by Graeme Lay
Provisions are being ferried to the ship from the shore; fresh beef and Cape wine, sheep and goats to replace those who died of the cold earlier, and bags of seeds which gardener Nelson will plant in Tahiti: apples, corn, lemons and oranges. Thus, we may be taking the Tahitians’ breadfruit, but we will bequeath them our English fruits!
I will end here, as I must also write to Charles and Edward, and to cousin John. I will ensure that all my letters are dispatched on the next ship to England which sails from this port. It is William’s expectation that we will be provisioned and our sails and rigging overhauled by the end of June. After which we will weigh anchor and again set sail for Tahiti, this time via Van Diemen’s Land. But wherever I may be, my thoughts will also be with you.
I am,
Your loving son,
Fletcher
Fletcher and Peter wandered along the Cape Town waterfront, both wearing their hats and capes, both walking with the sailor’s gait that the Cape Horn sea had bestowed upon them. After a week spent helping with the cleaning and repairing of Bounty, they had been given two days’ leave. Winter was approaching in Southern Africa: the sky was a hard, bright blue and the profile of Table Mountain, looming above the town, was silhouetted against the blueness. The day was windless, the harbour water metallic. Bounty was at anchor in the bay alongside a much larger East Indiaman.
The cobbled streets were bustling with carriages, carts and wagons, men on horseback and pedestrians. Dutch women in clogs, baskets on their arms, stood about talking outside the coffee houses and shops, and there were smells in the air of freshly baked bread, smoked sausages, spices, cigar smoke and horse and oxen dung.
Barefoot Hottentot labourers staggered along the dock, laden down with sacks of flour; a few of their women, infants strapped to their backs, were sweeping the cobbles with brushwood brooms. Pairs of Dutch marines in orange uniforms strolled along, muskets with fixed bayonets shouldered. Thin cats wandered about, looking up at the passers-by hopefully. Fletcher was eating a smoked sausage he had bought from a street vendor. ‘Here you go,’ he said, tossing the nearest cat a piece of sausage. It was snapped up.
Staring up at Table Mountain, Peter said, ‘I like it here, Fletcher. It’s so different from anywhere I’ve been before. The mountain, the town, the people. All so different.’
Fletcher nodded. ‘Very different from Douglas, certainly.’
They came to the end of the waterfront, where a canal flowed into the harbour. There were streets on both sides of the canal, and a humpbacked bridge crossed it. Barges were tied up to bollards on one side of the canal and bargemen were loading sacks of grain and barrels of wine onto them from wagons, ready to be transferred to the ships in the harbour.
They crossed the bridge. The street on the other side was lined with more gabled buildings, taverns, warehouses, sail lofts and chandleries. On the corner was a two-storeyed brick tavern with a swinging sign above its door, bearing a painting of a red-faced man with huge side-whiskers, and the name ‘Ambroos’.
‘Fancy an ale?’ Fletcher asked Peter.
‘Yes!’
They went inside. The room was large, with bare wooden floors and several high tables and stools. Mullioned windows were set into the wall facing the harbour. A few middle-aged Dutchmen sat at the tables, smoking clay pipes and playing cards. There was a wood fire stove burning in one corner, with an iron pot on its hot plate, and a servery occupied the rear wall. A staircase led up to the next floor from beside the servery. The men at the tables looked up at the two young men as they entered, muttered among themselves, then returned to their card games.
Behind the servery was a stout, balding man of about fifty, with a white beard and cheeks as red as the ones on the tavern sign. His waistcoat was unbuttoned, exposing a stained blouse. Fletcher and Peter greeted him and ordered tankards of beer. As he poured them from the barrel on the counter, the man asked, ‘Which is your ship?’
They told him, and he smiled. His teeth were yellow, his beard smoke-stained. ‘Ja, ja, Bounty. I watch her come in, the other day.’ Passing the pewter tankards over, he announced, ‘My name Ambroos.’ They told him theirs, then took two of the stools at the servery and drank the ale. It was malty and refreshing. They chatted with the proprietor, telling him about their tribulations at the Horn and how pleased they were to be here, safely. But they made sure not to divulge the purpose of Bounty’s voyage.
