Morcan Books & Films

Spanning five centuries, New Zealand: A Novel is a sweeping tale of discovery, destiny, and forbidden love in which the old and new worlds collide. While this novel may not always convey exactly what happened during the discovery and settlement of New Zealand, first by Pacific Islanders and later by Europeans, I believe it captures the spirit of those sometimes romantic, always fascinating and often bloody times. –Lance Morcan (Author)

CHAPTER 9

Matavai Bay, Tahiti, April 14, 1769

The morning after the Endeavour’s arrival at Matavai Bay dawned bright and sunny, a welcome change from the recent foul weather.

Even before the crew had finished breakfasting in the mess, a cry went up that a canoe was approaching. Nicholas and several other crewmen hurried topside and saw two paddlers propelling the canoe toward them across the calm waters of the lagoon. Behind the paddlers sat an impressive-looking Tahitian resplendent in a fine black cloak. His handsome head was adorned by a head-dress of colourful feathers. It was obvious from his appearance, and from the ornate carvings on the bow of his canoe, he was someone of importance.

Aboard the Endeavour, the bosun gave the order to prepare for the arrival of the mystery visitor. A ladder was thrown over the starboard rail as the canoe arrived and two sailors leaned over the side to help the Tahitian on board.

Nicholas noted the visitor appeared to be in his mid-twenties. He possessed an engaging smile, which he flashed frequently, and, to everyone’s surprise, he spoke passably-good English and even better French – a legacy of earlier visits by other ships, and a testimony also to his intelligence and penchant for foreign languages.

“Bonjour mes amis,” the visitor announced grandly, “je suis Tupaia.” Switching to English, he added, “Tupaia is your trustworthy guide and…ah…interpreter for time you stay Matavai Bay.”

Nicholas and the others were astounded to hear someone they considered a savage speaking both French and English so far from Europe and Mother England.

The visitor seemed amused by their reaction. “You wonder how I know your language,” he said perceptively. His smile widened, revealing a set of pearly white teeth. “You not first white men I seen.”

Bosun Robert Molyneaux, as taken aback as the rest by the confidence of the multilingual fop standing before them, muttered, “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a real fucking charmer here.” Turning to a sailor, he said, “Fetch the captain.”

The sailor hurried off and the ever-smiling Tupaia waited patiently, seemingly unbothered by the inquisitive looks he was attracting.

Several minutes later, Cook appeared on deck. “Greetings, Mister Tupaia,” the captain said, having been alerted to the visitor’s name.

“Good day, Captain,” Tupaia beamed as he clasped Cook’s hand between both of his hands.

Cook took an immediate liking to the visitor. He judged him to be a confident chap with an intelligent air. A charming savage, he told himself.

As the two men sized each other up, Nicholas and the other onlookers made their own evaluations. Like most Tahitians, Tupaia cut a fine figure. Yet he was very different to his countrymen. Slender of build and more refined than most, he seemed thoughtful and inquisitive, his sparkling eyes forever moving from one white face to the next as he assessed the strangers around him.

It was Tupaia who spoke next. “Captain, as I, ah, tell your people…I am guide and interpreter…for rest of your stay.” It was a statement, not a request. “Make your time here easy for you.”

Cook looked at him shrewdly. He was sure the Tahitian’s services would be useful, and he was in no doubt the man would expect to be well paid for those services.

As if reading his mind, Tupaia continued smoothly, “Captain, I also high priest and very good navigator. It give me great, ah, happy…to be of service.”

Delighting in the other’s charm, Cook dropped his reserve and clapped the Tahitian on the shoulder. “By thunder, Mister Tupaia, I can see ye will be an asset to this vessel and all who sail aboard her!” Turning to the bosun, he said, “Mister Molyneaux, bring our visitor to the quarterdeck.”

“Aye, Captain,” the bosun said.

With that, Cook turned heel and strode off, leaving Molyneaux to escort Tupaia to the quarterdeck.

Intrigued, Nicholas followed at a discreet distance. At the foot of the ladder leading to the deck, he invented an imaginary cleaning task to attend to. From there he could just make out the gist of the conversation.

“I was priest at Raiatea,” Nicholas heard Tupaia saying, “not far from here, when we…invaded by cannibals…from Bora Bora. I lucky to escape and end here…at mercy of beautiful Queen Obadia.”

On the quarterdeck, the mention of a queen caught Cook’s attention. He guessed she belonged to the big rangatira they’d met the previous day – the man his crew referred to as Hercules. “How many other ships have visited here?”

“Three other tall ships.”

Cook looked up sharply. He knew the English frigate, the Dolphin, had visited Tahiti two years earlier – in 1767. It was her charts he was using now. The Royal Navy had suspicions that the Spanish had visited since. This new information would seem to confirm it. “Do ye recall what flag they sailed under?” he asked.

Tupaia looked puzzled.

“What nationality were they?” Cook asked.

“First was from your country. The Dolphin… I think. I learn my good English, ah, from men on Dolphin.”

“Ye obviously had fine teachers,” Cook said sincerely.

Tupaia beamed.

“And the other two?” Cook prompted.

“They both from France.”

“From France?”

The Tahitian nodded. He could see he had Cook’s full attention now.

“Ye are sure?” the captain persisted.

“Oui, Monsieur,” Tupaia said, switching to fluent French. In that same tongue, he added, “That is why my French is, how you say, first class.”

“How long since they were here?”

Switching back to English, Tupaia said, “First not long after Dolphin go…and second only, um, two full moons ago.”

Cook made a note to record the facts in his logbook. The Lords of the Admiralty would be interested to learn of these developments. The race between nations to add new lands to their ever-expanding empires was now truly underway. Confirmation of France’s interest in these far-flung territories would add to the concerns England already had over Spain’s aggressive expansionist policies.

Tupaia’s information confirmed for Cook he’d be more than useful as a guide and interpreter for the duration of the Endeavour’s stay. After some robust negotiation, a deal was struck between the two men.

From his post, Nicholas learned the charming interpreter would receive payment in the form of European cloth, garments and other items as well as having full use of cramped but private quarters aboard ship.

Tupaia was enthusiastic in his thanks. As something of a ladies’ man, he knew the white man’s clothes would make him even more desirable to Matavai Bay’s wahines.

For his part, Cook thought he’d gotten the best of the deal. He was sure the English-speaking popinjay would be valuable to him in the weeks ahead. His sole concern, apart from the safety of ship and crew, was to complete a successful observation of the transit of Venus, now less than seven weeks away. To facilitate this, he knew he’d need to have the goodwill of the local villagers, and he was confident Tupaia would help smooth the way. The very thought of having to contend with warring natives while trying to carry out so precise an astronomical assignment was too awful to contemplate.

Yes, Cook thought, Tupaia would indeed be useful.

