Mutiny on the Bounty

by Peter Fitzsimons

  ‘Then Captain Bry has used me very ill!’ cries the King, suddenly outraged. ‘He received from me some presents to deliver to King George!’59

  He refers not to the bread-fruit plants, but his many personal gifts – most particularly the two exquisite parais, Tahitian robes, specially made for Royalty. The assembly of those sacred robes had been presided over for days by Tinah himself, and they were then given to Bligh with the prayer that, ‘The King of England might forever remain my friend and not forget me.’60

  So … where are those sacred robes that were handed to Bry, in good faith, to give to King George?

  And where is Bry?

  For having been on the Bounty, Tinah knows only too well the truth, and now pronounces it: ‘I find that the greater part of [my gifts] remain in the vessel.’61

  …

  Well, Captain Christian?

  …

  Well, indeed. Christian has been quite thrown, and is not sure of the way out. But, clearly he must back up.

  ‘I am only joking,’ Christian finally declares. ‘I am waiting for a more convenient season.’62

  Once it arrives, he will, as he has said all along, return to Wytootacke, but then, by which he means, as soon as possible, ‘I intend to proceed for England; and, according to Captain Bligh’s directions, deliver those presents to the King in the name of the donor.’63

  ‘But,’ interrupts Tinah, ‘has the captain given you a list of those things which I expect in return, and which are to be sent by the large vessel, in which we are to visit England?’64

  There is no end to this! It is the way of lies. While truth is free-standing, lies need ever more lies to keep them standing, and those new lies need lies of their own.

  But, yes, King Tinah, of course I have that list. It is very important.

  Christian cannot get away from this gathering quick enough. Things are becoming completely unworkable, and downright dangerous.

  They must leave Tahiti, and as soon as possible.

  Afternoon, 13 June 1789, in Roti Channel, the waters off the southern tip of Timor

  On their way once more, Captain Bligh and his brooding, starving crew haul up the anchor and set sail out of the sandy and sheltered cove and at 3 pm, they come to a spacious bay, with an entrance some two miles wide.

  Just inside this promising entrance, a promising shore is spotted on the eastern side, near which they see a hut, a dog and some cattle. Bligh dispatches Cole and Peckover, who return with five Natives and the good news that they are indeed very near the port of Coupang. The friendly Natives point north-east but add a few hand gestures that clearly mean there are reefs to negotiate on the way.

  With his own hand gestures, Captain Bligh convinces one man to come with them as a guide, on the promise of a large reward.

  They have a pilot. They have a direction. They have every chance of reaching safety, their salvation against all odds, within hours!

  At half past four the Loyalists set sail once more, with wind in their sails, and hope in their hearts. Yes, as night falls so does the wind, but there is to be no stopping now. Bligh simply orders the men to start rowing, and so they do, the very last reserves of their strength being put to the oars and the cause.

  Yes, it really is extraordinary how, after seven weeks of privation, now that their journey’s end is near, these brittle skeletons of men can somehow summon the strength to not only row, but row hard. Bligh is delighted. Still, by 10 o’clock, his caution re-asserts itself and he orders them to rest, against a current that has suddenly strengthened. Dropping a grapnel anchor, their rest is sweet and all the more so when Bligh, for the first time this whole voyage – and perhaps even since time began – issues a double allowance of bread and a little wine.

  It is enough. Their exertions, the food, the wine, all combine with the fact that they really are nearly there, to give the Loyalists ‘the most happy and sweet sleep that ever men had’.65

  Only Bligh stays awake, sitting at the stern, waiting for the tide to turn, and when it does, he rouses the men once more to set the sails, and in the dark early morning they are on their way.

  Somewhere in the distance ahead, they suddenly hear the blast of two cannon. The sweet sound of civilisation, of salvation, a clap of man-made thunder that sees a surge of life pouring into every man on board, just to hear it, as throughout the Launch men sit bolt upright, staring straight ahead.

  When the wind picks up and begins to blow them off course, their tiny sails no match for its strength, they take to their oars once more and keep rowing until dawn reveals a welcome sight in the near distance. Can it be? Yes, it is!

