This week I took my first flight since the pandemic began, winging west for a long-delayed family visit. As I scanned a newspaper en route Calgary I read that on that day in 1793, Alexander Mackenzie reached the Pacific Ocean from the east, becoming the first European to cross the continent north of New Spain. It was an epic journey by an extraordinary explorer.
Mackenzie was born in Scotland in 1764. As a youth he moved with family to New York and then, during the American Revolution, to Montreal, where he was apprenticed to a fur trading company. He showed a talent for the trade and wilderness life and became a partner in the enterprise in 1785. In 1787 the company merged with the Montreal-based North West Company, and he was instrumental in the Norwesters’ expansion into the western and northern reaches of North America. In June of 1789, the 25 year old left Fort Chipewyan on Lake Athabaska (on the present-day border of Saskatchewan and Alberta) with a small party of voyageurs and indigenous guides to explore for the fabled north-west passage to the Pacific. Travelling by canoe, they followed a great river known to the Dene as the Dehcho, only to find that it emptied into the the impassable Arctic Ocean rather than the Pacific. He called it the River of Disappointment. It is known today as the Mackenzie River.
He returned to Fort Chipewyan and in 1792 established a new trading post on the Peace River to the west. The following spring he set out from there with his voyageurs and guides, again in quest of the north-west passage, this time journeying west. They followed the Peace to its headwaters in the northern Rockies, then south down the Fraser River. Members of the local Dakelh nation told him that the Fraser Canyon was unnavigable and populated by hostile tribes; they advised he travel overland to the west. Mackenzie canoed back up the Fraser then journeyed west by foot.
After a two week trek he arrived at the Bella Coola Gorge, negotiated with the local Nuxalkmc for the use of canoes, and followed the Bella Coola River to Pacific tidewater. He had completed the first recorded transcontinental crossing of North America north of Mexico, 12 years before Americans Lewis and Clark. On a rock, Mackenzie used a mixture of vermillion and grease to commemorate his crossing: “Alexander Mackenzie, from Canada by land, 22d July 1793.”
Standing at the mouth of the Bella Coola, Mackenzie was unaware that he had missed mariner George Vancouver by just forty-eight days. Earlier that spring Vancouver had resumed his exploration of the north-west coast, begun the previous year. As the Pacific coast was fjorded and unknown, Vancouver’s survey method was to leave his ships in a safe anchorage and venture out in small boats for expeditions of ten to fourteen days, then return to the ships, bring them up to a newly confirmed safe anchorage and send the boats out again to survey a new area. When Mackenzie arrived in Bella Coola he heard stories from the Nuxalkmc of blue-coated men who came by sea and were led by a man called Macubah.
Like Mackenzie, George Vancouver was an extraordinary explorer leading an epic expedition. His voyage is the setting for my novel-in-progress, The Wind From All Directions, the status of which I report on here, periodically. Further dispatches in due course – look for it under the “News” tab on this blogsite. My previous post on the project can be found by clicking here.
By the way, one of the treats of flying into Calgary is that glorious glimpse of the Rockies you get upon deplaning. Alas, this trip the mountains were obscured by haze, a manifestation of smoke from the forest fires raging in BC.
British mariner George Vancouver led the longest voyage of exploration of his era, with the loss of fewer men (for their numbers and its duration) than any before.1 Yet when it was over and safely returned, its mission accomplished, he was reviled and shunned by his country’s establishment and targeted by a campaign of whispers intended to discredit him and his accomplishments. During the voyage he had made a dangerous and vindictive enemy—the Tanash Mamathi—who made it his relentless mission to stalk, harass and ruin him.
Born in Norfolk, the son of a minor customs official, Vancouver first went to sea as a 15-year old on James Cook’s second (1772-75) round-the-world voyage. The young midshipman distinguished himself and served again on Cook’s third (1776-80) voyage. Ten years later, by then a lieutenant, he was given command of his own expedition to explore the north-west coast of the Americas.