Before leaving, the Tahitian extended an invitation on behalf of Queen Obadia for Cook and his entire company to attend a feast in their honour the following day. The captain readily accepted the invitation then he and his crewmen watched as Tupaia descended the ladder to the waiting canoe and was paddled back to the beach.

For the entire return trip, the smiling Tahitian sat about-face at the stern, waving at his newfound friends aboard the Endeavour. Tupaia was excited that after tomorrow’s feast he would take up temporary lodgings aboard the white man’s vessel. He hoped those lodgings might become permanent for he longed to see for himself what lay beyond Tahiti’s shores.

#

The following day dawned hot and humid in Tahiti. “Good feckin drinking weather,” Cook’s men decreed aboard the Endeavour.

Two of the bark’s longboats were used to ferry the captain and some eighty-five men – officers, marines and crew – to shore where they would be guests of the island’s queen at the feast she’d planned. Several return trips were needed to complete the exercise.

Nicholas counted himself lucky to be among those chosen to go ashore. An armed guard of nine men, including two marines, remained on board to protect the bark.

On shore, the visitors were greeted by a crowd of several hundred friendly villagers. Nicholas was once again struck by the physical presence of these people. The wahines were as fetching and beguiling as any man could imagine, and the men were tall and upright of stature with strong, athletic physiques.

To the fore was the ever-smiling Tupaia who appeared to have taken it upon himself to direct proceedings. The English-speaking priest looked markedly different today, dressed as he was from head to foot in European garments he’d acquired the previous day as advance payment for his services. Those garments included a gentleman’s gold-embroidered waistcoat, knee breeches and white stockings, an over-the-head white shirt with ruffled sleeve-ends displaying ornamental buttons, a cravat-like neck cloth, and a tricorn, or cocked hat, with folded brim. The fop’s outfit was spoiled only by his heeled, leather shoes, which were obviously too small and which caused him to limp noticeably.

While Tupaia attracted amused looks and comments from the visitors, Nicholas noticed he also drew admiring glances from the wahines and looks of envy from the Tahitian men. He couldn’t help liking the interpreter and promised himself he’d engage the man in conversation at the earliest opportunity.

Before the visitors could object, they were individually hoisted onto the shoulders of their hosts and carried up well-worn pathways leading to the village, which was situated among palm trees on a rise overlooking the beach and the reef beyond it. Special treatment was afforded Cook who was transported in the queen’s own covered litter, which was supported on bamboo poles and was carried by six muscular warriors, all members of the queen’s personal guard.

The aromas of the feast awaiting them were detectable well before the visitors reached the village. Roast pork, barbecued turtle, fried breadfruit and a myriad of other exotic foods smelled irresistible to men who had been on ship’s rations for so long.

Upon entering the village, the visitors noted it was surrounded by a stockade constructed of sharpened bamboo poles and it accommodated several hundred bures. The dwellings provided shelter from the elements courtesy of their distinctive thatched rooves while their basic design meant they could easily be rebuilt if levelled in a cyclone.

The villagers appeared to be familiar with adversity and warfare as the signs were everywhere. Many of the males were armed or had their primitive weapons close by, and sun-bleached human skulls adorned the top of the bamboo poles along the seaward side of the stockade. Nicholas estimated some five hundred skulls were on display – grizzly mementos of past battles over many decades or perhaps centuries.

There was evidence here, too, of cannibalism. Crewmembers stumbled across a cooking pot containing the remains of some poor soul. His tattooed head, minus his eyes and tongue, together with his arms and one fleshy thigh were all that remained. The men were thankful the pot was some distance from where the feast was being prepared.

Questioned about this gruesome find, Tupaia vehemently denied any knowledge of cannibalism among his people. He did admit it was practised by their enemies – “Especially those evil, piss-drinking, shit-eating pigs from Bora Bora!” – but certainly not by his people.

Beyond Tahiti’s shores little was known of the remote island nation’s bloody history even though some mighty sea battles had taken place in these waters. One of the biggest involved some five thousand war canoes. That conflict took place when some of the village elders were young boys. Those same elders claimed the bloodshed turned the waters of Matavai Bay red.

Cook had heard reports from reliable sources of epic sea battles between warring parties here and also further north, in Hawaii. Apparently, some war canoes could accommodate over a hundred warriors, and, from specially-constructed fighting platforms, they would hurl spears and rocks down at their enemies.

The captain didn’t underestimate his hosts. Despite their hospitality and friendly nature, it was clear these were a people capable of extreme violence. Turning to Second Lieutenant Hicks, he said, “Ensure your men remain vigilant, Mister Hicks!” Shouting to make himself heard above the hullabaloo around them, he added, “They’re to have muskets at the ready at all times.”

“Aye, Captain,” Hicks said. The officer dropped back to ensure the marines under his command were ready for trouble. As a professional fighting man, he shared his captain’s cautious attitude – as did his subordinate Sergeant Edgecumbe.

At the same time, Cook decided their first task once the festivities were over would be the construction of a sturdy fort near the beachhead. He was aware they’d need a secure land base from which to operate in the weeks ahead. It was as though he’d had a premonition. His misgivings were well-placed for it would be on another Pacific island as captain of another vessel that natives like these would take his life. But that was nearly ten years away and Cook would cross more oceans before then.

#

Any concerns about how the day would go were soon dispelled. The Tahitians turned out to be generous hosts. Europeans were still a novelty here even if they didn’t engender the excitement crews of earlier ships had. Those visitors had been greeted as white gods who had been delivered to these shores on the backs of giant seabirds – a belief fostered by the billowing sails first seen when the ships were still far out at sea. The Tahitians knew better now. Even so, the visitors from the Endeavour were treated like royalty for the villagers lusted after the sparkling beads, fancy garments, modern tools and other trade items they’d brought with them.

In the village centre, the guests sat with their hosts on grass mats, which had been laid out in a semi-circle. They were waited on by smiling wahines bearing generous servings of the juice of some exotic fruit served in the husks of hollowed-out coconuts. 

Never having been exposed to such beauty and generosity before, Nicholas looked on wide-eyed. He wasn’t alone. Even those crewmen who were hardened sailors lapped up the attention being lavished upon them.

Soon the hubbub of chatter and laughter ceased. Only the small children, naked and oblivious to the politics of the occasion, continued making a noise as they played nearby.

Tupaia made sure he sat next to Cook in order to provide his new master with a running commentary of the proceedings. “We await, ah, arrival of Queen Obadia and her, um, consort,” he informed the captain.

Cook nodded. The captain was eager to meet the queen. If he could forge good relations with the island’s ruler, his stay would be so much easier.

The minutes dragged by. In the oppressive heat and humidity the men of the Endeavour grew restless. Some grumbled that valuable drinking time was going to waste. Scowling, Cook and his lieutenants shot furious glances at the main culprits.