  A small fort and town, which the pilot told me was Coupang.66

  For most of the Loyalists, nothing is more important than to arrive, to get off this infernal Launch, to eat, to drink, to be among civilised people again. Ah, but Bligh has different priorities.

  He does not wish to arrive in the harbour of Coupang looking like a bunch of bedraggled ruffians, beggars in a boat, on their last legs. No, sir. We are British sailors, proud to be serving in His Majesty’s Royal Navy, and we will fly the Union Jack as we make our entrance. The small handmade Jack is duly hauled up the main-mast, and Bligh feels a surge of pride.

  There it flaps, ragged and dirty, emblematic of the tattered, starving Loyalists in the Launch – but, like them, it also projects pride.

  They have done it!

  14 June 1789, Coupang Harbour, a miracle observed

  Tropical torpor, be thy name.

  Such is the nature of the place where lassitude and apathy gaze at each other wanly every day, idly wondering how it can be so damn hot again and if, perhaps, tomorrow might be a bit damn cooler?

  Whatever the travails of the colonial outpost, Coupang – based around a heavily manned garrison, situated by a river that flows into a deep harbour – it is at least the centre of some small industry, based around sandalwood and bees-wax, worked by Natives, together with sundry Dutch, Malay and Chinese inhabitants, and it has grown to about 150 houses in total.

  Yes, this far-flung trading post is a barely known something in the middle of a vast nothing, and its residents do not receive many visitors …

  Now, what’s this?

  For, shortly after dawn on this day, 14 June 1789, a strange vessel appears, a ragged boat, peopled by haggard sailors in raggedy clothes – and yet, despite that, from their mast they fly a tattered Union Jack. Look closer still, through your long spy-glass. To a man they are near blackened by the sun, their cheeks sunken, their visages cadaverous, their clothes hanging limply from their bones – men who have lost everything bar the will to live, and some seem to have lost nearly that.

  Strange indeed, and many a gun is trained upon them as they slowly, oh so slowly, bob-bob-bob their way up the harbour.

  Now, if Bligh feels a certain amount of satisfaction on this day, there can be no doubt he is entitled to. Never, in maritime history, has an open boat been sailed such a distance, through such savage waters – a little more than 4000 miles, a sixth of the Earth’s circumference, over 47 days – and all without losing a man, at least not at sea.

  Arriving within a hundred yards of the shore, the Loyalists can see plenty of Indians, with the odd European, going to and fro on the cobble-stone streets – which is exciting enough – but still Bligh calls a halt. It would be a breach of naval protocol to just charge to one of the many wharves and get out.

  No, he wants to be invited to land. And so there is indeed a pause as both those in the Launch, and those on the shore, get a good look at each other, until finally, the invitation from a white man comes to Bligh.

  Most thrillingly, it comes from an Englishman.

  Yes, stepping forward from a crowd of Natives, a single English sailor hails them and welcomes them to Coupang. He informs them that the Governor of Coupang, Willem Adriaan Van Este, is at death’s door and consequently it is the sailor’s own commander, Captain Spikerman – the brother-in-law of the now incapacita
ted Governor – who is temporarily in charge. If they will come on shore, the sailor says he will be happy to take this fellow dressed in the shattered and tattered remains of what must once have been a magnificent uniform of the Royal Navy – Captain William Bligh, you say? – and his men immediately to see him.

  Captain Bligh gives the order and the men pull the oars, gliding the last 20 yards to a wharf.

  ‘Bank oars.’

  The bowman secures a line to the wharf and they all clamber out, and onto the ground proper of this European outpost, which is nothing less than the land of their dreams, paradise, salvation and the promise of a better future – at a time when they all would have settled for a future – all rolled into one.

  Soon enough, seemingly every European in Coupang has heard of their arrival, and has hurried to the shore to witness this extraordinary scene, one that strains even Bligh’s own power of description:

  The abilities of a painter, perhaps, could never have been displayed to more advantage than in the delineation of the two groups of figures, which at this time presented themselves. An indifferent spectator would have been at a loss which most to admire; the eyes of famine sparkling at immediate relief, or the horror of their preservers at the sight of so many spectres, whose ghastly countenances, if the cause had been unknown, would rather have excited terror than pity. Our bodies were nothing but skin and bones, our limbs were full of sores, and we were clothed in rags; in this condition, with the tears of joy and gratitude flowing down our cheeks, the people of Timor beheld us with a mixture of horror, surprise, and pity.67

  Bligh himself can scarcely believe that he has done it.

