PROPELLED BY A LATEEN SAIL of woven pandanus and scores of loinclothed paddlers, the great double-hulled canoe entered Kealakekua Bay from the north. Kalani’opu’u stood in the bow, a small figure with a red-feathered cloak draped around his upper body, his head encased in an ornate helmet. He was surrounded by several lesser but much larger chiefs, men who dwarfed the shrivelled little king.
The canoe drew up alongside Resolution and the venerated figure of Kalani’opu’u came aboard. His ’aikane, Palea, was with him, along with two of the king’s sons—boys of about 10 and 12 respectively—and one of his wives. She was a big woman, larger than her husband, not tall but very stout. Her face was perfectly round, her eyes dark brown, and she wore bracelets of boars’ tusks around her wrists. Seeming shy, she said little, but James ascertained that her name was Aolani, which meant ‘Heavenly Cloud’. Also with the party was a young man introduced as Kalani’opu’u’s nephew. More than six and a half feet tall and powerfully built, the young giant had a long, handsome face and a prominent nose. Twice the size of his kingly uncle, he even towered over James. His name was Kamehameha, Kalani’opu’u told them, showing obvious pride in the lad, who displayed a dignified bearing, nodding respectfully towards James and the other officers and murmuring, ‘Aloha, aloha.’
After greeting Kalani’opu’u and his family, James took them below to the Great Cabin and gave them gifts—medallions, axes, a short sword and a square of linen for Kalani’opu’u’s wife. These were accepted with obvious pleasure, Aolani’s eyes shining as she examined the cloth. The two sons and young Kamehameha stared around the cabin, big-eyed. Thinking of his own sons, James presented each of them with a copper coin, which they clasped as if they were gold sovereigns. They all dined, and before he left, Kalani’opu’u invited James to meet him ashore the next day, suggesting the Hikiau shrine as the venue. He would like to see what was inside the tent that the haole, the visitors, had pitched there, he said.
Next morning James went ashore, led Kalani’opu’u to the astronomers’ tent and ushered him inside. Clearly awed by the exotic technology, especially the timepieces and sextants, Kalani’opu’u turned one of the instruments over in his hands, exclaiming at the hardness of the brass and its manoeuvrability. But when Bayly offered to let him see through a telescope, he shook his head firmly and waved it away. ‘He thinks it’s a firearm,’ King explained, ‘and hence dangerous.’
Outside the tent, Kalani’opu’u made presentations to James. He removed his feathered cloak and placed it around James’s shoulders. Then, reaching up, he placed his helmet on James’s head and handed him the symbol of authority he carried, a staff with feathers attached to the top. After James accepted it, King said quietly, ‘I believe that is a very great honour, Captain. The staff is the symbol of the highest ali’i in these islands.’
Kalani’opu’u said something else, speaking very earnestly now, with tears streaming from his rheumy eyes. King translated: ‘He wishes to exchange names with you. He now wishes to be known as Kuki and he wishes you to be known as Kalani’opu’u. This is the very highest honour he can bestow on you, Captain. You are now a truly sacred figure to him and his people, as you bear his great name.’
James took the king’s hand and shook it, saying, ‘Maholo, maholo.’
The old man smiled, intoning, ‘Ae, ae, ae, ae.’
James was dozing in his cot after the midday meal when Ewin knocked on the cabin door. James sat up, stifling a groan. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s Watman, Captain. He’s passed away.’
‘Oh, no!’
James was moved by this death. Able seaman Watman was an elderly 47, just three years younger than himself. Originally from Surrey, he had also been an able seaman with Resolution on James’s second voyage, and before this one had been in retirement at the Greenwich Hospital. It was James who had encouraged Watman to be added to Resolution’s muster roll. Although he had recently been unwell, his health had improved to the extent that Law had pronounced him fit for duties. Now, instead of enjoying a pensioned retirement in London, he was dead. On the other side of the world.
The surgeon surmised that Watman had died from bleeding on the brain. ‘He haemorrhaged heavily from his ears and nose as he died,’ Law said. ‘And just before he passed away, he expressed a wish to be buried ashore, near the shrine you visited.’
