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 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.

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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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“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.

***

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…

To see what Amazon critics are saying about this novel go to:

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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 4

Deptford, England, July 1768

The two weeks before sailing were a blur to Nicholas. After signing the necessary recruitment papers and being formally introduced to all the officers and crew, including his master the gruff but likeable surgeon William Monkhouse, the new recruit spent the first week at home vainly trying to pacify his parents and explain why he’d joined the crew of the Endeavour. The only saving grace as far as Doctor Nicholas Young Senior was concerned was that his son would be assistant to a ship’s surgeon and so would still receive medical training, albeit at sea.

After negotiating an uneasy truce with his parents and leaving his father to explain his sudden departure from his London school to that institution’s headmaster, the lad had returned by stagecoach to London – a two-day journey from Buxton – and had boarded the Endeavour, which was still berthed at Deptford.

On board he’d thrown himself into a multitude of tasks as he assisted his fellow crewmembers to prepare for the voyage ahead. His cheerful disposition and willingness to pitch in quickly endeared him to one and all. Firm friendships soon blossomed between himself and others – in particular with Londoner Will Howson who was a year younger than Nicholas and who had signed on as the captain’s servant.

Among the more colourful characters on board were the bark’s one-armed chef, John Thompson, who would prove to be an asset despite his handicap, and the quartermaster Robert Anderson, a rowdy Scotsman who amused Nicholas and, indeed, anyone prepared to listen to his never-ending repertoire of dirty jokes and bawdy sea shanties.

There were many different nationalities represented among the men. Of the complement of ninety-five, the seventy-five men of the lower deck came from as far afield as America, Brazil, Scotland, Ireland and all parts of England. They were a mixed bunch of tough, hard-working, hard-drinking seamen.

Before departing England, the Endeavour’s muster would change several times in keeping with the usual uncertainty that surrounded any ship’s roll of personnel before departure. The muster reached ninety-six men at one stage, but before the bark set sail some jumped ship or were discharged, requiring further recruitments.

There were ninety-four men on board when the Endeavour finally departed. When the bark returned one month shy of three years later, only fifty-six of the original muster would still be on board. Deaths and desertions would take their toll.

Nicholas was surprised to discover full-strength rum was freely dispensed twice daily to every man, and every boy, too, on board. It was, they said, an old tradition. He would soon learn that drink was the downfall of many sailors, and on all ocean-going voyages fighting, accidents and occasionally deaths resulted from drunkenness at sea. Rum had long been the standard issue of drink in the Royal Navy. Those with a fondness for liquor usually found ways to supplement their rations. This voyage would be no different; the Endeavour’s log book would show numerous instances of floggings for the theft of rum. Even the quartermaster himself would be flogged twice, although in his case it would be for drunken behaviour, not theft.

Included in the muster was a contingent of thirteen armed marines whose number included Sergeant John Edgecumbe, a surly individual who tolerated no insolence from his subordinates. They looked a likely lot and the others were glad of their presence.

Also on board were astronomer Charles Green and the esteemed botanist Joseph Banks along with several scientists and artists in his employ. Banks and his assistants would collect and catalogue plant and animal specimens encountered in their travels, in particular those specimens that were unknown in Europe. A man of means, Soho-born Banks paid for berths aboard the Endeavour for himself and his hired help.

#

August 7th, 1768, was a red letter day for Nicholas Young. That was the day Captain James Cook joined the vessel. Having bade farewell to his wife and children, Cook boarded the Endeavour at the Downs, downriver from Deptford. There he discharged the pilot who had earlier nursed the bark down the lower Thames in readiness for him.

Cook impressed the new surgeon’s boy just as he did any crewmember seeing him for the first time. A big man with strong features and a stern face, Cook had a commanding presence and looked older than his thirty-nine years. Nicholas quickly and accurately judged him to be a man not to be trifled with. His reputation, both as a Royal Navy fighting man and an extraordinary sailor and navigator, had preceded him.

Having Cook at the helm made Nicholas feel secure. The captain’s mere presence boosted the morale and confidence of every man aboard. It mattered not a jot to them that Cook’s rank in fact was that of a lieutenant, not a captain. All who served under him referred to him as Captain, and Cook went along with that albeit reluctantly.

The Endeavour weighed anchor and set sail the following morning for Plymouth where final provisioning would be undertaken. The five days’ easy sailing in calm weather along England’s south coast was a pleasant introduction to life at sea for Nicholas, and the gentle motion of the deck underfoot and the spray and wind in his face reinforced his conviction that this was his destiny. His only complaint was the ever-present whiff of rum and overcooked pork that permeated the air and clung to his clothes; it took some effort not to throw up in front of fellow crewmembers.

