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Captain Cook in the Underworld

Auckland University Press

    Absolution Chorus


    In this quadrant of the journey
    we look to redeem from burning
    James, a man of his day, in hellfire –
    we have twenty-first century hindsight –

    while he thought he discovered
    these islands already discovered by lovers
    Kupe and his wife Kuramarotini.
    He didn't know to presume discovery

    was a lie, nor did he know the prejudices
    of the unborn colony. Forgive the Ulysses
    of his day, for the mores of his age,
    for overlooking the inhabitants with his claim.

    We the choir absolve him. For this
    is the absolution chorus. Forgiveness,
    remember to forgive, hold
    this as Cook and his story unfolds.

    And now let us listen to James
    stake out his claim for the greatness
    of the angel Albion, her new dominion
    over an innocent slip of land.

    Summon the cast from the shades,
    hold a torch to their names:
    bright Orpheus of the singing lyre,
    poet exemplar, inspired
    by His Majesty's bark Endeavour: a choir

    for Endeavour travelling to the transit of Venus,
    our Captain Cook's mission to see this:
    Endeavour tossed about these deep waves,
    a coin landing lucky side for the brave,
    Endeavour James! Endeavour James!

    Loft the sails of our story; embark for a new start,
    an argosy in our Cook's heart:
    Carl Jung more than a century in the future
    argues for the stories of ancient culture
    lodestars for the psyche: here Orpheus

    enters Cook's first voyage in fierce
    spirit, a bright star guiding Cook's choir.
    Thus invisible Orpheus sings spirit songs of the lyre
    stoking passions for a distant fire,
    for fiery Venus travelling across the heavens

    Venus luring these Europeans
    for a glimpse of her in a glass,
    to confirm an astronomical chart
    and the psyche's template
    the starry temple of woman to our crewmates

    and our musical stowaway: divine Orpheus.
    But enough talk from Jungian Olympus,
    Orpheus and Eurydice, his heart's name,
    Orpheus' love in an underworld of flames.
    Bring it back to Cook. Spyglass to the ready,

    the Captain speaks, heading for Tahiti.
    Ah Paradiso bliss!
    These natives are the gentlest, a breezy caress
    while my crew
    feast on all their senses can thrust and chew

    from nativity. It's like Christmas!
    Christmas in the sun, and mistle-
    toe on the stubbled chins of our lads
    from England. Even Joseph Banks
    has let his hair down, great hats wear no hats at all,

    these friendly islanders don't give a toss. Haul
    the anchor, first mate! and drop it again,
    it's almost too much with Venus on the brain.
    Rule Endeavour! Endeavour
    rules the waves, and soon the heavens!

    Onwards for Venus! By King George
    it's hard to sleep on the voyage,
    especially when every glittering light
    could be her skirting across the infinite night
    taking my admiralty with her. Oh to sleep

    without worries about sextants and angles, how deep
    this new bay, how friendly her inhabitants.
    It's getting on my nerves I tell you. Oh for Morpheus
    and his retinue instead of all the fuss
    for the crew. They're like babies: take your lime juice!

    I'll whip every man who won't drink his juice!
    And still I have to whip them.
    I'll whip any man caught with scurvy, take his rum,
    clap him in the hold
    until he's better. Young and old,

    [Endeavour crew
    The captain doesn't know his men,
    we would follow him to the end,
    out of the blazing native sun
    sketched by Sydney Parkinson:
    where Cook goes we go too!

    But we don't just thrust and chew,
    we're disciplined, we're English
    through and through – Venus
    is our mission, and exploration
    next. We crew for the nation!

    I'll whip them. I'm a fair captain by George,
    and I'll have my Whitby horde
    free of scurvy. Look at the gracious
    natives. They aren't pretentious.
    They're pleased with trinkets while we aim for Venus.

