Morcan Books & Films

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…

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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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