That evening took place more than three years before my arrival on board the Bounty, but almost every evening over that time would find me on the top floor of Mr Lewis’s establishment with three or four of my brothers, servicing the needs and desires of gentlemen who paid for their pleasures. I recall none of their faces. I recall little of what they did. I learned to remove my thoughts from the experience and be Turnstile downstairs and John Jacob above. It started to matter little to me what I did. More often than not it would take no more than a half-hour of the clock. I didn’t care. I didn’t feel alive at all.
And then one afternoon, two days before Christmas Day, I stole Mr Zéla’s pocket-watch and by the end of the day I had been taken away from all that.
I woke with a start, my eyes riveted to the ceiling above me. Something had happened to me, what was it? What day was it? Monday, please the Saviour, let it be Monday, for Mr Lewis does not bring his gentlemen here on a Monday; it is our day of rest, a day after His own.
No. Not Mr Lewis’s establishment.
I was on a ship.
The Bounty!
My body jumped in fright as the memories flooded back – the kid- napping, the stripping, the beating, the painting, the thrashing, the tieing, the kicking, the drowning – and as it did it gave up a great cry of pain and I swear that I thought I had been left to roast in hell. I tried to look down, but my body was covered by a rough blanket and I dared not lift it to investigate what traumas lay beneath.
‘You are awake, then,’ came a voice from beside me and I tried to turn my head to look at Captain Bligh as he crouched down.
‘The men . . .’ I whispered to him. ‘The men . . . Mr Heywood . . . Mr Christian . . .’
‘Hush now, Master Turnstile,’ he said. ‘You must rest a little further. You will be fine. I’ve seen worse effects for pollywogs than what happened to you. Sea-faring is a superstitious business, my young friend, and the men are more gullible than a bunch of old crones. Were they not to have their way, well, heaven knows what they might have done. As the ship passes the Equator, King Neptune must have his sacrifice. Others have endured it. I endured it myself many years ago. And I hear that you accepted your duty with great fortitude. You are a shellback now with barnacles on your back and must have your gift.’
He stepped away and entered his cabin, returning a few moments later with a piece of parchment, which he unscrolled ceremoniously. ‘The men left this for you,’ he said. ‘Shall I read it to you?’
I stared at him, neither answering ‘yes’ nor ‘no’, but he seemed to take my silence for consent, as he stretched it out and peered at the words on top.
‘A proclamation,’ he announced in a severe voice that reminded me of the monster on deck who had inflicted this torture on me. ‘Whereas by our Royal Choice, the brave John Jacob Turnstile, slimy pollywog of old, has this day entered our domain. We do hereby declare that it is our Royal Will to confer upon said fellow the Freedom of the Seas. Should he fall overboard, we do command that all Sharks, Dolphins, Whales, Mermaids and other dwellers in the Deep are to abstain from maltreating his person. And we do further direct that all Sailors, Soldiers and others who have not crossed Our Royal Domain to treat him with due respect and courtesy. Given under our hand at Our Court on board HMS Bounty on the Equator in Longitude on this eighth day of February, in the year of our Lord 1788. Signed, Cancer, High Clerk to the court of Neptune, Rex.’
He rolled up the parchment and smiled at me. ‘It’s a fine old text, isn’t it?’ he asked. ‘You should be proud of yourself, my boy. You are stronger than you realize. You might have cause to recall that some day.’
I closed my eyes and attempted to swallow, but my throat was so sore that it felt like chewing on gravel. I knew not what offended me more, the misery and violence I had suffered at the men’s hands, or the disappointment I felt in knowing that the captain not only approved of such things, but had known of what was taking place on deck and had not stepped in to save me.
And I swore something as I lay on my bunk, a battered shell of who I had been when I had entered it to sleep the night before. I swore that if the moment ever came when I could turn on this ship and make my escape from it for ever, I would do so. If my chance would ever come, I would leave the Bounty and never return either to the ship, to Mr Lewis or to England.
I swore it with the Saviour as my witness.
