Mutiny: A Novel of the Bounty

by John Boyne

  ‘Peet-a,’ said Kaikala, her voice purring like a kitten now, ‘how I long to be your wife. I will keep your palace for you and be kind to your servants, if they behave themselves. And I will make love to you four, five, times a day. As often as you want.’

  Peet-a? My breathing seemed to have slowed down to a halt, and then what did I see but the figure of a naked man, no more than a boy really, emerge from a spot to the right and go over and lie beside her. My eyes opened wide, and I swear it, I swear that I had never felt such a pain so deep within myself.

  It was Mr Heywood. The scut himself.

  My fingers grasped on to branches and I knew immediately that it had been he who had followed me that time before, he who had sat and watched our love-making and had a tug to it, no doubt. But he had cuckolded me into the bargain, stolen that which had been pure, with a lie to take her to England. I would have seen it through, I told myself, I would have found a way. I looked around and, seeing a branch that had fallen, I reached down to pick it up. With that in my hands, I knew that all I would have to do was swing it once and his brains, such as they were, would be spattered over Kaikala’s body. Swing it twice and hers would be floating in the lagoon alongside his. I held it, I clutched it tight and I began my charge.

  Whether Mr Heywood or Kaikala ever heard my feet running through the forest away from them, I know not. I no longer cared about being caught or considered a deserter. But there were many things I had done and many things I had been in my life, not all of which caused me shame, nor all of which afforded me pride either. But there was one thing that I was not.

  I was not a murderer.

  I made my way back to the beach quickly, my heart broken inside my chest, my eyes streaming with tears, an agony playing out its game in my brain like no suffering I had ever known before, the pain of love. The awful pain of it. I knew not who I was, where I was, how I would survive this betrayal. But somehow I found my way back to the shore, into the water – whose frozen temperatures caused me little pain now – and back to the ladder. I gave no thought to danger and simply ascended to the deck, caring not whether I was discovered in my return, but no one saw and I returned numbly to the lower deck, to the corridor outside the captain’s cabin, and to my bunk.

  37

  THE WORD SPREAD LIKE WILDFIRE around the ship the evening that the three deserters were caught and brought back to the Bounty.

  The captain was in his cabin, plotting a course for the West Indies, where we were shortly to head with the breadfruit plants, when Mr Elphinstone marched down the corridor at a tremendous pace and ran inside without so much as a knock. Naturally, I was presently engaged in clearing away Mr Bligh’s dinner.

  ‘Sir,’ he said, taking both of us by surprise, and the captain spun round, a hand to his chest in fright.

  ‘Good God, man, take a care when you enter my cabin, will you?’ he said testily. ‘You nearly frightened me to death.’

  ‘I apologize, Captain,’ he said. ‘But I thought you’d want to know immediately, sir. Mr Fryer and Mr Linkletter are approaching the ship in a launch; they have returned from the island.’

  The captain stared at him for a moment, and then across at me, before shaking his head. ‘And you’re only telling me now, Mr Elphinstone?’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘Why the blazes would it be of interest to me that Mr Fryer is returning to the ship?’

  ‘Because he has Muspratt, Churchill and Millward with him, sir. He’s captured them.’

  This put a different spin on things entirely and the captain set aside his charts immediately and made for the upper deck. I followed at just such a pace, for this would be an event worth seeing and a pleasant interlude to a dull evening.

  It had been two days since I had discovered how Kaikala had betrayed me, and with Mr Heywood too, which only made matters worse. How she could have allowed that scrawny, pimpled body anywhere near her own was a mystery to me, but it was clear that she had been using us both. She wanted away from Otaheite almost as much as the sailing men wanted to stay there and it was anyone’s guess how many other salts had made equal promises to her in return for her favours. I felt like a fool for having believed her. But I found it hard to hate her, for she had been my first love and even to think on her was to feel a great ache inside my body that sent my spirits low and my eyes a-weeping. As for the scut, I picked no fight with him for now. He had been as big a fool as I had been.

