Fletcher of the Bounty

by Graeme Lay

  Irked, Fletcher replied, ‘I fully intended to after it was taken down to the beach. It was more straightforward to drag the lengths here uncut.’

  William made no reply. Instead he stalked off. Staring after him, Fletcher thought, the man has a very short fuse. And a vicious tongue with which to light it. He was familiar with the verbal abuse William was so adept at from their time on Britannia. But then his judgments had been sound. Now he seemed indecisive and inconsistent. Why is he so reluctant to punish Purcell, when the man had shown such open contempt towards him? He ought in the very least to have been confined below decks as a punishment. He stared out at the bay where Bounty was riding at anchor. William as a naval commander was displaying tendencies which he had never shown during his merchant service.

  Why had he changed?

  Other matters concerned Fletcher. The unity the crew had displayed while they battled the Horn storms now seemed under strain. Although there had been only the two floggings so far, fissures were appearing among the Bounty’s company, cracks that Fletcher thought were widening under the rays of the Antipodean sun.

  He thought back over the last few weeks. Leading the disaffected was the master, Fryer. Churlish to the core, he was keeping more and more to himself, not even joining the other officers for meals. Was he aggrieved that Fletcher had been promoted over him? Fletcher decided not — Fryer disliked everyone. And the feeling was reciprocated: no one liked him either.

  Then there was the surgeon, Huggan. All now realised he was not merely incompetent, but because of his constant inebriation he was a liability. When James Valentine, a fit twenty-eight-year-old able seaman, became ill after Cape Town, Huggan opened Valentine’s arm and let blood flow from the incision. This was standard treatment. But the wound was left uncleaned, became inflamed, and the man’s general condition worsened. After Huggan applied blisters to his chest instead of his back, Valentine grew very ill.

  William visited the patient in the forecastle and saw how serious his condition had become. He berated the surgeon. ‘You’re a drunken sot, Huggan. You’re a fucking disgrace to medicine.’ The surgeon stumbled away, muttering incomprehensibly.

  Among all the company general unease deepened. If you couldn’t rely on the surgeon for competence, who could you rely on?

  And the case of Purcell was not over. Sentenced by William to carry out labouring duties, he complained that his warrant officer status prohibited his doing this work as well. Fletcher looked on as William told the carpenter that unless he obeyed his order he would be denied any provisions. He added, ‘And anyone who comes to your assistance with their own provisions will also be punished.’

  Realising this edict made his situation untenable, Purcell carried out the labourer’s duties, but did so with undisguised bitterness.

  William gloated to Fletcher, ‘You see? I’ve put the scraggy sod in his place.’ Fletcher said nothing but thought, all this rancour over lengths of unchopped firewood. He did his best to stay clear of the growing discord, but remained concerned about the widening cracks in the company, and the fact that William’s behaviour was becoming so unbecoming. He did concede, though, that some of his outbursts were understandable. He shared William’s dislike of the surly Fryer, and was relieved that his own health remained sound so that he had no need of Huggan’s worthless treatments.

  As a distraction from these conflicts, Fletcher firmed up his friendship with Peter Heywood. Since the midshipman’s schooling had been disrupted by his joining the expedition, Fletcher began tutoring the lad in Latin, Greek and mathematics. He proved an able student, and was grateful for the help. Fletcher and Peter also got on well with another of the midshipmen, George Stewart, a stocky Orkney Islander. Fletcher, Peter and George found they had much in common: a curiosity about exotic cultures and a desire to learn all they could about them.

  Twenty-one-year-old midshipman Ned Young was another the trio got on well with. Part-West Indian, Ned had curly, coal-black hair and rotting front teeth. He was an exuberant character who made it clear that he was on the voyage to have as good a time as possible. William disliked Young for this attitude, once remarking to Fletcher, ‘He’s a feckless fellow. It’s his nigger blood coming through.’

  During their stay at Adventure Bay the friendship between Fletcher, Heywood and Stewart, and to a lesser extent Young, intensified. This comradeship marked them apart from the other crewmen, who showed little interest in learning much about anything. Another exception to this rule was boatswain’s mate James Morrison. A Scotsman, he was a well-read young man, and was known to be keeping a journal, against regulations. But Morrison kept very much to himself, which was not unfitting, given that one of his roles was to administer the lash. As such, he was obliged to keep his distance. But Fletcher found Morrison to be a literate, reflective man.

