Fletcher of the Bounty

by Graeme Lay

  One day during the third week, conditions being favourable, the captain accorded Fletcher the responsibility of shooting the sun at midday and recording the ship’s position. After he did so satisfactorily, from then on Fletcher was conscious of the captain taking a personal interest in his nautical education. He felt grateful for this. Already familiar with the fundamentals of seamanship — boxing the compass, splicing, knotting, reefing, furling — he was now being tutored by his commander in the more esoteric skills: keeping an estimate of a ship’s progress by dead reckoning and taking observations using the sun or stars. These, he knew, were significant skills.

  At the end of the third week Fletcher was invited to dine with the officers in their mess. There he appreciated the difference in the table conversations; from the crudities and grumblings of the lower deck to the more mature discussions of the captain and his officers. Here the talk was of politics, books and voyaging. Evidently Fletcher had passed some sort of unwritten test, as a few days later he was again invited to the captain’s cabin. There, over coffee, Captain Bligh showed him his charts and explained in detail the course he was plotting for Britannia’s sailing master, Charlie Rogers.

  Fletcher’s knowledge of navigation was enhanced by this. Always eager to learn, he looked forward to these sessions and began to warm to the commander. This captain, he realised, was an exceptional seaman. No wonder Captain Cook had appointed him sailing master on Resolution. Even as a twenty-two-year-old, Bligh must have been an outstanding candidate for the role.

  While on Eurydice, Fletcher had witnessed floggings of ordinary seamen, standard naval punishment for transgressions such as insolence to an officer or negligence while on duty. Once Captain Courtnay had ordered an able seaman to receive twenty strokes of the cat for drawing a knife on the cook and threatening to cut off his balls after he was served putrid meat. But a curious thing about Captain Bligh was that not once during Britannia’s voyage out did he order a man flogged.

  This, Fletcher soon realised, was probably because he had an even sharper arrow in his quiver — his tongue. Never had he heard a man curse like this captain. Any seaman who contravened regulations was hauled before him on deck and treated not to physical but verbal violence. After one hapless seaman, John Gibling, was caught in the act of stealing the rum ration of the master, Rogers, he was stood before the quarterdeck in front of the crew. There the captain brought down curses upon him like a shower of molten lead.

  ‘God damn you, Gibling, you thieving fucking swine. Blast and bugger your eyes, you’re no better than a burnt-arsed whore! Steal again, you nackle-arse, and I’ll have you keel-hauled to buggery.’ He leaned over the railing. ‘What have you got to say for yourself, you fucking arse-licker?’

  Gibling shook his head. ‘Nothin’, Captain.’

  ‘Well then, you thieving, arse-licking pig-fucker, get below and hand your rum ration over to Rogers!’

  Gibling, head hanging, trembling with shame and humiliation, slunk down the nearest companionway. He never stole again.

  Fletcher witnessed this admonishment in amazement. How could a man change so rapidly in manner from the urbane character of the Great Cabin to the foul-mouthed name-caller topside? A man would prefer strokes of the cat rather than be abused in this manner. And, he wondered, what would demure Elizabeth Bligh think if she heard such cursing?

  The other odd thing was that when the captain’s fulminations were over, he reverted instantly to a calm demeanour, as if not a single curse had passed his lips.

  Moreover, the commander never uttered so much as a ‘damn’ in Fletcher’s presence. His language was mild, his demeanour considerate, even avuncular. Fletcher was by now invited to dine in the officers’ mess every other day.

  The increasing interest that the captain was taking in his gunner’s progress did not go unnoticed by the rest of the crew. Britannia’s first mate was Edward Lamb, a hollow-cheeked fellow with close-together eyes. One morning as he and Fletcher sat in the bow, splicing a damaged sheet, Lamb remarked, ‘I hear the captain’s had you to dine with him again.’

  ‘He has. What of it?’

  ‘You’re just a gunner. Gunners don’t eat with the officers.’

  ‘They do if they’re invited to. And I was.’

  ‘The old man must be playing favourites, then.’