There was little for him to do this early in the voyage, so he was able to savour every moment. That changed on arrival at Plymouth where everyone was put to work stowing the last of the provisions.

Nicholas marvelled at the amount of supplies needed. There were tons of salt beef, bread, cheese, fruit and vegetables, guns, muskets, pistols, powder and shot, garments, cloth, beads and trinkets for trading, tons of beer, hundreds of gallons of rum, barrels of fresh water and much more.

It was during the layover at Plymouth that Nicholas first met the captain. Cook had cut his hand while inspecting the carpenters’ quarters below deck and had summoned Surgeon Monkhouse to attend to his wound. Nicholas accompanied the surgeon to the captain’s quarters. They paused outside the cabin door.

“Now remember lad, the captain’s an important man,” the surgeon warned, “so ye don’t speak unless spoken to.”

Nicholas nodded. He didn’t need any prompting on that score. He was already tongue-tied at the prospect of meeting Cook. Monkhouse grunted his approval and knocked on the door.

Cook opened the door. “William, my old friend, come in!” he smiled.

Nicholas was surprised the captain greeted the surgeon like a close friend. He’d expected more formality.

“And who might this be?” Cook asked, casting a stern eye over Nicholas. The lad nervously returned the other’s frank appraisal.

“This is my assistant, Nicholas –”

“Nicholas Young,” the captain interjected. “Welcome aboard, Master Young.”

“Th…thank you, Captain,” Nicholas stammered. He was impressed Cook knew his name. Monkhouse had told him earlier the captain memorised the names of all his crewmembers, even the lowliest surgeon’s boy. He noticed the surgeon had taken delight in emphasising the word lowliest.

Nicholas watched intently as his superior cleaned around the cut on Cook’s hand and applied a dressing. The wound was only superficial and the surgeon’s work was soon finished.

“There, Captain, that should give ye no further trouble,” Monkhouse said.

“Thank ye William. And for God’s sake, when you’re in my cabin it’s James.”

“Aye, Cap…ah…James.”

Cook chuckled. “William, how many times have we sailed together?”

“Four times I believe, James.”

“Four it is,” Cook agreed. “I think that’s worth a celebratory drink, don’t ye?”

Monkhouse nodded agreeably.

To Nicholas’s surprise, Cook produced three glasses from his liquor cabinet.

“Is our young recruit allowed to partake?” the captain asked Monkhouse.

The surgeon seemed as taken aback as Nicholas. He mumbled something to the affirmative and Cook promptly did the honours, filling all three glasses with rum and motioning to his visitors to join him at his table. Nicholas sat down next to Monkhouse and tentatively sampled the rum. Having never tasted liquor of any kind, he momentarily lost his breath and it took all his self-control not to cough or splutter.

For the next half hour he sat, enthralled, listening to the two seamen talk. The more he heard, the more excited he became about the adventures that lay ahead.

Cook revealed he’d just received his final orders from the Lords of the Admiralty. “The orders came in two parts. Our first assignment is to proceed to Tahiti where we must observe the next transit of Venus.”

Sensing Nicholas’s interest, and with an eye for intelligence, the captain drew the lad into the conversation. “Do ye know why this assignment is so important, Master Young?” he asked, looking directly at Monkhouse’s assistant.

“Nay, Captain.”

“Well, the learned gentlemen of the Admiralty and the Royal Society know that observing the transit of Venus will enable us to calculate the distances to the planets.”

“Why is that so important, Captain?” Nicholas asked, ignoring the warning glance Monkhouse directed his way. The surgeon was of the old school, believing boys should be seen and not heard.

Warming to one of his favourite subjects, Cook continued, “It has become a matter of international prestige, lad. There’s worldwide interest in astronomy. Calculating the distances between Earth and the sun and between Earth and Venus are the first requirements for accurately mapping the solar system.” He paused for effect. “Navigation depends on such knowledge.”

A fascinated Nicholas willed the captain to continue.

Cook obliged. “Observation of the last eclipse of the sun proved unsuccessful. Since then there have been big advances in astronomy, and it is considered essential that observation of the 1769 transit of Venus is successful. The next one won’t occur until 1874, so that makes the Tahiti observation all the more important.

“Why Tahiti, Captain…ah…James?” Monkhouse asked. He had fond memories of the South Sea paradise from an earlier voyage, but couldn’t imagine why Cook needed to sail all the way to Tahiti to observe Venus.

