ALL ON BOARD THE SHIPS WERE engulfed by shock, disbelief, grief. Several had witnessed the killing through their spyglasses; others had seen the event from the boats. Men stumbled about the decks, unable to believe or comprehend the killing.
He was their patriarch, the leader supremely confident in his decisions, the man who knew no self-doubt. His presence was towering, his abilities unquestioned, his rule absolute. Their faith in their commander was not greatly different from the O-why-heeans’ belief in their Lono: it did not seem possible that he could die.
After the disbelief began to subside, it was replaced with anger. Much of this was directed at Williamson, who had ordered the men in his boat to row out. It was now known that when the sailors aboard had questioned the officer’s decision not to row in and pick up the captain, Williamson had threatened them with his musket. Merely disliked before, he was now the object of loathing.
Mainly, though, it was the desire for vengeance that dominated the decks: the natives must not go unpunished for their heinous crime.
As next in line of authority, Clerke assumed command of Resolution. He decided that Gore would move across to Discovery and take command of her. Clerke’s first action as commander was to call a meeting of all the officers, along with Bligh and Edgar, in Resolution’s Great Cabin. Phillips was also present, his wounds dressed by Law. Edgar’s face still bore the cuts and bruises sustained when he had attempted to confiscate the canoe. Williamson attended, but sat apart and remained silent.
Clerke, his face candle-white, addressed the others between laboured breaths. ‘There are two matters of urgency to consider. First, the remains of the captain, which the natives carried away, must be recovered and accorded proper burial. Secondly, the repaired foremast and rigging, and the astronomical instruments, must be retrieved from the shore encampment, before the natives steal or destroy them.’
Bligh’s hand shot up. ‘Sir, I believe there are three matters to be dealt with.’
Clerke looked at him coldly. Bligh was exceeding his authority. But before he could reprimand him the sailing master continued, his voice cracking with anger. ‘We must also immediately seek out and punish those responsible for our commander’s death. There must be reprisals.’
There was silence for a few moments. Then Gore said, ‘I agree. We cannot allow the captain’s death to go unpunished. But a higher priority must be given to recovering the mast and instruments. The voyage cannot possibly proceed without them.’
Clerke agreed. ‘Yes, they must be retrieved. But it’s my belief that the attack on our captain was not premeditated. Rather, it was the result of a chain of misunderstandings. Therefore we should not be o’er hasty in inflicting retribution on the natives. Remember, we will still need their support before we leave.’
Around the table there was little sympathy for this view. The general opinion was that they could not allow the deaths to go unpunished, and they would not.
Even Clerke’s mind was changed the following day when they observed the attackers’ shameless jubilation. The O-why-heeans swaggered along the shore, dressed in the slain marines’ uniforms, waving the captain’s tricorn and hanger mockingly. This was too much.
A plan was drawn up, but before it could be executed a canoe came out to Resolution. In it was a middle-aged priest, an associate of Koa’s. The sailors watched the slightly built figure as he came aboard, carrying something wrapped in hala leaves. Some began to abuse him verbally.
Ignoring them, the priest handed the parcel to Clerke. Inside was a slice of scorched human flesh, part of Captain Cook’s thigh. Clerke told Lieutenant King to demand of the priest where the other remains were. The priest replied passively. King translated: ‘The bones of the captain were presented to the king, Kalani’opu’u.’
Clerke told the priest that the ships would never leave the bay without the return of their captain’s remains. No truce was possible without this. The priest then explained that after the captain’s body had been dismembered, Kalani’opu’u had distributed his bodily parts among all the other chiefs, in recognition of the captain’s great mana. His bones had then been placed in baskets and sent to various kapu locations, such as the caves in the cliff face.
Clerke reiterated his ultimatum to the priest: Lono’s remains must be returned. Then he permitted him to leave.
Lieutenant King was sent to the remaining shore camp, where the foremast and rigging were. He was still on good terms with the priests, who agreed that the sailors could take the mast and float it back to Resolution, along with the rigging and the precious astronomical instruments.
But at the other end of the bay, a combination of the natives’ continued taunting from the shore and the grisly contents of the delivered parcel were the final straws. Revenge erupted like Killaway-ah blowing her top. Clerke gave in and ordered the ships’ gunners to fire their cannons into the crowds at the death site. As four-pound cannon balls struck the natives, killing and wounding many, those watching from the decks rejoiced.
Discovery’s Rickman and a party of marines went ashore to obtain water from the stream. After they were pelted with rocks by some of the natives, the marines shot six villagers dead. They then set their houses aflame. When the occupants ran out, many were shot or run through with bayonets.
Vengeance became rampant, the sailors and marines attacking every native they encountered, beating, burning, stabbing. Some of the victims were decapitated. Their heads were stuck on poles, then waved derisively at the people watching from the cliff-top above the bay, where they had fled in fear for their lives.
