by John Boyne
We agreed readily to this and spent a happy evening on the beach, where Robert Lamb revealed a previously unrealized talent for singing. He entertained us with several songs of a bawdy nature regarding the adventures of a tart by the name of Melody Blunt, who appeared to have neither morals nor choosiness about her conquests, and we all laughed heartily – even the captain, who tended to shy away from vulgarities – and afterwards I slept soundly with images of Miss Melody Blunt in my mind. However, not for the first time since leaving the Bounty I found that I was with the motions again and remembered what a terrible curse they could be.
75
Day 35: 1 June
WE SET SAIL AGAIN AFTER a morning spent foraging in the thickets for any food that might later offer nourishment, three separate groups travelling in three separate directions, but only one was successful and when they returned to the camp with armfuls of berries their mouths were red and stained dark with juices and I knew that they had indulged themselves just as much as I had done a few days previously. We loaded ourselves back into the tub and set sail northwest by west-northwest and Mr Fryer and Peter Linkletter steered us quickly and carefully through the reefs, avoiding any trouble with the rocks below and delivering us out into wider waters without incident. I had a moment of great joy when, observing some fish passing by our stern and in towards the reefs, I plunged both hands together into the water and then pulled them up just as suddenly, and to my surprise a great white fish leapt, startled, out of the surf and found itself landing not in the water again but on the deck of our launch. Great delight was taken by all at this, for there was nothing like a fish to make a tasty supper, and the captain clapped me on the back to congratulate me and the men called me a fine fellow indeed and I began to think that perhaps I was forgiven for losing the spear during our voyage.
The waters were peaceful that afternoon and my thoughts turned back to Otaheite and the men who had driven us from the safety of the Bounty to the danger of the tub. It had been more than a month now since we had set forth on our adventures and I wondered how life had treated Mr Christian and his ilk during the same period. They would have returned to the island immediately, that was for sure, but whether they had been able to stay there was a different matter entirely. After all, they would assume that should we survive we would return home to England and the admirals would send another ship to hunt them down. It was my guess that the pirates would take the women they wanted and find another island near by. There were so many hundreds of them dotted around that part of the ocean that it would have been no great hardship for them to locate a remote one, difficult to access, and set up their new homes there, perhaps sinking the Bounty entirely so that they might never be spotted.
On the other hand, they might have stayed on Otaheite, safe in the assumption that the nineteen men who had once been their fellow sailors and friends would have died quickly, drowned in those southern Pacific waters, and that the truth of their cowardice and depravity would never emerge. Despite the differences I had with many of those men and officers, it saddened me to think that they would be happy to see me dead.
As evening fell, a great commotion came upon the launch when David Nelson, William Cole and William Purcell – the three men who had united to become the successful group of food-finders earlier in the day – began to complain of great pains in their stomachs and a pounding in their heads behind their eyes. Surgeon Ledward examined them and we each of us watched as he held their wrists between thumb and forefinger and pressed the flat of his palm to their bellies and nether regions. He approached the captain immediately and they spoke in hushed tones that I believe only Mr Elphinstone and I had access to.
‘They are poisoned, sir,’ said the surgeon. ‘You saw them when they returned from their foraging. They have eaten too many of the berries. I suggest that they were poisonous berries.’
‘Good God,’ replied the captain, stroking his beard and looking worried at the thought of it. ‘You think they will be taken from us?’
‘Probably not,’ he answered, shaking his head. ‘I do think they will have a day or two of the most appalling pains, though. It will not go easy for them.’
‘Let us avoid the use of the word poison, then,’ insisted Mr Bligh. ‘It will do our morale no good and will not change the present conditions.’ He stood up then and made his way down the launch to our three stricken fellows. ‘It seems that you have eaten more than your fill of berries while on Fair Cape, and our bellies are not ready for such abuse. You have naught to worry about, though. Like all things, these pains will pass.’
William Purcell seemed less than happy about this diagnosis and gave out a great cry of agony even as he clutched his stomach and pulled his knees up closer towards his chest, but the captain merely nodded at him as if this was the end of the matter and returned to his seat.
That night was filled with the groaning of the three men and as the light grew dim and we were surrounded by darkness I confess I had murderous thoughts towards them, for, uncharitable of me as it was, I confess they fair gave me the chills every time they let out another cry of agony.
76
Day 36: 2 June
DESPITE THE FACT THAT I had spent eighteen months in company with the ship’s master, Mr Fryer, I had enjoyed little conversation with him. He had been welcoming of me on my first arrival on the Bounty – indeed, after Mr Hall, who I had considered a weaselly thing, he was the first member of the ship’s crew I had chanced upon, outside the captain’s cabin on that fine day before Christmas 1787 – but since then had rarely so much as acknowledged my presence, so caught up was he with his duties on board the ship and his attempts to keep a civil relationship with Mr Bligh.
I was most surprised, then, to wake this day after an afternoon snooze to find my head using his knees as a pillow and he not in the least offended by it.
‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ I said, sitting up in a mortification and rubbing the sleep from my eyes. ‘I don’t know how that came about. A man will do strange things in his sleep, that’s for sure.’
