Five

THE FOLLOWING WEEKS WERE ONES OF TURMOIL, with insufficient hours in the day for everything James needed to do. Along with the time spent at Greenwich, he continued to have portrait sittings. Not only for Nathaniel Dance, but also for Joshua Reynolds and the artist from Resolution’s voyage, William Hodges. Everyone, it seemed, wanted to capture James Cook’s likeness. Sitting for Hodges was diverting: while the artist worked the pair of them reminisced about their voyage through the South Sea. Hodges also showed him one of the paintings he was working on from the voyage, of Matavai Bay, Otaheite. It portrayed Resolution and Adventure at anchor, with outrigger canoes and natives in the foreground. James was entranced by it. ‘I feel as if I am back there again,’ he said.

‘Thank you!’ the artist replied. He squinted at the canvas. ‘It took me a great deal of time to capture the early morning light on the mountains.’ He had given the forested range in the background a blush, while the trees in the foreground were shadowy. The painting exuded natural and human beauty.

‘I wish you were coming on my next voyage,’ James remarked, as Hodges’s attention returned to his current canvas. As ordered by Lord Sandwich, James had not disclosed the aim of the forthcoming voyage, saying only that it was for the repatriation of Omai.

Hodges sighed, nodding. ‘I wish it were so myself. But having had no knowledge of a further South Sea voyage, I accepted a commission from the East India Company to portray aspects of India.’ He looked up at James. ‘Has the Admiralty appointed an artist for the next voyage?’

‘Not yet.’

James tried to work at Greenwich for at least four days a week, all day and half the night. Once a week he took Nathaniel with him. The boy loved being on the river, thrilled especially by the sight of the ships of the line, their colours flying, cannon ports gaping, gunners and marines drilling on deck, fifes and drums sounding.

While James worked in the study, Nathaniel browsed through the naval histories in the library, listened to lurid battle stories related to him by the veterans, roamed the hospital grounds and took walks along the river paths. He was growing to be a thoughtful, inquisitive lad, keenly interested in all naval matters. James watched him maturing with great pride.

Sometimes James slept at the hospital, in the dormitory room provided for the captains. Attempting to cope with Elizabeth’s resentful moods was making life more and more difficult at home. She seemed to be withdrawing into herself, saying little, seeming to want to cut him out of her life. There was nothing he could do in the face of this rejection but accept it and continue with his work. Completing his journal and preparing for the forthcoming voyage were now matters of urgency.

The Admiralty officials sent a stream of instructions to the Navy Board regarding the overhaul of Resolution. James would have liked to travel to the Deptford dock to check on the refitting but there was no time. Instead he had to rely on Stephens’s verbal reports, which were in themselves second-hand. ‘A new rudder has been ordered,’ ‘The rigging is being overhauled.’ ‘The damaged strakes are being replaced.’ ‘The copper sheathing proceeds.’ ‘The caulking will begin shortly.’ Placing his faith in the Navy Board and its contractors, James accepted these reports without question.

With the rebellion in the American colonies spreading, river traffic on the Thames was becoming more hectic. Demands on the Navy Board for provisioning the trans-Atlantic transports and the ships of the line were growing. Reports of the uprising dominated the news-sheets. In a way James was grateful for this, as it drew the public’s attention away from his forthcoming expedition and eased acceptance of the semi-fiction that his South Sea voyage was for the return of Omai to his home island.

James met regularly with Sandwich, Stephens and Palliser, and one evening was the guest at a dinner with this powerful triumvirate. When he arrived at Whitehall an elderly retainer answered his knock on the door, took his top-coat and ushered him into the dining hall. Sandwich and Stephens were already there, standing by the fireplace, wine goblets in hand. The atmosphere was convivial: a fire was burning and the big candelabra were all ablaze. On a trolley beside the dining table were decanters of red wine, sherry, port and brandy.

The two men greeted James enthusiastically. Sandwich’s face had a ruddy glow. ‘A drink, Captain?’

‘Brandy, thank you.’

Sandwich picked up a crystal goblet and filled it from a decanter. Stephens smiled and raised his glass. ‘Your good health!’

Although James nodded, that toast now seemed ironic. Lately the bilious colic had returned, and the pains in his stomach were more persistent. But he made no mention of this to anyone; it was just something he had to live with. Sea air would help cure the ailment, he was sure.

As the three men drank, the servant opened the door and announced, ‘Sir Hugh Palliser.’

Hugh shook hands with the others, then requested a glass of sherry. His round face was greyish, but his eyes were as lively as ever. As they drank and chatted, James again thought about how far he had come over the last few years. As a consequence of his successes, these men, the elite of the Admiralty, now listened to him, consulted him, deferred to his judgments. The days of being condescended to by men like Banks and silver-spoon naval commanders like Wallis were over. No one now mocked his North Riding accent or belittled his lowly origins.

They sat at the dining table, Sandwich at the head. He addressed James. ‘The first thing to say, Captain, is how delighted we are that you have accepted the command of our next expedition. There is no commander in England better suited to lead this great search, probably the last great geographical quest on Earth.’

