And one other: the scut, Mr Peter Heywood.
Mr Fletcher Christian, the dandy, was never discovered.
But if I was surprised by this and the news that they were to return to England to stand trial under charges of mutiny, it was as nothing compared with the news that followed soon after that. The Pandora had come to damage and had sunk on the voyage home and four of those miserable prisoners – Skinner, Sumner, Stewart and Hilbrant – had perished as the ship went down. The rest were transported in various launches by the captain and crew of the drowned frigate to Timor, following the same route that we ourselves had been forced to follow, and onward to England.
If there was ever a time to think that the Saviour was playing games in the world, then this was it.
The trials that followed were of great public interest, of course, and the captain testified against some of the men, but only six – Morrison, Ellison, Muspratt, Millward, Burkett and Mr Heywood – were convicted; the rest were seen as loyalists detained by mutineers.
And after earnest entreaties on the parts of their families, Mr Heywood, along with Morrison and Muspratt, were pardoned by the king and set free.
The others – Thomas Ellison, who would never after all marry his Flora-Jane Richardson, Thomas Burkett, who had arrested the captain in his own cabin on that fateful night, and John Millward – were all sentenced to death and they were duly hanged by the neck, a warning to others of the penalties of mutiny.
And thereafter the story of HMS Bounty was laid to rest.
92
NOT UNTIL TWENTY-SIX YEARS LATER, shortly before my own forty-fourth birthday, did my mind fully return to the events of those turbulent two and a half years. The cause for my recollections was the funeral of one of my oldest and dearest friends, Captain William Bligh, the hero of the Bounty, in Lambeth parish church, not long before Christmas 1817.
I had wondered whether I might see some of my old shipmates at the funeral, but most had died by then, or were away on foreign voyages, and there was no one left to represent the Bounty other than myself. In truth, attendance was sparse despite the great service the captain had offered over his lifetime: he had served under the great Admiral Nelson at the Battle of Copenhagen and acquitted himself valiantly there. He became Governor-General of New South Wales for a period and was considered a great hero in those Antipodean parts. He became a Rear-Admiral, and latterly Vice-Admiral of the Blue, one of the highest rankings in the forces. However, memories of the mutiny never faded and for some he was the villain of the piece, a characterization that could scarcely be further from the truth.
Mr Bligh was not perfect, few of us are, but he was worth a thousand Fletcher Christians and I would stake my life on that.
After the interment I found myself alone at Lambeth, for my wife had been unable to attend due to the impending birth of our eighth child, who would be born three weeks later. (Our third child, and second son, was named for my friend and his own godfather, William.) Unwilling yet to return home – for the memories of those years were pervading my mind deeply and causing me a curious mixture of regret, disappointment and delight – I wandered over to a local hostelry and ordered a pint of ale before retiring to a windowed corner to reflect upon the events of my life.
I scarcely noticed the gentleman approaching me, but his deep voice swept me out of my thoughts when first he spoke.
‘Captain Turnstile,’ he said.
I looked up but didn’t recognize him immediately. ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ I said.
‘I wonder if I might join you for a moment?’
‘Of course,’ I said, indicating the bench opposite.
He was a well-dressed gentleman with a fine speaking voice, and although I would have preferred solitude it was clear that he recognized me and wanted discourse and I was happy enough to offer it. However, he remained silent for a few moments when he sat, placing his own ale before him, smiling a little at me.
‘I wonder that you don’t recognize me,’ he said.
‘I do apologize, sir,’ I replied. ‘We have met before, then?’
‘Once,’ he said. ‘Many years ago. Perhaps if I was to leave my pocket-watch hanging in sight, it might stir your recollection?’
I frowned, considering what he meant by those words, before their meaning struck me and my eyes opened wide in surprise. ‘Mr Zéla,’ I said, for indeed it was the French gentleman whose watch I had stolen all those years before and who had seen to it that I was spared the gaol and transported instead to the deck of the Bounty.
‘Matthieu, please,’ he said with a smile.
‘I can scarcely believe it,’ I replied, shaking my head. ‘The years have been kind to you,’ I added, for although he must have been in his seventies by then, he could have passed for a man twenty years his junior.
‘I hear that quite frequently,’ he replied. ‘But I try not to focus on it. Why tempt fate, that’s my motto.’
‘And you’re here,’ I said, still amazed. ‘You were at—’
‘Admiral Bligh’s funeral? Yes, I was at the rear of the church. I noticed you when you were leaving. I wanted to say hello to you once again. It’s been many years.’
‘Indeed it has,’ I said. ‘And I’m pleased to see you. You are living in London?’
‘I move around a little,’ he replied. ‘I have many interests across the world. I must say, however, that I was pleased to see you here. I have followed your career with great interest.’
‘I have two people to thank for that career,’ I admitted. ‘You, for sending me on board that ship in the first place, and William, for making me his protégé.’