A sudden fanfare heralded the arrival of the royal party. Two trumpeters had begun blowing into conches. The haunting sound the large seashells produced quietened even the children for a few moments.

Nicholas, seated near the front just behind Tupaia, had already decided Tahiti was everything he’d dreamed it would be, surrounded as he was by beautiful wahines. Already one or two of them had caught his eye. Any thoughts he had for them vanished the second he laid eyes on Queen Obadia. She emerged from a cluster of large bures that comprised the royal living quarters. At her side, but always one step behind, was her consort Hercules. The massive rangatira towered over her, but everyone had eyes only for the queen.

At the sight of Queen Obadia, the air was driven from Nicholas’s lungs. It was as if Hercules himself had punched him in the gut.

She’s beautiful!

Nicholas fought for breath as he took in every feature of the royal figurehead who was now standing only a few paces from him. He knew there wasn’t a more exquisite creature on the face of the planet. Others around him were equally impressed. Despite the fact that she was probably nearer forty than thirty, her radiance and beauty outshone that of the prettiest wahine. Statuesque, her golden skin was unblemished, and beneath the colourful cape that hung from her graceful shoulders her body was, in Nicholas’s opinion, perfection personified. When she moved she glided gracefully, like the dancer she once was. High cheek bones gave her face a rare and exotic beauty, but her most riveting feature was her almond eyes. Large and hypnotic, they roamed over the faces of the visitors seated before her, settling for one magical instant on Nicholas’s face. In that split-second he thought he saw something register in the queen’s eyes. Then it was gone as she turned her attention to others.

In the few moments since Queen Obadia’s appearance the villagers had prostrated themselves before her, arms outstretched and foreheads touching the grass. She gestured to them to rise then sat down regally on a throne-like chair that her servants had placed behind her. The chair had been fashioned from driftwood and was covered in colourful cloaks.

Nicholas had noted the ever-present Hercules was the only villager who remained standing while the others bowed down before their queen. Knowing he was the queen’s consort repelled him. He couldn’t imagine so beautiful a woman sharing her bed mat with such a grotesque hulk.

As if on cue, the hulk stepped forward and launched into a welcoming speech in his native tongue – a speech that seemed to go on forever. When he finally finished, he stepped back and nodded to Tupaia. At this pre-arranged signal, the priest who doubled as an interpreter jumped to his feet and delivered a mercifully-shortened translation of the rangatira’s speech. It wasn’t without humour – thanks largely to Tupaia’s somewhat creative interpretation and theatrical delivery.

A traditional exchange of gifts followed. With the assistance once more of Tupaia as interpreter, Cook presented Queen Obadia with an expensive blue robe made of pure silk. The queen accepted it gracefully.

To Hercules, Cook presented a ceremonial sword, not dissimilar to the one stolen from Warrant Officer Wilkinson’s cabin two days earlier. The queen’s consort beamed his appreciation as he accepted the sword. Looking on, the still-miffed Wilkinson wondered if his stolen sword was occupying pride of place in Hercules’s bure. For sure, he thought, the big lump would have commandeered his most prized possession. The same thought had apparently crossed Cook’s mind and he shot a wry glance at his grim-faced officer.

Queen Obadia and Hercules reciprocated, producing gifts of their own, which servants distributed to Cook. Their offerings included a litter of six young piglets for the captain’s crewmembers to take back with them to the Endeavour. A murmur of appreciation immediately went up from the seamen. Not since Rio had pork been on the menu.

The feast that followed was worth the wait. Served on trays fashioned from the bark of trees, it included all manner of exotic fruit, fresh crayfish, prawns and oysters, and roasted pork and turtle meat topped with coconut cream. The food was served with generous quantities of kava, which, despite being an acquired taste, was well received by most of the visitors.

Throughout proceedings Nicholas tried in vain to catch another glimpse of the queen – his queen, for that’s how he thought of her now. He was aware from the first second he laid eyes on her he’d fallen hopelessly in love. She was his first true love. Unfortunately, he never saw more than a fleeting glimpse of her again that day as she remained surrounded and largely hidden from view by throngs of her admiring subjects.

Nicholas’s reaction to the queen’s stunning beauty hadn’t been lost on his crewmates who, to his everlasting embarrassment, began ribbing him mercilessly. It had also been noted by Tupaia. He’d seen the surgeon boy’s star-struck reaction to the queen’s appearance. It didn’t surprise him. Over the years, he’d seen many others come under her spell – himself included.

More significantly, however, Tupaia had noted his queen’s reaction upon seeing the lad. It had only been a fleeting one, barely lasting a second, but Tupaia recognised it. She’d once looked at him like that. His loins tingled at the memory of the solitary night of passion that had followed. It was a memory he nurtured and would carry with him to the grave.

Ever the schemer, Tupaia filed his astute observations in his ever-active brain.

By now the celebrations were in full swing and many of the visitors were becoming intoxicated. Some of the worst-affected of the Endeavour’s company lay in a stupor on the ground while those still sober or partly sober participated in the trading now underway; others took advantage of the comforts offered by friendly wahines. Many of the womenfolk were either married or betrothed yet their promiscuity seldom caused arguments. The Tahitians’ unconstrained attitude to sex and, indeed, to life itself, was as far from European ways as Tahiti was from England.

Unfortunately, venereal disease would soon sweep through the Endeavour’s crew, affecting thirty-two sailors and six of the marines – an unfortunate development that would surprise Cook. Surgeon Monkhouse had assured him his men were not poxed before they reached Tahiti, and the Dolphin’s medical records confirmed that the clap had not been a problem during her visit to these same shores. This could only mean the French were the culprits as their ships had been the only vessels to anchor in Matavai Bay since the Dolphin’s historic visit.

#

The afternoon shadows were lengthening before the last of the shore party were ferried back to the Endeavour. Cook was satisfied the feast had helped establish good relations with Queen Obadia and her people; the crewmembers were happy about the hospitality they’d enjoyed – especially those who had been entertained by the wahines; and Nicholas was more than happy he’d set eyes on the beautiful queen. His beautiful queen.

CHAPTER 10

Aotearoa, Spring, 1303 AD

A few full moons shy of two years after arriving in Aotearoa, Hotu was ready to honour his promise to return for those he’d left behind in Hawaiki. The rangatira had vowed he’d return for them. Now he planned to make good on that.

Sitting on the same beach Ronui had delivered him to, he reflected on his time in the land of Kupe. The migration had proven to be an inspired move, and, after a difficult period of adjustment, the new land…

>>> NEW ZEALAND: A NOVEL continues next week.