  The deck of the Bounty was swarming with men when we three arrived there and they each fell silent as Captain Bligh took his place at the side of the boat, watching as the launch drifted towards us and was elevated so that the men might step aboard. Neither Mr Fryer nor Mr Linkletter, who had been engaged for some time in tracking the three men, had a look of triumph on his face; indeed if I was to tell it as I recall it, I would say they looked almost sorrowful, for the penalty for desertion was death and the captain had proved in recent times that he was in no mood to be lenient.

  The men for their part watched as their former fellows appeared before them with a mixture of emotions; it had been their fault that we were all confined to the ship again; the blame was entirely theirs that no man had placed so much as a finger on his sweetheart in a week. But, still, they were part of one crew. And there was admiration for their courage in escaping in the first place. So they said nothing. Just stood and watched. As I did.

  ‘Captain,’ said Mr Fryer, stepping on to the deck first and removing his hat. ‘The three men who deserted, William Muspratt, John Millward and Charles Churchill.’

  Mr Bligh breathed heavily through his nose and nodded slowly. ‘Where did you find them, Mr Fryer?’

  ‘Tettahah,’ he replied, indicating a part of the island about five miles away. ‘Gathered round a campfire.’

  ‘Were they eating a stolen piglet by any chance?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  The captain raised an eyebrow, a little surprised. ‘Well, that much at least is to their credit. Gentlemen,’ he added, stepping forward, ‘lift your heads, then. Let me take a look at you.’

  The three men looked up slowly and for the first time I was able to see their faces. They were blackened with dirt; John Millward, the youngest of the three, looked as if he had been weeping, for there were streaks and channels laying waste to his smooth cheeks. Charles Churchill had a bruised eye, which had turned a mixture of the purple and green shade.

  ‘Mr Churchill,’ said the captain. ‘What happened to your eye?’

  ‘A dispute, sir,’ he replied, his voice filled with contrition. ‘A small matter of my own fault.’

  ‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘Well, gentlemen, you are discovered. What have you to say to that?’

  They said nothing for a moment and we all held our breaths, waiting for their excuses to pour from their mouths. They were pathetically weak, though, and no sound came from the men other than a muffled series of apologies.

  ‘It’s a little late to be sorry,’ said the captain. ‘You know the penalty for desertion, I assume?’ The men looked up, Millward particularly quickly with a panicked look in his eye, and the captain frowned. ‘I can see that you do. Yes, by the looks on your faces I can see that you very well do. And you knew it when you left your posts as you know it now.’

  ‘Captain, if I may, please, sir,’ began Muspratt suddenly, but the captain shook his head.

  ‘No, Mr Muspratt, you may not. I’ll not hear it now. Mr Morrison,’ he said, shouting at the boatswain’s mate, who was standing not three feet from him. ‘You and Mr Linkletter, take these . . . men downstairs and place them in irons. Their punishment will be meted out on the morrow.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the two men together and they took their prisoners down to the lower deck, leaving each one of us above with a mixture of excitement at what might lie ahead and dread at the sheer awfulness of it.

  The captain looked round at the assembled crew and seemed about to say something, but changed his mind, shook his head, and stepped back down to the lower deck t
o make his way back to his corridor. He was followed quickly by Mr Christian and then by me.

  ‘What will you do, sir?’ asked Mr Christian when they were away from the men.

  ‘What will I do, you ask?’ replied Mr Bligh, spinning round in surprise. ‘Is it your place to ask me that, Mr Christian?’

  ‘No, sir,’ he said quickly. ‘I merely wondered—’

  ‘There are rules, sir,’ said the captain in a tremulous voice. ‘There are terms of employment, sir. There are articles of war, sir. And they must be adhered to. I suppose you have followed me down here to suggest leniency? For your friends,’ he added cautiously.