16
BEFORE MY ADVENTURES ON BOARD the Bounty began, and back in the days when I was an inmate at Mr Lewis’s establishment in Portsmouth, had I been asked for my impressions of a sea-going man, I should have said it was an existence filled with adventure, excitement and bravery. Hard work, no doubt, but each sunny morning would offer some fresh challenge.
As the months wore on, however, I realized how wrong I had been in my perceptions about life on the waves, for, in truth, the days ran into each other in the most tiresome fashion and it was rare that anything of interest happened to mark any spectacular difference between the one you were enduring and the one that came before it or the one that would follow immediately after. So it is that as I recount my tale it is those strange moments which separated the days from one another and offered something of little interest to me that I choose to relate. But trapped between each one was little more than long, dull days and nights of scudding forward, sometimes in good weather, sometimes in bad, with indifferent food to eat and company that failed to excite the imagination or intellect. Easy, then, to realize why any change to our routine could bring great excitement to the men. And one sunny morning, perhaps ten days after my cruel debasement as we crossed the equatorial line, something took place that offered a little relief from the humdrum passing of the hours.
I was in the ship’s galley at the time with Mr Hall, preparing the captain’s lunch, and, for all his decent manners, the cook was keeping a close eye on me to make sure that none of the finer food that was kept aside for the captain and the officers found its way into my own stomach as I prepared the plate.
‘You’ve grown thin, young Turnip,’ said he, looking me up and down while using that nickname which had become common currency now among the men and which I had given up correcting them on. ‘Aren’t you eating?’
‘I’m eating as well as some and not as well as others,’ said I in reply, not looking at him, for I was suffering a fit of the depressions that morning, bored as I was, and was little interested in pursuing a conversation.
‘Well, that’s the way it is at sea, lad,’ he muttered. ‘The morning you came aboard, I said to Mr Fryer, I said there’s a lad who’s eaten a few fine meals in his life. Should we face disaster at sea we could always pop an apple in his mouth, roast him in the oven, and have sustenance for a month.’
I put my knife down and turned to look at him, narrowing my eyes. The idea that I was a well-fed boy when I was taken from the streets of Portsmouth to the courthouse of Spithead, and from there on to the deck of the Bounty, was a ridiculous one, for I had never known a fine meal in any of my days. It was true that a dinner of sorts was in the pot at Mr Lewis’s every evening at seven o’clock, before his late-night gentlemen came to call, but there was always an almighty fight among my brothers and me to find the choicest cuts within the stew, and this was no easy feat as it was nearly all stock and gristle.
‘The man who tries to eat me will find a knife implanted in his belly,’ said I then, lowering my voice and doing all that I could to sound as if I meant it and that I was not a fellow to be challenged. ‘I’m no sailor’s dinner.’
‘Now, now, Turnip, take a jest in good humour when you hear it,’ said Mr Hall irritably. ‘What’s the matter with you these days anyway? You’re as quiet as a church mouse and wander around with an expression on your face that suggests you’d rather be hung on a cross than live on a ship.’
‘I wonder that you might ask,’ said I with a sniff, for Mr Hall had been one of those who had cheered on while the rope had been gathered around me and I had been sent southwards to
what I thought was to be my watery grave.
There was silence for a moment then and I continued to chop the carrots that were to form part of Captain Bligh’s lunch, but there was something in the silence that lingered between us and which made me wonder whether Mr Hall was angry with me for what I had said. My body tensed slightly as I waited to see whether he might attack me, but then I heard him reaching for a pan of boiling water and I relaxed, sure that he had not understood the sarcasm in my words.
‘You’d do well to put your anger behind you,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing has happened to you on board here that has not happened to every man of the company at one time or another. You have an easy life of it here compared with some and have to accept such moments and carry on without rancour. That’s what makes a sea-faring man.’
