12 September 1792, Plymouth, aboard HMS Duke, marshal the Mutineers
And so it begins – the court martial to determine whether or not the ten prisoners brought back from the Mutiny on the Bounty are deserving of the punishment prescribed in Article XIX of the Articles of War: ‘If any Person in or belonging to the Fleet shall make or endeavour to make any mutinous Assembly upon any pretence whatsoever, every person offending herein, and being convicted thereof by the sentence of the Court-martial shall suffer death.’20
In the Captain’s cabin of the Duke – a 90-gun, 2000-ton ship of the line, ten times bigger than the Bounty – the eyes of the portrait of King George III that hangs prominently on the wall survey a scene that is a curious combination of ceremony and portent.
Thirteen experienced Royal Navy Captains, esteemed knights of the seas, ranked in importance by their proximity to the President of the court martial, Vice-Admiral Lord Hood, sit behind the long oaken table situated beneath the small stern windows that give glimpses of the horizon swaying up and down with the gentle rock of the boat. They include Sir Andrew Snape Hamond, Sir George Montagu and Sir Roger Curtis, all ready to listen to the testimony, the cross-examinations and sift through the evidence. Captain Albemarle Bertie is also there, a man well ensconced in the Heywood/Pasley network of friends, while at least one other of the group is a friend of Commodore Pasley, and has already been fully briefed by him.
To a man, the presiding members are magnificently groomed and imposingly presented, resplendent in their blue uniforms with gold buttons, the curls of their powdered hair sitting just so beneath their black cocked hats. Such is the importance of the affair, so much hanging in the balance, that every man who had been on the Bounty who is alive and in England is present to tell his story – with those accused of mutiny, in chains, sitting side by side in two rows on benches that face their judges. They have been brought here just 30 minutes before, taken from the brig on the Hector, and rowed across the waters to the Duke under care of the Provost Marshal and an armed guard of Marines. Eyes wide, they take in the sudden opulent airiness of their surroundings, so far removed from the foetid, featureless, fogginess of where they have been kept for months.
Right in the middle of the accused stands Peter Heywood – in the new suit secured for him by dear Nessy, looking regal midst the rags of his fellow defendants – eagerly taking the whole scene in, knowing his day of reckoning has arrived. Nearby is James Morrison, and of course the blind fiddler Michael Byrn, not to mention the glowering Thomas Burkett, and the clearly fearful ‘Monkey’, Thomas Ellison.
Behind them stands a retinue of armed Marines, glaring at the accused – just on principle.
These are Mutineers. They deserve no respect, only due process, before we hang the guilty high.
The atmosphere crackles as the greatest story of the day builds to its long-awaited climax.
For those fortunate enough to be present – with around 40 people in the room – at least for those who are not accused, there is an enormous sense of privilege just for being here. Overwhelmingly, however, the atmosphere is martial. As this is a closed proceeding, no family or friends are allowed, no public gallery, and not even any journalists. The first the public know of it will be when they hear the verdicts, and the press will carry no account of the evidence presented.
And so let us begin.
After the scripted preliminaries of oaths of the presiding members, the Judge Advocate, Moses Greetham – an appointed civilian judge, present to supervise and superintend the court – calls upon the accused.
All rise.
And so they do, albeit shaking from nerves, and making something of a racket, as the clink and clank of their irons on the hard wood surface clangs around the room until once more silence settles.
‘The prisoners are,’ the stately Mr Greetham begins in stern tones, ‘on a charge of mutiny on the 28th of April 1789, on board His Majesty’s Ship Bounty, for running away with the Ship and deserting His Majesty’s Service …’21
He goes on to describe the series of events, beginning with the bread-fruit commission and climaxing by reading out Captain Bligh’s letter sent from Coupang in Timor on 18 August 1789, detailing the events of the Mutiny:
On the 28th April 1789, Fletcher Christian, who was mate of the ship, and officer of the watch, with the ship’s corporal, came into my cabin, while I was asleep, and seizing me, tied my hands with a cord, assisted by others who were also in the cabin, all armed with muskets and bayonets. I was now threatened with instant death if I spoke a word …22
Every one of the members of the court has himself commanded a ship (and some of them have commanded a fleet), and to a man they seem to glare at these reprobates who would even think of doing such a thing. For all of them a ‘Mutiny’ is the most abhorrent of all crimes and they can be expected to be every bit as penetrating in their questions as they will be fierce in their judgements.