‘Think nothing of it, lad,’ he replied with a shrug, as if the matter meant not a jot to him. ‘You got some sleep and revived your energies, that’s what counts.’
‘Aye, sir,’ I said, pulling myself together and stretching my body as much as I could as I lay my back against the side of the tub beside him. I looked forward at the faces of William Cole and David Nelson as they rowed the launch; I swear I could see a translucence to their skin and their eyes had never looked more haunted or black.
‘Who is this Mr Lewis, might I ask?’ said Mr Fryer after a few moments had passed.
I confess I could have jumped overboard in surprise. ‘Mr Lewis?’ I said, quite forgetting my place. ‘What do you know of him?’
‘Nothing at all,’ he replied. ‘But you spoke of him in your sleep, that’s all.’
I narrowed my eyes and felt a slight pain in my stomach, but as that part of my body had been in a constant spasm of agony for more than a month I gave it scarce consideration. ‘I spoke of Mr Lewis?’ I asked. ‘And what did I say?’
‘Nothing intelligible,’ he said. ‘Was he just a fancy of your dream? You cried out for him to unhand you, that was all. You said you would never go back.’
I nodded my head and stayed silent, considering it. I could recall nothing of my reverie. ‘Aye,’ I said finally. ‘He was just a fancy, nothing more. I was unaware that I spoke in my sleep.’
‘We all do from time to time,’ he replied. ‘I remember my dear wife Mary telling me that I had a tendency to talk about owls at the darkest part of the night.’
‘Owls, sir?’
‘Yes. It’s a curious thing as I have no interest in owls whatsoever. But there we are. It’s part of the games that the mind plays on us.’
I agreed that it was and looked out at the sea, smothering a yawn that might have sent me back to my reveries had we not been engaged in conversation. I threw Mr Fryer a look and noted how his beard had
become red at the edges but grey at the tip. I was unsure how old he was – in his late thirties, I would have suggested – but our time at sea had done him no favours, as he appeared to be ageing before my very eyes.
‘Sir,’ I said after a long silence, a question that I had long wanted to ask him coming into my head. ‘Sir, might I ask you something?’
‘You might,’ he said, turning towards me.
‘It’s just that I don’t know whether you’ll be pleased with the question, that’s all. But I have a mind to know the answer.’
He gave me a smile and indicated the wide expanse of ocean that surrounded us. ‘Turnstile,’ he said, ‘we maintain the farce of rank aboard a vessel like this in order that we might reach our destination safely. But looking around, don’t you feel a certain equality of status with your fellow sailors? We might drown together at any moment and, if we do, we each of us will end up in the same place.’
‘Aye, sir,’ I replied, for there was no denying that true remark. ‘Then, I shall ask it. I have wondered how it is that you came to be here.’
‘Here, on this launch?’ he asked, raising an eyebrow. ‘Have you lost your senses, boy? We were put here by the traitors—’
‘No,’ I said, interrupting him and shaking my head. ‘You misunderstand me, sir. I mean how is it that you joined the captain in the tub and didn’t stay with Mr Christian? Otaheite was a fine place, sir, we all know that. And there were great delights to be had there. And if you don’t mind my saying so, Mr Fryer, it has always seemed to me that you and the captain were not exactly brothers-at-arms.’
He laughed a little at this phrase and I smiled too, pleased that he was not angered with me for the sauce of it, but finally he gave a little shrug and lowered his voice as he answered me.
‘You might well ask it,’ he said. ‘I dare say many of the men wonder at it. And you’re right in thinking that the captain and I have had our . . . disagreements during the voyage.’
‘I’m a great admirer of the captain, sir,’ said I quickly. ‘As I hope you know. And I’d never say a word against him. But I did think at times he treated you fierce hard.’
‘Thank you, Turnstile,’ he said, acknowledging this. ‘It’s thoughtful of you to say, especially since your loyalties are so clearly with Mr Bligh. Your devotion to him is well known by every man on board this tub and every man on Otaheite.’
I was surprised by this; I had never expected that others saw me as such a loyal character or even thought of it. Still, it gave me a warm sensation inside and I was glad of it.
‘The truth of it is,’ he continued, ‘that I have not always been as well disposed towards the captain as I might have been. I have considered him cantankerous and rude, pig-headed and even simple-minded at times.’
‘Mr Fryer!’
‘We are talking as equals, are we not? We may speak as we find?’
‘Aye, sir, but to say such a thing—’
‘Is simply the truth of my feeling towards him. I have observed a man so weighed down by bitterness at his lack of rank – I refer of course to his lack of status as captain and his actual insignia as lieutenant – that he has allowed it to cloud his judgement at times. This sense of inferiority was well played upon by Mr Christian throughout our voyage. I could see that, but there was little I could do to resolve it. The captain envied Mr Christian’s birth, his status, his privilege. Even, perhaps, his prettiness.’
My mouth fell open in surprise. I had never heard any man on board speak so freely.