When they were on their second beers the Dutchman leaned forward, and asked them in a low voice, ‘You want a woman?’
Both were momentarily disconcerted. Then Fletcher asked, ‘To hire?’
‘Ja.’
Fletcher looked at Peter. ‘You want one?’
Startled, Peter said, ‘I don’t know. Do you?’
‘Yes!’ He asked Ambroos, ‘You have a woman for sale?’
‘Ja. Very pretty.’
‘Can we see her?’ Fletcher asked.
By way of an answer he came out from behind the servery and walked up the stairs. A few minutes later he returned with a tall blonde woman of about thirty, in a pale beige gown. Her flaxen hair was tied back, her bearing was upright and the gown was tight-fitting, emphasising her breasts, waist and hips. The man led her to Fletcher and Peter, and said, ‘This is Meike.’ He said to her, ‘English.’
She looked them up and down, first Fletcher, then Peter. Her face was oval-shaped, her complexion pale and unmarked, her eyes grey. Her nose was slightly upturned, her lips shapely and like her cheeks, entirely unpainted.
In a moment, Fletcher was in love. Peter too kept staring at her. Both were speechless. She was so beautiful.
Ambroos leered. ‘Meike,’ he said again. ‘Pretty.’ She gave him a sharp look, then stared at Fletcher and pointed upstairs. Her expression hardened. ‘You vant?’ she demanded.
Fletcher recalled Madras, and how he had been deceived and attacked. Then he dismissed the thought. This was different, this was a white woman, being sold by a white man. Breathing heavily, he said to the man, ‘How much?’
‘Ten guilder. For each time, ten guilder.’
Fletcher looked at Peter, uncertain. ‘That is . . .?’
Peter frowned. ‘I think five shillings.’
Fletcher winced. A small fortune. He had only a few pence, hardly enough for another sausage and one more ale. Peter shook his head. ‘I’ve only six pence to my name,’ he said. Fletcher looked again at Meike. Her expression was now expectant as she tucked a stray lock of hair behind one ear. She was so alluring. And so obtainable. For a hefty price. But he had to have her. Must have her. It had been so long since Isabella.
To the Dutchman he said, ‘Tell her, I will get the money. I will come back tomorrow and pay you ten guilders.’
The man spoke to her in Dutch. Meike pouted and looked sceptical. She turned away. Eyes fixed on her, Fletcher swallowed hard then repeated, ‘I will come back. Tomorrow afternoon. With the money.’ He tugged at Peter’s sleeve. ‘Come on.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Back to the ship.’
‘Come!’
Following his knock, Fletcher entered William’s cabin. He was bent over his desk, quill in hand, an accounts book open in front of him. Fletcher could see columns of figures. He looked up. ‘Fletcher, come in. Sit down.’ Pushing the book to one side, he indicated the spare chair. Fletcher took it.
‘So,’ William said, ‘how was ashore?’
‘Very good. It’s an interesting town. The last we shall see for some time.’
‘Indeed. Tahiti and its breadfruit await us.’
Easing himself into the chair, Fletcher said, ‘While in the town I came upon an artisan’s studio. It belonged to a Dutch wood carver. He makes exquisite carvings of African animals. I was very taken with his work.’
‘Did you purchase any?’
‘Sadly, no. They are costly and, well, I have virtually no money. In the hand, that is.’ William nodded, and Fletcher pressed on. ‘So I wonder, William, if you would be
prepared to advance me a sum of money so I can buy some of the carvings.’
‘For yourself?’
‘No, no. For my cousin. John Christian. You remember John, he’s something of a collector of exotic artefacts. I’d like to buy him some of the carvings.’
William’s brow furrowed. ‘What sum would you need, to purchase them?’
‘His price in Dutch currency is twenty guilders for six carvings. In our currency, ten shillings. That is the sum I would like to borrow. It would be repayable immediately upon our return to England, naturally.’
There was a longish pause. Then William said, ‘It’s a considerable sum, but I will advance you the money.’ He placed a hand on Fletcher’s arm. ‘And I do so because you are a trusted friend.’
