These visits considerably lightened Peter’s mood, although, as he gently remonstrated with Nessy, he was surprised when James appeared because she “did not mention” in her letter that he was also in London; in her highly strung emotional state, Nessy had edited brother James entirely out of the picture.
“I am sure he will do all he can to supply my place,” Nessy wrote to Peter, a little sniffily. The change in Peter’s spirits was already evident from his letters. For her part, while James enjoyed the privileges she would have given her heart for, Nessy reconciled herself to sticking close to the Grahams, scarcely leaving their house except on two occasions to take a turn around the Bloomsbury Park neighborhood. Her “chief Recreation & Happiness,” she told her sister Mary, was “in talking of Peter” with Mr. Graham, or if he was called away on his frequent “particular business,” with young Maria, who was a student of the pianoforte. Nessy had taken a great shine to Maria and was soon contentedly composing poetry for her:
M ild as the vernal Breeze which softly blows
A nd sheds new sweetness on the damask Rose
R estless softness plays in ev’ry Smile
I nsinuation void of Art and Guile
A nd youthful Loveliness our Hearts beguile . . .
In their letters to each other, both Peter and Nessy rarely failed to mention their indebtedness to Mr. Graham’s goodness: “Oh! my lov’d Peter—what a Friend he is!” Nessy exclaimed, again and again. And elsewhere, “he loves you as his own Son.” She was also impatient for Peter to meet her new friend Maria.
“[T]ake Care of your Heart my dear Peter when you see her,” Nessy admonished her brother coyly; and one must wonder what passed through the young man’s mind as, shackled in irons, he read these words by the vague, low light of the gun shafts. Peter’s description of his domestic life on Tahiti does not appear to have been highly detailed, and he may have omitted the fact that he and a Tahitian woman had lived as man and wife for nearly a year in his charming mountain cottage. Maria Graham, “fair & rather pale than otherwise,” with her “most interesting Countenance” and “soft speaking hazle Eyes & . . . most bewitching gentleness of Manner,” with her petticoats and pianoforte—suffice to say, Peter was never to make mention of Maria Graham.
Coleman, Norman, McIntosh and Byrn had all been released immediately following the verdict. Coleman and Byrn eventually washed up as pensioners of Greenwich Hospital, while McIntosh appears to have entered the merchant service; what happened to Norman at this time remains unknown. Peter Heywood and the other five men found guilty now existed in a racking state of limbo, returned to their confinement on the guardship. At the agency of the able Stephen Barney, Muspratt had filed a petition at the very announcement of the verdict to protest the fact that he had been “debarred calling Witnesses whose Evidence I have Reason to believe, would have tended to have proved my Innocence,” and to lament that “usage of a Court Martial, should be so different from the Practice of all Criminal courts of Justice on Shore.” Now he too, like Morrison and Heywood, spent each day in anxious anticipation that news of a pardon might arrive. From a comment of Nessy’s that delay could be expected “on account of the Interest making for some of the prisoners,” it appears that Peter was not alone in clinging to hope.
As October passed, the days of unbroken clouded, drizzly weather promised a foul autumn. Lord McCartney sailed for China in the Lion, and Inglefield and Sir Andrew Douglas took their ships to be paid off or decommissioned. Sir Roger Curtis and Sir Andrew Hamond brought their ships, the 80-gun Brunswick and the Bedford, from Spithead into the harbor, and John Duckworth and Colpoys took the Orion and Hannibal around the coast to join the fleet at Plymouth. Captain Bertie does not appear to have been going anywhere. Lord Hood still held the Duke just inside the harbor and was occupied once again with the mundane tasks of ship life. On October 10, after the firing of the evening gun, he struck his flag and traveled to London, “His Lordship being wanted at the Admiralty,” as his sailing master logged.
These movements were followed closely on the Hector. “Lord Hood set off from Hence yesterday for Town, so I hope a few Days will bring this Business to some kind of Issue,” Peter wrote to Nessy.
