Mutiny: A Novel of the Bounty

by John Boyne

  The men rushed towards the girls and they lowered the jars to fill the tall cups that sat near the gardens and each man swallowed his rapidly in order to have it refilled as many times as was possible before the supply was drained. I was slow in joining the group and the last to be served and, when I was, it was the final member of the group who poured for me, a girl I had not seen before, a girl around my own age, perhaps a little older. I stared at her as she filled my cup and astonished myself to discover that my dry palate could grow dryer still. I held the cup but didn’t taste the water.

  ‘Drink,’ she said, smiling at me now, and her white teeth set against that brown skin dazzled me momentarily and I obeyed her instructions, as I would have done had she commanded me to lift the knife from Mr Heywood’s belt and slit my own throat with it, ear to ear. I swallowed the water in one rush, feeling it make its sudden descent through my gut and chilling me delightfully, and begged her to serve me some more, which she did with a laugh. Only, this time as she poured, her head was bowed but her eyes were lifted and she held my own while she smiled.

  I’ll make it clear to you now and save you the flowery language. This girl was Kaikala, a word that meant ‘all the coldness of the sea and all the heat of the sun’, and from that moment on I was smitten. She held me in her hands. The sound of the men fell to nothing beside me and only when Mr Heywood, the scut, came over and led her away by the arm did I snap back to life.

  ‘Here, take a look at Turnip,’ cried John Hallett, the lad nearest my age on board. ‘He’s lost his reason.’

  I looked around then and all the men were looking at me, some amused, some bored. I shook my head and went back to my digging, and little more can I remember from that afternoon’s labours, for my mind was elsewhere entirely, in a land I had never visited, a place that I wished to call home.

  29

  ALTHOUGH RELATIONS BETWEEN THEM APPEARED to have improved considerably towards the end of our voyage to Otaheite and across the span of our earliest weeks on the island, a further dispute eventually broke out between Captain Bligh and Mr Fryer. On this occasion, I confess my sympathies were with the ship’s master, for he was hard done by in the argument by both the captain himself and the crew members who blamed him for the fault of it.

  The matter started, as these matters often do, with a trifle so insignificant that it might not have been of any consequence at all had it not led to something else, which in turn led to something else, which in turn led to the dispute. But initially the entire conflict turned on a pin: the captain was suffering the squits.

  There wasn’t a man or boy from the Bounty’s crew who had not been indulging in more food and drink since arriving at the island than we had on board the ship, and although our skin and hair were the better for it, and all cases of scurvy had quickly cleared up with the sudden influx of vitamins afforded by the limitless supply of fresh fruit and vegetables that the island afforded us, there were some who overdid things too quickly and felt the worse for it. One of those was the captain, who had developed a great taste for the papaya fruit and ate so many of them one day that they affected his digestive system something terrible and he was back and forth to his privy like nobody’s business.

  When I brought him his breakfast on that particular morning I could tell that there was something amiss on account of the paleness of his face, the dark sacs that hung beneath his eyes and the drops of perspiration about his forehead, but my mind being fully distracted by my new love, Kaikala, I thought little of it at the time.

  ‘Good morning, Captain, your holiness, sir,’ said I, all joy and cheer. ‘And a fine morning it is, to be sure.’

  ‘Good Lord, Turnstile, if I didn’t know better I’d have taken you for an Irishman,’ said the captain, looking across at me irritably. I didn’t care for the accusation. The suggestion that I had impersonated an Irishman had been one of the charges that King Neptune, the donkey, had made to me when I was a slimy pollywog and which had resulted in my terrible trial as we had crossed the Equator. ‘Your turn of phrase becomes more perverse by the day.’

  ‘Oh, no, Captain,’ said I quickly, shaking my head. ‘You have me mistaken. I knew many an Irishman when I lived in Portsmouth, I don’t mind admitting it, but they were a rum lot and given to expressing themselves in an overly affectionate manner after they had taken a drink, which was often, so I snubbed them for the most part.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he replied, as if I was a terrible nuisance altogether, sitting up and poking around at the plate I’d brought with a growing look of distaste about his chops. I could tell that he was in no humour for my particular brand of prattle, even if I was in the form for it myself. ‘Heavens above, Turnstile, didn’t you think to bring me any fresh water?’

  I thought he must have gone mad, because there was a jug of fresh cold water, which I’d drawn myself from a stream not ten minutes before, sitting at the side of the tray beside his bread and fruit.

  ‘It’s right there, Captain,’ I said, pushing it forward a little. ‘Will you have me pour you a cup?’

  ‘I’m not an infant,’ he snapped, staring at it in surprise, for it did seem a little curious that he had failed to notice it before. ‘I think I can manage to feed myself without your assistance.’

