Fletcher of the Bounty

by Graeme Lay

  Fletcher had read of Madras’s history in a recently published book loaned to him by Captain Courtnay. It was entitled The Subjugation of the French and Others by the British in East India, 1626–1780, by Alexander Dalrymple, who had been in the employ of the British East India Company. Fletcher was aware that Dalrymple had been keen to command the Royal Navy’s expedition to observe the transit of Venus in June 1769, but had been rejected because he had arrogantly insisted on also commanding the ship, something he was not entitled to do. The role was then awarded to James Cook, who proved an inspired choice.

  Nevertheless, Dalrymple’s history of Madras fascinated Fletcher. Its early chapters chronicled the establishment of the town, which was once just a sleepy fishing village, as far back as 1522, when the Portuguese built a trading port on the coast. In 1612 the Dutch arrived, establishing a small settlement at Pulicat, just north of Madras. Then in 1626 the British arrived, in the form of the English East India Company. The company established a factory processing the region’s principal product, calico cloth, at Armagon, thirty-five miles north of Pulicat. To protect their trading interests, in 1640 the company built a small fortified settlement which they named Fort St George.

  Although Madras was surrounded by territories ruled by often hostile Hindu and Moslem powers, it was Britain’s old foe, France, which had captured Fort St George, in 1746. Their victory was short-lived, however, as control over the fort was regained by the British in 1749, under the Treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle. The fort was subsequently strengthened and enlarged. The British also fought the native leaders and won control of East India, known as the Kingdom of Mysore.

  Fletcher appreciated the concluding statement of Dalrymple’s history:

  By 1780, seventeen years after the victorious conclusion of the Seven Years’ War, Britain was in complete control of Madras and its surrounding region, with all her European enemies defeated and the native Hindu and Moslem authorities subjugated. Thus the conditions were ripe for the port town of Madras to become not only a vital trading and administrative centre in eastern India, but an important base for the victorious Navy of his Majesty, King George III. In conjunction with the other British trading towns on the coast of the sub-continent of India, the consolidation of Madras forms the basis for continuing British trade, prosperity and power. Greatness for our nation lies ahead!

  Eurydice was worked slowly through the mouth of the Adyar River and into Madras Harbour. Although its entrance was only about a hundred yards wide, once the ship was through it the river opened to the tidal basin which comprised the harbour proper. It was crammed with ships, mostly vessels flying the flag of the East India Company, and all at anchor, sails furled. Much smaller native fishing vessels moved slowly through the cluster of British ships, like small dogs among a herd of cattle. Some were being rowed, others were under lateen sail.

  Eurydice’s anchors were lowered near the centre of the harbour, alongside an East Indiaman sloop. There was little wind, and the mid-morning sun was blistering. Fletcher and Samuel Evans leaned on the larboard rail, near the bow, looking over towards the town, which was built on flat land along the northern bank of the river.

  A line of palm trees grew along the shore, with a few thatched huts scattered among them. Inland, behind the town, was a series of hills, burned brown by the sun. Smells of the land wafted across to them: burning wood and grass, the odour of drying fish. Some distance from the dock, to the west, was a temple, a complex structure of blocks and towers. Directly ahead and a little way back from the river bank was a fortress with stone walls, battlements and, above its entrance, a central turret. The Union Jack was hanging limp from a pole atop the turret. Dwarfing everything around it, the fort appeared impregnable.

  ‘Fort St George,’ Fletcher said.

  ‘It’s huge,’ said Evans, awed. ‘Are we permitted to go ashore?’

  ‘I’ve not been told. I hope so. It looks an exciting town.’

  ‘You two! Don’t just stand about talking! Attend to your duties!’ The shout came from Lieutenant Drake, striding down the deck towards them.

  ‘Aye, sir,’ replied Fletcher and Evans together. They hurried off to help release the ship’s pinnace, which was being hoisted out from the foredeck.

  The following day half the midshipmen, including Fletcher and Evans, were given leave to go ashore for the day. Ferried in the pinnace to one of the jetties which extended into the river, they stepped off the boat and into India.