  Hacking at the cordage with his knife, Fletcher scowled. ‘Jealous are you, Lamb? That he’s not invited you?’

  Lamb snorted. ‘Jealous be buggered. I only eat with the men. The real men.’

  He said no more, causing Fletcher to wonder what on earth he meant by that remark.

  The Governor of Jamaica, Sir Thomas Norcroft, provided the captain with an open, two-horse carriage and a driver, so that they could make their visit to one of Campbell’s plantations. It was to the north of Kingston, occupying the whole of a river plain which the river meandered across. Each of its flood plains was covered in a forest of mature sugar cane.

  Fletcher observed the scene before him with awe. A field of cane, its stalks blackened from recent firing, was being harvested by men, women and children. All Negroes. The cane stalks were tall, much taller than the workers, and the men wielded long knives, slicing the stalks off at ground level, then trimming the leaves, working their way steadily into the blackened forest. Their canvas trousers were smeared with reddish dirt and soot.

  Behind them, women wearing threadbare cotton frocks and with coloured scarves around their heads collected up the cut stalks. Dozens of children in short pants were helping the women, coming along behind them, scooping up armfuls of cane and putting them onto wagons to which teams of draught horses were harnessed. All the workers were barefoot and in the midday heat their arms rose and fell, rose and fell, their muscular bodies glistening with sweat.

  Overseeing the cutting and loading were two Englishmen in broad-brimmed hats, open shirts, heavy trousers and boots. Muskets slung over their shoulders, stock whips in their hands, they strode up and down behind the workers, urging them on with guttural cries. More white overseers were supervising the loading of the big sugar stalks onto the wagons, ready for conveying to the mill. One overseer had a huge-headed Staffordshire bull terrier on a lead and was patrolling up and down with the dog behind the line of workers. Fletcher noticed the children glancing at the dog with frightened eyes.

  Slaves, Fletcher thought, these are all slaves. Human beings who have been bought and sold like livestock.

  The windmill was further along the road, its four sails turning languidly in the breeze. More male slaves were feeding the cane stalks into the mill for crushing between steel rollers; others were carrying away the cane juice in buckets and loading them onto another wagon.

  Fletcher and his captain observed the industrious scene for some time, without speaking. But as he watched, Fletcher recalled the words from one of Edward’s letters, sent from Gray’s Inn:

  Slavery is an abominable institution, Fletcher. No civilised nation can possibly condone it. That English companies are a part of it is a stain on our nation. My friend Wilberforce is doing everything in his power to make the practice unlawful. He intends to stand for Parliament, and if elected will rally the abolitionist cause at Westminster.

  Yet here, before Fletcher’s very eyes, an Englishman’s plantation was operating, based on slave labour. Fletcher did not know how exactly much profit Campbell was making from his plantations, but knew it must be considerable. Even after the cost of feeding the slaves and paying for the transport of the commodities back to England, the price they fetched there was so high that the man must be making a fortune. And he was doing so off the backs of these poor wretches.

  Just then one of the overseers blew a whistle and called out, ‘Luncheon! Luncheon!’

  Other Negro women carried an urn, some loaves of bread and a bunch of bananas from an open fire over to a banyan tree beside the road. The workers put down their knives, walked over to the tree, dipped their mugs into the urn, took some of the bread and f
ruit and sank down under the tree. There, panting and sweating, they sipped their tea. Only then did Fletcher notice that several of the men were shackled together at the ankles.

  The captain had said nothing for some time. He just stared at the slaves with an impassive expression.

  Feeling the need to comment on the proceedings, Fletcher said, ‘Slavery, sir, I think is immoral. Those poor people.’

  The captain looked at him curiously. ‘You sound like an abolitionist, Christian.’

  ‘I believe I am, sir. My brother certainly is. He’s a friend of William Wilberforce’s.’

  The captain harrumphed. ‘A troublemaker, that fellow. Hewers of wood and drawers of water. That is the destiny of the nigger race.’

  ‘Who said so, sir?’

