3 NOVEMBER 1778
Dearest Elizabeth,
It was young James’s 15th birthday three weeks ago. I hope he was able to celebrate the day in Portsmouth, in the company of Nathaniel and his college friends. How those 15 years have flown. For far too many of them I have been absent from the lad’s life, something I deeply regret.
Last week also marked my own birthday. I only remembered it myself when I entered the date at the head of that day’s log. Then I realised, with a shock, that I was now half a century old.
There are several unpleasant reminders that I have joined the ranks of the infirm old men. The deep rheumatic pains in my right leg, which were successfully treated by massage in Otaheite, have returned. These I can just tolerate. Less tolerable is the abdominal colic which still affects me, at times unbearably, and the constipation. It seems that there is nothing that can be done to ease my distress from these afflictions.
They also continue to provoke in me bursts of intemperance. It is as if I blame those around me for my physical pain, and so must lash out at them, punishing them for my suffering. These outbursts of temper come upon me like the squalls that appear over the horizon without warning and strike my ships. After my own temper squall has passed I feel remorseful, but cannot express my regret publicly. As commander I must always remain aloof.
The spectral James Cook still appears at night and continues to haunt me, usually when I am in a state of deepest melancholy. At such times, try as I might, I cannot rid myself of him. He looks down, taunting me, reminding me of my imperfections. I loathe him.
I derive a modicum of comfort from the fact that I can at least share these difficulties with you, Beth. I can mention them to no one else, not even to my kindly second officer, King, who shows concern when he observes my discomforts. But I discuss with him only astronomical and maritime matters. Writing to you is the only means I have to express my intimate concerns, and I am also consoled in the knowledge that upon my return I will share these personal reminiscences with you.
Enough complaining! There are other, much more important matters at hand. Driven by favourable trade winds, we are now bound for the archipelago I discovered last January and named the Sandwich Isles, to recover from the hardships that have beset us for the past eight months. Unfavourable weather is not yet behind us, though. Yesterday the wind veered unexpectedly to the south and a great gale struck us. We were forced to reef all sails and bring to. Our fear was that we would sever our connection with Discovery, as by 8 in the evening we had lost sight of her. But by the following morning the storm had abated, and to our relief we saw our sister ship just a league away. The wind then shifted to WNW, so we were able to make sail again and resume our southward course.
The men are already relishing the rising temperature and looking forward to the fresh victuals that the Sandwich Isles will provide. It is my hope that such fare will also ease my bilious colic. But there will be no time spent in idleness in the archipelago. The ships are sorely in need of further repairs, there must be intercourse with the natives, and I intend to thoroughly survey the coasts of all the Sandwich Isles.
I try to suppress my chagrin at not having discovered a North-east Passage this year. Next summer, however, we will be much better positioned to return to the Arctic and probe its eastward passages. My determination to do so is unwavering. Failure is never to be contemplated.
Your loving husband,
James
‘Land! Land ho! An island! Dead ahead!’
It was just after daybreak on 26 November when the rapturous cry came from able seaman Watson atop the mainmast. James immediately ordered Bligh to stand for the island, which was about three leagues away. ‘Another of the Sandwich Isles, surely,’ James remarked to Gore. Both had their scopes trained upon it.
‘Aye,’ said Gore. ‘And an even bigger one.’
King climbed down from the masthead, clutching his sextant and notebook. ‘Latitude, twenty degrees, forty-eight minutes North,’ he announced. ‘And longitude one hundred and fifty-six degrees, twenty minutes West. There’s another, smaller landmass to the east, joined to the main island. And there’s a bay between the two.’
The north-east trades had brought the two sloops to a different landfall from that of their earlier visit. After hearing King’s co-ordinates James realised that Kow-ay-ee and Nee-ee-how must be north-west of here.
The island they were making for was a massive green triangle looming from the dark ocean. Turned into the wind, Resolution rolled gently in the swells. Discovery was also hove to, half a league away. The sky was clear, the sun’s rays already scorching. Officers and crew stared at the huge island, mesmerised. Closer now, they could see white sand beaches, waves and veils of spray, dark green forests, verdant valleys. What enticements, after the icy, sterile shores of Alaska, the Aleutians and Siberia! It was not hard for the officers to read the crews’ thoughts and imagine their cravings, because they shared them. Fruitful land, luxuriant forests, tropical warmth, fresh food, exotic natives. Exotic native women.
