by Graeme Lay
Fletcher swore. How to account for such stupidity? And how to cope with it? Irate, he walked back to the quarterdeck, where John Williams was at the helm. He shouted at him, ‘We’ll not tarry here. Put the helm over and bring her before the wind.’
He went below to his cabin, struck by a fresh bout of gloom. McCoy’s brutish tendencies, never far from the surface, had broken through it again, causing a gratuitous death. And the worst part of it was, Fletcher was powerless to prevent such incidents occurring. Yes, he was in authority, but he did not have the means to enforce it, as a bone fide commander would.
He picked up his journal and quill.
I admonished McCoy verbally but could do no more, a lack that he is well aware of. What such incidents demonstrate is that we are an exceedingly motley crew, perhaps the motliest that ever sailed a naval ship. My mutineers are ill-disciplined and at times rancorous, especially when in liquor. They feel it is their right to order the native men to do their bidding. As for those, the Tahitians mistrust the Tupuaians and vice versa, while our Raiatean is a loner who does not get on well with the other native men. I do my best to instruct them in the skills of seamanship, but this is by no means straightforward.
Only our Tahitian women show common sense and decency towards each other and the rest, especially my Isabella and Alex Smith’s woman, Jenny. They remain calm at all times, and are a fine example to the others. All the women also take care of Sully, Te’o’s little daughter. The women are the hoops of iron which hold the disparate staves of Bounty’s company together. And their bodies provide carnal relief for the men, at the same time reducing their aggressive instincts.
I worry about the condition of Bounty. That she is the victim of neglect is clearly evident now. The sails are in a poor state and we have lost spare spars and anchors. The decks need re-caulking but we are without the materials to carry this out. Our vessel has become like an ageing dowager who has fallen on hard times. (Like my mother. An unkind comparison, but an irresistible one to draw.)
We are also lacking in provisions, so I intend making landfall on Tongatapu, an island which Cook and Bligh were familiar with.
They entered the lagoon to the north of the island, then anchored near where Cook had moored Resolution, close to a village called Mu’a. There they were able to trade for hogs, coconuts and plantains and take aboard water. Unlike Nomuka, the natives on Tongatapu were not hostile, although they were puzzled by the presence of women on a Papalagi ship. After Fletcher asked the chiefs whether Bligh’s launch had landed here, they replied in the negative. One chief, Paulaho, remembered Bligh, but assured Fletcher he had not been on Tongatapu since he came with Tute.
After Fletcher called a meeting of his men, they decided that however friendly the people here were, they could not stay on Tongatapu. It was too well charted and documented. More European ships would be bound to call at the island and report their presence. They had to keep searching.
They now took a north-westward course, giving Nomuka and Tofua a wide berth.
After four days they came upon a cluster of low islands which appeared on none of the charts they had. Standing off the atolls, Fletcher observed through his spyglass that they were inhabited by black, frizzy-haired natives. He and Ned had lately read the account of Cook’s third voyage, and tried to work out which islands these were.
‘They must be part of the Feejee islands,’ Ned surmised. ‘A place Cook was warned not to go to.’
‘With good reason. They are inhabited by man-eaters.’
He and Ned exchanged glances. There could be no haven here. All around the decks, the ship’s company was looking in their direction, awaiting a decision. Brown was at the wheel, keeping Bounty turned into the wind.
Placing his spyglass to his eye, Fletcher saw about a mile away an islet covered in palm trees but without houses. He called down to the others, ‘The natives on these islands are cannibals, so we cannot linger here. But some of us will go ashore on the nearest one with an armed party and collect coconuts.’ He sought out his men. ‘Smith, Mills, Martin, prepare to hoist the larger cutter.’
With Bounty hove to and rolling gently, and after the cutter was lowered, Fletcher returned to his cabin. He was becoming more and more downcast. The further west they sailed among these islands, the more likely it was that they would encounter European outposts, thereby placing themselves in jeopardy. So their future could not lie in that direction.
Fletcher knew that this was the time, when their future was so much in doubt, to show more leadership and determination. That was the responsibility he had taken upon himself. They had come too far to compromise by landing on a populated island. Surely there was a suitable refuge for them, an uninhabited place, somewhere in this ocean.
