by Graeme Lay
Accounts of past voyages had produced narratives of calamities and illness at sea. Reading of the voyages of the Portuguese navigator Ferdinand Magellan, and the Englishman George Anson, both of whom lost hundreds of men to the seaman’s scourge, scurvy, confirmed its causes and effects. Captain Cook’s chronicles made it clear that he was a visionary in the prevention of scurvy aboard his ships. His anti-scorbutic measures were so effective that he lost not a single sailor to scurvy. Accidents, other diseases, but never scurvy. Cook’s record was remarkable, Fletcher realised. His physician brother had read widely of the methods used to keep scurvy at bay, and sent Fletcher copies of these scientific papers. Strictly enforced diet and shipboard hygiene, it was now generally acknowledged, were the keys to combating the vile disease. That was the secret of Cook’s success during his epic voyages, Charles had concluded.
Fletcher also read the first volume of John Hawkesworth’s An account of the voyages undertaken by the order of His present Majesty for making discoveries in the Southern Hemisphere, and successively performed by Commodore Byron, Captain Wallis, Captain Carteret, and Captain Cook, in the Dolphin, the Swallow, and the Endeavour: drawn up from the journals which were kept by the several commanders, and from the papers of Joseph Banks, esq. In 1767 the Wallis expedition had come across a beautiful uncharted high island in the mid-Pacific, which Captain Wallis named ‘King George’s Island’ and later was known as ‘Tahiti’. George Robertson had been sailing master on Dolphin, and had recorded in particular the trade between Wallis’s sailors and the native women of King George’s Island. The women first traded their carnal favours for one ten penny nail, but when they realised how hungry the sailors were for their bodies the price soon escalated to the point where the seamen were trading their hammock hooks and tearing the cleats from the Dolphin’s hull. When Captain Wallis found out about this commerce, Robertson wrote, ‘He no longer wondered that the ship was in danger of being pulled to pieces for the nails and iron that held her together.’
Fletcher was captivated by Robertson’s report. What a place was this Tahiti, where a cunny could be bought for just a nail!
Also in the library was the English translation of the book called A Voyage round the World, describing the expedition of the French explorer Louis Antoine de Bougainville. This included his ten-day stay, in 1768, on Tahiti. Bougainville’s men too had been entranced by the island’s women. Fletcher chuckled when he read the Frenchman’s account of when his frigate La Boudeuse was standing off Tahiti:
Despite all the precautions which we took, a young girl got on board and came onto the forecastle and stood by one of the hatchways which are over the capstan. The girl let negligently fall her robe and stood for all to see, as Venus stood forth before the Phrygian shepherd; and she had the celestial shape of Venus. The sailors and soldiers rushed to get at the hatchway, and never was a capstan turned with such eagerness. We managed to restrain these bedevilled men, however, but it was no less difficult to control oneself.
After they got ashore Bougainville’s men sated themselves with the island’s women. He called Tahiti ‘New Cythera’, after the legendary Cythera, the island of Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of love.
Reading of these voyages and their perils, pleasures and triumphs, Fletcher’s appetite for the world’s distant places was whetted further. Yearning for his own exotic adventures, he was more conscious than ever that his time on this island was just an overture to his future career. And as far as he was concerned, that overture could not come to an end quickly enough, so that the real show could begin.
His brothers wrote to him regularly, letting him know of their progress. Charles had completed his physician’s degree at Edinburgh. He wrote: ‘I am considering becoming a merchant mariner, and applying for a position as ship’s surgeon on an East Indiaman. A difficult role, I imagine, but one which could take me far.’
Edward had graduated from St John’s College and had been admitted to Gray’s Inn, in London. He had become friends with a fellow-Cambridge man, he wrote, one William Wilberforce, a Yorkshireman and an evangelical Christian. ‘I do not share his religious fervour,’ Edward wrote, ‘but I do whole-heartedly agree with his views on the despicable trade of slavery. Wilberforce now leads the abolitionist movement, and there is no more noble cause, I believe.’