Vancouver sailed with two vessels in the spring of 1791 and arrived in the Pacific north-west a year later. His hydrographic mission would take three years and by the time the ships returned home in late 1795 they had voyaged 65,000 miles. Much of the actual survey work was conducted away from the ships in small open boats which covered a further 10,000 miles—most of that under oars. It was arduous, hazardous work, in unknown waters, and Vancouver regularly accompanied his men in the boats and shared in their privations. However, as the survey continued his health deteriorated markedly, to the point where he was rarely well enough to do so.
The expedition completed the long-unfinished map of the Americas and proved that a navigable passage did not exist between the Atlantic and the Pacific where it had long been said to exist—within the vast territory lying between Latitudes 30 and 60 North. Thereafter, the search for the north-west passage shifted into the Arctic.
George Vancouver was not a popular captain. He was respected for his capabilities and drive, but feared, perhaps loathed, for his temper; “passionate” was a word often used to describe his character. Contemporary records attest to the resentment with which some of his subordinates seethed. “Captain Vancouver [complained one] has rendered himself universally obnoxious by his orders not only in the present instance to the Young Gentlemen—the poor Kick’d about, abused, despised Midshipmen for whom it is conceived that nothing can be bad enough, neither Language or treatment—but at various times to all ranks of Officers in the two vessels under his command.”2 Another griped that “Good health continues in our little squadron, though I am sorry to add not that good fellowship which ought to subsist with adventurers traversing these distant Seas, owing to the conduct of our Commander in Chief who is grown Haughty Proud Mean and Insolent, which has kept himself and Officers in a continual state of wrangling during the whole of the Voyage.”3
Vancouver ran a tight ship. In this, he was a man of his time and station. A naval captain operated with few practical limitations on his power over subordinates. Most of the specific complaints against him arose over his “intemperate” language and bouts of rage. Historians have retrospectively attributed his irritability to his failing health and the nature of his condition.4 Whatever its cause, it offended many of his subordinates, particularly the gentle-born—men of higher social standing but lower rank.
Vancouver was a hard task master and a severe disciplinarian, but he did not hold grudges. Upon the expedition’s safe return he provided glowing references for his subordinates and applied what influence he had to secure them plum postings and promotion. He himself never again served at sea; his health broken, he focused on completing the charts from the survey and writing a detailed account of the voyage. The charts were published in the spring of 1798 and his exhaustive record of the expedition, A Voyage of Discovery, was published that autumn. He did not live to see its publication. He died on May 12 at the age of forty.
The Naval Chronicle applauded the book: “We have not of late years perused any voyage so well composed, and throughout arranged in so judicious and able a manner…Both in point of composition and ability, it must always rank high among those works which are considered as naval classics by professional men.”5 Other reviews were less glowing. One of his former midshipmen grumbled that “even though I accompanied him I think it is one of the most tedious books I ever read.”6
Thomas Pitt was one of fifteen midshipmen—officer cadets in today’s parlance—on Vancouver’s ship Discovery. He was the son of Lord Camelford and a scion of the powerful Pitt family—one cousin was prime minister, another foreign secretary, yet another First Lord of the Admiralty. Young Thomas was high-spirited and impulsive and Vancouver initially seemed charmed by him, but as time wore on the boy proved rambunctious and temperamental. “The Conduct of Mr T. Pit,” Vancouver complained in a dispatch to a superior in January 1793, “has been too bad for me to represent in any one respect.”7
Few details survive about the misdeeds that so irritated him. Several of Vancouver’s biographers have noted the disappearance of records, correspondence and journals kept by officers and midshipmen during the expedition; one speculated that they were collected by officials—ostensibly to investigate Pitt’s behaviour, then made to disappear to spare his powerful family embarrassment.8 Pitt’s own biographer Nicholai Tolstoy also noted the disappearance of records from other ships on which he served; he too believed that family influence was brought to bear to contain the damage from the young man’s many scandals.9
The few snippets that survive paint a figure of a dissolute and hot-headed youth. He was found asleep on watch at sea—a serious failing for any seaman, let alone an aspiring officer. While roughhousing on the quarterdeck (something no captain could countenance) he broke the binnacle housing the ship’s compass. And he assumed the role of leader among his fellow midshipmen and objected when Vancouver promoted a deserving crewman and moved him into their mess.
