Читать книгу Captain Cook - Alistair MacLean, Alistair MacLean, John Denis - Страница 6

Shortly after the turn of the nineteenth century, a young gunner in the Royal Navy, a certain Jeremy Blyth, who had yet to sail on his first commission, made his way into an alehouse in Wapping. It was a dock-side tavern typical of its time and place, dirty, smoky, with cracked floor-boards and blackened walls and ceiling, entirely lacking in what, even in that era, passed for the more civilised amenities of life. A planked bar, a few rickety tables and chairs; that was all. Typical, too, were the customers: a mixture of seamen from both naval services, many the victims of press-gangs, many with criminal pasts, hard-drinking, hard-swearing, hard-living men inured to suffering and hardships and death, men tough and enduring and hard-bitten to a degree almost incomprehensible to those who live in a gentler and more effete age.

Atypical, however, was the atmosphere in that ale-house. No one spoke. No one drank. The silence was accentuated by occasional sobs. The landlord, shoulders heaving, had his head buried in his forearms. So did a number of those at the tables. Some of the men were openly weeping and all seemed lost in their own private worlds of grief-stricken desolation. Blyth sat down opposite a grizzled old seaman, a grey-cheeked veteran with tears welling from sightless eyes, an untouched drink before him. Wonderingly, gently, Blyth touched him on the forearm.

‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

The old man looked up from the table and said angrily ‘Haven’t you heard? Haven’t you heard?’

Blyth shook his head.

‘Nelson is dead.’

Again Blyth looked slowly round the dingy room, at the men for whom the death of Nelson had left an aching void that could never be filled, then he said: ‘Thank God I never knew him.’

It is doubtful whether any such scene occurred, or any remotely comparable, when the news of Cook’s death reached England some twenty-six years earlier. The nation mourned him, as England has always mourned the passing of its great men, its Marlboroughs, its Wellingtons, its Churchills: but it did not weep with a broken heart.

Nelson and Cook are the two most revered names in the annals of the Royal Navy. Reverence is compounded of respect and love. Nelson was widely respected but universally loved. Cook was universally respected but he was incapable of inspiring in the minds and hearts of the public that degree of devotion and adoration that Nelson so effortlessly and inevitably aroused. But that Cook was beloved by his officers and men is beyond dispute.

The reason for the difference lies, of course, in the natures of the two men. To love a person, a public figure, one has to be able to identify one’s self with him: to do that, one has to know him – or, at least, believe that one knows him. In so far as this was concerned, there was no difficulty at all about Nelson, a warm-hearted, outgoing extrovert whose inner thoughts and private life were as open a book as his public ones. But Cook’s inner thoughts and private life were a closed book, one of those old-fashioned books with a brass hasp that he’d locked and then thrown away the key. With the passing of the years it seems increasingly unlikely that the key will ever be found.

We know all about Cook and we know nothing about him. We know that he was courageous, prudent, wise, indefatigable, adventurous, a born leader of men: but what he was like, what kind of individual he was personally, we have but the most remote of conceptions. We know that he took those leaking old coal-boats of his from the tropical Pacific to the bitter and awesome wastes of both the Arctic and the Antarctic in the most stupendous voyages of exploration in the history of mankind. But whether he liked flowers or dandled his children on his knee or gazed enraptured at the sun going down in the ocean beyond Hawaii or Tahiti we shall never know. We know he was the greatest navigator of his age or any age: it would be interesting to know if he ever got lost in the back streets of his home borough of Stepney.

To have maintained so inviolate a privacy is indeed a feat, but to have done so in spite of the fact that he left us over one million words minutely recording his day to day activities over many years amounts to an accomplishment so staggering as to defy rational comprehension. But, in his journals and logs, this is what Cook did indeed do. No famous figure of modern times has ever documented his life so thoroughly and painstakingly. But this massive documentation is detached, impersonal; Cook does not appear: it was about what he did, not what he was. Even in his private correspondence – what little of it has survived – this same iron reticence manifests itself. Only twice does he mention his wife and then only in an incidental fashion: of his two children who died in infancy or his daughter who died at the age of four, there is no authenticated instance of Cook ever having mentioned them.

His contemporaries wrote of him of course, from Walpole to Dr Johnson they all had their say, and when all their writing is over and done with we learn no more about Cook than we learn from Cook himself. Maybe they did not know him as they would have liked to know him: maybe he was reserved to the point of being unapproachable. It may even have been that they were aware that they were dealing with an already living legend who was destined for immortality. If this were the case then their task was impossible: the myth envelops the man, so cocooning its creator in the folds of his fame that it becomes virtually certain that not even the keenest eye can penetrate to the heart of the legend, a legend that will accept only the most grandiose rhetoric, the most broad and sweeping generalisations: one does not customarily discuss an immortal’s taste in cravats or whether he stopped to smell the lilac on an evening late in May.

Biographies of Cook there have been, of course, many of them. But none of them is the good and true and definitive biography of a man about whom we should like to know so much. It is very much to be doubted whether there will ever be such a biography. Most of the biographers who have tried to flesh out the skeleton of his awesome reputation have had to have recourse to varying degrees of invention or imagination while honestly trying to remain within the bounds of probability. Thus, we are told on one occasion that Mrs Cook welcomed her husband home with tearful affection after one of his marathon voyages, affection because he had been so long away, tearful because one of their children had died in his absence. Now, this is very likely: but there is nothing on record to justify such an assertion. She may, for all we know, have hit him over the head with a two-by-four. This, admittedly, is extremely unlikely. The point is that, in the absence of evidence to the contrary, it is not impossible. Extrapolation and uninspired guesses are no substitute for historical accuracy.

It has been said that the definitive biography is only a matter of time. I don’t believe it. It has been said that if Cook’s million words are subjected to the combined scrutinies of a statistician, an analyst and psychiatrist the truth must out. That something would finally emerge one does not doubt but as the liability of statisticians, analysts and psychiatrists to error is established and notorious the mind boggles at the prospect of such error trebly compounded. Requiescat in pace. It is unthinkable that an immortal should be subjected to the processes of computerised butchery.

Far from being intended to be a definitive biography, what follows is no biography at all. A true biography is a fully-rounded portrait but there are colours missing from my palette. I do not know enough about the man: the material just is not there. This is but a brief account of his early apprenticeship to the sea, his development as a navigator and cartographer, and of his three great voyages, and this is perhaps enough to let us have an inkling of the essential Captain Cook for he was a man, as he himself confessed, to whom achievement meant all. In his last letter written to Lord Sandwich from Capetown in 1776 he said: ‘My endeavour shall not be wanting to achieve the great object of this voyage’. It never was. It was not what Cook said or thought that raised him to the ranks of the immortals: it was what he did.

Let the deeds speak for the man.