“It’s important we have clear skies for the observation, and the Royal Society decided a site in the Pacific would give us our best chance,” Cook explained.

“And what’s our second assignment?” the surgeon asked.

Cook hesitated. “I can’t say, William. I have my suspicions, of course, but I’m under instructions not to open the second part of my orders until we’re at sea.”

Nicholas pricked his ears up at this. He clearly recalled his discussion of several weeks earlier at the London dockyards with the Endeavour’s recruiting officer, Mister Wilkie. The Devonshire man had seemed certain that the Lords of the Admiralty wanted Cook to look for Terra Australis Incognita, the Great Southern Continent. Nicholas was about to mention this to the captain, but held his tongue. He had no wish to land Wilkie in trouble.

I’ll find out soon enough, he thought. After all, we depart tomorrow.

He wasn’t to know Wilkie had no firm information on the bark’s ultimate destination. He’d simply made an educated guess, which would ultimately prove to be prophetic.

Thinking about the pending departure, Nicholas hoped the fine weather of late would continue. Distant lightning and dark clouds to the south indicated a storm was brewing.

***

CHAPTER 5

Hawaiki, Spring, 1301 AD

The morning after the big feast in Hotu’s village, Ronui led Tautira toward the narrow gap in the reef that separated them from the open sea. Around eighty people – passengers and crew – occupied almost every bit of available space on the decks of each canoe.

First places aboard the craft had…

NEW ZEALAND: A NOVEL continues next week…

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CHAPTER 3

London, June 1, 1768

Nicholas Young had rarely visited the seaside before and had never been aboard a ship or boat of any kind. Born the youngest in a family of five children, he’d seldom been beyond the borders of his home county of Derbyshire, in central England.

The son of Nicholas Young Senior, a medical practitioner in the spa town of Buxton, the lad was packed off to London as soon as he turned seventeen. He was following a long-standing tradition in the Young family: as soon as the boys were old enough they were sent to London to further their education. Like his two brothers before him, he was destined to follow his father into the medical profession. Marc and John Young were already junior partners in their father’s thriving practice.

Full of the enthusiasm of youth, Nicholas had arrived in London in the spring of 1768. He’d thrown himself into his studies, ever keen to live up to his father’s high expectations. However, he soon found an innocent boyhood spent in rural England had not prepared him for London’s many distractions. It wasn’t just the night life or the seemingly endless supply of beautiful city girls that distracted him. It was also the London dockyards. He was drawn to them like a magnet.

Nicholas spent hours exploring the waterfront and admiring the myriad of craft and their ensigns of different nations coming and going. He loved the docks with their ships of every shape and size, the constant activity that surrounded them, the peculiar sights, sounds and smells, the different languages to be heard and the colourful, hardworking, hard-drinking, foul-mouthed Jack Tars and other seafaring characters who came and went as frequently as the tides. Nicholas enjoyed listening to the seamen as they swapped yarns over an ale or two in the many waterside bars and inns. His impressionable young mind was soon filled with stories of exotic, faraway places.

When he wasn’t exploring the dockyards, he would wear down the soles of his shoes walking along the banks of the River Thames from where he could watch the magnificent sailing ships as they set out on their mighty ocean voyages.

Tall for his age, the good-looking, blond-haired, blue-eyed lad had an eye for the working girls who frequented the docks, and he inevitably attracted their attention. He was still inexperienced in matters of the opposite sex, but he vowed he’d do something about that in the next little while.

Early in his first summer in London he struck up a conversation with a Mister Wilkie, the recruiting officer for a vessel called the Endeavour. Wilkie, a short, bald, engaging character with a twinkle in his eye, told him he was charged with the recruitment of crew members for a voyage of discovery.

Nicholas was intrigued – even more so when he learned where His Majesty’s bark, the Endeavour, was going.

“She sets sail soon for Tahiti and on to the bottom of the world,” Wilkie confided. He spoke in that distinctive rural drawl, which identified him as a native of Devon. When pressed for more information by the eager boy, Wilkie said, “The Lords of the Admiralty want us to look for Terra Australis Incognita.”

Nicholas’ brow creased uncomprehendingly.

“The Great Southern Continent,” the recruiting officer explained, warming to his subject.

“You mean New Holland?” Nicholas asked, referring to the newly-discovered continent that would one day be referred to as Australia. He’d overheard chatter about New Holland amongst Jack Tars in the taverns.

“Nay, lad. Our Admiralty and the learned gentlemen of the Royal Society have long held the belief there is a vast tract of land, a veritable continent, far to the east of New Holland and the known world. They want it found, explored and claimed for Mother England.”