On the Hector, daily life had of course continued heedless of the prisoners. Captain Montagu’s cabin had been freshly painted, seamen were dispatched to and received from the hospital, casks of supplies were emptied and filled. On Friday, October 5, the same day Nessy arrived in town, seven men were punished for going onshore without leave. The following day, on the Brunswick, Captain Curtis, the witty, humane confidant of Lord Howe, ordered 84 lashes for various offenses, bringing the total of lashes given in the three and a half weeks since the commencement of the court-martial to 278. On the Bounty, William Bligh had punished his crew with 229 lashes in the course of a voyage of seventeen months to the South Pacific.
Meanwhile, Peter was occupying himself with an ambitious and worthy project—employing his “leisure hours,” as he put it, in compiling a Tahitian vocabulary. He was, as he had told his mother, “perfectly conversant” in the language, and now under James’s amused gaze he absorbed himself completely in this task: “so happy & intent upon it that I have no Opportunity of saying a Word to him,” as James told Nessy. He also received visitors. Delafons, Graham and John Spranger (fourth lieutenant of the Edgar, a fellow Manxman and a family friend) were regular guests, while the Hector’s first lieutenant of marines had also become a friend. The Berties, Uncle James Holwell and old friends like Dr. Scott and a Mr. Southcote were regular correspondents. From Commander Pasley there was an uncharacteristic silence.
“What cou’d I write?” the bluff seaman asked Nessy in a letter explaining his relative lack of correspondence. He was ever, he assured her, “unweariedly employed” in Peter’s service. He reiterated that Peter’s “flattering situation” was entirely due to “Mr. Graham’s Abilities,” and one is left with the impression that Graham may have directed him to keep a low profile while matters ran their course.
One relative newcomer who was to play an important role in the events ahead was William Howell, officially the chaplain of the Bedford but appointed to minister to the condemned men at the conclusion of the trial. At twenty-eight the Reverend Mr. Howell was the contemporary of most of the six men he was attending. In addition to serving as naval chaplain, Howell was also the minister of St. John’s Chapel, Portsea, recently erected on Portsmouth Common—and was apparently “the only minister of St. John’s whose relations with his people were unfortunately somewhat marred and interfered with,” according to a chapel memorial. This sour relationship with his flock arose principally from the fact that Howell preferred to reside at Purbrook, a quiet village some distance north of Portsea, instead of in the minister’s house that had been built at considerable expense close by his chapel. This resentment and his frequent absences notwithstanding, Howell had no qualms about going his own way, and was serenely to hold this desirable living for thirty-two years.
In his capacity as chaplain to the condemned mutineers, Howell found himself spending a great deal of time in their company. He is first referred to indirectly by Peter in a letter to his mother after the trial, informing her that a “Minister of the Gospel” had advised him “not to say too much to my dear Relations.” Peter’s own instinctive religious sensibilities had no doubt been heightened by Howell’s ministrations: it may be that in Howell can be found the source of Peter’s bizarre notion that his “sacrifice” might in some mysterious way be “for the Good of perhaps Thousands” of his fellow creatures.
Howell was friendly with one of Cook’s men, and he was intensely interested in the mutineers’ tales of the South Pacific. Thrown into their company, and “daily shut up with them for many Hours every day,” the young minister formed sentimental friendships with at least some of the men. In addition to taking a keen interest in Peter’s vocabulary, Howell gave encouragement to another important and ambitious literary undertaking—James Morrison’s narrative of th
e events on the Bounty and his description of Tahiti. The substantial effect of these two productions would be seen in the years ahead.
Meanwhile, Nessy was also occupied. On October 11, she sent a bold letter directly to Lord Chatham appealing to his lordship’s “known Humanity & Excellence of Heart” on her brother’s behalf. The letter included a document prepared by Peter that addressed point by point the most incriminating charges emerging from his trial, or, as Nessy termed it, “a few Observations made by my unfortunate & most tenderly beloved Brother.”
Pulling out all stops, Nessy laid her heart at his lordship’s feet: “When I assure you my Lord that he is dearer & more precious to me than any Object on Earth—nay—infinitely more valuable than even life itself—that, deprived of him, the Word Misery wou’d but ill express my complicated Wretchedness—& that on his Fate my own & shall I not add, that of a tender, fond, & alas! widowed Mother depends . . .”