James nodded. ‘Watman was a good man. We must honour his last wish.’
Permission was sought from Koa for a burial at Hikiau, and obtained. A party accompanied the rough-sawn coffin containing Watman’s body when it was rowed ashore. As they marched along the shore, a troop of marines and a flutist playing mournful notes preceded them, with James, the officers and six of Watman’s mates from the lower deck carrying the coffin.
The onlookers, commoners mainly, stared at them and their burden. They began to frown and mutter among themselves. Realising that a dead person was being carried, they looked disconcerted. Some laughed. James was then struck by an awkward thought: They have already seen us fornicating with their women like any mortal man would. Has this death reinforced that we are not immortal gods after all?
Koa’s attendants had already dug a grave, and Watman’s body was lowered into it. James stood at the head of the grave, reciting the words of the Church of England’s ‘Thanksgiving for the Life of the Departed’ from his commander’s prayer book. The others stood around the grave, sweat streaming down their faces, hats in hand, heads bowed as the prayer was delivered: ‘Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ who has blessed us all with the gift of this earthly life and has given to our brother William his span of years and gifts of character. God our Father, we thank you now for his life and for every memory of love and joy.’
Even as he recited the words, James thought they sounded hollow, even insincere. He had long since stopped being a believer, and for all he knew Watman had not been one either. This was merely a duty, and a perfunctory one at that.
He closed the prayer book. Koa stepped forward, raised his hands and recited what seemed to be an O-why-heean burial prayer. Behind him, his attendants chanted lamentations. Then they came forward and threw into the grave a dead pig, some coconuts and stalks of sugar cane. The grave was filled, quickly and efficiently, by more attendants.
Watman’s mates had prepared a plaque, which they nailed to a post at the head of the grave. On it was a Latin inscription King had written: Georgius Tertius Rex 1779. Hic jacet Gulielmus Watman. As he looked on, James realised with a jolt that Watman was the only one of his crew to have been buried ashore in a foreign land since Forby Sutherland in Botany Bay back in May 1770. That seemed half a lifetime ago.
From then on, things began to change. The O-why-heeans’ respect for the haole—the visitors—began to noticeably dissipate. There was an outbreak of thieving. Pewter plates and cutlery were stolen after nightfall from King and Phillips’s shore encampment, and on Discovery a native was apprehended in the act of stealing a knife and sentenced to a flogging by Clerke. Around the bay, tensions began to tighten.
When James next met with Kalani’opu’u, the King asked him when they would be leaving. ‘Soon,’ James assured him, and he noticed that the king received this news with some pleasure. Word had spread that the sailors were showing disrespect towards the O-why-heeans by helping themselves to their crops and pigs. The people’s gardens had been almost completely stripped of their crops in order to fulfil the priests’ demands that they supply the visitors.
Having observed that the wooden fence around Koa’s heiau was in disrepair, James asked the priest if they could have the wood for much-needed kindling for the galley. After Koa shrugged indifferently, some of the crew tore down the fence and took the wood out to the ships. They also took the carved god images as souvenirs. Shocked by this sacrilege, King offered to retrieve them for Koa, but he appeared not to care. He valued only the carving that he and Lono had kissed, he said. That was the image of Ku, the war god. It needed to be returned to its rightful place, Koa explained, as the season of Lono was nearly over and that of Ku was imminent. It was returned.
Lieutenant King had become a popular figure with the priests, the chiefs and the common people. After watching more provisions being conveyed to the sloops, Koa approached the young officer and made him an offer in words that King now well understood. ‘Son of Lono,’ Koa said, ‘do not leave us. Son of Lono must stay here at Kealakekua with us.’
King explained that, although flattered by the offer, he could not stay. Neither was he Lono’s son. He was a friend of Lono’s, and his officer, so he must go with him. Koa nodded, but sadly. ‘You are a friend of Koa, too,’ he said, embracing him.