  On one of their last days at the bay, Fletcher, Heywood and Stewart went for a walk along the shore. Gardener Nelson, just returned from his last planting, joined them. Wide-brimmed straw hat on his head, he enthusiastically described the work he had carried out on the eastern side of the bay: ‘I’ve planted apple trees, grapevines, peach stones and pear seeds. Corn and cherries, too.’ He looked up at the clear sky. ‘In this climate, they should do well.’ He smiled with satisfaction. ‘So when you lads come back to this bay in years to come, you’ll have fruit and wine aplenty!’

  Just then five native men emerged from the bush and wandered down to the water. They were naked, slender and woolly haired, their facial features concealed under a thick layer of soot. Nelson stared at one of them, an elderly hunchback. ‘Good God, that fellow. The cripple. I saw him when I was here with Cook.’

  ‘Are you sure it’s the same one?’ asked Fletcher.

  ‘Yes. That deformity, it’s unmistakable.’ Nelson hailed him. ‘Hello! Hello!’

  Looking up from his bent position, the man grinned, revealing that he had no teeth. The other Aboriginals chuckled. Nelson pointed to himself and said, ‘I met you here once before. Eleven years ago. Are you keeping well?’

  Not understanding a word, the hunchback went, ‘Huh, huh, huh.’ He was still grinning. Fletcher took his handkerchief from his pocket and gave it to the man. He examined it carefully, then put it on the top of his head. When the other Aboriginals burst out laughing, the visitors joined in.

  After this all-round mirth the natives walked back into the bush, making melodic little cries as they went, which could have been song.

  It was something of a relief when on 5 September, now fully provisioned, Bounty’s anchor was weighed and she sailed from Adventure Bay. All experienced officers knew that discipline was much more difficult to enforce onshore than aboard ship, when duties kept everyone occupied and purposeful and there were few distractions from the tasks at hand. Also, all aboard Bounty were impatient to reach their real destination.

  William had set a south-east course which would loop them around the south of New Zealand, to take advantage of the Roaring Forties. They would then follow a north-east course, to pick up the mid-latitude trade winds. That would take them on a path to the west, and thence to the Windward Group of the Society Islands, the primary island of which was Tahiti.

  The afternoon dancing routine resumed, with Byrne fiddling on, his poor eyes firmly shut against the sun. As the crew jigged and jumped and sang their shanties, their minds were concentrated on what lay ahead on Tahiti, although few of those thoughts related to breadfruit.

  Meanwhile, two men aboard did their best to discredit the belief that discipline was more enforceable at sea than on land. They were John Fryer and Thomas Huggan.

  The relationship between Fryer and his captain was becoming rancorous. Walking past William’s cabin, Fletcher overheard a quarrel between the captain and the master. It was something to do with Fryer refusing to countersign the expenses book, a duty which had to be done monthly.

  Fryer’s voice grew louder. ‘I refuse to sign it unless you also sign a statement certifying that my behaviour
on the voyage so far has been exemplary.’

  A snort from William. ‘What’s the point of that, man? The voyage is not even half over. I shall report on your conduct, but not until we return.’

  Fryer stormed from the cabin, scowling at Fletcher as he passed.

  Later over dinner, William discussed the conversation with Fletcher. He was mystified by Fryer’s demand: ‘Why does he want me to certify him now? It’s almost as if he anticipates trouble on the ship and wants me to cover his arse, should there be any sort of enquiry when we get back home.’

  ‘Did you sign a statement testifying to his behaviour?’

  ‘I did not.’

  Later that afternoon William called for all hands to assemble on the main deck. Once again he read the Articles of War, referring to the rules regarding ‘Printed Instructions’, specifically the mandatory joint signing of the expenses book by the master and the captain.

  Fryer was standing on one side of William, Fletcher on the other. William’s clerk, Samuel, held out the open expenses book and a quill to Fryer. With the entire crew looking on, William demanded, ‘Now, sign it, Mr Fryer.’

