Mutiny on the Bounty

by Peter Fitzsimons

  Yes, the toast of the town, Bligh is the guest of choice at any number of soirees, constantly on call at the Admiralty as he tells his story on request to intrigued officers of the Royal Navy, and still must make time for his ‘Dear Betsy’ and his five girls – with enormous joy he has found that Betsy has had twins, Frances and Jane, now nearly two years old – as well as read, and reply to, the constant correspondence coming his way from any number of sources.

  On this day he receives a letter from none other than young Peter Heywood’s mother, a fine woman, who is writing to Captain Bligh in the desperate hope that he can give her some news of her beloved boy?

  Bligh is glad she asked, and does not hesitate with his reply.

  London, 2 April, 1790

  Madam,

  I received your letter this day, and feel for you very much, being perfectly sensible of the extreme distress you must suffer from the conduct of your son Peter. His baseness is beyond all description, but I hope you will endeavour to prevent the loss of him, heavy as the misfortune is, from afflicting you too severely. I imagine he is, with the rest of the mutineers, returned to Tahiti.

  I am, Madam, your obedient servant,

  W.M. Bligh58

  This is not an aberration. It is the attitude that Bligh takes towards all those who have either openly turned against him, or, at the very least, have not been implacably loyal to him.

  Bligh also writes a letter to Heywood’s uncle, Colonel Holwell, informing him of Peter’s ‘ingratitude to me of the blackest dye … I very much regret that so much baseness formed the character of a young man I had a real regard for’.59

  Even then Bligh is only warming up, ending his blistering note with the words: ‘it will give me much pleasure to hear his friends can bear the loss of him without much concern’.60

  And who is this now come to see him?

  Ah, yes, here is Captain Taubman, the one who had first steered Fletcher Christian in Bligh’s direction, come to ask England’s hero why young Fletcher had done what he had done.

  Bligh has a curt one-word answer for him: ‘Insanity.’61

  And even then, he is being kind. For when Bligh is shortly afterwards visited by Christian’s brother, Edward, he does not ascribe the cur’s actions to mental illness, but to moral turpitude.

  Your brother, sir, is a cad, a cur, a scoundrel, and a traitor to his country.

  Seduced by the carnal temptations of that infernal island, he had betrayed his honour, his Captain and his country.

  Edward listens, stunned, refusing to believe it.

  The man Bligh describes is not his brother, and there must be another side to the story, he never doubts it for a moment. The question is, how best for him to find out what actually happened, and then get it before the public?

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  OPENING PANDORA’S BOX

  It is said that by the express command of His Majesty two new sloops of war are to be instantly fitted to go in pursuit of the pirates who have taken possession of the Bounty. An experienced officer will be appointed to superintend the little command, and the sloops will steer a direct course to Tahiti where, it is conjectured, the mutinous crew have established their rendezvous.1

  The London Chronicle, 1 April 1791

  Young hearts which languished for some sunny isle

  Where summer years and summer women smile;

  Men without a country, who, too long estranged,

  Had found no native home or found it changed,

  And, half uncivilized, preferred the cave

  Of some soft savage to the uncertain wave.2

  Lord Byron, ‘The Island’

  May 1790, Matavai Bay, waterproofing Noah’s Ark

  In Tahiti, another ship is gradually taking shape.

  For six months now, Morrison, Norman, Hillbrant, McIntosh and Coleman have been working from dawn to dusk on their answer to Noah’s Ark, a vessel made all but exclusively from local materials, not the least of which is the sweat off their brow, and every ounce of ingenuity and elbow grease they have in them. This includes getting their hands on ‘pitch’ to caulk the joints and make the vessel waterproof. After much experimentation, they find the solution and it comes, of all places, wouldn’t you know it, from … the bread-fruit tree. For, observing the Natives, Morrison notes how they take a peg of ironwood, ‘and with stone drive it through the bark [of the bread-fruit tree] in several places’.3 A gooey gum runs out, which can be rolled into small balls that, when boiled down, can be turned into a South Pacific pitch, black as the pitch from pine back home. After much trial and error, they determine that when it is mixed with just the right amount of rope fibres, it makes a perfect mixture to caulk their planks. Equally importantly, when they mix the whole lot with pig fat, it forms a kind of waterproof tar which they can thickly slap on to the planks of their vessel, and it doesn’t wash away! The only problem is, getting the pitch is so laborious, ‘a man can hardly get a pound of it by himself in two days’.4

  Is there an easier way?