He took a key from his waistcoat pocket, went to the cabinet beside his bed and unlocked it. He withdrew a metal box and took from it a sheaf of Dutch currency. He counted out several notes then passed them over, saying, ‘Twenty guilders.’ He smiled and added, ‘You may like to bargain with the Dutch artist. Obtain the carvings for a lesser price.’
‘I shall certainly try.’ Folding the notes, Fletcher said, ‘I’m very grateful to you, William. Cousin John will be, too.’
William held up his hand. ‘It’s a loan, remember, not a gift.’
‘I understand. And it will be repaid.’
William nodded. But he also had a strange expression on his face, one that Fletcher could not fathom. Something between doubt and triumph.
But although he could not really comprehend the meaning of that look, Fletcher later recalled that it may have been from that moment onwards that William’s feelings towards him shifted. It was as if he knew that Fletcher now had a moral as well as a financial obligation towards him.
She undressed carefully, removing her gown and undergarments, then folding them and placing them on the chest at the foot of the four-poster bed. Lying upon it, Fletcher watched, entranced, as she revealed her alabaster body. And by the time she came to the bed and lay down with him, he was beside himself with desire.
At last spent, they began to talk, Fletcher overflowing with gratitude for her softness, her suppleness, her capacity for giving.
Meike struggled with her English, but they managed.
She had been married to the captain of an East India merchantman, she told him. From Rotterdam. He was part-owner of this tavern. But two years ago his ship foundered in the monsoon, off the coast of Batavia. Although the ship was within sight of land, it went down with the loss of all but a few hands. Her husband had left her with many debts to repay, and she needed to meet them before she could return to Holland. They had had no children.
‘Are you making enough money to repay the debts?’ he asked her.
She smiled, drowsily. ‘Ja. I make money. But I must share with Ambroos.’
Again he was aroused by the sight and scent of her, her porcelain skin and the depths of her grey eyes. But he had given her all his loan money. He explained. ‘Meike, I’m so sorry. I have no more guilders for you.’
Still smiling, she said, ‘No mind the money. I like you, Fletcher, you are a nice man. You can have this time for free.’ She stroked his face. ‘But doan tell Ambroos.’
That evening over supper, William asked, ‘The purchase of the curios went satisfactorily, Fletcher?’
‘Oh yes. They are very fine carvings.’
‘Good, good.’ William gave a thin smile. ‘Can you show them to me?’
Fletcher swallowed, then coughed to cover his discomfort. Putting his kerchief to his mouth, he said, ‘Oh excuse me.’ Recovering, he replied, ‘I’m afraid I’ve already dispatched the carvings to my cousin. From the postal bureau, this afternoon. It was important that I consign them immediately, to catch the next sailing to London.’
William gave a little grunt, and looked away. Fletcher said hastily, ‘I also found an excellent coffee house, a little way back from the waterfront. Jacob’s. Fine coffee, excellent sausages. Would you like to join me there for luncheon tomorrow?’
William drummed his fingers on the table then shook his head. ‘No, no. I have other business to attend to.’
VAN DIEMEN’S LAND, 21 AUGUST 1788
The bay was on an island in the south of Van Diemen’s Land, in the extreme south of New Holland. William chose this place for replenishment because he had been here with Cook in Resolution eleven years earlier, and had partly surveyed the bay’s coastline. Englishman Tobias Furneaux had named the bay ‘Adventure’ in 1773, after his ship and Cook’s Resolution had become separated in Antarctic waters. Adventure had stayed in the bay for five days.
It had taken Bounty twenty-three days of hard sailing to get to Adventure Bay from Cape Town. After her anchors were lowered near the centre of the bay, Fletcher and William studied the land from the quarterdeck. The captain’s pleasure at returning to the place he had been the very first to properly survey was obvious.
Today Adventure Bay was bathed in spring sunshine, and the land looked inviting. Ranges of hills, covered in forest, rose above the coast. A large bird — some sort of eagle — was gliding above the bay, and a few twirls of smoke arose from the forest, confirming that there were people here.
Looking to the north, they saw that the land tapered away to a low isthmus, covered in dry scrub, which was joined to another humped island. Between the isthmus and the headland at the eastern end of the bay the land looked inviting. Along the coast were stretches of golden sand, separated by shelves of rock.
