Fletcher of the Bounty

by Graeme Lay

  ‘Did you and the others take control of the ship?’

  ‘No. Rogers persuaded some of the able seamen to overpower us. We were then locked in our cabins.’

  There was a long silence as Fletcher absorbed this shocking news. Then he said, ‘And now, what is your punishment?’

  Charles’s eyebrows knitted. ‘I am censured by the company, and suspended from further service with them for two years.’ He laughed. ‘Something that bothers me not at all.’ He shook his head. ‘I am done with the sea, Fletcher. To serve on a ship under a monster like Rogers is a ghastly experience.’ He took a draught from his tankard. ‘As officers we had no option but to take action against his abuse of authority. It was our moral duty, we agreed. We were driven to it by the captain’s behaviour.’ He rubbed his tired eyes. ‘Despots must be stood up to, Fletcher.’

  Fletcher nodded. ‘I understand. Your hand was forced. Yet, if it had happened on a Royal Navy vessel—’

  Charles held up his hand. ‘I know, I know. We would have been hanged from the yardarm. But because it occurred on a merchant ship, and we reported Rogers’ detestable behaviour truthfully, with witnesses to support us, we will receive no further punishment. We’ve been paid, and Rogers has been fined by the company. Five hundred pounds.’ He gave Fletcher a cautionary look. ‘So, brother, choose your captain carefully.’

  ‘There is no choice in the matter, as you well know.’

  ‘I jest, of course.’ He raised his chin. ‘So, this William Bligh, is he a fair man?’

  ‘He is. And he’s a fine navigator. He’s resentful at the way the Admiralty’s treated him, but I find that understandable.’ Fletcher drank more ale. ‘And to my surprise, he confides in me. He’s become a friend.’

  ‘Good. So your voyage will doubtless be a memorable one.’ Charles added reflectively, ‘In my experience, men cooped up below decks for long periods are tempted to lose their tolerance for one another. The smallest of habits begin to irritate, then infuriate. And when that happens, men can act irrationally.’ He got to his feet. ‘Now brother, that’s enough talk of irrationality. Allow me to buy you another pint.’

  Bounty was still not able to leave Spithead. Although William’s sailing orders from the Admiralty had at last been delivered to the ship, and the crew had been given two months’ pay in advance, the elements were against them. Bounty was forced first into St Helen’s harbour, on the east coast of the Isle of Wight, and after attempting to leave from there was driven across to Spithead by the wind and confined there for the next fortnight. After they again tried to get clear of the Channel, the winds threatened to blow the ship onto the Normandy coast. Once more the winds forced them back to Spithead. Throughout the ship, frustrations deepened. It was now December. Whenever would they get shot of the sodding Solent?

  Hunched over his charts of the Atlantic, William griped to Fletcher and Bounty’s master, John Fryer: ‘The shortest route to Tahiti is via the Horn, yet by the time we reach there the southern winter will be imminent. We may be out of season.’ He ground his teeth in frustration. ‘So I’m sending a note to Banks, asking that he obtain permission from the Admiralty for us to seek an alternative route, should it prove necessary to do so.’

  In a reply dispatched with unusual promptness to the Bounty, the Admiralty granted William its discretionary consent for another route to be sought. But only if this was unavoidable.

  At last the wind changed. On 23 December 1787, HMAV Bounty and her forty-five-man complement was able to weigh anchor and begin her long voyage to the far side of the world.

  Santa Cruz, Tenerife, Canary Islands, 10 January 1788

  Dearest Mother,

  We arrived in this port four days ago and anchored in the roads of Santa Cruz, to the north-east of Tenerife, the largest of the seven Canary Islands. It was a relief to do so, since the beginning of the voyage was arduous in the extreme. Gales struck us two days after we left Spithead, and we spent Christmas Eve battling enormous seas. There was some respite on Christmas Day, when the weather abated, and William (Captain Bligh) ordered beef and plum pudding for midday dinner, with an extra ration of grog. But when we reached the Atlantic, Bounty was struck by a succession of rollers. The ship was flooded, the stern windows driven in by the force of the waves and some of the precious navigational instruments damaged, including an azimuth compass. The drenched ship was bitterly cold below decks, and I have seldom seen men so chilled and miserable. William ordered rum added to their beer, which eased their discomfort somewhat. The storm also caused some spare spars to be washed overboard, the boats were damaged, and our biscuit stores saturated with sea water. Several barrels of beer, though tied to the deck, were also washed away.

