rather along the eastern shore that crews try to catch them, toward Akaroa, and the bay surrounding the islands of Tawaï-Pounamou.11 But the sea was not deserted. A certain number of coastal vessels were coming and going, sheltered by the land across and beyond the Bay of Taranaki.12
In the afternoon, still served by a strong breeze, having lost sight of the summit of Whare-Orino,13 two thousand feet high and whose base rises out of the sea, the James Cook passed before the ports of Kawhia and Aotea, where a flotilla of fishing boats were heading in, unable to weather the open seas.14
Mr. Gibson had to reef in the topsails, while holding the foresail, the mainsail, the spanker, and the jibs. If the sea grew rougher, if the wind became a tempest, he would still have a refuge for the night, since around six o’clock in the evening the ship would be sheltered by Auckland.15 So he preferred not to alter his route.
Supposing that the James Cook were required to seek shelter from the bad weather on the open sea, it would find it without difficulty in Auckland. The city occupies the back and north of a harbor that is one of the most reliable in this part of the Pacific. When a boat enters its narrow mouth between the Parera rocks and the “Manukan hafen,”16 it finds itself inside a basin, protected on all sides. No need to reach the port. The basin suffices, and even entire fleets would find good mooring space there.
With such advantages for maritime commerce, it is not surprising that the city has rapidly achieved great importance. Including the outlying areas, it counts around sixty thousand inhabitants. Arranged in tiers on the slopes of the southern side of the bay, the city is quite varied in aspect. Superbly laid out with its squares and gardens, decorated with tropical flowers, its broad, clean streets, bordered with hotels and shops, this curious city, industrial and commercial, might be the envy of Dunedin and Wellington.
If Mr. Gibson had sought refuge in this port, he would have encountered a hundred ships coming and going. In this northern part of New Zealand, the attraction of gold mines was felt less than in the southern part of Ikana-Maoui and especially in the provinces of Tawaï-Pounamou. There, the brig could have rid itself—without much difficulty—of the recruits embarked in Dunedin and replaced them with four or five sailors chosen from among those dismissed from other ships. So little did he esteem Len Cannon and his comrades, the captain might well have made up his mind, much to the disgust of Flig Balt and Vin Mod, to cast anchor in Auckland. But to avoid further delay, he thought it best to remain under shortened sail during the night. Sometimes, even, he hove to and faced the waves from the west, only to pull away from the coast when lights seemed to close in on the starboard side.
In short, the James Cook behaved wondrously in the heavy winds, thanks to the capable hands on duty. It experienced no damage either in the hull or aloft.
The next day, November 2nd, under gentler gusts and a more manageable sea, the brig passed through an oblique wind at the opening of another harbor, more extensive than that of Auckland, the harbor of Kaipara,17 at the back of which Port Albert18 was founded.
Finally, twenty-four hours later, for the breeze had noticeably calmed, the heights of the Mannganni Bluffs, Hokianga Harbor, Beef Point, and Cape Van Diemen,19 after a distance of seventy or eighty miles, also lay in their wake. They passed on their left the reefs of the Three Kings.20 The sea then opened graciously before the bowsprit as far as the jumble of the archipelagoes of the Tongas, the Hebrides, and the Solomons,21 which are located between the equator and the Tropic of Capricorn.
There was naught to do but set sail toward the northwest and New Guinea, still some nineteen hundred miles away, and to become acquainted with the Louisiades22 and, beyond them, island groups that are today part of the German colonial domain.
If wind and sea remained favorable, Mr. Gibson counted on making that crossing without delay. Sailing up the equinoctial line, bad weather is less frequent, less dangerous than in the vicinity of Australia and New Zealand. On the other hand, it is true, a ship navigating by sail is exposed to calms that can slow it down for days, whereas ships powered by steam can provide swift and sure navigation. But that is quite costly, and when it is a question of long or short offshore trade, it’s better to use sailcloth than spend for coal.23
However, the breeze, weak and intermittent, threatened to reduce the speed of a brig to two or three miles an hour. Yet he had all the equipment, right down to the staysail, the studding sail—every type of sail there was. But if a total calm arrived, without a breath that could wrinkle the surface of the water and where long ground swells rock a ship without moving it on its way, all of its sailing equipment would be of no use. Mr. Gibson could only be helped by currents that generally bear northward in this part of the Pacific.
However, the wind did not fall completely. A full sun seemed to make the sea simmer, as though it had been superheated in its lower layers. The upper sails swelled and the James Cook left a slight wake trailing behind.
And during the morning hours, as Mr. Hawkins, Nat Gibson, and the captain were talking about what it is so natural to discuss in the course of navigating—the weather of the moment and the weather to come—Mr. Gibson said:
“I don’t think this will last …”
“Why’s that?” asked the shipowner.
“I see on the horizon certain clouds that will soon bring us a wind … or I am sadly mistaken.”
“But they are not rising, those clouds,” Mr. Hawkins observed, “or if they are rising a bit, they’re dissipating.”
“No matter, old friend, they’ll end up by taking on more substance, and clouds, that means wind.”
“Which will be to our advantage,” added Nat Gibson.
“Oh!” said the captain, “we don’t need a breeze to triple-furl the sails. Just enough to fill the sails and round out the lower ones.”
“And what does the barometer say?” asked Mr. Hawkins.
“A slight tendency to sink,” replied Nat Gibson after consulting the instrument installed in the deckhouse.
“So let it go down,” said the captain, “but slowly, not making leaps like a monkey climbing the coconut palm and then falling out of it … If calmness is boring, storms at sea are dreadful, and I believe that all in all …”
“I’ll tell you what would be preferable, Gibson,” interrupted Mr. Hawkins. “That would be having aboard ship a little auxiliary engine, fifteen to twenty horsepower, for instance. That would provide a means to make headway when there’s no longer a breath of air at sea, at least to enter the ports and leave them.”
“We’ve gotten along without so far, and we can still do it,” replied the captain.
“It’s just that you’re still a sailor from long ago, the ancient mariner of commerce.”
“Indeed, Hawkins, and I’m not in favor of those mixed ships! If they’re well made for steam, they’re badly constructed for sails, and vice versa.”
“In any case, Father,” said Nat Gibson, “there’s some steam out there that it wouldn’t be bad to have right now on this ship.”
The young man pointed out a long, dark plume stretching out along the northwest horizon. It could not be confused with a cloud. It was the smoke from a steamship traveling rapidly toward the brig. Within the hour both ships would be abeam of each other.
The meeting of ships is always an interesting event at sea. One tries to recognize the ship’s nationality by the shape of the hull, the mast arrangement, while waiting for it to fly its own colors in a sign of greeting. Harry Gibson brought his spyglass to his eye, and some twenty minutes after the steamer had been seen, he believed he was able to say the ship was French.
He was not mistaken, and when the ship was just two miles from the James Cook, the tricolored flag24 rose to the peak of its mizzenmast.
The brig answered immediately by flying the flag of the United Kingdom.