“What is your complaint?” said Bligh.
“I told him the prickly heat was much out on me & that the Doctor told me to take care, and not catch cold.”
“Is that all your complaint?” was Bligh’s incredulous response—medical excuses were usually reserved for scurvy, the flux, fever, injuries, wounds.
“I told him the Doctor was the only man to prescribe on that matter. He said ‘Sir it’s my order that you see the Carpenter at work every morning by Day break & keep him at work.’ I said, Sir I am not a judge of Carpenter work neither do I think it my Duty to attend the Carpenter. He said ‘it is your Duty Sir & you shall do it,’ ” and so on.
Whether Fryer wrote his narrative to keep on hand “just in case” or hoped it would have a more public airing is difficult to tell. Probably, bearing in mind Fryer’s characteristic tendency to back down under close scrutiny, he had sort of half hoped someone might see it—without his being perceived as actively advocating this. This is borne out by a telling exchange that he reports between himself and David Nelson midway through his boat journey.
“O Mr. Fryer Sir, Captain’s Oeconomy have upset our Voyage,” Nelson is alleged to have said.
“I use to say never mind Mr. Nelson, have a good heart we shall see old England and tell them all our grievances by & by.”
“—aye Mr. Fryer, Sir Joseph Banks will ask me a number Questions—and be assured that I will speak the truth—if ever I live to see him.”
Nelson, of course, was long dead and not around to verify or refute the conversation. Elsewhere Fryer consistently refers to Nelson, in grudging, resentful tones, as one of Bligh’s few confidants, in light of which the reported exchange does not ring quite true. Nonetheless, the coy reference to Banks suggests that Fryer may have hoped it would end up in his hands. And in fact, Fryer had occasion to meet with Banks, or at least to catch his ear: Francis Masson, Banks’s intrepid botanist at the Cape, had met Fryer when his ship called in at Table Bay en route to Europe; Masson had requested Fryer to deliver some “curious Euphorbia” seeds to his patron, along with boxes of other seeds and bulbs. One can imagine the pensive master arrived in England, making his way through the broad, spacious streets that flanked the handsome houses of Soho Square, seeds in hand, on his way to Sir Joseph Banks; or perhaps, if he had been lucky, waiting on the great man in his high-windowed study with its calm view over the square’s gardens. From Banks himself there is no record of any meeting, and if Fryer made it past the butler, it seems likely that, his courage failing, he simply delivered his seeds and departed.
But Fryer did use his return to London to pay a visit to Joseph Christian, a linen draper who owned a fashionable shop in the Strand—Jane Austen shopped here in later years. Although a somewhat distant cousin of Fletcher, Joseph Christian was closely connected with the powerful Christian Curwens, and thus at the heart of the Christian family power base—when John Christian, the future member of Parliament, had eloped with his own cousin, the heiress Isabella Curwen, the couple had lain low in Joseph’s small apartment over his shop. To Joseph Christian, less intimidating, perhaps, to a man of Fryer’s standing than Sir Joseph Banks, John Fryer made a report that at least in some part unburdened him of his resentment toward Bligh. What he said about Fletcher can only be guessed. There is no evidence that Joseph Christian did anything at all with this information at this point, but his influence would prove more discernible at a later date.
As it happened, Bligh was also in touch with Joseph Christian, although, as it would seem, for professional reasons. Sometime after his return, Mr. Christian sent him a package containing “3 Handsome printed callicoe Dresses,” yards of cotton chintz, two dozen ribbons and a walloping order of twelve dozen shirts. Bligh may simply have been shopping for his family through a well-known merchant; or perhaps the order, which amounted to £82 8s. 0d., represented a creative means of repaying the loan Bligh had made to Christian at the Cape. Given Bligh’s extraordinary sensitivity to being out of pocket on anyone’s account, it is hard to believe that he would not have recouped this irksome debt in some fashion or another. One can only hope he received a liberal discount.