  Not a propitious beginning! Things can only get better, I decided.

  As we sailed south and the temperatures increased, we were able to dry our sodden gear and food under the welcome sun. Lebogue the sailmaker and Purcell the carpenter were hard at work repairing the sails, rigging and boats. Now that we have plain sailing at last, I will relate to you something of our shipboard routine.

  William insists that the ship be always kept meticulously clean below decks, a policy he tells me was bequeathed to him by Captain Cook. William values Cook’s policies highly and implements them rigorously himself. For instance, when the weather permits it, the hatches are kept open to admit fresh air and the lower decks are fumigated with gunpowder and vinegar. William also insists that every Sunday the crew’s clothing and bedding is washed, dried and aired. Naturally, I was familiar with these practices from my time with him on Britannia, so I readily accept them. The men grumbled at this policy in the beginning, but now go along with it as a normal part of shipboard routine. They have also come to accept the anti-scorbutic diet he prescribes for them, albeit reluctantly, to ward off the scurvy. At first they screwed their faces up at the sauerkraut, juice of wort and soup, but as on Cook’s ships, when the men knew the officers ate it with gusto they emulated them. Anything is preferable to scurvy, even the most dullard sailor knows.

  I am greatly admiring of William’s consideration for his men. After the Sunday cleaning below decks he personally inspects their clothing and persons. He then calls the men together to listen to his reading of the Articles of War. This is a reminder of their obligations, and the severity of the punishments should they transgress any of the navy’s rules. For example, refusal to obey an officer’s command, dereliction of watch duty or, heaven forbid, mutiny. Again, I assume this is Cook’s influence. After reciting the articles, William takes divine service, using the Common Book of Prayer. He takes this seriously, although few of the rest of us do. Then, and you will find this hard to imagine, he orders us to dance on deck, for up to two hours! Our jigging is accompanied by a fiddle, played by one of the able seamen, Michael Byrne, who is so short of sight as to be virtually blind. But sightless or not, he plays a fair fiddle, I have to say, and the exercise can do us no harm. Often we collapse with laughter, which is no bad thing either.

  After we lowered the anchors in Santa Cruz harbour, it was my honour to be declared by William to be his and King George’s representative while ashore. As a mere mate on Bounty, I was greatly surprised, and honoured, to be so designated. It was my assumption that master’s mate William Elphinstone, who is my elder by fourteen years, would be asked to do this. However when offered the role, I agreed to it with alacrity. After the disappointment of being kept aboard when we called at Cape Verde in 1783, while serving on HMS Eurydice, you can imagine my delight at being taken ashore at Santa Cruz.

  The island of Tenerife is ruled by Spain, so William asked me to pay his respects to the Governor, a nobleman called Marquis de Branciforte. I did so, at the Governor’s residence, an elaborate building on the Santa Cruz waterfront. De Branciforte is a tall, strongly built man with a dark goatee. He wears an overly ornate uniform, complete with gold-braided epaulettes and a heavily plumed hat, so that he put me in mind of a peacock. Although the Governor greeted me affably
enough, he also had a conceited manner. This was confirmed when after I introduced myself and explained that I was the Bounty’s mate, the Governor’s interpreter told me: ‘So you are not the commander. Where is your commander?’

  I told him that Captain Bligh was busy on board attending to the very important matter of overseeing the provisioning and stowage of the supplies and, as purser, balancing his books. But William had told me to convey the message to the Governor that he would fire a salute to him with the ship’s guns, provided that a matching salute was fired in return by his Excellency’s cannons. There was a long reply by the Governor to this suggestion, which was translated as: ‘My guns are only fired in recognition of a person of equal rank to myself.’ What vanity! As a consequence, no guns were fired to salute either party. But I departed from his residence on genial enough terms, considering that the Spanish are not natural allies of ours.

