by John Boyne
‘With his molly, I bet,’ said Mr Christian. ‘Haven’t you heard, Captain, that young Turnip is an innocent no more?’
I glared at the master’s mate and then looked at the captain, my face taking on the reddenings, as I did not want these private matters to be discussed in his presence. To his credit, he looked embarrassed too and shook his head.
‘I care not for this line of discussion, Fletcher,’ he said dismissively. ‘Turnstile, tea, if you please, fast as you can. We are all in need.’
I nodded and made my way towards the fire to boil the water, catching the eye of Mr Heywood as I went; his lip was twisted in distaste and I could tell that he had not enjoyed Mr Christian’s attempt to make a farce of me. Perhaps, I thought, he knew who my beloved was and, knowing her to be the fairest creature on the island, wanted her for himself. I set the kettle over the flames and made for the cups, careful not to upset my wounds as I went.
‘Turnstile,’ said the captain, interrupting his conversation and looking at me. ‘Are you all right, lad?’
‘Fair to middling, Captain, sir,’ said I. ‘Fair to middling.’
‘You appear to be moving with some difficulty.’
‘Do I? I must have been sitting wrong and my legs have taken a seizure.’
He frowned for a moment, shook his head as if to dismiss the nonsense from the table and looked back at the officers. ‘So, tomorrow morning it is, then,’ he said. ‘Around eleven bells?’
‘Eleven bells,’ muttered a few of the officers, and I couldn’t help but notice the air of sorrow that pervaded them.
Mr Fryer noticed my staring and turned towards me. ‘You’ll not have heard the news, Turnstile, I imagine. If you were absent on . . . other business.’
‘News, sir?’ said I. ‘What news?’
‘Surgeon Huggan,’ he replied. ‘He was saved this afternoon.’
I stared at him and tried to comprehend his meaning. ‘Saved?’ asked I. ‘Was he in some trouble?’
‘Mr Fryer means that he was called home,’ said Mr Elphinstone, which produced even less understanding in my face, for I could scarcely conceive of another ship’s arriving at Otaheite for no other reason than to transport our drunken surgeon back to Portsmouth.
‘Dead, Turnip, dead,’ snapped Mr Christian. ‘Dr Huggan has gone and died on us. We will be burying him in the morning.’
‘Oh,’ said I, ‘I’m sorry to hear it, sir.’ In truth, it mattered little to me, as I had exchanged no more than a few dozen words with the man in all the time I had known him. He was permanently in his cups and of such obese weight and proclivities that to sit near him was to suffer the imminent possibility of a gassing.
‘Yes, well, it looks like you could have done with a surgeon, Turnstile,’ said Captain Bligh, his voice rising as he stood up and came towards me. ‘What’s wrong with you, boy? You’re walking in a most curious fashion and perspiring like a laboured horse.’
‘There’s nothing, sir, I . . . oh!’ In trying to step away from him I moved too fast and the pain in my lower regions was so extreme that both hands went to my rump to soothe it.
‘Have you been tattooed, Turnip?’ asked Mr Elphinstone, a note of humour coming into his voice.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Well, yes. But it’s not a matter of importance. It’s—’
‘Good God, I know what he’s done,’ said Mr Christian, standing up and breaking into a smile. ‘He believes he’s going to marry his tart and so he has blackened his arse for her.’
If I had been willing to go along with the farce of it before, the mention of Kaikala’s name as a tart was too much for me now and I felt a strong desire to challenge him on it and demand satisfaction, but I kept my counsel for the moment.
‘Let us see, then, Turnstile. You won’t be sitting for weeks if I’m right.’
‘No, sir,’ I snapped. ‘Leave me be. Captain, tell him!’ I appealed to Mr Bligh, but he was standing by my side with a half-smile on his face, bemused by the whole business.
‘You haven’t, lad, have you? You’ve not gone native on me?’
‘Hold him there, William,’ said Mr Christian, referring to Mr Elphinstone, I might add, and not the captain. ‘Hold him straight.’
‘No, please,’ I cried as he took me by the arms and spun me round. ‘Leave me be! Captain, stop them . . .’