At least four of the ten men assembled before the judges for this trial are innocent. After all, Captain Bligh has placed it on the record that Mr Norman, Mr Coleman and Mr McIntosh had been held against their will on the Bounty, while Michael Byrn, the Blind Fiddler, had only missed the boat because he had been stuck in the wrong one. (True, Bligh did not personally hear Byrn’s voice, but, in his account, he makes it clear that the other men on the Launch say they clearly heard him, and he has no doubt they are telling the truth.)
But no fewer than six of the men are odds on to be hanged, barring extraordinary evidence that might clear them. They are Midshipman Peter Heywood, along with the Bosun’s Mate James Morrison, Assistant Cook William Muspratt, and Able Seamen Thomas Ellison, Thomas Burkett and John Millward.
As the trial proper gets underway, the first witness is called: Mr John Fryer.
The one-time Master of the Bounty is escorted into the room, holding his black tricorn hat under his right arm, and gazing about him, just as all those in the court gaze at him. His weathered face bespeaks one who sailed the Seven Seas for many years, just as his tightly groomed hair, navy blue coat with long tails, white shirt and trousers, and black shoes with large brass buckles give an air of one who is earnestly trying to make his best impression upon the members of this court. As well, the Mutineers note, he is back to looking a lot more like his old self – no longer hassled, hustled and harried by Bligh to the point of breaking, he now has his emotions much more under control, varying only between a look of slow torture and deep frustration.
Mr Greetham administers the oath, slowly reading the words that Mr Fryer must repeat.
‘In the evidence I shall give before the court, respecting the present trial, I will, whether favourable or unfavourable to the prisoner … declare the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth; So help me God.’23
So help me, God.
After the preliminaries, Mr Fryer gets to the nub of his testimony – what happened when he realised he was in the middle of a full-blown mutiny.
‘When I came upon deck,’ he recounts with an air of slow torture, almost as if he can see the scene even now, ‘Mr. Bligh was standing by the Mizzen-Mast with his hands tied behind him and Christian holding the cord with one hand and a bayonet in the other. I said, “Mr. Christian, consider what you are about.” “Hold your tongue, Sir,” he said, “I have been in Hell for weeks past. Captain Bligh has brought all this on himself.” I told him that Mr. Bligh and his not agreeing was no reason for his taking the ship. “Hold your tongue, Sir,” he said. I said, “Mr. Christian, you and I have been on friendly terms during the voyage, therefore give me leave to speak; let Mr. Bligh go down to his Cabin and I make no doubt but that we shall all be friends again in a very short time …”’24
Really?
Despite the gravity of the charges, the assembled collection of military eminences might be forgiven for being wryly amused. For as it turns out, Mr Fryer’s extreme optimism was a tad … well … optimistic.
‘At the hatchway,’ Mr Fryer goes
on, ‘I saw James Morrison, the Bosun’s Mate. He was at that time getting a tackle to hook upon the Launch’s stern, apparently, so I said to him, “Morrison, I hope you have no hand in this business?” He replied, “No, sir, I do not know a word about it,” or words to that effect. “If that’s the case,” I said in a low voice, “be on your guard; there may be an opportunity of recovering ourselves.” His answer was “Go down to your cabin, sir, it is too late”.’25
Ah-HA.
As Morrison shifts nervously, his chains rattle and his brow breaks out in a cold sweat. In an instant, he, in the eyes of this tribunal anyway, has clearly moved closer to the core of the Mutineers. If indeed innocent, Morrison must be seen to have resisted the Mutiny, not encouraged others to give in to it.
His only chance now will be to turn up evidence favourable to him in the cross-examination, allowed to all the accused. Before that takes place, however, Heywood makes a request, which the Judge Advocate now reads out.