The foremast was floated out and hoisted onto the deck. Repairs resumed on board. Onshore, things gradually became more settled. The taunting stopped. Five days after the death of the commander, a message was sent out to Resolution. Captain Cook’s remains had been brought down to the shore at Kawaloa, along with other peace offerings. After a discussion, Clerke and King agreed to take in Resolution’s pinnace and cutter to receive this offering, but they would not land.
Kalani’opu’u was paddled out to the pinnace in an outrigger, then transferred aboard. His hands were shakier than ever. Uttering lamentations, he clutched a large bundle. It was wrapped in a cloak covered with black and white feathers, the colours of O-why-heean mourning. The king explained that he too was grieving for Lono. After all, he and Lono had exchanged names, so that when Lono was killed, the mana of Kalani’opu’u had been partly destroyed as well.
The old man began to cry. His face became contorted with grief. Making no attempt to stem the tears streaming from his eyes, he cried out, ‘Aue! Aue! We did not mean for Lono to die!’ Then he handed the parcel to Clerke, who unwrapped it.
He and King stared, horrified. In it was a pair of hands, one with a vivid scar across its palm, the result of the captain’s powder-horn injury years ago in Newfoundland. Both the hands had been scored, then stuffed with salt to preserve the flesh. The parcel also contained a scalp, a skull whose jawbone had been removed, and four long bones from the Captain’s thighs and arms.
The pinnace returned to Resolution with the parcel of remains in King’s lap. Both Clerke and King were weeping. That it should have come to this: their great commander bludgeoned, stabbed, dismembered, burned. Reduced to a parcel of bones and body parts.
The remains were wrapped in a canvas shroud and placed in a coffin weighted with cannon balls. At sunset on 22 February, the coffin was placed at Resolution’s starboard gate. The crew stood about the deck in a terrible, numbed silence. Both sloops had their ensigns and pendants hoisted at half-staff. The yards had been crossed, in accordance with naval mourning tradition, to give the sloops a suitably bedraggled look.
From the quarterdeck, through halting breaths, Clerke read from James’s naval commander’s prayer book, which he had recently inherited: ‘Unto Almighty God we commend the soul of our brother departed and we commit his remains to the deep in the sure and certain hope of the Resurrection unto eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ at whose coming in glorious majesty to judge the world the sea shall give up the dead.’
At three-quarters past the hour of five o’clock, Resolution’s bell tolled. The coffin was lowered into the sea. The ship’s cannons fired 10 four-pounders, at 30-second intervals. The detonations boomed out across Kealakekua Bay and echoed from the great cliff. The smell of gunpowder permeated the decks, and lingered there.
Thus was signalled the end of James Cook’s presence in this world, and the committing of his remains to the place that had been his home for two-thirds of his life.
5 JANUARY 1780
Admiralty Secretary Philip Stephens held the letter in both hands, to control his trembling. He resumed his reading, acutely conscious of the gaze of the woman opposite him. She was sitting perfectly still, her eyes fixed on the letter.
… on the morning of the 14th day of February, 1779, on the island of O-why-hee, one of the Sandwich Archipelago, Captain James Cook, of His Majesty’s Navy, was killed by natives during an affray.
Stephens looked up. Although the woman’s face remained completely still, there was a slight movement of the muscle in her throat.
Stephens swallowed, looked down again, read on.
Captain Cook died while defending his men, four of whom also died in the altercation. His remains were later recovered, and buried at sea in accordance with naval tradition and accompanied by the traditional seaman’s prayer. The late Captain Cook’s two vessels, Resolution and Discovery, are continuing on their voyage in search of the North-east Passage, pursuant to the 1776 Instructions of the Lords of the Admiralty. Captain Cook’s personal effects will be returned to his family upon the completion of the voyage and his ships’ safe return to England.
I remain,
Yours dutifully,
Charles Clerke RN
Stephens folded the letter and handed it to Elizabeth. She took it, held it, looked down. She closed her eyes, tightly. Tears began to leak from under her lids, but she remained as if turned to stone.
‘Mistress Cook …’ Stephens’s voice was hesitant. ‘It is hardly necessary for me to add that the Lords of the Admiralty wish me to convey to you their deepest sympathy over your grievous loss.’ He caught his breath. ‘Captain Cook was our finest commander. A man of the rarest talents and …’ He was unable to continue.
Elizabeth opened her eyes. Tears coursing down her cheeks, she reached out and put a hand on Stephens’s arm. ‘You are not required to make a speech, Mr Stephens. I am well aware of my husband’s—my late husband’s—abilities. They are known not only to me, but to all of England, and … and the world.’
Lifting her chin, she took a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. Shoulders slumping, she then covered her face with her left hand. On the other side of the room, little Hugh stared at her solemnly, well aware of his mother’s anguish.
