‘LAND! LAND! OFF THE LARBOARD BOW!’
The cracked, though delighted, cry came from young Vancouver, at the main masthead. It was mid-afternoon on 25 March. The crew peered towards the eastern horizon, but as yet could not see it. James and Clerke climbed to the topgallant crosstrees and put their spyglasses to their eyes. Just above the horizon they saw it, a purple wall, appearing continuous. As he lowered his spyglass, Clerke’s expression was one of joy. ‘New Zealand,’ he said, heaving a sigh of relief. ‘Real land, at last.’
James nodded, but his emotions were mixed. Holding this course, at latitude 45 degrees 74 minutes, and with the following south-west wind, they could make the coast and Dusky Bay the next day. Staring at the inky, rampart-like coast, memories came rushing back. Nearly three years ago in Endeavour they had sailed right past the entrance to the bay that lay within those cliffs, in the face of Joseph Banks’s protestations. He had wanted to enter the bay but James insisted they pass it by and continue north because once inside it they could be embayed for weeks. Located in the extreme south-west of New Zealand’s southern island, the bay entrance’s towering cliffs were forbidding and a large island lay across the entrance. In view of the darkness of the surrounding cliffs, James had named the gap ‘Dusky Bay’ and his adamant decision to pass it by and carry on north had then been the correct one. Now, though, there could be no question of not seeking an anchorage within the bay. The Resolution’s crew—seamen, officers, marines and supernumeraries—were weary and in need of recuperation. It was almost three months since they had set foot on land. The ship’s rigging and sails were badly in need of repair. Provisioning had to be carried out, astronomical observations taken. But just what, James now wondered, lay within that breech in the massive wall?
Lit by the sinking sun, the coast came into clearer view. Around the decks there were murmurings of expectation from the crew. James again climbed the mast and put his telescope to his eye. He spied the entrance to the bay, which resembled a gaping mouth with one front tooth missing. Would the place prove barren and inhospitable? Or providential? He called down to Resolution’s master. ‘Steady as she goes.’
The ship was brought to for the night, half a league from the coast. Next morning, when they were opposite Dusky Bay, there were gale-force winds. They stood off to the south under close reefed topsails until 11 pm, when they stood to the north. By first light next morning the wind had abated and in light airs and a gentle swell Resolution was worked through the entrance. It was wider than James had estimated, about a league across from north to south. After he ordered the ship brought to near an island on the northern side of the entrance, soundings revealed 60 fathoms in the main channel. He ordered the boats hoisted and a suitable anchorage sought.
Two hours later Pickersgill located an ideal location on the sound’s southern side. It was a snug cove overlooked by tall trees. A clear stream flowed through the trees. The trunk of one tree grew out horizontally over the water, so that by warping Resolution beneath its crown and anchoring her, they had a natural gangplank over the larboard gunwale. The cove was protected and tranquil. Securely moored, and overlooked by the towering slopes of the surrounding mountains, Resolution’s scale was reduced to that of a ship in a bottle.
The crew fell upon Dusky Bay like famished men at a banquet. After months of privation and cold, here was an abundance of warmth, water and wild food. The bay was a place of dramatic beauty, an enclosed, entirely natural world. Its sheer sides were covered in luxuriant evergreen forest, so dense that from a distance it resembled a closely woven carpet of green. Clouds covered the summits of the mountains; brooks flowed down their sides, cataracts leapt from rocky outcrops and as if by magic, rainbows sprang from them when the showers passed. Everywhere they looked there was fresh, sweet water. Although downpours were frequent, the rain was warm. The forest resounded with birdsong, and the birds themselves had no fear of the men. Small inquisitive birds with tail-feathers like fans flitted down from the trees and perched on the muskets’ muzzles.
That first week was one of industriousness and discovery as Dusky Sound—for that was what they now knew the inlet was—was explored and put to good use, becoming the Resolution’s encampment, larder, hunting and fishing ground. This niche in the remote New Zealand west coast was turned into an outpost of European civilisation.
