“Go see if you can live upon a Quarter of a lb. of Yams per Day,” Millward called after them. Hayward’s last sight of his ship was of Ellison loosing the topgallant sails, in obedience to Christian’s orders.
“Were all the People that were in the Boat ordered or did they go Voluntarily?” the court asked.
“I know no one ordered in except Mr. John Hallet Mr. John Samuel, and myself,” Hayward replied, thus confirming the very particular antipathies that Christian had acted upon. Hayward’s tough line of testimony fully and unambiguously exonerated only Coleman and Byrn; even Norman and McIntosh, whom he did not “suppose” to be party to the mutineers, he would not personally vouch for. The other six prisoners, armed or not, Hayward supposed to be guilty.
He had not seen Morrison under arms, but was of the opinion that the boatswain’s mate had been in league with the mutineers; this was because while he was assisting to launch the boat, Morrison’s countenance was “rejoiced,” not “depressed” like those of the loyalists.
“What was Mr. Heywood employed about in his Birth when you went below?” the court now pressed.
“Nothing but sitting with his Arms folded on his own Chest,” Hayward replied evenly.
“Did you from his Behavior consider him as a Person attached to his Duty or to the Party of the Mutineers?”
“I should rather suppose after my having told him to go into the Boat and he not joining us, to be on the side of the Mutineers,” Hayward replied, with one suspects something of the same haughty tone with which he had greeted Peter on the Pandora. (“He like all other Worldlings when raised a little in Life received us very coolly,” Peter had reported in his letter to his mother.) But, Hayward allowed, this “must be only understood as an Opinion as he was not in the least employed during the active part of it.”
The cross-examination from the prisoners began with Morrison in full growl.
“You say that you observed Joy in my Countenance and that you are rather inclined to give it as your Opinion that I was one of the Mutineers,” the boatswain’s mate began. “[C]an you declare before God and this Court that such Evidence is not the result of a private Pique?”
“No it is not the result of any private Pique,” returned Hayward icily, “it is an Opinion that I formed after quitting the Ship, from the Prisoners not coming with us when he had as good an Opportunity as the rest, there being more Boats than one.”
“Are you certain that we might have had the large Cutter to have accompanied you?” Morrison demanded pragmatically.
“Not being present at any Conference between you, I cannot say, but perhaps you might,” said Hayward, giving the court a strong hint of something suggestive of personal pique.
Morrison concluded his examination with another pertinent query: Did Hayward recollect calling upon him “to give any Assistance to retake His Majesty’s Ship?”
“I have a feint Remembrance of a Circumstance of that Nature,” Hayward allowed grudgingly.
“Relate the Circumstance,” directed the interested court.
“It is so very feint that I can hardly remember it or the Person it was,” Hayward stalled, “but on seeing Charles Churchill upon the Booms I thought that had I had a Friendly Island Club, of which there were many on board, I could, had I not been observed, have gone forward, which was behind Churchill, and knocked him down.”
“What answer did I give to you?” demanded Morrison.
“I do not remember.”
“Did I say, ‘go it I’ll back you, there is Tools enough’?”
“I do not remember.”
Hayward’s testimony concluded with a final question from the court: On what basis had he determined that Coleman had been detained involuntarily?
“From hearing from among the Mutineers their Intention to detain him,” Hayward replied. They had also planned to detain Ledward, the acting surgeon, but then changed their minds, “saying that they would have Little Occasion for Doctors.”
With this, Hayward withdrew and the prisoners were left to reflect upon the damage he had wrought. At this point, too, it was possible to perceive the wisdom of Aaron Graham’s ploy to have Peter reserve his right of cross-examination for his full defense. The picture of what had transpired within the few hours the mutiny took place had been subtly changed by every witness; a point-by-point defense—such as Morrison was, with some courage, mounting—carried the great risk of blundering into yet unrevealed contradictions.
Lieutenant John Hallett was the day’s next witness. The Admiralty reimbursed all witnesses for the expense of traveling to Portsmouth for the trial, and the punctilious young man had put in his requisition for precisely 351 miles.
Hallett’s testimony was brief. He, like Hayward, had shared Christian’s watch and so was on deck when the mutiny broke out. His remembrance of the events began with the appearance of Christian and four others armed on deck, with “Thomas Burkitt, the Prisoner,” being one of their number. Prevented from going down the fore hatchway by two bayonets thrust before him, he had heard Bligh “sing out ‘Murder!’ ” from his cabin, and minutes later saw his captain led on deck, bound and “naked excepting his Shirt.”
The only novel piece of information Hallett offered concerned the lowering of the boats. After the worm-eaten cutter was launched for Bligh, Hayward, Samuel and himself, Cole and Purcell stepped forward to tell Mr. Christian “that they would prefer going in the Boat with the Captain to staying in the Ship.” According to Hallett, it was because of these apparently unexpected volunteers that Christian allowed the substitution of the more seaworthy launch, saying “that he did not wish to compel them or any other Person to stay against their Inclinations or to go.” With this, the other volunteers streamed forward, in all fifteen men more than Christian had first planned to get rid of; between the nineteen men in the boat and the four men—Coleman, Byrn, McIntosh and Norman—who apparently wished to go, fully half the ship’s complement had desired to leave the ship.
