The case that Johnston had touched upon, Bligh’s second court-martial, had occurred in 1805. The causes were indeed as Bligh outlined; the injured lieutenant, a man named Frazier, had in fact been allowed to take his watch sitting down, but while doing so had begun an argument with the Warrior’s steward that had become so heated it had reached Bligh in his cabin. Coming out in one of his passions, Bligh had, as the affronted lieutenant reported, grossly insulted and ill-treated him “by calling me a rascal, scoundrel and shaking his fist in my face.” The ensuing court-martial revealed a calculated awareness of the reputation Bligh had gained as a result of the Bounty business. The charges preferred against him from this squall were for behaving toward his officer in a “tyrannical and oppressive and unofficerlike manner.” The stream of witnesses summoned by both sides yielded the revelation that Captain Bligh was often hasty in his language, which was variously regarded by different men as offensive and “irritating,” or of no consequence. It was also revealed that Captain Bligh habitually used “a great deal of action with his hands, without having any particular meaning in it.” The general consensus of the officers was that “they were sorry Lieutenant Frazier should be so ill-advised as to bring his Captain to a Court-martial upon grounds which appeared so frivolous.”
For his part Bligh had directed to the court an unapologetic statement: “I candidly and without reserve avow that I am not a tame & indifferent observer of the manner in which Officers placed under my orders conducted themselves in the performance of their several duties,” he declared, in a self-assessment that could apply to his entire career. “[A] signal or any communication from a commanding officer has ever been to me an indication for exertion & alacrity to carry into effect the purport thereof, & peradventure I may occasionally have appeared to some of those officers as unnecessarily anxious for its execution.”
The charges were “in part proved,” and Bligh had been reprimanded, “admonished to be in future more correct in his language,” and restored to his command. As one historian has noted, however, “[T]he officers comprising the bench of magistrates must in private have grinned broadly to themselves when they sent him back to his ship after admonishing him to swear a little more mildly in future. . . .” But once this particular box of mischief had been opened, it proved both difficult to close again and extremely easy to manipulate the contents brought to light.
“Did any soldiers ever complain to you of having received gross abuse from the Governor?” one of the Rum Corps officers was now asked at the court-martial held on Governor Bligh’s removal from office.
“I heard several complaints from the soldiers, of having received abuse from Gov. Bligh, and often the language was too gross to be repeated,” replied the officer priggishly. Putting aside the very real question of how much personal contact Governor Bligh would have had with these troops, one is asked to believe that Rum Corps soldiers policing the world’s largest penal colony had been shocked and offended by Governor Bligh’s unprecedented bad language. More credible is the probability that this line of attack had been inspired by an opportunistic awareness of Bligh’s record for such behavior.
Bligh’s case against the usurpers was won to his satisfaction, but this case, too, represented a kind of Pyrrhic victory. As the events of his life receded over time into a fuzzy unclarity, they came to suggest a damning record of tyranny and mismanagement. First the Bounty, then the Nore mutiny, then the mutiny in New South Wales—clearly Captain Bligh, Breadfruit Bligh, that Bounty Bastard, had been cursed with some fatal inability to command.
With the conclusion of the Rum Corps court-martial, Bligh returned to a brief period of untroubled domesticity, which was ended sadly by the death of Betsy in the spring of 1812. A striking and fulsome obituary in the Gentlemen’s Magazine praised her as “a rare example of every virtue and amiable quality” and gave some insight into why her husband had so revered her. Mrs. Bligh had collected “a choice and extensive library” in English, Italian and French literature, and had also owned a world-class collection of rare shells, undoubtedly supplemented from her husband’s travels. Her knowledge, “excellent understanding” and unfailing good taste were matched only by her sweetness of temper. Poor Bligh now buried his wife of thirty-one years in the churchyard of St. Mary’s, Lambeth. She was not yet sixty.