  That incident excepted, I found the visit to Santa Cruz exciting. It is hot, exotic and loomed over by a volcano, Mt Teide. The mountain is over 12,000 feet high, its summit reaching to the clouds. Stupendous! Although it is mid-winter, tropical flowers still bloom on the island, and our gardener, Nelson, has gone ashore to botanise. The people of Tenerife, most of whom are Negroes, are very poor and raggedly clothed, and ruled over autocratically by the markedly wealthy Spaniards. Their women are haughty and did not even deign to reply when I greeted them in my only two words of Spanish (‘Buenos dias’). The town’s streets are tidy enough, and there are several Catholic churches, and a fort, and above the town, innumerable vineyards. There being no marines aboard Bounty, for safety I was accompanied by two of the ship’s ABs, Thomas Burkett and John Millward. They amused me by asking, when we got ashore, ‘Where are all the canaries, then, Fletch?’ The poor fellows did not know that the name ‘Canary’ comes from the Latin word ‘Canaria’, meaning ‘Dogs’. There were certainly plenty of them. Once again, I am grateful to my schooling in Latin from Cockermouth days! (Burkett also ventured to suggest, after I informed him of the word’s meaning, that ‘the Isle of Dogs’, in London’s dockland, should really be called ‘the Isle of Canaries’. We all had a good laugh about that one.)

  I was also commissioned by our purser (i.e. Captain Bligh) to purchase more provisions while ashore. I did so, in the company of John Samuel, Bounty’s clerk. Regrettably, as it is not the growing season, fresh food supplies at an acceptable price were not freely available. The usual tropical fruits and vegetables — oranges, figs, sweet potatoes, pumpkins — were of poor quality, as was the island’s beef. The chickens were exorbitantly priced at three shillings each! However the wine supplies were almost limitless, so we purchased over 850 gallons of vin ordinaire, along with two hogsheads of vintage Canary wine, intended for Sir Joseph Banks’ cellar. Let us hope that His Eminence’s hogsheads are not broached by the crew before we return with them to London! In that case an immediate suspect would be our perpetually drunk surgeon, Thomas Huggan. I never knew a man to drink so much. I hope I am never in need of his ‘services’. Thank the Lord, Huggan’s assistant, Thomas Ledward, is usually sober.

  We also take aboard casks of fresh water, the cost five shillings per ton. All these provisions are delivered to the ship by local boatmen. It has taken four full days to stow all the provisions.

  I must end now. There is an English merchantman, Penelope, alongside us in the Santa Cruz roads. As she is bound for London, I shall convey this letter to her purser, with instructions to hand it to the postal authorities in London. In this way you should receive my news by the spring. I am also writing to Charles and Edward.

  William is sending reports on our progress to Sir Joseph Banks, Lord Sydney and Duncan Campbell. Since our next stop will be the South Sea, there will be no further opportunity for me to write to you until our return voyage, next year.

  Until then, I am, as always,

  Your loving son,

  Fletcher

  On 11 January 1788 they weighed and set sail westward, in the direction of the coast of South America.

  On the morning of their fourth day out, boatswain Cole called for the entire ship’s company to assemble mid-deck. In full dress uniform, William addressed the men: ‘Good day to you all.’ Placing his hands on the rail, he stared down at the assembly. ‘Now that we have been at sea for three weeks, I can inform you of the expedition’s destination and intent, along with other important matters.’ As the men stared up at him there was almost complete silence, broken only by the slop and gurgle of the swells against the hull. William cleared his throat. ‘We are bound for the island of Tahiti, in the South Sea, by the shortest possible route, via the South Atlantic, Tierra del Fuego and Cape Horn.’

  There were murmurs among the assembly. Some of them exchanged knowing looks. Everyone knew of the Horn’s reputation, which was fearsome, but they also knew of Tahiti’s, for very different reasons.

  ‘While in Tahiti we will take aboard many young breadfruit plants for transportation to our islands in the West Indies. Bounty’s gardeners, Nelson and Brown, will be in charge of this collecting. The young plants will be accommodated in the modified cabin in the stern, which doubtless many of you have been curious about. Expect that part of Bounty to be a floating greenhouse upon our return voyage.’