  Yes. The ingenious Morrison throws the first of many feasts for the Natives, and rewards all who bring him a ball of gum with delicious chunks of succulent pork – the exchange rate being 50 pounds of pitch gets you 200 pounds of pork – from which they are careful to collect the fat, for their tar.

  Everything is starting to come together.

  •

  On 1 July 1790, the London papers announce that a most fascinating book is newly published and available, which soon sees good folk from all over the British Isles, young and old, rich and poor, rush to buy the account of the Mutiny, written by Captain Bligh himself, which he has comprehensively titled: A Narrative of the Mutiny, on Board His Majesty’s Ship Bounty; and the Subsequent Voyage of Part of the Crew, in the Ship’s Boat, From Tofoa, one of the Friendly Islands, To Timor, a Dutch Settlement in the East Indies.

  The book is an instant bestseller and foments ever more public outrage towards the mutinous reprobates who have done Bligh down, wherever they are.

  •

  Six months after the Bounty’s arrival at Pitcairn, much of the rhythm of the settlers’ lives is well established, with, yet, a clear difference between the ways the white men and black men live.

  Each Mutineer has now taken for himself one portion of the habitable land to build his home, look after his woman, and raise his crops. They are growing bread-fruit, of course, watermelon, bananas, sweet potato and yams. Pens have been built for the hogs, and runs for the chickens. Yes, there is no little labour involved in running it all, but most of the whites have taken the view that if the Natives want to enjoy the fruits of the land – the fruit and vegetables that they are growing – then they must help by working the land … under the white man’s orders.

  ‘Obliged to lend their assistance to the others in order to procure a subsistence,’ Smith records, ‘they thus, from being [our] friends, in the course of time became [our] slaves.’5

  Fletcher Christian, at least, is one exception and is quick to share his food with the Tahitians regardless. He and Isabella have been living very happily in the hut they have built, and she is now heavily pregnant with the first of what they hope will be many children.

  Another who does not take the Tahitians as slaves is Ned Young. As a man who is of mixed blood himself – from the West Indies – he refuses to think of himself as better than any man, and makes do with the odd bit of voluntary labour only. Smith also does not.

  But Quintal, McCoy, Mills and Brown, particularly, have made it clear that the Native men have been brought with them to work for them, and that is what they must do.

  Yes, there are growing tensions between them all, but for the moment their squabbles are manageable, and something of a democratic spirit prevails, at least among the white men.

  Another thing that is growing is what effectively amounts to their own language. With no fewer than 28 people, drawn from eight parts of Great Britain, one part of the West Indies, America, Germany, Canada, and t
wo Pacific islands, there are many influences going into the language pot that bubbles furiously and creates, ‘Pitkern’. Ultimately it proves to have a simple English for its spine, with Tahitian and Tubuaian words and grammar thrown together with various English dialects, including that of the Scottish Isle of Lewis, the Geordie of Liverpool, and the Manx mouth of Christian all contributing.

  For example, the Geordie word for victuals, as in food, is whittles and that soon becomes standard Pitkern. Shep is ship, ailen is island, morla is tomorrow and I kawa is I don’t know. Ye is You, and gwen is going.

  Thus ‘How are you?’ is ‘Whata way ye?’ and ‘Are you going to cook supper?’ is ‘You gwen whihi up suppa?’

  ‘Would you like some food?’ ‘Ye like-a sum whittles?’

  ‘Good!’ ‘Cooshoo!’

