Fletcher of the Bounty

by Graeme Lay

  ‘It isn’t. It would be crazy for me to stay. Bligh is driving me out of my mind. I have to go.’

  ‘Christian, abandon that plan.’ He waved at the sea. ‘I’ve seen sharks out there. Big ones. And the natives of these islands are not well disposed towards us. If you made it ashore they would likely kill you. It would be madness to take that course.’

  ‘I must. It’s the only honourable course to take.’

  ‘Honourable? A strange word to describe what you intend. Going to your certain death.’

  ‘It is the right word, because for me to stay would be dishonourable.’

  Purcell gave him a pitying look. ‘So what do you need?’

  ‘Planks, spars, ropes. If you get them for me tonight, I’ll put a raft together and go over the side.’

  There was a long pause, then Purcell nodded. ‘I’ll get the materials. Be back here at ten bells.’

  ‘Thanks, Will.’ Fletcher gripped the carpenter’s arm. ‘It has to be done. I can stand him no more. At ten bells, then.’

  That evening a new moon rose in the east, a cuticle in the blackness. This presaged a full moon by the time they reached the reef-ridden New Holland coast. Helpful. To the north Kao’s summit glowed like a firework; to starboard Tofua was an inky mass. The afternoon breeze had died away, the night was warm, the ocean lapped at Bounty’s hull. An unusual silence had befallen the ship, disturbed only by the creak of her timbers.

  In his berth, Fletcher was beginning to get together his possessions. Bligh’s servant, John Smith, appeared in the cabin doorway. Touching his forehead, he said, ‘Scusing me Mr Christian, but Captain Bligh would be pleased if you could join him for supper this evening.’

  Fletcher’s jaw dropped. ‘He wishes me to—’

  Obviously appreciating the irony of the invitation — he had overheard Bligh’s latest tirade — Smith nodded. ‘Join him for supper, yes.’

  Fletcher exhaled. ‘Tell the captain that I will not be able to attend his supper as I am feeling unwell. But do give him my compliments.’

  Getting the ironical message, Smith flicked up his eyebrows. As the man who had had to do Bligh’s bidding day and night for a year and a half, he too had been on the receiving end of his verbal attacks.

  Fletcher mulled over the supper invitation. It mystified him. Did the man have no idea how deeply his razor tongue cut? How wounding his words were? Had he no conception of how the victims of his abuse felt? Could he not imagine the feelings of others? The answers to all those questions was an emphatic ‘no’, Fletcher concluded.

  Almost everyone had given up dining with Bligh. Only the toady Hayward, whom no one liked, still accepted the captain’s invitation to dine with him. And below decks the men hissed Hayward for doing so.

  Purcell kept his word: he had produced the materials Fletcher needed. Under cover of darkness on the foredeck, he lashed six planks to two spars. He had a pack full of provisions and a water flask. As he worked he felt fatalistic. If he drowned on the way to Tofua he didn’t care, at least he would die a free man.

  But now nature conspired against him. The night was stifling, Bounty was almost becalmed, and below decks the air was so muggy that nearly all the crew were lying topside, spread about the decks. Fletcher had no hope of getting his raft over the side without the alarm being raised by one of them. Then he might be rescued, and incarcerated by Bligh for desertion.

  His next watch would begin at four in the morning. He would wait till then, he decided, when it was cooler and the crew had gone below to their berths. Then he would go over the side. He returned to his cabin and his hammock.

  Among Fletcher’s closest shipmates — Peter, Ned and George — the word had been passed that their friend was planning to abandon the Bounty.

  George was determined to dissuade his friend from deserting. Just before four he went below. Fletcher’s berth was a few feet forward of the foot of the companionway ladder. A seal-oil lantern hung near the foot of the ladder, giving off a pallid light. Fletcher’s berth was screened by a sheet of canvas.

  Lifting the canvas, George growled in his Orkney accent, ‘Fla-tcher!’

  ‘What is it?’

  Fletcher sat up. He had hardly slept, plagued by thoughts of his impending action and probable death. Crouching beside him, George spoke urgently. ‘Don’t take to the raft, it’s a daft idea. Don’t do it.’

  ‘I must. It’s the only way.’

  ‘No, it is not the only way.’

  ‘For my own sanity, George, I must leave.’

  ‘You don’t have to leave.’ George paused, and Fletcher could hear his deep breathing. ‘The men are ripe for anything, Fletcher.’

