by Graeme Lay
Looking around, Fletcher saw that he was the only person present who wasn’t wearing a wig. Most of the members were in their forties; a few very elderly ones must have been over fifty. Their faces were universally rubicund, their bellies bulged beneath their waistcoats. The room thrummed with hail-fellow-well-met greetings, loud conversations and even louder guffawing.
Fletcher noticed someone he had met before, Duncan Campbell, standing by the servery, engaged in earnest conversation with another man of about the same age. Campbell owned ships that traded between England and the West Indies. ‘Sugar Rum Campbell, we call him,’ John Christian had said. Campbell also owned several prison ships — hulks moored in the Thames in which convicted felons were kept. This venture had made him even wealthier.
John beckoned the Negro waiter over and placed his own and Fletcher’s glass on his tray. ‘Another two brandies, there’s a good fellow,’ he said. Turning back to Fletcher, he made an exasperated face. ‘I’ve just been told that Courtnay’s away in Liverpool at the moment, so can’t be here this evening.’ He brightened. ‘However, I asked Campbell to invite someone else along who may be able to help you. He’s had extensive naval experience and is married to Campbell’s niece, Elizabeth Betham, who’s from Douglas. Campbell is influential, so that connection may be helpful to you.’ He put a hand on Fletcher’s shoulder. ‘One way or another, young man, we’ll get you back to sea again.’
‘Thank you. I appreciate it.’
Looking across the room, Fletcher saw another man enter. He was short — barely five feet — but sturdy and stiff-shouldered. Wigged, he wore a dark blue frock coat, white hose and highly polished boots. He looked about thirty. Noticing John, he moved through the crowd and approached him.
John held out his hand. ‘William, welcome.’
‘Thank you. It’s good to be in here and out of the cold.’ He turned to Fletcher. ‘And this is?’
‘My cousin Fletcher. Ann Christian’s son. Fletcher, meet Lieutenant William Bligh, late of His Majesty’s navy.’
The first thing that struck Fletcher was the man’s eyes. They were pale blue and as piercing as gimlets. Being short, he had to tilt his head to meet Fletcher’s gaze, but the eyes kept boring into his. Fletcher noted his other features: a broad, pale forehead, pointed nose, a full, shapely mouth and a small chin.
He shook Fletcher’s hand. ‘Well, another Christian. Good evening.’
John said, ‘Lieutenant Bligh served with Captain Cook on HMS Resolution.’
Fletcher gasped. ‘How wonderful.’ Then realising the insensitivity of his reaction, corrected himself. ‘Not wonderful, perhaps, but memorable, surely.’
As they talked Fletcher was disconcerted by the man’s eyes, which continued to track him until he was obliged to look away. Although he seemed a little distant, he did show interest in Fletcher’s experiences on Eurydice. He had met Captain Courtnay on more than one occasion, Bligh told him.
‘Well, I’ll leave you to chat,’ John said, and moved away in the direction of Campbell.
As Fletcher and Bligh talked, the older man appeared to relax. They had some things in common, most notably the fact that they had both been discharged from the navy on half pay. ‘My naval career ended two years ago,’ Bligh announced with obvious resentment, ‘and isn’t likely to be resurrected unless war breaks out. In which case both of us will be needed again.’
Fletcher nodded. He and this fellow Bligh were both in the same boat, so to speak. Or rather, not in one.
Bligh asked about Fletcher’s family. When told that his father had been a lawyer in Cumbria and that his brothers had attended Cambridge and Edinburgh universities, Bligh’s eyes widened. He had been born in Plymouth, he said, where his father had worked in the Customs department. He had first gone to sea at the age of fifteen, on the warship HMS Hunter.
Fletcher was intrigued by this, but more by the fact that this man had sailed with Cook. He pressed him for details of that voyage and Cook’s violent death in the Sandwich Islands. But at mention of this, Bligh’s expression dimmed. He said tersely, ‘I have nothing to add to what has already been written about that voyage. Now I must go and talk to Campbell.’ And he turned away.
Staring after him, Fletcher frowned. What an unusual fellow. So changeable.
Later that evening, walking back along the waterfront with John, Fletcher learned more about Bligh. Although his cousin related the story matter-of-factly, it was obvious to Fletcher that it had caused great interest in Isle of Man society.