Glancing up at Bligh’s book collection in the cabin’s corner cabinet, he noticed again the copy of Voyages, by John Hawkesworth. It had been published in 1773. While skimming the book recently he had read something which chimed in his mind. Flicking through the book’s pages, he came to the section which included the log of Philip Carteret’s South Sea voyage of 1767. The Englishman’s sloop Swallow had become separated in a gale from its consort, Dolphin. While searching for her:
We continued our course westward till the evening of Thursday the 2nd of July when we discovered land to the northward of us. Upon approaching it the next day, it appeared like a great rock rising out of the sea. It was not more than five miles in circumference, and seemed to be uninhabited . . . I would have landed upon it, but the surf, which at this season broke upon it with great violence, rendered it impossible . . . It is so high that we saw it at a distance of more than fifteen leagues, and it having been discovered by a young gentleman, son to Major Pitcairn of the marines, who was unfortunately lost in the Aurora, we called it Pitcairn’s Island.
Carteret had calculated and noted the island’s coordinates: latitude 25° 02' south; longitude 133° 30’ west.
Fletcher reread the entry: ‘a great rock . . . uninhabited’.
Freshly hopeful now, he went topside, calling, ‘Ned!’
Together they pored over a chart of the South Sea. Fletcher ran his finger along the Tropic of Capricorn. ‘An uninhabited island, just south of the Tropic. It’s what we need.’
Ned looked doubtful. ‘Longitude 133° west.’ He looked again at the chart. ‘That would mean sailing east for nearly three thousand miles. Against the trade winds.’
Fletcher persisted, ‘But if we first sail southward, into the higher latitudes, we can then go east, pick up the westerly winds and currents to take us to the island.’
Ned grimaced. ‘The higher latitudes? Think of the cold, Fletcher.’
‘Think of the island, Ned. Pitcairn’s Island.’ He stood up. ‘Call the company together.’
14 December 1789
We have not seen land for weeks, only ocean and more ocean. I feel like Odysseus. The women and men are depressed in spirit, and remain below decks for the most part. When they come topside they stare forlornly at the grey sea. The natives suffer from the cold. Fortunately we have the extra clothing that belonged formerly to Bligh’s loyalists: trousers, shirts, jackets. The women have their bark cloth capes, but these do not keep out the cold to great effect. Their noses stream and their joints ache. Isabella is silent for long periods, trying to conceal her anxiety, but I know how worried she is. The Tahitians implore me to return to Tahiti; the Tupuaians wish to return to their island. My men become more morose. These various entreaties raise great doubts in my mind. Is it right to put my people through this ordeal? Was I right in pursuing this course? Is this voyage east a terrible mistake?
Squalls bring us fresh water, but leach into the lower deck, causing further discomfort. However as I informed the company yesterday, I will soon put Bounty on a northern course. That will take us again into the warmer latitudes. The people showed great relief at this prospect.
Ned made his noon calculations. Then, lowering the sextant, he came onto the quarterdeck.
His expression disconsolate, he announced to Fletcher, ‘We have arrived at Carteret’s 1767 position.’
‘Are you certain?’
‘Yes. I checked. Twice.’
They stared into the distance. The sky was clear, visibility unimpeded. So clear, so unimpeded, that they could see that towards every point of the compass there was no land. No Pitcairn’s Island.
Ned looked scathing.
‘Carteret’s island is a fiction, Fletcher. A fantasy, a chimera.’
‘It is not. He didn’t invent such an island. He was not a writer of novels, he was a chronicler. If he logged that he discovered an island, then he did.’
‘Then where is it?’
‘Think. This was over two decades ago. Carteret could establish latitude accurately, but longitude was then much more problematic. He lacked our timekeepers.’ Fletcher looked eastward. ‘Therefore, if we continue to sail east, holding this approximate line of latitude, we must eventually reach Pitcairn’s Island.’
Ned grunted. ‘I really hope so. The crew are restive, Fletcher, they are verging on the rebellious. Quintal said to me last night while on watch, “Christian’s sodding island doesn’t exist. And even if it does, he’ll never find it.” That’s a warning.’
