The Bounty: The True Story of the Mutiny on the Bounty

by Caroline Alexander

  While his ship was being prepared and stocked, Bligh toured Santa Cruz and made an informal survey of the harbor. He had been here before with Captain Cook, and this first port of call must have impressed upon him again the flattering thought that he was indeed following in his distinguished mentor’s footsteps. Although Santa Cruz was by now well-trodden ground, Bligh’s description of the town in his log is characteristically detailed and fulsome. In its barest form, a ship’s log was a record of daily weather, winds, mileage, position, and “Remarks,” which

  could be as spare as a simple notation of sails set and duties performed, or as descriptive as a proper journal, depending upon the nature of both the captain and his mission. Fortunately, Bligh was as meticulous in keeping his log as he was in performing all other aspects of nautical duty; by “Cloudy Weather,” he observed in his preface, “is to be understood the Sun is not to be seen or but very seldom. Fair Weather or Open Cloudy Weather is when the Sun can be frequently seen . . .”—nothing was left to chance. A log was also a legal document, a true and accurate account of daily proceedings, to be deposited with the Admiralty at voyage’s end. Bligh was to leave two logs of the Bounty voyage, one private and one official. Parts of each have been lost, but most of each survive, and when laid side by side they are identical in most respects. Where they do differ is enlightening; in general, Bligh was much freer with criticism of individuals, often named, in his private account, while such passages have been tactfully omitted in his official copy. Bligh’s logs of the Bounty are the only contemporary, running accounts of her voyage, written as events unfolded.

  In the best expeditionary tradition, while at Santa Cruz Bligh had been careful to receive from the governor permission for David Nelson to do some botanizing in the surrounding hills. For his part, this time was mostly spent in overhauling his ship. His plan to replace damaged stores with fresh provisions, however, was disappointed, and in the end Santa Cruz supplied only 230 pounds of inferior beef, some pumpkins and potatoes. The Bounty had been victualed before departure with all the usual stores—biscuit, salt beef, pork, cheese, butter, malt, sauerkraut, peas, raisins, rum, spirits and beer, as well as the fairly innovative “portable soup,” slabs of dried bouillon intended as a defense against scurvy—calculated for approximately eighteen months of what would be at minimum a two-year voyage. Additional supplies, particularly fresh meat, greens and fruit, water and wood for fuel, were to be obtained en route at strategic ports of call, either by purchase or, where there were no settlements, by foraging.

  Judging from the letters he wrote before leaving Tenerife, Bligh was in high spirits as he set out, despite his knowledge that the most problematic part of his journey—the rounding of Cape Horn—still lay ahead.

  “I have the happyness to tell you my little ship does wonderfully well,” he wrote to Campbell. “I have her now the completest ship I believe that ever swam & she really looks like one fit to encounter difficulties. . . .” Before signing off, Bligh was pleased to inform him that a protégé of Campbell’s, young Tom Ellison, was “improving [and] will make a very good seaman.” To Banks, Bligh reported that he and his men were “all in excellent spirits and I have still the greatest confidence of success in every part of the Voyage.”

  On January 11, 1788, the Bounty fired a farewell salute and got under way. Only hours out to sea the ship was taken aback by rainy squalls. To ensure that his small crew would be as rested as possible for the almost certainly arduous passage ahead, Bligh ordered them into three watches, instead of the traditional two. In this manner, each watch was ensured a period of eight unbroken hours of sleep, instead of the traditional watch-and-watch—four hours on duty, four hours of sleep.

  “I have ever considered this among Seamen as Conducive to health,” Bligh recorded in his log. “[A]nd not being Jaded by keeping on Deck every other four hours, it adds much to their Content and Cheerfulness.” This was one of Cook’s innovations, and it undoubtedly was appreciated by Bligh’s men. In a decision that was to have unimagined consequences, Bligh designated Fletcher Christian, “one of the Mates,” as officer of the third watch.

