“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.
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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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