The best known of Pitt’s infractions occurred while the expedition was en route for the Pacific north-west. In Tahiti he was caught bartering for the affections of a native woman with an item pilfered from the ship’s stores. It might have been politic for the captain to consider Pitt’s pedigree before deciding on his punishment, but George Vancouver was not a politic man: he had him flogged. It was the first of at least three lashings administered to Pitt, and he would be detained in irons at least once. The specific circumstances behind these additional punishments are lost to history.
Back to Pitt’s arrested dalliance with that Tahitian woman—let’s call it a transaction instead, for it was certainly of a commercial rather than a romantic nature. Pitt had taken something from the ship to pay the woman and this was technically an act of thievery, but there was more to Vancouver’s severe reaction than that. He had issued orders against any unofficial trade with the natives; he needed to procure supplies for his ships and wanted to prevent inflation and market distortions—a lesson he’d learned from Cook. He had also prohibited shore access for his people for anything other than duty. In this, he drew lessons from the experience of William Bligh. The mutiny on the Bounty, led by Fletcher Christian, had occurred less than three years before. After the hardships of their long voyage from Britain, Bounty’s crew had found paradise in Tahiti. The sexual freedom they enjoyed there (hardly “free”—it was paid for with trinkets, cloth and random bits of metal) was unlike anything they had experienced before. Released in Tahiti from the harsh discipline of a naval ship at sea, Bligh’s men could not accept its re-imposition; they rose up, overthrew Bligh and set him adrift in the Pacific.
Tales of carefree dalliances in first contact environments like Tahiti and Hawaii were legend amongst sailors; visitors (all men) all wanted to experience such exotica, and they sought to do so at every opportunity. Their encounters were almost always of a commercial nature. This was as true in the Pacific north-west as it was in Polynesia.
During the three years it took them to explore the west coast of North America, Vancouver’s vessels used Friendly Cove (Yuquot), at the mouth of Nootka Sound on what is now Vancouver Island, as a base to provision and refit. Yuquot had been James Cook’s first landfall in the region in 1778, and there was extensive and enthusiastic “fraternization” between some of his complement and local Indigenous women during that initial visit. “How agreeable their Company would be to us & how profitable to themselves,” said one of his people. Another deemed the women “Jolly, likely Wenches” and observed seamen stripping and washing them on board ship, for what end seems obvious.10 The documentation on this subject by Cook’s complement is generally wink-wink and waggish but it indicates that these interactions were transactional. The Mowachaht, the local indigenous people (now part of the Nuu-chah-nulth Tribal Council), had a strict social hierarchy; there is evidence that in response to their visitors’ interest in procuring women, they provided slaves (generally captives taken in battle or raids) to protect their own women, and received payment in return.
By 1790 the Spanish had an outpost at Yuquot, and British and American fur traders frequented its anchorage. The Mowachaht sold food and timber to them and supplied the traders with furs, acting as middlemen with other indigenous peoples. Much has been written about the marine fur trade centred on Nootka Sound. The sex trade that began with first contact is not well documented but is known to have continued throughout this period.11
Nothing is known of Thomas Pitt’s activities in Yuquot during his port-of-call stops there. However, evidence I have discovered suggests his behaviour on the west coast was consistent with that documented in Tahiti.
By the end of the second survey season, Captain Vancouver had had enough of the troublesome Midshipman Pitt. In February 1794 he dismissed him and put him aboard a supply ship bound for Port Jackson (today’s Sydney). Upon arrival there Pitt learned that his father had died; as heir, he had inherited his father’s considerable wealth and title. Now Baron Camelford, he returned to England. En route he secured a temporary commission on board HMS Resistance and performed commendably during the British navy’s campaign in the Dutch East Indies.12
Camelford harboured a seething resentment towards George Vancouver for his treatment and dismissal. When he arrived in England in September 1796 he sought out and demanded “satisfaction” from the ailing captain, challenging him repeatedly to a duel. Vancouver refused, defending his actions as entirely legitimate for a commander and officer of the Crown. If Camelford wished to file a formal grievance, he said, he would accept judgement on his own conduct from any flag officer in the navy.