The sailmakers and carpenters worked on repairs while others dropped fishing lines and brought up blue codfish by the dozen. They shot the wildfowl and seals that made their home in the sound. On board the ship they dined on duck meat, cod and seal. On land Clerke and Ramsay the cook brewed beer from the leaves of some of the trees, mixed with molasses in buckets, and they happily imbibed the result. Charged with the responsibility of taking astronomical readings, Wales selected as his site a promontory just north of where Resolution was moored. After he and two of the able seamen had cut a section of forest and scrub which obscured the northern sky, Wales set up his observatory on the highest point, using the stumps of the felled trees as a base for his instruments. He and the others erected tents and camped in the clearing, which James promptly named Astronomer’s Point. After taking numerous observations of the moon, sun and stars from the clearing, Wales recorded its longitude as 166 degrees 18 minutes 9 seconds east of Greenwich and its latitude as 45 degrees 47 minutes 26 seconds south.
Both Forsters spent most of their time ashore, collecting and drawing bird and plant specimens. On another patch of cleared and dug-over land, George planted peas, parsley and mustard seed. Johann netted a fish in the stream which flowed into the cove, a kind of trout, which George drew beautifully, along with a native grey duck and a bush falcon. William Hodges set up his easel and between showers sketched the land and seascapes.
They now had plentiful fresh water and food. What they still craved, after three long months at sea, was women. Where were the natives? And more to the point, where were their females?
It soon became obvious that Dusky Sound was not an area of Maori settlement. There were no villages, no pallisaded settlements. They saw only a few canoes in the sound, whose male crews merely stared at Resolution. Marine Samuel Gibson, who had absconded with a local woman in Otaheite in 1769 and so spoke the language, called out to the natives. ‘Ia orana ana! Maeva! To’u i’oa ’o Samuel!’ The New Zealanders responded to his greeting with non-comprehending looks. Later James, the Forsters and Wales took a boat to the cove where they had seen the canoes, but found only a few primitive huts. James left some trinkets on the site, but for another week they saw no natives, male or female.
On board in the Great Cabin, over dinners of codfish, rock lobster and duck, washed down with Clerke and Ramsay’s cabin-brewed beer, they discussed the sound and its bounty. The only member who was dissatisfied with their circumstances was the expedition’s naturalist. Johann Forster wiped his mouth with the napkin he had tucked about his neck. He cleared his throat loudly. ‘It is a great pity, Captain, that our arrival in this place was so late.’
James frowned. ‘Why?’
‘It is now April. That means that the plant flowering season of the southern summer is over.’
‘So?’
‘You are obviously not a botanist. Having no flowers means that I cannot classify the New Zealand trees and plants by the Linnaeus system.’
James said carefully, ‘We could not have closed this coast earlier. We had to explore the Antarctic waters, which we were ordered to do. It was impossible to be here in the southern summer. And you have collected specimens of the plants, have you not?’
‘Yes, of course.’ Forster again cleared his throat. ‘But that brings me to another matter.’ He ran his tongue around his lips. ‘I must have better quarters.’
James stared at him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘My cabin is not adequate. With all the specimens—plants, fish, birds, shells and so forth—my berth is overcrowded. I must have more room.’ The others at the table looked at one another grimly. George Forster’s cheeks coloured. It was by now common knowledge among the company that the elder Forster was being paid a fortune to be on this expedition, and there was not a man aboard who didn’t resent it. Giving him his coldest look, James said: ‘This is not a London museum, it is a sailing ship. Quarters are necessarily constricted. For everyone.’
As if James had not spoken, Forster continued in his peevish tone. ‘And not only is my cabin cramped and stinking, it lacks light. The trees overhanging the ship make it dark by day as well as night. I must use a candle when making my notes, even during the daytime. That is a waste of good candles.’
Through gritted teeth, James said, ‘You will make do, Mr Forster, like all of us. There is room in the hold for your specimens, so I suggest you stow them there.’
Forster’s eyes popped. ‘In the hold? My specimens? Where they could be damaged or destroyed by a common crewman?’
James shrugged. ‘That is a risk you will have to take. Either that or put up with their stench. It goes with your work, surely.’
Making unpleasant sucking noises, Forster got up and left the table. His son, still red-faced, followed him. Clerke chortled. ‘I thought perhaps, Captain, that you were going to suggest he move his quarters to the for’ard hold. A suitable location.’ In the Great Cabin’s now-relaxed atmosphere, they all laughed.