  ‘As you please, sir,’ said I, picking up a few items that he’d casually dropped to the ground the night before, in the manner that gentlemen do when they know there’s another who’ll come along after them to collect their mess. It’s something their mamas teach them. I held my tongue as I did this, sensible enough to know that the captain was neither in the form nor the mood for chatter. His mood had darkened over the weeks that we had been here, despite the fact that the work upon which we were engaged was continuing at a strong pace. I suspected that he was finding the change of circumstances unhappy, however. By the nature of things, there were days when he did not see some of his officers at all, and the entire crew had not been gathered together as one since the evening before we had first spotted land. He was as aware as anyone that the men were enjoying the physical side of being on Otaheite and making themselves free and easy with their new friends.

  A special hut had been erected for him in the shade of some trees near the shoreline but far enough removed from it that he did not need to worry about getting his groundsheets damp. Most of the men were sleeping in hammocks and on the beaches. Of course, many of the men had already found a girl to spend those nights with and not be left alone. Or two girls. Or, in Mr Hall’s case, four girls and a lad, but that is another story and one he would have to take up with Mrs Hall on his return to England and not for these pages. As I had yet to know a feminine touch myself, I tried desperately not to focus too much of my time on my longings for it. But the captain’s hut was particularly fine. He had a desk set up with some maps upon it, and his log-book and daily information sheets about the breadfruits were there too, and he spent much of his time filling it in and writing letters about their progress to Sir Joseph, although how he imagined these would be transported to their recipient I knew not.

  ‘The fruit isn’t very good this morning,’ said the captain after a moment and I was surprised to hear it, for I’d stolen a little myself and thought it exceptionally fine. Sweet and juicy, as I liked it.

  ‘Isn’t it, sir?’ asked I and was about to say more and possibly contradict him, when he took me by surprise by suddenly leaping from his bunk with an oath and charging towards me at a speed I had never seen him manage before. For a moment I thought the inferiority of the fruit had turned his head so badly that he was going to knock me to the ground and pull my head from my shoulders but before I knew it he had rushed past me to his privy, wherein he relieved himself quickly and at length in a loud and deeply unpleasant fashion. I thought about leaving, but the mornings were typically set aside for him to set me some tasks that he needed doing during the day and I knew that in his present mood I would be in for trouble if I departed without being dismissed.

  When he finall
y emerged again, he was walking unsteadily and there was a great deal of perspiration on his face; the heavy bags under his eyes had grown even darker still.

  ‘Are you all right, sir?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he snapped, pushing me out of the way as he returned to his bunk. ‘I’ve eaten enough, though. I don’t want any more of that. Feed me something edible in the future, will you, boy? I haven’t the stomach to be poisoned.’ I glanced at the tray. He had barely touched any of his food, but I said nothing of that for now; I would set it aside and enjoy it for my own lunch later. ‘Have you seen Mr Christian today, Turnstile?’ he asked me then. ‘The increase of daily collection numbers seems to be levelling out at the moment and I want to know the reason why.’

  ‘I saw him not twenty feet from where we are speaking now,’ I replied. ‘He was outside when I was coming in, organizing the shifts for today.’

  ‘Only now?’ he asked irritably. ‘Hang it, boy, look at the time.’

  He crawled out of the bunk again and set a robe about his person before marching out on to the sand; he hesitated for a moment when the sun hit him and shielded his eyes before pressing his hand to his forehead, and then continued on, picking up his pace even as his face grew more and more irritated. Mr Christian and Mr Fryer were standing at no distance from us, engaged in a rare moment of light-heartedness, when he stormed in their direction and demanded to know what the devil was going on.

  ‘Going on with what, sir?’ asked Mr Christian, and I confess that no man’s hair had ever looked as dark as his did in the sunlight that morning. He was standing there without a shirt on and it was not difficult to see why the ladies of the island had taken such a fancy to him; he had a structure to him that seemed as if the Saviour himself had been present at his formation and presented a design of his own construct. Gossip around the camp was that he had already had his way with more than a dozen of the native girls and was determined to work his way through the whole shoddy lot of them by the close of business on Friday.

  ‘With the breadfruit, Mr Christian,’ snapped the captain. ‘So far we have transported fewer than two hundred to the nursery, when the schedule clearly states that we were to have broken the three-hundred mark by yesterday. How are they to mature and be ready for transportation to the ship’s cargo hold at this rate?’

  Mr Christian gave an almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulder and looked at Mr Fryer for a moment, before stalling for time. ‘Is there really that much of a shortfall?’ he asked.

  ‘I wouldn’t have said it if there wasn’t,’ insisted the captain. ‘And what time of the day is this to be organizing the rotas anyway? The men should have been at their work an hour ago.’

  ‘We were just waiting for Martin and Skinner to return, sir,’ said Mr Fryer, speaking for the first time now, and from my vantage point several feet away I wondered why he didn’t hold his tongue entirely, for there was precious little that was guaranteed to stir the captain’s temper more when he was already in a commotion than discourse with the ship’s master.

  ‘Waiting for Martin and Skinner?’ asked the captain in astonishment. He hesitated before continuing and seemed to utter a slight groan; I could tell it was the squits playing with him. He took the weight off his right leg and transferred it to his left, but his body seemed to sink a little in the sand even as he did so. ‘What do you mean “waiting for them”?’