The tents and observatory were dismantled, packed up and returned to the ships. The holds were full; the repairs to the decks, sails and rigging were complete. The sloops’ impending departure demanded a farewell celebration, so the O-why-heean leaders organised one. Boxing and wrestling matches between semi-naked men were staged on the foreshore before a huge crowd of spectators and the ships’ crews. Other locals watched from canoes in the bay. An akua pa’ani, representing the head of Lono, who was also the god of play, was erected on the sports ground. This symbolic structure consisted of two wide ribbons of kapa cloth hanging from a tall cross-piece below a head decorated with feathers and foliage. The resemblance to a ship’s mast, sails and spar was unmistakeable.
In response to these activities, James ordered his armourer to provide a fireworks display. When sky rockets were set off they initially terrified the crowd, but after they realised the rockets did them no harm, the people watched the pyrotechnics with a mixture of delight and astonishment.
That evening James called a meeting of all the expedition’s officers, along with both sailing masters. Although still fatigued, he now felt relatively buoyant. His health had somewhat improved lately, which he attributed to the fresh fruit, fish and pork he had been able to partake of at Kealakekua. But he knew the volcano within him was not extinct; it was only dormant.
Standing at the head of the table, he told the meeting, ‘We will unmoor the day after tomorrow, then proceed on a north-west course. We will coast the western shores of the islands of this archipelago and survey them. We will then anchor at Kow-ay-ee, where we were last year. There we will fully replenish the water casks and take on more wood. Then, in accordance with the Admiralty’s Instructions, we will again proceed to the north, to the Bering Sea, the Arctic Ocean and the North-east Passage.’ His eyes swept over the seated officers. ‘I believe O-why-hee has proved a momentous discovery and Kealakekua a bounteous anchorage. Are there any questions, gentlemen?’
There were none. All had savoured this stay, but all were aware that they had unfinished business. It was now almost February, and the northern summer awaited them. This time they must not lose a season.
On the day of their departure, Koa showed them another enormous supply of vegetables and pua’a which he had extracted from his followers. He also informed James that he had changed his own name to Bretannee in commemoration of the visit of the English. Another ultimate tribute, James realised, that would benefit any of his countrymen who followed him.
Troubled by the presentation of this additional food, Lieutenant King appreciated what most of the ships’ companies did not: that the crops and animals of the maka’ainana had been in effect expropriated by their leaders as enforced tributes to Lono. Looking at the piles of food, he thought, This impost will likely leave the people bereft in the months ahead. But fearful of his commander’s reaction, he did not raise this concern with him.
The sloops’ anchors were raised and made fast, sails were loosed and set. As the ships began to move out of the bay in light airs, a flotilla of canoes surrounded them. There were cries of farewell from friends and lovers. ‘A hui hou! A hui kaua!’ Thousands more people lined the shore and headlands, many waving cloths of white kapa.
The intensity of these farewells masked another emotion: most of the cries were ones of relief. The maka’ainana had had quite enough of these greedy visitors.
6 FEBRUARY 1779
My dearest Elizabeth,
We are at last at sea again, well equipped to take on the northern Pacific and Arctic Oceans. The ice will have retreated towards the polar cap by June and July, so the North-east Passage should be open to us. If we are able to safely negotiate that passage, we may well be home by autumn. That prospect affords me inexpressible pleasure. My naval pension and the share of King George’s reward for the discovery of the passage will enable us to purchase a cottage by the sea. There we can spend my retirement. Somewhere on the Solent. The village of Fareham would be my preference. What say you to this suggestion?
It was a relief to put to sea again, and thus be purposefully employed. Our stay in Kealakekua Bay was for the most part constructive. We achieved useful relations with both the principal priest and the king, mainly by virtue of the linguistic and social proficiencies of my second officer, James King. Thank the Lord, or whoever else may be responsible—his civilised parents, perhaps—that King was there. His skills with language and his ready diplomacy have greatly eased our intercourse with the natives. Would that my other lieutenants possessed his abilities. Harvey is amiable but ineffectual, Gore tends to think he knows everything and Williamson has some offensive characteristics. He believes, for instance, that all natives are inferior beings.
I have already mentioned the ridiculous notion that the natives believed I was one of their great gods, Lono, who personifies the season of fertility. His season, King informed me, extends from October to February. Thereafter, King was told by Koa, the season of another of their primal deities, Ku, arrives. He is their god of war and human sacrifice. Like the timing of our arrival, another strange coincidence: that we should leave when Lono’s time is over and that of Ku, a very different god, is imminent.