On the Isle of Man the sea was a constant presence. Standing dockside during visits to Douglas, accompanied by the cawing of gulls and the stench of curing herrings, Fletcher observed the sloops, schooners, packet boats and privateers entering or departing from the harbour, their mooring and unmooring, the stowing and unloading of cargoes. Occasionally a storm blew in from the north, endangering the ships and their crews in Douglas harbour, and making it clear why the Tower of Refuge, the castle-like shelter built on Conister Rock in the bay, was so necessary.
He watched the merchant vessels and the Royal Navy ships being provisioned. The navy ships spent most of their time looking for smugglers’ boats, which persisted in bringing contraband from Ireland or the Continent. Fletcher eavesdropped, listening to the banter, laughter and curses of the sailors, and this made him more determined than ever to become a part of their world.
As his eighteenth birthday drew closer, his anticipation of a life at sea quickened. One of Fletcher’s visits to Douglas with cousin John coincided with the arrival in the harbour of the man-of-war HMS Eurydice, still commanded by Captain Courtnay. A 24-gunner, Eurydice had recently returned from duty in the Arabian Sea, and her decks were being re-caulked in the harbour.
Captain Courtnay and Fletcher and John Christian were invited to supper with the Taubmans, Edward and Loretta. In the course of the conversation Fletcher told Courtnay of his hopes for a career at sea, and requested his advice regarding service with the Royal Navy. The leather-faced sea captain screwed up his eyes at the young man’s question.
‘A naval career? Is there a naval branch of the Christian family?’ The captain’s tone was interrogatory.
‘None that I know of, sir,’ Fletcher replied.
‘And how old are you?’
‘I will turn eighteen in four months.’
Courtnay grunted. ‘No nautical family members. And eighteen, an advanced age for going to sea. Most mariners start at eleven or twelve years.’
Fletcher returned the captain’s direct look. ‘I am aware of that, sir. I’m also aware that there was no nautical tradition in Captain Cook’s family. And that he first went to sea when he was nearly twenty.’ He allowed a pause. ‘And he didn’t do so badly in the navy, did he?’
Loretta Taubman broke into peals of laughter, then picked up her napkin and placed it over her mouth. Fletcher’s cousin chuckled, and even Courtnay had the grace to smile. Then, serious again, he said, ‘And like Cook, you would have to start at the very bottom. On the orlop deck.’
‘As an able seaman?’
‘As a cabin boy.’
Taken aback, Fletcher said, ‘An eighteen-year-old cabin boy?’
‘Yes.’ Courtnay swallowed some more red wine. ‘But His Majesty’s navy is noted for acknowledging talent.’ He harrumphed. ‘Unlike his army, which buys and sells its commissions and rewards only incompetence, it seems to me. The navy rewards merit. That is how Cook rose to the top. We gave due recognition to his obvious talents.’ Turning back to Fletcher, he said, ‘So I recommend that you sign on as a cabin boy, and if you prove your competence at sea you may progress to the status of midshipman.’ He flicked up his eyebrows. ‘And after that, who knows?’
Fletcher nodded, then hesitantly asked, ‘I wonder, sir, if it would be possible for you to write a letter of introduction, for me to present to the naval authorities.’
Courtnay thought for a moment. ‘That is possible. I will write to my colleague, Admiral Hood, recommending that you begin service as a cabin boy. Albeit a rather elderly one.’ Becoming more genial, he added, ‘Moreover, should your apprenticeship prove satisfactory, I could recommend that you are next signed on with me, on
Eurydice, as a midshipman.’
Fletcher beamed. ‘That would be wonderful, sir. Thank you.’
Two days later Fletcher met other members of the Christian clan, also friends of Edward and Loretta. John’s second cousin Mary Duncan and her seventeen-year-old daughter, Isabella, were from Peel, on the west coast of the Isle of Man, where Mary’s husband Roland was a shipping agent. He was currently in Belfast on business with their son, Thomas.
Isabella was studying musical composition at a school in Peel. She was tall like her mother, but there was nothing else of her mother in her features. Of slender build, with a narrow face and slightly upturned nose, she had green eyes, long auburn hair and a demure manner. She wore a pale brown gown with sleeves of lace. As she ate, Fletcher noticed her long fingers. A musician’s fingers, he supposed. She said little, but he was conscious of her glancing at him from time to time. It discomfited him. What did those glances mean?
