by Graeme Lay
‘In ’ackney, London. Our parents couldn’t care for us, so me and me bruvvers were sent to the poorhouse. Soon as I could, I went to sea.’
‘How did you get to be aboard the Bounty?’
‘I heard around the docks that she were bound for Tahiti, and I had an urge to go there. I had deserted from my first ship, the merchantman Delia, ’cause the captain were a swine. So I signed onto Bounty as an AB under a false name, Alexander Smith.’ He gave a little laugh. ‘Little did I expect, Bligh turned out to be worse.’
‘You blame him for the mutiny?’
‘Oh yes. ’E were a bully. He ’ated me as much as he came to ’ate poor Mr Christian. He ’ad me flogged, in Tahiti. But it weren’t just the floggings — some said Cook flogged men more — but ’is tongue were vicious. He enjoyed lashing men with it.’ He shook his head at the memory. ‘I’m a Christian man now, but I tell you, I were pleased that we sent Bligh to ’is death.’
‘William Bligh is still alive, Mr Adams.’
Adams’ face turned to stone. ‘You’re codding me, mister.’
‘I’m not. One man was killed by the natives on Tofua Island. Bligh then sailed from Tofua to Timor, without the loss of a single other man. Three thousand, six hundred miles, in forty-one days.’
Adams looked as he had been poleaxed. He tried to speak, but couldn’t. At last he blurted out, ‘Is Bligh in England, then?’
‘In 1807, when we sailed Topaz from Boston, Bligh was the governor of New South Wales.’
Adams brought his hands up to his face. ‘Still alive. That means I can be taken back to England and hanged.’ He looked at Wescott. ‘If you or your captain let the navy know I’m ’ere, that is.’
Wescott didn’t reply. He was on the horns of a dilemma. He thought, I must write this story, but I don’t want to condemn this man to the noose. What to do?
Biding for time, he asked, ‘What happened to the other mutineers?’
‘All dead. Every one, ’cepting me.’
‘How?’
Staring at his hands, Adams began. ‘It started when McCoy, Quintal and Williams mistreated the black men. And they brewed liquor, from ti plant roots. They became drunken sots, on top of all else.’ Adams shook his head. ‘A kind of madness set in after that. One of the black men, Ohoo from Tupuai, who we also called Timiti, beat up his woman, Mareva. Knocked ’er front teeth out. She complained to Fletcher, an’ ’e called Ohoo to account in a sort of court ’e set up. But Ohoo excaped from the court and ran down to Tautama to hide.
‘The mutineers ordered Menalee, the Tahitian, to kill Ohoo. If he didn’t they would kill him, they said. So Menalee caught Ohoo and killed him with an axe. Chucked his body into a split in the rock at Tautama. A place wot we now calls Timiti’s Crack.’
Adams heaved a sigh. ‘That were just the first killin’. After that the natives went crazy. They murdered Mr Christian, and Mills, Martin and Brown. They were after me an’ all. Shot me in the shoulder and smashed two of me fingers. The women sheltered me from them. Those white men wot was left — Quintal and McCoy — then killed some of the blacks. One of the women shot another native, and so did Ned Young. That meant all the blacks were gone. Then McCoy, mad with the liquor, threw hisself off the cliff at St Pauls.’ Adams scowled. ‘Then Quintal threatened to kill Mr Christian’s three children if he couldn’t ’ave his widow, Isabella, for his wife.’
‘And did he?’
‘No. Ned shot Quintal for that. Then he took Isabella for his wife.’
The effort of recalling all this made Adams groan. He took a mouthful of water. ‘From the mutineers, that left juss me and Ned. For an ’alf darkie, Ned were a good man. ’E taught me to read and write, proper like. Then, five year ago, poor Ned died. One day ’e couldn’t breathe, and choked to death. I couldn’t save ’im.’ Adams studied his hands again. ‘So then there were just me an’ the women an’ the little ’uns. The women was our salvation, especially Isabella and Jenny.’
Rocked by this account of hatred and mayhem, Wescott said quietly, ‘So many violent deaths, in this beautiful place.’
‘Aye. The massacre were a terrible time.’ He wiped his eyes with his hand. ‘But the babies had come afore that. And now we ’ave twenty-three young ’uns, and the eleven women.’
