Mrs. Cook Read online

  ‘Sailors’ talk,’ said James. ‘I will believe in the Great South Land when I see it.’

  ‘Why didn’tWallis sail closer?’ asked Elizabeth, fearing dangers her husband might also encounter.

  ‘Wallis and his first lieutenant were ill and, having been separated from the other ship, thought it imprudent to investigate further. Nevertheless, Wallis discovered the island on which we will observe the transit. Such a place is discovery enough for any man.’

  King George’s Island, which the natives called Otaheite. A paradise, so it seemed, or at least a sailor’s paradise. Elizabeth recalled words of the song that echoed in the riverside alehouses.

  We’ve found it, my boys, and with joy be it told

  For beauty such islands you ne’er did behold.

  We’ve the pleasure ourselves the tidings to bring

  As may welcome us home to our country and king

  For wood, water, fruit, and provisions well stor’d

  Such an isle as King George’s the world can’t afford.

  Then there were the women, not mentioned in the song but on every sailor’s lips nevertheless. Compliant women, exotic flowers in their hair, who would entice a man as easily as a siren for the price of a ship’s nail. Wallis joked that he made haste to leave before the ship fell apart.

  The women of the South Seas were only a small part of Elizabeth’s fears. Her husband was an upright man and would remain so no matter upon what shore fate landed him. Besides, it would not do for the captain of the vessel to stoop to fornication. There had been no stain of that nature upon his behaviour in Newfoundland. But then sailors did not grow misty-eyed when they spoke of the Canadian women the way they did when talk turned to the Tahitians.

  Elizabeth brought her mind back to more immediate matters as she realised she’d been polishing the same table leg over and over. She would pray, of course, that he be guided in the path of righteousness. She knew James intended to do his utmost to establish peaceable relations with the people of the South Seas, particularly on Tahiti, where the observation facility was to be set up. She hoped that he would have no trouble, either from the men or the natives.

  James had shown her the ‘hints’ suggested by Lord Morton, the President of the Royal Society: ‘To exercise the utmost patience and forbearance with respect to the natives of the several lands where the ship may touch. To check the petulance of the sailors, and restrain the wanton use of fire arms. To have it in view that shedding the blood of those people is a crime of the highest nature . . . They are the natural, and in the strictest sense of the word, the legal possessors of the several regions they inhabit.’ Lord Morton pointed out that the natives might, understandably, consider their visitors to be intruders, and act accordingly. He stressed that violence should be avoided if at all possible, but if inevitable, then ‘the natives when brought under should be treated with distinguished humanity, and made sensible that the crew still considers them lords of the country’. Before they reached Tahiti, James would issue rules based on these principles, to be observed by the people of the Endeavour in order to establish friendly relations and regularise trade with the natives.

  Someone was knocking at the door. ‘Butcher boy!’ Elizabeth heard him call. She put down her polishing cloth and went to answer the door. The butcher boy handed her the leg of pork which Elizabeth placed in her wire meat-safe. She wondered how the supervision of deliveries was going in Deptford, and tried to imagine the Endeavour, empty when she visited, filling with provisions—eight tons of iron ballast, coal, beer and brandy, salt, cork jackets, one hundred gallons of arak, stationery, dried pease, oil, vinegar and a machine for sweetening foul water, to say nothing of 7280 pounds of sauerkraut.

  ‘They’ll not take to it,’ Elizabeth asserted. ‘You know their ways—beef and bacon every meal if they could have it.’

  ‘They will eat it,’ James said, ‘one way or the other. A long voyage like this needs every man able-bodied, not dying of scurvy. I might try the method of serving it out to the officers, as a special dish, and leave it up to the men to take it or not. I warrant that once they see the officers set a value on it, the people will think sauerkraut the finest stuff in the world.’

  As there would be no chaplain on board, James was taking their own Bible to read from on the Sabbath. On the grand title page the light of heaven shone down onto figures in biblical dress, Negroes, all the peoples of the world.