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This novel is available via Amazon as a hardcover, paperback, audiobook and Kindle ebook… https://www.amazon.com/New-Zealand-Novel-Lance-Morcan/dp/0473728524/

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Spanning five centuries, New Zealand: A Novel is a sweeping tale of discovery, destiny, and forbidden love in which the old and new worlds collide. While this novel may not always convey exactly what happened during the discovery and settlement of New Zealand, first by Pacific Islanders and later by Europeans, I believe it captures the spirit of those sometimes romantic, always fascinating and often bloody times. –Lance Morcan (Author)

CHAPTER 8

Aotearoa, Summer, 1302 AD

The early days in the new land were difficult days for those Hawaikans who survived the epic sea voyage from their homeland. In the first year more deaths further reduced their number although those were partly offset by the births of several babies. And so far the land of the long white cloud was living up to its name: it was cloudy. With the clouds came rain and cooler temperatures, and the new arrivals shivered as they adapted to life in this foreign place.

Food, or lack of it, was the most crucial issue facing them. The abundant food sources of the islands of the South Pacific were sadly lacking. There was no sign of the pigs, turtles, bananas, coconuts, kumaras or yams they were familiar with. Wild berries from the hīnau, karaka and other native trees were the only fruits available. Though there was a profusion of fish and bird life, new fishing and hunting techniques had to be mastered before those creatures could be added to the recently arrivals’ diet in any quantity.

More than a few of the Ronui survivors wondered if they’d made the right decision in coming here.

Hotu remained staunch. The rangatira knew there’d be hardships to overcome before his people would be at one with the land. He was sure Kupe’s followers had faced the same problems all those centuries ago. Whether they had survived was another story. The same unanswered question applied to Ra and the others aboard Tautira as well as to those who had planned to follow Ra and himself to the new land as soon as their craft were seaworthy.

So far not one sign of another human being had been found. Not even a solitary footprint.

The first hunting expedition into the unexplored interior provided a much-needed boost for flagging spirits. Concerned they’d seen no pigs, or any animals for that matter, along the coast, Hotu led a dozen hunters inland. Their number included Kafoa who made up for his tender age and inexperience with enthusiasm. The hunters never found pigs, but what they did find soon proved to be as good.

On the flatlands and rolling hills between the coast and the mountains, they discovered mobs of giant birds. The biggest of these emu-like creatures stood taller than the tallest man, and, Hotu observed, they had plenty of meat on their bones. Better still, like some other birds in this land, they were flightless. With no natural predators, until now, they had no need of wings. The moa, as they came to be called, were timid and easily killed. Moas quickly became a staple part of their hunters’ diet and would remain so until their extinction less than two centuries later.

In a land curiously devoid of land animals – apart from the dogs and rats the new arrivals brought with them – the moa’s meat provided a valuable source of much-needed protein. And their plumage, like that of their smaller relative, the kiwi, was put to good use making warm and decorative feather cloaks and blankets.

As the months passed and the summer of 1302 faded into autumn, Hotu’s people learned new hunting and fishing techniques, and other foods were added to their diet. These included numerous species of birds, fish, eels, shellfish, berries and root crops. The latter included the shoots and root of the commonplace fern.

As familiarity with the land’s natural resources grew, so did mastery of new building techniques grow. Small, single-entrance, windowless whares [huts], designed to keep their occupants snug and warm, were constructed while native flax was used as the basis for clothes and matting in place of the paper mulberry tree of the islands.

Life slowly became more bearable for the new settlers. Hawaiki and those loved-ones who had been left behind were always in their thoughts, but every one of them accepted their future was here, in Aotearoa. Here, they were safe. They had no enemies. Not yet at least.

By the end of their second summer, they were already becoming tangata whenua – people of the land.

CHAPTER 9

Matavai Bay, Tahiti, April 14, 1769

The morning after the Endeavour’s arrival at Matavai Bay dawned bright and sunny, a welcome change from the recent foul weather.

Even before the crew had finished breakfasting in the mess, a cry went up that a canoe was approaching. Nicholas and several other crewmen hurried topside and saw two paddlers propelling the canoe toward them across the calm waters of the lagoon. Behind the paddlers sat an impressive-looking Tahitian resplendent in a fine black cloak. His handsome head was adorned by a head-dress of colourful feathers. It was obvious…

>>> NEW ZEALAND: A NOVEL continues next week.

*

This novel is available via Amazon as a hardcover, paperback, audiobook and Kindle ebook… https://www.amazon.com/New-Zealand-Novel-Lance-Morcan/dp/0473728524/

*****************************************************

“Riveting. I could not put the book down. Historical facts were woven with some well-crafted narratives into a story of how the nation of New Zealand came to be. The knowledge of the author about native beliefs, customs, and the way of life in the tribal communities of the South Pacific coupled with Captain Cook, the explorer of legend, made this a compelling and exciting story to read.” –Stephen Heartland, Author, USA

CHAPTER 7

Plymouth, August 25, 1768

The storm Nicholas Young and his fellow crewmembers had feared arrived with a vengeance, delaying the Endeavour’s departure from Plymouth by three days. She finally put to sea at two o’clock on a windy August afternoon. The foul weather that had delayed her departure continued for several more days and many of the bark’s company were violently ill. Not Nicholas, though. He’d quickly discovered he was equally at home aboard the Endeavour in fair weather or foul.

Standing alone at the bow and delighting in the feel of the rain, wind and spray on his face, his spirits soared as the English coast disappeared over the horizon behind him. Romantic images of far-away places filled his mind. Ahead of him lay Tahiti and beyond that new lands waiting to be discovered.

Early in the voyage, Cook opened the second part of his orders and revealed to his crew what Nicholas already suspected: after observing the transit of Venus in Tahiti, they were to search for Terra Australis Incognita.

How Mister Wilkie had known what the secret orders were even before the captain did, Nicholas never did find out. Suffice to say this was the age of exploration and everyone was talking about the race to discover new lands. There’d been much talk of late about a mysterious continent to the south, and who better than Cook to discover that land and plant England’s flag on its shores.

What Nicholas and the others didn’t know was that Cook alone suspected Terra Australis Incognita was a myth and that an earlier sighting of the so-called Great Southern Continent was in fact no more than the western shoreline of a distant island, or group of islands, discovered one hundred and twenty-six years earlier by Dutch explorer Abel Tasman. A place cartographers subsequently called Nieuw Zeeland after the Dutch province of Zeeland. A place that would one day soon be known to the world as New Zealand.

#

Before retiring for the night, and in keeping with his evening routine, Cook sipped a glass of port in his cabin while preparing to write an entry in his logbook or journal. On this occasion it was his journal.

The captain was distracted. His beloved and long suffering wife Elizabeth was pregnant with their fourth child, and, for all he knew, may already have given birth. She was, after all, in the late stages of pregnancy when he’d departed Plymouth. Leaving her and their three children in the knowledge it would be years before he saw them again, if ever, hadn’t been easy, but it was a cross he’d learned to bear as a career seaman. Elizabeth, on the other hand, had never accepted her husband’s long absences, and this rankled with him though he never voiced his annoyance.