It is unlikely that either Nessy’s petition or Peter’s “observations” had been drafted without Graham’s approval. Although Graham gave no sign of having lost his early complacency, he may have reckoned that some feminine special pleading could not hurt. Whatever the reasons, four days after her plea had been sent, Nessy wrote to her mother with momentous news from her Aunt Holwell.
“[S]he has Assurance,” Nessy wrote ecstatically, “of the royal Mercy being already extended & that she has written you a Letter congratulating you on the joyful Intelligence. Now my dearest Mama tho’ I cannot doubt its Truth, yet it must be very private, for nobody else has yet heard of it not even Mr. Graham”; Nessy had, of course, passed the news on to Graham, who only made the “particular request” that Mrs. Heywood would keep the news to herself: “the Mention of it at this Time can do no Good, & may do much Harm—therefore for Heavens sake be secret.”
The reassurance was reliable enough to induce Nessy to shed all the anxious cares she had carried since word of the mutiny had reached the Heywood home. On October 15, she dashed off a long poem, “On receiving certain Intelligence that my most amiable and beloved Brother Peter Heywood wou’d soon be restor’d to Freedom.”
Ah! Blissful Hour—Oh! Moment of Delight!—
Replete with happiness, with Rapture Bright! . . .
“I have a Letter from Peter to day & have as usual written to him but I dare not mention one Word of what makes me almost happy,” Nessy told her mother; “is it not a cruel Prohibition?”
As the days passed, the striking disparity between the inner circle and poor Peter was made ever more distinct. On the one hand, Mrs. Heywood wrote to Graham giving her most heartfelt thanks for all his help for a matter now concluded; on the other hand, between his tranquil vocabulary writing and long visits with his brother, Peter despaired of himself as one “banished from this World as a Wretch unworthy to live in it.” Graham declared that the “Business tho’ not publickly known, is most certainly finished,” while the Reverend Mr. Howell continued to administer to Peter and his condemned companions, reminding them of the vanity of earthly existence and of the true and eternal freedom from care that was theirs to come.
Within days, Nessy was writing again to Peter and prattling with happy indiscretion, dropping wild hints about “sanguine Hope” and the safety of Peter’s “Honor,” and telling him to give his mind “to every sensation of Delight which the near prospect of Love and Liberty can convey!” Out of delicacy to his “unhappy Companions,” he had to keep what she was about to say a sacred secret, which was: “You have no Idea how happy we now are. . . . Oh! gracious—’tis almost too much to support, for I am half bewitched already—I don’t know what I have written. . . .”
It was left to John Delafons to hand-deliver this bewildering letter, which Graham had instructed Nessy to leave unsealed. Probably it was from the lips of Delafons himself that all was made clear and for the first time in a long while Peter allowed himself to look forward to life after prison: “I now hope I may for years to come remain & prove myself my dearest Nessy’s most truly faithful & fondly affectionate Brother,” he signed his subsequent letter.
In the gun room, none of his private good news was communicated to the other prisoners. Still Peter passed much of his days and nights in irons, and he continued to take his meals with his condemned companions. The daily ministrations of the Reverend Mr. Howell undoubtedly kept some part of his imagination on the great hereafter. In such circumstances it was perhaps impossible to believe wholly and absolutely that liberty was just around the corner. On October 21, Pasley sent Nessy “a Letter from Capt Inglefield containing a new & positive Confirmation.” Shortly afterward Graham received a letter from John Fryer—by now a voice from the past—inquiring after Peter’s release.
“[A]ll that worthy Family are impatient for the happy Conclusion which we have now the utmost Right to expect with Certainty,” Nessy told Peter, after relating the tenor of a letter from Captain Bertie praising Peter. In the face of such conflicting emotion—Nessy’s bright certainty and the entrenched terror of his companions—Peter was using all his private reserves to maintain his own equilibrium. On the day he received one of Nessy’s most exultant letters, Peter composed a poem in praise of death:
Grim Death itself, in all its Horrors clad,
Is Man’s supremest Privilege! . . .