In a rage, Camelford travelled to Vancouver’s home in Surrey, where he harangued and threatened him face-to-face. Vancouver endured Camelford’s threats and remained firm in his refusal to duel. Still, he worried that his refusal might be construed as dishonourable, and consulted Lord Grenville, the influential foreign minister who was also Camelford’s second cousin and brother-in-law (having married his sister). Grenville, and everyone else he spoke to, supported his stand.
Camelford continued issuing threats and insults and publically proclaimed Vancouver a poltroon for refusing to “provide satisfaction”. If Vancouver would not meet him in a duel, he declared, then he would seek him out, insult him publicly and fight to determine “which was the better man.” At this, Grenville intervened to admonish him, and Camelford seemed to cool down, claiming “the whole of the affair to be now concluded.” This proved patently false. Whether by design or chance, he encountered Vancouver and his brother on Conduit Street, London—ironically, they were on their way to arrange an injunction against Camelford. The young baron flew into a rage and beat them both with his walking stick.
Physical injuries aside, the indignity caused Vancouver great public embarrassment. Camelford was subsequently required to post recognizance to keep the peace, but Vancouver’s request for an official public enquiry into his own conduct, which he felt would vindicate him and shed light on Camelford’s behaviour, was never approved. He lacked the influence to secure it. Pitt, meanwhile, had many influential friends among London’s privileged whispering classes who were ready and willing to disparage and ridicule Vancouver. James Gillray, the great political cartoonist, caricatured him. The redoubtable Sir Joseph Banks—made famous by his role as botanist on Cook’s first voyage and later head of the Royal Society—took it upon himself to collect evidence on Camelford’s mistreatment by Vancouver. No one came to Vancouver’s defence. As a result, the public standing of this remarkable, difficult, irascible, driven and accomplished man was irreparably damaged. When he died, he was still fighting for back pay from his voyage.
Although little is known about Thomas Pitt’s specific misdeeds on Discovery much is known of Camelford’s tempestuous life after his vendetta against his former captain. In 1797, through family influence (and despite his previous dismissal from the navy), he secured both a lieutenant’s commission and command of the sloop Favourite (irony abounds in the name). Not long after taking command, he shot and killed the commander of a sister vessel who declined to obey his orders; he was vindicated by a court martial, but returned to England to wait out the ensuing scandal. While waiting for a new command to be arranged, he was arrested trying to enter France, and implicated in a plot to assassinate Napoleon. That scandal finally ended his naval career. For the rest of his life he deeply resented Britain’s establishment, believing they had destroyed his prospects. In 1800, he publicly threatened the life of the prime minister, his cousin William Pitt, if he did not receive a new command. He neither received command nor suffered consequence. Toleration had its limits. The navy was through with him.
Camelford was forced to retire to the life of a fashionable (if eccentric) Georgian gentleman. He took his seat in the House of Lords, where he backed the privileges of class then veered erratically into radical politics. He was a rake, a patron of boxers, no mean pugilist himself; a frequenter of cock and dog fights, a bully who picked fights at random. Warm and generous to his friends, he bridled at slights to his honour. (Biographer Tolstoy suggests he was the model for Lord Chiltern in Anthony Trollope’s Phineas Finn13). He desperately desired glory and to prove himself on his own terms. This led him into further intrigue. He was again arrested and expelled from France, implicated in another plot against Napoleon. Rumour had it he had intended to take the First Consul’s life himself.
