Ten

10 JULY 1772

Dearest Husband,

It is my earnest hope that this letter reaches you before you depart from Plymouth harbour. I instructed the postal authorities in Mile End that the news it contained was of the utmost urgency and they promised to do their very best to get it to you on Resolution in no more than three days’ time.

The important news I have to inform you of is that the day before yesterday I was delivered of another son, a tiny George. I know this will come as a surprise to you, as it did to me, since the child was not due for another month. But should you receive this letter in time, at least you will have the satisfaction, before you take leave of England’s shores, of knowing that our newest child has arrived. As the little one did not go to ‘complete term’, in midwife Ella Thompson’s words, he is much smaller and less nourished than any of our other babies. As a consequence I assume, he demands to be fed frequently and I am kept occupied day and night, attending to his pressing needs. I feel some concern for the little one, but as both the other boys are strong and healthy, I am sure that he too will grow stronger with time, care and regular nourishment.

Mama has moved in with us to assist with the running of the household, and for that I am most grateful. I am still confined to my bed, and it was too difficult for Susan to cope with all the domestic duties alone. James and Nathaniel do what they can to help. They show keen interest in their tiny brother and insist on calling him Little King George.

I must end now, James. I am sure that should you receive this news in time, your voyage will be further blessed with the knowledge that you now have three adorable sons.

Fair sailing, my beloved husband.

And return safely home to your family,

All my love,

Elizabeth

13 JULY 1772

Everything being at length completed we at six o’clock in the morning left Plymouth Sound with the Adventure in company and stood to the south-west with the wind at north-west.

His first official journal entry made, James blotted the sentences and put the notebook away. Then he took the other one from the locked drawer, sat down again at the writing slope, dipped his quill in the ink and began to write.

Dearest Beth,

It was with great joy that I read of the birth of little George. Your letter was impeccably timed, being delivered as we were about to set sail from Plymouth, so my heart was full to bursting with your news, filling like Resolution’s sails as we left the sound. Baby George’s arrival will compensate at least to some extent for the terrible loss of our beloved little Lizbeth. It was surprising to learn that George arrived before his due time, but Mistress Thompson’s estimation must have been just that—an estimation. Unlike an Eclipse of the Sun or a Transit of Venus, childbirth is surely not a matter which can be timed with exactitude! The main consideration now is that the child has arrived, and safely, and that you are well, though still confined to the bedchamber. By the time you receive this—I shall, I hope, be able to transfer the letter to a London-bound vessel in Funchal, the port of the Portuguese island of Madeira—you will be fully recovered and able to devote your energies entirely to the care of our three sons.

Resolution sails and steers well and handles the Atlantic seas with little difficulty. We have only been obliged to take in her topsails when we observed that our consort ship Adventure was having difficulty carrying hers. Although the two vessels are well matched, being from the same yard, Resolution works more efficiently, I believe.

We intend to call at Funchal to re-provision with wine and fruits, and if necessary at Porto da Praia, in the Cape Verde Islands. From there to Cape Town is a long haul, so it is imperative that we are well supplied with water and fresh food to supplement the anti-scurvy provisions we already carry and ensure that the men are healthy. (I also insist, as on Endeavour, that all crew wash and change their clothing and wash their bedding every five days, a procedure which they grumble about. But since I have made it plain that a dozen strokes of the lash await those who do not, the washing is always carried out. I also insist that the sloop is cleaned, smoked and aired between decks regularly. A clean ship is a healthy ship, I instil into the crew at every turn.)

Of our personnel of 118, only twenty are from Endeavour, so most I have yet to know well. The company of those veterans of the first voyage—such as Charles Clerke, Dick Pickersgill and your cousin Isaac—I value most highly, as we are closely aware of each other’s preferences and temperaments. Clerke was offered a post on Banks’s forthcoming sulky expedition, but declined it in order to sail again with me, a gesture which I deeply appreciated. I have yet to become closely acquainted with the botanist, Forster, and his son George, or with the artist, Hodges. The elder Forster has so far spent most of the time in his berth, being seasick. After I advised him to go up on deck and absorb the ocean air he ignored my counsel, turned his face to the bulkhead and puked again. The son, though, followed my advice and consequently is in better spirits.

Those who intended to accompany us on the voyage but did not at the last hour, due to the vanities of Joseph Banks, I miss not one jot. He would undoubtedly have been an insufferable presence had his extravagant plan proceeded. John Gore, who defected along with Banks, I already had a strong aversion to, due to his distemper and imprudence with firearms. Solander I could take or leave. It is rumoured that Banks intends to sail to Iceland to botanise on that barren island. If so, may the Icelanders enjoy the company of him and his motley crew.