I said nothing in reply, although the words that floated through my mind concerned the fact that I had never asked to be a sea-faring man, had no desire to be a sea-faring man, and planned on stopping being a sea-faring man at the earliest possible opportunity, but I kept them to myself for the time being. A bubble boiled inside me, though, and as the knife chopped up and down before me I considered how easy it would be to turn it on myself and end the boredom and anger of these days. Such ideas surprised even me, for I had endured worse in my life, aye, and done it with a smile on my face, but the thought of many more long months aboard this ship, suffering the-Saviour-knew-what indignities, was enough to turn me. I lifted the knife and stared at the blade; it had been sharpened that very morning and was keen, but before any more madness could invest my thoughts a roar went up from the deck above and Mr Hall and I looked at each other in surprise.
‘Go along up,’ said he, as if I needed his permission to do as I pleased. ‘See what it is if you want. I’ll finish that for you.’
I nodded and wondered whether there wasn’t some part of him that regretted his part in the events of before, but I dismissed this from my mind as I went on deck in the blistering sunshine to see the men all standing by the side, staring across at a sail on the horizon. Regrets and apologies are all very well, but there’s things that happen in a person’s life that are so scorched in the memory and burned into the heart that there’s no forgetting them. They’re like brands.
‘Back to your stations, men,’ cried Mr Fryer, marching between the sailors, and they dispersed quickly but kept one eye focused westward, for such was the excitement of a break in routine that the recollection of it could fill our conversations for days afterwards.
‘I thought we might see her,’ said Captain Bligh, stepping forward now to join Mr Fryer and taking the glass from him to look closer. ‘The British Queen: a whaler, I believe. I had thought our paths might cross some days ago and when she failed to appear I thought our chance had gone. Send a signal, Mr Fryer. She travels to the Cape of Good Hope. We shall send a jolly boat across with a message. Where the devil’s Turnstile?’ he asked, looking around then, and as I had been walking towards him at that moment he almost collided with me as he turned. ‘Ah, there you are, lad. Good, good. Step down to my cabin, will you? There are four or five letters in the top drawer of my desk. Bring them to me and we can send them across for delivery.’
‘Aye, sir,’ said I, and ran back downstairs at great speed, as if a failure to secure the letters quickly would destroy the great excitement ahead of us. I knew from my study of Captain Bligh’s charts that the Cape of Good Hope was at the southernmost tip of the African continent, a different direction from ours entirely, as we aimed towards Cape Horn at the southern tip of the Americas, but the whaler could deliver any parcels to the authorities there and have them delivered – slowly – onwards to their recipients in England. For the first time it occurred to me that it would be nice to have someone to write to, but were I to take up quill and paper, what would I say, and to whom? I could not possibly write to Mr Lewis, who would have no interest in my adventures but only desire my return as quickly as possible to face his wrath. One of my brothers perhaps; although they would trade the intelligence for favours from their captor. There was no one. It was a foolish thought.
I retrieved the parcel of letters from where they lay and turned for the door, but as I did so I realized that the captain had failed to seal the top missive and it was available for anyone’s eyes to peruse. I glanced towards the door, but there was no one there and outside was silence, for most of the crew were on deck now watching the sail of the British Queen. What made me read the letter, I do not know. Possibly the fact that the opportunity was there and that I thought it would give me some insight into the captain’s mind, which was a curiosity of sorts to me. Possibly because in my fancy and vanity I thought he might have written some words about me and, if so, I wanted to know what he had said, whether he approved of me or thought me a scourge. Anyway, whatever my reasons, I stepped further back from the door, placed the sealed letters down on a chair beside me, opened the top one and began to read. I quote from memory and many of the words may be wrong but the sense is there, I think.
My dearest Betsey,
it began and, oh, didn’t I laugh to think of the captain addressing anyone as his dearest anything, the nance. Still and all, the portrait of his wife that stood on his desk showed a handsome woman who might give any man the motions, so he was not to be mocked for it.
We make good time on our little vessel and I believe that we shall round the Horn by Resurrection Day. The weather has been in our favour so far . . .
I could scarce believe he said this, for had we not suffered unspeakable trials in the early weeks of our voyage? No one on board seemed to recall how difficult it had been, but I did.