‘When we find the island, it will be greatly to our advantage.’
‘If we find it. I’m now of the belief that young Pitcairn and Carteret were dreaming.’
Fletcher turned away. If Ned was right, there may not be only one mutiny on the Bounty. More troubled than ever, he went below to his cabin, where Isabella was waiting. Now, more than ever, he needed her closeness. In the bunk they held each other tightly, but for Fletcher sleep proved elusive.
‘Fenua! Fenua! Fenua!’
At the masthead, Tetahiti pointed to starboard. ‘Look! Look!’
Everyone ran to the side. And there it was. Rising — protruding — from the dark ocean. A perpendicular rock, hundreds of feet high, its crown ‘thickly wooded’, in Carteret’s words. Cliffs, streaked with ginger earth. And swells, dashing themselves onto the rocks at their base.
All aboard were transfixed.
In Hawkesworth’s book there was an engraving of the island Carteret had come across. Fletcher held it open at the illustration. Although it was early evening, the sun was still strong enough to illuminate the island’s profile. He showed it to Ned, standing alongside him. The features were unmistakable. This was Pitcairn’s Island.
Ned laughed. ‘Carteret’s longitude was wrong. By nearly two hundred miles.’
Fletcher nodded. ‘And what a wonderful mistake to make.’ He trained his spyglass on the island. ‘Charted wrongly. The navy will never find us.’
Next morning he brought the ship closer to the island, but not too close, as the swells were surging against the boulders below the cliffs. He and Isabella stood in the stern, she holding his arm. It was a fine morning with just a light southerly breeze. Staring at the island, she murmured, ‘No smoke, Titereano. No fires.’
‘No. So perhaps no people.’
She gripped his arm. ‘No people is good, yes?’
He nodded. No smoke meant that the island could be uninhabited. He was also thinking, those cliffs are so steep it would be impregnable. Nine months after the mutiny, they had perhaps found their refuge.
Not yet, however. For two days the swells were so strong that they made a landing impossible. And while Bounty sailed around the island, they all stared at its tantalising closeness, all wondering the same things. Where could they land? Was there fresh water? Which plants grew there? Was it really uninhabited?
On the third day, standing off the island’s west coast, Tetahiti urged Fletcher to let him lead a landing party. Pointing to a shelf of land below the cliffs, he said, ‘There, Titereano, we can go in there.’
Fletcher trained his spyglass on the coast. Yes, the wind was from the east, so the swells were less strong there. But the shore was strewn with boulders and the swells were still breaking heavily. As a landing site it would still be hazardous. But they were now desperate to go ashore.
‘All right,’ Fletcher told Tetahiti, ‘we’ll take the cutter in there.’
He chose six men to make the landing with him. Tetahiti, Niau and Timoa were selected for their experience at landing canoes in surf; Brown, Williams and McCoy he added for their brute strength. ‘You’re in charge of the ship, Ned,’ he told Young.
With the women watching anxiously from Bounty’s stern, they took the cutter in. The European men all had muskets across their backs.
The swells were even bigger than they appeared from the ship. When one of them passed under the cutter it rose steeply and they saw ahead of them promontories, boulders and a cauldron of white water. Knowing that there was no going back, Fletcher chose his moment.
‘Go, now!’ he shouted, and the boat surged towards the rocks. Gripping his oar over the stern as a steering aid, he managed to guide the cutter between two boulders. Behind them another swell rose, then crashed, hurling the cutter forward. It veered to the left and they heard the rasp of wood against rock. ‘Get out!’ he shouted to Tetahiti, ‘and drag her in!’
The Tupuaian leapt into the surf, carrying the painter with him. Fletcher slipped over the side and into the surf, gripping the stern. The other five stayed aboard, their oars shipped. Another wave rose and crashed over Fletcher, flinging him forward. His knee struck a rock. Yelping with pain, he maintained his grip on the boat, feeling it sliding towards the shore, seeing Tetahiti hauling the cutter between the boulders.
They dragged the boat up onto the rocks, and made it secure with a grapnel and line. Some of them were soaked; Fletcher’s knee was gashed and bleeding. He ignored it. Surrounding them were rocks, black and twisted into strange shapes, resembling burnt toffee. There was a patch of sand among the rocks which they sank down onto then stared up at the land.
