by Graeme Lay
And to his men he begs – Fight on my boys he says – ’Tis my lot
Following the dancing, William again recited the Articles of War. Bored now by the repetition of the dire consequences of any wrongdoing, the men shuffled restlessly. But a week out of Santa Cruz, to conclude the customary bulletin, William declared in a more cheerful tone: ‘For today’s midday meal, fresh meat will be served to you all. Tenerife wine will accompany the meat, along with the usual ration of grog.’
A shout went up from surgeon Huggan, leaning against the mainmast. ‘Huzzah for Captain Bligh!’ He was already drunk.
Although the winds continued to be favourable, the Atlantic air was sweltering, the humidity close to one hundred per cent. When the rain came, usually in the late afternoon, it was mainly in short heavy bursts, and when it did William ordered awnings spread above the deck to catch it. The rainwater refreshed the water butts, and the awning protected the men against the rays of the tropical sun when the skies cleared.
William continued to enforce his regime of cleanliness below decks, with the regular washings with vinegar and gunpowder. The humidity caused a malignant mould to form, so that it had to be constantly scrubbed from the walls and ceiling. The crew’s clothing and bedding was ordered to be aired whenever the weather made this possible.
The benefits of this regime became obvious: the crew remained free of illness, and morale was buoyant. There had not been a single flogging.
They crossed the line on 14 February, accompanied by much-reduced rituals. William disapproved of ducking, he told Fletcher. So the first-timers — twenty-seven in all — were merely tarred, then shaved with a piece of iron barrel-hoop. Three bottles of rum were shared, and each man was issued with a half pint of wine. The crew became euphoric. ‘We are now in the Southern Hemisphere!’ they exclaimed to one another.
Fletcher relished his new role and the responsibility that came with it. The black fog which had at one time lodged in his mind was a thing of the past. Everything that lay before him was now filled with purpose, promise and expectation. He had never been so determined to fulfil those hopes and had never been better placed to do so. And for that he had one man to thank — his captain, William.
Peter Heywood was on morning watch at the main masthead when Fletcher scaled the rigging to join him. Bounty was in full sail with a following wind, and the sun was near its midday zenith. Even though Heywood and Fletcher were eight years apart in age, their common Manx background meant they always had much to talk about. Both were now barefoot, wearing only their crewman’s calico trousers. Fletcher’s torso was streaming with sweat; Peter’s shoulders were pink from the sun. Below, the helmsmen were holding Bounty on a southwesterly course and she was making a steady four knots. There were just a few streaks of cloud high in the sky’s blue dome.
Suddenly Fletcher pointed to starboard. ‘Look!’
‘What? Oh, yes. How wonderful.’
A school of porpoises, sleek and glistening, was swimming alongside the ship. They turned their bodies, plunging, rearing and grinning like a troupe of performing clowns. Above them, a flock of petrels dipped and soared, and much higher above them, a fork-tailed frigate bird glided, peering down at the ship. Yesterday whales had broached just a few yards from the larboard bow, their spouting spraying the decks. Master-at-arms Charles Churchill fired at them with a musket, but he may as well have been using a pea-shooter.
Fletcher and Peter chatted. Both were pleased with their allocated roles on the ship, both had ambitions to gain permanent commissions, both agreed that a life at sea was the only one to be contemplated. And both had lately been dreaming of Tahitian maidens.
‘They say,’ mused Peter, ‘that the price of a Tahitian woman is just one nail.’
Fletcher smiled. ‘I’ve read that too. And do you know, there are thousands of nails in the hold.’
‘Blast and bugger your bloody eyes, you putrid lump of Cornish shit!’
Startled, they looked down. Matthew Quintal was standing before the mainmast, hands dangling at his sides. William was standing in front of him and Fryer was behind the captain. William turned to Bounty’s master. ‘What was it that this broken arse said to you, Mr Fryer?’
‘He said, after I told him to clean the head properly, “You can go and fuck yourself, Fryer. That’s not my shit”.’
William put his face closer to Quintal’s. ‘Is that what you said, you fucking arse-licker?’
Quintal raised his chin. ‘Yeah, I said it. ’Cause it needed to be said.’
