Fletcher of the Bounty

by Graeme Lay

  And if he, as a mere passenger, felt such excitement, what must it feel like to be receiving, and giving, commands to work a ship?

  Driven slowly by the light airs, Lioness was moving closer to the harbour entrance. Turning away from the rail, Fletcher went down the companionway to let his mother know they had arrived.

  Ramsey, 11 November 1779

  Dear Edward,

  Greetings from Ramsey! (or ‘Rhumsaa’, as the Manxmen call the town, in their peculiar dialect). By now you will have heard from Mother, reporting on our new life here on the Isle. She doubtless told you that for her the move has not been a very happy one. Our late father’s family — including our cousin John, who is eight years older than me and unmarried — have not exactly welcomed her into the fold. I have the feeling that the family here are resentful of the fact that Father chose to live in Cumbria after he married Mother, rather than staying on the island. I have no proof of this, it is just a sense that I have. And now that Mother has been obliged to live on their charity, their umbrage is even greater. As a consequence she behaves very coolly towards the Manx Christians, making no secret of her resentment of them.

  However I am warming to cousin John, and I believe the feeling is mutual. He is more like an uncle than a cousin, being much older, but does not condescend to me. Although his hair is auburn (from our Viking ancestors perhaps), in other respects he is very much like us: tall and strongly built, with deep-set hazel eyes, a heavy brow, prominent nose and cleft chin. He joked that there are so many ‘John Christians’ in our family tree that he should more properly be known as ‘John Christian XVII’.

  He has provided Mother and me with rooms at Milntown, on the ground floor of a fine building near the banks of the Auldyn River, a tributary of the Sulby, whose estuary comprises the harbour of Ramsey. The Milntown estate is very grand, the farmstead large, with battlements atop its walls, so that it resembles a castle, with a matching portico entrance. Ancient oak trees grow in the grounds of the estate, and sheep and cattle graze the fields.

  Our rooms are in the east wing of the house. We have a bedroom each and share the parlour and drawing room. The latter has a well-stocked library, many family portraits adorn the walls and the windows give wide views of the gardens. Mother spends most of her time walking in the garden, writing letters and on occasion, taking the coach into Ramsey to visit the shops. Her purchases are modest, however, as money is still short for us. Her much reduced circumstances she is finding very difficult to cope with. (She was grateful to last week receive a payment from Sir Stephen, a percentage from the deposit on the impending sale of Moorland Close, although she wept when she realised that the property will soon be gone from our family forever.)

  There are several horses kept on the estate, one of which John has put at my disposal. A bay gelding called Walter, he has taken me all over the estate and beyond, to an upland heath, called the ‘Tops’. Between the estate and the Tops is a network of woods and narrow valleys which I have relished exploring, both on foot and on horseback. I have also ridden Walter down to the estuary of the Sulby and along the sandy beach which extends for many miles on both sides of it. Although the days are now shorter and much colder, I still find the island conducive to such excursions.

  If this gives the impression that my life here is one of indolence, let me correct that notion. I spend a great deal of time cleaning out the stables, feeding and grooming the horses, and maintaining the estate — trimming the hedgerows, clearing out drains, cutting firewood and so forth. Demanding work, but I enjoy it. With winter coming soon, the livestock will have to be given additional feed, which will also be one of my responsibilities. But as I work at these duties, to earn the keep of Mother and myself, I wonder too, what else will I do with my life?

  In the evenings I read a great deal. The book my teacher presented me with when I left Cockermouth School, the account of Captain Cook’s second world voyage, was the first I read. It is enthralling. His ships — HMS Resolution and HMS Adventure — sailed beyond the Antarctic Circle. Surrounded by ice mountains and beset by freezing fog, the ships became separated, were reunited in New Zealand, then separated again. He almost lost his ship in Tahiti, then stayed there for a time and made friends with a chief of the island. What a voyage! Captain Cook is a truly heroic figure, an Englishman whose achievements must rank with those of William Shakespeare and Sir Isaac Newton. As you probably know, Captain Cook is at present engaged upon yet another world voyage in Resolution. I look forward immensely to reading of that circumnavigation too, after his return.