Mary Duncan was tall, with greying hair, a beaky nose and strong, somewhat masculine features. She gave Fletcher the impression of snobbery. At the supper table in the dining room she referred to his mother as ‘that poor woman who was forced to sell her home’, adding that ‘her reduced circumstances must be so distressing for her.’ Then she said to Fletcher, in a pitying tone, ‘What a good thing, young man, that she has you to support her in her exile. When she has lost everything she possessed.’
Fletcher was moved to reprove her. He said forcefully, ‘My mother has not lost everything, madam. She still has her family, and her health. And in time, with the help of my brothers and me, she will be restored to her former position.’
There was an uncomfortable silence. Mary Duncan pouted; Isabella looked down at her plate, her cheeks reddening.
Breaking the silence, Edward Taubman stood up and announced briskly, ‘Well, John and I should retire to the library now, for a pipe and a port.’ He looked at Fletcher. ‘Will you join us?’
‘Thank you, sir, but no. I’ll take some fresh air on the terrace.’
After Loretta, Mary and Isabella said their goodnights and left the dining room, Fletcher went through the French doors and out onto the terrace at the rear of the house. There an ancient wisteria vine climbed up the wall, over the pergola above the terrace and entwined itself with the terrace’s balustrade.
There was a new moon, a bright cuticle in the western sky. Stars glittered, and the air was mild. Fletcher leaned on the balustrade, still fretting over the horsey woman’s comments about his mother. She was so condescending, he thought. Obviously thought herself a grande dame. But she was not so grande, and not much of a dame, either.
Continuing to brood, he saw a figure emerge from the shadows at the end of the terrace. It was Isabella, now with a cream shawl around her shoulders. She walked over to him. Tipping her head back, she stared up into his face. Although the new moon gave off little light, he was conscious of her eyes peering into his. Placing a hand on his forearm, she said earnestly, ‘I must apologise for my mother’s comments at supper, Fletcher. She is so crass at times. I could tell her comments offended you.’
‘It is of no consequence.’
She shook her head. ‘I think it is of consequence. I definitely owe you something.’ She placed her hand on his.
He drew a long deep breath, and responding to her hand signal, reached out and touched her cheek. Still staring, she said quietly, ‘I had heard about you, from Aunt Loretta. But you are even more handsome than she said you were.’ Her fingers tightened around his wrist. His heart began to race. For a few moments neither of them moved. Then, still looking into his face, she asked quietly, ‘Where is your room?’
He pointed down at the annex at the rear of the house. ‘There.’
‘Leave your door unlocked. I will be there shortly.’
He stared back at her, then nodded. His heart was sprinting now.
He could tell that she was far more experienced than himself, and this unnerved him. She undressed him first, removing his shirt, taking down his breeches. As he reached for her, he wondered, how had she learned to do this?
Then he ceased to think about that, and instead took her around the waist, bent and kissed her neck, her cheeks, smelling her lavender and rose water scent, marvelling at the softness of her skin. After he met her lips with his own she pulled her gown from her shoulders, then quickly removed her undergarments. He drew her towards the bed and they fell upon it together.
The first blush of sunrise was visible through the drapes when she got up, cleaned herself with the guest towel by the bed, and began to pull her gown back over her head. Sated, but transfixed still by the sight of her body, Fletcher raised himself on one elbow. ‘Your mother, won’t she—’
Isabella gave a little laugh. ‘She sleeps like a night watchman. And snores like one too.’ Putting her lips to his still-sweaty forehead, she murmured, ‘Good morning, sweet cousin.’
RAMSEY, 14 MARCH 1782
Fletcher stood with his mother, dockside. His sea chest was on the wharf beside them, waiting to be taken aboard the sloop Lady Jane. She was tied up but readying to unmoor, bound for Liverpool. From there he would take a coach, first to Birmingham, and after several changes, eventually to Spithead. The naval authorities had informed him by letter that he would be signed on there as cabin boy on HMS Cambridge, an 80-gunner.