‘Oh? It needed to be said, did it? Well, I’ll tell you something else that needs to be said, Quintal.’ He turned back to Fryer. ‘This burnt-arse shit bag, this Cornish pasty, is to receive two dozen lashes for his insolence and contempt.’ He stood back. ‘Tell Morrison to let the cat out of the bag. And order the men to watch.’
Quintal stood at the grating, tied at the wrists and ankles. There was a wooden peg between his teeth. William read the charges, announced the sentence, then stood back for boatswain’s mate Morrison, who had the cat-o’-nine-tails at the ready.
One, two, three. Quintal began to quiver. Morrison’s arm rose and fell. Four, five, six. Teeth clamped on the peg, Quintal’s eyes bulged. Morrison continued to lay it on. Seven, eight, nine. Quintal’s back was turning red. Ten, eleven, twelve. Gobbets of flesh and blood flew. Quintal was squirming.
William snapped at Morrison. ‘Right. Throw water over him. Salt water. Then give him another twelve.’
When the ropes were untied, Quintal staggered backwards and reeled. His entire back was bloodied and pulpy. Face dripping with sweat, chest heaving, he spat out the peg and eyeballed not Morrison, but his master and commander. For some seconds he stared into William’s face. His expression was of such loathing that it imprinted itself indelibly on the consciousness of every witness to it. Fletcher in particular would never forget it.
By March they were sailing down the east coast of South America, out of sight of land and driven by the south-east trade wind. Temperatures fell but the seas were moderate, so much so that they were able to cover up to thirty nautical miles daily. When it rained it now came with less intensity. Men trailed lines and hooks baited with pork rind, caught plump porpoises and hauled them aboard. Their steaks made a welcome change from their otherwise monotonous diet of salt pork and beef.
‘Land! Land! Off the starboard bow!’
The cry came from able seaman Alex Smith, from the masthead. It was mid-afternoon on 22 March and the autumn sky was clear, the sun low.
From the decks they saw an expanse of undulating land. Hours earlier Fletcher had shot the sun at midday and reported to William that they had reached 54° 47' South latitude.
Standing alongside him, Peter nudged Fletcher. ‘What is it?’
‘Tierra del Fuego. We’re approaching the south of South America.’ He put his spyglass to his eye. A headland and a long rocky island, streaked with snow, came into view. He and William had studied the charts of Tierra del Fuego’s coast last evening, in the captain’s cabin. ‘That must be Cape San Diego,’ Fletcher told Peter, spyglass still trained on the island. ‘And to the west, Staten Island.’
‘So we’re nearing Cape Horn?’
‘We are.’
Grinning, Peter waved his hand at the gently rolling swells. ‘The infamous Cape Horn? Look at this sea — it couldn’t be kinder.’
The ocean had turned into a mass of moving mountains, moving in several directions at once. They came at the ship from all quarters, rearing then collapsing onto Bounty’s bow and decks. Seawater streamed over the ship, poured down the companionways and into the cabins; the wind howled in the rigging like a pack of feuding wolves.
Standing by the aft companionway, mate Elphinstone screamed at the few crewmen who were not aloft, ‘More men to the pumps! More! More! Ellison, Muspratt, get below and lend a hand! Look fast there! Fast!’
Another cry came from Fryer on the quarterdeck, yelling up at the top men, who were
swaying crazily as the ship arced like an overwound metronome. ‘Shorten the foresail! Take in the main!’
One of the released mainmast sails, freed from its sheet, was caught by the wind and wrapped itself around the mast. The ship began to vibrate, then lurch. The men aloft hugged the yards, their feet supported by loops of rope; the men on deck stumbled about like drunkards, clutching at the rails and sheets for a handhold. With every wave that struck the ship the force knocked them down. They glissaded along the deck, slammed into the gunwales, boats or masts, cursing their hurt.
The mountains of black water kept rushing at Bounty. It was as if a huge dam had ruptured somewhere in the mountains of Tierra del Fuego and its lake’s contents were pouring down over them. As swell after mountainous swell struck Bounty, she pitched with punishing force, pluckily defying her massive attackers.
At the helm, quartermasters Norton and Linkletter had lashed themselves to the wheel. William and Fletcher stood behind them, both caped, tricorns tied under their chins, staring up at the close-reefed topsails and the three nearly bare masts swaying like tree trunks in an earthquake.
