Mutiny: A Novel of the Bounty

by John Boyne

  60

  Day 20: 17 May

  IDREAMT THAT OUR SMALL tub had done the impossible and sailed all the way from our current place to the harbour at Spithead, and as we got closer who did I see waiting on the shore, hands on hips, with a look of fury on his phizzy, but Mr Lewis. I dreamt that when I set foot on shore I was not given a hero’s welcome but was taken away by Mr Lewis and brought back to his establishment, where I was made an example of by him in front of my brothers.

  And then I woke up with a start.

  We had long since passed the point where someone shouting or screaming in their sleep was enough to wake any of the others on board; we cared little for another fellow’s disturbances. But as I lay there, the splashes of the waves falling upon my face with the regular upswing and downturn of the launch, I wondered whether he would indeed be waiting for me or whether by now he had forgotten about my very existence.

  I had but vague memories of our first meeting. I was no more than a child of four or five, living hand to mouth, eating scraps whenever I could find them, and he passed me on the street one afternoon as I held a hand out for whatever he might be able to offer me. He walked by without a word, but then appeared to stop a little further along in his tracks and remain still for a moment. I watched him, wondering whether he had changed his mind and would root in his pocket for a couple of loose farthings, but instead he turned and smiled at me, looked me up and down and came over again.

  ‘Hello, lad,’ said he, crouching down so that he was closer to my level, although he still maintained a height over me.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ said I, as polite as I could.

  ‘You look like a hungry fellow,’ he said. ‘Don’t your mam feed you, then?’

  ‘I have no mam, sir,’ I replied, looking down for a moment at the unhappy words.

  ‘No mam? No pater either, then?’

  ‘No, sir,’ I admitted.

  ‘What a sad story,’ he said, shaking his head and stroking his whiskers. ‘A terrible sad story for one so young. Where do you make a bed for the night, then?’

  ‘Where I can, sir,’ I said. ‘But if you could spare a farthing, then I might do better tonight than I did last night when I curled up with a stinking dog for the warmth of it.’

  ‘Yes, I can tell you have a stench off you,’ he said with a smile, and I noted that he did not take a step back in disgust. ‘Let me see what I have here,’ he muttered, rooting in his pockets. ‘I’ve no farthings, but perhaps you could make use of two pennies?’

  I opened my eyes wide. It took eight farthings to make two pennies; I was young and innocent but my knowledge of money was keen. ‘Thank you, sir,’ I said, taking them quickly before he changed his mind. ‘I’m most grateful for it.’

  ‘You’re welcome, lad,’ he said, laughing a little and running a finger along my arm in a way that caused me no concern then, for I was suddenly wealthy and was considering how to spend my fortune. ‘You have a name, lad?’

  ‘Aye, sir,’ I replied.

  ‘And what is it, then?’

  ‘John,’ I said.

  ‘John what?’

  ‘John Jacob Turnstile,’ I told him.

  He nodded and smiled. ‘You’re a pretty lad, ain’t you?’ he said, but in a way that seemed not to require an answer and so I offered none. ‘Do you know who I am, John Jacob Turnstile?’

  ‘No, sir,’ I replied.

  ‘My name is Lewis,’ he said. ‘Mr Lewis to you, lad. I run a . . . how shall I put this? . . . an establishment for boys such as yourself. A place where the homeless may be given shelter. The hungry may be given food. The tired may be offered a bed. There are plenty of lads your age there. It’s a fine Christian establishment, of course.’

  ‘It sounds very fine, sir,’ said I, wondering what it would be like to be offered food and bedding every day without having to pick up the one off the streets or find the other at the back of a fetid alley.

  ‘It is very fine, John Jacob Turnstile,’ he said, standing up so that I had to stretch my neck back to look up at him; his phizzy was hidden then by the sun shining in my eyes. ‘It is very fine indeed. Perhaps you would like to see it sometime?’

  ‘I should like that very much, sir,’ said I.