Dipping his quill into an open bottle of ink, the captain was about to start writing when a sharp wind gust caused the bark to lurch to starboard, spilling the port and almost sending the ink bottle flying. Unphased, he patiently waited until the bark righted herself then tried again.

In his finest italics handwriting, he wrote:

September 1st, 1768: Very hard gales with some heavy showers of rain the most part of these 24 hours which brought us under our two courses and broke one of our main topmast puttock plates. They also washed overboard a small boat belonging to the boatswain and worst of all drowned between 3 and 4 dozen of our poultry.

The bark lurched again as she was assailed by more wind gusts, prompting Cook to discontinue writing. The wind was clearly strengthening. It was, he thought, a good excuse to take botanist Joseph Banks up on an earlier invitation to join him in his nearby quarters for a nightcap. He’d discovered early in the voyage that he and Banks had much in common, the man was an engaging conversationalist and he enjoyed his company.

#

Almost three weeks after departing England, the Endeavour lay at anchor in the safe harbour of Porto Santo, in the Portuguese archipelago of Madeira. After what for the most part had been a stormy passage, the warmer temperatures came as a welcome relief for the bark’s company.

However, it was with a heavy heart that Cook retired to his cabin after dinner that evening for the expedition had just that day suffered its first death. Chief mate Alex Weir, in the view of many one of the finest seamen aboard, had drowned after one of his legs became entangled in a buoy rope, which pulled him overboard.

In the privacy of his quarters, Cook took up his quill and proceeded to record the incident in his logbook. He sighed as he paused in his deliberations and rubbed his eyes. Weir had been one of the best, and he’d be sorely missed.

The captain poured his usual, a glass of port, for himself. His eyes strayed to a portrait of his wife, which hung on the facing wall. He had been thinking of Elizabeth more than usual lately because he knew, God willing, she’d have given birth by now. He wondered if she’d given him another son.

Cook wasn’t to know Elizabeth had given birth to a boy, Joseph, six days earlier. Nor could he know the boy would die within the month.

#

Alex Weir’s death aside, Cook and his men spent an enjoyable five days at Madeira before departing for Tahiti. Many crewmembers and one or two officers had fond memories of time well spent ashore with some of the local senhoritas. To Nicholas’s great chagrin, he wasn’t one of them. He had hoped to lose his virginity in Madeira. 

#

“Land ahoy!”

The cry from the crow’s nest announced the arrival of His Majesty’s bark the Endeavour at Tahiti – some eight months after departing England. Word quickly spread above and below deck.

 In the sickbay, Nicholas restrained himself from dropping what he was doing to rush topside. It was just as well for he was assisting Surgeon Monkhouse in the middle of a rather bloody operation.

“Steady, lad,” Monkhouse cautioned. The surgeon knew only too well how much his assistant was looking forward to his first glimpse of Tahiti, but right now they had a patient to attend to.

Nicholas re-focused on the job at hand. As the surgeon worked his magic, his assistant held a metal clamp to the man’s femoral artery. Rigger Ben Johnson had fallen from the rigging during a squall earlier that morning. He’d landed on a grappling hook, badly gashing his leg and losing a lot of blood in the process.

“Nearly finished,” Monkhouse muttered as he proceeded to tie the artery.

The bleeding ceased and Nicholas was able to remove the clamp as his superior began sewing up the open wound. “Have we saved the leg?” he asked anxiously.

The still-conscious Johnson looked around at the surgeon even more anxiously as he awaited the reply. Half a bottle of rum had dulled his pain, but it hadn’t affected his hearing.

“Aye and I dare say he’ll live,” Monkhouse announced matter-of-factly.

Johnson heaved a sigh of relief before lapsing into unconsciousness. Nicholas wasn’t sure whether the patient’s present state could be attributed to aftershock or inebriation. As the alcohol fumes from the patient assailed his nostrils, he decided it must be the latter.

“Ye can wash up now,” Monkhouse told his assistant. “I’ll finish up here.”

Nicholas washed the blood from his hands in a nearby bucket of freshwater kept for that very purpose then hurried topside for his first glimpse of Tahiti.

Monkhouse smiled at his assistant’s youthful vigour. Although he tried not to show it, he’d become fond of the lad. Indeed, Nicholas’s unbridled enthusiasm and engaging personality had endeared him to all the ship’s company, and the obvious skills he demonstrated after so short a period in his new role indicated his appointment as surgeon’s boy was an inspired one. The surgeon made a mental note to shout the bark’s recruiting officer, Mister Wilkie, an extra round of drinks when he returned to England.

Nicholas wasn’t the only excited person on board. Since rounding Cape Horn, everyone was looking forward to resting up in Tahiti. Although a fairly recent addition to the maps of the world, its reputation as a South Sea paradise was spreading fast and the men were keen to discover whether that reputation was warranted.

The journey out, via such exotic places as Madeira, Brazil, Patagonia, Tierra del Fuego and finally the Horn itself, had proven something of a baptism of fire for Nicholas. When he’d set sail from England the previous year, his head had been filled with fanciful dreams of romance and swashbuckling adventure on the high seas. The reality was somewhat different.

At sea, the Endeavour’s surgery was one of the busiest facilities aboard ship. As surgeon’s boy, his shifts involved twelve-hour days every day as well as being on call to assist in the event of an emergency. He soon discovered emergencies aboard sailing ships of the day were the rule rather than the exception.

Terrifying mid-Atlantic storms had resulted in a rash of injuries, some serious, and two more lives had been lost before they’d even reached the sanctuary of Rio de Janeiro. Both unfortunates had been swept overboard in mountainous seas. Since then another had died after falling from the rigging.

Many of the mishaps could be attributed to drunkenness. So liberal were the Royal Navy’s rum rations, which were often supplemented illegally through theft and bribery, that many crew members and some officers were constantly drunk. It was a problem in no way unique to the Endeavour or even to the ships of the Royal Navy, although Surgeon Monkhouse had commented more than once he thought the problem was particularly bad in the navy.

Nicholas had quickly discovered that alcohol and sailing were not a good mix. He was constantly helping to patch up injured seamen who had over-indulged. Other injuries resulted from fighting, which was all too often another side-effect of excessive drinking.

Brawling, drunkenness and illicit procurement of liquor were punishable by flogging. More than a dozen floggings had been administered so far on the voyage, but not even the cat-of-nine-tails was enough to deter the worst offenders. These were rough men who worked hard and played hard, and Nicholas soon learned he’d entered a world where he had to stand up for himself or risk being bullied.