  As another measure against the uncertainties of the immediate passage ahead, Bligh mustered his company and announced that he was putting them on a ration of two-thirds allowance of bread or ship’s biscuit to ensure that it would last as long as possible. The sailors, respectful of what they knew the Horn could offer, understood this precaution, and according to James Morrison, it “was cheerfully received.”

  The cloudy weather was soon cleared by fresh, light breezes. Four days out and the ship was actually becalmed, making only five miles in twenty-four hours. The men were kept busy airing bedding, drying bread, rechecking stores and sails. The light breezes returned and by January 17 the Bounty was ambling under clear skies through smooth seas.

  “Very pleasant Weather,” Bligh logged. “All Sails set before the Wind.” In these easygoing conditions he ordered the entire ship washed and then rinsed down with vinegar, which served as a disinfectant. This was to be a regular routine, as were his Sunday inspections of his mustered men, whose clothing and even fingernails he personally checked for cleanliness. Bligh’s model in this almost fetishistic concern for hygiene was Captain Cook. When Cook had found a man with dirty hands, he had stopped his grog. In an age in which more seamen were lost to disease than to naval wars, Cook had managed to return from voyages of several years’ duration with minimal fatalities. A diet of sauerkraut and sweet wort, or malt extract, the procuring of fresh produce wherever possible, the endless rigorous washings and inspections, the three watches—all these practices had been conscientiously noted by the young Bligh during his service to his formidable mentor and were now earnestly applied on his own little ship. Mandatory, and soon despised, dancing sessions were implemented under this same improving philosophy.

  “Sometime for relaxation and Mirth is absolutely necessary,” Bligh had opined in his log, “and I have considered it so much so that after 4 O’Clock, the Evening is laid aside for their Amusement and dancing. I had great difficulty before I left England to get a Man to play the Violin and I prefered at last to take One two thirds Blind than come without one.” This much-sought-after musician was the disagreeable Michael Byrn.

  As the fair weather continued, the Bounty passed flying fish and porpoises, and occasionally spotted a shark. Toward the end of January, a fine moon shone on her as she sailed the dark night sea. Boobies, shear-waters and a man-of-war bird were seen, although far from land.

  The pleasant and orderly passage was spoiled for Bligh by the discovery that his surgeon, the corpulent, lazy Thomas Huggan, was “a Drunken Sot.” Bligh was forced to record, “[H]e is constantly in liquor, having a private Stock by him which I assured him shall be taken away if he does not desist from Making himself such a Beast.” After all the effort and energy required to keep his ship clean scrubbed, his men in clean linen and clean habits, this was a bitter blow to Bligh. His worthy goal was to return his men as soundly as Cook would have done, and now the very individual he most required as an ally—his surgeon—had proven unfit. This meant increased vigilance of his men’s health and habits on Bligh’s part.

  As the Bounty headed south, the weather thickened, becoming warmer—into the eighties—cloudier and wet. “Sultry & Hot,” Bligh recorded on January 26. “Got everything up from below & gave all the Air possible between Decks.” The rainfall was never intense, but thunder and lightning often spread across the unbroken sky. Airing of the ship continued and on the last day of January, the Bounty was washed, yet again, with vinegar, so that “by the Evening the Ship was perfectly Sweet & refreshing.” That same night, lightning played all around the heavens, while “a prodigious number of Porpoises” swam with the ship through a sea aglow with luminous fish. The following evening as Bligh stood enjoying the spectacle of the Bounty’s long wake at the close of a fine, clear day, he was horrified to see “a dreadfull breaking shoal” rising directly in their tracks. H
ow had he and his sharp lookouts missed this? Staring again, Bligh saw the “shoal” resolve itself into a school of porpoises, their backs breaking the waves as would a sandbar.