Discomforted and sorrowful in equal measure, Stephens pressed on. ‘The King has received the tragic news of your husband’s death and has already decided that you will be granted an annuity of two hundred pounds. You will also be entitled to a proportion of the profits from the sales of the published accounts of your husband’s voyages.’
Elizabeth looked up. ‘Thank you, Mr Stephens.’ She tipped her head back and inhaled deeply. Visibly stiffening, her tone now with an edge of reproach, she said, ‘But I would willingly exchange the King’s annuity to have my husband back.’
She stood up, indicating there was little more she wished to say. Smoothing the front of her gown with one hand, she told him firmly, ‘Now, you must excuse me, I have letters to write. To my other sons, informing them of their father’s death.’
Stephens got to his feet. ‘Yes, yes.’ He hesitated, unsure whether to say more, then added, ‘The news is bound to reach the London news-sheets soon. That is why I came to tell you, directly after I received Captain Clerke’s letter.’
Elizabeth’s lips were tightly compressed. Again she wiped the tears from her face, then tucked the kerchief into her sleeve. ‘Yes. So now there will be no need for me to read the news-sheet reports. Now, Mr Stephens, allow me to show you out.’
20 SEPTEMBER 1780
Lieutenant James King RN left his Piccadilly lodging at 10 o’clock and walked the short distance to the Admiralty office at the north end of Whitehall. It was a chilly morning and he was glad of his top coat. The leaves on the plane trees that lined the streets had turned golden, and as he passed them King thought, How good it is to once again see trees whose leaves turn with the seasons! The evergreen trees of the Pacific did not have the same variations as these.
He crossed the Mall, treading carefully around heaps of horse dung. But how strange, too, to be back in civilisation again. Carriages, sedan chairs, elegantly gowned women, dandified gentlemen, children playing in the park. After four years of nothing but ships, oceans and islands, he felt like an abandoned orphan in his mother country.
A day earlier, King had been summoned to appear before the Lords of the Admiralty, three days after he had sent them a note informing them of his arrival in London. Now he carried a precious bundle of papers, wrapped in canvas. In it were the journals and charts that had accumulated over Resolution and Discovery’s four-year voyage. Gore had entrusted him with the package, and King had kept it always within reach during his 10-day coach journey south. From Stromness on Orkney Island to Thurso, to Glasgow, to Manchester, to Birmingham and finally, to London.
He went through the colonnaded screen in front of the Admiralty building and up to the grand entrance. A doorman showed him into the meeting room and advised him that the lords would be informed of his arrival. Conscious that his naval uniform was not in the finest condition—his jacket faded and worn, his tricorn battered, his boots cracked—King took a seat on the chaise longue under the windows and surveyed the long room. Its high ceiling was ornately decorated, and a huge chandelier hung from the rose in its centre. An oak table ran almost the length of the room, with upholstered chairs arranged around it. The carpet was floral-patterned in pink and blue shades. At one end were twin cabinets crammed with naval and military histories, separated by a large globe table, its orb depicting the known world. The other walls were taken up with oil paintings of naval battles and racks of rolled charts.
King knew he ought to be nervous in the midst of this grandeur, but he wasn’t. He was too weary to be nervous.
How comfortable and secure all this was, he thought, compared with the conditions serving mariners such as himself had to endure, on cramped, heaving ships at sea, in all weathers. Such a restful haven for the Lords of the Admiralty. Could they know what life on a voyage of exploration was really like?
While these vaguely subversive thoughts were uppermost in his mind, the door was opened by a footman. Hosed, wigged and blue-jacketed, he announced, ‘Be upstanding for Their Lordships of His Majesty’s Admiralty!’
King leapt to his feet as the lords traipsed in, led by Lord Sandwich. There were five of them, all wearing dark blue jackets with gold shoulder boards, and wigs that extended down to their shoulders. All wore silk cravats and satin waistcoats, white hose and shoes with brass buckles. Admiralty Secretary Stephens followed them in, notebook and quill in hand.
One by one, led by Sandwich, they approached King and shook his hand. Each looked at the officer very intently as they were introduced to him by the First Lord. ‘The Earl of Lisburne. The Lord Mulgrave. The Honourable Robert Man, Naval Lord. The Honourable Bamber Gascoyne the Elder, Member of Parliament.’
Uniformly rubicund, the lords varied only in stature. Mulgrave and Lisburne were short and corpulent; Gascoyne was elderly, tall but slump-shouldered. Robert Man was tall and straight, with a steely gaze. Sandwich, as well as being florid-faced, had a jutting chin and bulbous nose. Admiralty Secretary Stephens was compact and of medium height, with alert, darting eyes.
‘Please be seated,’ said Sandwich, indicating that King should sit at one end of the long table. To the footman he said, ‘Bring in the coffee and cake.’