‘Hear, hear,’ Stephens and Palliser said together. James nodded his acknowledgment.

‘You are confident that you can make the Strait of Bering by the summer after next?’

‘We will have to, if we are to make the most of the thaw. So I will ensure that we do.’

Stephens said, ‘The choice of officers for the voyage, on both ships, will be of paramount importance. Have you given consideration as to who they might be?’

James set his glass down. ‘Certainly. My preference for the command of Discovery is Charles Clerke. He’s a fine seaman and has already been on three world voyages.’

Palliser frowned. ‘I’ve heard, though, that he’s overly fond of two things: liquor and women. Might these fondnesses interfere with his nautical performance?’

‘No. It’s true that Clerke is no stranger to the glass or the ladies. But he is not alone in that regard.’ Stephens looked down, trying not to smile. ‘More importantly, Clerke is an excellent officer, courageous and able. The men not only respect him, they also like him, which is rare. His exuberance and sense of humour are well developed, and these qualities are of great value during a prolonged voyage. And his loyalty is beyond question.’

Stephens nodded. ‘True. He told me recently that he’d agreed to act as a guarantor for his brother, Sir John Clerke, who has many investments in the City.’

That Clerke should command Discovery was unanimously agreed, as was the appointment of the equally respected James Burney as his first officer. Burney’s fostering of Omai in London was cited as evidence of his commitment. The appointment of a first officer for Resolution now arose. Sandwich declared, ‘It would seem that John Gore is the most suitable candidate.’

Palliser and Stephens both shot meaningful looks at James. It was commonly known that he had had occasion to severely reprimand Gore during the Endeavour voyage for the unprovoked shooting of a Maori at Mercury Bay. Probably as a consequence, Gore had gone off with Banks on his Iceland voyage rather than on James’s second circumnavigation. Yet, James thought, this was no time for bearing grudges. He said, carefully, ‘Gore is greatly experienced, and has matured. He must now be how old?’

‘Forty-six,’ said Stephens promptly.

James grunted. ‘Only a year younger than myself. His experience will be valuable. I accept that Gore is a suitable choice.’

A servant knocked, then wheeled in a trolley bearing their dinner on silver salvers: roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, baked potatoes, parsnips and carrots. But where are the greens? James wondered, as the salvers’ lids were lifted.

The food was served and goblets filled with red wine from the Côtes du Rhône. Sandwich held his glass up high and proclaimed: ‘Gentlemen, the King!’

‘The King!’ came echoing cries.

‘And the North-east Passage!’ The others laughed, and drank.

Over the meal, the discussion turned to the civilians who might be taken on the voyage. Stephens said, ‘As we’ll need an artist, I thought I would write to William Hodges and offer the position to him. I’ve seen his work and it’s remarkable.’ Addressing James: ‘Have you seen any of his landscapes?’

‘I have, and I agree his work is extraordinary. Regrettably, though, he’s unavailable for the next voyage. He will be in the employ of the East India Company this year.’

The others looked displeased at this news. The East India Company? But they agreed that Hodges’s depictions of New Zealand and Otaheite were superb.

Palliser said to James, ‘That painting of the waterspout in the strait named after you is wonderfully dramatic.’

‘Indeed it is,’ said Stephens. ‘Particularly since the painting also includes the cape named after myself.’ He gave Palliser an impish look. ‘Cook may have named a cape after you, but he has named a cape and an island after myself.’ The others chuckled. Then Stephens made a note. ‘I will approach the Royal Academy and enquire as to which other artists may be able to sail with the expedition.’

Wiping his mouth with a napkin, Palliser said, ‘And there must be naturalists.’ He looked around the table. ‘Do any suitable names come to mind?’

James had anticipated this subject and had prepared his response: ‘There will be no naturalists.’

Silence descended on the table. The others looked puzzled. Sandwich, his face now rhubarb-red, said, ‘No naturalists? On a voyage of discovery? Why ever not?’

James set down his knife and fork. ‘You all know what a trial Banks was to me on Endeavour. His collecting habits became an obsession and caused innumerable inconveniences. Johann Forster was worse. His whining was endless, his personality odious, his four-thousand-pound salary outrageous. His only useful contribution to the voyage was his son, George.’ James looked levelly at the others. ‘So there will be no civilian naturalists grafted onto the next expedition. I will be the naturalist. My charts, observations and journals will cover all aspects of the voyage and its discoveries. And if I need assistance in this work, I suggest that William Bayly again be appointed astronomer. His work as part of Resolution’s company was first rate.’

Looking unconvinced, Sandwich swirled the remaining wine in his goblet. ‘The Royal Society will not be pleased if a naturalist is not aboard.’

‘It is the Admiralty, surely, that is in charge of this expedition,’ James replied mildly. ‘So it is the Admiralty that should have the final say. Moreover, since I am now a Fellow of the Royal Society, I declare myself in favour of not including a naturalist on the expedition.’

The others laughed, in spite of themselves. Sandwich broke into a coughing fit. When he recovered he said, ‘Very well, then, no naturalist. That will save the Exchequer a considerable sum. And as for the nomination of Bayly, are there any objections?’