In March 1804, 29-year old Camelford squabbled with a drinking companion over a woman. He issued a challenge, and despite appeals to reason by his friends, refused to back down. It was a matter of honour, he said, and demanded satisfaction. The duellists met at dawn in a meadow near Holland House in Kensington. Camelford was mortally wounded in the exchange of shots. He lingered in pain for two days, his friends sitting grim vigil at his bedside. He showed courage and awareness in the face of death. According to Tolstoy, as the young lord lay dying, he expressed hope that his “suffering, coupled with what good he had managed to achieve in his life among all the ill, might operate in his favour in the next world.”14
His dying words, spoken to a former shipmate from the voyage, were reported to be “Tanash Mamathi”, which Tolstoy explained were “…the words used by the Indians of Nootka to signify the soul, which they pictured in the form of a little bird. In his dying hours Camelford’s mind had dwelt much on his boyhood and youth; now he had flown back in his thoughts to those stirring days when two young midshipmen had spent a long summer surveying creeks and promontories along the North American coast.”15
These are strange final words for an English peer. Thomas Pitt had spent a grand total of 50 days in Nootka Sound during the 1792 and 1793 survey seasons. When I read Tolstoy’s translation and explanation, something did not add up.
In August 2004, I visited Yuquot (Friendly Cove) to research The Wind From All Directions, which is set during the tense summit between George Vancouver and Spanish commodore Juan Francisco de la Bodega y Quadra in the autumn of 1792. I had the privilege of meeting members of the modern Mowachaht First Nation, and I took the opportunity to pose a rather odd question to several of them. What, I asked, does “Tanash Mamathi” mean?
Few modern Mowachaht speak their ancestral language. Generations of their people had it beaten out of them in residential schools. However those I asked instantly recognized the word “Mamathi” and provided its meaning. No one recognized the word “Tanash”. They all referred me to Ray Williams, one of the few Mowachaht elders who speak the language of their ancestors.
I approached Mr Williams who, with great dignity and tolerance, invited me into his home and listened to my query. He confirmed the definition of “Mamathi” that others had provided, and clarified my pronunciation. But at first he too was stumped by “Tanash”.
As he thought about it, he thought about the circumstances. If a man were dying, he’d be prone to miss a syllable; and those gathered around wouldn’t recognize the mistake. Anyone in that company who had heard the words before probably never heard them right in the first place. “Tanash”, he said, was likely “Wikhtinish”. And he explained what “Wikhtinish” meant.
“Mamathnhi” is the Moachaht word for white man. And “Wikhtinish Mamathnhi” means “crazy white man”. Was Thomas Pitt, Lord Camelford, crazy? His biographer Tolstoy called him “the half-mad lord”—which is what Trollope called his fictional Lord Chiltern. And now we know that two centuries ago, someone in Nootka Sound, obviously a Mowachaht, called him a “crazy white man.” We will never know why. All we can say is that the man who stalked, hounded and humiliated George Vancouver, who tarnished a good man’s reputation, was up to some mischief in Nootka Sound—and someone called him on it.
1 For a comparative discussion of conditions (and discipline) on British naval vessels in the central Pacific between 1764 and 1795, see Greg Dening, Mr Bligh’s Bad Language: Passion, Power, and Theatre on the Bounty (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992).
2 Edward Bell, clerk of HMS Chatham, dated 28 Feb 1793; see W. Kaye Lamb, “Introduction” in George Vancouver, A Voyage of Discovery to the North Pacific Ocean and Round the World 1791-1795, 4 vols., ed. W. Kaye Lamb (London: Hakluyt Society, 1984), vol. 1, pp. 212-13.
3 Thomas Manby¸ master’s mate on Discovery, in 1793; see Vancouver, vol.4, pp. 1640-1. Thomas Manby was later master on Chatham and Third Lieutenant on Discovery. Manby was once reprimanded by Vancouver and said of his captain’s scolding “…his salutation I can never forget, and his language I will never forgive…” See Vancouver, vol. 2, p. 594n.
4 See John M. Naish, The Interwoven Lives of George Vancouver, Archibald Menzies, Joseph Whidbey and Peter Puget, Exploring the Pacific Northwest Coast, vol. 17 of the Canadian Studies Series (Queenston and Lewiston: Edwin Mellen Press,1996). Naish is a physician and on pp. 364-73 discusses Vancouver’s personality and symptoms.
5 Vancouver, vol. 2, p. 243
6 Ibid, pp. 243-4
7 Ibid, vol. 4, pp. 1581
8 Bern Anderson, The Life and Voyages of Captain George Vancouver, Surveyor of the Sea (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1960).