They arranged themselves around the table, Stephens to Sandwich’s left, quill, inkwell and sheets of notepaper before him. He placed an opened notebook in front of Sandwich. Coffee was poured and slices of fruit cake placed before them. The lords nibbled at the cake and sipped their coffee.
King tasted his coffee but ignored the cake. The butterflies in his stomach were now fluttering their wings wildly. He took deep, slow breaths. The butterflies settled.
Hands spread on the table, Sandwich declared the meeting open. ‘We greet you this morning, Lieutenant King, as the first member of the late Captain James Cook’s third world voyage to return to London. Remind us, firstly, how long have you been away?’
‘We left Plymouth on 12 July 1776, my Lord, and gales in the North Atlantic forced us to put in at Stromness Harbour on 22 August last. So over four years in all.’
Sandwich nodded. ‘Probably the longest voyage Englishmen have ever undertaken.’ He looked perturbed. ‘Tell us, King, why did you return here from Orkney, and not Lieutenant Gore, who we understand now commands the expedition?’
‘Lieutenant Gore considered it his duty to stay with Resolution and Discovery until the ships can safely negotiate the east coast of Scotland and England. We suffered contrary winds for weeks and were unable to return directly to London. Gore considered it a matter of urgency that someone should travel overland to London, deliver the ships’ official journals and charts to you, and provide Your Lordships with a first-hand summary of the voyage. Particularly an account of the tragic loss of Captain Cook.’ He placed the canvas package on the table. ‘Accordingly, the journals and charts are here and will be left here with you for your later perusal.’
The others grunted their acknowledgment. Sandwich applied snuff to his nose, sneezed, took a kerchief from under his cuff and wiped his nose with it.
‘Our entire nation, and most of Europe, is mourning the loss of our greatest commander, Captain Cook,’ he said. ‘For you and the other men of the expedition, his death must have come as a great shock.’
They all stared at King gravely. For a few moments he was unable to continue, as the hideous events of that day came rushing back. Then, recovering, he said: ‘Indeed it was, particularly as so many witnessed the killing, and the desecration of his body that followed. For a time we were inconsolable. Only after his remains were recovered and committed with due ceremony to the sea did our grieving subside, and then only a little. Although we had cause on occasion to question his judgments, Captain Cook never lost our respect. He was like a father to us. No commander cared more for the health and well-being of his men. No one ever died of scurvy on his ships, a record of which he was very proud.’ King felt a prickling under his eyelids. ‘He was hard, very hard, yet always fair to his crews.’ He hesitated. ‘Yes, he was at times a tyrant. But he was our tyrant.’
After a decent pause, Sandwich continued his questioning. ‘We have been informed that he was killed on the shore of one of the newly discovered Sandwich Isles.’ The First Lord looked suitably satisfied at the mention of the eponymous archipelago.
‘Yes. An island the natives call O-why-hee, my Lord.’
‘My next question must be: what was the reason for the killing of the commander, in your opinion?’
King thought very hard before replying. ‘The natives of the Sandwich Isles at first venerated Captain Cook. They considered him to be supernatural. We learned from their priests that they considered him a reincarnation of one of their principal deities, one called Lono. Therefore they revered him as a god who had returned to them. They considered it necessary to prostrate themselves in his presence. And we were all initially treated with great hospitality throughout the archipelago. Gifts of food poured in for us. We were given everything we desired. Their women especially were very hospitable towards our men.’
Lisburne and Mulgrave chuckled lasciviously. Sandwich interjected, ‘Did the native men not object to sharing their women’s “hospitality” with our men?’ The subject of sexually jealous husbands was clearly not unfamiliar to him.
King replied, ‘Not when their women were paid in the currency that the men treasured above all else—iron spikes.’ The lords nodded.
‘However, when weeks later we were obliged to return to O-why-hee to repair a damaged foremast on Resolution, the attitude of the natives had greatly changed. They were now resentful and unwelcoming.’
Robert Man leaned forward. ‘Why this change?’
‘I believe they thought they had supplied us enough. They thought we were exploiting them. And I’m bound to say I sympathised with that view. We were like house guests who had greatly outstayed our welcome.’
‘So they killed Captain Cook for that?’ Sandwich demanded.
‘No. The killing was the culmination of other discontents. To mention just two: the captain had punished the natives severely for their thieving, which angered him greatly. The natives also felt that the captain had insulted their king by waking him up without warning then taking him hostage. I believe these and other resentments gradually built up, to our ultimate detriment. They had also come to realise that we were not supernatural beings after all, and so not deserving of their veneration.’
‘How?’ The question came from Gascoyne.