Doubtless my opinions of those of my company I do not yet know well will become firmer with time, so I will in due course inform you of their characteristics, so that you may better imagine the close company I keep.

I trust that this letter will reach you before the autumn.

All my love to you, James, Nathaniel, baby George, your mother and stepfather.

I remain, your loving husband,

James

29 JULY 1772, FUNCHAL, MADEIRA. 32° 39´ NORTH, 16° 55´ WEST

With Resolution and Adventure securely anchored in the roadstead, their launches were hoisted and parties prepared to go ashore and take on provisions. The launches’ return trips brought from the island barrels of wine, fresh beef, oranges and long strings of onions, the latter resembling huge brown beads. Johann and George Forster were eager to go ashore and took their botanising equipment with them, in spite of James informing them that Banks, Solander and Sporing had already collected and documented every specimen there when Endeavour called at Funchal four years earlier. Forster the elder insisted that they would stay ashore until Resolution departed. Preferring to stay aboard and oversee the stowage of the purchased provisions, James sent Charles Clerke ashore with his letter to Elizabeth, instructing him to leave it with the British consul for conveying to England on the next London-bound vessel.

With the two vessels riding easily at anchor, the sun washed the bay with its warmth. The crew had carried out their cleaning duties at first light and James had ordered the lower decks fumigated with sulphur fires. The sulphur was placed upon a shovel, set alight, then carried through the quarters. The smoke streamed from the hatches and ventilation scuttles as if from a dragon’s nostrils. While both ships’ launches shuttled back and forth to the dockside, conveying the provisions, Furneaux and his lieutenants, Arthur Kempe and James Burney, came aboard Resolution. They dined with James, Pickersgill and the officers who had not been south of the line, and were regaled with stories of the South Sea and its inhabitants.

When Clerke returned to the ship that evening, he sought out James in the Great Cabin where he was taking supper. Charts of the West Africa coast were spread out on the table before him. ‘A few moments, sir?’

James nodded and the second lieutenant sat down opposite him. He looked agitated.

‘I heard a most extraordinary story while ashore,’ Clerke began. He had bird-like eyes and thick dark eyebrows. Pausing to wipe away the beads of sweat running down his nose, he said, ‘In Funchal I called at a waterfront tavern, run by an Englishman from Liverpool. A ship’s deserter, I would say. We talked, and he told me that there had lately been an English gentleman staying with him at the tavern. A man by the name of Thomas Burnett.’ Clerke took a deep breath. ‘Burnett told the taverner he was a botanist and that he was awaiting the arrival of Resolution because he was going to join Banks’s retinue on the ship. Banks was a close friend of his, Burnett said. While he was here, the taverner told me, Burnett spent his time in the hills above the town, collecting plants. Shortly before we arrived, Burnett heard news on the waterfront, from a vessel recently arrived from London, that Banks had withdrawn from our expedition. Burnett immediately decided to return to London. There was an East Indiaman in port, bound for the Thames, and he joined it.’

James said, ‘That would seem a logical step, since Banks was no longer coming with us.’ Feeling a little irritated, he said, ‘So what is extraordinary about that?’

Clerke put a hand over his face to conceal his mirth. Then, spluttering, he said, ‘The innkeeper then came upon Burnett, bathing naked behind the tavern, in preparation for his departure for London.’ Clerke’s eyes bulged. ‘And he had diddeys and a cunny.’

James’s jaw dropped. ‘A woman?’

Clerke nodded. ‘Every inch a woman, in a manner of speaking, the innkeeper reported to me with relish.’

James’s shoulders sagged. ‘Good Lord,’ was all he could say. But he was thinking plenty. So Banks had arranged for one of his mistresses to join Resolution here. And likely be accommodated on his planned extra deck, adjoining his own cabin, for his carnal gratification. But how had he hoped to carry on the deception? Someone would have tumbled to it in time. But probably too late, by then, to disembark the woman. James recalled the case of Jeanne Baret, the woman the French explorer Bougainville had inadvertently carried on La Boudeuse in 1768. She too had been disguised as a man, so that on the voyage she could service Philibert Commerson, the expedition’s botanist. It was only in Otaheite, when the locals detected Baret’s female scents, that she was unmasked. Doubtless Banks, having read Bougainville’s account, thought he could deceive Resolution’s commander likewise.