The same year also saw the loss of another important figure in Bligh’s life, although it is doubtful that he had concerned himself much with John Fryer for many years. The Bounty’s former master had rebounded from his travails to build a solid and apparently unproblematic career. By the end of his life he had enjoyed the command of three storeships, and the commendation of one of his captains as a “very good navigator, a very sober man, well informed in his profession and of great exertion.” Commander of a storeship, to be sure, was fairly far down on the naval chain of command, and Fryer’s daughter would state in later years that her father was “the oldest Master but one” on the naval lists at the time of his death, not necessarily cause to boast.
Fryer’s bitterness toward Bligh never waned; Bligh had been “as Tyrannical in his temper in the Boat as in the Ship,” he had told his daughters, and in the boat Bligh had thought chiefly of his own comfort—a quaint notion, given the circumstances of that ordeal. Fryer had also conveyed to his family his many friendships with numerous other captains—Sir Andrew Snape Hamond, who had served on the court-martial of mutineers, was “amongst those whom he considered his best friends.” However, when Fryer came to petition the Admiralty for a pension after ill health forced him to retirement, he does not appear to have enjoyed their “interest”—in any event, his petition had met with no success.
The ordeal of the boat voyage had, according to his daughter Mary Ann, “laid the foundation for a premature old age.” A surgeon’s report made for Fryer at the time he surrendered command of his last ship described him as suffering from “general debility, spasmodic rigidity of almost the whole body, great anxiety of mind, with much loss of memory, the whole forming a disease of extreme nervous irritability.” Again, his daughter’s assessment was insightful; the debility from the boat voyage “combined with a naturally anxious mind” had reduced him to a state of almost complete helplessness. This “naturally anxious mind” had probably not been the happiest combination to have paired with Bligh’s “tornados” of temper. A series of pathetic letters written (by or for him) at the very end of his life speak eloquently of this earnest, dogged and quietly ambitious officer’s anxieties. After years of zealous and faithful service, and many perils and dangers, Fryer found himself “unable to maintain himself and family of five Daughters with the half-Pay to which he is entitled.” He died, in his daughter’s words, “as helpless as an infant,” unable even to put food to his mouth, yet another survivor of the boat voyage afflicted with a mysterious paralysis.
John Fryer was a few months shy of sixty when he was buried in his native Wells-next-the-Sea. Despite the representations of his pension petition, the former master owned a number of tidy, modest cottages at the time of his death and was able to bequeath to each of his daughters £200 as well as silver forks and teaspoons. Judging from the easy, confident style of his daughter Mary Ann’s letter writing, he had also left his family a legacy of some education. A son, Harrison, had served as a midshipman under Nelson at the battle of Copenhagen—a remarkable distinction—and so would have been present to witness Nelson’s public commendation of Bligh after that battle, on his ship.
Fryer’s young brother-in-law, Robert Tinkler, the youngest by far of those condemned to the boat voyage, died some eight years after Fryer. Tinkler had joined the Bounty at the age of twelve as an able seaman destined for the quarterdeck, and indeed eventually achieved the rank of commander. He was only forty-six when he died at his home in Norwich and was reputed to have received some twenty-one wounds in the course of his intrepid service. His death too does not appear to have come at sea.
Robert Tinkler was the probable source of an anecdo
te that, if true, offers significant insight into the relationship of the Bounty crew with Bligh and Christian. Many years later, in 1857, George Borrow, a collector of folk and Romany tales, recalled “an individual who was turned adrift with Bligh, and who died about the year ’22, a lieutenant in the navy, in a provincial town in which the writer was brought up”; Tinkler died in 1820, in Norwich, which was indeed the same provincial town in which Borrow had spent his youth. Tinkler died a commander, not a lieutenant, but this inconsistent detail may have been a slip of youthful memory. The ringleaders in the mutiny, this survivor of the boat voyage had told Borrow, those “two scoundrels” Fletcher Christian and Edward Young, had enjoyed great influence with the crew “because they were genteelly connected.” William Bligh, son of a Plymouth customs officer, was also of solid “gentleman’s” background, and certainly his naval career had progressed along the lines typical of a young gentleman; but in the calibrated social order that governed their universe, as the Bounty’s canny sailors, “above the common herd of uninformed illiterates,” would have appreciated, a nephew of Sir George Young and the heir to the seven-hundred-year-old Christian name enjoyed birthrights—and interest—that outranked that of William Bligh.