  ‘And there’s no one . . . there’s no one who will miss you? No parents, you have said. But not a favoured aunt perhaps? A devoted uncle? An old crone of a granny?’

  ‘No one, sir,’ said I, feeling a little sad at the admittance of it. ‘I am entirely alone in the world.’

  He smiled and shook his head. ‘No, you’re not, lad,’ he said. ‘You’re not alone. You’ll never be alone now.’

  And at that he extended his hand towards me. I hesitated for only a second or two.

  And then I took it.

  61

  Day 21: 18 May

  MORE MISERY THIS DAY AFTER a morning of relentless gales and rain, the former tipping the tub up and down so violently that I was convinced we would die and also making it impossible for us to replenish our water supplies. When we settled again and were sailing forward – now in the direction of New Holland, which the captain assured us was perhaps sixty or seventy leagues hence – it became obvious that some of the men were in extreme distress. The clerk John Samuel was unfit for any duty and his countenance was such that I wondered whether he had long to live; he had given up complaining or asking for extra provisions and seemed resigned to his fate. The botanist Mr Nelson was in a similar condition but would frighten me every few hours by leaning forward and clutching his stomach, as if a spear was being slowly guided through his skin and piercing his intestines, before letting out a cry such as a fox might make after being caught in a snare. I dreaded to imagine how such an ache felt for the sufferer; the look of sheer agony on his face explained enough to me and I fel sure that given the choice between continued hope or certain death he would not have hesitated with an answer. The officers were not immune either. Mr Elphinstone was in a state of extreme distress; his phizzy was paler than anyone else’s and his stomach appeared distended now with the hunger. He had not spoken in two days, even to the captain, who appeared grief-stricken by the fellow’s fall. And as for Mr Tinkler, his descent into dementia had grown apace, although he had quietened somewhat as the lack of food and water diminished his energies.

  I considered myself lucky in that – hungry and desperate for water as I was – I appeared still to have some strength in my body and was not suffering the grasping stomach pains that some of the others were. Of course this meant that I was spending more time at the oars than before, but it was a duty I was content to undertake. If anything, I found the constant stretching back and forth as I dragged us through the water provided a release within myself that I found comforting. It also gave me an idea that I was in control of our own destiny and, by default, my own. If I could just keep sailing, then perhaps I would be the one to see land again. After all, it had been my eyes that had first observed Otaheite . . . when was it? It felt like a lifetime before.

  Three times a day the captain divided a morsel of bread eighteen ways. How he managed to maintain an equality between the crumbs was a mystery to me, but he succeeded at it nonetheless, for no man got more than his due, not even those who were suffering the most, which I was grateful for as it would only lead to dishonesty among the rest of us.

  I suffered one bad hour that evening, however, of which I have little to say other than reporting that I felt quite certain I would die on that tub.

  It depressed my spirits entirely.

  62

  Day 22: 19 May

  ADREADFUL OCCURRENCE TODAY WHEN A flock of gannets appeared near by and buzzed over our heads, cackling away something terrible. We grew terribly excited, each one of us, for if we could manage to catch one, it would make fine eating. Mr Fryer picked up the spear slowly and told us all to sit still in the tub, no one was to move; we were to wait and see if one of the gannets would land on the edge of our launch.

  ‘If we
had two spears, then things would be a damn sight better,’ came a voice from behind me – I was unsure whose, but I kept my eyes facing forward and did not turn round to give the scut any pleasure from the remark.

  ‘Quiet, please, gentlemen,’ said Mr Fryer in a low, peaceful voice. ‘Mr Bligh, perhaps a morsel of bread on the rim?’

  ‘If we lose it, it will be a terrible waste,’ he said, unsure whether to agree to the request or not.

  ‘And if it brings one of these birds down to rest I promise you that he shall not fly again.’

  The captain hesitated for a few moments, but none of the gannets showed any sign of landing and, rather than risk their flying away, he grabbed a tasty chunk from the crate and placed it carefully on the side of the boat, close to the master himself.