These words fired Nicholas’s fervent imagination more than any others he’d heard in his seventeen short years. He was immediately caught up in the adventure of it all and hurled a fair torrent of questions at the amused Wilkie.

The man held both hands up and stepped back a pace, chuckling. “One question at a time, lad!” he implored.

Nicholas grinned sheepishly and apologised. “What if the Endeavour’s crew doesn’t find this…great southern continent?”

Wilkie scratched his bald head and suddenly looked serious. “To be honest, I haven’t even considered that. Our captain is not one given to failure. He will surely be one of the greatest seafarers the world has ever seen if the scuttlebutt around him is accurate. If Terra Australis Incognita is there, James Cook will find it.”

This was the first time Nicholas had heard Cook’s name. He was to learn a lot more about the man in the months ahead.

Wilkie looked shrewdly at his young companion. “Would ye like to see the Endeavour?”

Nicholas jumped at the opportunity. “Where is she?”

“She’s moored nearby at the Deptford Dockyards. Follow me.”

Without further ado, the pair crossed the Thames courtesy of one of the watermen who made their living rowing paying customers across the river. On the far bank, they made their way on foot to Deptford. As at the dockyards they’d just left, Deptford was a bustle of activity with ships of every description either at anchor or coming and going. As they walked, Nicholas told Wilkie of his studies and his father’s ambition to see his youngest son follow him into the medical profession. With only a grunt here and there, Wilkie listened and silently digested what he was hearing. They came to an abrupt halt at the wharf’s edge and Nicholas surveyed the ships lined up before them. The older man pointed to an inconspicuous, solid, little vessel berthed at the far end of the wharf.

“That’s the Endeavour?” Nicholas was momentarily disappointed. He’d expected a more impressive craft would carry England’s ensign to the end of the world. More like one of the big Royal Navy ships of war he’d seen on the Thames. Even to his untrained eye, he could see she was less than a hundred feet long. However, the shiny brass nameplate on the bark’s side confirmed she was indeed the Endeavour.

“Don’t be fooled by her looks, lad,” Wilkie warned. He explained the little cat-built bark with her square stern, shallow draught and rounded sides would be equally at home rounding Cape Horn or facing tropical monsoons.

Nicholas listened intently as the older man proudly listed the many attributes which made the Whitby-constructed Endeavour, in his not-so-humble opinion, the most suitable vessel afloat for the arduous task ahead. He gained a new appreciation of the bark and was dying to board her. As if reading his mind, Wilkie bade him follow and stepped onto the vessel’s gangplank.

Nicholas tried to take everything in as his companion gave him the complete guided tour, introducing him to officers and crew as they made their way around the deck. There was scarcely room for the pair as crewmembers and watersiders intermingled, loading stores and provisioning the Endeavour for the journey ahead. “Is Captain Cook on board?”

“Nay, lad,” Wilkie replied, explaining the captain was spending his final weeks in London reviewing plans and charts with the Lords of the Admiralty. “God willing, he’ll also get some time with his family.”

Nicholas was amazed to learn the Endeavour could be away as long as two or even three years. That was if she didn’t sink or founder on some gnarly reef or barren shore.

After another moment’s silence, a realisation hit him like a bolt of lightning. He realised he had to be aboard this voyage of discovery. His companion recognised the moment, too.

Wilkie looked at Nicholas intently, aware that the lad could solve one of his crew recruitment problems. With less than two weeks to go before sailing, he needed at least twenty more crewmembers, including a junior assistant for the bark’s surgeon. It was no easy task trying to convince good men to give up the comforts of home for what could easily turn out to be a one-way trip.  The recruitment of a surgeon’s boy was crucial and would be one less appointment for the over-worked Wilkie to worry about. Coming from a medical background, Nicholas’s intelligence, youthful energy and undoubted enthusiasm for adventure made him an obvious candidate.

At length, Wilkie asked, “How would ye like to join the ship’s company, lad?”

***

CHAPTER 4

London, 1768

The two weeks before sailing were a blur to Nicholas. After signing the necessary recruitment papers and being formally introduced to all the officers and crew, including his master the gruff but likeable surgeon William Monkhouse, the new recruit…

NEW ZEALAND: A NOVEL continues next week…

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

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 2

Hawaiki, Winter, 1301 AD  

Hotu’s twin-hulled canoe was the biggest of all the double voyaging canoes ever seen in Hawaiki – bigger even than the giant catamarans favoured by their enemies. The rangatira knew he needed a special canoe if he was to lead an expedition into unknown waters in search of Kupe’s land. So he built the Ronui, his name for the huge craft that would carry eighty hand-picked villagers to a new life across the sea. Named after one of the mountain peaks that towered above his village, Ronui made an impressive sight at her lagoon anchorage.