James spent as much time ashore as he could, sloshing across streams, probing the forest, taking a running survey of the coastline from the pinnace, climbing to the summits of the islands and taking observations. With the aid of Kendall’s timekeeper he was able to confirm the co-ordinates that Wales had earlier established on Astronomer’s Point.
For the first time since giving titles to features on the east and north coasts of New Holland two years before, James experienced the pleasure of naming landmarks. As before, he called them after his men or on geographical grounds: Pickersgill Harbour, Passage Point, Cooper’s Island, Five Fingers Peninsula. After a shooting party returned drenched to the ship from a branch of the sound, he later named the inlet Wet Jacket Arm.
As he was rowed across the sound, past the rugged island he had already called Resolution, James stared up at the precipitous slopes of the sound and thought back to that day in March 1770 when he and Banks had quarrelled. Now, James confessed to himself with the wisdom of hindsight, Banks might have been right. Already Pickersgill had reported that there was a navigable passage on the northern side of the sound that led directly back to the open sea. James decided that when they left that would be the route they would take. Again he looked up at the forest, from where came the sweet sounds of birdsong. But Banks was foolish, too. If not for his pride and vanity he could have been here on Resolution, relishing the fauna and flora which the Forsters were now collecting and cataloguing for science.
Feeling a sudden sharp pain in his right foot, James winced and stretched his leg, pushing it against the aft thwart.
‘What is it, sir?’ asked Chapman, one of the able seamen oarsmen.
‘Nothing,’ replied James, flexing his leg. ‘Just a little pain.’ Then he felt it again, shooting up his leg and stabbing into his groin. Dammit, he thought, what’s this?
APRIL 1773, DUSKY BAY, NEW ZEALAND
My dearest Elizabeth,
We are now in the relative warmth and security of a sheltered sound in New Zealand’s large southern island. Although the rain falls in torrents, the forest and tranquillity of this place are balm to us. It has been my privilege, as well as my duty, to survey and name most prominent landmarks of the sound (which we have ascertained is sufficiently large to accommodate the entire Royal Navy’s fleet!).
You may be surprised to learn that we have brewed beer in this remote location, taking advantage of the clear stream at the head of the cove. Lieutenant Clerke and Ramsay our cook are the principal brewers, assisted by the Swedish naturalist, Sparrman. Since your stepfather may be interested in the process involved, the recipe for our beer is as follows:
We first made a strong decoction of the leaves of a type of spruce tree, called by the natives ‘rim-moo’, mixed with the foliage of a shrub they call ‘man-ooka’, names we are familiar with from the Endeavour visit. We achieved the decoction by boiling the foliage in a copper for three or four hours, until the bark could be easily stripped from the branches. After removing the leaves and branches from the copper we mixed with the liquor a quantity of molasses and inspissated juice (one gallon of the former and three of the latter is sufficient to make a puncheon, or eighty gallons of beer). After letting this mixture just boil, to it was added an equal quantity of cold water, then after allowing it to become warm, some little grounds of yeast were added (or any other substance which would allow a chemical change to occur, such as rum or brown sugar). In a few days the beer is fit to drink. Its taste might best be described as ‘unusual’, but it is a refreshing and healthy drink which effervesces like champagne. I have encouraged it to be served to the men, as I believe it may contain anti-scorbutic properties. It may be some time, however, before the Dusky Sound brew is served to the customers in the Bell!
It is now Autumn in this land and the temperature in the sound is constantly mild and most agreeable. Notwithstanding this, I am troubled by a pain in my right foot and a swelling in my groin, hampering my ability to fully explore the land when ashore. I have no idea what the cause of this ailment might be, save the suggestion that it may be attributed to the wetness in my boots for prolonged periods. The pain is alleviated somewhat by the application of a heated cloth to the affected areas, but this step I take only when alone, as I have no wish for anyone else to see that I am in this way afflicted. Illness is something a commander cannot allow to be shown, I believe. Physically and morally he must display no weakness, so I have not divulged my complaints even to Resolution’s estimable surgeon, James Patten. Hence my earnest desire for privacy in this matter. Only you, dearest Elizabeth, can know of any illness which may befall me. By the time we are together again and I can read this account to you, my physical difficulties will be a matter long past.
The other and more welcome development here in Dusky Sound is that we have at last made proper contact with the natives.