Adams went silent for a few moments, looking up at the ceiling. ‘I too were drunk with the ti liquor for a time. Then I read the scriptures and the Lord’s teachings. And the Archangel Gabriel appeared before me, and told me to bring Christ into my life, and the life of every other person on Pitkern. So I did. I ’ad been a sinner, but the Lord saved me. And now every woman and child on this island is a God-fearing Christian too.’ He pointed towards the Bible on the table. ‘I read the good book every day.’ He gave a dry laugh. ‘The Bible were Bligh’s, don’t you know? So, odd to say, the Bible wot ’ad belonged to a human devil saved me from Satan and eternal damnation.’ He sighed. ‘I know the Lord will forgive me my sins, ’cause I made this whole island true believers.
‘Every Sabbath, twice a day, I take Christian services in front of this house. We sing hymns, and praise the good Lord who looks down on us all.’ He placed his hands on his knees. ‘And I’ve built a schoolhouse, where I teach the young ’uns to read and write.’ He exhaled with satisfaction. ‘Christ’s presence is everywhere on this island now, Mr Wescott.’
It needs to be, Nathaniel thought, to atone for all the killings. He asked Adams, ‘What did you think of Fletcher Christian, and what he did?’
There was a long pause. ‘Mr Christian were a good man. He did what he had to do. To Bligh, I mean. He were driven to it.’ He waved a hand. ‘And he brought us here, to this island. He was our leader. He did his best. It were not his fault that things fell apart.’
Wescott noted this, then set his quill down. ‘Mr Adams, there are other things I must tell you about the Bounty men. After Bligh made it back to England he was given a court martial and found not guilty of losing the Bounty. He became a hero in the eyes of the English public, by all accounts. The navy then dispatched a ship to Tahiti to take the mutineers into custody and bring them back to England for court martial. The ship was a frigate called the Pandora, commanded by Captain Edward Edwards.
‘When Pandora got to Tahiti Edwards arrested the fourteen Bounty men who were on the island. He treated them dreadfully. They were kept them in chains, in a cage on the deck. Then on the way home Pandora went aground on the Great Barrier Reef. Thirty-five of her crew died, including four of the prisoners.’
Aghast, Adams said, ‘But most of them what stayed on Tahiti were loyal to Bligh. Heywood, Morrison, Norman, McIntosh and the rest of ’em — they weren’t in the mutiny. They only didn’t go with Bligh in the launch because there weren’t no room.’
Wescott nodded. ‘Yes, that became evident during their trial in 1792. We followed it all in the news sheets in Pennsylvania. It was a huge story, just as Bligh’s return had been two years earlier.’
Adams said sourly, ‘I expect Bligh testified at the men’s court martial.’
‘No. He was on his way to Tahiti again, in HMS Providence, on a second voyage to get breadfruit plants for the West Indies.’
‘Good Lord. The bugger’s a trier, I’ll give ’im that.’
‘Yes. And this time he succeeded. He got the breadfruit plants to the West Indies. But the slaves refused to eat the breadfruit. So the whole scheme had proved futile.’
Adams ignored this. ‘What was the result of the court martial?’
‘Some were found not guilty, some were sentenced to death.’
‘Do you remember the names of those judged guilty?’
Wescott thought for a few moments. The names had been in the news sheets for weeks during the court martial. He recalled them: ‘Heywood, Morrison, Burkett, Ellison, Millward and Muspratt. All were found guilty and sentenced to hang.’
Adams glowered. ‘Heywood and Morrison were never mutineers.’ He conceded, ‘But the others were.’
Wescott nodded. ‘Eventually, the court agreed too. After public agitation, the case against Heywood and Morrison was dismissed. Muspratt was discharged on a legal technicality — I can’t recall what — but the other three were hanged, on the deck of HMS Brunswick, in front of a big crowd. In October 1792.’
Adams closed his eyes. ‘The other three. Tom Ellison, Johnny Millward, Tom Burkett. All mates of mine. Good men, driven to mutiny by William Bligh. May the Lord ’ave mercy on their poor souls.’
Covering his face with his big hands, he began to sob.
Nathaniel now needed to talk to Fletcher Christian’s widow. The boys, Thursday and Charles, led him to the house. With them was their sister, Mary Ann, a pretty, long-haired girl of about fifteen. It was a fine spring afternoon as they made their way along a forest trail to the family home at Down Fletcher.
The children’s mother was sitting cross-legged on the ground in front of the house, weaving a basket from strips of pandanus. Thursday announced, ‘Mama, here come Mr Wescott, from the big ship. He want to talk with you.’
