be good to have you there next year, Natty. There are bullies, but I’ll protect you.’ And when they again put young James on the Portsmouth coach, he smiled gamely at his family and shed no tears.

By the New Year of 1776, James’s account had reached the New Hebrides:

THURSDAY, 25 AUGUST 1774 (OFF THE ISLAND OF ESPIRITU SANTO)

After doubling the Cape we found the coast trend away to the South and form a very large and deep bay of which the land above mentioned was its western boundaries. Everything conspired to make us believe this was the Bay of St Philip and St James, discovered by Quiros in 1606. To determine this point it was necessary to search it to the very bottom for at this time we could see no end to it. For this purpose we hauled the wind on the larboard tack, having a gentle breeze at South which at Noon began to veer towards East and being well over to the western shore tacked and stood to NE Latitude 1° 55' 30"; Longitude 16° East.

SATURDAY, 27 AUGUST 1774

At 1 pm the cabin was succeeded by a gentle breeze at NBW with which we stood up the bay till 3 when being but about two miles from the shore I sent away Mr Cooper and the Master to sound and reconnoitre the coast and in the meantime we stood off and on with the ship. This gave time for three sailing canoes who had been following us some time to come up with us. There were five or six men in each; they came near enough to take hold of such things as were thrown them fastened to a rope but would not come along side. They were the same sort of people as we saw last night and had some resemblance to those of Mallicollo but seemed to be stouter and better shaped and so far as we could judge spoke a different language which made us believe they were of another nation: probably the same as Annamoka and the neighbouring isles, as one of them, on some occasion, mentioned the numerals as far as five or six in that language. Some had hair short and crisp which looked like wool, others had it tied up on the crown of the head and ornamented with feathers like the New Zealanders.

He placed the quill back in its holder, then leaned back. Feeling the pain returning to his lower right leg, he flexed it. This didn’t help. Instead it sent a stab of pain up the leg and into his groin. Wincing, he stretched the leg again. Gout?

The sporadic pains had begun over two years ago, in New Zealand. He had done his best to cope, largely by ignoring them. Then a more distressing complaint—constipation—had beset him a few months later when Resolution was in Antarctic waters. The bilious colic had been assuaged by dog broth, provided unexpectedly by Johann Forster. Yet the gut pains had never vanished entirely, and now they were returning more often. James had once considered illness a weakness, but since his own health had shown signs of faltering he had begun to doubt this view. Was pain just another aspect of life, an inevitability to be stoically borne? Probably. But as one who until now had seldom been ill, he was perturbed by the various pains.

He got up and walked over to the window. Before him was the river, in the distance London Bridge, the dome of St Paul’s and scores of house rooftops and church spires. The river and the densely packed buildings of the city were smothered by a brown haze from hundreds of coal fires. The Thames made a meandering pathway through the city. It never ceased to amaze him how in a little over a century, following the Great Fire of 1666, not only St Paul’s but the entire central city had risen from the ashes. And the traffic on the river was as hectic as ever. London grew and grew, spreading outwards, not merely nibbling at but munching the countryside surrounding it.

As always, James’s attention drifted to the vessels on the Thames. Ferries pulled by pairs of oarsmen were crossing the river in both directions, dodging the sloops that moved downstream, all sails unfurled, desperate to collect what little wind was on offer. He put his spyglass to his eye, training it on the various vessels and the activities of their crews. Occasionally a ship of the line appeared in his vision, flags flying proudly, making its slow way upriver to the Deptford yard for repairs, in readiness for the trans-Atlantic crossing and the war against the insurgents in the American colonies.

Closely watching the sailors working among the shrouds and the topgallants, James yearned to be up there with them. Commanding them, going aloft, reading the wind and tide, feeling the roll of a ship beneath him. He could not deny it: he envied those crews. Although the hospital provided him with everything he needed, he felt confined here. Shackled, even. For him, the place was more a prison than a hospital.

Staring down at the river, he recalled how as a lad many years ago he had been apprenticed to the owner of a grocery store in Staithes, Yorkshire. There too he had been within sight of the sea and its various vessels, but had been unable to break the bonds that confined him to the land. Now he was again removed from his beloved sea, obliged to live merely on memories of voyages past. What the old salts said was true: once the sea had entered your bloodstream, it flowed on in there for the rest of your life. It followed that to impede that flow was to deny the very reason for your existence.

He turned away from the view, thinking that life on land could never compensate for the feeling of a sea breeze at his back, of spray in his face, of the moods and scents of the ocean, of the vastness of the sky and stars from the masthead. Only a few months ago he had plotted and pursued courses through the oceans of the entire Southern Hemisphere. Now he was confined like a caged circus bear. He sorely missed the ‘wooden world’, as the old-timers called it, the watery way of life, and its special customs and traditions. Even its superstitions. At sea he had never suffered from what some called cabin fever, but here he was certainly suffering from bureau fever.