  Snatching the quill from Samuel, Fryer said loudly, ‘I sign in obedience to your orders, but this may be cancelled thereafter.’ And he scrawled his signature. The men looked on, incredulous. Ignoring Fryer, William told them, ‘Return to your duties!’

  Afterwards, in his cabin, William remarked to Fletcher, gleefully, ‘You see? He signed. I was able to call the bugger’s bluff.’

  Fletcher said nothing, knowing that everyone else who had witnessed the altercation interpreted it differently. Fryer had not technically disobeyed a command. But his signing had been accompanied by a caveat, virtually a threat, and one which verged on the mutinous. But like Purcell, Fryer had not been punished for his open disdain. It was one of the most extraordinary scenes any of them had witnessed. What was the captain thinking?

  A few days later Fletcher heard Fryer shout at William outside his cabin, ‘I’ll not dine with you again on this ship!’ It was then that Fletcher realised that the rift between the master and the captain was unbridgeable. This knowledge troubled him. What could he do to bridge the divide between them?

  On 9 October, James Valentine died.

  After Huggan reported the death to William, he said, ‘The man was a case of scurvy, Captain.’ He made a rumbling noise. ‘And I have found others.’

  William erupted. ‘Scurvy? On my ship? You lying fucking swine, Huggan, you pathetic apology for a surgeon. There’s never been an instance of scurvy on my ship. My dietary regime precludes it. Valentine died from your botched bloodletting and general bungling!’

  Huggan stumbled away to his private grog supply.

  The next day Valentine was given a sea burial, the naval rites conducted by a sombre William. The mood throughout the ship was forlorn. Apart from the crew’s sorrow at the death, any hand lost put more of a strain on the others to work the ship.

  Valentine’s only possessions — two shirts, one pair of trousers and a pair of boots — were given to the men who had cared for him during his dying hours.

  25 OCTOBER 1788

  A cry came from George Stewart, at Bounty’s masthead. It was late afternoon.

  ‘Land! Land! To starboard!’

  The sun was low, the sky pale, and Bounty was being driven by a ten-knot wind. Those on deck rushed to the starboard rails. The ones aloft clung to the rigging or leaned over the yards. As Bounty began to raise the island, all were reduced to silence at what was becoming clearer by the minute.

  Peaks, jagged and forested, rose from the sea. They soared like spires into the sky and their slopes were creased into valleys. It was an ethereal sight, like a vision of an island.

  Tahiti.

  It had taken them ten months to get here. They had sailed twenty-seven thousand nautical miles, at an average of one hundred and eight miles a day. The voyage had been arduous, but now that their destination was in sight their tribulations were forgotten.

  Away to the north-west, off the starboard quarter, was another mountainous island, its steep flanks illuminated by the sinking sun. It too had a saw-tooth profile.

  The sun sank lower and the sky began to take on a blush. As Bounty came closer to the island ahead of them they saw that the mountains swept down to the coast, levelling out onto a plain covered with trees. They were mostly coconut palms, their crowns inclined towards the sea. Interspersed with them were much sturdier trees.

  William joined Fletcher and Peter on the quarterdeck. Below them, Fryer stood behind the helmsman, Linkletter, and the boatswain, Cole. It was very hot, and they were all in their shirtsleeves.

  ‘Two points to larboard,’ Fryer ordered, eyes on the compass. Linkletter moved the wheel: Bounty swung, shuddered, then settled again.

  William murmured, ‘Quite a sight, is it not?’

  Fletcher shook his head in wonder. ‘Amazing. I’ve never seen anything like it.’

  ‘Those mountains . . .’ Peter began, then was lost for words.

  William smiled. ‘Cook told me that although he had approached Tahiti several times, he could never get over the sight. He was not a sentimental man, but he loved this island.’

  Fletcher pointed towards the more distant island. ‘What is that one?’

  ‘Moorea,’ William told him. ‘The people in the north of the island are the enemies of the Tahitians. After our goats were stolen there, Cook laid waste to several villages.’