Shaking his head with disbelief, James said, ‘The Icelanders would best be forewarned, Clerke. That Banks is shameless.’

‘A little too late for that now, sir, I would say,’ Clerke replied, chuckling.

The last trip of the launch brought, along with yet more oranges and onions, the Forsters. Bulging packs on their backs, they climbed the steps to the midship deck, their breeches streaked with dark brown mud, their boots caked with it. The younger Forster carried a long canvas bag containing his drawing materials. James went down and greeted them. Both men were dishevelled and unshaven, their faces sunburned. Johann unslung his shoulder bag and dumped it on the deck, scowling. George gave James an abrupt nod, then went quickly below.

‘How was Madeira?’ James asked Johann, concerned at his filthy appearance.

‘Terrible.’

‘How so?’

Forster raised and opened his left hand, then began to count on his fingers. ‘One, the people are hopeless. Niggers who do nothing except sit about under the trees, chewing betel nut and drinking wine. Two, they speak no languages apart from their own.’ Flecks of spittle began to fly from his mouth. ‘Three, when we found horses for hire the cost was stupendous. Four, in the hills we found no new specimens—’

James raised his hand. ‘One moment, Forster. Did I not tell you that Banks, Solander and Parkinson had already collected specimens here in 1768?’

‘You did. And I am familiar with their collection, and Parkinson’s drawings.’ He sniffed. ‘But that does not mean there are other plants, which they did not find.’

‘Yet you found none, you just said,’ James pointed out.

‘No. Because the terrain was too steep, even for the horses. So we tied them to a banyan tree, then walked. Or tried to. Then it rained and everywhere turned to mud.’ He gestured at his filthy breeches and boots. ‘And the mud is like ordure.’

Giving Forster his most pointed look, James said, ‘Madeira is not Prussia. Nor London. And neither are any of the other places we will be sailing to. The climate is different, the land is different, the people are different. You must understand that.’

Forster pouted. ‘I am a man of science, not a rich man on a Grand Tour. It is my vocation not only to botanise, but to bring civilisation to any species of humanity we encounter.’

Staring down at the agitated little man, James said coldly, ‘Then behave like an enlightened man, Forster. And be aware that there are other civilisations besides ours, and very different from ours. Not as advanced as we are, certainly, but if we demonstrate our superiority to them arrogantly we will never achieve their cooperation. And always we will need the cooperation of the native people we encounter. I learned that in Otaheite and New Zealand, and New Holland, and elsewhere.’

Jerking his thumb back over his shoulder at the island, the botanist declared, ‘People such as that have nothing to offer men such as me.’ He screwed up his face. ‘And in the town, everywhere there are women of ill-repute, plying their disgusting trade. Even near the steps of the Cathedral. I spoke to some, urging them to follow the ways of our Lord Jesus.’

‘And?’

‘They scoffed at me.’ He shook his head. ‘Papists, undoubtedly. And beyond salvation.’

‘That too is something you will have to become used to. In most of the places we will go to, there is no such thing as Christianity.’

‘Then it will be, among my many other duties, to bring Christ’s teachings to them.’ He snatched up his rucksack and strode towards the companionway.

Watching him, James thought, that one has much to learn.

At first light the next day, the anchors were weighed and both ships set sail on a south-south-west course. Conscious that Cape Town was still hundreds of miles away, James had decided that the ships would call at Porto da Praia, in the Cape Verde group, to again replenish the water casks and purchase more provisions.

Six days later they reached St Jago, both ships anchoring in the roadstead at mid-afternoon.

PORTO DA PRAIA, ST JAGO. 14° 55´ NORTH, 23° 30´ WEST OF GREENWICH

Co-ordinates established and confirmed after a consultation on deck with astronomer Wales, James then went below to check the timekeepers. Reassured that K1 and the other three devices were showing identical Greenwich time, he confidently entered the latitude and longitude of Praia in his log: 15 degrees of longitude was the equivalent of precisely one hour, and James and Wales’s calculation had progressed from estimation to exactitude.

The island of St Jago was pear-shaped and mountainous, the port of Praia located at its southern extremity. While both ships rode at anchor James stayed aboard Resolution and Lieutenant Pickersgill was rowed ashore to pay the expedition’s respects to the governor and invite him to dine that night in the Great Cabin. The Forsters again went ashore to botanise, artist Hodges accompanying them with his sketchpad. Resolution’s clerk, Daniel Clark, visited the market in order to purchase supplies. A group of able seamen was also given leave to see the town.