Under cross-examination from the court, Hallett recited the names of seventeen men he had seen under arms, including Ellison, Burkett and Morrison; this was the first time Morrison had been so directly placed in the company of the mutineers.
“At what time did you make the Memorandum from which you have named the Prisoners?” was the astute question from the court, and Hallett allowed he had made it “lately.”
The court turned its attention to Peter Heywood, whom Hallett had seen on the larboard deck.
“What was he doing at this time?”
“He was standing still, looking attentively towards Captain Bligh,” Hallett replied.
“Do you know whether he was or not prevented coming into the Boat?”
“I do not know that he ever offered to go into the Boat.”
“Did you hear any Person propose to him to go into the Boat?”
“No.”
“Do you know any other particulars respecting him on that Day?”
“When he was standing as I have before related, Captain Bligh said something to him, but what I did not hear upon which he laughed turned round, and walked away.”
With this damaging blow, Peter’s case became suddenly more precarious. It was one thing to stand bewildered and idle, quite another to stand idle and insolent.
And the general demeanor of the mutineers had grown increasingly, dangerously insolent. Hallett’s last view of Morrison had been of him under arms and leaning out over the taffrail to taunt the men in the laboring boat. He called out, said Hallett, “in a jeering Manner, ‘If my friends enquire after me, tell them I am somewhere in the South Seas.’ ”
Hallett added little information about any of the other defendants. But when the court pressed him to return again to his charge that Heywood had laughed at Bligh, the more amplified version was even more disturbing.
“Describe to the court the Situation of Mr. Bligh, Commander of the ‘Bounty,’ when Mr. Heywood the Prisoner laughed turned round and walked [a]way as you have
already related.”
“He was standing with his Arms tied behind his Back,” Hallett answered, “Christian holding the Cord with one Hand and a Bayonet to his Breast with the other.”
His testimony over, Hallett was withdrawn and the last of the Bounty men summoned. John Smith, able seaman from Stirling, Scotland, and now in his forties, had been Bligh’s servant on the Bounty; indeed, he remained with Bligh, departing with him on the Providence, but he had been discharged from the Cape on account of ill health, and so was able to attend the court-martial.
Smith had been summoned on deck in the early hours of April 28 by Thomas Hall, the cook, who told Smith that he “was wanted Aft upon the Quarter Deck.” Seeing his captain standing in his shirt, Smith went down to his cabin and retrieved his clothes.
“I went and brought up his Cloaths put on his Trowsers and laid his Jacket over his Shoulders,” this humbly loyal seaman told the court; the simple act of covering his master’s nakedness was one of the very few gestures any man had undertaken on Bligh’s behalf during this crisis. Christian then ordered Smith to bring up the rum “and serve every Man under Arms with a Glass.” Christian was the first man he had served. Coleman took a dram, perhaps to calm his nerves, but Peter Heywood had refused. Ellison had taken his dram “with a Musquet in his Hand.”
“Do you recollect,” began Morrison, in his now familiar cross-examination, “that you gave Mr. Cole a Glass into a tin pot and said, ‘Morrison, you may as well have a drop, tho’ I am ordered to serve none but the Centries’?”
“I do not recall a Word of it,” replied loyal John Smith.
Muspratt and Millward followed, briefly invoking actions of their own, but to each Smith denied any recollection.
The drama wrought by the day’s witnesses could only have necessitated some readjustment of opinions among the twelve judges. Increasingly it looked as if Bligh’s original notations were in fact correct; namely, that only three of the defendants—Coleman, McIntosh, Norman—had been unquestionably loyal. Three of the seven remaining defendants—Burkett, Millward and Ellison—had been consistently described as active mutineers, Millward with some qualifying remarks about his initial reluctance. But it now also transpired that, excluding Michael Byrn, whose role no one took seriously, the remaining prisoners had all been seen by someone at some time under arms.
The day’s final witnesses, and indeed the last of the evidences for the prosecution, were Captain Edward Edwards and the officers of the Pandora. Only two days before the mutineer trial commenced, Edwards himself had undergone a court-martial for the loss of the Pandora, over which the same judges had presided; the court had been assembled, however, not on the Duke, but on the Hector. Edwards’s officers had all sworn to the truthfulness of their captain’s version of events, and the court had concluded that the Pandora’s loss “was not in any respect owing to Mismanagement or a Want of proper attention to her safety,” pronouncing Edwards and his officers “honourably acquitted.”
Now called as a witness, Captain Edwards confirmed that Joseph Coleman had attempted to come on board before the Pandora even came to anchor and that he helpfully volunteered much information about the whereabouts of the other men. Stewart and Heywood came on board next, Edwards testified, but without his knowledge, presenting themselves to Lieutenant Larkan while he was in his cabin. When they were brought down to the captain’s stateroom, Edwards greeted them nonchalantly with “what News?”