‘Bligh earned a reputation while on Cook’s last voyage as a fine navigator and hydrographer. An accomplished cartographer, too. So when he was discharged and put on half pay, he took it badly.’
‘I know the feeling,’ Fletcher put in.
‘But you’re young and single. Bligh is a married man with a baby daughter. When he and Betsy moved here they were penurious, so she went to her Uncle Duncan and asked for help. He loaned them money to lease and furnish a house in Douglas. And Bligh is now in Campbell’s employ.’ He tapped his nose and laughed. ‘On this island the saying that it’s not what you know, it’s who you know is very true.’
Fletcher said, ‘Bligh became disgruntled when I asked him about his voyage with Cook. Why was that, do you think? I really wanted to know about it.’
‘Well, Bligh feels he was done an injustice following that voyage. He was sailing master on Cook’s Resolution. And a diligent one, by all accounts. He carried out surveys, charting coastlines all along the way. Of the Kerguelen Island, Van Diemen’s Land, the Sandwich Isles, North America.’ He put his hand on his tricorn to hold it in place against the wind. ‘Bligh’s mate on Resolution was Henry Roberts. Now the charts from the voyage are being published, and Roberts claims the credit for them and for the engravings that were produced. Bligh is receiving no credit for his great work.’
‘That’s unjust, surely.’
‘Indeed it is. Roberts was never a proper surveyor, and Bligh is. And he’s bitter with Roberts over the way he has purloined his charts.’
‘I don’t blame him.’
They walked on in silence for a time. The wind had strengthened and waves were being driven against the sea wall. It was chilly, too. Fletcher wrapped his topcoat more firmly about him and tightened his scarf. A storm was brewing.
John went on. ‘However, Bligh’s career as a merchant mariner is blossoming. He has commanded two West Indiamen on the Caribbean route.’ He chuckled. ‘It’s well known that Campbell is paying Bligh far more than he got in the navy. An annual salary of five hundred pounds. And now he’s been given command of Campbell’s merchantman, Britannia.’
A spark flashed in Fletcher’s mind. Why should he not become a merchant mariner, as Bligh had done? Royal Navy or merchant marine, a ship was a ship, after all.
After considering the matter for some time, he composed a letter, one which required a great deal of writing and rewriting, first in pencil, then finally with quill and ink.
8 July 1785
Dear Captain Bligh,
You may recall that we met at the Douglas Club, when I was in the company of my cousin, John Christian. We had in common the distressing fact that both of us had been paid off by the navy following the signing of the Treaty of Paris. I had served for two years on HMS Eurydice as a midshipman, and was promoted to Acting Lieutenant by Captain George Courtnay.
I hold a strong desire to return to sea, as during my two years on HMS Eurydice I grew to love the life. It is now over six months since I was last at sea, and I miss it sorely. I am aware that you have been granted leave from our King’s navy and have gained the command of the West Indiaman, Britannia. Allow me to congratulate you on this appointment, I am sure that this will further consolidate your already successful career as a merchant marine commander.
Since my career in the Royal Navy has been similarly truncated for the foreseeable future, I would respectfully request to apply for a position aboard your latest vessel and serve on her whe
n she next sails for the West Indies. I believe I possess all the necessary skills to make myself an asset on a merchantman such as Britannia.
Next September I will be twenty-one years of age, and I am willing to serve in whatever capacity it may take, in order to return to the sea. Please allow me, sir, to do so.
I am, sir, your obliged and very humble servant,
Fletcher Christian
He read and reread the letter. Was it too boastful? Unduly modest? Had anything important been omitted? When he was satisfied, he completed the final draft, placed the sheet of notepaper in an envelope and delivered it to the residence in Douglas where William and Elizabeth Bligh lived. He felt confident at his prospects. How could the man possibly decline such a request?
Four days later he received a reply.
12 July 1785
Dear Fletcher Christian,
Thank you for your letter, in which you request to be added to the muster roll of my vessel, Britannia. However as the ship’s complement is full, I must decline your request.