  In the library are several volumes of Manx history. These I find most interesting. One book told me that our surname Christian is an anglicised version of the Manx name, McCrystyn, which is probably of Scots origin. Other histories say it is Scandinavian, possibly Icelandic! I never knew that. Mother must have known, but neglected to tell me. (She still shows antipathy towards father’s family. John Christian’s branch have a pew at the local church, St Matthew’s, but Mother refuses to attend. ‘I’m not a real Christian,’ she says, in an attempt at humour. John’s family were not amused.) Another book, one on the island’s maritime history, told me about a French privateer called Captain Francois Thurot. He traded goods between Ireland and the Isle of Man, in the early years of this century. The archenemy of our navy, reputedly part of a planned French invasion of Britain, Thurot was defeated off the island’s north-west coast in 1760. His badly damaged vessel was brought into Ramsey Bay and its timbers were used to build cottages and a bridge. The latter was named after him, Thurot Bridge. I have ridden over it!

  When I raised the subject of this man with cousin John, he surprised me by saying, ‘Thurot was well liked on this island. He was not seen by us as a foe.’

  This brought home to me once again that Manxmen are more independent of thought than people of the English mainland. Smuggling goods from Ireland to this island is a common tradition, I’ve been told. The stable-hand who told me this added that the local Customs people do not make the most strenuous attempts to prevent the contraband entering the island’s ports. Another indication of the Manx propensity for preferring their own laws to those of England. I see their flag — the three-legged Manx triskelion — being flown more commonly here than the English flag!

  This letter will be dispatched to each of you on the Nicholson packet vessel the day after tomorrow, so you should receive it in a month or so. I trust that your studies in Cambridge and Edinburgh are progressing. I do still envy you your illustrious academic worlds, but life here is more agreeable than I anticipated. Mother and I are travelling to Douglas in a few weeks to meet some naval friends of John’s.

  I will write again next month,

  Your loving brother,

  Fletcher

  PS We have a household cat with no tail, called Cassius. His lack of the usual rear feline appendage causes him no concern, as all the cats here lack tails. Strange.

  He wrote a copy of the letter to Charles, then thought he would write to Clarinda as well. He would remind her of her promise to him. Then he realised this would be pointless; she could neither read nor write.

  DOUGLAS, 20 JANUARY 1780

  ‘Fletcher, meet my friend, Captain George Courtnay. Captain, my first cousin, Fletcher Christian. My late brother Charles’s youngest son.’

  Dressed in the uniform of a lieutenant in the Royal Navy, Courtnay was of medium height and thick at the waist, with a leathery complexion, a veined nose and pale green eyes. As he shook hands with him, Fletcher looked admiringly at his blue and white uniform, with its large cuffs and gold epaulettes. His navy tricorn was tucked under his left arm.

  The trio were at a reception in the drawing room of the Douglas home of Fletcher’s second cousin, Edward Taubman, and his wife Loretta. The two-storeyed red-brick Taubman house was perched upon the hill above Douglas harbour, providing wide views of the Irish Sea. On the walls of the drawing room were framed charts of the East Indies and several ornately framed seasca
pes. Other paintings featured coastlines with palm trees, one with a coastal fort set among tropical foliage.

  ‘You are visiting the island on naval business, sir?’ Fletcher asked Captain Courtnay.

  ‘No. My visit is mainly social, although I’m also here to see my friend Duncan Campbell.’

  John Christian explained. ‘Campbell is a ship owner, with plantation interests in the West Indies. Sugar and rum. Douglas is the home port for his merchant vessels. He will be joining us shortly.’ Turning the conversation back to the naval commander, he said, ‘Captain Courtnay commands HMS Eurydice, which serves our nation in the Atlantic and Indian Oceans.’

  Fletcher’s eyes widened. ‘The Indian Ocean? How wonderful. Have you seen much of India itself?’

  ‘A little. The coastal ports. Bombay, Goa, Madras.’

  John looked across the room. ‘Ah, here’s Campbell.’

  The ship owner strode across the room towards the others. He was tall, with a lantern jaw and large hands, which he was holding together in front of him, as if in supplication. His expression was grave. Nodding at the others, he sighed heavily. ‘I bring terrible news. Captain Cook is dead.’