Nathaniel saw a fine-looking woman. Although seamed, her face was delicately sculpted, the cheekbones prominent. Her coal-black hair was parted in the centre and tied back in a bun. She wore a long-sleeved gown, done up to the neck, and a pearl-shell pendant. Her feet were bare, the toes splayed. Nathaniel estimated her to be in her late thirties.
Setting aside her weaving, she stood up. ‘Ia ora na. Please, come inside.’ The children left them and Isabella led the way into the house, tall and straight-backed. Nathaniel was reminded of her nickname, Mainmast.
In the living area were sleeping mats and a table and chairs made from planking. On the table were cooking pots, a basket of bananas and a plate of coconut pieces. Bouquets of brightly coloured flowers — ginger, tiare, oleander, hibiscus — were tied around the matting walls, scenting the big room.
Isabella offered Nathaniel a piece of coconut, then gestured towards one of the chairs. Her manner was dignified and considerate. He noticed her long fingers, which were laced with tattoos. They sat facing each other, Nathaniel with his notebook open.
Aware of the need for tact, he first asked her, ‘Did Fletcher talk to you much about the mutiny?’
‘At first, yes. But it upset him to talk of it, so after a time we did not. We was more concerned about today than what happened before.’
Nathaniel was struck by her accent, which seemed a mixture of old-fashioned English and a native tongue.
Isabella looked at him intently. ‘Mr Adams has told you about the killings?’
‘Yes.’
‘Very bad time. But now, good time. We look after the children, and the Lord Jesus Christ look after us.’
‘Yes. It seems to be a very peaceful island.’
‘Ae, peaceful now.’ She smiled.
‘How do you remember your husband?’
‘Titereano was a good man, a good husband. A good father to our children.’ She looked away, her expression misted in memory. ‘We had aroha nui, great love, for one another. And our children.’
‘How sad that he did not see them grow.’
‘Ae, so sad.’ Then she brightened. ‘But we had good times with our babies.’ She was struck by another thought: ‘And much good upa upa.’
Nathaniel stayed his quill. ‘Upa upa?’
‘What Titereano call “fucking”.’
‘Oh.’ Disconcerted for a moment by her frankness, he wrote the new word down.
Isabella added, ‘We have much ’ata, too. Laughter.’
They continued to chat. She recalled how entranced she had been with Titereano from the moment she first saw him at her family’s fare in Tahiti. ‘He were diff ’ren to Tahitian men. He talk to me about many diff ’ren things. About Peretane, his mama, his brothers, his school, his Ilen of Man.’ Although she spoke matter-of-factly, her love for her dead husband was obvious.
When Isabella told him that Titereano had kept a book in his last years, on the Bounty and on the island, Nathaniel’s writerly instincts were instantly aroused. He asked, ‘Can I read his book?’
Isabella thought for a moment, then shook her head. ‘No. My husband book is only for the feti’i.’ She waved a hand around the room. ‘This family.’
Though disappointed, Nathaniel understood. It would be too personal, too private, to show a stranger. But what a record it must contain!
To change the subject, he asked Isabella, ‘Would you like to go back to Tahiti?’
‘Oh, ae, I very much like to go back. But no ship to take me.’ Then she was struck by another thought. ‘But maybe, now your ship come and tell of Pitkern, other ship will come, and maybe take me back to Tahiti.’
Nathaniel nodded. After his story was published, other ships would surely visit. He closed his notebook. ‘Isabella, thank you very much for talking to me.’ He paused. ‘Just one more thing. Where is your husband’s grave? I would like to see it before I leave.’
She shook her head. ‘No grave for Titereano. After he was kill, I leave him in his garden.’
Nathaniel started. ‘You left his body there?’
‘Ae. Then, came all covered in weeds. An’ hogs an’ birds an’ worms an’ maggots ate all his body. Later, I bury skellington in his garden.’ She related this dispassionately, as if talking about fly-blown meat. Then she smiled benignly. ‘But his head, I doan bury.’
Nathaniel inhaled sharply. ‘You kept your husband’s head?’
‘Ae. Me and Vahineatua — Mills’s vahine wot was — we take our men’s skulls an’ clean ’em. So just bone left, no eyes, no rotten meat. All clean.’
Nathaniel tried not to betray his shock. ‘Why do you keep the skulls of your loved ones?’
‘Because that is our Maohi custom. Before in Tahiti, I go to see the skull of my grandmother, in a cave in the mountains. Loved ones’ skulls, they bring messages from our ancestors to us. We talk to them. And listen to them.’ Again she smiled. ‘They talk to us, like Jesus talk to us through Mr Adams’s Bible.’