It was too late for begging: a gust of wind at my bare behind told me that they had pulled my britches down and I was exposed before them. I silenced myself and closed my eyes. The air, thankfully, was a balm to the burning sensation and I was grateful for that at least.
‘But there’s nothing there,’ said the captain. ‘Aren’t they usually fully covered?’
‘Look!’ said Mr Christian, pointing a finger towards the left edge of my left buttock. ‘It’s here. But it’s so small as to be almost insignificant!’
I might explain that it was not at all small. In fact the tattoo that adorns my person is a good two inches in width and height and can be clearly observed by anyone with ready access to that part of my anatomy.
‘But what is it?’ asked Mr Christian in wonder. ‘Is it a turnip? How appropriate!’
‘I believe it’s a potato of some sort,’ said Mr Heywood, the scut, who had come over for a closer look.
‘No, it’s a pineapple,’ said Mr Fryer, who was observing too.
Now all the officers and the captain were gathered before my bare rump, studying it carefully.
‘It’s clearly a coconut,’ said Mr Elphinstone. ‘Why, you just have to look at the shape and detail.’
‘It’s none of those things, is it, my lad?’ asked Captain Bligh, and I swear that for the first time in our acquaintance I saw the man laugh. The whole thing was almost worth it in order to see that too, for his moods had been so contraire of late that I thought a moment like this could do him the world of good. ‘The thing is neither a turnip nor a potato nor a pineapple nor a coconut, but it does represent the island and it does bear testament to young Turnstile’s time here. Can’t you guess, gentlemen?’
The officers stood up and looked at the captain expectantly and he smiled broadly, extending his arms as if to point out that it was entirely obvious, and he told them what it was, leading to all five of them almost falling out of their stance with hilarity. I pulled up my britches, tried to recover my dignity and returned to the kettle to make their tea, ignoring the hoots of derision and the tears of laughter that were pouring down their cheeks.
The captain was by far the most perceptive of every man there, because he had guessed it at once.
It was a breadfruit.
35
IT SEEMS TO ME THAT a man can live among other men, thinking he is part of their community, believing himself to be privy to their thoughts and plans, and never really know the truth of what is taking place around him. Even when I look back on those days from the distance of time, it seems to me that the crew of the Bounty were working harmoniously together on Otaheite, gathering breadfruit, planting the seeds, watching as the shoots appeared after a few weeks, then transporting them to the ship and the care of Mr Nelson. The days were filled with work and the nights with play. Our bellies were full, our mattresses soft, and our desires as men were being satisfied many times over. There were incidents, of course – men who were angry about this or that, complaints about some trivial matter or another – and from time to time the captain lost his senses entirely on account of being stuck on dry land, but all in all I considered us to be a happy lot.
Which made it all the more surprising when, during the afternoon of 5th January 1789, Mr Fryer and Mr Elphinstone appeared together in the captain’s tent, with a look of great distress upon their faces, while he was engaged in the act of writing a letter to his missus and I was starching a uniform for a dinner that was taking place later that evening with King Tynah.
‘Captain,’ said Mr Fryer, stepping inside, ‘might I disturb you?’
The captain looked up from his writing paper with a s
light air of distraction and glanced from one man to the other. ‘Of course you can, John, William,’ he said, an odd characteristic that I had noticed in him whereby he held each man on more friendly terms whenever he was engaged on the heart-warming task of writing to his wife. ‘What can I do for you?’
I glanced across, without paying particular attention at first, but the moment the words were out of Mr Fryer’s mouth I stopped what I was doing and looked in his direction.
‘Sir, there’s no way to put this other than to state it plainly. Three of the men have deserted.’
Mr Bligh put his quill down and stared down at his desk for a moment; I watched his face. He was shocked, I could see it, but did not want to react too quickly. He paused for the best part of half a minute before looking up again. ‘Who?’ he asked.
‘William Muspratt,’ began Mr Fryer.
‘Mr Hall’s assistant?’ asked the captain.
‘The very same. And John Millward with him. Also Charles Churchill, the master-at-arms.’
‘I can’t believe it,’ said Mr Bligh.
‘I’m afraid it’s true, sir.’
‘My own jaunty is one of those who has deserted? The man trusted with policing the ship has contravened its laws?’