Sheets of rain, driven by the gale-force westerlies, swept over the ship, so that for the crew the whole world seemed to have turned to water. Water that was black and icy and driven into their faces like grapeshot. It was impossible to know the time of day, or what if any westward progress they were making. All they knew for certain was that they and Bounty were fighting for their lives.
‘Hold your course! Hold your course!’ Legs apart, William braced himself and bellowed at the helmsmen. ‘Bring her to! Keep her into the wind! Hard into the wind!’
Fletcher yelled in his ear. ‘Have you ever seen a sea such as this?’
‘Never! This is the worst!’ He stumbled, then recovered. ‘And it is all the sodding Admiralty’s fault!’
‘What? For the gale?’
William turned to him, his eyes wild. ‘Yes! If those swine-fucking quill-pushers in Whitehall had got off their lardy arses, we would have left England two months earlier and not missed the season at the Cape!’
The ship lurched again, even more violently, and William dropped to his knees. Fletcher helped him to his feet and together they reached for the quarterdeck rail and gripped it. Then, looking up, Fletcher screamed, ‘Oh, Jesus!’
To larboard, a wall of black water was rearing above them, as high as the mainmast.
The wind tore at its curling crest, then the giant comber collapsed and the ship was engulfed. There were cries from below as Bounty fell on her beam ends. The top men hugged the yards for dear life, miniature figures high in the sky, unable to move up or down. The ship rose, then righted herself. Sheets of water raced across the decks, then drained through the scuttles. But she had no sooner come onto an even keel when another gigantic wave reared, this time off the starboard bow, rushed towards the ship and fell upon her like a feeding beast.
Hours passed. The gale continued. There was snow, then hail, which froze their fingers and blasted their faces. William ordered all the hatches battened down, so that the only entrance to the lower deck was through the aft hatchway. But the sea was relentless, continuing to pour into the lower decks, saturating the crew’s clothes and bedding.
For over three weeks they fought off the Cape Horn gales. The tiny ship was like a toy, a plaything of the gusts which abated for only a few hours, when they switched briefly to the east and the sun broke through. During these brief respites the crew attempted to dry their wet clothes and bedding, but hours later the wind resumed its assault, again from the west.
After Fryer reported that the ship was leaking, William ordered the pumps manned through all three watches, day after day. Below decks the men off duty lay in their berths, noses running, rendered speechless by the cold and wet, unable to get up, puking if they ate, joints aching with the cold and damp. The cook struggled to keep alight the galley stove, the sole source of heat, with lengths of dampened wood. William ordered the crew to have grog that was full-strength, not diluted, to help combat the cold. Hot soup and boiled wheat and sugar helped too. He also allowed some of the men whose berths were wet to have his cabin at night, in turns, so that they might get some sleep. Fletcher observed this humane gesture, and admired him for it.
There were casualties. Quartermaster Linkletter fell into the fore cockpit and was concussed; seaman Skinner was slammed into the mainmast base and bruised his spine. Both were treated by assistant surgeon Ledward, who was himself stricken with a chill. Surgeon Huggan, intoxicated from his private grog supply, ventured topside briefly, then in rapid retreat tumbled down the after ladder and dislocated his shoulder. Upon regaining consciousness Huggan croaked to Ledward: ‘Never mind the shoulder, get me more grog.’ Ledward shook his head and shoved the shoulder back into place.
Below decks, frustrations worsened. There was a brawl in the galley as men tried to huddle closer to the fire-box and the cook’s ribs were broken. Another scuffle resulted in Churchill’s hand being burned. Heywood, desperate for sleep, was late for his duty. When this was reported to William, without hesitation William told the midshipman: ‘No excuses, Heywood. You are mastheaded. Now.’ The lad spent five miserable hours aloft when the gale was at its most violent.
Fletcher moved constantly about the ship, below decks and topside. He helped man the pumps at night, then during the hours of dismal daylight went aloft to keep the sails reefed tight. He ordered ropes tied across the deck so the men had something to hold on to. He relieved quartermaster Norton when he was too exhausted to hold the wheel. Worn out himself, Fletcher barely slept.