I would like to listen to the testimony of all those called to the stand, and then, and only then, observe my right to cross-examine those witnesses.
Yes, Midshipman Heywood, your request is granted.
(A brilliant legal manoeuvre, Peter can now make his case as a cohesive whole, not bit by bit as the other accused must do. And it will also mean that my learned friends, Nessy’s chosen lawyers, Mr Graham and Mr Const, can assess the whole case against him, work out what the most damaging parts are, and then, and only then, seek to counter them. It is their firm, expert view that this approach will give him the best chance of acquittal.)
Very well, then.
But back to you, James Morrison, as you exert your own right to cross-examine Mr Fryer: ‘Are you positive it was me who said, “Go down to your cabin?”’
‘Yes, I am positive it was you …’26
To Morrison’s delight, Vice-Admiral Hood himself follows up, carefully, as befitting one bearing the scales of justice on a matter of life and death.
‘Might not,’ Hood ponders, ‘Morrison’s speaking to you and telling you to “keep below”, be from a laudable motive, as supposing your resistance at that time might have prevented a more advantageous effort?’
‘Probably it might,’ Mr Fryer agrees, ‘had I stayed in the ship he would have been one of the first that I should have opened my mind to, from his good behaviour in the former part of the voyage.’
‘Did he speak to you in a threatening tone or address you as advice?’
‘Addressed me as advice,’27 Mr Fryer replies.
So Morrison’s hopes survive. Perhaps he is part of the resistance to the Mutiny, perhaps not.
Now, when it comes to Peter Heywood, the Bosun, William Cole, is of the firm opinion, and tells the court so, that Peter was trying to get into the Launch.
‘I believe Mr. Heywood was, I thought all along he was intending to come away. I did not think anything else – he had no Arms and he assisted to get the boat out and then went below.’
‘Have you any other reason,’ the prosecutor asks, ‘which induces you to think that Mr. Heywood was detained contrary to his will?’
‘I heard Churchill call out, “Keep them below.” Who he meant I do not know.’
‘Do you think he meant Heywood?’
‘I have no reason to think any other.’28
Heywood could not ask, or hope, for better. This is testimony from one of the men thought to be innocent and it accords exactly with what he said happened: he and George Stewart had helped launch the boats, which they intended to go on, but were both sent below and then finally prevented from leaving their cabin by the armed Mr Churchill and Mr Thompson. The court only has to believe Mr Cole, and it is proof that Peter is innocent.
It concludes the day’s proceedings, and with that Vice-Admiral Hood adjourns until 9 o’clock on the morrow. Still manacled, the accused clank their way out and are taken under armed guard back to the brig of the Hector, where they must spend a restless night – each man contemplating his chances of escaping the hangman’s noose. For his part, Morrison knows that his own chances depend on how well his cross-examination of Mr Cole goes in the first session of the court on the following day.
9 am, 13 September 1792, HMS Duke, day two of the Mutineers’ court martial
All rise.
And so the accused do – their faces lit by the morning light coming through the stern windows – as Vice-Admiral Hood and his fellow judges once again take their seats.
Now, if it please the court, James Morrison has a question for Mr Cole, hoping his testimony will be equally favourable for himself.
‘Do you recollect,’ he asks the Bosun, ‘that I came to you when you was getting your own things … and telling you that the boat was then overloaded, and that Captain Bligh had begged that no more people should go into her, and that in consequence of that I would take my chance in the ship, and that you then shook me by the hand and said, “God bless you, my Boy, I will do you justice if ever I reach England”?’29
Take your time, Mr Cole, much hangs on your answer. The Bosun considers, rubs his chin, scratches his brow, and then turns to give his answer direct to the judges.
‘I remember shaking hands with him,’ Cole tells the judges, ‘and he telling me that he would take his chance in the ship. I had no other reason to believe, but that he was intending to quit the ship. I do not remember the whole of our conversation; I may have said that “I would do him justice when I got to England” …’
Another rub, another scratch, and out comes a reflection that firms things up.