Mr Fryer hesitated, but finally nodded; the irony did not need to be pointed out to anyone.
‘But how?’ asked the captain. ‘How do you know this for sure?’
‘Sir, we should have informed you earlier and I take responsibility for that. The men did not return from work duties yesterday and I believed they had simply taken themselves off somewhere with their womenfolk. It had been my intention to give them the scolding of their lives when they returned. Unfortunately there has been no sight of them this morning, they have not reported for work, and the afternoon is nearly behind us and they have still failed to appear. Sir, I recognize that I should have brought this information to you sooner . . .’
‘It’s all right, Mr Fryer,’ said the captain, surprising all of us in the room, perhaps, by the manner in which he was absolving the master of responsibility. ‘I have no doubt you did what you considered to be right.’
‘Indeed, sir. And, in truth, I believed they would return.’
‘And how do we know for sure that they will not?’
‘Captain,’ said Mr Elphinstone, speaking up for the first time, ‘a member of the crew has spoken to me in confidentiality, telling me that he heard rumours that the three men planned to desert. He spoke to me on condition that the other men would not find out his name.’
‘Which is what, Mr Elphinstone?’
‘Ellison, sir. Thomas Ellison.’
I gave a laugh within myself. Thomas Ellison – he of the Flora-Jane Richardson waiting for him back in England, she who had allowed him to kiss her and take a liberty before the journey had begun, he who was above me and happy to point it out – was little more than a snitch. It took some beating, it surely did.
The captain took the news badly and I could see his face grow dark. He paced the tent for a few minutes, considering the matter, before stepping over and facing the two officers again. ‘But why?’ he asked. ‘That is what I fail to understand. Why would they do this? Aren’t the conditions good here? Haven’t I created a harmonious camp? Don’t they appreciate at the very least the fact that there are so few disciplinary issues in our group? Why would they go? And where, for that matter, where would they go? We are on an island, gentlemen, for pity’s sake!’
‘Sir, there is the possibility that they might get off the island, by stealing a launch or canoe, and perhaps make their way to one of the neighbouring atolls. There are so many, sir, that if they do that, I fail to see how we can recapture them.’
‘I am aware of the local geography, Mr Fryer,’ said the captain, reverting to irritation. ‘But you haven’t offered an explanation as to the why.’
‘Sir, there could be many reasons.’
‘And your theory?’
‘Shall I state it plainly, sir?’
Mr Bligh narrowed his eyes. ‘Please do.’
‘Our work here is nearly completed. Mr Nelson walks the beach daily, informing us how well the shoots are doing on board. Soon all the pots will be filled and there will be no further need for us to gather plants or nurture their seeds.’
‘But of course,’ said Mr Bligh, his face betraying his confusion. ‘That is obvious: our work is finite. What of it? Are you suggesting that the men are so beloved of labour that they fear the end of their chores?’
‘No, sir; what I’m saying is that one day soon Mr Nelson will come to this tent, he will come to you, sir, and he will tell you that the part of our mission centred on the island of Otaheite has come to an end. And at that moment, sir, you are very likely to give the command to pack up our tents, gather our belongings and return to the ship.’
‘It’ll be anchors aweigh and goodbye Otaheite,’ chipped in Mr Elphinstone unhelpfully.
Mr Bligh nodded and a smile crossed his face. He glanced across at me, as I tried desperately to stay busy with the uniform. ‘Are you hearing this, Master Turnstile? The men will be happy that their work is over and they can return home to their loved ones with money in their pockets. I beg your pardon, Mr Fryer,’ he added, turning back to him. ‘I dare say you are making a most sensible point here but I am at a loss as to what it is.’
‘It’s as simple as this, sir. The men don’t want to leave.’
The captain stepped back a little and raised his eyebrows. ‘Don’t want to leave, is it?’ he asked. ‘When their wives and sweethearts are standing by the docks in Spithead expecting their safe return?’
‘Sir, their wives and sweethearts may be there, but their lovers are here.’
‘Their lovers?’