Staring at the island from the quarterdeck, acutely conscious of the men’s anticipations, James was confirmed in a decision he had made days earlier. He called down to Ewin and Doyle. ‘Call the crew together on deck. All must attend.’
They gathered on the mid-deck, clad now in light clothing, mostly barefoot, their sun-reddened faces looking up expectantly at their commander.
His back to the island, James said, ‘As you can see, we have come upon another of what I have named the Sandwich Isles. In order to remind you of the responsibilities we bear in these waters, and to uphold naval discipline, I will read you the Articles of War.’
The crew looked at one another, perplexed. The time for the commander to proclaim the cast-iron Articles of War was at the beginning of the voyage. As he had done, more than two years earlier. Why was he repeating them now?
James recited the 35 articles, along with the grim consequences of any violations of them, whether it was ‘sleeping upon his watch’, or ‘forsaking his station’, or ‘sodomy with man or beast’. The penalties were reiterated, with one recurring noun: ‘shall suffer death’, ‘pain of death’, ‘punished with death’.
He closed the commander’s handbook then continued, his tone still harsh. ‘We will not be landing on this island. I will make a running survey of its coast.’ The crew’s frowns deepened. ‘The reason is that like the inhabitants of Kow-ay-ee and Nee-ee-how, the natives of this island will never have encountered Europeans before. They will therefore be in an uncontaminated state. It is our duty to ensure that they are in no way corrupted by us, either by our firearms or by the venereal distempers that some of you carry. So you will all submit to a genital inspection by our surgeon. When we eventually anchor, to carry out repairs and provision the ships, no infected men will be permitted to land. And no native women will be allowed to stay on either ship at any time. I will order Captain Clerke to issue identical instructions to the men of Discovery.’
A stony silence settled over the decks. The men looked askance at one another. No landing? Eventually anchor? What did that mean? Most of those who had the pox knew it. Some suspected they had it but the symptoms were not yet visible. The latter group had no intention of not going ashore. They hadn’t put up with years of hard sailing, with the cold, the lash and putrid food, to forego the delights of these tropical islands. Sod that!
King touched James’s sleeve. ‘Captain, look.’ He pointed towards the neck of low land separating the two sections of the huge island. A double-hulled canoe had put out from the isthmus and was being paddled through the choppy swells towards the ship.
The group of men from the canoe climbed to the deck. They were young and athletic, wearing loincloths and cloaks decorated with red feathers. A few had helmet-like headdresses. They greeted James and his officers with broad smiles, handing them baskets of pork, crabs and bundles of sugar cane. One of them also handed over the ship’s black cat, Rufus, whom they had come across swimming in the sea as they approached the ship. Lieutenant Harvey took the bedraggled creature aside and dried its fur with a towel. Furious and humiliated, Rufus immediately disappeared below deck.
Gibson and King conversed with the men in halting Otaheitian. The men told the Resolutions their island was called Mow-wee, after one of their great gods. Their people had lived there for many, many years, they said, after sailing from the island of Hawaiiki, or Raiatea, as the ships’ crews knew it.
After these preliminaries, one muttered something incomprehensible to King, drew his loincloth aside and pointed to his genitals. They were inflamed. A second did the same, then a third. Each one grimaced as he displayed his organs, which were encrusted with pustules and weeping sores.
Appalled at the sight, James asked Law to examine the men. The portly surgeon crouched down, peered at the affected men’s genitals through his thick-lensed spectacles, then stood up. ‘They have a venereal disease, Captain. Gonorrhoea, I would say.’
In disbelief, James challenged Law. ‘They cannot possibly have contracted our venereals. They have never known Europeans. Carnally or otherwise.’
‘That may be so, but the symptoms are definitely those of gonorrhoea.’
Gibson asked the men more questions in Otaheitian. After they replied, waving their hands towards the north-west, he told James, ‘Some months ago people from Mow-wee visited Nee-ee-how Island. They were there for some time, during which they were made very welcome. They fornicated with many of the women of that island. And after they returned their organs became diseased.’
Law said quietly, ‘It is eleven months since we were on Nee-ee-how. Time enough for a venereal disease to be contracted and disseminated.’