  The close, occasionally thunderous weather continued and on February 8, the Bounty crossed the equator. A somewhat modified version of the traditional ceremony for crossing the line was enacted, with the old hands presiding as King Neptune and his court. The twenty-seven officers and men, or over half the ship’s company, who had never crossed before now underwent the rough initiation—covered with tar, “shaved” with the edge of an iron hoop, and compelled to give Neptune gifts of rum. The rum was in lieu of the most fearful part of the usual ceremony—ducking from the yardarm—which Bligh forbade, on the grounds that “of all the Customs it is the most brutal and inhuman.”

  The day after the ceremony, a Sunday, Bligh “[m]ustered the People and saw every thing Clean.” Divine service was performed, by Bligh, and “every person attended with decorum & much decency.” A few days later, a sail was seen in the early morning; next day they fell in with the British Queen, a whaler bound to the Cape of Good Hope. This fortuitous meeting allowed the Bounty to send letters via the Cape to England. To the Heywoods, Bligh wrote a “flattering” account of young Peter’s progress. To Duncan Campbell, Bligh reported that the passage had been pleasant and that he had acquired some fine wine for Campbell, which he would present on his return.

  “My Men all active good fellows,” Bligh wrote, “& what has given me much pleasure is that I have not yet been obliged to punish any one.” Food and wine were good: “with fine Sour Krout, Pumpkins and dryed Greens and a fresh Meal five times a week I think is no bad living. My Men are not badly off either as they share in all but the Poultry, and with much content & chearfullness, dancing always from 4 untill eight at Night I am happy to hope I shall bring them all home well.” Once again, Bligh ended with a note about Campbell’s protégé: “Tom Ellison is a very good Boy and will do very well.”

  To Joseph Banks, Bligh reported nothing but contentment. “I am happy and satisfyed in my little ship and we are now fit to go round half a score of worlds,” he wrote—how different from the fretful, worried letters penned before departure! “[B]oth Men & Officers tractable and well disposed & chearfulness & content in the countenance of every one. I am sure nothing is even more conducive to health. I have no cause to inflict punishments for I have no offenders and every thing turns out to my most sanguine expectations.” This repeated reference to the fact that there had been no need for punishment—flogging—is revealing. It would seem that to Bligh, infliction of punishment was like sickness, and scurvy, something that had no place on a well-run ship. William Bligh had set out to make the perfect voyage.

  To Banks, as to Campbell, Bligh concluded with an update on the progress of a protégé. “Young Hallet is very well and is a very fine young man,” he informed Banks, “and I shall always attend to every thing that can be of service to him.”

  Parting company with the British Queen, the Bounty continued south and days later “passed the limits of the Southern Tropic.” Incrementally, the temperature began to drop. Vast numbers of seabirds were noted—shearwaters, albatross—as well as turtles and numerous whales; one afternoon a cloud of butterflies was blown past the ship. Then, on Sunday, March 2, after divine service and the usual inspection of his men, Bligh made an announcement. “I now thought it for the Good of the Service to give Mr. Fletcher Christian an Acting Order as Lieut. I therefore Ordered it to be read to all hands.” This was another clear indication of Bligh’s patronage, if not favoritism, of Christian; a long stint as acting lieutenant would in the normal course of things ensure the master’s mate of promotion on his return.

  A week later, out of the blur of notations about butterflies and shear-waters, porpoises and whales, Bligh’s log records an event that returned him squarely to the world of his men: “Untill this Afternoon I had hopes I could have performed the Voyage without punishment to any One,” Bligh wrote, with evident regret, “but I found it necessary to punish Mathew Quintal with 2 dozen lashes for Insolence and Contempt.”

  In a subsequent published narrative, Bligh expanded on the event. “Upon a complaint made to me by the master, I found it necessary to punish Matthew Quintal, one of the seamen, with two dozen lashes, for insolence and mutinous behaviour. Before this, I had not had occasion to punish any person on board.”