‘The women of the island. The ones for whom they have had their bodies marked.’ He shot me a look at this point, having had the good fortune to get an eyeful of my rump tattoo a week or so earlier. ‘The men have had a great deal of freedom while here. Their lives here are, for want of a better phrase, extremely pleasant. You have . . .’ He paused and corrected himself. ‘What we have done here—’
He may have tripped over his words but the captain wasn’t so stupid that he hadn’t noticed. ‘What I’ve done, sir, is what you’re getting at.’
‘No, sir, I merely—’
‘You’re saying that I’ve given the men an easy time of it. That I’ve made their lives a lot less disciplined than they might have been. You’re saying that if I had been a little more forceful, then they wouldn’t want to stay in this place, they would want to return to where they belong. They would be desperate for England, for Portsmouth, for dear old London town.’ His voice was rising to a crescendo as he spoke. ‘You’re saying this entire catastrophe is my fault.’
‘I don’t think he is, to be fair,’ said Mr Elphinstone. ‘I believe Mr Fryer is simply saying—’
‘Hold your tongue, if you please, Mr Elphinstone,’ said the captain, silencing him by raising a hand in the air. ‘When I want an opinion from you, I will ask for it. As it happens, for once I find myself entirely in agreement with Mr Fryer. It is my fault. I have made the men’s lives too happy and they have repaid my kindness by choosing to abandon their duties and stay on a savage land for no other reason than that they might satisfy their lusts at any hour of the day or night. I believe Mr Fryer might have a very sensible point. And if I am at fault, I stand guilty of it and must mend my ways. Mr Fryer, all men, save those currently under the watch of Mr Christian at the nursery, are to return to the ship immediately. And when I say immediately I mean that when you leave this tent you gather the launches and the men go to the Bounty. From this moment on, there will be no fraternizing with the natives, no leisure time on the island, and no opportunities for their blasted games and perversions. This will happen now, Mr Fryer,’ he continued, his voice becoming a shout. ‘This very minute, do you understand me?’
‘Yes, sir,’ he replied quietly but urgently. ‘Bu
t if I might suggest a grace period whereby they may say farewell to their ladies . . .’
‘I said now, Mr Fryer.’
‘But the morale, sir—’
‘I care not for it!’ roared the captain. ‘Three men have deserted their posts. The penalty for this, when they are caught, and they will be caught, Mr Fryer, mark me on that, the penalty for this is death. Hanging by the neck until dead, sir. And the gift that they have left their fellows is an end to luxury and a cessation of my generosity. Gather the men, Mr Fryer. The Bounty awaits them.’
They left immediately and the captain paced the floor, lost in thought. I was lost too. My mind was with Kaikala. I needed to find a way to speak to her.
That was a bleak evening. One of the bleakest. By nightfall, every man jack of the Bounty crew, save the three deserters Muspratt, Millward and Churchill, were back on the boat. Mr Byrn attempted to cheer us all up by playing his fiddle, but a suggestion was made that it be cracked over his head and the pair of them tossed overboard, and he took notice of the intelligence and silenced himself. The captain spoke to the gathered crew and told them of the new rules for our last weeks on Otaheite, and they went down badly, very badly indeed. The men spoke out in ways I’d never heard before and it was all that the captain could do to control them. Every time he had peace to make his statement, a noise would erupt from the island shore, where the fires had been lit and the women were dancing around them, screaming in misery and tearing what little clothes they wore; I had no doubt they were injuring themselves too and prayed that Kaikala had the sense to leave her beauty intact. I confess that at one point I feared for the captain’s safety when he informed the crew that there would be only two states of being from that moment until we set sail: either at work under an officer’s eye or on board the ship. I believe that had the officers not been there the scene might have grown nastier and, indeed, when we were all below decks again, I could see that Mr Bligh was visibly shaken by his ordeal.
A few hours later, I was lying in my bunk, so filled with the motions and the knowledge that I might never touch Kaikala’s skin again or taste her kiss that I thought I might explode. I reached down to relieve myself and was nearly discovered in the act by Mr Fryer, striding in my direction, knocking on the captain’s cabin door and marching inside without so much as a by-your-leave. Naturally I sprang from where I lay and put an ear to the door, but on this occasion the two men were speaking too low and I could hear ne’er a word.