‘A death occurred, of a seaman, William Watman. He was buried ashore, in full view of the natives. This clearly demonstrated that we were not immortal. Also …’ King hesitated, then plunged on. ‘The carnality with the men became widespread. The women thus discovered that the crews’ urges were the same as their men’s. This fornication was a great leveller, one might say. This proved that, like them, we were ordinary mortals.’
‘Not godlike,’ suggested Sandwich.
‘Certainly not.’
A silence descended on the room, disturbed only by the scratching of Stephens’s quill. Then Sandwich resumed his questioning. ‘You mention Cook’s anger. Are we to understand that he lost his temper frequently?’
‘Yes. As you know, I had not served on Captain Cook’s ships until this voyage, and I was told by those who had served with him previously that on the earlier voyages his temper was mostly controlled. But I witnessed several instances when he flew into a wild, uncontrolled rage. In the Society Isles, the Friendly Isles and the Sandwich archipelago.’
‘What do you think was the reason for this?’
‘He was, I believe, in pain for much of the time. Not just from his old hand wound; I often saw him grimacing and pressing his gut. His face often betrayed pain. He also grew very fatigued towards the end of the voyage. Surgeon Anderson told me that the captain complained to him that he slept very poorly.’ King sighed. ‘So his temper bursts were probably a consequence of these factors—pain, fatigue and sleeplessness.’
‘Did he share his health problems with others?’ asked Man.
‘Not to my knowledge. He did consult Anderson. But after Anderson died and Law became Resolution’s surgeon, the captain said nothing of his symptoms to anyone else.’
King paused. ‘Pain often causes people to become angry, in my experience, and I believe Captain Cook often lashed out at those around him for that reason. Although he was stoical with regard to his health, I am sure he was suffering greatly from his afflicted gut.’ King’s voice became lower. ‘This not only led to temper outbursts, it also adversely affected his decision-making.’
‘Including just before his death?’ asked Lord Mulgrave.
‘Yes. The punishments he meted out became increasingly severe. After Discovery’s cutter was stolen, the captain reacted so strongly that he alienated the natives. Much earlier in the voyage, in New Zealand, he had been more tolerant.’ King shook his head sadly. ‘Too tolerant, others thought. Many considered he should have executed the killer of Adventure’s men at Grass Cove, when we were in Queen Charlotte Sound. The captain had been told who the leader of the killers was, and met him, but took no action against him. Consequently, our men thought the captain was soft on the natives.’
‘Did you agree with that view?’ This question came from the Earl of Lisburne.
‘No. I was aware that the commander was following the Royal Society’s instruction that the natives must always be treated humanely, except in self-defence. We had to demonstrate to them that we were an enlightened race. However, on occasions, notably on Moorea and in the Friendly Isles, the captain acted in breach of the Society’s strictures. There the transgressing natives were brutally punished. But I believe, as I said before, that his actions were principally a consequence of physical pain.’
There were nods of understanding at this statement; Stephens wrote frantically. King then remembered something else important he had to report: ‘The captain was also often furious at the condition of the sloops. Throughout the entire voyage, the rigging, canvas and caulking were found wanting. Both vessels leaked from the time the first gale struck us in the Atlantic. The masts and spars were in poor condition. And every time the materials failed, the captain lost his temper. He cursed the dockyard contractors, time and time again, for their scrimping and incompetence. Nothing made him angrier. He felt betrayed by them.’ King’s eyes narrowed. ‘We all did. It is entirely conceivable, in my opinion, that had Resolution’s foremast not sprung after we left Kealakekua Bay, Captain Cook would still be alive today.’
Around the table, there were shocked expressions. Brow furrowed in disbelief, Sandwich said, ‘You are certain that the ships were dispatched from Plymouth in an unsatisfactory condition?’
‘Undoubtedly. I saw irrefutable evidence of poor workmanship in the rigging and on the decks. Everyone was aware of the sub-standard work and suffered from it. It was disgraceful. Captain Cook’s fury at this was totally justified. And I am certain Lieutenant Gore will endorse this view.’ He looked hard at the lords. ‘An enquiry into this state of affairs is warranted, I believe.’
There were audible exhalations around the table, and an exchange of embarrassed glances. Sandwich told Stephens, ‘Make a note. The head of the Navy Board will be ordered to attend a meeting here at the soonest possible date after the ships’ return. Someone must be called to account for this dereliction.’
He then returned to events at Kealakekua Bay. ‘Following the murder of Captain Cook, and before you finally departed from the Sandwich Isles, what was the nature of your relations with the Indians?’