We are now on a north-west course, making slow progress in heavy seas. Koa has been on board since we left. However, when we were off a bay that he told us was called Kawaihae, the priest went ashore with Bligh and did not return with him. I believe he was fearful of the rough seas, which even as I write this are worsening. The channel between O-why-hee and Mow-wee to its north contains very powerful currents and also provides a funnel for strong north-easterly winds. We have battled them for two days. Consequently, Resolution is rolling heavily and doubtless Discovery, abaft of us, is similarly beset. These conditions comprise an unpromising beginning to …
At that moment Resolution reeled to larboard and rolled heavily. As James grabbed the edge of the table, Elizabeth’s journal and his inkwell both flew across the cabin and crashed into the larboard bulkhead. Attempting to right herself, the ship then rolled 90 degrees to starboard. Tacking across the cabin, James collected up the journal, inkwell and quill and locked them away. He grabbed his cape and stumbled through the officers’ mess, making for the companionway to the upper deck.
Drenched with driving rain, Resolution was rolling drastically. Through the blackness engulfing the ship, James could see swells coming directly at them: rearing black mountains with white water streaming from their crests. The gale howled through the shrouds and tore at the canvas like a frenzied, feeding beast. Bligh was on the weather deck, cap tied down, cape flying, screaming orders at the top men, who were struggling to close-reef the topsails. Small rounded figures, they resembled black beetles as they clung to the spars. Others of the crew tugged at the larboard sheets, attempting to loosen them and so ease the pressure on the canvas. At the helm, Whelan and Roberts had roped themselves to the wheel and were fighting to keep the ship on something resembling an even keel.
James inched his way forward through the darkness, feet wide apart, half-deafened by the sound of the gale smiting the ship. When he reached the mainmast, Resolution pitched forward into a cavernous trough, tumbling into the void. For a few seconds she stopped dead. Then a massive wave rose up like a black wall in front of her. It broke, drenching the ship’s fore- and mid-decks. As she rose, recovered, then dived into the next trough, there was a crack like a musket discharge. Resolution shuddered, then swung crazily to larboard. The helmsmen clung desperately to the wheel, their boots skidding on the wet deck.
Bligh emerged from the blackness. Clutching the rail, he shouted at James above the gale, ‘Damage, Captain!’
‘What is it?’
‘The lower foremast’s gone. Split at the head!’ Again the ship plunged into a trough. Bligh stumbled, crashing against the mainmast before regaining his feet. ‘With the foremast sprung, she can carry no sail above the course. The mast’ll have to be repaired. Again!’
While the gale raged on around them, James, Bligh and Cleveley examined the foremast. It was badly split and had been wrenched off its base. Resolution could now safely set only six or seven sails out of her usual 12. Bligh also reported that one of the old leaks had re-opened and she was taking on water.
The officers and Bligh met with James in the Great Cabin. Resolution was still wallowing in the swells. James summarised their dilemma: ‘The whole lower foremast needs to be unstepped and repaired, and the leak must be plugged.’
‘We’ll need a safe anchorage for that,’ Gore said. ‘And an even keel.’
James glared at him. ‘That’s perfectly obvious. The question is, where?’
Williamson spoke up. ‘We could continue on to Mow-wee, and search for a bay on its west coast.’
James considered this. ‘That would mean crossing the channel between O-why-hee and Mow-wee. It’s wide, with contrary winds and tides. And there’d be no certainty of a safe anchorage even if we did traverse it.’ He exhaled slowly. ‘The reality is, we have found only one safe anchorage in these islands.’
A heavy silence descended on the cabin. Then King said, ‘Kealakekua Bay.’
James nodded. ‘Yes.’ He turned to Bligh. ‘Signal Discovery. We must return to the bay.’
After Gore informed the crewmen of this intention, he reported their reaction to James.
‘All hands are much chagrined, sir, and damning the foremast. They are eager to see the other islands.’
Staring towards the foredeck, James said bitterly, ‘Their damning could not possibly exceed mine.’