by Graeme Lay
Now, following today’s bloody battle — Morrison had estimated that altogether sixty of chief Tinarou’s warriors had been killed — the community’s future had to be decided.
Fletcher put the matter to a vote. ‘Those in favour of abandoning this island and returning to Tahiti?’
Nine hands were raised.
‘Those in favour of remaining on Tupuai?’
Sixteen hands went up.
‘Very well, we will stay.’ He placed his tricorn back on his head. ‘And in recognition of the vote, I order a double ration of grog for this evening.’
There were cries of delight at this announcement. But as the meeting disbanded, Fletcher was aware of disquiet rippling through the company, like tremors before an earthquake. He sensed that the matter was far from settled. That night, in bed with Isabella, warmed by her and the grog, he asked, ‘What is your wish that we should do?’ The women had not attended the meeting, or been asked their opinion.
She stroked his face. ‘I think . . . the people need to think more. I think you should ask them to say again what they want.’
Fletcher agreed. He should have given them more time to consider the matter.
The following morning he called the men together again. The lagoon was mirror-like. Bounty’s sails remained furled, as they had been for weeks. Fletcher addressed them from beside the ship’s wheel. ‘It has been suggested that we vote again on the proposal, to return to Tahiti or remain here at Tupuai.’ The assembly looked at him in silence. Most had gone to their berths last night still pondering the question.
‘Are you all in favour of taking another vote?’
They were.
‘Those who favour a return to Tahiti?’
Fifteen hands went up.
‘Those in favour of remaining here?’
Ten hands went up.
Fletcher nodded. ‘A clear majority. Very well.’ He stared up at the sails and the limp ensign at the top of the mainmast. ‘We will begin preparations to return to Tahiti.’
There was a collective sigh of relief. After overnight reflection, and discussions below deck, the majority had decided they had had enough of Tupuai’s spear-throwing men, its petulant women, its scheming priests, its clannish chiefs and the tormenting swampland mosquitoes.
Time to move on, again.
19 September 1789
We are at sea again, bound for Tahiti.
I am aggrieved at the failure of the community on Tupuai. I held high hopes for its success. But during the ten weeks we were on the island, little went as I planned. My ambitions were thwarted at every turn, and for that I must accept some of the blame.
Unwittingly I became embroiled in Tupuai’s enmities and did not make myself sufficiently aware of them. Although Tupuai is only five miles across and three miles from north to south, it is separated into three rival districts. The one in the west is large, the other two much smaller. Each district is led by a chief who is jealous of the other two. Each chief wished to gain the favour of Bounty’s people, mainly, I now realise, in order to acquire our weapons, in order to subjugate the people of their rival districts.
Chief Tamatoa, who controls the western side of Tupuai, made me his taio not long after we arrived. He was delighted to become my friend and we exchanged names according to the native custom. However I subsequently chose the site for Fort George in Chief Ta’aroa’s northeastern bailiwick, Natieva, as it was physically much more suitable for the garrison. This incurred the wrath of Tamatoa, who saw it as a betrayal of our friendship. Knowing the sensitivity of native alliances, I should have foreseen this antipathy. It was naive of me not to do so. Thereafter Tamatoa formed an alliance with the third district chief, Tinarau, to forbid any intercourse of their people with those of the Bounty. From then on our settlement of Fort George was doomed and hostilities inevitable. Following a battle with Tinarou’s warriors, with many native deaths, we elected to leave Tupuai.
We quit the island with some difficulty. Our pigs and goats, which had been running free on the island (and causing damage to the natives’ crops and gardens, another source of friction with them) had to be rounded up and taken back aboard. Also, Bounty had been anchored in a shoal-strewn part of the lagoon, and had to be hauled back to the passage near what we named Bloody Bay, on the north-west coast of the island, the scene of our first fatal altercation.
There we made preparations for our departure. Three Tupuai men who had become my friends implored me to take them with us to Tahiti, since because of their known loyalty to me they would be killed if they stayed. I agreed to this request, as they will be helpful in working the ship. One of these men, Tetahiti, is a particularly fine fellow, and a leader.