Do I dare to believe that we could reach Otaheite before our schedule suggests? I can but pray for such an outcome for our time there might be longer than expected and who knows what I can expect on our return voyage but if every day brings me closer to YOU, won’t my heart be filled with happiness?
I hesitated then, torn between embarrassment and a feeling that I should not be reading a letter written by a man for his lady-wife, but I had gone too far along and there was no stopping me now.
The men all work hard and I have improved the standing orders to such an extent that allows them time for SLEEP, time for WORK, and time for RECREATION. The result is a happy crew and I am proud to report that I have had no cause to punish a single man as yet. Has there ever been a ship in HM’s Navy that has spent so many weeks at sea with ne’er a flogging? I think not and hope the men appreciate it.
My aim is to arrive at Otaheite with cobwebs on the cat-o’-nine-tails and believe I can do so too! I have introduced dancing in the evenings, following the late Captain’s routine on the Endeavour, and though it met with some facetiousness at first, and a measure of farce that I tolerated well, I believe the men now enjoy the exercise and take it all in good spirits. It puts me in my mind of that last evening we spent at Sir Joseph’s, on the occasion of the well-wishes for the trip, when I took you in my arms and we danced among the others and it felt like gliding across the floor. The dance reminded me of that Christmas Eve before our happy wedding when we skated together on the frozen lake of Hyde Park, side by side, my arm around your pretty waist when I knew myself to be the luckiest of men and a fine fellow.
And so my thoughts turn to you, my dearest one, and our son, and our pretty daughters, and I confess that I find my eyes a-water when I think of you seated by our cheerful fireplace, your needle-work in hand, and I recall our happy evenings together in . . .
‘Turnip.’
I confess that I have never jumped so high in all my life as I did at that moment when my reading was interrupted by a low, quiet voice. So lost had I been in the captain’s words that I had failed to hear the footsteps approaching along the corridor or notice as the door opened a little wider and I did not know how long I had been standing there, reading the letter, before he had spoken.
‘Mr Christian,’ said I, my face taking on the reddenings immediately as I gathered all
the letters together and pretended that I had not been engaged in this act of indiscretion. ‘The captain sent me down to get his letters. There’s a ship—’
‘And did he tell you to read them before delivering them to him?’ he asked quietly.
‘No, sir,’ said I, attempting to look outraged at the suggestion but knowing only too well that it would be difficult for me to feign innocence; the evidence was plain to see. ‘And I never did! I—’
‘Perhaps he wanted you to check that his spellings were fine, with your vast education, I mean? Is the lettering elegant, the prose efficient?’
‘Mr Christian,’ said I, stepping forward and shaking my head, knowing already that the only way out of this commotion was to throw myself on his mercy. ‘I didn’t mean it, sir, honest I didn’t. It fell open before me. I only read a line or two and was about to go on deck . . .’
He wasn’t listening to me, though, for he had opened the letter him-self now and was scanning it quickly, his dark pupils bouncing back and forth as he took the contents in. A quick reader, he was too, for he turned it over to the rear side quicker than I had managed.
‘Will you be informing the captain, sir?’ I asked, wondering whether Mr Bligh’s pride at not flogging any man on board was about to be ruined and I was to be his first unfortunate victim.
Mr Christian breathed heavily through his nose and considered it. ‘How old are you, Turnip?’ he asked me.
‘Fourteen years, sir,’ said I, looking down now in shame, the better that he might take pity on me.
‘When I was fourteen, I took a bushel of apples from the house next door to my father’s. I ate them in a sitting, little knowing that they had been kept aside for the pigs, for they had turned to the bad a day or two earlier. For the best part of a week I lay in bed, torn between the sickness of the stomach and the sickness of the rump, and in all that time my father never chastised me, never remonstrated with me, but nursed me back to health. And when I was on my feet again, and fully restored, he brought me to his study and thrashed me so badly that, even now, when I see an apple I feel ill inside at the memory of it. But I never stole another one, I promise you that, Turnip. I never even thought of it.’