  He paused to allow a ripple of amusement to subside. ‘Because of the lateness of our departure — through no fault of mine, I’m bound to point out — the season is far spent. Doubling Cape Horn, probably in April, during the onset of the Southern winter, will test all our skills of seamanship. I know you will all be equal to the task.’ He leaned forward. ‘I have been impressed so far with your teamwork and diligence, which has brought us here, almost to the Tropic, without further mishap after the gales that beset us in the North Atlantic. Be assured, upon our return to England, all of you will receive promotion.’

  A murmur of approbation passed through the men.

  ‘And while on the subject of promotion, I wish to announce that master’s mate Fletcher Christian is henceforth designated Acting Lieutenant Christian, a position which, as you will all be aware, carries additional rights and responsibilities. Mr Christian fulfilled that role while serving aboard HMS Eurydice in the Indian Ocean.’

  Thomas Burkett, standing to Fletcher’s left, nudged him and muttered, ‘You will still speak to us, won’t you?’ To his right, Bounty’s master, Fryer, stared straight ahead, stony-faced. A tall, ascetic figure, he never smiled.

  The announcement came as no surprise to Fletcher. Last night he had again dined with William in his cabin. After his servant, John Smith, had brought their food and wine, William raised his tankard. It was filled with Canary Islands red wine.

  ‘Good health, Fletcher.’

  ‘And to yours.’

  They drank, then William leaned back in his chair. ‘I have news for you, Fletcher.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’m promoting you to lieutenant. Acting Lieutenant.’

  Fletcher was taken aback. ‘Why so, sir?’

  ‘For an expedition of this importance, one officer is insufficient. Since the Admiralty denied me another, I’m using my authority while at sea to appoint one. And that officer is yourself.’

  ‘But should the promotion not go to Fryer? As master?’

  William waved his hand airily. ‘No. Fryer’s current role is too important. No commander has ever promoted a sailing master while at sea.’ He gazed directly at Fletcher. ‘You are the one.’

  ‘I must admit, William, I’m flattered.’

  ‘It’s fully deserved. You’re competent. No, more than competent. You’re highly capable. The men like you, and respect you. And you were promoted to Acting Lieutenant on Eurydice, were you not?’

  ‘Yes. That too came as a surprise. An agreeable one, naturally.’

  ‘Good, good. You have a bright naval future, Fletcher, I’m certain of that. Now, let’s drink to Acting Lieutenant Fletcher Christian of HMAV Bounty.’

  They clinked tankards again and
locked eyes. William’s were very bright.

  Now William’s gaze swept the assembled company. ‘Additional matters. From tomorrow onwards on we will stand three watches, not two. So your duty hours will be four hours on, and off eight, instead of four hours on and four off. This will afford you all more time for relaxation. Mr Christian will be in command of the third watch.’

  He moved on to the more mundane. The bread allowance was to be cut by a third, to conserve supplies. The remaining bread supply was to be kept in casks, to minimise infestation by vermin. After they crossed the line and reached the latitudes of the South Atlantic, they would all be issued with heavy weather jackets.

  Every day after four o’clock the fiddle-accompanied dancing continued. Byrne’s fiddling, and their dancing, was accompanied by the singing of shanties. One of the most popular of these was ‘Admiral Benbow’, whose lyrics were taught to them by sailmaker Lebogue, the oldest and most-travelled sailor aboard:

  Come all you sailors bold – Lend an ear lend an ear

  Come all you sailors bold lend an ear

  It’s of our Admiral’s fame – Brave Benbow called by name

  How he fought on the main – You shall hear

  Brave Benbow he set sail – For to fight for to fight

  Brave Benbow he set sail for to fight

  Brave Benbow he set sail – With a fine and pleasant gale

  But his captains they turned tail – In a fright

  Says Kirby unto Wade – I will run, I will run

  Says Kirby unto Wade I will run – I value not disgrace

  Nor the losing of my place – My enemies I’ll not face with a gun

  ’Twas the Ruby and Noah’s Ark – Fought the French fought the French

  ’Twas the Ruby and Noah’s Ark fought the French

  And there was ten in all – Poor souls they fought them all

  They valued them not all – Nor their stench

  It was our Admiral’s lot – With a chain shot with a chain shot

  It was our Admiral’s lot with a chain shot – Our Admiral lost his legs