9 Ibid, p. 229
10 See Elliot Fox-Povey, “How Agreeable Their Company Would Be,” British Columbia Historical News, 36, no. 3 (Summer 2003), p. 3 and n. 23.
11 Ibid., pp. 8-9. Fox-Povey’s article is one of the few to examine this issue.
12 Nikolai Tolstoy, The Half-Mad Lord: Thomas Pitt, 2nd Baron Camelford (1775-1804) (London: Jonathan Cape, 1978), p. 28.
13 Tolstoy, pp. 142-9.
14 Ibid., p. 186.
This post is adapted from my article “George Vancouver and the Tanash Mamathi” published in the periodical Burney Letter (Spring 2011).
In these COVID times it’s good—no, necessary—to escape the headlines now and then, and the best way to escape modern times is to journey into history. I do that more than most: for some time I’ve been working on an historical novel set on Canada’s west coast. Its working title is The Wind From All Directions.
I’ve posted previously about the project, it’s locale, and some of its themes. Today I’ll set the true historical context for George Vancouver’s encounter with a Spanish commodore in remote Nootka Sound in 1792. What follows is adapted from a piece I wrote more than a decade ago. (Yes, this project has been around for a while.) It was originally published in the Spring 2010 edition of The Burney Letter.
I’ll post more historical context, and more about the fictional story set within that context, in the future. In the meantime, here’s the straight goods. No Fake News here.
In 1493, via a Papal Bull, Pope Alexander VI awarded the Spanish Crown titular sovereignty over a vast swath of territory that included the entire west coast of the Americas. Alexander was a Spaniard himself and the non-Catholic world paid no attention to his bull. For three hundred years the Spaniards busied themselves pillaging Mexico and Peru and did little to assert their claim to the area north of California. They made few voyages of exploration into the area and no attempts at settlement. But a few bold foreigners traversed the region. The English corsair Francis Drake was the first, in 1588, during his extended, round-the-world raid on Spanish dominions. (To this day Drake is considered a swashbuckling hero by the British, a vicious pirate by Latin Americans and Spaniards.) Then a succession of Russian adventurers probed south from the Aleutians. And, in 1778, Britain’s James Cook became the first European to land in present day British Columbia, when he anchored in Nootka Sound on Vancouver Island to make repairs to his ships Resolution and Discovery. Accompanying Cook on the voyage was a 20-year old midshipman named George Vancouver.
Cook’s brief sojourn in what he called Friendly Cove would provide Britain with grounds for a territorial claim to the region. His expedition returned home to tell of the plentiful sea otter population in the Pacific northwest, and the two thousand percent profit their furs fetched in China. This latter tidbit spawned a veritable gold rush. Adventurers and traders—mostly Britons and newly-independent Americans—set out on the long and arduous voyage to cash-in on the bounty.
One of them was a former Royal Navy officer named John Meares. In 1788 he built a trading post at Friendly Cove. Meares claimed he bought the site from Maquinna, chief of the local Mowachaht nation, for two pistols; one of his men said it cost ten sheets of copper and some trinkets. It was not the only inconsistency in Meares’s tale. Maquinna later called Meares a liar and denied there’d been any sale at all. Whatever the truth, Meares traded from his post all that summer, abandoned it in the fall and sailed for China, intending to return the following spring to resume operations.
Spain had learned of the presence of foreign traders in the area it called Neuva California. In early 1789 the Viceroy of New Spain dispatched two warships under Estevan Jose Martinez to establish a fortified post in Nootka Sound as a show of Spanish might. Martinez was a veteran of the few Spanish voyages into the region, an experienced mariner, but he was temperamental and volatile and had a liking for drink that impaired his judgement.
Martinez arrived in Friendly Cove in May 1789. He found no evidence of prior European activity (i.e. Meares’s trading post) upon the land. There were, however, several British, American and Portuguese trading vessels present in the area.