  People, people, people, everywhere. The dusty road that ran parallel to the river bank was filled with people scurrying in all directions at once, like crabs whose rock has been overturned. There were women porters in brightly coloured gowns, barefoot and bearing pottery urns on their heads, swaying gracefully as they walked. Most had gold rings through their noses. Other young women had babies strapped to their backs. Bearded men in dhotis carried baskets of goods or pulled handcarts piled high with fruit and vegetables, bound for the market across the road. There were oxen drawing carts which struggled through the hordes, their passengers turbaned, imperious men. Horned cows with bony shoulders and pale hides wandered about languorously, shitting, pissing and ignoring the human crowd. Chickens and dogs crept among the human and animal zoo. And the smells! The hot air reeked of spiced food, over-ripe fruit and vegetables, human sweat, animal and human dung.

  Gagging at the stench, Fletcher and Evans fought their way through the hordes to the other side of the road. They came to a line of spice stalls, and braziers frying rice and vegetables. Behind the food stalls was a row of stone buildings, separated by alleyways. ‘Black Town’, they had been told this area was called. As Fletcher and Evans made their way between the stalls their female proprietors held out bowls of food and cried shrilly, ‘English, English! Special food for you! Cheap, cheap!’

  Feeling conspicuous amid the crowds of importuning natives, the pair struggled into the street at the rear of the market, then entered one of the alleys. On either side of it were more stalls, run by men squatting beside piles of spices and chillies heaped onto banana palm leaves. The spices were brightly coloured: saffron, red, ginger, yellow, brown.

  As Fletcher and Evans made their way further into Black Town they were again assailed by shrieking vendors. ‘English! English! Nice spices for you! Special! Special!’

  Fletcher turned to Evans and grinned. ‘We should take some back for our cook. It might improve the taste of his meat.’

  Further into the alley there were no more spice stalls, just open doorways with stone steps on which men and women were sitting. The turbaned men were thin-faced and unshaven; the hollow-cheeked women wore threadbare saris and gold bangles on their wrists. All were barefooted. Some women were nursing babies which they held out to the young sailors, imploringly. ‘English, English! Money, money for baby!’

  Increasingly unsettled by this poverty, Evans said, ‘I think we should go back to the ship. All these beggars, I don’t like it.’

  Fletcher shook his head. ‘You can. I want to explore some more.’

  As Evans turned, he said, ‘Be careful.’

  ‘I will.’

  The alley grew narrower. Overhead, items of clothing dangled from bamboo poles protruding from upstairs windows or hung from balconies. Some of the washing dripped onto Fletcher and he turned up his collar. It was stifling in the alley and the mud stank, but he pressed on, excited by the exoticness he was immersed in, keen to see where the alleyway led.

  A little further along, in an open doorway, stood a girl. She was quite short, not five feet in height, and wore a dark red sari. Her feet were bare and her head was uncovered, her raven-black hair hanging loose. As Fletcher approached she beamed at him. Her face was round, the skin unmarked except for a crimson dot in the centre of her forehead and a gold ring in her nose. Her most striking feature was her eyes. They were dark brown and lustrous. Still beaming, making beckoning movements with one hand, she said, ‘English, English. Nice man English.’

  She lifted her
sari with both hands. Fletcher stared. Beneath the sari she was naked, and at the pit of her rounded belly was a mat of black hair. ‘Fuck? Fuck?’ she asked. Fixated, he nodded. Lifting the sari higher, she exposed her brown breasts and said, ‘Money? Money?’

  He nodded. They had all been allocated a small allowance by the purser for buying meals while ashore. The girl lowered her sari, stood back and ushered him into the unlit, earth-floored passage. ‘Come,’ she said, and he followed her. Heart pounding, he groped for the coins in his pocket. She turned, still smiling, still beckoning. ‘Here, here. Fuck in here.’

  From out of the darkness to his right, a figure rushed at him, one arm raised, in its hand a cosh. Fletcher just had time to see that the figure was male, skinny, and that it wore just a loincloth, before the cosh came down on his head.