Others of the Bounty’s crew—William Peckover, John Samuel, Michael Byrn, Joseph Coleman, Thomas McIntosh, John Smith—all eventually vanish from view. Joseph Coleman was in and out of hospitals for a number of years following the court-martial. He served with Bligh on two later ships, the Director and the Calcutta. On the latter, he wrote his will, which left all effects to his wife, Elizabeth, and which was witnessed by William Bligh. Coleman was last recorded as being discharged from the Director to the Yarmouth Hospital Ship in November 1796—and then is heard of no more. Michael Byrn is briefly glimpsed serving with Bligh’s nephew, Francis Bond, on the Prompte. Bond interviewed Byrn at his uncle’s behest during the Edward Christian affair, scrupulously following an exacting list of questions Bligh had prepared. Byrn’s answers, scribbled by Bond, are often inadvertently comical: Had Byrn ever recalled Bligh calling Mr. Edward Christian’s brother “a Thief ”? No, said Byrn, he could only remember Captain Bligh calling the ship’s company by this term. Had he ever seen Bligh shake his fist in Fletcher Christian’s face? “I cannot see” had been poor Byrn’s plaintive response.
Bligh was less than happy with the entirety of Byrn’s performance, although a more dispassionate reading should have shown him that Byrn had done him good, not harm. He had been particularly put out that Bond had been unable to get Byrn to state that he remembered Captain Bligh’s “kindness to us was such that I made songs on him.” Evidently, Bligh had been wont to take his evening stroll around the Bounty quarterdeck as his men danced away, warm with the cozy belief that his fiddler’s words about their captain were kindly meant. He had not apparently appreciated the lower deck’s gift for sardonic dark humor. Almost unremarked was the fiddler’s extraordinary statement that George Stewart had not “clapped his hands and said the day of the Mutiny was the happiest day of his life”—this, said Byrn, had been done by Peter Heywood.
Of the other men named, John Smith seems to have stayed with the Blighs at least until 1801, and McIntosh was to join the merchant service. And after this, nothing more has been found about them. Captain Edward Edwards was rumored to have retired to Cornwall to become an innkeeper of an establishment he named, with a monstrous lack of tact, Pandora Inn. He died in 1815, still living on his naval half pay.
Bligh apart, the man who was to achieve the greatest professional distinction of all the men who had sailed with the Bounty was Peter Heywood. After serving under Captains Pasley, Cloberry Christian and Douglas, Heywood had been present with Curtis as an aide-de-camp on the quarterdeck of the Queen Charlotte, Lord Howe’s flagship, at the defeat of the French off Ushant on June 1, 1794—reverentially spoken of afterward as the battle of the Glorious First of June. All these gentlemen, as Heywood later wrote, became “his most sincere and warm friends.”
In 1803, at the age of thirty-one, Heywood was promoted to post-captain—he was two years younger than Lieutenant Bligh had been when he took command of the Bounty. Heywood remained in constant service until his early retirement in 1816. In addition to proving a competent and diligent officer, he made a name for himself as a hydrographic surveyor. His beautifully drafted charts—of the Malabar coast, the north coast of Morocco, the River Plate, the north coast of Sumatra and the northwest coast of Australia—often accompanied by evocative landscapes, recall the precocious sketches he had made for his family of the wreck of the Pandora.
“[W]ith much unwearied zeal I instructed them,” Bligh had written of his tutelage of Heywood and Christian, “for I considered them very worthy of every good I could render to them, and they really promised as professional Men to be an honor to their Country.”