Building such a canoe had been no easy task given the limitations of tools he and his team of builders had at their disposal. Support for the venture trickled in slowly as Hawaikans remained divided over its merits. As the monster vessel took shape, word quickly spread around Nuku Hiva and neighbouring islands, and the trickle of volunteers increased.

The project gathered pace when Hotu’s friend Ra and several other rangatiras eventually gave their support and supplied much-needed manpower. Enthusiasm for the project was contagious and finally the elders and priests gave it their unanimous blessing. Their zeal soon spread and the entire island took on a carnival atmosphere. Before long, there were a number of giant canoes under construction at various villages. Ra’s village was among those, and Ra named his canoe Tautira after the other mountain peak that dominated the landscape in their corner of the island. 

The peace and quiet of usually-lazy days was shattered by the sounds of axes felling trees that had stood tall for generations. The sounds of hard labour continued from dawn till dusk. It became a race to see which village would finish building their canoe first.

Two crop-planting seasons had passed since the Dogfaces last attacked.

#

The great migration to Kupe’s land took on some urgency as winter seamlessly slid into spring. Hotu and captains of the fleet’s other voyaging canoes – nine in all – wanted to begin their journey before the start of the mid-summer cyclone season. Already the long-tailed cuckoos had begun their southern migration, and every day the sun seemed hotter and higher in the sky.

It was fast becoming a race against time. The weather during sea voyages at this time of the year was usually the sailors’ friend. Much later and it could be their mortal enemy. Islanders were very aware of the dangers. Oftentimes canoes did not return from a voyage, and every family had lost loved-ones to the angry ocean gods at some time.

Hotu’s buoyant mood was rapidly giving way to a feeling of unease. His son, Kafoa, ever-aware of his moods, asked, “What is wrong, papa?”

Father and son sat down in the shade and looked hard at each other as they usually did when there were important things to say. Hotu explained the need to leave the island before the onset of the cyclone season. Kafoa understood. He’d seen their village levelled twice already by the terrifying winds that brought with them death and destruction.

One question led to another. “Papa, what if you are wrong about the cuckoos? Could we get lost at sea?”

“That is always a risk, son,” the rangatira replied honestly. “But it is not likely.” Hotu advised Kafoa of all the other signs provided by nature for the benefit of seafarers. He told of the stars that gave navigators a path to follow, the ocean currents that sped the great canoes across the water as fast as schools of flying fish, the ocean swells that changed shape and the birds that appeared as land was neared – and about the reflection of land in the clouds, which could be seen long before the land itself was sighted. “Our people have learned to read these and other signs over many years of exploration.”

The explanation satisfied Kafoa and he ran off to play, leaving his father deep in thought.

Hotu’s responsibilities weighed heavily upon him. On the one hand, he knew he was doing the right thing leading his people to the sanctuary of a new land. On the other hand, he feared for their safety if they couldn’t leave before the cyclone season struck. And strike it would. It came every year without fail.

There was something else, too. As rangatira, he was responsible for all his people, not only those sailing with him. He was keenly aware that most of the villagers would be left behind. He vowed then and there he’d return for them once he had found Kupe’s land. Deep down, he knew that would be in the hands of the gods. The prevailing winds would speed the fleet to the southern land, but those same winds would put up an almost insurmountable barrier against any return trip. Somehow, Kupe had overcome this barrier, but Hotu wasn’t sure he could match his ancestor’s seamanship. Something deep inside him told him this would in all probability be a one-way journey.

The Ronui and Tautira were within days of completion. Hotu and Ra were keen to set sail. So it was agreed, after sometimes heated discussion, the fleet would be split. Ronui and Tautira would depart as soon as they could be provisioned. The other seven canoes – Tainui, Te Arawa, Mātaatua, Kurahaupō, Tokomaru, Aotea and Tākitimu – would follow a week or two later and hopefully before the onset of the cyclone season. History would later refer to those seven canoes as The Great Fleet.

Ra’s canoe, an exact replica of Hotu’s, had been launched several days earlier and was now moored in the lagoon close to the village. Built in the style favoured by blue water seafarers of the day, each craft was actually two canoes joined by planked decking, which supported several thatched shelters. Wide planks had been lashed together with V-shaped inserted ribs. These were caulked with breadfruit sap. The distinctive triangular sails, made of pandanus mat, were of the fore and aft variety while the rigging was made from coconut fibre and the keel carved from a solid log.