He learned that homosexuality was another fact of life at sea where men were literally thrown together in the cramped quarters below deck. As the distance separating them from wives and loved-ones lengthened, bunk or hammock-sharing became quite common, and not only below deck. This problem – for that’s how the navy viewed homosexuality – was different to other problems encountered on board in that the top brass scarcely acknowledged it existed. Officially, the hierarchy took a dim view of buggery, as they called it. The offence was punishable by death – and not just in the navy: it was a capital crime in civilian life, too. Unofficially, the navy’s top brass turned a blind eye provided offenders were discreet.

Nicholas often marvelled at how easily happily-married family men could turn to other men for sexual relief then just as easily return to their wives’ loving arms on returning to their home port.

Several crew members had made unwanted advances to Nicholas early on in the voyage. He’d quickly discouraged them. On the last occasion – to signal loud and clear what his preferences were – he made an example of the drunken oaf who tried to grope him in front of others in the mess. Evading the man’s clumsy advances, he promptly kicked him in the testicles. While his victim lay temporarily paralyzed on the floor, Nicholas proceeded to force-feed him pickled cabbage and other legumes from the man’s plate until his open mouth could accommodate no more of his unfinished dinner. All this to the wild cheering of some thirty admiring onlookers. He never had any problems after that.

Nicholas was now eighteen. With each day at sea, his body had grown harder and he’d developed a mental toughness to match. Already, he had shared experiences and suffered hardships many Englishmen would never experience in their lifetime. In addition to his medical duties, he assisted with mending sails, and, because of his keen eyesight, occasionally acted as lookout in the crow’s nest. These duties left little time for any activity other than eating and sleeping, and provided further proof – if proof was needed – that there was no room for idle hands on any ship in Captain Cook’s command.

How Nicholas had envied the young folk he saw enjoying themselves in the port towns the Endeavour stopped at along the way. So it was with great excitement he was looking forward to disembarking at Tahiti where he and his crewmates would enjoy their first real break since leaving England’s shores. The transit of Venus across the sun was more than seven weeks away, and every man aboard was determined to make the most of that time and sample the delights Tahiti had to offer.

#

Nicholas’s first impression of Tahiti was disappointing. Since rounding the Horn, the weather had brought nothing but wind and rain. Today was no different. Yet another southerly squall swept over the Endeavour as he joined the men lining the portside rail. Peering through the rain, they could just make out the mountainous outline of Tahiti to the northwest. Further to the west they caught occasional glimpses of a smaller island.

The first sign of tropical life came as the squall passed. A profusion of red-billed tropicbirds, white-faced storm petrels and other colourful birds materialised as if from nowhere. They circled the bark, screeching and squawking in a joyous display of welcome while boobies and gannets dived for fish in the warm waters of a nearby lagoon.

#

It was two days before the prevailing southerly dropped sufficiently to allow Cook to nurse the Endeavour through the gap in the reef that surrounded the main island. As if by divine providence the sun broke from behind the clouds as soon as the bark reached the safety of the sheltered bay inside the reef, and the entire island was bathed in brilliant sunshine. The blue waters of the bay lapped at the shore’s black volcanic sand while all along the shoreline distinctive swaying palm trees added to the romantic vista. Between the beach and the steep mountaintops behind were rising forests of tropical trees.

On the bark’s seaward side, rollers broke on the reef that ringed the island like white foam. The crashing surf assailed the eardrums relentlessly, reminiscent of booming cannon-fire.

Cook knew from his charts this was Matavai Bay – easily identified by the towering volcanic peaks that stood like sentinels at the northern end of the island. Between the peaks and shore lay the ruins of some long-forgotten village.

The bay was far from deserted, however. Less than a mile east of the old ruins were signs of a well-populated settlement. Although the thatched, bure-style dwellings were concealed from the Endeavour, numerous villagers could be seen congregating on the shore, observing the newcomers while smoke from cooking fires drifted skywards above the treetops behind them.

To those watching aboard ship, the villagers appeared peaceful enough.

Between ship and shore, Nicholas counted at least twenty single-hulled canoes – most of them manned by fishermen who speared fish and cast nets from their flimsy craft. Like the other villagers, they appeared interested but unperturbed by the sight of foreign visitors. Above the high tide mark on the beach behind them at least two hundred canoes rested side by side, half of them double voyaging canoes and many of those clearly vessels of war for they contained stockpiles of spears, clubs and other weapons.

The arrival of a sailing ship no longer created panic as another English vessel had anchored in this very bay two years earlier, and, unbeknown to the English, two French vessels had called in since that historic visit. Even so, the Endeavour’s arrival was something of a novelty and it wasn’t long before a small fleet of canoes was heading out toward the bark.

A murmur of excitement went around the bark’s crew as they identified a number of dusky maidens among the occupants of the fast-approaching canoes. “Wenches ahoy!” one exuberant sailor shouted.

Nicholas couldn’t take his eyes off a bevy of beautiful wahines in the leading canoe. They truly are divine, he thought. His crewmates obviously shared that opinion and they directed wolf whistles at those who caught their eye.

Cook interrupted his men’s revelry. “Man your stations!” he shouted from the parapet above the quarterdeck. Then, turning to his bosun, he said, “Ye know what to do, Mister Molyneaux.”

“Aye, Captain,” the bosun answered. A seasoned veteran of the high seas, Robert Molyneaux knew exactly what his duties were. In his broad Lancashire accent he issued a string of orders to the crew, every third or fourth word a profanity of the foulest kind.

The Endeavour’s decks, masts and rigging became a hive of activity as marines and crewmen scurried to man the guns, ready the sails for sudden flight if needed and generally prepare for visitors whose intentions could not yet be safely fathomed.

“All ready, Captain!” Molyneaux reported a few minutes later.

Cook nodded his acknowledgment. The captain had seen too many ugly incidents in too many different ports to risk his vessel’s safety or his men’s lives through ignoring standard procedures. He turned to his second lieutenant, Zachary Hicks, a twenty nine-year-old Londoner and an agreeable fellow who was never far from Cook’s side when there was any hint of trouble. “Prepare arms, Mister Hicks.”

“Aye, Captain,” Hicks said, saluting his superior. Looking around at Sergeant John Edgecumbe, who also made it his business to remain close by at such times, he said, “Give the order, Sergeant.”

“Aye, sir,” Edgecumbe said. Turning to address the complement of marines who had already taken up their positions along the starboard rail, he shouted, “Prepare arms!”

The marines loaded standard-issue shot into their muskets. The small lead pellets could inflict a nasty wound and were useful in deterring folk with bad intentions.

Behind Edgecumbe, Third Lieutenant John Gore, an American, stood to attention, his broad back ramrod straight. At his feet was an ammunition canister containing explosives and musket balls. These would be issued smartly if the Tahitians became aggressive and musket shot failed to deter them.

Although he’d witnessed similar preparations on board before, Nicholas never failed to be impressed by Cook’s professionalism or by that of the captain’s men.