Despite the ease with which he had been advanced through the service, and the innumerable tokens of special treatment he enjoyed, Peter’s life after the court-martial had not been altogether happy. The year following her brother’s release, Nessy Heywood died after catching cold at a ball on a visit to a family friend near Tunbridge Wells. Her grieving mother left a specific account of this sudden, sad illness, noting that Nessy had caught “a violent cold, and not taking proper care of herself, it soon turned to inflammation on her lungs.” Later literature could do better than this, however, and when some years afterward the first comprehensive account of the mutiny on the Bounty was published, Nessy’s death had been deftly attributed to the strain of Peter’s trial: “This impassioned and most affectionate of sisters, with an excess of sensibility, which acted too powerfully on her bodily frame, sunk, as is often the case with susceptible minds, on the first attack of consumption.” In later versions still, readers would learn that “protracted anxiety” had worn out Nessy’s “naturally delicate constitution . . . [s]he had never recovered the effects of the tempestuous voyage to Liverpool,” made when she had fled to Peter’s aid. From this, it was but a small step to the final version of the legend—that Nessy had died saving her brother.
Fortunately for posterity, Nessy had compiled a book of her poems and correspondence relating to Peter’s trial. Several copies of this were made and discreetly passed around. “I am glad you were pleased with my poor Nessy’s little Book,” Peter wrote to a fellow officer in 1808. “[T]he impression it has made on the mind of those who have read it has been favorable to me. . . .”
Nessy had not been Peter’s only loss. Young Henry had died in Madras, on Peter’s own ship, in 1802, and his eldest brother, James, had died in late 1804. Things had not gone so well for James, who in 1793 had fled the Isle of Man at night to escape his creditors; it appears that he had inherited the debts his father owed the Duke of Atholl. Three years later, James spent several months in Winchester Gaol, also for debts (“my present truly disagreeable situation,” as he had referred to his predicament, with a young gentleman’s hauteur). The year 1805 saw the death of Mrs. Bertie, Peter’s relation who had tended him so kindly during his confinement. An affair she had been conducting with one of her husband’s officers was discovered when her lover’s ship was wrecked and her correspondence was found in a desk floating on the water. Discarded by her husband, she was rumored to have died of disgrace. Uncle Pasley had died in 1808, a baronet, having earned this distinction for his bravery in the Battle of the Glorious First of June, in which he had lost a leg.
When, those years ago, young Heywood had been summoned before the assembled company of the Hector to receive His Majesty’s pardon, he had pledged his “future Life” would be faithfully devoted to his sovereign’s service. This pledge he held good. A humble awareness that he had been reprieved—when others had not—combined with his strong religious feeling seemed to have forged of his life a kind of penance. A portrait of Captain Heywood in full-dress uniform, painted in 1822, captured the former mutineer with what his family referred to as his “thoughtful countenance.” An expression of wary reserve i
nforms his watchful face. That Captain Heywood did not indulge himself often or deeply is evident from the stark record of his service: as he himself tellingly summarized, at the time of his retirement after twenty-nine years, seven months and one day of naval service, he had been “actively employed at sea twenty-seven years, six months, one week and five days.”
During one of his brief stints ashore, in 1806, Heywood got engaged, but ten years would pass before the marriage took place and was consummated. That he had been not entirely successful in sublimating his lurking passions is suggested by a curious document he drew up in the presence of fellow officers while at sea on the Nereus in 1810. On a squally late summer day, somewhere between the Downs and Spithead en route to Buenos Aires, Peter drafted a brief last will and testament. Addressed to his brother Edwin with the stern injunction that it was “to be opened at death and not before,” it expressed Heywood’s intention to “make some provision for an Infant under my care & protection and at present at Nurse.” Payments for the care of “Mary Gray” were to be to a Mr. Makin, a color and dye merchant in London.
From his eventual marriage in 1816 to Frances Joliffe, the widow of an East Indiaman captain, there would be no children. Beneath the blue cloth and gold braid of his portrait, Heywood still wore the blue-black tattoos so attractive to Otaheite women, and one must wonder how the widow Joliffe was prepared to behold this sight. She was from a Stirling-shire family, and after her husband’s death had come from Bombay to London with her infant daughter. She eventually fell under the protection of her great-uncle—Aaron Graham.
The Bounty: The True Story of the Mutiny on the Bounty Page 47