  Now began the whole grim ritual; the crew mustered to watch Quintal, age twenty-two, from Cornwall, stripped to the waist and strapped, spread-eagled, by the wrists and ankles to an upright deck grating. With no marines to drum or pipe, this would have been a lackluster ceremony, itself stripped down to its most pertinent and brutal elements. By all later reports, Quintal, of middle height and “strong made,” was a dangerously disaffected troublemaker. It does not appear from the manner in which the incident was logged, however, that Bligh himself had been witness to Quintal’s insubordination; no matter. Once his master logged the event and brought it to Bligh’s attention, Bligh was compelled to administer punishment, and his perfect record was now spoiled.

  While the small crew stood formally mustered to witness the punishment in the damp, hazy weather, Boatswain’s Mate James Morrison—the literate diarist, with his smattering of classical education—administered the flogging. For Bligh, whose humane principles had forbidden men’s being ducked when crossing the line, the familiar ritual must have been a singularly unpleasant landmark on his voyage. The natural coarseness of men’s habits—their dirty clothes and fingernails, his surgeon’s “beastly” drunkenness, their cruel and brutal pranks—all offended him. He had chosen a profession infamous for poor conditions and dirty habits, in which men counted on taking brutal poundings from their fellow men and from the sea. Yet Bligh expected his ship to be “perfectly sweet” and scented with vinegar, hardened seamen to wear clean clothes and scrub their hands, cheerfulness to be seen on every countenance and merry dancing in the evening. There was no dirt or disease in Bligh’s vision of the perfect voyage, and no punishment. Busily intent on his many burdensome responsibilities, Bligh was unlikely to have taken note of his men’s practiced and scrutinizing gazes. Did they perceive that it was their fastidious, bustling captain who avoided the lash?

  The damp, hazy weather closed in and by the following day had become dense fog. The temperature continued to drop, and when the fog cleared the air was felt to be cold. In the afternoon, one of the men shot an albatross that fell dying into the ocean, and a boat was sent out to collect it. On board its wingspan was gravely measured. The superstition that the killing of an albatross brought bad luck was not yet prevalent; Coleridge had not yet written “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner”—this would follow later.

  The Bounty was now as far south as the fortieth latitude, the “roaring forties,” and was drawing parallel with the coast of Patagonia. A wet, dense fog forbade sight of land, although south of Puerto Deseado the men “saw what was supposed to be the looming of it.” Whales appeared in great numbers and seemed to enjoy lying in groups of two and three windward of ship, expelling great blasts of spray over the men.

  A strong gale arose on March 20 as the Bounty approached the Jasons, the northwesternmost of the Falkland Islands. Albatross, petrels and snowbirds flocked and hovered around the rigging, as if wishing to perch. The wind and sea became violent and Bligh was anxious to get south of the islands; he had by now given up his earlier plan of stopping here for wood and water. The weather was fast deteriorating and he could afford no delays.

  Before dawn on March 23, the goats and single dog on board began to agitate, and the men declared that the animals could smell land. Soon, in the moonlight, hills could be made out to the west, and when daylight broke the mountains of Tierra del Fuego could be seen, mostly free of snow.

  “I realy look upon the bad or Winter Weather not yet to be set in,” Bligh wrote. “[B]ut as I must expect it hourly I have no right to loose a Moment. . . .”

 
Skirting Le Maire Strait, they passed the desolate, mountainous country of Staten Island to the east. Now, at nearly the 55° latitude south, the Bounty was fast approaching the Horn. A hint of the weather they were in for hit the ship on March 27, with the arrival of a strong gale and an “exceedingly High” sea.

  “It would not be possible for a laboursome Ship to keep her Masts,” Bligh observed. His ship, as he had often proudly noted, was not “laboursome,” but well behaved. Her hatches were all battened down, and although towering seas broke over her, so far the men kept “tolerably dry.” The temperature was now in the upper thirties, and the weather wet and raw.

  “I Ordered the People to have Wheat [porridge] served every day with Sugar & Butter to enable them to have a comfortable hot breakfast,” Bligh logged. Hour after hour, his men were required to reef and hand the sails; then reset them; then reef again, up and down the perilous, pitching rigging in the menacing cold. The sea, Bligh wrote wonderingly, “exceeds any I have seen.”