Last evening there had been a farewell dinner for him at Milntown. The mood was thoughtful rather than celebratory, and his mother’s face remained overcast throughout, although when he put an arm around her shoulders and hugged her, she smiled gamely. Cousin John toasted his future, and presented him with a copy of Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels (‘To read when you’re not on watch’, John suggested).
At the end of the meal he made a brief speech. ‘We will miss you, Fletcher,’ he concluded, ‘and so will the staff. You’ve worked well on the estate.’
‘Thank you,’ Fletcher replied. ‘I’ve relished my time here. I almost feel like a Manxman now.’ He paused. ‘But I have to move on, to try my hand at something new.’
John nodded. ‘I understand. And since you’re now a Manxman, when you gain your leave, make sure you spend it here.’
‘I shall.’
Two sailors took his chest and carried it up the gangplank. There was a stiff westerly wind, and men were already aloft, preparing to let go the sails. When the boatswain began his piping and the dockhands readied themselves to release the mooring ropes from the bollards, Fletcher bent and kissed his mother on the cheek. ‘Bye, Mother. And good luck. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
Tears were streaming down her cheeks, a sight which filled him with guilt. How would she cope without him? In his last letter to Edward and Charles, informing them of his move, he had also urged them to visit her. Soon, he emphasised. He held her close, feeling her body convulsing, then released her gently. ‘Goodbye, Mother. Goodbye.’
He turned and walked briskly up the gangplank and onto the mid-deck. Along with the exhilaration he felt was another feeling, just as strong. Relief.
The Bay of Biscay, 17 July 1782
Dearest Mother,
We have now been at sea for six weeks, and no doubt it will be another six before you will receive this, since I cannot dispatch it until we get to Plymouth next month.
Well, I am a seaman, or rather a seaboy on HMS Cambridge, the lowest of the low. Never mind, I am part of the crew, and an important part, I like to think. My tasks are menial, but demanding: cleaning, fetching, carrying, running after all others, helping keep watch. We have encountered storms in the bay, the last of which caused the mizzen mast to be sprung (cracked). Hence the need to make for Plymouth. So far we have made no contact with enemy vessels, either French or Spanish, although we have sailed as far as Cape Finisterre and some distance into the Atlantic. So my longing to visit exotic lands has not yet been realised, since the Bay of Biscay is mostly grey and unwelcoming.
Cambridge is a fine ship, and already I feel an affinity with her. L
aunched at Deptford in 1755, she is an 80-gunner, 3rd rate. Her guns have not yet been fired in anger on this voyage, but at practice the gunners are certainly on their mettle. The noise! No wonder most of them are deaf.
As the ship’s dogsbody I was at first the target of the crew’s bullies, a pair of scrofulous ABs from Bristol who threatened to beat me. I grabbed one by the shirt and lifted him clear off the floor of the mess. Then I dropped him and did the same to the other. This prompted such derision from the others that I was not bothered again by the pair. No one bullies a Christian!
I sleep in a hammock along with the able seamen, before the mast, and mess with them as well. I need to tell you about the victuals. You would be appalled at the fare we must eat, but as you know, I am never fussy about food. The navy’s standard rations are: a pound of ship’s biscuit daily (the others call it ‘bread’ but it bears no resemblance, being rock-hard), 1 lb salt pork (twice a week), 1 lb salt beef (twice a week), half a pint of pease (daily on four days), a pint of oatmeal every other day, plus two ounces of butter and four of cheese every second day. As well, we get a gallon of beer every day. So, not haute cuisine, as you would say, but I get so famished from the many exertions that I will eat anything. Our cook, Radford, is a man of great influence, the galley the most important part of our area of the ship, and the midday meal is definitely the highlight of the day. But I do miss the produce from the Christian farm, the fresh milk, eggs and bacon especially.
There is a set tradition we follow in the preparation and serving of the midday meal on board. It involves what’s called ‘the mess’. This means a group of men who eat their meals together. One man from each group is appointed the ‘mess cook’ and it’s his duty to collect the day’s food rations from the purser or the purser’s steward.