We weighed on 17 September.
I anticipate raising Tahiti in two more days. From there I have decided we will separate, leaving on the island those who wish to remain there and those who were loyal to Bligh. These are Coleman, Heywood, McIntosh, Norman, Burkett, Morrison, Norman, Byrne, Sumner, Thompson, Millward, Muspratt, Heildbrandt and Stewart. Several of these have taios on Tahiti, so they will be well looked after there.
Those loyal to me, along with our women and six native men, will leave Tahiti in search of a more suitable haven. My men are Young, Williams, Quintal, Smith (who yesterday confessed to me that he had signed on under a false name and that his real name is John Adams!), McCoy, Martin, Mills and Brown.
After the experience of Tupuai, I now know that the island we seek is one which must not only supply all our physical needs, it must also be completely uninhabited by natives.
There must surely be such an island somewhere in the South Sea.
I remain deeply regretful that the community I envisaged on Tupuai, one which could have embodied the ideals of Thomas More’s Utopia, had to be abandoned.
Even more troubling, I remembered also reading that More himself was later accused of treason by the English king, and was convicted and beheaded.
MATAVAI BAY, 22 SEPTEMBER 1789
Hitihiti and the others Tahitians left the ship first, delighted to be home again. Then the belongings of those sailors who were staying on Tahiti were taken ashore, along with goods considered essential to their well-being: carpenter’s tools, cooking utensils, clothing and wine. Some of the clothing formerly belonged to those who had gone with Bligh. Each man except blind Byrne was also given a musket and cutlass, and three extra firearms were allocated to Heywood, Norman and Burkett in recognition of their rank.
To prevent any kind of insurrection against his followers, only when everything else had been landed did Fletcher allow any ammunition to be taken ashore. He remained on board during the transfers, although Isabella and the other women went ashore to visit and farewell their families.
When Heywood came back from one of the cutter’s transfers across to Point Venus he brought unwelcome news. ‘An English vessel has been here, Fletcher.’
The sweat on Fletcher’s body turned cold. ‘When?’
‘She arrived on the fifteenth of August, and left here three weeks ago. Mercury, she was called.’
‘Not a naval ship, then?’
‘No. A privateer. A brig, sailing under the Swedish flag.’ Fletcher’s sweat became less cold. ‘But captained by an Englishman, by the name of Cox.’
The coldness returned. Fletcher leaned on the quarterdeck rail. ‘So our dissembling will have been exposed,’ he said.
‘About Cook being alive and with Bligh on Ay-too-tuk-ee?’
‘Yes.’
The two were silent for a time. For Fletcher the implications were ominous. Tu, Itia and the other leaders would know of the lies they had been fed, and he could imagine their fury at the way they had been deceived. They would be vengeful, understandably so.
‘Tu has not appeared. Do you know where he is?’ he asked Peter.
‘He is visiting relatives in the south of the island. But before he left Cox told him of Cook’s death in Hawaii. And Tu told Cox of Bounty’s return.’ Peter’s express
ion was grim. He too was aware that these developments were grave for the mutineers.
Staring back at the island, Fletcher cursed. This changed matters greatly. The lies had been exposed and the news of the mutiny would go abroad. This would bring retribution sooner. Bounty’s departure was now a matter of urgency.
Although there was no one within earshot, Fletcher spoke in a low voice. ‘Peter, my party must leave Tahiti as soon as possible. When you return ashore inform my men of that, and tell them to send word to their women that all who wish to leave with me must be aboard Bounty tonight.’ He put his hand on Peter’s shoulder. ‘I will write a note for you, testifying to the fact that you took no part in the mutiny. You will return to England a free man. But I would rather die than be taken back there, shackled and shamed, to face the naval authorities.’
He looked into the midshipman’s boyish face. How much the pair of them had been through, this past year and a half. ‘Will you continue to work on your dictionary?’
‘I’m keen to do so, yes.’