James cast his mind back to his injunction of September last. No women had been permitted to stay on the ships, and none of the men had been allowed to sleep ashore. The only exception had been … He looked around for his first officer. ‘Gore!’
He came forward. ‘Captain?’
Towering over the stocky Virginian, James demanded, ‘How many days were you confined on Nee-ee-how because of that storm?’
Gore thought for a few moments. ‘Three—no, four—nights we were forced to sleep ashore.’
‘And did our men have carnal knowledge of the women there?’
‘Not that I was aware of.’ Avoiding James’s gaze, he added uncertainly, ‘There were importuning women there, I do recall, but whether the men took advantage of their offers I cannot say.’
‘You “cannot say”?’ James’s tone was contemptuous. ‘Well, I can say. As you must know, a sailor from the lower deck will never decline a woman who offers her body to him.’
He strode over to one of the diseased native men and drew his loincloth aside. At the sight of the scabrous organs, Gore winced. The man looked anxiously at James, who continued. ‘There can be only one explanation for this infection. The men you were in charge of conveyed the gonorrhoea to the women of Nee-ee-how, and they later transmitted it to the men of Mow-wee.’
Law stepped forward. Clasping his hands in front of him, he said nervously, ‘Sir, there is another disease of the tropical climes, which exhibits similar symptoms to gonorrhoea. It’s called yaws. These men may be suffering from that disease, rather than the other.’
Gore guffawed. ‘What’s mine is yaws, you might say.’
James gave him a withering look. ‘A poor attempt at humour, Gore.’ Accusingly, he told his first officer, ‘You were in charge of that landing party. It was your responsibility to carry out my instructions and ensure there were no ruttish contacts between the crew and the women on Nee-ee-how. You failed to do so. As a consequence, its people were defiled, and that defilement has spread.’ He now addressed the entire deck furiously. ‘We will coast this island, then move on to the next, and coast that one. As well as any others we may discover. We will not land. All trade with the natives will be carried out on the water. King!’
‘Sir?’
‘Convey that information to these people!’
He did so. The visitors returned to their canoe and paddled away, clutching their gifts of nails and beads.
James then made another announcement to the assembled crew: ‘All grog rations will henceforth be stopped. We will save what remains for our return to the Arctic next year.’ He picked up a stick of the sugar cane that had been brought aboard and waved it at them. ‘This plant makes fine beer. We will brew it, and you will drink it in place of the grog.’ He was almost shouting now. ‘That will be all!’
The following day the chief of Mow-wee came out to the ship in a large canoe. Named Kahekili, he was accompanied by several muscular warriors, all wearing woven helmets. Kahekili was aged about 40, and barrel-chested, with a curly beard and a shaven, elaborately tattooed scalp. James greeted him, accepted his present of two piglets, then took him below to the Great Cabin, where he gave him a chisel and a medallion.
While the chief was below, several outriggers came out and circled the ship. In them were young women wearing only loincloths. They called greetings up to the crew. Then, giggling, they stood up and displayed their cunnies. The men stared at them, enthralled. But they could do nothing more. Ewin and Doyle were patrolling the decks, wielding knotted rope starters to enforce the commander’s decree: no women on board.
Realising they were being rejected by the crew, the women began to make mocking gestures. They pulled faces, scorning and taunting them. Some turned, bent over, pulled up their loincloths, bared their naked backsides and flaunted their hairy clefts. Then they paddled away.
Throughout the ship, frustrations mounted. Curtailed food supplies, grog ration revoked, fucking prohibited—what next? All the men could do was stare at the departing females and Mow-wee’s shores and crave its forbidden allurements. Their mutterings of discontent grew.
‘Captain?’ King had a sheet of paper in his hand and an anxious expression on his face.
‘What is it?’
‘The men wish you to read this, sir. Midshipman Charlton passed it to me.’
James took the sheet. The message was written in block capitals:
CAPTAIN COOK SIR WE ARE NOT HAPPY WITH THE FOOD SUPLIES YOU MAKE US HAVE AND THE GROGG WITCH WE DO NOT GET. THE SUGER KANE BEER IS NOT PROPPER GROGG, SIR. WE NEED MORE MEET AND DECCENT GROGG.
