by John Boyne
Still, I knew that if he caught up with me upon my return, there wouldn’t be a whisper in it for me. He’d slit my throat from ear to ear and call it justice.
11
THE NEXT MORNING BROKE FRESH and clear and I opened my eyes, surprised that I had found sleep at all, to an almighty roar from the captain that rattled through my head and sent my eyeballs a-spinning in their sockets.
‘Turnstile!’ he shouted. ‘Where in blazes are you, lad?’
I jumped from my bunk and pulled my clothes on before running towards his cabin door, knocking quickly and stepping inside as if I’d been engaged in a series of important duties and not just asleep in my pit, dreaming of a molly back home. The captain was poring over the charts again with Mr Christian by his side, smoking a pipe.
‘There you are at last,’ he said irritably, glancing up at me. ‘What the devil kept you, boy? Come when you’re called, will you?’
‘Begging your apologies, Captain,’ said I, offering him a quick bow. ‘How can I be of service?’
‘More hot water,’ he answered quickly, his answer to everything, it seemed. ‘And tea. This is a good morning, Turnstile,’ he added loudly and cheerfully. ‘A jolly good morning to be alive and at sea and in the king’s fine employ!’
I nodded and ran for the galley, filled a pot of water from the stove and brought it back to his cabin, where I placed it down before the two men. I was surprised that Mr Fryer wasn’t here with them, for after all he was second-in-command on board the ship and therefore above Mr Christian, but he was nowhere to be seen.
‘Excellent,’ said the captain, clapping his hands together. ‘No, no, Fletcher, allow me,’ he added when the latter tried to pour. I glanced in Captain Bligh’s direction; his uniform was dark and sullied with the energies he must have expended the night before returning us to safety and calm waters. His eyes looked tired and his whiskers wanted shaving. Mr Christian, on the other hand, appeared before us like the very model of a handsome naval officer, such as might be displayed in the windows of a tailor’s premises in London. He had the manner of one who had slept in a clean bed in a Parisian whorehouse the night before and managed eight hours’ sleep after doing the unspeakables not once, not twice, but thrice. I was convinced that there was an air of perfume about him too, and the Saviour only knew where that had come from. ‘Turnstile,’ said the captain then, turning towards me, and for a moment I was foolish enough to think that I was to be included in their company and consultations. ‘The bookshelves over there, and my papers. Everything has become dislodged during the storm. Tidy them up, will you? I can’t abide a mess. It puts me out of sorts.’
‘Yes, Captain,’ said I, happy to do a job that might allow me to remain in their presence a little longer and imagine myself a master of the sea alongside them.
‘I must commend you, Captain,’ said Mr Christian, who I could tell was completely disinterested in my presence, ‘There were moments last night when I began to fear for our safety. You never doubted it once, did you?’
‘Not for a moment, Fletcher,’ replied the captain vehemently, sitting forward in his chair as if to emphasize the point. ‘Not for a moment. If I’ve learned anything from my years at sea, it’s that you can tell the keenness of a ship from the moment you step aboard her. And, do you know, the moment I laid eyes on the Bounty at Deptford harbour I knew exactly what she was capable of. I said as much to Sir Joseph that morning. I told him that she was a ship that would bring us through harsh waters and safely out the other side – and I was right, wasn’t I? By God, I was right!’
There was mention of that Sir Joseph again. I knew not who he was or whether he was on board, but if he was I had yet to lay eyes on him.
‘Still,’ said the younger man, examining his nails to ensure that they hadn’t been blackened since the last time he’d checked a few moments before, ‘it takes great character to scud ahead as you did. The men have always admired you, sir, you know that. But this morning I swear that they are ready to cast a golden image in your likeness.’
Mr Bligh burst out laughing and shook his head. ‘Oh, dear me, no,’ he said, but I could tell he was pleased by the news nonetheless. ‘There’s no need for anything like that. That’s the job of a ship’s commander, as you’ll discover someday yourself, Fletcher, when you have command of a ship of your own. You see, I have a particular goal in mind that I have confided in no man. Perhaps you would care to be taken into my confidence?’
‘I should be honoured, sir,’ he replied, a touch more eagerness creeping into his tone than usual. I perked up a little myself in interest.
‘The thing is, Fletcher,’ continued the captain, ‘I don’t just intend to complete our mission as per our orders, although I shall of course adhere to them as if they were the very Bible. But I also intend to return our crew to Spithead without casualty or punishment. How’s that for an ambition, sir?’
Mr Christian’s forehead wrinkled slightly at the words and he considered them for a moment before saying something.
‘We can but pray there will be no casualties,’ he replied cautiously and he sounded like a man who wanted to take great care with the words he used, as he always was. ‘But without punishment? Without a single one? Is that a likely outcome?’
‘Oh, it may be something of a vain hope, I’ll concede that to you,’ said the captain, waving a hand in the air dismissively. ‘But can you recall a mission like ours, covering such a great distance over such a lengthy time, wherein the crew returned with ne’er a flogging and ne’er a lashing?’
‘Never, Captain,’ said Mr Christian, shaking his head. ‘It’s unheard of.’