James, Hodges and the two Forsters were rowed in the pinnace across to the north side of the sound. There they came across a small bay whose waters teemed with ducks. A waterfall cascaded down a cliff overlooking the bay and the ducks playfully splashed at the place where it entered the bay, rebounding waters creating a delicate rainbow, its colours kaleidoscopic in the mist. James blasted shot after shot into the flock with his scattergun, killing 14 in all, which the oarsmen gleefully collected and piled into the pinnace. Setting his fowling piece aside, James said to Hodges with a smile, ‘This place names itself. Duck Cove it shall be.’
Leaving the bay they rounded a headland and there, standing on a rocky point, was an elderly Maori man and two women. The women were of medium height and strong-limbed, with black curly hair. The man was a little taller and had a luxuriant grey beard. A jade pendant hung from one of his earlobes. All wore skirts and sandals of flax and had feathered cloaks around their shoulders.
As the pinnace approached, the man bent down and picked up a wooden implement shaped like a long paddle. His face contorted, he called out in an angry tone.
James quickly got to his feet and called out the Maori greeting he had learned. ‘Haere mai! Nau mai, haere mai!’
The man looked confused. He turned and muttered something to the women.
James said to the oarsmen, ‘Row me in. I will talk properly with him.’
George Forster looked at James with dismay. ‘Sir, please, no. He is threatening.’ The older Forster also looked concerned. ‘He has weapons. Take your fowling piece.’
Ignoring these pleas, James said to the oarsmen, ‘Draw up alongside the point.’ It was essential that they achieve a relationship with these people, he thought. If only Tupaia the Otahetian was here.
The trio stood their ground as James stepped up onto the point, the women standing behind the man. A flat club of whalebone hung from his waist. Determined to achieve a rapport, James took his handkerchief from his sleeve and held it up to the native. Although the man accepted it, his expression became one of bafflement, his eyes betraying his incomprehension at these aliens’ ways. The women too peered at James and frowned. Removing his tricorn, James bent his face to the man’s. His manner immediately changed. He too bent his head, their noses met, then pressed. ‘Haere,’ said James.
‘Haere, haere mai,’ the man replied. ‘Tena koutou.’ Behind him, the expressions of the women visibly relaxed. They began to sway in unison, and croon, their hands moving rhythmically, somewhat in the Otaheitian manner.
An understanding thus attained, James and the others went to the natives’ encampment on the foreshore a little distance away. These people were a family, they realised, visiting the sound from much further north to hunt the seals which inhabited its shores and the petrel chicks which lived in burrows along its foreshore. The old man’s name was Maru; the two adult women were Aroha and Hakete. Their names for the seals were ‘kekeno’ and for the petrel chicks ‘titi’. These creatures would be packed in their own fat and preserved as food for the winter months which lay ahead, the man explained by gestures. As well as the old man and the two women, the wider group consisted of a younger girl, a lad of about 15 and three much younger boys. ‘Whanau’, the man said, pointing around the group, and James recalled the word for family from his earlier voyage.
From then on, regular visits were made to the bay and gifts exchanged: axes, nails, coloured beads and mirrors from the Englishmen, carved staves and a dogskin and feather cloak from the Maoris. Marine corporal Gibson managed to converse with the family in halting Otaheitian. They were, he reported to James, part of a tribe called Ngati Mamoe. They were nomadic, keeping only temporary encampments as they roamed the region, hunting and gathering. In this regard they were completely different from the agrarian New Zealanders James had encountered in 1769 and 1770, although physically and linguistically they showed little difference from the northerners.
As the gifts were exchanged, Hodges studied the group silently with his painter’s eye. Then he held up a sheet of paper on which he had sketched the old man’s head, and pointed at them with a pastel. ‘I draw you,’ he said. The New Zealanders looked in awe at the sketch, smiled shyly at the artist, then one another.
A little distance from the sleeping hut, easel propped up on his knee, Hodges pinned another sheet of paper to his drawing board. The morning was warm and dry, with just a faint breeze entering the cove. After instructing the two women to stand a few yards away, he picked up his crimson pastel and began sketching. Looking in turns abashed and amused, giggling from time to time, the women struck a pose for the artist. James stood behind him, watching in fascination as the figures assumed form on the paper. Hodges’s portrait technique was markedly different from Sydney Parkinson’s. Whereas Sydney—who had been primarily a botanical illustrator—worked first with pencil, and drew with remarkable speed and dexterity, William’s strokes were slower and more deliberate, his eye moving constantly up and down, from his subjects to the paper and back again, his beaky nose moving like a hound’s sniffing a scent.