  Everyone stood as if turned to stone. Then Courtnay demanded, ‘How?’

  Campbell swallowed hard. ‘Killed. In an archipelago he discovered and called the Sandwich Islands after our First Sea Lord.’

  ‘Was he killed in battle?’ John asked, his voice just above a whisper.

  Campbell shook his head. ‘The London news sheets just report that “He died during a fracas”. On one of the islands, at some bay with an unpronounceable native name. He was beaten to death with clubs by the savages there.’

  The stunned silence returned. They stared at each other with dazed expressions. Captain Cook dead? It seemed impossible. Fletcher’s mind reeled. Of all Englishmen, he seemed the most destined for immortality.

  ‘How was the news delivered?’ asked Taubman.

  ‘Overland from Russia. Following the killing, Cook’s ships Resolution and Discovery sailed from the Sandwich Islands to Petropavlovsk, on the Kamchatka peninsula. Charles Clerke, Cook’s second-in-command, wrote a letter to the Admiralty reporting Cook’s death. It reached London ten days ago, and the news sheets last week.’

  The news seeped through the room like marsh gas, bringing a pall that settled over them all. Cook the great navigator and discoverer, charterer of the Gulf of St Lawrence, Newfoundland, Tahiti, New Zealand, eastern Australia, the New Hebrides. The colossus, the titan of the Royal Navy, dead. It seemed inconceivable.

  That night Fletcher lay in bed in the annex at the rear of the Taubman house, unable to sleep. He sat up, then drew aside the bedroom curtain. The moon was almost full, a shimmering disc in the eastern sky. The Irish Sea was inky, lit only by a rippling ribbon of moonlight.

  But it was not the moonlight that had kept him awake, it was the knowledge that a great man had fallen, that an era of Britain’s history was over. After Cook there could be no one who could compare. Yet Fletcher was also aware from his reading that there was so much of the world which was still not yet fully charted: islands, sounds, estuaries. The voyages of exploration must continue, commanders must continue to seek lands for King George. Commanders like Captain Courtnay. What places he had sailed to, what sights he must have seen on the coasts of India!

  Lately Fletcher had been watching the vessels entering and leaving Ramsey and Douglas harbours. And he had come to a decision. Since Cambridge had been denied him, he would seek another future. One which offered adventure in distant lands. He would make of his life what James Cook had made of his. Drawing the curtains, he blocked out the moonlight. And before sleep came, he had decided where his future lay.

  On the sea.

  His mother was sitting by the fire in the parlour, knitting a scarf for Edward. The Cambridge winters were bitter, he had written to tell her, and this was her response. She had already knitted one for Charles. She looked up and smiled as Fletcher entered the room.

  ‘Darling, welcome back. How was Douglas?’

  ‘It was good, thank you.’ He sat down on the armless chair opposite her. ‘Cousin John introduced me to some very interesting people there.’

  ‘Oh?’ Clicking her needles, she asked, ‘And did you hear the dreadful news? About Captain Cook?’

  ‘Yes. People could hardly believe it. It was almost as if God himself was dead.’

  ‘I know, I know.’ She paused. ‘Before you were born Charles and I once holidayed in Whitby. Such a pretty town, with small ships coming and going. The news reports said that was where Captain Cook learned navigation.’

  ‘Yes. And where he learned to sail.’ Realising that this had given him an opportunity, Fletcher looked directly at her. ‘Mother, I too wish to go to sea. With the Royal Navy.’

  Her fingers froze, her hands dropped, taking the wool with them. She raised her chin, frowned. ‘You wish to go to sea?’

  ‘I do. I see it as an opportunity to serve my country.’ He cleared his throat. ‘And see the world.’

  Her frown deepened. Shaking her head, she said in a low voice, ‘I forbid it, Fletcher.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You are needed here.’

  He threw up his hands. ‘To do what? Muck out the other Christians’ stables? Feed their pigs? Chop their firewood?’ He shook his head. ‘That’s not the life I want.’