  Yes, Pitcairn, which had been a lost island, is now a world unto itself, a kind of Eden in the sea, divided into farming lots, with a common area in the centre of the island, a little ‘village’ as they come to think of it, with many of the new families building huts nearby one another for safety, if not entirely for neighbourly cheer. Radiating out from the village, up to a mile away for some, the men mark out and plough plots for corn and other staples, just as it is done in the United Kingdom.

  6 July, 1790, Tahiti, a Resolution kept

  Finally their vessel is ready to test for leaks.

  Yes, the great day has come. The day to launch their ‘ship’, which Morrison has christened the Resolution after Cook’s ship … with a nod to their own character in getting such a ship built, against all odds.

  And now the moment of truth … sink or swim. No fewer than 300 Natives gather to help push the little ship from the clearing to the beach, nearly a mile away. Now, everyone get a grip on either the ship itself, or the pulling ropes that have been attached.

  ‘A song being given, they all joined in the chorus, and she soon began to move.’6

  Once they finally get the vessel into the water, James Morrison quickly jumps on board and holds his breath, even as he stares intently at all the seams. No plumes of water! No dribbles. Not even moist!

  She is waterproof, and will stay afloat!

  As to making sails, it takes a great deal of trial and error, not to mention tribulations, but finally, by ‘using the bark of the Poorow for twine, quilting the Matts, & seaming them at every foot distance to strengthen them,’7 they are able to solve that problem, too.

  Now, they just need to make them in sufficient quantity.

  A Thursday in October, 1790, Pitcairn Island, if we mutinied on a Tuesday, today must be …

  It is the Tahitian way.

  One of Isabella’s friends, as her birth attendant, sits with her knees spread wide, so that Isabella can sit between her friend’s legs – and hook her own legs even wider under and outside the attendant’s. With everything she has in her, Isabella groans and pushes, and is assisted by the attendant who wraps her arms around under Isabella’s and pushes down on the top of her belly with hands spread wide. With one last mighty push, here comes the baby now, and another Tahitian woman is there as the whole baby emerges with a rushing flood, a beautiful baby boy – the first child of British blood to be born on Pitcairn Island.

  What shall we call him?

  Today is Thursday. Let’s call him that.

  And so ‘Thursday October Christian’ – blessed to be born of a Tahitian Princess and a Gentleman of Manx – takes his place in this world, the eldest child of a fugitive family, dug in on an island in the furthest flung reaches of the Pacific Ocean.

  Friday 22 October 1790, Spithead, England, court martial of William Bligh et al. for the loss of the Bounty

  Dressed in his full Navy uniform, all blue and shining, Captain William Bligh strides into the Great Cabin of the guardship HMS Royal William, the naval headquarters at Spithead and, with some ceremony, removes his sword. With his right hand holding the hilt, and his left hand the blade, he places the now horizontal sword on the table in front of the officers of the court – three Vice Admirals, six Rear Admirals and three Captains – so that it points towards neither them nor himself.

  He is, effectively, relinquishing his command, and it will be for this court martial to decide whether he will take it up once more. Stepping back, he turns, nods to the row of a dozen Loyalists, the round dozen still standing and back in England, from the 19 men who got into the Launch after the Mutiny, 18 months ago.

  Bligh sits on the wooden chair placed before the panel, a dozen stern faces above a solid wall of navy blue with gold lace trimmings. He returns their gaze, most particularly that of the presiding officer, Admiral Samuel Barrington, under whom he served during the relief of Gibraltar in 1782.

  Let the proceedings being.

  The official charge of the court is read out: ‘To inquire into the cause and circumstances of the seizure of His Majesty’s armed vessel the Bounty commanded by Lieutenant William Bligh … and to try the said Lieutenant Bligh and such of the officers and ship’s company as are returned to England for their conduct on that occasion.’8

  Very well then. Captain Bligh has little fear. He is a national hero. He has done nothing wrong, and surely, the members of the court martial will themselves be disposed to his view. Among other things, with a revolution in France now gaining momentum, this is a time for those in authority to support each other and severely round on those seen to question it.