    Starry goddess? Bah! We are enlightened
    men! To map heaven
    and the dots beneath it. Beautiful dots I grant you,
    with flora fit for the new gardens at Kew,
    but I say science first, that's the way, my motto –

    find the passage! Make a sounding, on to
    discovery! I'll take one of their fry
    back as a toy. HM will be pleased. Oh my Omai
    he'll say and make me Admiral Cook,
    the big soft butterfly. What a great look.

    And the greatest look is Venus. Tonight's
    the big night. We men of science
    have calculated it. Spy scopes steady
    on the bridge, eyes ready
    to stare. "But I say, Captain, she won't appear!"

    "I say, James, I say." The crew say. "Where is Venus? I say,
    James." I say "Why do you assay
    me?" I say "I am Captain Cook. And it is obvious
    where Venus is.
    It is still there, and we are still here." (Each of us

    must keep our heads.) I retire to the great cabin
    to tot. And what a tot. The habit
    confuses me for once. I hear singing, unearthly
    music from a lyre. Forty feet
    out to sea! A Greek claiming he's a deity,

    Credence and Fort Venus [An Historical Note]

    Forgive the Orphic one his licence
    even with science –
    our orb did grace the cosmos of course. ...
    the crew spied her from a fort

    singing like a bird, such beautiful words,
    how swiftly he picks his chords:
    Your Venus in flames is no woman,
    she is no tender blossom
    making her death an event.

    Your Venus is an orb who does not cry you're absent.
    Your Venus is a pinprick in the sky
    who doesn't understand the science of your sighs –
    do not deny your sadness, James.
    Then go onwards, take your destiny and your fame ...

    Ship's master?! Fetch me the chart of the southern land
    and my compass – we have new plans ...
    hurry, lad. Hurry. What say you, Orpheus?
    I have retained your cautious
    advice. Yes yes I know your name is Molyneaux.

    A slip of the tongue. Oh my crew
    is so reliant on me – what do they think?
    We believe in you, James, hold the tiller to the brink
    of Hades and beyond – we believe in you, James,
    you're like a father to us. We were lost souls in the shade

    until we crewed your ship. You're inspiring,
    it's like your sails are flying
    through the cosmos of the ocean. Even Venus
    sings to you – bright Orpheus
    plays the music while the goddess sings your name:

    James. Do not fret my dear – I didn't appear in flames ...
    there was a cloud. That's all. Fate
    intervened against our meeting,
    but please listen to my singing,
    for beauty and science intertwined in healing:

    I am Venus, the morning star,
    placed to guide you through the shades far
    toward the southern land – the land of the cloud
    that hides me now. Aotearoa of white alps
    and deep harbours, a land you'll be proud

    to call your own. I am Venus, the guiding light
    and mistletoe of the ancients. I am the Aphrodite
    of your spirit guide, the man of lyres and song –
    Orpheus will do you no wrong on your long
    argosy so go far, James and discover your south seas greatness.

    Onward, James and remember me as a goddess
    on your transit. Let this trip be the transit of night –
    not the loss of a faint speck in the wilderness of sky ...
    go on, James and journey for the discovery
    of great peoples ... avoid the misery

    of ignorance and sermons, James. Look to history
    for harmony – set out well as your acts precede you –
    harmony, James, be harmonious with these people:
    I am their star too. I know their mana,
    their skill in crossing oceans – and your anger,

    James, beware your anger – the Pacific peoples
    are patient to a fault, they have followed me, like pilgrims,
    across the heavens for thousands of years –
    but remember you are the new ones here.
    Take my warning to heart, and not to muskets: there!

    Hear the dreaming of the crew, our psyches in flight
    while our bodies sleep – listen to the heavenly light,
    Captain, listen, soul to soul we are your equals in heaven,
    hear your dreaming crew as no miasma of the ocean.
    We came far, from the lowest classes, with the chosen

    men of the sciences – a social ladder
    bent across the planet from Britannia.
    Take heed, James, of singing Venus in flames.
    Our Saxon ancestors knew the stars and fates.
    Hear our blood calling you in a dream oh Captain.