‘I make no doubt but I did.’30
Morrison breathes again. It is wonderful testimony! As good as he could ask, or hope for.
Well, if Cole appears to be the best life-boat going to get out of here, Thomas Ellison is prepared to attempt to scramble upon it, no matter that it is overloaded, and so asserts his own rights to cross-examine the witness. For, another part of Mr Cole’s testimony has it that he personally saw young Ellison bearing arms against Captain Bligh.
‘Are you certain whether it was me or not,’ he asks, ‘as I was then a boy and scarcely able to lift a musket at that time?’
This time it requires no rubbing of the chin or scratching of the brow, for Cole has the answer immediately.
‘He,’ he says, pointing at Ellison, ‘stood by Captain Bligh the best part of the time on the Quarter Deck with a musket and I believe there was a bayonet fixed.’31
Oh, God. Again, with just a few utterances, the court’s view of what happened has widened, and deepened. For not only did Ellison bear a musket against his Captain, but also a bayonet!
And so to the next witness, the Gunner Mr Peckover, the salty old South Seas hand who, during the Mutiny, had instantly sided with Bligh and, thanks to his experience, was the first to suggest they sail for Timor.
Mr Peckover is led quickly to the point where he becomes aware that something is amiss.
‘I was awaked out of my sleep by a confused noise,’ Mr Peckover recounts. ‘Directly after I thought I heard the fixing of bayonets … At the door I met Mr. Nelson the Botanist, who told me that the ship was taken from us. My answer was we were a long way from land … Mr. Nelson answered, “It is by our own People and Mr. Christian at their head” – or “has got the command,” I don’t know which … “but we know whose fault it is”.’32
Sensation in the court!
Bligh’s book had cited the late Mr Nelson as his old and true friend, the most faithful of all the faithful Loyalists, but even he thought the blame for the Mutiny lay with the Captain!
Now the court calls Mr Purcell, the ship’s Carpenter, the very man who drove Captain Bligh to fury too many times to count. Though among the Loyalists, he is as far from ‘a friend of Bligh’ as it is possible to get – and it is for that reason that his testimony against the Mutineers is so important.
Most threatened by his words is the nervous Midshipman hanging on his every word, the one who risks to be soon hang
ing on something much more substantial still.
‘Did you see Mr. Heywood standing upon the Booms?’ the prosecutor asks him.
‘Yes.’
‘Had he a cutlass in his hand?’33
The court pauses. Leans closer. On his answer, much rests. For the military law could not be clearer: to be proven to bear arms in a mutiny is to be hanged.
So what is it, Mr Purcell? Was he holding a cutlass, or not?
‘He was leaning the flat part of his hand on a cutlass on the booms,’ Purcell replies, again in the manner of a man without sophistry, simply recalling what he saw, ‘when I exclaimed, “In the name of God, Peter, what do you do with that?” when he instantly dropped it. One or two of the people had previous to that laid down their cutlasses, being armed with cutlasses and pistols, to assist in hoisting the Launch out.’34
After pursuing other lines of questioning, the prosecutors return to the point of Heywood and his cutlass …
‘In what light did you look up at Mr. Heywood at the time you say he dropped the Cutlass on your speaking to him?’
‘I looked upon him as a person confused,’ Purcell says, ‘and that he did not know that he had the weapon in his hand, or his hand being on it, for it was not in his hand.’
‘What reason had you for supposing that he was so confused, as not to know that his hand was on it?’
‘By his instantly dropping it and assisting in hoisting the boat out, which convinced me, in my own mind, that he had no hand in the conspiracy.’35
‘When you say Mr. Heywood dropped the cutlass, did it fall down upon his taking his hands from it, or did he lay it down?’
‘I think it did fall, to the best of my knowledge he did not lay it down.’36
Very well then. Watching on, Aaron Graham is clearly pleased.
Much better that he dropped it like a hot potato after realising how things might appear, rather than one who had been actively participating in the Mutiny, before coming to his senses.
But will this court see things like that? That, of course, remains to be seen as the next witness is called to the stand.
Mutiny on the Bounty Page 53