  Mr Christian seemed momentarily thrown by those last three words and considered them carefully before speaking. It seemed to me, and I could have been wrong, that at that phrase he made a decision to change tack. ‘Not at all, Captain,’ he stated firmly. ‘Indeed, I followed you to let you know that you will have my utmost support in whatever decision you make.’

  ‘But of course I will, Fletcher,’ replied the captain, smiling. ‘I am captain. You are not. You’ll support me or I’ll know the reason why.’

  Mr Christian swallowed nervously and I could tell that, somehow over the course of our stay on the island, the direction of the wind between these two men had shifted a little. Mr Christian no longer had the confidence of the captain; indeed, Mr Bligh seemed to consider him in much the same way he had considered Mr Fryer during the first part of our voyage. I traced this back to two events: first, the fact that Mr Christian above all others had made himself free with the ladies of Otaheite, a perversion that was not lost on the captain, and, second, the piece of paper discovered in Churchill’s belonging listing the names of the deserters alongside Mr Christian’s own. It was too much of a thing to challenge a warranted officer on a charge such as this, but the suspicion was there and Mr Bligh could not afford to ignore it.

  ‘I’ll see you on deck in the morning, Mr Christian,’ he said. ‘Muster the crew for eight bells.’

  He nodded and left us and the captain glanced at me for a few moments. ‘See that I’m not disturbed, will you?’ he said quietly. ‘I must think deeply tonight. I must consult my conscience and our Saviour.’

  I said nothing, understanding the gravity of the affair, but he took my silence as consent and closed his door behind him.

  Mr Christian did not have to try too hard to muster the ship, for we were all awake early and gathered on deck before the captain emerged. He was wearing one of his formal uniforms and hats, which I took as a bad sign. The crew, most of whom were wearing blackened rags encircling their arms as a sign of solidarity for their disgraced comrades, went silent when they saw him. He looked tired to me, as if he had not slept, and was still unsure as to his decision.

  Once he was in position he nodded at Mr Fryer, who led the prisoners in chains to the deck. The two elder men, Churchill and Muspratt, looked scared but brave, ready to accept their fate, but poor John Millward, all eighteen years of him, was already half-dead on his feet, his legs slipping beneath him. As he stepped into the daylight I saw his eyes shoot upwards, left and right, and imagined that he was looking to see whether a noose had already been fitted from the mast. The fact that it hadn’t seemed of no comfort to him, for he was visibly a-trembling and could barely look in the captain’s direction out of fear.

  ‘Men,’ said Captain Bligh in a deep voice and the crew stayed silent to hear him out. ‘We have dark business before us this morning. Our lives have swung dramatically through good times and bad these past eighteen months. We have weathered storms, turned our ship around adding thousands of miles to our journey, but we reached our island, we completed our mission, and within days we will be ready to depart for the West Indies, and then onward to home. And we did this together, as a crew, every man a part of it. And, if I may say, with a disciplinary record second to none. And so it grieves me, men, it grieves me that we have among us three cowards. Three men unworthy to be named part of the king’s navy. William Muspratt, Charles Churchill and John Millward, you have been tracked down in your disgrace. You are guilty of desertion, are you not?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ they mumbled one by one.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ repeated the captain. ‘You have brought shame on the ship and dishonour upon your families. It is clearly stated in the navy constitution that there is only one fitting punishment for your crime and that is death.’

  They each looked up sharply at him now and there was fear in all their eyes. My own stomach lurched, wondering what horrors I was about to witness. The entire crew stayed silent, officers and men alike, waiting to hear what the captain might say next, whether it would begin with that one simple word that would mean a reprieve. They did not have to wait long, for that word was soon upon his lips.

  ‘However,’ he said, looking down for a moment and considering things, then nodding his head as if he had only now convinced himself of the justice of it, ‘I am minded that men do strange and unusual things when they have been away from home for too long, suffering under the heat of the sun, and corrupted by the natural pleasures of a place like Otaheite. I feel that in this instance the death penalty might be reprieved.’