  Before dusting the Bible with a goose’s wing in the recommended manner, Elizabeth leafed through it, folding her prayers for James’s safety into the Bible, stopping at all the beautiful engravings, from the Garden of Eden, Eve with her hair draped modestly about her private parts, to the last engraving at Revelations, showing the Great Dragon being cast out.

  Elizabeth had already dusted the other books on their library shelf and was about to apply the rub. Once a year she boiled up wool fat, beeswax and cedarwood oil to produce a rub to feed the leather bindings. She was doing it sooner this year so that the leather of the Bible James was taking aboard would be well fed. As with the table, there were parts of the Bible she touched and did not rub away. James was not the only one preparing for this voyage.

  THE BOOK OF COMMON PRAYER

  ‘Mama, Papa, look. Look at Eliza!’ It was just after supper. James and Elizabeth were sitting at the table discussing the accounts, Elizabeth showing him how his pay would be divided up between land tax and rates, as well as daily expenses such as the butcher’s and grocer’s, when they heard Nat’s cry. They turned to see their daughter inching her way along, one hand on the sofa to steady herself.

  ‘C’mon, Eliza, come on,’ Elizabeth coaxed.

  Eliza realised that she was the centre of attention. Whatever she was doing was a great feat, but she was reluctant to leave the support of the sofa and cross that large void to the table.

  James held out his hand to her, but Elizabeth said: ‘See if she can do it on her own.’

  Eliza hesitated.

  ‘C’mon, Eliza,’ repeated James, ‘come to Papa.’ He offered his hand again but not so close that she could reach it without leaving the sofa.

  Eliza came, one step then two, into his arms. James stood her on the table and paraded her around. ‘What a fine going-away present you’ve given me, Eliza.’ He lifted her into the air so that those hard-working little legs dangled freely. He had missed seeing his sons’ first steps but he was here to see his daughter’s. Elizabeth hoped that James would be back in time to see the coming baby—Grace if a girl or Joseph if a boy—take its first steps.

  She said her farewells to James, tenderly, in private. Elizabeth wanted that last bitter-sweet night to go on forever. She thought of her calendar fan tucked away in a drawer. In the quietness of the Mile End house she heard the inexorable tick of the clock, each tick pleating time more narrow. How she wanted to open the fan out, for her and James to be enveloped this night in the full extent of time.

  After their intimacies she lay in James’s arms, with James lovingly caressing her hair, softly, slowly, he too wanting to stretch out each moment. Elizabeth saw every hair of his chest, tasted the salt in his sweat, felt his every movement. When pre-dawn light began to lift the veil of night, Elizabeth closed her eyes. The message of the open fan was ‘wait for me’, but now she wanted to close the fan up tightly, for the imminent voyage to disappear in the pleats of time’s fabric so that when she opened her eyes again she would see James standing before her saying, ‘Hello, my dear. I have returned.’

  It was Cousin Frances who took the boys to Gallions Reach on 30 July 1768 to see the Endeavour set off for Plymouth. Elizabeth stayed at home that Saturday, not wishing to see the barque carrying her husband pull away. She busied herself with needlework while Eliza toddled about the room, abandoning her playthings and trying to explore the grown-up treasures of the oriental box that held the sewing equipment. Elizabeth would have liked to give her daughter an item from the box to play with, but all were so dangerous—sharp
scissors, thread she might swallow and choke on. Eventually she gave Eliza a square of silk which the toddler put on her head as a hat, stood on, blew up into the air, and found a dozen uses for.

  Frances was exhausted when she returned from Gallions Reach, but the boys were full of the adventure of it all. ‘There were pipers, Mama,’ said Jamie, ‘and pennants flying, and the sailors danced and sang. Papa looked so grand walking up the gangway, Mama. I wish I was going with him.’

  ‘And me,’ echoed Nat.

  In a way, James and Nathaniel Cook would be on board the Endeavour. Elizabeth knew that their father, as was common but not lawful practice amongst officers, would enter his sons on the ship’s listing, to earn the boys sea time. Elizabeth smiled at the thought that while their names sailed with her husband, the boys themselves would be safely at home with her.