  It was his midshipman’s hat that saved him. Although his head rang with the blow, and red lights danced behind his eyes, the hat absorbed most of the blow’s force. And although he reeled from it, that gave him time to retaliate. He reached out, grabbed the cosh before the man had time to strike another blow, and hauled on it as hard as he could. His assailant came forward, stumbled, fell on his face. The cosh fell to the ground. Fletcher bent, grabbed the man’s hair, hauled him upwards. He was very light. Fletcher swung his right arm and struck the man on the side of the face. He cried out, spitting blood. Fletcher hit him again, then hurled him against the opposite wall.

  Before running from the building, Fletcher turned and looked for the girl. She had disappeared.

  It was halfway through his second voyage to India on Eurydice that Fletcher received a summons from Captain Courtnay’s servant, ordering him to report to him in the Great Cabin. That was still a part of the ship to which, as a mere midshipman, he was usually denied entry. The servant, Dunmorton, knocked on the door of the captain’s cabin then opened it. Captain Courtnay rose.

  ‘Christian, come in.’ He waved his hand at a chair opposite him. ‘Sit down.’ There was a pipe on the table in front of the captain, and a small knife.

  Staring at Fletcher, the commander rubbed his chin. ‘You’ve been with Eurydice for almost a year, is that correct?’

  ‘It is, sir. I signed on in April last year.’

  ‘Yes.’ He picked up his pipe and began to ream out the bowl with the knife. Fletcher watched him, puzzled. He had ordered him here just to tell him what he already knew?

  The captain leaned back in his chair. ‘I’ve been impressed with your performance, Christian, throughout the two voyages. The way you work with the younger midshipmen, and support them. Your leadership has not gone unnoticed.’

  Fletcher shrugged. ‘I’m older, so I help them when they need it. It’s no more than my duty to do so, sir.’

  ‘Many would not see it that way,’ said Courtnay. ‘The other thing that impresses me is your logbook. For a midshipman, it’s the best-kept I’ve ever read. The care you take with the written word is impressive.’

  ‘I had the advantage of attending a very good school, sir.’

  ‘Evidently.’ He stared at Fletcher across the table. ‘As from tomorrow, I’m promoting you to Acting Lieutenant. And Watch Leader.’

  Fletcher’s head spun. Acting Lieutenant? Watch Leader? For some moments he couldn’t speak. As Courtnay took a wad of tobacco from a pouch and filled his pipe bowl, Fletcher said at last, ‘This comes as a great surprise to me, sir.’

  ‘An agreeable one, I trust.’

  ‘Yes. But it usually takes several years of experience to be offered a commission.’

  ‘True. But the fact that I’m offering you one after two years at sea is testimony to your capabilities. You are strict, yet the men like you.’ He grunted. ‘A rare combination.’

  ‘I am honoured, sir. Thank you.’

  ‘Good. Tomorrow Dunmorton will issue you with your lieutenant’s uniform. And from now on you will dine with us in the Officers’ Mess.’ He stood up and walked to the cabinet under the bookcase. ‘Now, let’s celebrate your promotion with a glass of brandy.’

  Fletcher revelled his new status on Eurydice. There appeared to be little resentment among the other midshipmen over his elevation. Indeed, they seemed pleased. ‘Acting Lieutenant,’ said Evans proudly, as if it was himself who had been promoted. ‘But you will still visit us in our quarters, won’t you?’

  Fletcher mimed a cuff to his ear. ‘Not if you ask stupid questions like that, lad.’ He grinned. ‘But of course I will.’

  Shortly after Eurydice finished her latest tour of duty and Fletcher returned to the Isle on leave, there was a startling international development. After negotiations at the highest level, a deal had been brokered and a peace agreement reached between Britain and the new nation, the United States of America. France, which had supported America, was badly in debt from the war, and could not continue fighting.

  The Treaty of Paris was signed on 3 September 1783 by representatives of King George III for Britain and those from the United States, whose delegates included the redoubtable Benjamin Franklin. Negotiations had begun in April 1782, and had continued into the next year before the treaty was eventually signed. This ended the American Revolutionary War. There were separate peace treaties between Britain and the nations that had supported the American cause: France, Spain and the Dutch Republic. Peace had again descended on Europe.

  But the concord brought unexpected consequences.

  ‘A letter for you, Fletcher.’ His mother turned it over. ‘It looks very official. From the Admiralty.’