Fletcher lowered his spyglass. ‘The bay is well wooded. Is there water?’
‘Yes. A stream flows into the sea there.’ He pointed to a place halfway along the shore.
‘What of the natives?’
‘A strange people. Black, primitive and ugly, but not aggressive. They have no seagoing vessels, and live by hunting.’ He slipped his spyglass into its holder. ‘They should cause us no trouble.’ He pointed to a rock shelf to their left. ‘With Cook we first landed there. But we’ll put in further along, closer to the stream mouth.’
The men were already busy on deck, preparing to hoist out the boats, supervised by boatswain Cole. William said to Fletcher, ‘You’re in charge of the wooding party. Take Purcell and four others. Peckover’s in charge of the watering. I’ll go with Nelson, to do some planting. Fruit trees, mainly.’ He stared again at the land. ‘Apples should grow well in this place.’
Fletcher, Purcell and the others did not need to go far to get the wood. Trees grew everywhere, from forest giants to scrubby ti tree. It was cool and dry within the forest, and the absence of undergrowth made it easy for the party to work their way into it. Crows perched on boughs and pairs of green and red parrots squawked at them from the trees then flew away; a long-tailed furry animal scampered away at their approach.
They reached a stand of tall ti tree. ‘Right, lads,’ said Fletcher. ‘Let’s get cutting.’
It soon became clear that Purcell resented this work. A scrawny fellow with outsize ears, he cursed as he hacked at a ti-tree trunk with an axe. Lowering it, he spat on the ground. ‘Fuck this job,’ he said.
Fletcher paused in his cutting. ‘Why’s that?’ he demanded.
‘I’m a carpenter, a skilled worker, not a fuckin’ woodcutter.’
‘We all need wood for the galley. Just get on with it.’
He stood back and his ti tree crashed to the ground. More parrots squawked and flew off. Further away, Muspratt and Thompson were doing their cutting. Purcell swung his axe at the tree trunk, still cursing.
When they dragged their wood out onto the beach, Purcell was still in a foul mood, flinging his onto a pile. Fletcher moved further along the beach to see how far Peckover’s party had progressed with the filling of the water casks. As he did so William and Nelson emerged from the bushline, both with packs on their backs.
William walked up to the wood pile. Removing his pack, he glared at the carpenter. ‘What’s this, Purcell?’
‘Wood, innit.�
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‘And what’s it for?’
Purcell, truculently: ‘The galley.’
‘No it isn’t. It’s too long.’ He bent down, picked up a long piece of ti tree and thrust it in Purcell’s face. ‘Can you see this fitting into the fire-box?’
‘It will if it’s cut down.’
‘Then why didn’t you do so? Look at it. It’s all too big. For the galley, or stowage. You’re an idiot, Purcell.’
Purcell glared back. ‘And all you can do is criticise. A man can’t do anything right.’ He picked up his axe and tossed it at William. ‘You want the right-sized wood? Chop it yourself.’ He walked away.
The rest looked at each other in shock. This was insubordination of the worst kind. Much worse than Quintal’s rudeness, which had incurred a severe flogging.
Fletcher, who had overheard the altercation, went up to William. ‘Intolerable insolence, Captain. Shall I take him back to the ship and confine him?’ As a warrant officer, Purcell could not be lashed, but some action had to be taken.
For a moment William looked confused. Then he recovered. ‘No, no.’ He shouted at the carpenter’s back, ‘Purcell! Come here!’
Purcell returned, his face flushed and his big ears pink from the sun. Standing before the captain, he looked down and awaited his judgment.
‘Since you can’t cut firewood properly, Purcell,’ William said, ‘I shall give you a very simple job. A job befitting a simpleton. Go and help unload the water casks.’ He waved his hand. ‘And from now on you’ll be assigned labourer’s duties.’
Purcell gave him a contemptuous look, then turned and trudged off towards the stream mouth. Fletcher said to William, ‘Is that sufficient admonishment, Captain? For such disrespect?’
‘It is.’ William’s face had reddened. ‘And it’s not your place to question my judgment. You were in charge of the wooding party — why didn’t you insist that the wood was cut to proper lengths?’