They clustered around the easel, exclaiming at the work. ‘Ae, ae, ae,’ the old man said approvingly. ‘Whero.’
Hodges looked at him inquiringly. ‘Whero?’
‘Ae, whero. Kapai whero.’
It was James who made the connection. ‘Red,’ he said. ‘Whero must mean red.’
The girl, still staring at the paper, murmured, ‘Whero, whero, red, red.’
The old man made an emphatic gesture with one hand. ‘Whero. Tapu,’ he declared, but still approvingly.
James nodded, understanding. Tapu meant sacred, therefore the man considered that Hodges had created something very special with his red pastels.
The artist began to pack up his equipment. ‘Later,’ he said, ‘I will begin to draw their proper portrait.’
When they returned to the ship, James ordered Corbett the sailmaker to cut and sew up a cape from a length of red cloth. Later, when they presented it to the old man, he was ecstatic. Wearing the bright cape like a Roman cardinal, he beamed around at his whanau. ‘Rangatira,’ he pronounced. ‘Rangatira Maru.’ From the hut he fetched his flat whalebone patu and presented it to James, who accepted the gift with equal delight.
The family now trusted the aliens enough to come on board the giant waka, Resolution.
Maru, red cape about his shoulders, along with Aroha and Hakete and the girl, Areta, ascended the hull steps and walked out onto the mid-deck. Maru joined James on the quarterdeck, pressing his nose in greeting. The crew watched Aroha and Hakete with hungry eyes. Both women were bare-breasted. Knowing full well the source of the looks, Cook eyed the crew sternly. These New Zealand women were not like those of Otaheite, who would willingly part their legs in exchange for a nail. During Endeavour’s visit, only Tupaia had known the women of this country carnally, much to the chagrin of Banks and the others. But that did not stop the men of Resolution from eyeing Aroha and Hakete hungrily as they roamed the deck, pausing from time to time to peer up at the masthead and stare in disbelief at the sheep and goats in their pens on the foredeck. The ship’s cat, Rufus, emerged from a companionway. He waved his tail warily at the women, then went to Areta and began to rub himself against her legs. Staring at the animal in amazement, the little girl began to stroke its back, then ruffled the fur to see how long it was.
Gibson rushed up to Aroha, bowed extravagantly and presented her with a length of blue ribbon. No sooner had he done so than gunner Anderson shoved past him and handed Hakete a small square of red cloth. Briscoe, the ship’s tailor, dashed up and handed each of the women a small mirror. Both women were now surrounded by the crew, each one pushing further forward for a better view. Suddenly a hand reached out, cupped one of Hakete’s breasts and caressed it. Another hand reached out for Aroha’s breasts. Crying out in dismay, both women turned away, dropping their gifts. Both bowed their heads and held their hands across their breasts.
The boatswain, James Gray, rushed into the fray, calling out, ‘Leave them be! Stand aside!’ Wielding a starter, a short rope with hard-knotted ends, he lashed out at the men, striking them heavily around the head and shoulders. Boatswain’s mate David Anderson waded in too, beating the offenders with his starter.
The offenders howled, raised their arms to deflect the blows, then fell back, leaving the two women standing alone together. They quickly gathered up their gifts, walked across the deck and climbed back down the hull steps. Areta immediately followed.
James had witnessed this incident from the quarterdeck, and totally approved of Gray and Anderson’s punitive actions. The crew sorely had need of women after so long at sea, but at all times there must be consent of carnality. Any transgression of sexual conduct with local women would be severely punished. Carnal congress was inevitable and had to be tolerated, as was the giving of carnal favours for desired items in return, but there must never be forcing of sexual intent. To James such behaviour was exploitation, the antithesis of civilised, enlightened conduct.
‘Resume your duties!’ bosun Gray bellowed, holding up his starter threateningly, and he watched as the men slunk away to various parts of the ship. From behind James, Maru came to his side. He must have witnessed the incident on the deck. But to James’s consternation he was chuckling lasciviously.
12 MAY 1773
Having quitted Dusky Bay I directed my course along shore for Queen Charlotte Sound, having a gentle breeze at SE and South with fair weather.