When Pickersgill returned to the ship later that day he reported to James that he was less than impressed with Praia. ‘A dismal town, Captain. The governor is a slovenly Portuguese officer unworthy of the title, and his residence is little better than a shack. I extended your invitation to dine with us, but he declined.’

James nodded. ‘Not my loss. But I was duty-bound to extend him the courtesy.’

They were standing on the poop deck. Resolution’s launch was preparing to return to port to collect the Forsters, Hodges and the crew members who had been ashore. ‘And the provisioning?’ James asked.

‘Clark reports that the supplies here are of poor quality, including the water. Only the fruits are satisfactory.’

‘Then there is no need to linger here. I’ll send word across to Furneaux that we’ll weigh at first light tomorrow.’

It was later that day, his course for Cape Town set and the master, Gilbert, given his instructions, when James went up on deck again. The sky was turning an apricot shade, the heat was intense and he was sweating profusely inside his heavy jacket. As a concession to the conditions he had removed his wig and left his waistcoat in the Great Cabin. Given favourable winds he calculated that they should cross the line during the first week of September. Looking out over the quarterdeck rail, he observed the activities below. Barrett the cook’s mate was emptying slops over the starboard rail and a gang of seabirds was squawking and foraging for them. Six crewmen were preparing to hoist the launch aboard. Hodges and Forster the younger were in the forecastle sketching the coastline of the island. James then noticed Johann Forster amidships on the larboard side. He was behaving oddly, dancing some sort of jig, holding one hand up high. Curious, James moved across the deck to get a clearer view.

The botanist was indeed dancing, but not solo. His partner was a grey monkey, which was prancing about on the rail, tethered to Forster’s wrist by a leather lead. Peering down, James saw the creature leap from the rail to the shrouds and begin to climb. It came abruptly to the end of its tether, stopped with a jerk and fell to the deck.

Intensely displeased by the sight of such a creature on his ship, James called down to the naturalist. ‘Just what are you doing with that animal, Forster?’

The botanist looked up. ‘Exercising him. He is my pet.’ He placed the monkey back on the rail.

‘Your pet?’

‘Yes. I bought it in the town market. It is a Callithrix monkey. Chlorocebus sabaeus. Found throughout West Africa. I have named him Carl, after the great naturalist, Linnaeus.’

James took a very deep breath. ‘And just where on the ship will it be kept?’

‘I will tie it to the pig pen railing by night, then release it by day.’

The monkey looked up and bared its teeth defiantly at James. It had pale fur, a black face and the tip of its tail was yellow. It dropped to the deck, squatted, and shat at Forster’s feet. He stepped back, reached down and patted the small head.

James raised his voice. ‘Clean up that creature’s mess, Forster. Now.’

Forster looked annoyed, but made his way towards the mainmast where there was a bucket and mop. The monkey trailed along after him.

After they sailed again it soon became obvious that other monkeys had been pressed into service on Resolution. Several sailors had bought the creatures in the town market and carried them back to the ship, tied to their wrists. The animals resisted this restriction so firmly that the men were soon forced to release them, whereupon the creatures scampered about the decks and rigging, fighting, hissing, pissing and shitting. Some of the males sat on their backsides and worked fiercely at their bright red penises with their paws.

By the third day out of Praia, James had had enough. The hygiene of the ship was in jeopardy. He ordered Gilbert and Burr to capture every monkey and throw them overboard. Few of the crew resisted. As well as their shit and piss, the creatures had brought an infestation of fleas and lice to the orlop deck.

‘No, you cannot get rid of Carl!’ Forster’s face was the colour of a pink camellia. He began to wrestle with Burr, who was attempting to seize Forster’s monkey. In the confusion the creature bolted, then scampered up the starboard shrouds, trailing its lead. Forster stumbled after it but it was soon well beyond his reach. Burr shrugged, then walked away. Carl was by now well aloft, swinging from a sheet by his tail, looking down, baring his teeth.

Without bothering to knock, Forster sought out James in the Great Cabin, where he was poring over the chart of the West Africa coast. ‘Captain?’ Wig awry, the botanist’s face was even pinker, his expression accusatory.

Annoyed at the interruption, James said, ‘Is it urgent, Mr Forster? I am busy here, as you can see.’

‘It is urgent, and important.’ He drew his lips back from his teeth, so that he partly resembled a monkey himself. ‘Did you give the order to throw them overboard?’

‘The apes?’