  ‘The Bible.’ He stared upwards. ‘Joshua, chapter 9, verse 23. “Now therefore, you are cursed, and you shall never cease being slaves, both hewers of wood and drawers of water, for the house of my God”.’

  Taken aback, Fletcher said, ‘Slavery is condoned in the Bible?’

  ‘It is. And since the Bible is God’s word, we must accept it.’ Bligh squinted. ‘Moreover, if the cane wasn’t harvested and processed, then we would not be employed by Campbell, would we?’ He stared at Fletcher. ‘Either of us.’

  Fletcher made no reply. His conscience had been pricked by this remark. The captain’s point was valid: in a way they owed their present position to this business, vile though it was. He stared again at the group of black people huddled under the tree, seeking shade as they ate their miserable lunch, the women feeding their children. This is not right, he thought, and the Bible is wrong. But he said nothing more.

  Hearing a loud crack, then another, Fletcher saw the overseer with the dog waving his whip. He cracked it again, then shouted at the slaves. ‘Right, you lot, break’s over. Get up and back to work! Now!’ Again his whip cracked. The people rose, slowly, the women shepherding the children towards the cane.

  It was a scene Fletcher would never forget.

  On the way back to the ship he sat in silence in the open carriage, filled with conflicting emotions: anger, sorrow, disbelief. And, mostly, guilt. Beside him, the captain said nothing. He just looked around approvingly at the cane fields, flourishing under the West Indian sun.

  The return voyage would be tougher, the captain warned Fletcher, as Britannia would face mostly adverse winds. And again he was given lessons in navigation. In the Great Cabin the captain had a chart of the West Atlantic laid out on the table, weighed down with lead ingots. Yesterday they had tacked cautiously west of the low-lying Caicos Islands and were now sailing on a north-easterly course towards the Atlantic.

  Holding a pair of dividers, the captain stepped them carefully across the chart. ‘Our current approximate position is here, some miles east of the Bahamas. The latest coordinates are longitude 73° west, latitude 25° north.’ He glanced overhead at the dangling compass. Its needle confirmed they were on a NNE course.

  ‘We should cross the Tropic of Cancer the day after tomorrow. Then, still on this course, at about latitude 33° north, we will pick up the Gulf Stream. Thereafter we will be borne along by it.’ He stared at Fletcher. ‘The current was so-named by Benjamin Franklin, did you know that?’ Fletcher shook his head. ‘Yes, he named the Gulf Stream in 1770. Clever chap, for an American. The stream is a powerful current, driven by wind stress, as Franklin realised. It has long been used for the west to east Atlantic crossing. Cook certainly made use of it, whenever he sailed to England from Newfoundland.’

  Fletcher watched closely as the captain again stepped the dividers. ‘At about here, 40° north, we shall alter course and bear due east.’ He closed the dividers. ‘My reckoning is that we will sight the south coast of England in late November.’ He leaned back. ‘Any questions?’

  ‘No sir. Thank you for the information.’

  As they sailed further north, the temperatures grew cooler and the barometer dropped. Conditions topside were wet and unpleasant. Fletcher’s days were filled with his menial shipboard duties: checking the cannons and shot, re-caulking leaking seams, greasing the blocks with pork fat. All under a darkened sky and a slate-grey sea.

  Britannia bore these conditions well, driving into the swells and keeping on an even keel. Her belly bulged with hundreds of barrels filled with sugar, molasses and rum. The ship reeked like a distillery, and when the crew received their daily grog ration, unlike the navy’s it was not diluted. As the Atlantic days grew colder, the Jamaica rum warmed the crew’s guts mightily.

  It was during their second-to-last night at sea, while coasting the south littoral of the Isle of Wight, that Fletcher and his captain shared a last supper in the Great Cabin, over some of Campbell’s over-proof rum. The two men sat facing each other across the table, which had been cleared of its plates by the captain’s servant.