The canoes quickly closed with the ship, their smiling occupants waving and shouting words of welcome. They were obviously looking to trade as they displayed woven mats and baskets along with fresh food offerings. The latter included bananas, berries, breadfruit, coconuts, pork, shellfish and all manner of tropical fish.

To the delight of the Endeavour’s crew, the wahines were scantily-clad, most of them wearing only traditional grass skirts. Some discarded their garments and dived naked into the sea, laughing uninhibitedly at the leering seamen lining the bark’s railings above.

For Nicholas, who remained fairly innocent in the ways of the opposite sex, it was an eye-opener – as it was for all those who had never before had contact with Tahitians. The lad was struck by the free spirit and uninhibited actions of the wahines. He quickly became caught up in the gaiety of the occasion, and, laughing, joined the throng of men shouting their encouragement to the nymphs who frolicked like mermaids below. Even the captain could not suppress a smile as the laughter became contagious.

Cook ordered that the rope ladders be thrown over the side, and within minutes the decks were crowded with smiling Tahitians.

Nicholas was immediately struck by their appearance. Their lithe bodies and golden brown skin contrasted noticeably with the Europeans on deck. Some, he thought, seemed quite refined. Among the natives, unsmiling and more reserved than the others, was a huge man who Nicholas guessed was a chief. Because of his size, he was immediately christened Hercules by the crewmen and would be referred to as such for the duration of the bark’s stay at Matavai Bay.

The normally well-ordered proceedings on board degenerated into chaos as trading became frenzied and some of the Tahitians took license to roam over every inch of the bark. At the same time, most of the wahines gave themselves freely to interested crewmembers. A few held out for cloth or beads in exchange for their favours, and scuffles broke out as sailors jostled for their attention.

Cook quickly identified a potential problem developing and ordered Second Lieutenant Hicks to ensure his marines remained vigilant at their posts. Hicks passed the order on to his men, at the same time pointing out that some of the natives had brought knives and clubs on board.

As it turned out, the precautions weren’t necessary as the man-mountain dubbed Hercules took matters into his own hands. A roar erupted from the giant and he quickly brought his rowdy subjects under control. As a semblance of decorum was restored, the wahines shyly retreated down the ladders to wait in the canoes while their menfolk completed trading before leaving the bark well contented.

Last to leave was one of the more agile wahines who, unnoticed by anyone else, had been entertaining an inebriated John Thompson, the one-armed cook, high above deck in the crow’s nest. How the intoxicated Thompson had been able to scale the mast one-handed, his crewmates couldn’t imagine. To their amusement, he was too drunk and fatigued to even attempt to obey Molyneaux’s order to descend the mast, and so the bosun announced that Cookie, as Thompson was known, should remain in the crow’s nest until he sobered up. Some of the men immediately began placing bets on whether he would survive the descent. Those who bet against him would rue their judgement.

It wasn’t until after the crew had finished bidding farewell to the visitors that Warrant Officer Francis Wilkinson noticed his ceremonial sword, complete with its jewel-encrusted scabbard, had been stolen from his cabin. Later that day, the Endeavour’s chief carpenter, John Satterley, reported some tools were also missing, including a set of saws which had much sentimental as well as practical value. A furious Captain Cook vowed that the thieves would be found and flogged. No-one, not even Cook, expected the culprits would ever be found let alone flogged.

This was the first experience for most of the bark’s company of the Tahitians’ predisposition to stealing. It was an experience that would be repeated with infuriating regularity throughout the islands of the South Pacific over the remainder of the voyage.  

CHAPTER 8

Aotearoa, Summer, 1302 AD

The early days in the new land were difficult days for those Hawaikans who survived the epic sea voyage from their homeland. In the first year more deaths further reduced their number although those were partly offset by the births of several babies. And so far the land of the long white cloud was living up to its name: it was cloudy. With the clouds came rain and cooler temperatures, and the new arrivals shivered as they…

NEW ZEALAND: A NOVEL continues next week.

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To see what Amazon critics are saying about this novel go to: https://www.amazon.com/New-Zealand-Novel-Lance-Morcan/dp/0473728524/

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Spanning five centuries, New Zealand: A Novel is a sweeping tale of discovery, destiny, and forbidden love in which the old and new worlds collide. While this novel may not always convey exactly what happened during the discovery and settlement of New Zealand, first by Pacific Islanders and later by Europeans, I believe it captures the spirit of those sometimes romantic, always fascinating and often bloody times. –Lance Morcan (Author)

CHAPTER 6

South Pacific, Summer, 1301 AD

Aboard Ronui, only Hotu remained fully alert as yet another day dawned. He sat at the stern, manning the tiller and scanning the horizon in search of land. Kafoa slept fitfully close by, his head resting on his father’s lap. Their fellow voyagers, who now numbered less than sixty, lay sprawled before them, occupying much of the free space on the craft’s deck. Many were near death and most had resigned themselves to ending up in a watery grave.

As for Ronui, the craft bore no resemblance to the proud voyaging canoe that had left Hawaiki many weeks ago. Partially submerged, it appeared to be in imminent danger of sinking, and the experienced sailors on board knew it wouldn’t survive another storm.

Hotu was thankful his wives and all but one of his children had survived the journey so far. His youngest daughter had succumbed to the cold only the previous day. Other families had suffered even greater loss, some losing all their children and in some cases spouses. In the two days since Ronui’s separation from Tautira, the last of the precious food provisions had been eaten and most of the voyagers had all but lost the will to live. Physically, the survivors resembled skeletons, and the crewmen were becoming too weak to handle the relentless demands of blue water sailing.

The rangatira remained determined to find Kupe’s land. Trance-like, he sat at the tiller, single-mindedly pointing the canoe south as the morning sun broached the horizon, lighting up the Pacific and announcing the dawn of a rare fine day. Ronui’s remaining triangular sail, fluttered in defiant shreds in the steady breeze.

Hotu clung to the fact that as the distance between Ronui and Hawaiki lengthened, the gap between the voyagers and Kupe’s land narrowed accordingly. He just hoped they would reach their destination before any more died.

Kafoa stirred. Hotu glanced down and saw the boy was waking after a night of broken sleep and bad dreams. His heart went out to him. In his oldest son he saw his future, and his people’s future, too. Pushing the hair from the boy’s eyes, he murmured, “Good morning, son.”

“Good morning, papa.” Kafoa sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

Hotu handed his son a bowl of rainwater and the boy gulped it down greedily.

Kafoa suddenly froze, the bowl still raised to his mouth. “Papa!” he said. “Are those land birds?” Squinting, he pointed east toward the rising sun.

Hotu followed his son’s gaze. Despite the sun’s glare, he could just make out two large grey-and-white-feathered birds. They were a hundred yards away, lazily gliding in the breeze. “Yes!” he roared “They are seagulls!”