His writing had been recently interrupted by sittings for the portraitist Nathaniel Dance. Dance had accepted Banks’s commission to undertake the portrait, which required James to take the coach to Charing Cross for sittings in the artist’s studio. Dance was tall, with a long face and nose, and receding hair swept back from a broad forehead. He insisted that James be attired in full dress uniform, and seated, looking to one side. He placed an open chart in his hands and told him to place his tricorn on a table beside him. His right hand was to remain resting on the chart, the middle fingers extended. Not only did James find this position restful, it also allowed him to conceal the scar on his right hand, a relic of the powder-horn explosion that had nearly blown his hand off in Newfoundland back in 1764.

Dance sat on a stool before his easel, drawing and chatting, his eyes darting from subject to canvas, his right hand moving in short, deft strokes. To his surprise James found the experience oddly satisfying, although it was tiring trying to maintain the same pose. He and the artist exchanged travel stories. Dance told him of his time studying portraiture in Italy and James regaled the painter with accounts of life in the South Sea. When Dance asked about the arts practised by the natives of the region, James explained, ‘They have no paintings. They express themselves through stone and wood carvings instead. But in these they’re highly skilled.’

Dance looked unimpressed, so James persisted. ‘The carvings in jade by the New Zealand Maoris are true works of art. I’ll show you one, to prove it.’

Before the next sitting commenced he showed Dance the hei tiki he had obtained at Uawa, on New Zealand’s east coast. The artist held the smooth green object and stared at it admiringly. ‘The carver fashioned this without a steel chisel?’

‘Yes. Carved with an adze, made from the same jade. Then polished with shark skin.’

‘Remarkable.’ Handing it back, Dance said, ‘Now, Captain, take your seat.’

Dance insisted that James not see the result until the portrait was completed, which was frustrating, but he reassured him from time to time. ‘Yes, Captain, I’m working on your expression now. That’s the crucial part: capturing your authority.’

Sitting in the studio, wearing his commander’s uniform, chart in hand, James’s mind kept drifting back to what he had accomplished. And how much he missed the command and the oceans. Now, in his study, attempting to shake off these thoughts, he turned away from the view of the Thames and resumed his seat at the table. Picking up his quill, he transported himself back to the archipelago he had christened the New Hebrides after the isles of Scotland. His mind returned to the sea, although in truth it had hardly ever left.

SUNDAY, 4 SEPTEMBER 1774

… went with two boats to view the coast and to look for a proper landing place, wood and water. At a sandy beach where I could step out of the boat without wetting a foot, I landed in the face of a great multitude with nothing but a green branch in my hand. I was received very courteously … in short I was charmed with their behaviour. Soon, however, I had to give orders to fire, as they now began to shoot their arrows and throw darts and stones at us. The first discharge threw them into confusion but another discharge was hardly sufficient to drive them all off the beach and after all they continued to throw stones from behind the trees and bushes.

Although James worked largely in solitary confinement at Greenwich, he was not entirely cut off from the naval world. A source of dockland information was Elias Denbigh, who seemed to gather naval gossip as a dog collects fleas. One morning in January, as Elias was banking the fire from the coal scuttle, his peg leg braced against the hearth surround, he said, ‘They tell me, Cap’n, that the Navy Board has bought a companion vessel for your ship. For Resolution.’

James looked up quickly. ‘What for?’

‘Some sort of voyage in the offing.’ Panting, Elias stood back from the fire, scuttle still in hand. ‘They tell me it’s another collier the board’s bought.’

‘Whitby-built?’

‘I believe so, sir. Another square-rigger. Diligence, she were called, now renamed as Discovery. She’s been sent to the yard at Deptford for refitting.’

James allowed a silence. ‘And this voyage, Denbigh, what do you know of it?’

‘Nothing at all, sir.’ Elias’s eyes looked ceiling-ward. ‘For the war in America, proberly.’

James nodded. Yes, no doubt the collier was being converted to a transport vessel to accompany Resolution across the Atlantic. Supplies would be desperately needed in the colonies should the insurrection there turn to outright war.

Twisting his quill between his fingers, James considered further. Refitted colliers were usually deployed for longer voyages than just ‘crossing the pond’ to North America. The vessel’s new name, Discovery, implied something rather more than that too.

He dipped his quill in the ink, then held it poised above a blank sheet of paper, trying without success to rid his mind of this unsettling thought.