  ‘If you can kill him before he eats it, all the better,’ he said quietly as he placed it down.

  It was a fine piece, that was for sure, more than he ever offered any of us, but then again it was necessary to be that size in order for the birds to see it and think it worthy of a swoop. My stomach growled and lurched in famished pain as I stared at it and I dare say I was not the only one on board who had an urge to lunge forward, grab it and swallow it before anyone could stop me, although to do so may well have resulted in instantaneous murder.

  ‘Come on now,’ came Mr Fryer’s voice, and I swear he locked eyes with one of the birds, because a few moments later one started to descend and hover above the bread, watching it carefully, watching us, waiting to see whether we meant it any harm. ‘Quite still, everyone,’ he said and not a man on the boat dared to breathe, let alone shift in his seat. The moments felt like hours but then, to our delight, the bird rested his legs on the side of the tub, pecked down on the bread and swallowed it before any of us could stop him, but he was rewarded a moment later by Mr Fryer’s spear piercing through his skin quite cleanly and pinning him to the deck.

  The sound of the bird’s surprised screech coincided with our raucous cheer and the flapping of the gannets overhead, who flew away immediately, and I swear I could not remember when I had last felt so deliriously happy.

  ‘Three cheers for Mr Fryer,’ cried Mr Elphinstone and in our delight we went along with the farce, and the look of relieved joy on the master’s face was a sight to behold. I could not remember ever seeing him so pleased with himself. He turned to the captain and offered him the dead bird and Mr Bligh clapped him on the back soundly.

  ‘Well done, Mr Fryer,’ he said, trying to keep his enthusiasm in check. ‘I don’t believe I’ve ever seen such a clean shot.’

  We watched as the captain pulled the spear from the bird’s body and set about plucking the feathers from the carcass. There was none of us who thought for a moment that he was about to divide the bird eighteen ways – on the contrary, we knew only too well that the meat would be finely separated and might last us four or five days if the captain took care with it – but, nevertheless, it was a welcome change from the morsels of bread we were accustomed to, a healthy chunk of which had just been digested by our victim.

  Mr Bligh held the plucked bird at the side of the boat and took his knife to gut it and, as he did so, as the blade entered the flesh and pressed northwards to divide the body equally along the centre, those of us close enough to see let out a disgusted cry. Rather than the healthy white meat and red blood and organs we expected to see, a black, tarlike substance emerged instead. The captain hesitated, curling his lip, before resuming his slicing and then a moment later, to our surprise, let go of the body, flinging it back to the sea with a cry.

  ‘Captain!’ I cried, shocked by what he had done.

  ‘He was diseased,’ said the captain, and I swear that had he had food in his stomach he would have retched it overboard as well. ‘There was nothing to eat. A taste would have killed us all.’

  ‘It’s an omen,’ said William Peckover, standing up and looking thoroughly defeated by the experience. ‘It’s an omen, men,’ he repeated. ‘The black diseased bird says that we shall all die.’

  ‘Sit down, Mr Peckover!’ snapped the captain.

  Peckover opened his mouth to repeat his assertion, but then thought better of it, resumed his place and shook his head. No one spoke, the rowers continued to row, the tub continued to go forward, the rain started to fall, and each one of us wondered whether Mr Fryer had just been unlucky in the gannet that had landed or whether Mr Peckover had reason in his comments.

  63

  Day 23: 20 May

  SURGEON LEDWARD, WHO BY A stroke of good fortune appeared to be among the healthiest of our crew, spent much of the afternoon visiting every man in turn under Mr Bligh’s orders to assess the condition of each one. I was not close enough to hear the conversation that he and the captain had at the end of it, but there were many concerned faces and low whispers, and after they had spoken the captain ordered that we would no longer be at the oars for two hours apiece but for one hour instead. This had the effect of decreasing the amount of time we had to rest but at least we did not finish a shift half dead.