On the night of October 26, Aaron Graham went down to Portsmouth for the last time on this “business,” and so was at his client’s side when on the following afternoon Peter, along with James Morrison, was summoned before Captain Montagu on the quarterdeck. Here, under mild skies, in the presence of the Hector’s entire company, Montagu read to both men His Majesty the King’s gracious and unconditional pardon, but also pointed out “the evil of their past conduct; and in language, that drew tears from all who heard him, recommended to them to make atonement by their future good behaviour.” According to reports of the event, both prisoners were greatly and visibly affected by these words.
This emotion apart, there is no record of Morrison’s reaction to his good fortune; subsequent events would suggest he had revenge on his mind.
Peter’s reaction, however, was polished, appropriate and much praised. As the newspapers reported, “Mr. Heywood . . . seemed to have anticipated his inability to speak.” With the help of Graham he had prepared a brief statement for this moment, which he now read in his own voice. He hoped he had received the original sentence as became a man and would have met his fate as became a Christian; but “I receive with Gratitude my Sovereign’s Mercy, for which my future Life shall be faithfully devoted to his Service.”
With few possessions to collect, there was little to delay Peter’s departure. From his former shipmates, companions of the terrible, shared intimacy of fear and confinement, he took his final leave. Probably, the men wished one another well. Given Peter’s religious feeling, he undoubtedly left his friends with his blessing. After thanking the ship’s officers for the kind attention he had received, Peter was led by Graham down to one of the Hector’s boats and ferried to the mainland. Here they took a coach and departed for London. The original plan had been to spend the night on the road, but impatience got the better of both, and they pressed on to London.
At half past ten in the morning on the twenty-ninth, Nessy wrote perhaps the shortest epistle of her prolific career: “I have seen him—clasped him to my Bosom—& my Felicity is beyond Expression!” she raved to her mother. “I can write no more but to tell you that the three happiest Beings at this Moment on Earth are your most dutiful & affectionate Children.” In happy triumph, the letter was signed by James, by Nessy—and by Peter.
In Portsmouth, the weather continued cloudy but by the afternoon of October 28, it had turned pleasant and mild. Under these briefly benign skies, John Millward, Thomas Burkett and Thomas Ellison were led for the last time down the Hector’s gangway and into a gently pitching boat. On this occasion, the Duke was not their destination. Following delivery of the verdict, the captains had drawn lots to determine the
ship on which the executions would take place. It had fallen to Captain Curtis and the Brunswick, half an hour’s boat journey away in the harbor.
The gun room of the Brunswick had been carefully prepared for the prisoners’ reception, with the gun ports closed and screens hung around a marked-off area. Within a corner of this screened enclosure, in turn, was the small “cell” to which the three men were to be consigned.
“Not a ray of light was permitted to obtrude,” an officer of the Brunswick recorded. “All was silent, solemn, and gloomy.” This grim atmosphere had been created out of a kind of perverse delicacy on the prisoners’ behalf, intended as a sympathetic, reverential backdrop that would not mock their affliction. Throughout the ship a mood of genuine sadness pervaded.
The prisoners themselves were brought on board under guard and, according to the anonymous officer, “tripped up and down the ladders with the most wonderful alacrity” as they made their way down to the gun room. Their expressions “were perfectly calm, serene, and chearful,” although, as the officer confessed, it shocked him to see men so full of life and health and vigor only hours away from death.
As he stood out of sight beyond the screened-off cell, the officer’s attention had been drawn early in the evening by the sound of someone reading a sermon, and he had assumed one of the chaplains had been let in to perform this service. On looking around the screen, however, he saw that it was John Millward—the would-be deserter, the reluctant mutineer—who was ministering to his companions. The prisoners continued speaking among themselves, in conversation “chearful, resigned, and manly,” until ten o’clock, when they turned to the bedrolls prepared for them and attempted to sleep.
The Bounty: The True Story of the Mutiny on the Bounty Page 36