‘Good. It will prove valuable.’ His voice catching with emotion, Fletcher said, ‘And when you return to England, I would like you to take a letter from me to my family. Will you promise to do that?’
‘Certainly I will.’
Tahiti, 22 September 1789
My Beloved Family,
This is the hardest letter I have ever had to write. It seeks to explain, but not diminish, the actions I have been forced to take during these past months.
You often heard me speak of William Bligh, and the voyages I took to the West Indies under his command. These were successful, and resulted in friendship between us. As you know, this also led to my joining the expedition of HMAV Bounty to Tahiti. During this voyage I was promoted by Bligh to acting lieutenant, a role I relished.
Subsequently, and especially after we left Tahiti, Bligh’s behaviour towards me changed greatly. His criticism of me became constant, and ultimately, intolerable. Like Bunyan’s Pilgrim, I fell into a ‘slough of despond’. My consequent melancholia reached a stage in which I considered taking my own life rather than endure more of it. Instead, with the support of others who shared my loathing of Bligh, in the waters of the Friendly Isles I deposed him. I took command of the Bounty, and set Bligh and eighteen of his followers adrift in the ship’s launch. Their fate is not known to me.
I am still in command of Bounty, and will leave Tahiti shortly in her, to seek a sanctuary elsewhere in the South Sea. As yet, that place is unknown, but when I find it, that is where I must stay. I cannot return to England. It was never my expectation to become a fugitive, that role was thrust upon me. But now that I have become one, I will apply all my willpower to discovering, establishing and maintaining a new community of British men and Tahitian women.
My heart breaks to think that I shall never again see you or England, but it cannot be otherwise. The navy will be merciless in its response to my actions, as they will be judged in violation of the Articles of War. But I wish you to know that those actions were necessary, and inevitable. Bligh’s behaviour towards me had become unbearable. Thus, far from acting dishonourably, the action I took was the only option available to me. To not depose Bligh would have been a craven reaction to his conduct towards myself and others of Bounty’s crew.
Should a naval enquiry eventuate regarding Bligh’s loss of the Bounty, there will be many witnesses among the crew who will swear to the veracity of my statements. Several of these men are on Tahiti, awaiting their repatriation.
I am now in the company of eight of the men who supported my overthrowing of Bligh. Our women companions accompany us. Mine is as loyal and loving a woman as a man could wish for. Her Tahitian name is Mauatua, but I call her Isabella. Her family is of Tahiti’s nobility.
It is our hope that some day Isabella and I will have children. Should that eventuate it may be of some comfort for you to know that although I can never return to England, there will be a branch of the Christian family tree, planted and flourishing on an island in the South Sea, and that that branch will continue to flourish for ensuing generations.
In this way the honourable family name, ‘Christian’, will endure.
My deepest love to you, always,
Fletcher
He blotted the sheet of notepaper, folded it, and placed it in an envelope. His eyes had become filmy. He closed them, seeing in his mind’s eye his mother, his brothers, and a portrait of his father.
Fletcher handed Tetahiti the axe. ‘Take this and cut the anchor cable.’
The Tupuaian frowned. ‘Cut it?’
‘Yes. Now.’
‘Why?’
‘We are leaving Tahiti. Go for’ard and cut the cable.’
A full moon cast beams of light across the lagoon and streaks of moonlight illuminated the pass through the reef. There was a faint breeze, insufficient to fill Bounty’s sails, but enough to move the ship. White water rose and fell at the margins of the pass, marking the place where the reef began.
From below decks came the sounds of laughter and song. Weeping, too. The taios had come aboard — men and women — to farewell their friends, the vahines and their companions.
Young and Brown were on watch on the quarterdeck with Fletcher. He told them: ‘We’re leaving, immediately.’
Ned looked askance. ‘Why?’
‘The others will try to prevent us. And they have arms now.’
Ned nodded, understanding. They felt Bounty’s position beginning to shift. Her bow swung slowly to larboard. As it did so Tetahiti returned, the axe in his hand.