Wondering what sort of ancestral messages Fletcher’s skull would bring, and knowing that this macabre custom must comprise part of his story, Nathaniel pressed her. ‘So do you keep Fletcher’s skull in a cave?’
She shook her head. Turning, she pointed upwards, to a far corner of the room. There, on a triangular wooden shelf close to the ceiling, its long dark hair intact, its teeth and bones bright white, rested the skull of Fletcher Christian.
Afterword
John Adams (176?–1829). In 1814, six years after Mayhew Folger’s rediscovery of Pitcairn, two Royal Navy ships called at the island. Adams, its patriarch, went aboard the ships and related the events of the mutiny and its aftermath to the naval captains. He described these in a manner that placed his own actions in as innocent a light as possible. But since he was the sole survivor of the mutiny, there was no one else left to gainsay his version of the events. Although technically still guilty of mutiny, in view of his ostensible piety and leadership of the island community, Adams was not arrested. In 1825 he married Mary, formerly Will McCoy’s woman. They had one son, named George. Adams’ marked grave lies alongside that of Mary, behind where his house was. Pitcairn’s one tiny township, Adamstown, commemorates him.
William Bligh (1754–1817). When Bligh returned to England in 1790, after his epic open-boat voyage, he was hailed as a hero. His version of the mutiny, A Narrative of the Mutiny on the Bounty, published in 1790, heightened his celebrity status, as did his second breadfruit voyage. However when the other men of the Bounty were returned to England in 1792, alternative accounts of the mutiny were made public. The influential Heywood and Christian families disputed Bligh’s version, and public opinion became much less favourable to him. Nevertheless, always fearless, he resumed his naval career and commanded Royal Navy ships with distinction in battles against the Dutch in 1797 and the Danish-Norwegian fleet in 1801. He was elected a fellow of the Royal Society in 1801, for services to navigation and exploration
. In 1805 Bligh was appointed governor of the penal colony of New South Wales. Three years later he became embroiled in a mutiny in Sydney while attempting to break up the monopoly of the army, known as the Rum Corps. After being imprisoned for two years, he returned to England, where he was exonerated. He was promoted again, first to Rear Admiral of the Blue, then in 1814 to Vice Admiral of the Blue. He died aged sixty-three and is buried in Lambeth churchyard.
Ann Christian (1730–1820). Fletcher’s mother discovered what had happened to her youngest son after the story of the mutiny and Bligh’s voyage was made public, early in 1790. The anguish she must have felt when her son’s notoriety was publicised can be imagined. By the time the discovery of the Pitcairn community by Captain Folger was brought to the world’s attention in 1808, Fletcher had been dead for fourteen years and Ann was elderly. So she learned of but could never meet her Tahitian daughter-in-law and Fletcher and Mauatua’s three children. Ann had no other grandchildren. She was living with her son Charles in Douglas, on the Isle of Man, when she died in 1820, aged ninety.
Charles Christian (1762–1822). After studying medicine in Edinburgh, Charles joined the West Yorkshire Regiment as an assistant surgeon, and three years later studied again at Edinburgh and qualified as a surgeon. He then served in that capacity on the merchantman Middlesex. Horrified when he received news of the mutiny and his brother’s part in it, Charles attributed Fletcher’s actions to the extreme mental stress which can develop below decks on a sailing ship. In 1808 he joined his mother Ann on the Isle of Man, where he spent the rest of his life.
Edward Christian (1758–1823). After graduating from Cambridge University Edward was admitted to Gray’s Inn in 1782. In 1788 he was appointed Downing Professor of the Laws of England and was Chief Justice of the Isle of Ely. He also ‘published some of the most respected papers and legal opinions of his time’ (Fragile Paradise, p435). At Edward’s urging, in 1794 Stephen Barney, counsel to Bounty mutineer William Muspratt, published the Minutes of the Bounty Court Martial. This included an Appendix, written by Edward. In it he did not excuse Fletcher’s conduct but recounted some of the excesses of Bligh, using as his source interviews with prominent people who had spoken to some of those who had witnessed the mutiny, such as Peter Heywood. The publication of Edward’s Appendix led to the tide of public opinion turning against Bligh and in Fletcher Christian’s favour. Bligh then published a rejoinder, which prompted Edward to publish A Short Reply to Capt. William Bligh’s Answer. Edward held the Downing College professorship until his death.