  Looking around, it was clear to see that we were in a terrible condition. Most of the men, myself included, were weakened, smelt filthy and had skin peeling in flakes from our burnt heads. There were some – John Hallett and Peter Linkletter among them – who had been excused rowing duties for twenty-four hours on account of their condition. I myself had been excused two shifts a couple of days earlier but I had mysteriously rallied in the days in between.

  ‘Captain, what’s to become of us?’ I asked at one point, hoping for consolation.

  ‘Survival and long lives, Master Turnstile,’ he told me with a half-smile. ‘Survival and long lives.’

  64

  Day 24: 21 May

  THE WORST DAY SO FAR. The rain started early and continued without cessation throughout the day, bloody great sheets of it falling on us so heavily that we could scarcely see our hands when we held them out before us. There was no question of our steering the tub in the direction of New Holland, which the captain insisted we were pointed towards; instead, we simply did all we could to keep afloat. Even the men who had collapsed over the last few days in a delirium found their way to their feet and used their cupped hands to help bail water from the deck, as we were in imminent danger of sinking. Never had I felt the insanity of a project more than this. From all sides the gales blew the rain at us and still we reached our hands down, linked our fingers together to form something that might hold a cupful of water, and threw it overboard, where the wind caught it in mid-flight and sent it directly back into our eyes and mouths. It was a terrible game, no more than that. A fight between us men and nature, in which we were struggling to keep ourselves from annihilation. I fell backwards at one point, thrown there by the force of the hurricane, and came to rest against the side of the tub; at that moment we were so unbalanced that I felt I would only have to tilt my head backwards a little to submerge it in the Pacific waters, and for a split-second that is what I did. Beneath the water all was silent and I opened my eyes, imagining how easy it would be simply to allow my body to fall backwards, not to struggle but to float for a moment instead, to sink, to drown, to die. There was utter quiet beneath the surf and I swear it was unholy relaxing.

  A hand reached down and lifted me from my madness, pulled me to my feet and deposited me on the deck again, where I instantly began bailing once more. I could not tell who had collected me – there was simply no way to identify people or understand voices – but whoever it was no doubt thought that I had collapsed utterly and was about to drown. He had saved me, although I was not yet there. Another moment or two of peace, that was all I required, and then I would have been restored.

  My hands moved as if independent of my body and I could tell by the rocking back and forth of the boat how others were doing the same thing. A man crashed into me suddenly, knocking me off balance, and I fell forwards, knocking into another as if we were a set of bowls on a gentleman’s lawn. There was no time to remo
nstrate: we each had no choice but to resume our duties wherever we found ourselves stationed. Eighteen men in twenty feet of wood and glue and nails, fighting for their very lives. Was this what I had left Portsmouth for? Was this what I had abandoned the Bounty and the island of Otaheite for?

  I pulled back once more and a wave hit my face so hard that I felt as if it had torn the very skin from my cheeks and eyes and I let out a scream, a cry of such self-pity and horror that it contained the elements of many screams I had hidden away in the corners of my soul for so many years. I screamed louder, my mouth as wide open as it could possibly be, and yet I heard not a note of the cry, so strong were the gales and tempests that tossed us from wave to wave, above the water, below the water, sea-swept. How could the Saviour have abandoned us in this way, I wondered. I might have wept in frustration at this pitiful turn of events had there been anything left in my body for the exertion. But there was not. And so I did the only thing I could do in the circumstances.

  I bailed water.

  And I bailed more water.

  And I bailed more water still.

  And I prayed that somehow I would survive just one more night.

  65

  Day 25: 22 May

  IDID SURVIVE IT. WE ALL survived it. But at great further cost, for now there were only a few of us who remained in any condition to row. ‘I feel we cannot be far now from New Guinea,’ said the captain, who looked as unhealthy as all of us did and whose beard, I noticed, was of a much greyer shade than his hair. We were sitting together watching the horizon and he had just finished writing his daily notes in the small notebook that Mr Christian, the donkey, had allowed him to take with him.

  ‘Do you know who I was thinking of this morning, sir?’ I ventured.