Above them was a slope, about three hundred feet high, covered with vegetation: palms, pandanus, plantains and a species of pale green tree. In places patches of ochre-coloured earth showed through the vegetation.
Fletcher bound his knee with his kerchief then stood up. ‘Right, let’s get to the top,’ he said, and led the way towards the slope.
It took two hours to reach the top of the island. They fought their way up through the bush, grabbing tree roots and branches, skidding and struggling to get a foothold in the glutinous mud. All were wondering, what would they find at the top? Villages? Hostile natives? They had primed their muskets in case of attack.
At last they emerged, filthy and exhausted, onto the crown of the island. There they stopped and stared.
The day was cloudless and very hot, and from this height they could see so far that the horizon was curved. The sea was darkest blue, scuffed with white tops. Below them, a mile out from the rocky shore and the only man-made object in sight, Bounty was being rocked by the swells.
His gaze sweeping the scene, Fletcher said, ‘This place isn’t just an island, it’s a fortress.’
Williams nodded. ‘Yes. The height, the cliffs . . .’
They wandered across the top of the island, pushing through scrub, pandanus and grass. Occasionally the vegetation was broken by a banyan, its roots trailing the ground like a brown curtain. Fairy terns fluttered around the banyans, making chirruping sounds like chattering girls.
After half an hour they reached the other side of the island. Here the land descended to the ocean in a series of terraces. They stopped again to rest and take in the view. Frigate birds rode the air waves above the terraces, rising and falling gracefully. To the north-west the land rose to a rock escarpment whose face was pocked with caves and a huge hollow. To the north the terraced slope was more gradual, culminating in a drop to a relatively sheltered bay. Overlooked by a sheer cliff, this place was the nearest thing to a secure anchorage they had seen.
They made their way down to one of the terraces. It was covered in forest: coconut palms, banana palms, breadfruit heavy with fruit a
nd other large trees.
‘What are those other trees?’ Fletcher asked Timoa.
‘Miro, rata. And tamanu,’ he replied. ‘Tamanu is very strong.’
‘Calophyllum inophyllum,’ prompted Brown. ‘There’s one in Kew Gardens.’ He bent down, picked up some soil and rolled it in his palm. ‘Friable, probably volcanic in origin.’ He nodded. ‘Fertile. Anything will grow here.’
Tetahiti looked around, nodding. ‘Fenua maitai,’ he said. ‘Good land.’
Fletcher pointed down at the little bay. ‘We could put Bounty in there, I think.’
The more they explored, the more resources they discovered. Halfway along another of the terraces they came upon a spring bursting from the ground. Parched by now, they drank from it, finding its water cold, clear and sweet. Brown identified the plants they came across which would be of benefit to them: pandanus palms for weaving material, breadfruit and plantains for fresh food, mulberry trees for bark cloth, candlenut trees for lighting, coconut palms whose nuts could be drunk and whose fronds could be used for thatching. Brown also found a patch of sweet potatoes, long gone to seed. The surrounding sea, they surmised, would be rich with fish.
The only thing they hadn’t found was people.
Not like Tupuai, Fletcher thought with relief.
Returning to the crown of the island, they came upon a platform of stones, half covered by creepers and ferns. ‘Ah, marae,’ Tetahiti declared. They pulled away some of the creeper. There were sun-bleached jaw bones amid the stones, and a coarse figure carved from scoria. ‘Tiki,’ said Tetahiti. ‘Like on our island.’ Timoa picked up a basalt adze and mimed cutting movements with it. Further away were the stone foundations of buildings, and charcoal from fires.
‘So, native people have lived here,’ Fletcher mused.
Williams nodded. ‘But not for some time, judging by the whiteness of those bones.’ He stared at the marae. ‘Where did they come from, and where did they go?’
Fletcher laughed. ‘It matters not, Jack. The thing is, they’ve gone. So Pitcairn’s Island is ours.’ He hadn’t felt as hopeful as this for weeks. Brushing the mud from his trousers, he told the others, ‘Now, let’s get back to the ship. And let them know of our discoveries.’