  The canvas fell and George was gone. Fletcher lay for a few minutes, his mind churning. Ripe for anything. What did that mean? Did the men want Bligh taken down? He got up, pulled on his shirt and trousers and climbed the stairs. Topside, he replaced Peckover as watchman. Ellison was at the helm, with Mills. Fletcher greeted them with feigned casualness.

  He settled in to his watch, standing at the base of the mainmast, one arm around it. His mind continued to seethe. Bounty’s timbers creaked as she rolled in the swells; above him the sails drooped and flapped.

  Out of the darkness another figure appeared. Ned. ‘Fletcher!’ he whispered.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The raft notion. Drop it.’

  ‘What else can I do? I’ve been in hell these past weeks.’

  Ned glanced around, then murmured, ‘We can seize the bastard and take the ship. Now’s the time. All we need to do is get some of the men on our side and take control of the arms chests. With the arms we take the ship. We’ll cast Bligh adrift in the cutter. There’s no need for bloodshed. The people are ready, Fletcher.’

  He slipped away.

  Take the ship. Now’s the time. Fletcher’s mind was on another course now. If there was to be an insurrection, he was the one to lead it. The fact that Bligh had been his friend was irrelevant now. His mentor had become his tormentor. His brother Charles’s advice beamed at him through the darkness: Despots must be stood up to, Fletcher.

  Control of the ship meant deposing Bligh and establishing a new authority. He, Fletcher, would be free. Now’s the time. Yes, those in authority — Bligh, Fryer, Elphinstone and Cole — were all below and still sleeping.

  But who could he count on to support him? In his mind he drew up a list.

  He thought of the ones whom Bligh had had lashed: Quintal, more than once, McCoy, Alex Smith, Thompson, Williams, Sumner. They had committed reckless acts and had been flogged for it. The would-be deserters, Millward and Muspratt, had been punished by Bligh. Martin? Yes, he too had been lashed and abused, and had been heard to curse the commander. Ned would join in. So, eleven men with motivation. Yes, that would probably be enough for them to take the ship. Provided they had the arms.

  But at what price? If he failed, a fatal one. Confinement, a court martial, loss of honour and death by strangulation from a navy yardarm. A high price indeed. Yet what he was now experiencing — false accusation, verbal abuse and humiliation — amounted to a kind of living death. He could, and would, endure it no longer. His mind had become filled with the blackest of thoughts, ones there was no hope of ridding himself of while he shared the ship with Bligh. The man’s conduct, for whatever reason — envy, mania, or the worst to consider, his unnatural desire — had become insufferable. He was treating all his officers with disdain, but he, Fletcher, was being singled out for special contempt.

  Again he brought to mind his brother Charles’s case. He and his other insurgents had deposed their commander but had not been held culpable. The commander had been in effect found to be at fault. Was the case of Bligh not similar? Mutiny could in some circumstances be justified, surely. And Bligh’s conduct may well not survive scrutiny by the authorities, should sworn eyewitness evidence of his misconduct be heard. As Charles’s captain’s had been.

  Fletcher hugged the mainmast more tightly. Yes
, rebellion was the only way. But first, a precaution. If he failed, he must die, and do so on his own terms.

  He went aft to the mizzen mast, from which the sounding lines dangled. With his knife he cut one of the lines, with a heavy lead weight attached, and tied it round his neck, slipping the weight under his shirt. Should he fail, he would leap overboard and let the lead take him down with it. The sharks would do the rest.

  Quintal and McCoy were among those still sleeping on the foredeck. Fletcher went to them. ‘Matt! Will!’ Both came to and looked at him groggily. ‘What is it?’ McCoy mumbled.

  ‘I’m taking the ship. Are you both with me?’

  They sat up. Quintal’s expression became animated. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘I’m with you.’ He turned to McCoy. ‘Will?’

  ‘Aye, me too.’ Both scrambled to their feet.

  Fletcher put his face close to theirs. ‘Go below and rouse those who should be with us. Lamb, Martin, Churchill, Millward, Muspratt, Alex Smith. I’ll let the others on watch know. But there is to be no bloodshed.’

  Coleman was dozing by the starboard rail. Fletcher shook him awake. ‘Joseph!’ He stirred. Fletcher whispered, ‘I’m taking the ship. Are you with me?’

  The armourer’s eyes gleamed. ‘Sure I am.’