Martinez boarded and inspected these traders, questioned their captains about their activities, closely examined their papers. In short order he seized a Portuguese-flagged vessel whose captain’s papers were not up to snuff. Next he interviewed a British captain named James Colnett. At first Colnett declined to present his papers (which would not have withstood close scrutiny) and was evasive as to his plans. Later, in the great cabin of Martinez’s flagship Princesa, the two men had a violent argument. Colnett stomped on the deck, swore, called Martinez a “Goddam Spaniard,” and drew his sword. Colnett, it seems, was as hot-headed as Martinez, who arrested him at gunpoint, seized both his ships and detained their crews.
Their quarrel, in remote Nootka Sound, brought their two countries to the brink of war.
The impounded ships belonged to none other than John Meares and his partners. Meares had chosen not to return to the northwest that year, but to remain in China. Colnett, he thought, was eminently capable to lead the trading mission among the natives. He had not contemplated an encounter with the Spanish Empire.
Months later, when word of the seizures reached him in China, Meares realized he was facing financial ruin. He saw a single option and took it. He set off for England, where he arrived in April 1790 and lodged a complaint with the British government, claiming substantial losses from the seizure of his shore establishment and his two ships. Whatever the legitimacy of his claim to property on shore, his trading losses were real, and his case of British commerce unfairly restrained by an arrogant foreign power was received sympathetically. It happened to be timely, for the government, led by William Pitt, perceived its long-time foe Spain to be weak and saw an opportunity to weaken it further.
Public sentiment against Spain was quietly stoked. Angry speeches soon resounded in parliament and the press piled on. On April 30—just weeks after Meares first made his case—Cabinet responded to the furor by ordering mobilization of the fleet. Britain, it appeared, was ready to go to war over an argument between two hotheads in far off Nootka Sound.
John Bull was bluffing. Pitt and his ministers knew that Spain could not afford war. It was isolated diplomatically and militarily; its traditional ally France was in the early stages of a revolution and would not come to its aid.
As Pitt had calculated, the Spanish acceded to negotiations to avoid conflict. By late October an agreement was concluded. The Nootka Convention provided for full restitution of the ships, property and tracts of land seized by Martinez. The Spanish Armament (as the mobilization came to be known) ended with Britain winning all its diplomatic objectives, not least being recognition of the existence of British property on the northwest coast of America. This alone would undermine Spain’s claim to exclusive possession and sovereignty over the Pacific coast.
The outcome was sweet for Britain, given the support Spain had afforded the American revolutionaries not so long before. The loss of the American colonies still stung.
Even before the Convention was inked the Spaniards had released the impounded British ships and their crews. But an item of diplomacy remained to be transacted: the return of British-owned buildings and tracts of land on shore at Friendly Cove. George Vancouver, only 33 but a veteran of two of Cook’s voyages, had already been assigned command of a voyage of exploration to the region. He was now given an additional task: to satisfy the terms of the Convention, he would rendezvous with a Spanish counterpart in Nootka Sound to formally receive the British lands and territories seized by Martinez.
Vancouver’s expedition, comprising the sloop Discovery (his first command) and the brig Chatham, sailed from England in April 1791.
His original mission was ambitious enough. He was to chart an area spanning more than thirty degrees of latitude, thereby placing an immense tract of territory on the map of the known world. It is tempting to consider his diplomatic role an afterthought to that demanding goal—as the killing of two birds with one stone. But consider the inflamed passions of the period: his diplomatic mission was clearly as important to Britain’s interests as his survey mission.
Despite George Vancouver’s relative youth, he had already served 20 years in the Royal Navy, most of them at sea. He was an accomplished officer and hydrographer, intelligent, capable, dutiful—but completely unprepared for the role of diplomat. He was the son of a minor customs official—not high born but middle-class: definitely without pedigree. His ascension to command, like that of his mentor James Cook, and William Bligh, another of Cook’s officers, mirrored the slow evolution of British society and its institutions, to the point where men of capability could rise to command men of privilege. Common seamen had to put up and shut up with their captain’s authority. Officers, though, operated within a milieu of class distinction, and well-bred gentlemen bridled at the orders of social inferiors elevated over them—and there was no shortage of well-bred gentlemen on Vancouver’s Discovery. An extended voyage was considered a leg-up for the ambitious young sons of the elite, and strings were pulled to secure a goodly number berths on Vancouver’s vessels. In some cases pedigree trumped talent. It was ever thus.