In attempting to recoup his losses from the Admiralty, on the other hand, Bligh appears to have been less successful. In the first instance, he had submitted accounts for the not insignificant expense of getting his men home, as well as for the sixty-one ducats and forty-five Spanish dollars that the Navy Board had given him for supplies when he set out and which had remained with the Bounty. But in addition to these well-documented losses, Bligh also felt compelled to submit a painfully itemized account of the personal effects he had lost with his ship. There were his shoes and boots and silver buckles, his woolen stockings and hats, his china and wineglasses and three dozen shirts, his pillowcases and waistcoats, every one of the forty-eight books in his small library, his sword and pistols, and his “Box of Pencils” valued at two shillings and sixpence.
“Take that this account cannot be allowed,” was the Admiralty’s scribbled—and perhaps incredulous—notation. There was something almost unmanly in this untoward fussiness. As events turned out, Bligh was not to be out of pocket. Although the breadfruit expedition had failed, the Jamaican House of Assembly voted to award Bligh five hundred guineas for his efforts. This gesture was unlikely to have been made without some consultation with Sir Joseph Banks. While Banks himself does not appear to have known Bligh personally, or at least well, before the departure of the Bounty, on Bligh’s return he became his committed patron.
In mid-April 1791, Bligh was informed by the Admiralty of his new commission. With the encouragement of Banks, the government had determined to mount a second breadfruit expedition to Tahiti—and Captain William Bligh would command it. As Bligh knew, this represented the most public expression of the government’s—and Banks’s—trust. Doggedly, the newly appointed captain began preparing for a second two-year, thirty-thousand-mile round-trip voyage to the island that had been his undoing. His health was not recovered from the boat journey and he was still oppressed by the headaches and intermittent fevers that he believed had nearly killed him in Batavia.
In early August, Bligh sailed with the Providence, a three-decked frigate, and the Assistant, a sixty-three-foot, 4-gun brig acting as tender, for Tahiti, by way of the Cape; there would be no attempt to sail the Horn on this second voyage. Bligh had drafted a memorandum for Banks of those particulars that he believed, this time, had to be observed: his ship should be at least of 350 tons, with three decks; there should be lieutenants, officers and twenty marines—the “Establishment as Capt. Cook.” They would not proceed by way of the Horn. Ideally, there should be a second, smaller vessel that could “render the Navigation of Endeavor Streights less hazardous,” for the Admiralty had reiterated its desire to accomplish this dangerous task.
Banks, also drawing on hard lessons learned, affixed a new preface to his orders for the expedition’s gardeners: “The first duty to be inculcated into the mind of a man who undertakes to serve his Majesty is obedience to the orders of those His Majesty is Pleasd to put in command over him.” Although poor David Nelson had died loyal to his commander, Banks’s assistant gardener, William Brown, was one of the inner circle of mutineers, leaving Tahiti with Christian and the Bounty. Lawrence Lebogue, who had served with Bligh in the West Indies, and John Smith, Bligh’s servant, now accompanied their captain once again, back to the Pacific. Peckover, the gunner, also sought a position on this second expedition, but Bligh turned him down.
“Should Peckover my late Gunner ever trouble you to render him further services,” Bligh wrote to Banks, “I shall esteem it a favor if you will tell him I informed you he was a viscious and worthless fellow.” One would like to imagine that Banks had come to enjoy Bligh’s blasts of candor. Apparently, it had not occurred to the gunner that his impromptu comments at Purcell’s court-martial had not been calculated to gain his captain’s favor. In any event, as Bligh confided to Banks, he had determined
he would never sail again with an officer of the Bounty.
Before he departed, Bligh had made preparations for the publication of an expanded narrative of the Bounty voyage, entrusting his private log to his old friend Captain James Burney. Burney’s job was mostly editorial, and he made few embellishments to Bligh’s original text. Burney had also assisted in the publication of Bligh’s first, abbreviated account of the boat voyage, and the degree of personal interest he had taken in the project is made clear by an amusingly double-edged entry in his sister’s famous journal.