  ‘We need the keys to the arms chests. Fryer will have them. Can you get them from his berth?’

  Coleman grinned. He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew two sets of keys. ‘No need, Fletcher. Here they are.’

  ‘How did you—’

  ‘Fryer passed them to me. He was tired of being wakened by that dimwit Norman, wanting access to the chests at night so he could shoot at sharks.’

  ‘Right. Unlock the chests. We’ll all need pistols and cutlasses, as well as muskets. Ammunition, too, and bayonets.’

  Below on the orlop deck, Quintal obeyed Fletcher’s instructions. He knew who detested Bligh, knew who could be relied on to join the mutiny. One after another, roused figures came up on deck through the for’ard hatchway: Burkett, Lamb, Muspratt, Williams, Alex Smith. Now, the arms chests. One was below by the main hatchway, the other on the upper deck.

  Two of the midshipmen, Hallett and Hayward, were asleep on the chests, Hayward on the one below, Hallett on the upper deck chest. Fletcher shook Hayward’s shoulder. ‘Wake up! Wake up!’

  When he sat up, Fletcher admonished him. ‘Get up on deck and attend to your duties, man!’

  Hayward stumbled to the ladder and went topside.

  The chest was now unguarded. Fletcher unlocked it, then eyed the contents. Muskets, pistols, cutlasses, cartons of ammunition. His heart began to race. Armed, they couldn’t fail. Mustn’t fail.

  He helped himself to a musket with a fixed bayonet and a carton of cartridges. Pocketing the ammunition, he slipped a cutlass through his belt, then went back topside. The insurgents were clustered on the foredeck, speaking in low tones. When Fletcher appeared on deck, armed like a buccaneer, the men murmured approval. Quintal gripped his arm. ‘You’re in charge, now, Christian. Go for the bastard.’

  ‘Not yet,’ he replied. ‘Thompson and Burkett, get to the chest below and collect the arms. And cartridges, enough for all of us. And make no noise. We mustn’t wake Bligh, Fryer and the others before we’re ready to.’

  The pair nodded and crept off.

  It was now after five. The eastern sky was becoming paler, although there was still no wind. Swells slopped and slurped against Bounty’s bow. Her timbers were moaning softly, like a cello ensemble. The figures on the foredeck were becoming more distinct, but they still could not be seen by the helmsmen at the other end of the ship. Looking at the lightening sky, Fletcher knew the point of no return had been reached. An impetus had built: now the moment had come for him to confront the man who had become his nemesis.

  The door of Bligh’s cabin was ajar. Cutlass in his right hand, Fletcher yanked it open. Behind him were Churchill, Burkett and Mills, all holding muskets with bayonets fixed. Bligh woke up. He was wearing a nightshirt and cap. Fletcher took a step forward and put the cutlass to his throat. Bligh struggled into an upright position, eyes bulging with disbelief. This is a nightmare, the popping eyes implied.

  Fletcher gripped the cutlass. Now he had him. ‘Get up!’ he shouted. He grabbed the nightshirt with his left hand and hauled him from his cot.

  Bligh began to yell. ‘What is the meaning of this violence, Christian?’

  ‘I’m taking the ship. Hold your tongue and you won’t be hurt.’

  ‘What’s the matter? What’s the matter?’

  ‘The matter is that you have put me in hell these past weeks.’

  Tearing off his cap, Bligh screamed. ‘Murder! Murder! Murder!’

  His howls were so loud they could be heard throughout the lower deck.

  Churchill shoved his way forward, a length of cord in his hands. ‘Sod you, Bligh,’ he snarled. ‘I’m trussing you.’ Towering over the captain, he grabbed Bligh by the arm and spun him about. With Fletcher standing back, Churchill and Burkett tied Bligh’s wrists and his arms behind his back, grunting with satisfaction as they tightened the rope. The tail of his nightshirt had become caught up in the rope, leaving his white bum exposed. He looked like a deranged patient who had wandered out of an infirmary.

  Fryer’s cabin was on the other side of the aft stairway. Having heard the yelling, he pushed his door open, but it was now guarded by Quintal and Sumner. They shoved him back inside.

  ‘You’re our prisoner, Fryer,’ Quintal told him.

  The master looked about wildly, as if expecting assistance from some of the others. Quintal grabbed his shirt front and shook him hard.

  ‘Unhand me, Quintal, you swine!’