On 17 April, at midday, William had to get Fletcher to tie him to the mainmast in order for him to take his sextant sights. At that point Fletcher realised they had all had enough. ‘It’s too much,’ he told William as he untied him. Bounty rolled again, wildly, and they both snatched at the mainmast ladder. ‘We can’t go on.’
William looked at him with furious eyes. Then he nodded curtly and turned away.
An hour later, with the ship still pitching madly, William called for the men to assemble below decks. Standing before them, saturated, he declared: ‘You have all put up a brave fight against the elements. I could ask no more of any crew. But the conditions these last twenty-nine days have exceeded the worst I have ever experienced at sea.’ He tipped his head back and grimaced. ‘It is clear that we cannot proceed westward. Accordingly, we shall go about and set a course for Cape Town.’
Some of the crew closed their eyes and gave thanks. There were ragged cheers from others. Several were close to tears. Scotsman McCoy muttered to his Cornish mate Quintal, ‘Fuck Cape Horn forever, let’s have the Cape of Good Hope.’
Fletcher put a consoling hand on William’s shoulder. ‘This isn’t a defeat,’ he told him. ‘It’s just a setback.’
‘Thank you, thank you,’ William replied wearily. Then he retired to his cabin to plot Bounty’s reversed course.
False Bay, Cape Town, 24 May 1788
Dearest Mother,
You will doubtless be surprised to receive this letter from Cape Town, after the one I sent from Tenerife earlier in the year averred that you would not hear from me again until my return to England. None of us aboard Bounty suspected that we would be in Cape Town at this time.
We are now in this Dutch colony, rather than Tahiti, because the adverse gale-force winds of Cape Horn did not permit us safe passage through to the South Sea. After several gruelling weeks of battling wind and sea, we could not pass around the Horn. William puts the blame for this on our late departure from England, and it is true that had we been even three weeks earlier at the Cape, we may well have passed through the Le Maire Strait under more favourable conditions. Our gunner, Peckover, who sailed on all three world voyages with Captain Cook, told me that he had never seen seas like the ones at the Horn, for height and length of swell. So it was with considerable relief that we turned and sailed east, reaching Cape Town five weeks later.
Now
that ‘flaming June’ is almost upon you on the Isle of Man, you will be enjoying long summer days on the island. Perhaps Edward and Charles have paid you a visit in the past weeks. If they have not, then this missive may compensate.
You will recall that I have been in this port before, while serving on HMS Eurydice. It is good to be back and enjoying the benefits of European civilisation again, albeit briefly. Bounty took such a battering in the South Atlantic that she requires much repairing: her decks need recaulking and many of her sails and much of her rigging must be replaced. Naturally, we also need to reprovision before venturing to traverse the Indian Ocean. Fortunately the facilities in this Dutch town are well used to providing the goods and services which voyaging ships require. There are seven other ships in the harbour, all Dutch East Indiamen.
William complains at the cost of all this — as purser he must make the necessary purchases and account for every expense, an onerous task. Pilfering, or the suspicion of it, is a constant problem. When a cask of cheese was opened, the supplies of it were found to be short by several cheeses. William declared that a theft had occurred, and stopped the men’s cheese rations. When aroused, he has a fiery temper and will brook no dissent (as is his right as commander). As a protest against his cheese policy, the men refused to eat their butter allowance until the cheese ration was restored, thereby cutting off their noses to spite their faces (or rather, their stomachs). Such are the petty problems that plague a ship’s purser! I cannot emphasise too strongly the importance that food assumes during a long sea voyage. Meals are one of the few pleasures available to seamen, so to lose any food allowance is a loss more keenly felt than anything similar on land, where replacement commodities can be readily obtained. William is particularly sensitive about this matter, and is only too aware of the importance of keeping scurvy at bay. He insists that the men eat a breakfast of hot oatmeal, and also insists that they take their dried malt, sauerkraut and portable soup. They obey, knowing that like Cook’s men they will be lashed if they do not (I have to say, though, that William spares the lash far more than Cook did, in his accounts. There have been only two floggings so far on Bounty; one for insolence while at sea and the other here at Cape Town for want of duty in heaving a lead-line).