At 4 in the PM Doubtful Harbour bore ESE distance three or four leagues and the north entrance of Dusky Bay SSE distant five leagues. In the night had little wind with showers of rain, in the morning it was fair but the weather was dark and gloomy and the wind veered to NW. At noon we were distant from the shore five leagues.
For six days they bore north, following the western coastline of New Zealand’s southern island. The winds were variable, from gentle breezes to gales. But the crew was well fed and rested after the weeks in Dusky Sound, and were hopeful of a reunion with Adventure in Queen Charlotte Sound. But had she made it there, or had she foundered in the bleak Antarctic depths?
At four o’clock in the afternoon of 18 May, bearing east through the strait which now bore James’s name, and with Stephen’s Isle five leagues away, the wind suddenly dropped. With the lull came a sudden darkening of the sky. Black billowing clouds covered the sky to the north and east of the ship. Sensing that a storm was about to burst, James ordered all Resolution’s sails clewed, then stood with Clerke, Pickersgill and Hodges on the quarterdeck, staring out over the water. Something strange, something almost unnatural was happening. The waters of the strait became ruffled by gusts of wind which seemed to be coming from all points of the compass. But instead of the anticipated gale, out of the clouds several enormous waterspouts appeared, four between the ship and the land, the fifth some distance away, and a sixth which headed straight for the ship’s stern.
There were cries of alarm from the men on the mid and foredecks as the huge column of twisting, whirling water, 60 feet across at its base, came closer, a great roaring coming from the revolving mass as it joined the sea to the sky. Its strength was palpable; within the column they could see the bodies of large seabirds being spiralled upwards. If it struck the ship, it had the power to destroy it. James and Clerke both pressed their hats down onto their heads; Hodges pinned his sketch pad under his arm. Spray from the spout flew in all directions, reaching the ship. No one was aloft, and the men below them on the mid-deck were crouching, eyeing the great twister in terror as it moved closer to the ship.
Then, abruptly, the waterspout altered its course. It moved 50 or so yards away to the north-east, then remained in the same spot, still spiralling upwards. The sea remained distressed, the sky was still dark, the six waterspouts still clearly visible. But the ship was safe.
Clerke stood up, his chest heaving. ‘Have you ever witnessed such a sight, Captain?’ he asked, his voice low with relief.
James shook his head. ‘No. I have seen waterspouts, but only singularly. Never so many in one place.’ He stared at the retreating columns. ‘They are whirlwinds of rising air caused by overheating of the atmosphere, I have read.’
Hodges rested his sketch pad on the afterdeck rail and began to draw, using his grey and white pastels. The others watched him curiously. The column he drew was broad and white at its base, but where it reached the clouds he rendered it darker. Then, with a blue crayon, he sketched the turbulent surrounding sea.
‘A fine impression,’ said Pickersgill, peering over Hodges’s shoulder.
‘Thank you,’ Hodges replied, not pausing in his drawing. ‘I have in my mind a dramatic tableau, featuring the spout but with added elements.’
‘What added elements?’ asked James.
‘A suitable shoreline, and this ship, to convey the scale of the spout. Some human figures, perhaps.’ He added more billowing black clouds. ‘The whole will comprise a fine montage.’
The following morning, during a breakfast of broiled blue cod, wort and celery, they discussed the waterspouts and their close escape. Cooper said, ‘Ramsay told me that the men on the berth deck consider that the spouts are an evil omen. They say it means that we will never be reunited with Adventure.’
James clicked his tongue in frustration. ‘Foolish superstition. Waterspouts are a natural phenomenon.’
Johann Forster looked up from his meal. ‘No. They are yet another act of God, a demonstration of our Almighty’s divine power.’
‘They are a work of nature,’ James muttered, ‘caused by whirlwinds over water.’ He fell silent, wondering bitterly how much longer it would be before sailorly superstition and religious dogma were replaced by rational beliefs. At that moment the strained silence at the table was ruptured by a booming and a subsequent echo. All pricked up their ears. Thunder? But the sky was now clear. Moments later the boom came again, from somewhere east of the ship.
Eyes bright with realisation, Cooper looked across the table at James. ‘That is—’
James nodded. Awash with relief, he said, ‘Cannon fire, yes. Adventure’s guns. They have seen us.’