YOUR CREW
James stared at the sheet, incredulous. This was mutinous stuff; the perpetrators could be hanged. ‘Who wrote this?’ he demanded.
King coloured. ‘I don’t know, sir. It was handed to Charlton by Ewin. He said one of the men penned it but did not name him, sir.’ King’s expression became forlorn, his voice tense. ‘The men on the lower deck are unhappy, sir.’
‘Unhappy? Unhappy? Dammit, King, this is a sailing ship of the King’s navy, not a floating rest home for Chelsea pensioners.’
‘I know that, sir.’
James thrust his face forward so that it came close to King’s. ‘I have drunk the sugar-cane beer and it is perfectly fine. Moreover, it is healthful. It helps to ward off the scurvy. So they will make do with it.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘The grog cask will be struck down in the hold. If they won’t drink the sugar-cane beer, then they will make do with water.’
‘Yes, sir. And the food rations?’
‘We can trade with the natives for fresh hog meat. The crew cannot complain. They have nothing to complain about!’ James crushed the sheet of paper into a tight ball.
King nodded. ‘I will relay that message to the men, sir.’ But as he walked away, he felt terribly uneasy. The captain’s moods were so unpredictable. And in stopping the meat ration he was neglecting the crew’s interests. Why was he doing this? What was happening to Captain Cook?
Three days later armourer’s mate Thomas Price was caught by Lieutenant Williamson emptying a cask of the sugar-cane beer overboard. When this action was queried, Price shrugged. ‘The brew had gone bad. Too much sun on it.’
Williamson reported this to James and he flew into another rage. ‘Call the crew together. They are to report to the mid-deck. Now!’
He had his Adventure Bay stick with him, and as he spoke he underscored his words by striking the quarterdeck rail with it. ‘The letter one of you wrote I consider a mutinous proceeding. There will be no more of that!’ He brought the stick hard down on the rail. ‘And now one of you has been found throwing away perfectly good sugar-cane beer. Price!’
A bow-legged, lank-haired figure shuffled forward, hands clasped in front of him. He had already been punished twice on the voyage. ‘Did you write that pathetic letter?’ James demanded.
Price shook his head. ‘I canna write nor read, Captain.’
For a moment James was disconcerted. Then his fury flared again. ‘For throwing away a cask of perfectly good beer, you will receive twenty-four lashes. Doyle!’
‘Captain?’
‘Tie him to the grating and give him the twenty-four. And Doyle …’
‘Sir?’
‘Lay it on!’
The cat drew blood after the 11th stroke. The rest of the crew looked on, brooding. As Price’s flogging continued, Doyle’s strokes were accompanied by much panting and grunting.
By the 18th lash, blood was pouring from Price’s shredded back and he was uttering strangled cries. Doyle let the cat hang down. Clearly exhausted, sweating heavily, he turned and looked up at James. ‘Twenty-four, Captain,’ he gasped.
James nodded. ‘Good. Untie him.’ His menacing look swept the crew. ‘Any other violations and there’ll be many more of you kissing the gunner’s daughter. Now, get back to your work!’
The men mooched away, muttering to one another. What else could go wrong on this sodding voyage?
During the last week James’s gut cramps and constipation had become worse. His bowels had not moved for four days. Unable to sleep, he rose before dawn and went to the officers’ head. Drawers down around his ankles, he squatted in the darkness, straining, hearing the sloshing of the sea against the bulkhead beside him. Next to him was the water bucket holding the head’s rope arse-wiper.
For some time nothing happened. Around him, the darkness was gradually giving way to a lemony light. The cramps and pain continued. Then, just when he thought he could stand it no longer, he leaned back and let his hands fall to his side. At that moment something inside his guts gave way. He felt his bowels ease, then deluge. Seconds later the outpouring stopped. Gasping, he sat up. Relief, relief. He waited for a time, then reached for the rope wiper. He used it several times, then shoved it back into the bucket of water.
Then he stared into the bucket. The water was stained red. He had been passing blood as well as shit.
Later that morning James approached Lieutenant King on the quarterdeck. His face pale and drawn, he said flatly: ‘I’ve reconsidered the crew’s allowance. The meat rations can be reinstated. But the grog ration will not be restored. Inform the other officers and the clerk.’