  ‘Hold your tongue or you’re a dead man! Mr Christian is the captain of the Bounty now.’

  ‘What are you doing with the captain?’

  Sumner pushed forward, grinning. ‘We’re putting him in the cutter and setting him adrift. Then we’ll see if the bugger can survive on three quarters of a pound of yams a day!’

  ‘Into the cutter? For what reason?’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, can’t you understand? We’re getting rid of the pig.’

  Fryer cried out, ‘But the cutter’s not seaworthy! It’s been eaten by worms.’

  Fletcher came over to them, still brandishing the cutlass. Full of assurance now, he ordered Sumner and Quintal, ‘Confine Fryer to his cabin.’

  He turned back to Bligh, whose expression was dazed, his mouth hanging open. ‘On deck with you,’ Fletcher ordered, pointing to the stairs with the cutlass. Realising he had no option, Bligh shuffled to the stairs, one buttock still exposed. Fletcher was brimming with the power of authority and the satisfaction of redress. Now it is me who humiliates you, he thought, and it is a satisfying feeling.

  He led Bligh up on deck. It was daylight now and the armed men were visible.

  ‘What’s the meaning of this?’ Bligh demanded again, blinking at the insurgents.

  Fletcher put his face close to his. ‘How can you ask that, when you have treated me so abominably?’

  ‘I, abominable? I taught you all you know! I advanced you money!’

  Fletcher’s reply was in a bitter tone. ‘Yes, you were my benefactor for a time. Then, after I spurned your advances, you turned treacherous.’ He drew back. ‘You have treated me and the other officers like flunkies. You have abused and insulted us. You have proven unfit for command. Now, get aft!’

  With the cutlass, Fletcher prodded Bligh to the mizzen mast, near Bounty’s stern. There, hands still tied behind his back, he was guarded by Churchill, Burkett and Alex Smith, all with bayonets pointed at him. ‘Hold him there,’ Fletcher ordered. Smith tugged Bligh’s nightshirt tail out from under the rope in which it had become snagged.

  Fletcher began to go for’ard, Bligh’s cries following him. ‘Infamy! Outrage! You’ll fucking hang for this, Christian! You and all the other shits!’

  Turning back, Fletcher stared at the abjec
t figure. Lapsing into Tahitian, he shouted ‘Mamoo! Hold your tongue and I’ll not hurt you.’

  To think he had once been friends with this stunted, foul-mouthed bully. How could he have so misjudged the man?

  Ignoring Bligh’s continuing cries, Fletcher went to the front of the ship. He tore the lead line from around his neck and flung it overboard. No need for that, now. He was in charge, and he had much to live for.

  On the foredeck he carried out a head count. He reckoned there were now fifteen hard men on his side. And because they were all armed, they had control. Among those who had been doubtful, Millward had been ordered by his friend Churchill to join the mutineers. He concurred; nobody argued with Churchill. Young Ellison too had joined the revolt.

  Fletcher now considered the Bligh loyalists. Of these, Fryer was still confined to his cabin. Cole, Lebogue and Coleman had not gone over to the side of the mutineers. Neither had Morrison, McIntosh, Norman, Simpson and John Smith. Samuel, Hayward and Hallett would not join, and neither would purblind Byrne. Surprisingly, Will Purcell had declined to support the mutiny, despite loathing Bligh.

  Gardener Nelson’s allegiance lay with his breadfruit plants; he had been sleeping with them in the greenhouse since Tahiti. He remained loyal to Bligh. His colleague, Brown, did not. Loving Tahiti and despising Bligh, he willingly joined Fletcher’s team.

  Bligh’s clerk, Samuel, showed courage by going below and asking Mills for entry to the captain’s cabin. When consent was grudgingly given Samuel gathered up Bligh’s compass, his purser’s records and his commission authority. But Mills refused to let him take any charts, journals or navigational devices.

  Fryer was still in his cabin, but his shouting could be heard topside. Quintal’s head appeared at the top of the stairway. ‘He’s beggin’ to talk to you,’ he told Fletcher. ‘Shall we let him?’

  ‘Yes, bring him up. But keep him well guarded.’

  Fryer strode up to Fletcher, his face distraught, his eyes wild. ‘For God’s sake, Christian, release the captain.’

  ‘It’s too late for that, Fryer. Bligh has brought this upon himself. He’s to be set adrift. As are you and his other followers.’