  Jamie and Nat pranced about like mad things, despite Elizabeth’s admonitions not to wake Eliza upstairs in the crib. It was difficult getting the little ones off to sleep in summer when it stayed light for so long, and Elizabeth had to draw the curtains, which darkened the room but did not quite muffle the sound of the occasional coach rumbling by.

  There was quite a bit of traffic inside the house as well, with the boys trying to show Mama exactly how the sailors had danced. ‘Enough,’ she said sternly. ‘To bed before I reach ten or I’ll be taking the rod to you.’ Elizabeth started counting.

  She had got to seven and was heading for the rod on the mantelpiece before the boys took any notice. ‘Eight,’ Elizabeth said, the rod now in hand. Jamie and Nat paused a moment to ascertain the degree of menace. It was high. Jamie gave Elizabeth a wide berth and scampered towards the stairs, Nat hot on his heels.

  Quietness reigned. Elizabeth looked at Frances, cheerily arranging crockery for a cup of tea, tired though she was. A big healthy girl with unruly curls that would just not stay in place. Dear Frances. She was such a boon, happily applying herself to any task, noticing what needed doing without Elizabeth having to point it out. And when the tasks were done, the breath of fresh country air she brought to the house carried with it stories of James’s family. ‘His Da is very proud of him,’ said Frances. ‘Uncle James is a man of few words but what he does say is worth the listening. And poor Grace, so many bairns now dead, yet she does not complain.’

  Elizabeth instinctively placed her hands on her belly, to protect the coming child. Daily she gave prayers of gratitude that none of her little ones had perished. So many did. ‘It’s the sturdy Yorkshire stock in them,’ commented Frances, quite forgetting in that moment the passing away of Grace’s children. Elizabeth hoped that some of the sturdiness came from her side of the family. She knew that as a child Mama had sent her to the Sheppards in Essex on account of her cough. She had survived and her children would too, God willing.

  The sound of sniggering wafted downstairs, despite attempts by its authors to muffle it in pillows. Elizabeth could never seriously be cross with her children, though she did her best to give them quite a different impression. She tapped the rod on the banister. ‘I am coming.’ Up she went and found her angels kneeling beside the bed, ready for prayer. Elizabeth kneeled beside them, feeling the weight of the child within her. ‘God bless Papa,’ she prayed. Jamie and Nat joined in the familiar prayer, hands together, their eyelashes brushing their cheeks. ‘Preserve and protect him, and keep him safe from harm.’ When the time came they all said ‘Amen’. Elizabeth felt the baby inside her quicken.

  It was a boy, baptised Joseph on 5 September 1768 at St Dun-stan’s Church, and within the month he was dead. He had come early, a thin little thing that did not thrive. Elizabeth felt herself withering away as he did, as if the umbilical cord was still attached and the life was bleeding out of her. She held the dear baby in bed with her, and gently blew into his tiny nostrils even after she knew it was too late. The warm rain of her tears fell on him but he did not respond. ‘Oh James,’ she cried, wanting so much for him to be by her side. She kept hold of the baby, kissing and nuzzling him, pressing him against her beating heart, against the breast heavy with milk that trickled out of her like tears, willing the baby back to life long after his inert little body had grown cold.

  When Joseph Cook was buried and a little headstone placed over his mortal remains, Elizabeth went about her tasks as normal but it was not the same. She was in a belljar of grief. ‘I know it must be hard,’ sympathised Frances, ‘but the little one is with the Almighty. Try to accept His will.’

  ‘Yes,’ Elizabeth nodded dully, but her heart was not ready.

  It wasn’t till almost Christmas, after Elizabeth and James’s sixth wedding anniversary had passed, that Frances tried again. There had been letters from James, and Elizabeth read parts of them to Frances and the children. The letters had been sent from Madeira, the last dated 14 September. They were having an easy passage, carried along by the north-east trade winds. James reported that he and everyone were in excellent health, although Mr Banks was suffering from the seasickness but did his best to appear jovial. The letters lifted Elizabeth momentarily, then, on the day of Christmas Eve, she fell into a slump again.

  ‘James would not have you feeling this way,’ said Frances. ‘It would break his heart to see you suffer.’