‘They became largely positive again. There was reconciliation, strongly encouraged by Lieutenant Clerke. The Indians again supplied us with gifts and provisions, and the women continued to be obliging. Just before we unmoored, a group of chiefs came aboard. They presented us with more of Captain Cook’s remains—his jawbone, his feet, one of his boots and a piece of his tricorn—all of which they had recovered after the hostilities had ended. One of the O-why-heean king’s sons, a lad called Keoua, also came out to the ship. He had been the captain’s guest on board on several occasions. He cried as he spoke of his fond memories of the great Lono. This confirmed that a mutual reconciliation had been achieved. Although I also believe that the common people were again relieved when we left for the second time. After all, we had killed many of their people following Captain Cook’s murder. Seventeen natives were killed in the affray, including four chiefs. Many more were wounded by our weaponry, and several other natives were killed in the days that followed. Brutally killed by our sailors.’
There was another awkward silence. This was not what the lords wished to hear. Sensing this, King added, ‘Not all agreed with this arbitrary retribution. I did not, and neither did Clerke.’
‘Then who did?’ demanded Sandwich.
King hesitated. Did he wish to implicate his shipmates? No, but he would not resile from apportioning blame where it was due. He said firmly, ‘Of the officers, Lieutenant Williamson was the one who had often accused Captain Cook of treating the natives leniently. Williamson regularly urged harsh retribution for their misdemeanours. Our sailing master, William Bligh, was also an advocate of severe punishment of the natives. Bligh and Williamson were the most unforgiving.’ Again King hesitated, but again he knew he had to speak up. How else could the record be set straight? ‘Williamson was also partly blamed by the crew for Captain Cook’s death. When he had the opportunity of taking his launch in and rescuing the commander, instead he told his oarsmen to pull further out, away from the fray.’
There was a stunned silence. Sandwich said, ‘Do you believe that Captain Cook could have been rescued by Williamson’s boat?’
‘I cannot say for certain, my Lord. But I believe that if Williamson had come further in with his men and muskets, this might well have deterred the captain’s assailants. However, in his own defence, Williamson stated that he interpreted a gesture of the captain’s as meaning that his launch should pull away.’
Sandwich and Stephens exchanged glances. The others looked grim. Sandwich said, ‘Williamson and the other officers, and the sailing masters, will be brought before this board upon their return.’ He looked down at his notes. ‘Now, to resume your account of the remainder of the voyage …’
The questioning continued for another two hours. King was asked about the route they had taken after they left Kealakekua Bay on 22 February. He told the meeting how they had returned to two other Sandwich Islands they knew, Kow-ay-ee and Nee-ee-how, to take on wood and water. Then, endeavouring to fulfil the Admiralty’s Instructions, they set forth northwards for the Bering Sea, the Arctic Ocean and the putative North-east Passage. ‘We reached the Chukchi Sea, but near the place where we were forced back a year earlier, at over seventy degrees North latitude, the ice shelf again defeated our attempts to proceed further north. The ice mass was impenetrable and we were again forced to turn back. Then, when we were off Petropavlovsk, on the Kamchatka Peninsula, Lieutenant Clerke passed away. On the twenty-second of August.’ King stopped, his throat too tight to continue.
Regaining control, he went on. ‘He had been ill for most of the voyage, coughing blood, hardly sleeping. His lungs were completely wasted. But he never complained. He was a fine officer, admired by us all. Following his death I was given the command of Discovery by Lieutenant Gore and we took the ships to Japan, then Macao and Canton, on the China coast.’ He gave a dry laugh. ‘There we sold our sea otter pelts for huge profits. This provided some compensation for our grievous personal losses. We then sailed south, and west, crossing the Indian Ocean to Cape Town, then up the Atlantic. Gales forced us to the west coast of Ireland and Scotland, before we anchored at Orkney on 22 August. Exactly one year after Lieutenant Clerke passed away.’
The lords looked deeply thoughtful as they absorbed all this. Sandwich broke the silence with a further question. ‘Is there, do you believe, a North-east Passage from the Arctic Ocean through to the Atlantic?’
King shook his head. ‘After twice seeking one, it was our conclusion that a passage from the Arctic Ocean through to the North Atlantic is unattainable.’
He concluded his report with a statement that he remembered vividly. ‘Captain Cook was one of our finest ever leaders, I believe. He was also a deep thinker who had many insights. He realised, for example, that our discoveries were not necessarily beneficial to the natives we encountered throughout the Pacific.’ King smiled tightly. ‘He once remarked to me: “It seems that having discovered a whole new world, we have been doomed to then lose it.”’
King walked out into the pale autumn sunshine. He was exhausted. But he was also relieved that important—even vital—truths had been aired to the authorities. The lords had listened, and had absorbed his report. The journals and charts would enable them to fill out the picture. They had even invited him to consider the role of editing the documents that had recorded the voyage, for their eventual publication.
This proposition appealed to him. At the age of 30, he needed other gainful employment. He would return to the sea in time, but for the moment he yearned for a period ashore. He needed to visit his parents, who were now living in Northern Ireland, where his father was Dean of Raphoe.