Yours faithfully,
William Bligh
Once again the black fog threatened to return. What had seemed like a chance had been dashed, in just three lines. Damn the man! His mother, who had brought the letter to him, asked to see it. Clicking her tongue, she cast it aside. ‘The man is a fool, Fletcher, to refuse you.’
‘He’s by no means a fool, Mother. But he is a trifle strange.’
‘In what way?’
‘I can’t say, exactly. Just somehow . . . strange.’
‘Would it help to write to Mr Campbell? He owns the ship, after all.’
‘No. It is the captain’s role to appoint his crew. I should try again, I think. Make my case more forcibly.’
‘I will phrase the new letter for you, darling.’
He shot her an irritated look. ‘Thank you, Mother, but no. I’ve sailed to India. Twice. So I’m capable of writing a persuasive letter.’
She looked away, obviously offended, and Fletcher retired to his room.
15 July 1785
Dear Captain Bligh,
I regret that you were not able to include me on the muster roll of Britannia, for her forthcoming voyage to Jamaica. Perhaps, sir, I did not make my desire to return to sea clearly enough. You must be aware, since we share the experience, of how discouraging it was when we were compulsorily retired from active naval duties. For me this was like a blow to the guts, one which I did not think I would recover from, since the sea has come to run so strongly in my veins. Yours too, of that I am certain. So I would prevail upon you, sir, to reconsider, and accept me as a crewman on Britannia. Wages are no object; I only wish to learn more of the skills of professional seamanship, and if you would permit me to mess with the gentlemen, I will readily enter your ship as a foremaster, until there is a vacancy among the officers. We midshipmen are gentlemen, we never pull at a rope; I should even be glad to go one voyage in that situation, for there may be occasions when officers may be called upon to do the duties of a common man.
All I ask for, sir, is the chance to prove myself.
I remain, your obliged and most humble servant,
Fletcher Christian
A reply came two days later.
Dear Fletcher Christian,
Coincidentally, the gunner on Britannia has fallen ill and cannot sail when we weigh next month for the West Indies. I presume you are familiar with the duties of a gunner, from your time as a supervising midshipman on Eurydice. Aboard Britannia, you will work as a rating and mess as an officer.
Report to my ship in Douglas Harbour at your earliest convenience, to receive further instructions.
Yours faithfully,
William Bligh
Elated, Fletcher read and reread the letter.
When he arrived on the waterfront, crewmen were busy loading goods onto Britannia. She was tied up to the main wharf, and the sailors were lugging sacks and barrels up gangplanks under the direction of the boatswain. The ship’s purser stood by, carefully noting the nature of the cargo and the quantities.
Also on the wharf was a hansom cab, drawn by a chestnut mare. It became obvious for whom the cab was waiting when William Bligh emerged from below decks in the company of a youngish woman. He helped her across one of the gangplanks and ushered her out onto the deck. Seeing Fletcher, he led her by the arm to him.
‘My wife Elizabeth, Fletcher Christian. Betsy, this is Fletcher Christian, who is to join the crew of Britannia.’
Fletcher inclined his head respectfully. ‘Mistress Bligh, good day.’
She was about thirty, with thick black hair which cascaded over her shoulders. Her eyes were brown, her eyebrows two perfect arcs, her face round, the nose slightly aquiline, the cheeks rouged. Her gown was pale grey with an ornate collar tied with a bow of matching silk. Her figure was petite. The overall effect was prettiness and daintiness combined.
Lifting her chin a little, she appraised Fletcher carefully. ‘I know your Manx family, naturally, Mr Christian.’
They chatted briefly. She and William were leaving the island soon, she said, and were moving to Lambeth, in London. ‘I must leave now.’ She smiled. ‘It was very nice to meet you.’
‘Likewise,’ replied Fletcher, bowing to her. She really was very pretty.
Britannia was one hundred and seventy feet long, weighed eleven hundred tons and carried forty cannons as a defence against piracy. Her holds were capacious and she carried a crew of eighty-six, mostly seasoned merchantmen.
It took four and a half weeks for her to cross the Atlantic from England to the West Indies. ‘Crossing the pond’, as the old-timers put it. Taking advantage of the easterly winds and complementary currents, they sailed south-west until they reached the Tropic of Cancer. They then approached the islands of the Greater Antilles from the north, driven by a following wind.