‘Not apes. Chlorocebus sabaeus. Commonly called green monkeys. Did you?’

‘I did. The animals brought filth to the ship and so threatened its hygiene.’

Forster waved his hands about. ‘There are already animals on the ship. The swine, the sheep, the goat, the hens.’

‘Do not try my patience with illogic, Forster. You well know that our livestock are put to good use, for food and trade. A monkey is good for nothing.’

Forster’s expression became pious. ‘They are all God’s creatures.’

‘That may well be. But monkeys have no role on my ship. They have gone overboard, and God is welcome to them.’

‘And what of my monkey? What of Carl?’

‘He will join the others over the side.’

Forster spun about and scuttled out of the cabin. As James’s attention returned to the chart, he thought, Banks’s dogs had been bad enough, but monkeys? And what else would the Prussian insist on bringing aboard?

‘Sir?’ Now it was George Forster who approached James, in the officers’ mess. He looked ill at ease. Feeling rather sorry for the lad, James greeted him airily.

‘George, how are you? How was the botanising on the island?’

‘Unremarkable, sir. The flora was sparse. Due to the low amount of rainfall, I surmise.’ The young man paused, still looking uncomfortable. ‘Sir, my father’s monkey—’

‘What of it?’

‘He wishes to keep it, sir, in order to study its habits. And being a lover of animals, he is fond of the creature.’

‘Its habits are objectionable to me. Like the other apes, its filth contaminates the ship.’

‘I understand that, sir. But if we agree to not let Carl below decks—’

‘Carl?’

‘That is the monkey’s given name, sir.’

‘Oh yes. So?’

‘He will not be allowed below, we will keep him tethered on the forecastle deck. And I will guarantee to immediately deal with any mess Carl makes on the deck, sir.’

The lad had his hat in his hands and his eyes were downcast. James continued to feel sympathy for him. Already he had observed that the father’s actions and reactions embarrassed his son in front of others. ‘Very well. The creature can stay. But on no account may it go below. Should it do so, it will go overboard. And its messes must be cleaned up instantly. Is that understood?’

The young man looked up, his expression one of relief. ‘Yes, sir. Thank you. You have my word.’ He turned, then another thought struck him. ‘And that of my father.’

‘Man overboard! Man overboard! Off the larboard bow!’ The dreaded cry came on the morning of 18 August. Carpenter’s mate Edward Dawson had been edging along the larboard bowsprit arm, helping to reef the jib during a squall. As Resolution came off the crest of a swell and plunged into a trough, the ship rolled heavily and Dawson was caught off-balance. Losing his footing, he dropped, snatched at the arm, missed and plummeted into the sea.

‘Man overboard! Off the larboard bow!’ The cry from the arm was directed at the officer of the watch, Cooper, who shouted immediately to the helmsmen, Lockton and Whelan, ‘Man overboard! Luff the ship, hard down on the helm!’ The helmsmen obeyed, the ship came around into the wind and was hauled aback. Those on deck rushed to the larboard rail. Dawson surfaced, his right arm raised, his dark hair slicked, his head rising with the next swell. His cries reached those at the rail as he floundered, sank, then rose again. Like all the rest of them he couldn’t swim, but by treading the water he wasn’t going under. Richard Collett, Dawson’s friend, rushed to the bow, snatched up a bundled line, untied it and hurled it out over the water. It spun down, then landed a few feet from Dawson. Open-mouthed, still flailing at the water with open hands, he saw the rope and lunged for it. But before he could grab it a triangular fin appeared to his right, slicing through the water a few yards away. From the deck they saw a second fin, then a third, all converging on the stricken seaman. Below the fins were three sinuous shadows.

‘Sharks! Sharks!’ cried Collett. Seconds later their snouts broke water, jaws agape. There was a scream, then another. Dawson’s arm rose and fell, twice. Then he was gone. All at the rail stared, helpless and horrified.

Minutes later, on the water where Dawson had been, a stain appeared, a terrible darkness, spreading like ink spilt on a baize cloth.

A mood of gloom descended upon the ship. Men went about their duties without speaking, too shocked to describe what they had witnessed to those who hadn’t. Most had seen men drown at sea, it was an all-too-common occurrence, but none had seen a shipmate eaten alive. Over the next few days, below decks, many a dream became a nightmare at the memory. All were aware that what had happened to Dawson could happen to anyone, and this knowledge brought to the ship a sobriety which lasted until Resolution emerged from the doldrums and began to make her way steadily south, approaching the line of zero degrees latitude.