  Captain Bligh’s face, normally marble-white, was slightly flushed and his blouse collar was undone. Fletcher sipped a little of the rum from his tankard and winced. Too strong. Without warning Britannia rolled heavily and both men clutched their tankards. As the ship settled again the captain took a mouthful of rum, then set his tankard down on the table. He let out a long sigh. ‘Christian, there’s something I want you to know before we are discharged.’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  The captain waved his right hand. ‘Enough of this “sir”. Call me William from now on. In private only, of course. And in private I shall refer to you as Fletcher.’

  Fletcher blinked with surprise. ‘Very well . . . William.’

  The captain leaned forward. ‘And I’d like you to know this.’ He stared into Fletcher’s eyes. ‘I have appreciated your company during this voyage.’

  ‘Thank you. And I have appreciated yours. It’s been a privilege to regularly dine with you. And to learn so much along the way. I’m grateful.’

  William waved a hand dismissively. ‘You learn quickly. One day you’ll have your own command, I’m certain of that.’ He took another mouthful of rum. ‘But what I also want you to know is how much I appreciate the company of someone with your background.’

  ‘I don’t follow you, William.’

  The captain sat back. ‘Your family are important people. Betsy has told me how elevated they have been, in island society, for generations. Your father’s family were judges on the Isle of Man. Your mother’s family too, by all accounts, were notable people. Landowners in Cumbria.’ He made a face. ‘Whereas my family were always just petty officials.’ He looked away.

  It took a few moments for Fletcher to take this in. Then he said, ‘William, with respect, that is ridiculous. What counts is what you have achieved. You served with Cook, you surveyed new lands, you’ve circumnavigated the world, you’ve commanded naval ships. It’s a distinguished record.’

  William grunted. ‘Don’t think I was seeking praise. I wasn’t. Those who go in search of praise seldom find it.’ He belched, and Fletcher realised he was a little drunk. In vino veritas, he thought.

  Bligh continued, ‘I want you to know how much I respect your lineage, and your education. In this profession one must rub shoulders with many blockheads and ruffians. An uncivilised lot. Even some officers are less than couth. To keep the company of a . . . of a refined man, has done my spirits good.’

  Fletcher looked down. ‘I like to think that I get on well with all the men. It’s important to do so, below decks.’

  ‘Indeed, indeed. But you have many natural advantages. You are tall, handsome, athletic. Your barrel jumping trick, the men love that.’ He held out his tankard and clinked it with Fletcher’s. ‘So, thank you, Fletcher, for your good fellowship.’ He reached for the rum decanter. ‘Now, let’s have another drink.’

  Embarrassed now by this effusion, Fletcher said, ‘And thank you, William, for your fellowship.’

  But he wondered, how could a man given to disgusting cursing be drawn to the company of those who valued sensibility?

  They raised the Downs on 1
4 November and docked at Wapping the following day. After a team of Customs officials had done their work and the cargo had been authorised for discharge, the imposing figure of Duncan Campbell was waiting on the dock to greet them. Stouter than ever, he wore a black topcoat, a matching tricorn and shoes with outsized brass buckles, highly polished.

  The ship’s manifest documents in one hand, he shook William’s hand with the other. ‘Splendid work, Bligh. A fine cargo, safely delivered. The profits will be considerable.’ Noticing Fletcher disembarking with his sea chest, he extended his hand to the young man. ‘Christian. Welcome back. How was the voyage?’

  ‘Very good, sir, thank you. I’ve learned a great deal.’

  ‘And do you now return to the Isle of Man?’

  ‘A little later, yes. After I’ve paid a visit to my brothers in the City. But I promised my mother I would be home for Christmas.’

  ‘Hah, there’s a dutiful son. Do pass my fondest regards to John Christian and the Taubmans.’

  Fletcher farewelled William on the dock. The captain would spend Christmas in Lambeth with Elizabeth and their baby daughters, Mary and Harriet. Looking cheerier than Fletcher had ever seen him, he shook his hand. ‘You’ve done well, Fletcher. I hope you will sail with us again.’

  ‘Is that possible?’

  Still gripping his hand, William nodded. ‘Britannia will sail again for the West Indies. In February, Campbell estimates. I shall let you know if there’s a position aboard for you.’