“Peter Heywood I think said he supposed I had heard of the Affair of the ‘Bounty,’ ” Edwards recalled. Edwards recalled very little else—strikingly little for an officer who had sailed around the globe specifically to apprehend the men then before him.
“I don’t recollect all the Conversation that passed between us,” Edwards told the court laconically of his first dealings with Heywood. Apparently this naval professional had taken no notes. “[H]e sometimes interrupted me by asking for Mr. Hayward.” Lieutenant Hayward had been summoned and had met Heywood “with a sort of contemptuous look, and began to enter into Conversation with him respecting the ‘Bounty.’ ” (“I asked them how they came to go away with His Majesty’s Ship ‘Bounty,’” Hayward had told the court in his testimony. George Stewart had responded with the somewhat legalistic retort “that when called upon hereafter he would answer all Particulars.”)
This conversation seems to have got out of hand, for Edwards suddenly told Hayward to desist and ordered the two prisoners placed in irons.
Of the prisoners, only Michael Byrn had a question, which prompted Edwards to concede that it was “an Omission” that he had stated in his letter to the Admiralty that Byrn had been “brought on board”; in fact, the fiddler had come on board voluntarily. For once successful in his legal efforts, Byrn was able to establish that he had not only come to the Pandora of his own will, but had gone to considerable trouble to do so.
“I believe he did say that he came from a distant Place,” Edwards now recalled, dredging his shallow memory, “and that he had travelled in the Night.” And with this image of the blind fiddler stumbling through the darkness toward Matavai, Edwards withdrew from the court.
The statements of Lieutenants Larkan and Corner of the Pandora were even more perfunctory. The only useful information came from Larkan regarding those prisoners who had been on Morrison’s schooner. The schooner, Larkan recalled, had attempted to avoid capture and, sailing “into the offing,” was chased by the ship’s boats; but who had been on the schooner at that particular time, he could not say. All of the prisoners, once cornered, surrendered without resistance.
At this, the conclusion of the prosecution’s evidence, Peter Heywood stepped forward to present the court with another written request.
“After the long Examination which has taken place upon this Trial,” he—or, more likely, Aaron Graham—had penned, “it will not I hope be deemed unreasonable, if I request to be allowed the Whole of tomorrow, to prepare my Defence.”
The request was granted. Another drear day was drawing to its close. It was Friday. The judges and onlookers alike stirred, stretched their legs, rustled papers and exchanged comments before heading out into the harbor and on to their weekend plans, and the prisoners returned to the Hector to prepare and rehearse the words that would damn or save them.
DEFENSE
Meanwhile, events in the outside world had swept on. The newspapers from September 12, the first day of the court-martial, had carried ever more horrifying news from France, where a frenzied massacre of aristocrats and suspected royalist sympathizers was being waged. From the account of a recently escaped English visitor, the Times ran columns chronicling the daily atrocities committed by the Parisians against their countrymen: a seventy-year-old man formerly employed in some unremarkable government post had been forced by a murderous mob to sing the “Ça ira” before being shoved by pikes into a bonfire; a marauding gang of children on the lookout for “young Aristocrats” had set upon two children, cutting off their heads with penknives. At this unrelenting barrage of soul-numbing news, the English establishment stood aghast; on the Isle of Man, Nessy was moved to compose a poem, “Twilight, On reading an Account of the dreadful Disturbances in France.” France was England’s oldest and most tenacious enemy, and the Channel separating the savagery of the Parisian streets from the enlightened, well-ordered world of the likes of Sir Joseph Banks was perilously slender. Already the impact had been felt on English soil: the Times reported that terrified French refugees had landed all along the Sussex coast and were clogging the Kent and Sussex roads; collections had been taken on their behalf “amongst the porters and common working men at the water side, who each subscribed according to his ability.” Of more concern were the murmurings of approval from certain homeland radicals. Every naval man knew that whatever the outcome of events in France, England was unlikely to remain uninvolved.
In Portsmouth the dreary weather continued. After blowing squally for most of Friday, the weather had calmed by day’s end, but S
aturday was once again hazy with “fresh gales” and showers of rain.
The court-martial transacted only one brief piece of business on this hazy, blowy weekend: Joseph Coleman was summoned to give his defense. Now forty-one, the Bounty’s armorer had already been gray-haired at the time of the mutiny. Fair-skinned and, although only five foot six, “Strong made,” in Bligh’s words, Coleman was from the Dorking-Guildford area of Surrey. Coleman had sailed as an able seaman on Cook’s third voyage. Dogged and bone loyal, he had indulged in one discernible act of frivolity—he had himself tattooed, with a heart; the date beneath, “5-7-77,” suggests this was a souvenir from his first Pacific voyage, when he—and William Bligh—had been at Tongatapu en route to Tahiti. Coleman’s loyalty to Bligh had been proven at every turn; it was he who boldly had dived overboard from the Bounty as she left Tahiti for the last time, under Christian’s command.
The Bounty: The True Story of the Mutiny on the Bounty Page 30