  The defendants all relaxed instantly and I swear that Millward’s legs went from under him again in relief, but he was quickly righted. The men all let up a ferocious cheer and I found myself beaming from ear to ear in relief. Only Mr Christian seemed unmoved by the spectacle.

  ‘Mr Morrison,’ said the captain. ‘Each man will receive two dozen lashes for their behaviour. A week from now, when their wounds are healed, they will receive two dozen more. Upon their return to England they will each receive a court martial. But they will live. And that will be an end to the matter. Strap them up, sir.’

  The officers took the three men to the masts, tied them there, stripped their shirts down and the punishments began. And although this was the most serious discipline that had been meted out to date, there was a sense of relief around the deck that only skin was to be broken and necks were not to be snapped.

  ‘Will they thank me for it, Turnstile?’ asked the captain of me later that evening when I was settling matters in his cabin. He had looked up from his letter-writing and caught my eye and, for my part, I was a little surprised by the question.

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’ I said.

  ‘I asked whether they would thank me for it,’ he repeated. ‘Will they even remember my leniency?’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ I said. ‘They will hold you in great esteem. You would have been within your rights as captain to end their three lives and you did not. Every man on deck will consider you a fine fellow for it and you will have their undivided loyalty.’

  He smiled and nodded. ‘You are a naïve lad, aren’t you, Turnstile?’ he said. ‘Has the island taught you nothing?’

  I didn’t know how to answer this question, and felt uncomfortable in thinking about it, so said nothing in response, gathered what items I needed to take and went on my way, wondering what he could possibly have meant by such a thing.

  I would find out before the week was over.

  38

  THE MORNING THAT WE WERE due to leave Otaheite was one of the strangest of all the days I spent at sea. The captain was up before five bells and insisted on my being up to join him.

  ‘What a beautiful morning, Turnstile,’ he said cheerfully as I prepared his breakfast. ‘A good day to up-anchor.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said I, betraying the fact that I did not feel quite as good about this prospect as he did.

  ‘What’s the matter, boy? Aren’t you glad to be starting the home stretch?’

  I thought about it for a moment. ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but it’s not as if we’ll be back in time for our dinner, now, is it? It will be many months before we are home. We have the West Indies to get to first before we start for England.’

  ‘True, but the return journey will be nothing like as difficult as the crossing was. Trust me on this, Turnstile. W
e shall make it wonderfully well.’

  I had scarcely seen the captain in better humour than he was now that we were about to leave the island and return to the seas. It was true that his temper had improved considerably since he had bound the men back to the boat, but this was in a directly inverse proportion to the tempers of the men, who did not want to leave. This was a clear fact. Given the chance, the majority of them would have stayed on Otaheite for ever, but that chance was not afforded them. We had a mission to complete and no man had the freedom to make his own choices, not I, not the sailors, not even the captain himself.

  ‘You will accompany me to bid farewell to King Tynah?’ he asked me. ‘One last visit to the shores for you? It’s been some time since you’ve been there, I imagine.’

  ‘As you wish, sir,’ I replied, for I was unsure whether or not I wanted to cross paths with Kaikala. My mind was still obsessing over what I had seen that night and the manner in which she had played me for a fool – aye, and Mr Heywood too. Although the last laugh, I suspected, would be on her, for while I might have found some clever way to smuggle her on board and home with me had I still been well disposed towards her, I did not think that Mr Heywood, the scut, had any similar intention.

  ‘I do so wish, Turnstile. What’s the matter with you, boy? Why are you so downhearted? The men are the same. Every one of them looking glum, as if they didn’t want to see their homes again.’

  There was no talking to him when he was in a mood like this; it was as if he simply did not want to acknowledge that the way he felt about things was not necessarily the way the rest of us felt. For my part, I was starting to think about how I would avoid returning to England. We had only one stop to make en route and that was at the West Indies, and it was quite a simple equation: I had to make my escape there or find my way back into the clutches of Mr Lewis. The penalties I would face at home would be too terrible to ignore.