  And so let the formal proceedings for this court martial begin.

  ‘Have you, Lieutenant Bligh,’ Admiral Samuel Barrington asks him, ‘any objection or complaint to make against any of your Officers and Ship’s Company now present?’

  This is the moment Fryer has been waiting for, dreading, for many months.

  ‘I have,’ Lieutenant Bligh replies, ‘no other than charges I have made against the Carpenter.’

  Fryer breathes again. Their unspoken agreement has held.

  And now the Admiral turns to the surviving Loyalists.

  ‘Have you any objection or complaint to make against Lieutenant Bligh?’

  ‘None.’9

  Very well then, all Loyalists bar Fryer must leave the court martial.

  Blinking a little nervously, the Master takes the stand.

  ‘Did you know anything of the Mutiny before it broke out?’

  ‘Not anything.’

  ‘After the Mutiny did break out, did Captain Bligh and the rest of you use your best endeavours to recover her?’

  ‘Everything in our power.’10

  Now Bligh stands to ask the questions, in a manner Fryer has never heard from him before: authoritative, but gentle; firm but respectful, all of it rather in the manner of a fine Captain of the Royal Navy.

  ‘Did you see me taken out of my cabin?’11

  Fryer replies in kind, a dutiful Master, who couldn’t be happier than to assist the fine Captain in his queries.

  ‘I saw Lt. Bligh going up at the ladder with his hands tied behind him, and Fletcher Christian the Mate following him, holding the cord he was tied with. He had a cutlass in his hand.’12

  Very clear then – Bligh is the victim, with the perfidious Christian the key culprit.

  And so it proceeds with Bligh continuing to guide Fryer as he labours long over just how innocent the Captain was, and just how guilty were Christian and the Mutineers.

  Thank you, Mr Fryer, that will be all.

  He is followed into the stand by John Hallett as the first of the Loyalists, each one affirming Captain Bligh’s blamelessness, as both the court and Bligh put to them the obvious questions.

  Finally, the court is cleared so the esteemed officers of the court may deliberate, and now Bligh is called forth.

  As he well knows, when he enters the room, if the hilt of his sword, on the table before Admiral Barrington, is pointed towards him it means that it is about to be handed back to him, as an innocent man. If pointed the other way, he is court-martialled and cashiered out of the Royal Navy.

  Yes
, today has gone well, but still he is nervous as his gaze falls to the sword.

  The hilt!

  He is acquitted.

  As are all – at least for the moment – bar one of the surviving Loyalists.

  Which leaves us with you, William Purcell.

  After Purcell is put through his own questioning, he is found guilty of six charges of insubordination … but given no more than an official reprimand, the lightest possible sentence.

  Typically, Bligh claims credit, writing to Banks with news of the court’s ‘exceeding great leniency …’ noting that he had withheld, ‘a great part of my evidence … as it affected [Purcell’s] life’.13

  Unspoken is that Purcell also has the power to affect Bligh’s life, by giving evidence against him – but nary a damning word escapes his lips. It is almost as if, as with Fryer, a tacit agreement has been reached, to help each other as the legal process takes its course.

  Either way, Bligh is elated at the way things have turned out. His euphoria grows still when, just before Christmas 1790, he at last receives his due, and is promoted to the rank of Captain.

  Huzzah!

  7 November 1790, Spithead, Pandora pursues the pirates

  It has taken some doing, but that ship you can see there, making its way downwind at Spithead? An imposing vessel, a fast frigate – pushing towards three times bigger than the Bounty at 524 tons, and with 24 cannon, not just four – it is on its way to Tahiti. The distinguished-looking maritime martinet who commands her, Captain Edward Edwards, is not only a hard man – he had stared down his own mutiny in HMS Narcissus a decade earlier and seen six men hanged – but he encourages hardness around him, deliberately picking the harshest bastards he can find to fill his ship. On this occasion, however, he has made an exception, carrying a passenger with his 133-strong crew who is not hard at all.

  But Captain Edwards is sure he will have his uses …