‘But wouldn’t it be quite the thing?’ continued the captain, warming to his theme now. ‘A peaceful voyage? Wouldn’t that make the admirals back in London sit up and take notice of us all? A crew working together harmoniously will never give cause for the boson’s lash to make an appearance. And I believe we can do it, Fletcher. I truly believe we can do it.’
My thoughts raced ahead of me as I carried on with my gathering and cleaning. Lashing? Flogging? Of course I knew from the chatter of the sailors berthed in Portsmouth that these were regular features of any sea voyage, even in modern times such as ours, but I hadn’t thought of them taking place on board the Bounty.
‘Then, I wish you success with it, sir,’ said Mr Christian, raising his mug in salute. ‘And the deuce knows that after your achievements last night the men will not want to let you down.’ He hesitated for a moment and looked away a little as he spoke his next sentence. ‘I dare say Mr Fryer is pleased that he was wrong.’
‘Hmm?’ asked the captain, looking up, his smile fading only slightly. ‘What’s that you say, Fletcher?’
‘Mr Fryer,’ he repeated. ‘I was considering that we all make mistakes and he must be pleased this morning, as we are settled in these fine waters and making such speed with the headwind, that his desire to lie to last night was not accepted by you.’
Bligh thought about it for a moment. ‘Well, he was right to suggest it,’ he said quietly after a moment, a hint of conciliation in his tone. ‘We must consider all possibilities in these situations. It would be remiss of us not to.’
‘Of course, of course,’ said Mr Christian quickly. ‘Please don’t misunderstand me, Captain. I’m not implying for a moment that it was a cowardly suggestion on his part.’
‘A cowardly . . . ?’ Bligh considered this for a moment and then shook his head, but without too much conviction, I felt. Mr Christian’s words were settling in his mind. ‘Had we lain a-try, we would have remained in those waters and never advanced at all,’ he said finally. ‘I couldn’t see any alternative but to scud ahead. And I knew we could do it, Fletcher. I knew it.’
‘As did I, Captain,’ said Mr Christian cheerfully, as if it had been his idea all along. ‘Now, if I may be excused, Captain, I am needed on deck.’
‘Of course, of course,’ replied Mr Bligh, who appeared to be lost in thought; if the brain
gave off sounds as it calculated its thoughts, I suspected that I would have been deafened by what was going through his head at that moment.
‘Oh, Fletcher,’ he said suddenly, just as Mr Christian was leaving his cabin. ‘As the day progresses, I want fires lit to dry the men’s clothing. They shouldn’t be expected to work in sodden garb. It’s unhealthy and unhygienic.’
‘Of course, sir: I’ll see to it.’
‘And give an extra ration of tobacco and rum to each man today in recognition of their labours last night.’
‘We have lost some provisions in the storms, Captain,’ said Mr Christian cautiously. ‘Is it wise to give the men these bonuses at this point?’
‘They must know how much I value their good service,’ replied the captain with determination. ‘And it’s good for morale after so much hardship. See to it, Fletcher, will you?’
‘Of course,’ said Mr Christian. ‘It’s very generous of you.’
‘Oh, and one last thing . . .’ said the captain, standing up and walking towards him slowly, an expression on his face that suggested he was mightily perplexed. He hesitated for some time before speaking, as if he was unsure of his words or plans. ‘Mr Fryer . . . he is on deck, I assume?’
‘I believe so, Captain,’ came the reply. ‘Although I admit I haven’t seen him myself this morning. Shall I send the lad to find him?’ he asked, cocking a thumb in my direction.
‘Yes,’ said the captain slowly, stroking his chin as he said so and then shaking his head quickly as if he had thought better of it. ‘No,’ he said then. ‘No, it doesn’t matter. I’ll . . .’ He considered it for a moment longer before shaking his head again. ‘It’s of no consequence. We’re safe and we move forward, that’s what matters now. Let us say no more about it. That’ll be all, Mr Christian.’
The master’s mate nodded quickly and left for the deck above, no doubt to stir up more trouble along the way.
I attended to a few more duties around the cabin and pantry as the captain consulted his charts again and returned to his log and it wasn’t long after that that a great cry went up on deck. Land had been spotted. Our first port of call where we might replenish the ship’s provisions and repair some of her beaten sails.
Santa Cruz.
12
AFTER NEARLY A MONTH AT sea I was a happy sparrow at the idea of stepping off the Bounty and on to dry land. I had found my ‘sea-legs’, as Captain Bligh put it, and was able to eat and drink my ration of food without feeling that I had swallowed a ladleful of laxatives. However, I knew little of the port of Santa Cruz – it was a name I had never even heard before our voyage – and had no notion whether this place would offer a chance for either. Indeed, I only discovered that it was on the Portuguese coast when Dr Huggan, our ship’s surgeon, came waddling past me that very morning, extolling the virtues of Portuguese brandy and making for the gangway faster than I thought possible for a man with such a top-heavy build.