  Thus happily ended through the blessing of divine providence, without accident a voyage of the most extraordinary nature that ever happened in the world, let it be taken either in its extent, duration, or so much want of the necessaries of life.68

  Before leaving for Captain Spikerman’s residence, however, Bligh insists that one man in particular stay behind in the Launch, to guard it. None other than … Master John Fryer. Yes, Mr Fryer, you. We will go off to receive the hospitality Captain Spikerman offers, while you must bear the responsibility of keeping our precious vessel secure. You may choose one man to stay with you.

  Shocked and infuriated – does Bligh’s vengeance know no bounds, even in triumph? – Fryer chooses the only man whose selection might anger Bligh in turn, the Captain’s own servant, John Smith.

  Smith’s bony shoulders sink with silent disappointment.

  And so the furious Fryer and the glumly obedient Smith stay behind, while Bligh and his rag-tag crew of Loyalists walk to comfort, led and, in some cases, helped, through the cobble-stone streets of this fortress town.

  They traipse past Malay and Chinese houses at first, which give way to impressive European stone mansions complete with piazzas and fine trees and gardens. Once familiar sights now stun the men. They keep walking towards the wooden walls of the fort itself, its protruding cannon dominating all beneath, its grand residence within. Arriving inside, they are greeted like a platoon of prodigal sons by a very surprised Captain Spikerman. This way, gentlemen, this way!

  Within minutes, the Governor’s Surgeon himself arrives and starts moving from man to man. Never in the Surgeon’s long career has he had to care for such a large group of desperately weak men – just another day or two and some among them must surely have perished.

  Back at the Launch, meantime, Fryer waits in the sun, burning up, externally, internally, eternally.

  The hide of the man!

  He sits, he rages, he curses. Finally, an hour after the cursed Bligh had left them here, along comes a soldier to offer them tea and cake.

  But the soldier is not British, meaning these ‘rations’ are not official, meaning both Fryer and poor Smith decline to wolf the cakes down as might be expected. For Fryer will take no chances with one so devilishly devious and cruel as Bligh. If he returns and sees them eating on duty, it would provide further fuel to the fire that Fryer expects to soon be facing. And so, though starving, they actually tuck the cakes under their filthy jackets.

  Bligh finally sends a messenger to the Launch with a message for Mr Fryer … just not the one the Master is expecting.

  All Bligh’s things are to be brought on shore and the boat is to be brought further into the harbour once the tide turns, he is informed.

  In other words, Fryer is to continue to wait, under the sun, with no food and drink, until the tide rises! For the sake of a slightly further berth for the Launch. It is an unbelievably petty instruction under the circumstances, at least to most. But, of course, Mr Fryer believes it. Clearly, Bligh wants him to snap, to do something for which he can be court-martialled, so as to have his final revenge.

  No-one knows better than Mr Fryer the heights of bastardry, the depths of venality, of which Captain Bligh is capable, but there it is. As long as Fryer is on this vessel, Bligh is his commander, and he is to remain on this vessel, by Bligh’s command. As Bligh’s goods are unloaded from the Launch and carried away, Fryer and Smith remain – the former glowering, the latter meekly.

  Yes, as the hours slip by, baking in the sun, as Bligh sups and smirks nearby, no doubt in complete comfort, it becomes harder. But still Fryer remains resolute. Wherever Bligh is, the bastard is not going to get the better of him, not going to make him disobey orders or publicly snarl at him – no matter how much he deserves it!

  •

  Up in Captain Spikerman’s residence the relief of the rest of the Loyalists goes on as, moving on from tea and bread, the men eat their share of pork, and drink more than their share of water and wine. Though their tender stomachs are not sure, they can hardly help themselves.

  But now what?