Vancouver’s orders regarding his diplomatic role at Nootka were vague and incomplete. He was told that en route for the northwest the transport Daedalus would meet him in Hawaii to resupply his ships and deliver detailed instructions for completing his diplomatic mission.
But Daedalus missed the rendezvous. When it finally joined him at Friendly Cove in August 1792, just as he himself arrived from his first season of survey work, it delivered no additional instructions. George Vancouver, Master and Commander of Discovery, discovered he was on his own; and unbeknownst to him, the Spanish had resolved to win back their losses under the Nootka Convention. They had dispatched a seasoned officer, a Peruvian-born commodore named Juan Francisco de la Bodega y Quadra to the northwest to finesse their strategy and achieve their goals. Vancouver arrived in Nootka Sound to find a Spanish settlement, a garrison of troops and a fleet of Spanish men-of-war under Quadra’s command.
More to come when I have time! In the meantime stay safe and have a great summer.
And now (drum roll please) the final three albums on my 10 Album Challenge. Here are #8 and #9, two great albums by great artists with long and illustrious careers:
– Carlos Santana, Supernatural
– Miles Davis, Kind of Blue
And last but not least, for all the mayhem and energy they unleashed upon the world when things were getting stale:
– The Clash, London Calling.
At some point over the challenge a Facebook friend proposed a bonus track to add to his 10, consistent with the theme of artist/album excellence. I jumped on the idea, and as this is the end of the line for the challenge, what better than “End Of The Line” by The Traveling Wilburys, a bunch of musicians who clearly loved each other’s company.
I’m back with three more on the 10 Album Challenge. Today’s albums are:
– Joni Mitchell, Blue
– Cowboy Junkies, The Trinity Session
– Oscar Peterson, Night Train
These are great albums by artists in their prime. All Canucks to boot. When I was a kid that was an important thing to us. We lived next to a behemoth and were swamped in their culture. We felt ownership when one of us made it south of the border or got noticed by the rest of the world.
All three of these artists did that. Their music stands the test of time. And no one made a keyboard smoke like Oscar Peterson.
After answering the 7 Day Book Challenge from one friend there, I was handed the 10 Album Challenge by another, viz: to name 10 albums that “influenced me”; and to tap 10 other people to do the same.
Sheesh. What am I, a Kardashian? Social influencer for the 2020 home-bound? I accepted the challenge, though I’m not doing it daily—I’m doubling up (and more, as with today’s post). Also, I decided not to tag others on social media to name their 10 albums, on the assumption that no one wants to go viral right now: There’s enough of THAT going on already. Besides, my expertise at viral memery is limited to my stay-at-home role in the 2016-18 Person of Letters Global Book Tour, wherein my first novel A Person of Letters went on tour without me and appeared in 100 world locations in 100 weeks. For all that effort, total global awareness of the Tour and the book peaked at 6 (7 if I count a Russian troll). If you’re interested, click on the tab labelled “The Magical APOL Book Tour” on the left of this page. All 100 posts are there, unfortunately in reverse order.
Back to the 10 Album Challenge. I can’t say that many albums influenced me, as in, changed my life—though there are some that struck me and stayed with me for their originality and verve.
Album #1 (in order of presentation, not preference) is in this category: Don McLean’s American Pie, which inspires me with its story-telling, imagery, and convention-busting. The title song is audacious for its disregard of traditional commercial broadcast practices; it clocked in at eight minutes and thirty-three seconds.
By and large I’m treating the 10 Album Challenge like a 10 Artist Challenge, because it’s the body of work I admire, particularly the following artists for their lyrics, which are always evocative and perfectly honed. Poetry isn’t dead, it’s just sung to music. Albums #2 through #4 are:
Leonard Cohen, I’m Your Man
Bruce Springsteen, Darkness on the Edge of Town
The Tragically Hip, Fully Completely
These are worthy albums among their extensive discographies, but I recommend anything they’ve recorded.