I hoped to follow him, of course, and waited to be asked to join one of the groups of ABs who were being sent ashore by the captain to replenish our ship’s stocks, but to my great disappointment I was not invited to be of that party. I was deeply unhappy at this as it had seemed like a good opportunity for me to make an investigation of a new city for myself; my feet had never touched foreign soil and I wondered whether there was any chance of anyone noticing my disappearance, for I was not part of any of the officers’ details, only the captain’s, and he was already ashore and had failed to take me with him. I’m not ashamed to admit that the idea crossed my mind that perhaps I could continue alone from Santa Cruz and move towards Spain, if I had my geography correct, to begin a new life under the name of Pablo Moriente there where Mr Lewis would never discover me. I knew only too well that the penalty for desertion was hanging, but I considered myself light on my feet and thought I could manage a successful escape. Unfortunately, before I could consider my plan further, I was discovered and summoned to duty by none other than that young scut Mr Hey-wood.
‘You, Turnip,’ said he to me, poking his head round the door of the captain’s cabin and discovering me in the act of studying the geographical charts, the better to plan my escape. ‘What in blazes are you doing down here?’
‘If it pleases you, sir,’ said I, making a low bow to him, as if he was the Prince of Wales and I was a footman from Liverpool, in order to make a farce of him. He was no more than a year older than I was, the donkey, and neither as tall nor as pretty either, I might add. ‘I thought I might venture to continue the occupation for which I am put on board this here vessel and tidy the captain’s quarters.’
‘You were looking at the charts.’
‘The better to understand the difference between longitude and latitude, sir, which has never been explained to me in a sensible way and, as you know, I am fierce ignorant of sea-faring ways, not having had your education.’
He narrowed his eyes and glared at me, trying to find a word or two in there that might be construed as insubordination. ‘There’ll be plenty of time for you to increase your knowledge of whatever you please when we’re back at sea,’ said he, looking around quickly, for he wasn’t often invited into the inner sanctum and I could see that he had the resentments towards me for the fact that I spent half my waking hours there. ‘Get you on deck at once.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t do that, sir,’ said I, shaking my head. ‘The captain will have my guts for garters if I don’t see to my duties.’
‘Your duties,’ said he, spitting the word out, ‘are exactly what I or any other officer of His Majesty’s navy tell you that your duties are and I say that you are to go on deck and help the men with the swabbing down and you will do so, if you please. Immediately.’
I rolled the charts up slowly, hoping against hope itself that he might step outside in the meantime, assuming that I would obey him, and forget about me, but no such luck was with me.
‘Hurry along with that,’ he snapped, holding his ground and speaking as if we were all in a terrible great hurry and the world was likely to come to an end if I didn’t do exactly as he said and sharpish. ‘The ship won’t clean itself.’
I’d known lads like Mr Heywood all my life and had never got along with any of them. During my years at Mr Lewis’s establishment, most of my brothers – for brothers is what I considered them – were boys I had grown up with, lads who had drifted towards his business when they had no other means of survival, youthful fellows who had heard that there was a man nearby, a man who took young rascals in and gave them work and fed and clothed them, not much knowing what that work might entail, nor how they would be forced to pay for their bed and board. As we had known one another since we were infants, most of us boys rubbed along quite well for the most part, but on occasion an older boy would arrive, a chap who had been deliberately brought there by Mr Lewis on account of his being particularly taken with him, and, oh my, but the trouble a lad like that would cause. He might look around and quickly realize that he had competition there for Mr Lewis’s affections – little did he know, the donkey – and think that if he didn’t assert himself quick-spit then those of us who were of an age with him would push him out and send him off to make his living elsewhere. Such boys were trouble and I will admit that I was one of those who planned small extravagances whereby they might leave us all in peace; I take shame in the memory of it. Mr Heywood reminded me very much of such lads. I suspected that he was treated poorly by the officers on account of his youth, his inexperience and his grubby appearance – for to look at him was no great pleasure with his greasy dark hair and the pustules upon his face, which threatened to explode like the volcano at Pompeii at any moment – not to mention the fact that his phizzy wore a constant look of one who had been surprised in his sleep and forced to dress and labour before he could even grasp what time of day it was. And the sounds that came from his bunk in the night! I don’t like to write it down on account of the vulgarity of it, but here was a lad who spent half his waking life
with the motions and the other half at tug, it seemed to me.
About a third of the ship’s complement were on deck on that bright morning at Santa Cruz, some in the rigging, repairing the sails, others on the decks on their hands and knees with pails of water and scrubbing brushes, and yet more coming back from the town with provisions for our onward voyage. The scut Mr Heywood looked around and pointed towards two men who were kneeling by the drumhead, cleaning the decks.
‘Over there, Turnip,’ said he.
‘It’s Turnstile,’ said I, ready to hit him a slap for his insolence.
‘I care not,’ he replied, just as quick. ‘You’re to work with Quintal and Sumner. I want to be able to eat my dinner off this deck later, is that understood?’
‘Absolutely, sir,’ said I as he turned away from me. ‘And I’ll be glad to serve it to you there.’
‘What’s that?’ he asked, spinning round.
‘I’m to clean the deck, sir. Right you are.’
‘As you know, the captain values hygiene above all thing—’