There was also one more essential duty he had to undertake. One he owed Captain Cook and his family. Tomorrow he would carry it out.
King took a hackney from Piccadilly Circus and directed the coachman to the address the Admiralty had supplied: 7 Assembly Row, Mile End. In his briefcase he carried a document that the lords must never see.
The door of the modest brick house was opened by a young woman in a maid’s plain brown gown. After King introduced himself and asked to see Mistress Cook, the maid showed him inside, saying, ‘She’s upstairs, but I shall fetch her for you, sir.’
It was early afternoon and warm in the parlour, although there was no fire. As he waited, King studied the objects on the walls and mantelpiece. Framed charts of Otaheite and New Zealand, a patterned square of tapa cloth, a portrait of a New Hebridean chieftain, a Maori club of greenstone, a conch and several pearl shells.
Intrigued, he stared at the artefacts, and at the portrait in oils that hung above the fireplace. The subject was seated, hatless and wigged, wearing the dress uniform of the Royal Navy, the jacket unbuttoned at the front. The artist had portrayed his subject looking slightly away. His expression was both pensive and authoritative. His right hand held a quill and rested on a chart, obviously of his own drawing, and his naval hat had been placed on a desk in the background.
‘It’s a fine likeness, don’t you think?’
Startled, King looked up. The woman coming down the stairs was about 40 and wore a long, black crinoline gown. Mourning dress. The gown was done up tightly at the neck; her sleeves and bonnet were both edged in white lace. There was a pendant of pearl shell on a gold chain around her neck. Her face was pale and lined, her eyes clear blue, the chin small and well shaped. Her greying hair was tied back in a bun.
‘Mistress Cook, I am James King. Lieutenant James King. I sailed with your husband on his last voyage.’
She stepped into the room and fixed him briefly with a firm look. Then her eyes returned to the portrait. ‘Don’t you agree that it’s a fine likeness?’
‘Oh, yes.’ He hesitated. ‘But done some time ago, I presume.’
‘In 1776. By Nathaniel Dance. I like it, I like it very much. I believe there are others, by Hodges, but I’ve no wish to see them. James did not like them. So this is the only one I wish to have.’
She waved her hand towards a wing chair under the window. ‘Please, be seated.’ She took a matching chair by the fireplace. Clasping her hands, she asked, ‘Would you like tea?’
He noticed a gold ring on one finger of her left hand. It contained a large violet stone. An amethyst? ‘No tea for me, thank you. I apologise for coming unannounced, but I’ve only just returned to England. I’ve been away for over four years.’
‘Were you on Resolution or Discovery?’
‘Resolution, mainly. As second officer. I shared the astronomical responsibilities with William Bayly.’
She stared at him for some time, her expression thoughtful. Then she said quietly, ‘So you must have come to know my husband well, before he …’
King intervened quickly. ‘I did, Mistress Cook.’ He hesitated. This was proving more difficult than he had imagined. But he pressed on. ‘Firstly, allow me to express my condolences for your terrible loss. Your husband was a great man—one of England’s greatest—and it was a privilege to serve under him.’
She inclined her head, but only slightly, continuing to scrutinise him. Uneasy at this inspection, he wondered what her expression meant. Resentment? Melancholy? Definitely, she was unhappy, and when she spoke again her unhappiness was tinged with bitterness.
‘I didn’t want him to sail again. I urged him not to. I somehow knew that if he went again, he would not return.’ She inhaled deeply, then sighed. ‘But that is as it was. He went, and now he is dead. Were you present when James was killed?’
‘No. I was there, but I did not actually witness the event.’ He leaned forward. ‘Mistress Cook, I did not come here to talk of your husband’s death. I came to give you something.’ He reached into his briefcase and withdrew a large notebook. ‘I was deputed by Lieutenant Gore to gather together your husband’s effects, his official log and journal. When I did so I came across this in his locker. I opened it briefly, just long enough to see that it was intended for you. So I read no further.’
He handed the notebook to her. She opened it at the first page and read aloud:
15 July 1776, the Bay of Biscay.
Dearest Elizabeth,
As before, my personal journal to you will be kept here in the Great Cabin …
She sent King a knowing look. ‘His third journal to me. I have two others, from the earlier voyages.’ She gave a mirthless laugh. ‘We had a kind of pact, you see, Lieutenant. James said that if I would give him my blessing, then he would keep an intimate journal for me during the voyage.’
Tears were now spilling over and beginning to run down her cheeks. Putting her hand to her forehead, she closed her eyes. ‘But I did not give him my blessing for the third voyage. I resisted his leaving me again.’ Her eyes returned to the journal. ‘And now he is dead. And all I am left with is this.’ Clutching the journal, she added quietly, ‘And the love of my remaining three sons.’