‘I will admit that I never saw the mutiny coming, but I do think the captain at times behaved in ways that incited the men unnecessarily. Insisting that they sleep on board the ship towards the end of our stay on the island, for example, was low of him. There was no call for it and it only made the men realize what they would be missing when they left. They had formed friendships and love affairs; to rip them away from that without consideration was ill-judged. I expected a great deal of trouble on our homeward trip, but not this.’ He gestured around us both. ‘Not this, Turnstile, never this.’
‘Then, why . . . ?’ I asked, hesitating as I tried to choose my words carefully. ‘Then, why did you come with us?’ I continued. ‘Why did you not stay with the mutineers?’
‘Because they were scoundrels, that’s why,’ he explained. ‘And I took an oath of allegiance to the king when I joined the navy, as well as an oath to uphold the orders of my commanding officer. For the last eighteen months Mr William Bligh has been my commanding officer and, that being the case, I will obey him until the last drop of blood has left my body and the last breath has left my soul. It is called duty, John Jacob Turnstile. Duty, loyalty and good service. It is the best traditions of the English navy, the traditions in which my father and his father before him and his father before him served. It is the tradition in which I would want my own son to serve. There is nothing that Mr Bligh could have said or done to turn me agin’ him. He is in charge, he is the king’s man. It’s as simple as that.’
I nodded, satisfied with the reply. It was not what I had expected of him, but it gave me a clearer idea of who the man was.
‘And besides,’ he said a few moments later, ‘I wanted to go home and see my wife again. Duty, loyalty and good service are one thing, lad, but love is another. Perhaps you’ll discover that for yourself one day.’
I smiled and took on the reddenings at the idea of it. I wondered whether these were traits I could hope for in my own future, whatever that may hold, however long or short it might be. Duty, loyalty and good service.
And love.
77
Day 37: 3 June
AS THE RAINS POURED DOWN on our heads, Surgeon Ledward found himself in the intolerable position of having to attend to himself, for he suffered the most hideous cramps in his stomach and bowels, and on noting the whiteness of his face I confess that I said a prayer to the Saviour that He might relieve him of his suffering and allow him his reward. It was not to be, however, for the poor man continued to feel the twin pressures of fatigue and starvation and held his body tight to himself, uttering cries from time to time that elicited both great sympathy and great irritation from his fellow passengers.
The captain went to his side at one point but, not being trained in the medical arts, could do little to help his condition; instead he lay down very low beside him and talked to him in his ear. I could not hear what was said – none of us could – but perhaps it did some good, because his rolling and crying came to an end soon enough and before long he was just another soul in the boat, struggling to maintain both his spirits and his life against the oppressive forces of rain, sea and debasement.
We came close to some more reefs in the afternoon, and then to a series of small uninhabited islands, narrow enough that a healthy man might have trod his way from one side to the other in a morning. We landed briefly at several of these in the hope of finding more food, and Mr Bligh himself collected an armful of oysters, but they were so small they would have scarce comprised one man’s breakfast, let alone dinner for eighteen.
On the second island we found traces of turtle life but, to our disappointment, no turtles. We combed the thickets and beaches for them, but either they were too wise to be discovered or had blended as chameleons might into the glades, and once again we left with naught. By nightfall we were in our tub once again and setting forth for what the captain called the island of Timor but what we had named We-knew-not-where.
‘Oh, for an hour of Michael Byrn now,’ came a voice from the centre of the launch as we moved quietly through the night waters. I nodded my head in agreement, for a little music from our ship’s fiddle-player would surely have lifted our spirits a deal; even the memory of our nightly dancing to invigorate our bloodstreams was a happy one.
‘Mr Byrn is a pirate and a mutineer,’ snapped Captain Bligh in reply. ‘And I’ll not have his name uttered on this launch.’
‘Aye, but he could give “Nancy o’ the Gales” a good seeing-to,’ s
aid Mr Hall a little sorrowfully, and I could not help but recall that evening when he had been selected to dance to that very song and I had made the careless choice of Mr Heywood, the scut, as his molly. It all seemed so long ago now. A different lifetime. When I had been a mere lad.
‘I don’t care to hear of it,’ said the captain, and I could tell by his tone that in other circumstances he would have shouted this out, but that on this night he was too fatigued to strain his voice. ‘If another man wants to give voice to song, then so be it,’ he added. ‘But let us know of no treason-makers and let us not have that song.’
No one bothered. We had scarcely the energy.
78
Day 38: 4 June
FLETCHER CHRISTIAN, THE MISERABLE SWINE, had allowed Mr Bligh to bring his log with him when he was forcibly evicted from his rightful command, and the captain spent a good part of every evening scratching away on it with a pencil. Some nights he wrote for a long time, on others he wrote briefly, but I swear that a day did not pass on our voyage that some mention of our progress did not get taken down.
‘Because we shall eventually return home,’ he told me with a half-smile when I enquired as to why he bothered with it. ‘And when we do, I believe that we shall have completed a most remarkable piece of navigation. I write the log as a record of all that has taken place since our exit from the Bounty, and also to make notes of the islands and reefs and shorelines we have spotted along the way. It’s my duty, you see, as a seafaring man.’