The carrying capacity of these eighty foot-long sea monsters was impressive. Food and stores on board could last up to three months. The food would be cooked in ceramic cooking pots lashed to the deck; fresh water would be carried in gourds and in hollow bamboo lengths; and rainwater would be collected in the sails themselves. In the event of water shortages, the voyagers would drain the blood of any fish they caught into empty coconut husks and then drink it to help quench their thirst.

Capable of speeds of eight knots in good conditions, such voyaging craft could average up to one hundred and fifty nautical miles a day, or thousands of miles in a month, and could survive all but the fiercest storms. That was the hope at least.

#

Word of the impending departure of Ronui and Tautira quickly spread around Nuku Hiva and the neighbouring islands. Within two days thousands of Hawaikans had descended on Hotu’s village to bid farewell to the voyagers. They arrived laden down with gifts ranging from coconuts, taro, breadfruit and preserved fish to blankets, grass mats, live pigs and dogs. Everything that could be accommodated was loaded onto the craft.

Hotu and Ra personally supervised the provisioning of their respective vessels. The former approved the half-dozen or so island dogs donated to the crew of Ronui. The dogs would prove useful hunters in the new land, but he drew the line at two pigs. He was confident they’d find many more pigs for the cooking fire when they reached their destination. Until then he was not prepared to put up with any more than two of the smelly, snorting beasts. Ra took a similar stance and approved the loading of one pig only. They would both regret their decisions later.

The venture was primarily an exercise in logistics. This problem was simple compared with choosing who could go. It was easy at first: only Hotu and a few adventurous followers had wanted to take the risk. As time passed and support for the venture grew, there were many more volunteers than there were places available. In most cases, the passengers and crewmembers were young, fit and healthy; it was accepted the rigours of lengthy ocean voyages were too much for the elderly or unfit to survive.

In all, there were eighty places allocated on each vessel. A few babies still being nursed by their mothers weren’t counted. The nursing mothers and their infants would have first use of the thatched shelters on board.

The day before sailing, with provisioning almost completed, the Hawaikans enjoyed what surely must have been the biggest feast in the island nation’s history. Kava, the traditional drink of the islands, flowed as hundreds of pigs were roasted over makeshift spits. As was the custom, giant sea turtles were barbecued alive until they ceased writhing and their succulent white flesh peeled off them.

Those villagers soon to depart weren’t to know this would be their last decent meal for more than six weeks – the time it would take to sail the sixteen hundred miles from Hawaiki to Kupe’s land.

At the height of the celebrations, Ra noticed Hotu sitting by himself at the entrance to the latter’s bure overlooking the lagoon, and so went to join him.

“It is good to see you, my brother,” Hotu said by way of customary greeting when he noticed his friend approach.

“It is good to see you also, my brother,” Ra responded in kind.

Hotu motioned to Ra to sit next to him then turned to a slave boy nearby and ordered him to prepare a bowl of kava. The two rangatiras sat in companionable silence. A short while later the slave boy reappeared holding a bowl, which contained a liquid that might resemble ditchwater to a casual observer. His hand was shaking. He was very aware that more than one slave had been put to death for serving ill-prepared kava to a rangatira. Hotu nodded to the boy who handed the bowl to him. He drank greedily from it before sharing its contents with Ra.

The potent island drink soon worked its magic. First came the tingling in the lips and then the warm glow that starts in the stomach and spreads deliciously to the brain.

Hotu felt immensely satisfied – and not just because of the effects of the kava. The rangatira knew he was about to realise the dream of a lifetime. He closed his eyes and whispered a silent prayer of thanks to the spirits of his ancestors.

From their vantage point, the rangatiras had a clear view of the reef beyond the lagoon and of the sparkling ocean beyond that. Hotu could feel the pull of the southern land again. He could hardly contain his excitement at the prospect of emulating the great voyaging feats of Kupe.

The pair proceeded to drain the kava bowl, their speech becoming increasingly incoherent as they discussed what would surely be the journey of a lifetime. When the kava ran out, fermented coconut milk miraculously materialised, courtesy of the slave boy, with equally potent results.

On unsteady legs, the pair meandered down to join the other villagers who were now enjoying a feast to end feasts. It would include the sweet flesh of a teenage virgin girl soon to be sacrificed to the sea gods. After suffocation at the hands of two strapping junior priests, the naked girl – a volunteer from Hotu’s village – would be baked over a cooking fire, and morsels of her flesh would be distributed to the assembled tribal rangatiras and elders in a ceremony almost as old as Hawaiki itself.