There were none. Stephens made a note of it. James felt a swell of satisfaction. He could ask for practically anything now and the Admiralty would agree. He was relishing this authority.

James had arranged to meet Charles Clerke in the Noah’s Ark, a tavern near Shadwell Dock where mariners not only from London but from Europe and Scandinavia often gathered. ‘Captain! How good to see you again!’

‘Charles. Good it is to see you, too.’ He pointed to a table under a window. ‘You’ll have an ale with me?’

Clerke smiled. ‘Possibly more than one.’

Below them the water of the dock was almost colourless with the cold, and greyness pervaded the air on the opposite bank of the river. To the west of the city the sun was just a dim disc behind the clouds. Clerke raised his ale to James and they clinked mugs. His features were now very familiar to James from the two voyages they had shared, first on Endeavour, then on Resolution. Expressive brown eyes, broad receding forehead, long nose and prominent mouth. James was also familiar with Clerke’s distinguished naval history. As a twenty-year-old he had served on HMS Bellona during the Seven Years War. When the ship’s mizzen-top was blown away by a French cannon in 1761, Clerke was the only survivor among those who fell overboard. His nautical miles exceeded those of James, as he had also sailed with ‘Mad Jack’ Byron on his circumnavigation of 1764 to 1766 on HMS Dolphin.

‘You’ve had a letter from the Admiralty?’ James asked.

‘I have. I am offered command of HMS Discovery. A consort to your Resolution.’

‘And you have accepted?’

Clerke brought his shoulders to attention. ‘How could I not?’ He inclined his head in mock deference. ‘I am inordinately fond of the South Sea—and its alluring inhabitants.’

‘Yes.’ James gave him a sharp look. ‘As an officer you enjoyed certain entitlements, but as commander you will have to set an example.’

‘Of?’

‘Carnal abstinence.’

Clerke laughed and set his mug down. ‘Naturally, sir, I shall at all times follow your example. Do you recall the maiden on Annamoka, whom you spurned?’

‘I have no memory of a maiden on Annamoka,’ James lied. He had not forgotten her. Foa.

Clerke shook his head sorrowfully. ‘More’s the pity, sir. More’s the pity.’

They chatted for over an hour, at ease in each other’s company. Clerke reported that their mutual friend and erstwhile shipmate Dick Pickersgill had been commissioned to lead an expedition to survey Davis Strait in eastern Canada, and so would be unable to join the expedition. Both men expressed their regret at this, as they had enjoyed working with him on earlier voyages. Clerke then reported on the affairs of his brother John, who was still away in the East Indies: ‘Before he left, I said I would act as guarantor for John’s business borrowings in the City. He owes the moneylenders a vast sum.’ He clicked his tongue. ‘He’s been gone for nearly four years now, so in view of my recent appointment I should pass that responsibility on to my other brother, Henry.’ He brightened. ‘Oh, and my portrait should be completed by the time we leave. Did I tell you that Nathaniel Dance is painting me?’

‘Did I tell you he’s painting me?’ countered James, then added with feigned indifference, ‘And so is William Hodges.’

They walked a little way along the river before parting. As James drew closer to home, his formerly buoyant mood deflated. Elizabeth had become even more withdrawn lately, her hostility replaced by apathy. Whenever he raised the subject of the expedition she remained silent and distant, sitting for hours by the fire, knitting or crocheting for the baby. Even when he told her that the departure date for the voyage had had to be postponed because of the slowness of the refit of Resolution, meaning that he might well still be in London when the baby arrived, she had remained unmoved. ‘Here for its birth, perhaps, and not to be seen again until its third birthday,’ she muttered, her needles working fiercely. It was as if she wished him gone as soon as possible. This disturbed him, but what else could he do? With a shrug, he went upstairs to his study.

The journal notes which he brought home every day were placed in his writing cabinet, which was under the window in the study. A sloped lockable lid at the top of the cabinet was drawn back until it was parallel with the floor, then supported by two sliding rails at each side, to form a desk at which he could sit and write. The lower half of the desk consisted of four wide drawers, each with its own lock. He kept the four keys to the cabinet’s drawer locks on a ring, which was placed in a small wooden box at the bottom of a chest behind the study door. On the ring was also a much smaller brass key.

He took out the keys and unlocked the cabinet’s lid, drew it down, set it on its supports and pulled his chair up beneath it. Inside the top section of the cabinet was a series of small drawers and pigeonholes in which he kept receipts, bills and letters of both a personal and a business nature.

He unlocked the smallest drawer, the one at the top left, using the smallest of the five keys, and took out the square envelope which comprised the drawer’s only contents. The envelope had been there, unopened, since just before he had left on the Endeavour voyage. On it was written in his own hand: To be opened by Elizabeth Cook in the event of my death—James Cook RN. It had lain there for nearly eight years.

He held it in his hand for a few moments, staring at the inscription, then placed it back in the small drawer, which he locked. When he returned from his final voyage he would destroy the envelope and its contents.