  A Dutch merchant arrives to have a quiet word with Captain Spikerman, telling him ‘There is an officer [still] in the Boat and one man.’69

  Really? Extraordinary. It has been well over four hours since the Launch arrived!

  ‘I am very much surprised,’ the Captain replies. ‘I thought everybody was at my house.’70 Immediately Spikerman orders that hot tea and loaves of bread be sent to them by way of welcome, with an invitation to come up to his house.

  And welcome they are. But while Mr Smith is happy to depart, Mr Fryer refuses. He knows Bligh’s tricks, and will not be accused of abandoning his duty by Bligh, until he is sure that Bligh cannot pin that charge on him.

  Mercifully that order finally comes, when a uniformed man comes down with another message: ‘You must go to Captain Spikerman’s house.’71

  ‘Is the English Captain there?’72 asks Fryer. In other words, did Bligh hear this order?

  ‘Yes,’ replies the puzzled man. ‘And all the people.’73

  Fine, then. If there are witnesses, Fryer is prepared to leave the Launch, and does indeed accompany the messenger to Spikerman’s grand residence. Staggering inside, for he is completely spent and can barely remain upright, he is instantly more staggered still to find all the men, who just hours ago were ragged ghosts, now living, breathing, eating, drinking, laughing … enjoying themselves! From the nearby kitchen comes the delicious waft of freshly cooked meat. Servants bearing china plates, covered by silver domes, bustle by towards a dining table groaning under the weight of food.

  And there, too, stands Bligh.

  ‘Mr Fryer!’ says Bligh cheerfully ‘How do you do?’74

  And that is Bligh all right, who never saw a wound he didn’t wish to pour more salt into.

  But Fryer has come too far, is too close to deliverance, and this time will not be goaded.

  ‘I thank you for your compliments, Captain,’75 replies Mr Fryer tightly, and hobbles, wobbles, past.

  And who is this smiling countenance now approaching? Of course, mijn host, Captain Spikerman.

  ‘I am sorry,’ says this fine Dutch captain, this model of what a commanding officer could be, ‘I did not know who was left in the Boat.’76

  Offering Fryer a glass of his fine
st wine, Spikerman waves an airy hand and says, ‘You must stay here, sir’77 – for nothing is too good for the Master of the Bounty – before leading him to the dinner table where a fine, warm meal awaits, with full flagons of wine.

  Mr Fryer sits down, pauses, gazes at it all … and for the first time this voyage, the famously stoical Master begins to cry.

  Mid-June 1789, Tahiti, Nānā Parahi Araua’e … goodbye

  The time is fast approaching, and they all know it.

  Before long, the Mutineers must leave Tahiti for an as yet undetermined destination, although Peter Heywood has no doubt where they must head, and tells Christian time and again.

  ‘Return to England,’ he pleads persistently. ‘And throw yourselves on the mercy of God!’78

  Which is all very well. But there is no God that Christian has ever heard of who might make the Admiralty forgive an Acting Lieutenant for seizing a ship and putting her Captain and 18 loyal men in a small boat in the middle of the High Seas. So the answer is no.

  Quietly, privately, Christian confides in Stewart – just as he had the night before the Mutiny – and gives free rein to his troubled thoughts, his grief at what has happened, his realisation at the enormity of what they have done. On one thing he is vehement: ‘Rather than return [to England],’ says he, his low voice a’trembling, ‘I would die! … Sooner would I suffer massacre, and all the tortures these barbarous natives could inflict, than once set my foot upon English ground to be called to an account, and bear the reproaches that I should surely meet!’79

  And yet, Heywood persists in his insistence that they must return to England. Coleman also joins in.

  ‘I have considered it well,’ says Christian at one point, ‘and by God I’ll die before I agree.’80

  ‘Considered!’ replies Heywood, echoing his words sarcastically. ‘Would to heaven you had “considered” before you had acted at all.’81

  And so it has come to this.

  Does Heywood not understand? Christian never wanted the Mutiny. He was happy to cast off on his raft. But no, he was prevailed upon by the others to join, to lead, what was always their mutiny. And now Heywood is publicly blaming him? It is as if he had been slapped in the face by a brother.