This age-old practice was followed throughout many of the occupied islands of the South Pacific. It was necessary to appease the gods.

***

CHAPTER 3

London, June 1, 1768

Nicholas Young had rarely visited the seaside before and had never been aboard a ship or boat of any kind. Born the youngest in a family of five children, he’d seldom been beyond the borders of his home county of Derbyshire, in…

NOVEL CONTINUES NEXT WEEK…

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Part One

NEW HORIZONS

*

CHAPTER 1

Hawaiki, Autumn, 1300 AD

Kafoa snuggled close to his father as Hotu and the rangatiras of the other villages of Nuku Hiva, together with tribal elders from his own village, continued debating through the night. They sat outside around a roaring campfire midway between the beach and the village meeting house, which had been rebuilt since the invasion of the previous year. Collectively, the forty or so men present represented the fifty thousand residents who occupied the numerous settlements scattered throughout Hawaiki’s largest island.

The campfire’s soft glow lit up Hotu’s strong features as he spoke. “We either go or we perish!” the big rangatira said, scooping up a live gecko and throwing it onto the fire to emphasise his point. The lizard-like creature, which had made the fatal mistake of walking over Hotu’s bare foot, instantly shrivelled in the flames. “Every year we grow weaker while the Dogfaces grow stronger.” This time he spat into the fire. His spittle sizzled for an instant.

A tense silence settled over the meeting. This was the third time the rangatiras and elders had met since the last raid. In that time, Hotu’s village had been rebuilt, the only obvious legacy of the invasion being the reduced number of villagers – warriors in particular – and the extra graves in the sacred burial ground close by. Although the raiders had bypassed other villages on that occasion, most had been invaded before, and, as everyone knew full well, the risk of future invasion was very real. Even so, Hotu found there was little sympathy for his views in the ongoing debate. He reminded them of his ancestor Kupe’s discovery of a new land far to the south, but even that fell flat.

The purpose of these interminable meetings was to come up with a solution to the age-old problem of invasion by the Hawaikans’ enemies. Unfortunately, this meeting was going the same way as the others. Kafoa sensed it would likely end in total disagreement and everyone would stomp off, highly disgruntled, before repeating the process in another round of debates at some later date.

Irimia, the host village’s senior priest and its oldest resident, stood to speak. The effort of standing was almost too much for him, and his bandy legs shook as he directed his comments at Hotu. “The brave exploits of the great Kupe are not in doubt,” he rasped. “Nor is the fact that he returned to our island to tell of his discovery.”

Those who considered Kupe’s discovery of a new land to be nothing more than a myth shook their heads in silent disagreement.

“If Kupe…” A coughing fit interrupted the old man’s discourse. Irimia’s listeners waited respectfully until he recovered his breath. “If Kupe did discover land to the south, where is it and how would we find it?” the priest asked.

“Exactly!” exclaimed Ra, one of Hawaiki’s most respected rangatiras, and, as it happened, a close friend and ally of Hotu’s. Unfortunately, on this matter, the two friends were not in agreement. “Even if the land exists,” Ra argued, “it would be like looking for a tadpole in an ocean.”

Others murmured their assent.

Ra, whose muscular, tattooed body bore the scars of past battles, turned to face Hotu squarely. “How would you find this land of Kupe’s, my friend?”

All eyes turned to Hotu.

“I would do what our ancestors did,” the host rangatira said. “I would follow the signs.” He reminded everyone of their great heritage, of their seafaring ancestors who, four thousand years earlier, had left a land mass somewhere to the north and west of Hawaiki, and progressively populated the islands of the South Pacific.

Just as Hotu had done when he was young, Kafoa soaked up these stories of his people’s magnificent past. He never tired of hearing about the daring explorers whose skilled crews island-hopped from islands far to the west all the way to Hawaiki in the east, Hawaii in the north and Tahiti in the south, sometimes travelling many hundreds of miles in their voyaging canoes.

In particular, Kafoa loved to hear about Kupe. He was the bravest of them all, and, most importantly, the boy was directly descended from him. This was a great source of pride to him and his entire family – indeed to all who shared the belief that the explorer had discovered a distant land. Through a wonderful feat of memory, his father could recite his lengthy genealogy from Kupe right down the blood-lines to the present day. Kafoa vowed he’d be able to do the same one day. His father’s voice brought him back to the present.