It was late afternoon and rain was sweeping over the ship from the north. Screams came from the masthead. It was Charlie Rogers, the man on watch. ‘White water! Off the larboard bow! Bring her about! Bring her about!’
Britannia lurched, her timbers growled, then with terrible slowness and canvas slumping, she came about, missing the uncharted reef with only yards to spare.
That evening Captain Bligh rewarded Rogers with a double ration of rum.
The following day, in clear weather, they passed safely through the Windward Passage between Haiti and Hispaniola.
Fletcher stood at Britannia’s mid-deck rail, looking out at Port Royal, Kingston, Jamaica. It was late afternoon, and there had been rain, but the sky was now clear, though the air remained sticky. There was the smell of the sea and the smell of the land, and both were heady. Looking shoreward, he felt the same expectation he had experienced when Eurydice arrived in Madras. The atmosphere was similar too: the sultry air, the smoke from open fires, the earthy smells of the tropics drifting across to the ship.
Men were already aloft, furling Britannia’s sails in preparation for docking, and the helmsmen were working the ship carefully towards the quay. Port Royal harbour contained several other merchantmen, most at anchor, although some were docked and discharging cargo. A ship of the line, HMS Valiant, was the largest vessel in the harbour. Her marines could be seen drilling on deck. Negroes, naked from the waist up, pulling carts or with sacks across their shoulders, were struggling towards the quay with their loads. Scarlet-jacketed infantrymen were patrolling the waterfront with muskets shouldered.
Captain Bligh had told Fletcher something of Jamaica’s history. The French, coveting the island for its sugar cane, had in 1758 sent a fleet to try to take her from the British. Admiral Rodney intercepted the French fleet in the Straits Passage of Dominica and defeated it decisively, enabling the British to retain control of the Caribbean’s sugar islands.
Bligh concluded, ‘Our Navigation Act makes it illegal for Jamaica to trade with the so-called United States of America. And there’s a problem with the smuggling out of sugar from these islands.’ He
looked peeved. ‘All the more reason to regret the Admiralty’s decision to run the navy down. If they hadn’t done so we could be apprehending smugglers in a man-of-war in these waters, the way I used to in the Irish Sea.’
A road ran parallel to the shoreline, lined with warehouses, a Customs House, goods stores and an army barracks flying the British flag. Red jackets were on sentry duty beside its entrance. An avenue, lined on both sides with coconut palms, led off to the right, shadowing the shoreline.
The governor’s mansion was sited at the rear of Kingston, atop a hillock. Fletcher trained his spyglass on the building. It was two-storeyed, built of stone, with a veranda along its frontage. The British flag was hoisted above its entrance.
‘A grand sight, is it not?’ said Bligh.
‘It is, sir.’
‘Our nation’s power, for all to see.’ He produced his spyglass and held it to his eye. ‘Campbell once told me that Kingston’s streets were built on a grid system. The ones that form the town boundaries are wide, to allow easier wagon transport to the plantations and back.’
‘Where are the plantations, sir?’
‘To the north, on the plains at Liguanea.’ He swung his spyglass in that direction. ‘That’s where the sugar cane is grown. Rice, too.’ Smoke billowed from that area. ‘The cane fields are being fired in preparation for the harvest.’
Fletcher nodded. ‘When will we go ashore, sir?’
‘In the morning. I shall first report to the governor, then visit Campbell’s plantation.’ He lowered his ’scope. ‘You’re welcome to accompany me. Would you like that?’
‘I would, sir. Thank you.’
For the first two weeks of the voyage Captain Bligh had remained aloof, treating Fletcher like any other member of the crew. He accepted this; after all, the man was ten years his senior. But as the voyage progressed his manner began to change. Fletcher was conscious of being observed as he undertook his deck duties, particularly the care of the swivel guns. Once he was stopped and asked how he was finding the voyage. Fletcher replied candidly that conditions on this ship were not as rigorous as they had been on Eurydice. Here things were less regimented. He also pointed out that it was a welcome change not having armed marines on board to enforce naval discipline. He appreciated this difference. Then he smiled wryly at the captain. ‘But the food is much the same.’