  ‘James does not know,’ Elizabeth pointed out, slowly stirring flour, almonds, sugar and eggs into a pudding. ‘He even wrote that we must be enjoying the company of our new arrival, a little Grace or Joseph.’ As she spoke the dead baby’s name Elizabeth broke into heart-rending sobs, her whole body convulsing with them. Frances came over, gently removed the spoon Elizabeth was still holding, and enfolded Elizabeth in her comforting arms. ‘I’m sorry, Frances,’ Elizabeth apologised.

  ‘Better to have the tears out than store them up inside,’ said Frances, rubbing Elizabeth’s back as if she were a baby.

  ‘The grief weighs me down so. Everything is so difficult. It takes all my strength to rise from my bed each morning,’ she cried into Frances’s shoulder.

  ‘Mama?’

  Elizabeth looked down to find Eliza at her knee, tears in her eyes at her mother’s distress. Elizabeth wiped her own eyes and found a smile for her daughter. ‘Eliza,’ she welcomed the child into her arms. ‘Show me how many teeth you have,’ she said brightly, eliciting a big teeth-revealing smile from the child. She hugged Eliza to her breast. ‘I feel I am to blame,’ Elizabeth whispered to Frances. ‘I had the thought that with James away it would be a year when I wasn’t with child. I was grateful for it. But little Joseph was already inside me. It was such an easy birth, him being so small. And then he slipped away after such a short time, as if he didn’t want to be a trouble to me.’

  ‘It’s not your doing,’ Frances said gently. ‘Nobody’s thoughts are greater than the will of the Almighty, are they?’ asked Frances. She took out of her pocket the Book of Common Prayer that Cousin James had given her. Elizabeth recognised its maroon leather binding, and though thick, the small volume fitted neatly into the palm of Frances’s hand. The book contained psalms and catechisms, the order for the burial of the dead, baptism, matrimony, the calendar with the table of lessons, hymns, and prayers for all occasions.

  Frances began reading while Elizabeth listened, Eliza on her hip, freeing her hand to begin stirring the pudding again. ‘We bless thee for our creation, preservation, and all the blessings of this life.’ Frances held the Book of Common Prayer out so that Elizabeth too could read. They continued together, not kneeling, but standing by the table with the flour, almonds and raisins. ‘But above all, for thine inestimable love in the redemption of the world by our Lord Jesus Christ; for the means of grace, and for the hope of glory.’ Eliza gurgled contentedly and neither her mother nor Frances made any attempt to quieten her. ‘And we beseech thee, give us that due sense of all thy mercies, that our hearts may be unfeignedly thankful, and that we show forth their praise, not only with our lips, but in our lives.’

  That night, when all the house was sleeping, Elizabeth qu
ietly went to the window. It was a cold December night with the stars like chips of ice. On many nights great banks of cloud covered the sky, with not a star to be seen. Elizabeth took it as a sign of God’s divine grace that tonight He revealed them to her.

  She often took the boys outside to look at the night sky. ‘If you join the stars up in your mind, the way Papa joins the markings on his charts, you can see shapes in the heavens.’ She bent down, an arm around each of her boys, nestling them in her voluminous skirts. ‘Can you see the Great Bear? Look, with its neck stretched out.’

  Jamie peered, trying to see a bear in the sky. Elizabeth held up his finger and went from star to star, tracing the invisible outline of the bear.

  ‘Me too,’ piped up Nathaniel.

  So Elizabeth held his finger and repeated the process. Then she turned them eastwards and found in the sky the great box of Pegasus. ‘Can you see the corners of the box?’ Both boys nodded yes, though Elizabeth had her doubts. ‘That is Pegasus, a winged horse.’ Jamie’s eyes and mouth were open wide, as if drinking in the night.

  ‘Is it God’s horse?’ he asked. Elizabeth imagined the great winged horse carrying the messages of her heart across the Atlantic.

  It was James who had traced Elizabeth’s finger over the configurations in the night sky and told her the names of the celestial bodies. ‘Can you see the same stars in Newfoundland?’ she’d asked. ‘We could beam messages to each other. Much more expedient than letters.’