“We read a good deal of Captain Bligh’s interesting narrative,” Fanny Burney had written in March 1790, “every word of which James has taken as much to heart as if it were his own production.” In later years Bligh would be accused of deliberately omitting certain events from his published work; but, on the contrary, the fact that he had so casually turned this project over to a colleague can only indicate that for William Bligh the events on the Bounty had been, quite literally, an open book.
PORTSMOUTH
1792
Nestled between two sturdy peninsulas on England’s southern coast, facing the Isle of Wight, Portsmouth Harbour seemed to have been designed by nature for the security of His Majesty’s Royal Navy. It was said that its capacious basin could contain the entire naval fleet and its waters were so deep that a first-rate man-of-war could ride in the harbor at the tide’s lowest ebb. It was guarded by the batteries, forts and towers strung along the Solent, the long channel lying between the mainland and the Isle of Wight, and in time of crisis, a chain could be strung across the harbor mouth.
Outside the harbor, Spithead was Portsmouth’s principal anchorage; at twenty miles long and as much as three miles in breadth, it could accommodate a thousand ships at one time, so it was said, “without the least difficulty or danger.” In time of mobilization, this was where the Royal Navy’s ships, manned and provisioned, were mustered before heading out on the campaigns that would carry them across whole oceans as coherent majestic fleets.
A clutter of busy traffic of vessels and crafts of all rigs and sizes constantly plied back and forth between the great ships at anchor and the mainland, where lay Portsmouth town and, on the harbor’s eastern arm, Portsmouth Dockyard. Britain’s Royal Dockyards were the largest industrial enterprise on the planet, and Portsmouth Dockyard was the greatest in the kingdom or, in the words of one local guidebook, “the completest Dockyard in the universe.”
A self-contained walled town, the great yard encompassed every activity required to send a ship to sea. Even in time of peace some two thousand men were employed here, working ten- to twelve-hour days. There were offices and storehouses, and neat brick homes for the principal officers as well as the massive infrastructure required to produce a ship. In the Rope-house all cordage was spun, from light line to massive anchor cable, in lengths of more than a thousand feet, some so thick that eighty men were required to handle them in maximum shifts of four hours—longer than this being beyond any man’s ability. Timber balks and spires of wood lay submerged in the Mast Pond, seasoning until called to use. In the blacksmith’s shop were wrought ninety hundred-weight anchors in furnaces that put visitors in mind of “the forge of Vulcan.” And on the slips, or docked along the waterfront, were the 180-foot-long hulls of men-of-war, the great battle-wounded ships brought for recovery, or the skeletons of new craft, their hulking, cavernous frames suggesting monstrous sea animals from a vanished, fearsome age.
On the western side of the harbor, south of Gosport and only a quarter of a mile from the sea, stood the imposing brick complex of Haslar Hospital, the refuge of the naval “sick and hurt,” enclosed by a twelve-foot-high sentry-guarded wall. Intricate pedimental sculpture depicted Navigation as a female goddess pouring balm on a wounded sailor, with the North Star over her head. Opposite her, sitting amid full chests and bales, was Commerce, in the words of the contemporary guide, “distributing money, fruit, and flowers.”
One of the finest views in all of England was that from the ramparts of Portsmouth town, north of the dockyard. Forming a circuit a mile and a quarter around, the broad ramparts were edged with well-tended elms, where visitors and townspeople could promenade. From here, one could look behind to the rolling prospect of farmlands and meadows, and in the other direction out toward the sea. Below, in Spithead anchorage flocked the great vessels of the kingdom, their creamy sails and occasional flashes of brass shining out from the shimmering and, just here, deceptively unruffled water. It was to Portsmouth that Bligh had arrived after disembarking the Vlijt, his hired boat splish-splashing past the great ships at anchor, looming out of the night fog. Few places in the kingdom were more symbolic of “home” for a returning sailor. For the prisoners arriving in the Gorgon in June 1792, caught by the long arm of the law, few were also more symbolic of His Majesty’s naval might.