  Ann Christian was now living in upstairs rooms in a house in Woodbourne Road, Douglas, three streets back from the Promenade. She had been financially assisted in this move by Edward, Charles and Fletcher. It was a comfortable property. The rooms all had sloping walls papered with heraldic scenes; there was a fireplace in the small drawing room; and sash windows gave views of Douglas Bay, the harbour and Onchan Head. Apple and plum trees grew in the small walled garden at the rear of the house. Fletcher was staying with his mother, sleeping in the small bedroom at the rear of the building.

  ‘I’m grateful to you,’ she told him, ‘for helping me escape from Milntown.’ He pressed his lips together, to avoid clicking his tongue in irritation. Escape? Why dramatise the move? Why didn’t she just accept her improved position and be done with it?

  They were seated on a chaise longue under one of the drawing room windows. His mother handed him the letter and he opened it eagerly. Was the Admiralty writing to offer him a permanent commission?

  21 November 1784

  Dear Acting Lieutenant Christian,

  You have doubtless read of the cessation of hostilities between Great Britain, France and the United States of America. This is a development to be greatly welcomed, as it will save our nation considerably in lives and capital. Accordingly, the Chancellor of the Exchequer has announced that the activities of Great Britain’s Army and Navy will be substantially reduced, and henceforth military personnel will be retained on half pay. The vessel on which you last served, HMS Eurydice, will be kept in dock at Deptford, and will not sail on active service again in the foreseeable future.

  We know that you will rejoice in the new peace agreement as ratified by the Treaty of Paris and will look forward, as we do, to a future for Britain and Europe of peace and prosperity.

  Yours faithfully,

  Philip Stephens, Secretary to the Admiralty, Whitehall, London.

  ‘What is the news?’ his mother asked.

  He handed her the letter. She read it, and her brow creased. ‘No further service? Half pay?’

  Nodding, he stared out the window. His career in the navy, shattered. No more voyages to India, no more training on the high seas, no more promotions. Half pay — a shilling a day — would scarcely support him on land. His mind clouded over. Just when his tide had begun to flow strongly, it had turned and ebbed, leaving him stranded on this dull island.

  ‘What will you do?’ asked his mother, still clutching the letter.
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  Quite unable to answer, he just shook his head.

  Later that day he climbed Bray Hill at the back of the town and sat gazing at the sea. The sun was bright and the features of the harbour’s Tower of Refuge were clearly defined. To banish the view, he looked down. In his mind a black fog had formed, and lodged there. It blotted out his future. Confined to land? He couldn’t bear it. The sea had become his life: he couldn’t renounce it and become a landlubber. Everything he had learned over the last two years — and that was plenty — was now gone to waste. Sod the peace treaty.

  The last two years had been the best of his life. He had become accustomed to, and savoured, the endless, ever-changing sea. The exhilaration of sails and gales, the howl of the wind in the shrouds, the creaking of the strakes, the pitching and rolling of the ship. And the rambunctious camaraderie of the lower deck, then the more formal company of the officers’ mess. The shores of India, the smells of its ports and their foods, the chatter of native voices, the allure of exotic women. None of that could ever be matched by a life on land.

  He shook his head, but could not dislodge the blackness in there. His hands had gone clammy, and he wiped them on his breeches. Assailed by despair, he put his head in his hands. What could he do? Where could he go? He certainly couldn’t stay here on this island with his difficult mother.

  It was another hour before he got up and walked back down the hill and into the town. There was a glimmer of hope on the horizon, he thought. Cousin John, who knew everyone who made a living on land, could speak to Captain Courtnay, who knew everyone here who made a living on the sea.

  The Douglas Club was on the Douglas waterfront, a two-level stone building covered in Virginia creeper whose bare winter vines clung to its walls like clutching fingers. The building’s windows were mullioned, its porticoed entrance dignified.

  The air in the social room was thick with smoke from a coal fire and the pipes of most of the members. A candelabrum hung from a ceiling rose, its multiple flames casting light over the room. On the walls were paintings of hunting scenes and sea battles. The flag of the Isle of Man hung above a servery, on which were carafes of wine, port and brandy. A Negro waiter moved through the crowd of members, holding out a silver salver upon which they placed their glasses for him to refill.