“Deep down, every one of us here knows Kupe’s land exists!” Hotu challenged his fellow warriors. “If he was able to find it then so can we.”

His supporters nodded in agreement. Others murmured their dissent and some voiced their doubts.

“We could all perish trying to prove what you say is true!” Ra shouted. His supporters concurred. “We do not know how many times the sun rises and sets before the migrating cuckoos find land. It could be located at the end of the world for all we know!”

Now the support for Ra’s viewpoint became more vocal. Much shouting and fist-waving followed. Kafoa wasn’t alarmed. It always happened at these meetings.

Hotu leaped to his feet and called for silence. As the host and one of Hawaiki’s most celebrated rangatiras, his words carried weight. Silence descended on the meeting as Hotu paced before them. The others could sense his frustration building. The silence dragged on. No-one dared break it. Hotu’s bulky presence commanded respect from friend and foe alike. Now, as he prepared to speak, he raised himself up to his full imposing height. As he glared at his seated audience, even Kafoa shrank back before the onslaught that followed.

“Why do we argue?” Hotu cajolled them. It was more of a challenge than a question. “The Dogfaces keep returning and we keep arguing among ourselves. They must find that amusing. No wonder they have no fear of us!” He paused to let his scathing words have the desired effect. “Every time the Dogfaces come they kill our people, burn our villages and take our crops. They even steal our wahines!” He paused again, letting his last words sink in.

Everyone present was aware the rangatira’s young daughter had been abducted some years earlier. Those whose wives, sisters or daughters had been taken by the raiders, stirred angrily.

Hotu lowered his voice. “We know the Dogfaces will return. It is ordained.”

His audience nodded as one.

“We know also we are not strong enough to withstand their onslaughts. And we know our island can no longer sustain us.”

Again there was common agreement. With each passing season Hawaiki’s over-exploited soils became less fertile and yielded less food for its ever-growing population. The previous summer, and the one before that, had seen widespread crop failures and poor fishing as well, and many had gone hungry.

It was Irimia, the priest, who dared to speak next. “Great rangatira, we know what you say is true, but this island is the only home we know,” the old man reasoned. “We have survived crop failures and enemy raids before, and we will do so again. Hawaiki is the land of our ancestors. Their spirits live here. We are not like the cuckoos. We cannot fly away.”

Irimia’s words rallied the dissenters and once again the meeting disintegrated into a shouting match.

Just as Hotu feared, the debate ended as had the others before it. Everyone agreed to disagree and part company until the next time. The frustrated rangatira picked up his now-sleeping son and walked dejectedly back to his bure.

Kafoa awoke almost immediately, but sensing his father’s black mood he remained silent. He wasn’t to know that despite the meeting’s outcome, Hotu had made a decision – a decision that wouldn’t sit well with everyone.

As the rangatira often did, he sought solace in the arms of his youngest wife, and, as Kafoa often did, he listened to the sounds of their love-making in the darkness of their bure. In his dreamy state, the boy didn’t know what to make of the groans and other sounds that disturbed the silence, but somehow they comforted him and quickly lulled him to sleep.

#

The sounds grew louder. Kafoa was drawn out of his bure and into the jungle by the distant ringing of stone axes chopping into wood. As he drew closer, he recognised his father’s voice. Stepping into a clearing, he saw Hotu and two other men chopping down a tree so high it towered above all other trees on the island.

“Papa!” the boy voiced his alarm. “What are you doing? Why are you chopping down that tree?” For as long as he could remember he and his friends had climbed this particular tree for the panoramic views it afforded.

Hotu’s face creased into a grin when he saw his son. He lifted him up and sat him on the branch of a nearby breadfruit tree so their faces were level. Adopting a grave expression, he asked, “Can you keep a secret?”

Matching his father’s conspiring tone, Kafoa confirmed he could.

Hotu continued, “You have seen the cuckoos that fly south from our island every spring.”

The boy nodded.

“Well, your ancestor Kupe saw them, too. He knew they were land birds and would only leave Hawaiki if there was land waiting for them at journey’s end.”

Kafoa’s keen mind quickly registered what his father was getting at. “Are we going to follow the cuckoos like Kupe did, papa?”

“Yes, son,” Hotu smiled. “Just like Kupe did.”

***

CHAPTER 2

Hawaiki, Winter, 1301 AD

Hotu’s twin-hulled canoe was the biggest of all the double voyaging canoes ever seen in Hawaiki – bigger even than the giant catamarans favoured by their enemies…

NOVEL CONTINUES NEXT WEEK…

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