Those men who had remained with the Bounty had not been forgotten by their families during the intervening years since the news of the mutiny reached England. Away on the Isle of Man, Peter Heywood’s family anxiously awaited word of the Pandora’s arrival, an event both excitedly anticipated and, as Peter’s sister Nessy admitted, feared. From the very outset it was known to all families that any man captured would be on trial for his life, and that the most probable outcome of the trial would be the sentence of death. A story in the London press as early as April—two months before the captured mutineers’ actual arrival in England—had borne ambivalent news, reporting that Midshipman Peter Heywood and Armorer Joseph Coleman, two “of Christian’s crew,” had swum to the Pandora when she anchored at Tahiti—and the two men “were so tattoed, and exhibited so many other characteristic stains,” that they had been mistaken for Tahitians. This last was the kind of detail guaranteed to rivet popular interest, if also to worry the Heywoods.
With the advance notice of the fugitives’ capture and imminent arrival, a flurry of correspondence began to whirl from Nessy Heywood’s prolific pen. Once again, James Modyford Heywood, visiting London from his Devon estate outside Plymouth, responded to his niece’s appeals for advice and assistance by extending his sincere sympathies to the family and pledging that as soon as he was informed of Peter’s arrival, he would “pay every Attention to his situation.” Referring to the news story, he stated his belief that the “Circumstances of his having swam to the Pandora will, I trust, be strong in his Favor.” Mr. Heywood was not indelicate enough to mention Peter’s new tattoos.
By early June, Nessy had contacted everyone associated with the Bounty that she could flush out. John Hallett, now Lieutenant Hallett and back in service on the sloop Savage off the coast of Scotland, replied with an icy letter stating that in the event he were called as a witness, “notwithstanding the Friendship I had for your Brother, I shall be strictly bound by Oath to adhere to Truth.” Peter’s youth “at the Time he committed the rash Act” might mitigate the case against him, Hallett allowed. Peter’s other messmate, Thomas Hayward, who had accompanied the Pandora on her hunt for the pirates, had not yet returned to England, but his father took it upon himself to respond on his son’s behalf, offering Nessy bracing and pragmatic advice: “I will take the Liberty my dear young lady of requesting you to make all possible Interest with all your Friends that Application may be made to his Majesty, so as to be prepared against and to avert the most painful consequences of the impending Trial,” Francis Hayward wrote in early June, when the prisoners were some two weeks away from Spithead. “I well know that Mr. Bligh’s Representations to the Admiralty are by no means favorable.”
A surviving, highly stylized portrait shows Nessy as the ideal young woman of her time, with large, limpid eyes and a small “rosebud” mouth, her slim, pale face framed by a mane of soft curls—a portrait that does not accord entirely with Peter’s own fond and forgiving description. His sister’s features, he allowed, “were by no means regular,” although her long-lashed eyes “redeemed the whole face.” Nessy was also “below the middle height but well-forme
d, and graceful in her movements.” Nessy was now twenty-four, four years older than Peter.
The Heywood family had suffered another blow since the shameful dismissal of Peter and Nessy’s father by the Duke of Atholl just before the departure of the Bounty. In February 1790, only a month before Bligh arrived in England with news of the mutiny, Mr. Heywood had suddenly and mysteriously died. Every circumstance—his hopeless bankruptcy, the striking fact that this amateur lawyer had left no will, the family’s determined silence about the nature of this death—suggests suicide; to a family friend, Nessy ingenuously declared that her father had died of a severe attack “of gout,” although in a passage in a letter to Peter she allowed that gout, “and distress of mind from the repeated disappointments he met with, put an end to his existence.” Elizabeth Heywood, Nessy’s mother, was now raising eight children on her own and had been hauled in before various increasingly exasperated creditors to account for her husband’s debts; the defiant behavior of the Heywood women had added to the creditors’ displeasure. Rescue must have come from some undiscoverable source, for by the time the Gorgon arrived with Peter at Spithead, the Heywoods were living in Douglas on the Parade, a new and fashionable street directly facing the sea. Just around the corner was Fort Street, where Fletcher Christian’s mother also lived in modest but genteel circumstances.
The Bounty: The True Story of the Mutiny on the Bounty Page 22