  ‘Fletcher, I need you. I have no one else. Edward will practise law in London, Charles is intending to serve as a surgeon in a hospital there. Should you leave this island, I will be bereft. And at the mercy of Charles’s family.’

  ‘And whose fault is that, Mother? Who lost our family fortune?’

  ‘I did. But do not reproach me further about it. Life must go on. We are comfortably accommodated here, in spite of your father’s family’s resentment of me. I cannot return to Cumbria. So you and I must stay on this island. This is our future.’

  ‘No! It may be our present, it may even be your future. But it’s not mine. Can you not understand that I yearn to see the rest of the world, the one beyond this boring island?’

  Her mouth became a tight line. She nodded. ‘I do understand that. You are young and keen to see the world. But can you also not understand my need for your companionship? As my youngest child?’ Her eyes became watery.

  Fletcher looked down. He felt helpless. He hated it when she appealed to such sentiment. And yet he loved her, he did not want her left alone, did not want to heap further unhappiness upon her.

  After a long silence he said, ‘How would it be if I wait for a time. Say, another year and a half.’ He gave her a hard look. ‘Legally, Mother, I will have the right to leave then.’ He attempted a smile. ‘But I would rather do so with your blessing.’

  Looking down, she nodded. Then after another long silence, replied with a sigh, ‘Very well. When you are eighteen, you may do as you wish.’

  THE ISLE OF MAN, 1781–1782

  The ensuing two years seemed as long as a decade. Fletcher spent the time working on the estate, tending the sheep and cattle and the six horses in the Milntown stables, and supervising the piggery. His spare time was spent hiking or riding across the island, exploring its hills and forests.

  This outdoors life suited him, and he felt fitter and stronger from the exercise, knowing that when he went to sea this conditioning would stand him in good stead.

  When the weather was favourable — and this eastern side of the island was markedly drier than Cumbria — he sometimes rode up the river valley which extended inland south of Ramsey, then followed a horse trail along a gully and up to the summit of Snaefell, which at just over two thousand feet was the island’s highest point.

  He slipped from the saddle of his mare, Sara, and looped her reins to a bush. The broom was flaring in golden clumps across the mountaintop, between expanses of grass. While the horse grazed contentedly, Fletcher savoured the view from Snaefell’s broad summit. It was a clear day in April and the visibil
ity was good. People on the island boasted that from up here five kingdoms could be seen: the Isle of Man, Ireland, Scotland, England and the Kingdom of Heaven.

  Looking east, Fletcher smiled at this notion, just another instance of the parochialism with which the island overflowed. Across the Irish Sea the mountains of Cumbria were certainly visible, and to the north he could see the coast of Scotland — Dumfries and Galloway. He turned. To the west, Ireland was hidden in a bank of cloud. As for the Kingdom of Heaven, well, that was sheer fancy. Pie in the sky, as it were. He knew too that in Cumbria there were much higher and more spectacular mountains than this one. When he was only twelve he and Charles had climbed one of them, Pillar, which was nearly three thousand feet high. And at that, only the eighth highest mountain in the Lake District. Still, the view from Snaefell was undeniably uplifting, the air fresh and invigorating.

  On another occasion he rode even further, to a place called Meayll Hill, in the south of the island. On the hill was a ring of twelve burial chambers. No one could tell him who had built or inhabited these mysterious monuments, which someone described as ‘prehistoric’. The word was new to him, but he knew it meant ‘before history was written’. In another word, ancient.

  When the weather was not conducive to riding or rambling, he spent his spare time writing to his Cumbria friends, to his brothers, or reading in the library. History was still his favourite subject. Detailed accounts of the revolutionary war in America were being published regularly now, and as cousin John subscribed to several London magazines, he read these articles avidly. Voyages of exploration were continuing, particularly in the eastern Pacific, along the western coast of the Americas, and reports of these absorbed him, too.

  There was fiction in the library, as well. He read Samuel Richardson’s novel Pamela; or, Virtue Rewarded, admired the writing, and recommended it to his mother. After reading it, she dismissed it with one word: ‘dissolute’. He also read Daniel Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe, as well as an account of the real-life inspiration for the work, the story of the Scots castaway Alexander Selkirk.