The commotion roused the others on board. Some of them staggered or crawled back to join Hotu and Kafoa. Rangi, the navigator, was first to reach the pair.

“Gulls!” Rangi confirmed. He returned his gaze to the southern horizon. “Can you see land?”

“No, but it must be near!” Hotu declared.

By now everyone who could was standing or sitting upright and scanning the horizon. Gradually, as long minutes dragged by, their spirits sank. There was no land to be seen, only an endless expanse of sky and ocean.

“The ocean gods are tormenting us before we die!” one of the women wailed. Others – men and women – voiced their despair. Some crawled back to where they’d been lying, seemingly resigned to death.

Hotu, Rangi and the other experienced sailors, however, remained alert. Kafoa noticed there was an air of excitement around them. It seemed to him that they could sense land even if they couldn’t see it.

“Look at the swells,” Rangi pointed out. “They are flattening.”

Kafoa looked at them. They did seem flatter even to his inexperienced eye.

“Look!” another man shouted. “Up ahead!” He pointed to the branch of a tree floating several hundred yards ahead of the canoe. It was almost totally submerged and if it hadn’t been for its bright red flowers, it might not have been noticed. The men weren’t to know it was a branch from the pohutukawa, an iconic tree that flowered early summer – a tree that was unique to Kupe’s land.

Still at the tiller, Hotu steered toward the branch. As the canoe closed with it, one of the men reached over and pulled it aboard. The branch had large green leaves; its distinctive flowers were actually brush blossoms, consisting of a mass of bright red stamens, but no-one could identify the tree it came from. That was of no consequence, however. It was another sign that land was near.

As one, they all stared at the horizon as if willing land to appear.

Time passed excruciatingly slowly and the sun rose ever higher. Still there was no sighting of land, and Kafoa could feel the excitement of those around him beginning to wane. He asked himself if they’d misread the signs.

#

Kafoa dozed intermittently. He welcomed sleep. It provided relief from the hunger pangs that gripped him. Through the mists of sleep he could hear his father and Rangi talking nearby.

“Land is close,” Hotu said. “I can smell it.”

Kafoa tried to open his eyes, but the blinding sun was directly above him now and so he kept them closed for the moment. Lulled by the motion of the canoe in the gentle swell, he drifted back to sleep, dreaming of succulent roast pork and barbecued turtle meat. 

The boy had no sooner fallen asleep than he was woken by the navigator’s shouts.

“I see land!” Rangi shouted triumphantly, leaping to his feet.

“Where?” Hotu demanded.

“There!” the excited navigator said, pointing directly southwest.

Kafoa was wide awake now. He pushed himself to his feet and squeezed between the two men, searching the horizon for a glimpse of land.

Hotu said, “Yes! I see it!”

Rangi adjusted the tiller until the canoe pointed slightly more to the west.

Others gathered around, aroused by the sudden commotion. 

Kafoa strained his eyes, but could see only sky and ocean. “Where is it?” he implored. “I cannot see anything!”

Hotu smiled. “Look for the signs and you will see it.”

Kafoa scanned the horizon, looking for any one of the signs he had memorised by heart. He absentmindedly massaged the stub of the extra small finger on his left hand as he studied the sea and sky around him. Finally he saw what the men had seen. Low on the horizon, at the limit of his vision, was a large landmass resting beneath a long white cloud. Studying the distant landmass, he murmured, “Aotearoa.”

Hotu nodded. “Aotearoa,” he agreed, “land of the long white cloud.”

Kupe’s land now had a name.

#

The excitement aboard Ronui was unrestrained as the landmass now referred to by all as Aotearoa came into clear focus beneath the umbrella of cloud. Everyone who could stand was standing. The only voyagers not on their feet were those too weak to stand.

Hotu was now manning the tiller. His heart beat fast. Here at last was Kupe’s land! Tears filled his eyes and he murmured a prayer of thanks to the spirits of his Hawaikan ancestors. This land, their land, would be his people’s salvation. Of that he was sure.

From around twenty miles out, the land appeared dark and mysterious in the shadow of the cloudbank above it. Forbidding even. The sight had a sobering effect on the voyagers. All conversation ceased as they studied their new homeland.

Hotu glanced down at Kafoa who hadn’t left his side since the first sighting. Overcome with love for the boy, he reached down and ruffled his hair yet again. Kafoa looked up and smiled at the father he idolised.

As Ronui sailed onwards, floundering deeper than ever in the water, the land mass ahead slowly took shape. It was high – higher than the tropical islands of the Pacific – and it was covered in dense, lush, green bush.

Although still too far away to ascertain, the land appeared to be unoccupied, and some sixth-sense told Hotu it was. Which meant he and his fellow survivors would be the only people on these shores. He wondered what had become of Kupe’s fellow voyagers all those centuries ago.

Hotu’s mind returned to the present and he realised the bigger question was what had happened to Ra and the others aboard Tautira. He prayed they were safe.

#

By mid-afternoon, the clouds lifted and Aotearoa was bathed in brilliant sunshine.

The Hawaikans were close to shore now. They scrutinised every feature of their new land. Ahead of them breakers crashed against impressive white cliffs that rose straight out of the sea. The clifftops were fringed by trees whose distinctive flowers blazed scarlet under the summer sun. Kafoa thought it likely the branch that was recovered from the sea came from one of those very trees.

Hotu was anxious to find a suitable landing place before nightfall. It was the ever-vigilant Rangi who brought his attention to a bay slightly to the north of where they were heading.

“Over there!” the navigator said, pointing to a crescent-shaped bay.

“Uh,” Hotu confirmed, steering the canoe toward the bay. A prominent headland at the bay’s southern end guarded the entrance to it.

The rocky shoreline gave way to a white-sand surf beach. Calm water and only the faintest of breezes aided an uneventful beaching. After such a long and dramatic voyage, the landing seemed almost an anti-climax to the exhausted survivors.

Kafoa was first to disembark, jumping from the canoe into the shallows. In a few strides he was standing above the high tide mark on the beach, his hunger pangs and tiredness forgotten for the moment. One by one, the other survivors joined him.

The descendants of Kupe had come home.

Hotu prayed that Ra and the others aboard Tautira had also arrived safely. He had no way of knowing they would soon land on a similar beach several hundred miles to the north.

It would be two centuries before the descendants of these separated peoples would meet, and when they did, it would not be as friends but as mortal enemies.

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CHAPTER 7

Plymouth, August 25, 1768

The storm Nicholas Young and his fellow crewmembers had feared arrived with a vengeance, delaying the Endeavour’s departure from Plymouth by three days. She finally put to sea at two o’clock on a windy August afternoon. The foul weather that had delayed her departure continued for several more days and many of the bark’s company were violently ill. Not Nicholas, though. He’d quickly discovered he was…

NEW ZEALAND: A NOVEL continues next week…

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