She showed him to the door. As she did so she held up the hand holding her ring, then pressed the side of the violet stone. It sprang open. Inside was a curled lock of brown hair. Touching it, she said, ‘This is his. I snipped it from his head before he left on his first voyage in 1768. I’ve kept it ever since, in this ring he gave me when we married. I shall never take it from my hand. And I shall wear black until the day I die.’
King nodded. Almost overcome by sorrow, at the same time he realised that here was a woman of stoical strength, someone whose capabilities must have complemented her husband’s. Someone who, although she had been left for very long periods of time, had been the person to whom he had constantly written, and to whom he always returned. She must have been his beacon, his guiding light. Steadfast, loyal, maternal. King hoped that in time he too would find such a woman.
‘Thank you for bringing me the last journal,’ she said, as they parted on the doorstep.
‘I considered it my duty to do so, Mistress Cook. The last duty I could perform for my captain.’
Then he turned and walked away, in the direction of the Thames.
Elizabeth read by candlelight, sitting up in bed. The two other journals were on the bedside table. She had read them many times, in the company of James when he had returned home.
Again she was moved to tears by his expressions of his feelings: towards her, towards the children, towards his shipmates. Through his words and his intimacies it was as if he were with her again.
Certain phrases in his long, flowing hand leapt out at her.
As we depart for the unknown and the unfathomable, it is the known and the beloved who are uppermost in my thoughts … I write on the third birthday of little Lizbeth. My thoughts have been much with our daughter … My deepest love to you, and to our four little ones … Be assured that my fondest thoughts are with you all, wherever I may be … Convey my deepest love to our three sons and assure them that they are constantly in their Papa’s thoughts. As are you, my beloved wife …
The entries that brought her the deepest grief were those that referred to the infants they had lost without his knowing it. Little Elizabeth and baby Joseph and baby George, all of whom had died without their father’s knowledge. Until he returned home and was told. The terrible grief that she had first suffered alone was then shared with him. She remembered the comfort this sharing had brought her, and the bitterness that she had felt when he had not been present to support her. His absences had become more and more difficult to bear, until he left the last time, when the birth of baby Hugh had consoled her. Now four years old, and the sweetest child, he was the only one to have been born while James was home. He was now sleeping soundly, in the bedroom next door.
It was well after midnight when she read the final entry in the third journal.
Dearest Beth,
This entry will be brief, as a serious breakage has occurred on Resolution, necessitating a return …
Serious, certainly. The first break in the chain of events that had led to his death.
She closed the journal and placed it on top of the others on the bedside table. Then she opened the drawer in the table and took out the envelope containing the letter she had received from Nathaniel, two weeks after the report of James’s death had been published in the London news-sheets. Their second son had written to express his deep sorrow for their loss, just before he left England to serve on HMS Thunderer, in the Caribbean. The last paragraph read:
Finally, Mama, Papa told me that if he did not return from his third voyage, there is a note from him that you must read. He told me the note is locked in a compartment of the writing desk in his study, and was only to be read in the event of his death. The key, Papa said, is to be found in …
For the last eight months she had resisted James’s instruction, preferring to keep it locked away in the hope that he would return with a third journal that the two of them would share. Now that they never would, she must fulfil his wish.
She located the key, the little drawer, and the envelope on which was written: To be opened by Elizabeth Cook in the event of my death—James Cook RN.
She opened the envelope.
My dearest Beth,
The journals that I kept for you have fulfilled their purpose. I know the joy I felt while reading them to you was shared. But they are to be read by no one else. I have no wish for others to learn of my most intimate, heartfelt thoughts; they were intended only for ourselves. Not even our sons must read them; they will learn of my achievements from other sources. I know that you will keep the sentiments expressed in the journals in your mind for as long as you are able. But no other person has the right to read them, either now or in the future.
Therefore you must destroy the journals. And all my letters to you.
Your loving husband,
James
Well, the third journal had come, but without him. That young man, Lieutenant King, had been kind and considerate, and she was pleased that he had appreciated its confidences, pleased that he brought the journal to her. Now that she had read it, along with the others, and absorbed—virtually memorised—their contents, she knew what she must do.
Carrying a lamp and the three journals, she went downstairs to the parlour. The fire had died down but the embers still glowed. She took kindling from the wood box and laid some on the embers. They flared. She took the scuttle and poured on some coal. Soon the fire was blazing.
Page by page, she tore the leaves from the journals. One by one she screwed them into balls, then fed them to the fire. The paper flared, then shrank to ashes.
It took over three hours to burn them all. When she had finished, all that remained in the grate were ashes, as black and delicate as mourning lace.
For some time Elizabeth stared into the fire and its remains. She had honoured his last wish to her. Staring at the ashes, she thought: It was right that it was so. He had kept those journals solely for her. And she knew that what he had written to her would always survive.
In her memory, in her heart, forever.