    Oh Captain don't be captured by mad men,
    oh captain, our captain, oh our Captain look!
    Ahoy, land ahoy, captain, land ahoy, Captain Cook!
    Young Nick. Young Nick, what's the excitement?
    Young Nick, what did you say? I am too frightened

    to understand you – did you say land?
    Aloud! land below those clouds!? Good lad!
    Crew did you hear? Do you see that place?
    Let's call it Young Nick's Head. By His Grace
    I'll claim this all for His Majesty's domains!

    Hurrah for Nick! A tot for every man aboard!
    Drink up! Three cheers for Nick! What a call!
    Discovery. Discovery again. We're crewing
    for England and we're happy – at last great news,
    no need to brood on Venus. Tomorrow we cruise,

    row the boat ashore, hallelujah – there must be women
    round those fires. Heaven-sent delirium –
    maybe they have gold too? Nuggets
    to pocket, and women to die for. How rugged,
    oh ho how rugged exploration is!

    We'll be famous! Making us most rugged of nations:
    yo Britannia! Ho ho ho! Men settle down,
    I want the cutter taken in for provisions, around
    Young Nick's Head tomorrow. Good on you lad.
    Draughtsman? We need to start a map,

    I want every detail of this place planned,
    for as you know, this could be the Southern Land
    of Ptolemy – the ancients knew their science
    and now's the chance to prove our might!
    To complete the chart of the planet – our purpose

    to place Britain as the star of the world chorus:
    a star shining on knowledge, a star shining
    on kindness, a star shining on the crying
    masses ignorant of the wisdom of the West:
    our technical knowhow got us here, we're the best,

    goodness knows how they did it. Who cares?
    Sleep my good crew. Sleep. Tomorrow is forever
    away when you step onto the southern land.
    Sleep this night away. Sleep for England.
    Go to Morpheus, gently into the night ...

    Venus, I'm looking for you – in the waves at night.
    Venus out of sight
    in black space. Oh mist and frigate birds,
    if only my hurt
    from missing you wasn't for a star! Why turn?

    Who am I missing? Is it my doom to wander
    a world alone? Why gather
    stardust when I have my marriage to Elizabeth?
    Where is God's plan in heathenness?
    I must sleep. God of the waves, I must lighten this.

    We solemnly stake Great Britain's claim
    to sovereignty over this domain
    which shall be known as New Zealand.
    God Save England
    and the Hanovers! First we go round, then we go in –

    we'll cut these islands from the ocean
    like a circumcision –
    it's a snip on paper. Oh visions
    of arching mountains, aeolian breeze,
    nubile and agile innocents dotted between the trees,

    nay, pillars of wood fit for Athens! A land
    for gods like the Greeks and Romans,
    these innocents belong to this paradise lost
    for all time until now, our ship-tossed
    crew has rediscovered their lust for life,

    and their unfortunate hosts. Another template lies
    in the Western story of these islands,
    well insular, well bedded, the Cook model,
    the statues – pillars turned to rubble
    in postmodern society. But back then they were wow!

    Muskets blatting like ghetto blasters, pow!
    They were the imperial cool,
    the vanguard of the coolest king to rule,
    from the far side of another ocean,
    flag-fluttering history set in motion.

    Bang! They all fall down!
    Bang! Britain's the talk in town,
    let's make Cook a deity. Hail Da King!
    The biggest kill machine
    with a crew to match – just look at that hat,

    he's gotta be a god, blat blat blat!
    We the peoples of this island
    assure you, Cook God, we are frightened
    and beg you to stop killing
    our people. Your men find it thrilling

    to kill us – so it's anything you want
    great powerful Cook, but don't
    kill us anymore. We aren't gods. We bleed
    when you whip us, we scream
    at your fire sticks – and we die

    from the illnesses of gods. Give us time
    good Cook, to learn. We are humbled
    by your divine kindness in seeking us, but
    dear divine holiness please care,
    see our wretched confusion and spare

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Excerpted from Captain Cook in the Underworld by Robert Sullivan. Copyright © 2002 Robert Sullivan. Excerpted by permission of Auckland University Press.
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