  Bounty came closer to their destination and they saw a ruffle of white water directly ahead. The reef. The ocean swells were streaming towards it, then erupting in bursts of spray which hung in the air briefly, then dissolved into the blue. Inside the reef the lagoon water was still and shiny, in contrast to the choppy water surrounding them. A few hundred yards to starboard a flock of feeding terns, wings fluttering, were hovering, then diving into the sea.

  Fletcher kept staring at the island, mesmerised. He had heard that Tahiti was beautiful, but this was beyond expectations. The reef and lagoon, those mountains, the valleys, the forest. This place must be like no other on Earth.

  William called down to Linkletter, ‘Bring her to, we’ll not go in until the morning. The pass is four leagues to the north-west.’ And to Cole he ordered, ‘Call the crew to assemble.’

  William looked at his sheet of prepared notes, then down at the men. ‘The following are your instructions while ashore on this island. Any infringement of them will incur the severest of penalties.

  ‘Firstly, there is to be no mention of the death of our great Captain Cook. The fact that he was killed by Indians could work to our fatal disadvantage. If questioned, say that Tute — that is what the Tahitians call him — is retired from the sea and living in Peretane, their name for Britain.

  ‘Secondly, make no mention yet of the purpose of our expedition. The fact that we are here to acquire breadfruit plants is a matter which I alone will negotiate with the island’s leaders. Until I do so, divulge nothing of our intentions.

  ‘You are to treat the natives with every possible consideration. Remember, we will be guests on their island, so behave towards them as all good guests should. Do not steal or show violence of any kind. Fire upon them only if your own life is in peril.

  ‘I warn you, however, that the Tahitians, like all natives, have a propensity to thieve. Therefore it is your responsibility, if placed in charge of valuable implements, firearms in particular, to guard those items with every possible care. Should they be stolen, their cost will be charged against you. Furthermore, it is forbidden for you to exchange any item of Bounty’s store for items which the natives may wish to exchange.

  ‘I am appointing Peckover in charge of all trade with the natives. As many of you know, he sailed to these islands with Cook on all three of his voyages, and consequently speaks the natives’ language well. Peckover?’ The gunner held up his hand. He was a wiry man with greying hair tied back in a queue. ‘I trust you to carry out that i
mportant duty with due diligence and honesty. Is that clear?’

  ‘Aye, Captain.’

  ‘So, the rest of you, always bear this in mind: any trade that you wish to carry out with the natives must be done only through Peckover.’

  William folded his sheet of notes. ‘One more instruction. Before the arrival of Europeans there were no venereals on this island. But when I came here with Cook in ’77, many of the natives were poxed. We deduced that the venereals had been introduced here by Bougainville’s men who came in 1768, then the Spanish, who came in ’74. Like Cook, I am determined that we will not spread the venereals further among the Tahitians. To this end, no one who shows venereal symptoms will be permitted ashore. You are all required to be examined today by surgeon Huggan.’ William’s gaze swept the company. ‘Huggan? Where’s Huggan?’

  When his hand did not appear, McCoy called out, ‘He must be sleeping orf the grog, Captain.’ The crew chortled. William called down to McCoy, ‘In that case, go down and wake him. And get him to examine your cock first.’

  ‘Maeva!’ ‘Maeva!’ ‘Maeva!’

  ‘Taio!’ ‘Taio!’ ‘Taio!’

  The cries of ‘Welcome!’ and ‘Friend!’ came from the mouths of hundreds of Tahitians. Their canoes had put out from the shore at first light as Bounty was being worked through the pass and into Matavai Bay. Some canoes carried drummers whose frantic beating filled the morning air. Many of the people were chanting and a few men blew on conches, so that the bay thrummed with ecstatic sounds.

  Two hundred yards from the shore, Fryer ordered Bounty’s bow anchors lowered. The outriggers surrounded the ship, and their occupants — women, men and children — swarmed aboard. They smiled delightedly at the crew, whose mouths were agog at the invasion. The women — most bare-breasted and in bark cloth skirts, their brown skin glistening with monoi oil — carried garlands of the native blossom, tiare, which they placed around the necks of all the sailors. The Tahitian men carried woven baskets of pork, fish and fruit which they placed at the base of the mainmast.