  ‘To return from last night’s . . . escapades,’ replied Mr Fryer, choosing his words carefully.

  ‘Escapades?’ asked the captain, staring at him as if the man had suffered an embolism. ‘What sort of escapades? Is it a circus we are running here now?’

  ‘Well, sir . . .’ replied Mr Fryer, hesitating, and laughing for a moment before turning that laugh into a cough and recalling his serious countenance, ‘you are a man of the world. I dare say you understand.’

  ‘I understand nothing, sir, that you do not explain to me,’ snapped the captain, and I wondered whether that was entirely what he wanted to say and suspected not. ‘What escapades are they about? Answer me, sir!’

  ‘I believe they took some of the native girls inland a little for the evening’s sport,’ replied Mr Fryer cheerfully. ‘They’ll be back here at any moment, I guarantee it.’

  Captain Bligh stared at him in amazement and his mouth lay open for a moment; I dreaded to think what was to come. But to my surprise he turned away from Mr Fryer and chose his companion to address instead. ‘Mr Christian,’ he began, ‘are you seriously telling me that—’ He halted again and offered a small grunt of agony, his face contorting something rotten. ‘Stay here a moment, the both of you. Neither of you are to leave.’

  And with that he vanished back inside his hut and from there to his privy and when he returned a few moments later he appeared both embarrassed by his absence and more annoyed than he had been before.

  ‘There’s too much indolence around here for my liking,’ he roared immediately, not allowing either of them a chance to speak first. ‘And you’re at the heart of it, the pair of you. Standing around like a couple of ladies’ maids while the men have deserted—’

  ‘Sir, they have hardly deserted—’ began Mr Fryer, but the captain was not to be interrupted.

  ‘They have deserted their posts even if they have not deserted their king,’ he shouted. ‘They should be here and ready for work at the scheduled time. It’s all this sleeping on shore that’s doing it to them. The whole thing needs to be brought to a swift end and now. You, Mr Christian, you’re in charge of the nursery. How many men do you need there on a shift every day?’

  ‘Well, sir,’ said Mr Christian, smoothing down his eyebrows and examining the condition of his fingernails as he considered the question, ‘I suppose a dozen and a half would do us at any one time to tend the gardens, half working, half on rest.’

  ‘Then, Mr Fryer, the men who are not part of the nursery duties, those men who are engaged in transportation during the day, they will return to the ship every evening when their duties are completed and sleep on board. Is that understood?’

  The three of us who were not of the captain’s rank stood silently for a moment and I was pleased to note the look of disbelief that passed between the two officers. For my part, I wished that the captain’s squits would come on again and he’d be taken unawares and forget about this suggestion, for even I knew what trouble this would lead to.

  ‘Captain,’ said Mr Fryer, ‘are you sure that’s wise?’

  ‘Wise?’ asked Mr Bligh with a laugh. ‘Are you questioning my decision?’

  ‘I only ask, sir,’ he replied patiently, ‘because you yourself informed the men when we arrived at Otaheite that their sacrifices along the way were received in gratitude and that things would be a little less . . . regimental on the island. As long as the work is done I see no reason why the men shouldn’t be allowed to enjoy a little leisure time in the evening. It’s good for morale and so on.’

  This was a pretty speech to have delivered without suffering the sensation of having his head ripped from his shoulders, and even as he spoke it Mr Christian caught my eye and we shared an unexpected moment of silent agreement, the accord being that neither of us would like to be on the receiving end of what was to come next.

  ‘Mr Fryer,’ said the captain finally, and I was even more nervous to note that he held his tone steady as he spoke. ‘You are truly a disgrace to your uniform, sir.’

  The recipient of this insult stood there, open-mouthed, and Mr Christian swallowed nervously as the tirade continued.

  ‘You stand there in front of me and tell me that the men made sacrifices on our journey. The men made no sacrifices, Mr Fryer. The men are part of His Majesty’s navy, God bless his name, and what they do they do in his name and it is their duty, sir, aye their sworn duty. As it is your duty, sir, to listen to my every word and obey my every order and question me not. Why must we have this continual back-and-forth between us, Mr Fryer? Why can you not simply fulfil the role for which you
were put on board the Bounty?’

  ‘Sir,’ replied Mr Fryer after a moment, and he held himself to his full height as he spoke and his voice didn’t quiver, for which I admired him, ‘if those are your orders I will of course see them through. I wish it to be stated for the record, however, that I consider it ill-advised to punish the men at this time, and that is what it will be seen as, sir, punishment, on the trifling matter of two men being late for work detail. There are better ways to tackle the problem than breaking a promise that was made to all at once.’

  ‘Ways you are familiar with, no doubt?’

  ‘Allow Fletcher and me to speak to the men, sir. We can make it clear to them that a little fun is one thing, but we are here with a mission to achieve and—’

  ‘We’ll not speak to the men,’ said the captain quietly, his voice filled with exhaustion, his face growing pale again, and I could tell that he was about to have another turn and would need to go to relieve himself. ‘I have spoken to you and you will tell them and what I have said will happen and that is an end to the matter, is that understood?’