‘You have done it?’
‘Yes.’ He mimed a chopping motion and grinned.
‘Good.’ Fletcher said to Will and Ned, ‘I’ll take the helm. You two lower the foresail, and the fore topsail.’
The pair of them scuttled away and began to climb the rigging. Ten minutes later the two sails were dropped and Bounty swung to starboard. Fletcher turned the wheel three points and she began to move steadily towards the pass. The water was as smooth as satin, the only sound the rippling of the water under Bounty’s bow.
‘Aue! Aue! Aue!’
The cries came from the women who had come up on deck to see what was happening. All middle-aged and wearing bark cloth skirts and cloaks, hair tied atop their heads, they had been guests aboard the ship. They ran to the stern, their cries becoming louder as they realised what their position was. Bounty was now beyond the reef, Fletcher holding her on a north-west course. Abaft, the profile of Tahiti was becoming fainter. Realising they were being taken away without their consent, the women continued to weep. The mutineers’ women surrounded them, attempting to console the older ones.
Martin’s woman, Jenny, rushed up to Fletcher on the quarterdeck, her expression desperate.
‘These ones do not want to come with us, Titereano. We must take them back.’
‘We cannot.’
Jenny wrung her hands. ‘But they are frightened. And upset.’
He held his course. It would be fatal to return to Tahiti. Looking down at the weeping women on the mid-deck, he thought, but what use would these ones be? They were past the age of child-bearing, so could never contribute to a growing community. But neither could he abandon them. They would have to be taken off the ship. He looked to starboard, towards Tahiti’s sister island. He said to Jenny, ‘We will take them to Moorea at first light. The people on that side of the island are not hostile, like the ones on the other side. And Otuana — our oldest one — came from the village on the nearest side.’
A large canoe put out from the island’s shore, paddled by young men. After it drew alongside Bounty, the women climbed down into it, still crying, but now with relief. As they were paddled away to the island, they stared back at the ship, throwing up their hands and tearing at their scalps with pearl shell, in sorrow at their parting from the young ones remaining on board.
The sun was still rising when Fletcher ordered all Bounty’s sails unfurled. After they caught th
e south-east breeze, he turned the wheel to larboard and she settled onto a WWN course.
15 November 1789
We have now been at sea for five weeks, and have little to show for it. The haven we seek proves elusive. We first sailed due west, bound for the Friendly Isles, but before we reached them we came upon an uncharted island which the natives told us was called Purutea. It appeared to be a raised atoll, not unlike Cook’s Savage Island, with a forested crown and a reef close in to the shore. After we hove to, an outrigger canoe came out to greet us. Its occupants were males, and shy but friendly. They came aboard. Their leader, a sturdy fellow wearing a wreath of leaves around his head came up to me and ran his hands admiringly over my officer’s jacket. He was especially taken with its pearl shell buttons. I removed the jacket, passed it to him and indicated that he could try it on. Delighted to do so, he stood at the rail gate and shouted in triumph. As he did so . . .
The shot came from the foredeck, where McCoy was standing, musket at his shoulder. The man with the jacket screamed, clutched his chest and toppled backwards into the sea. His compatriots, terrified, ran to the gate. Howling with shock, they dropped down into the canoe and dragged the dead man aboard. Bounty’s company, men and women, stood about the main deck, speechless at this act.
Fletcher ran forward and yelled at McCoy, ‘Why did you shoot?’
McCoy shrugged. ‘He were stealing your jacket.’
‘Good God, man, I gave it to him. Didn’t you see that?’
‘Yes, but you loaned it to him, and he was going to keep it.’
‘You had no need to shoot,’ Fletcher hissed. ‘That was a murderous, unprovoked act.’
McCoy’s cheeks had turned red, but his expression remained defiant. Fletcher eyeballed the Scotsman. ‘This island may well have provided us with what we seek. But now, through your wanton killing, we will not be welcome there.’
McCoy turned away. ‘There’ll be other islands,’ he muttered.