‘You and he remained friends all these years, then?’
‘Oh, yes,’ I said. ‘When I returned to England, Mr Zéla . . . Matthieu . . . I was lost. I considered returning to my life in Portsmouth, but there was nothing there for me any more. After the captain was acquitted and promoted, he invited me on to his next command as an AB.’
‘Your adventures had not turned you against the sea, then?’
‘I thought they would,’ I admitted. ‘Indeed, during those forty-eight days on the launch, I swore time and again that if I survived, then I would never even bathe again, let alone sail. But perhaps that experience changed me for the better. William offered, I considered and accepted, and after that—’
‘The rest, as they say, is history.’
‘I only served with him one more time,’ I pointed out. ‘On that next voyage. After that I struck out on my own. I was fortunate to discover a talent for chart-making as well as a natural ability, I suppose, at the sea, and was promoted for my troubles. Before I knew it I was a master’s mate, and then a master.’
‘And now you are a captain,’ he said with pride in his voice. ‘And if the rumours are to believed, your career will not end there?’
‘I know nothing of that, sir,’ I said, blushing slightly, although I will admit that my ambition had not yet been fully satisfied. ‘That will be for greater men than I to decide.’
‘And they will, my friend,’ he replied with certainty in his voice. ‘I have no doubt that they will. I am indeed proud of you, John Jacob.’
I smiled. ‘And I’m glad of it,’ I said. ‘But not as much as William was, I think. He accompanied me to the Admiralty on the day that I received my captaincy papers. We dined with friends afterwards and he paid me a fine tribute over the toasts, which moved me tremendously. He spoke of loyalty. And duty. And honour. The traits, I think, that defined his own life.’ I felt my eyes fill with tears as I recalled that happy evening and the way that William had spoken of me.
‘He thought of you as a son, I expect,’ said Mr Zéla.
‘Perhaps,’ I admitted. ‘Something like that anyway. I know that I shall never forget him.’
‘And the island? Tahiti. You think of it often?’
‘We called it Otaheite, Matthieu,’ I said, correcting him. ‘And, yes, I think of it often. I think of the men we left behind. The mutineers w
ho were never discovered. I feel no anger towards them any more, though. They were strange days. And men behave curiously in such climates. I reserve any enmity I feel for Fletcher Christian.’
‘Ah,’ said Mr Zéla, nodding thoughtfully. ‘Of course. The real villain of the piece.’
‘The worst of all villains.’
‘And you think that he will be remembered as such?’
I raised an eyebrow. ‘But of course,’ I said. ‘Did he not turn on his own captain? Take a ship that was not his own? Break the solemn oath of his office?’
‘I wonder will history recall these things,’ he said.
‘But I am certain it will,’ I replied. ‘Anyway, he is surely dead by now. So much time has passed. His villainy has ended and his infamy assured.’
Mr Zéla gave a slight smile but remained silent for some time. When he spoke again, he was thinking not of the days of Bligh and Christian, but of my own life.
‘And you, John Jacob,’ he said, ‘you have lived a happy life?’
‘Aye, and a fulfilling one,’ I replied. ‘And much left to look forward to, I hope. I have a loving wife, a brood of happy, healthy children. A career that satisfies me greatly. I wonder what else I could want from the world?’
‘I remember when you were a lad,’ he said. ‘On that morning when we met by the bookstalls in Portsmouth. We had a conversation, the two of us, do you recall it?’
I threw my mind back thirty years and frowned a little as I remembered the boy I had once been. ‘Not entirely,’ I replied. ‘It was so long ago.’
‘You said that you had a mind for book-writing,’ he told me. ‘And that you would like to set your mind to that task one day. There was something about China, if I recall correctly.’
I let out a great laugh and remembered it cheerfully. ‘I was a fanciful lad,’ I said, shaking my head in amusement.
‘So it never came to pass, then? You never wrote?’
‘No, sir,’ I admitted. ‘I sailed instead.’
‘Well, there is still time,’ he replied, smiling. ‘Perhaps you will yet.’
‘I think not,’ I said. ‘I do not have a mind for making up stories.’
‘Then, perhaps you could simply recall your own. In the future, there may be those who would be glad to read of your adventures. There may be some who will want to know the truth of that time and those years you spent on your first expedition.’ He glanced at his pocket-watch then, a much finer specimen than the one he had owned back on the day we had first met. ‘I would so much like to stay and talk,’ he said, ‘but unfortunately my nephew and I have business in London and we are taking a carriage there within the hour.’
I glanced over in the direction he had indicated at a young, dark-haired lad of about sixteen or seventeen – very much with the look of Mr Zéla – who was sitting near by patiently awaiting his uncle.
‘I may write to you?’ I asked, rising now to shake his hand. ‘I should like to continue our conversation.’
‘Of course. I shall send my address to you via the Admiralty.’ He hesitated and held my hand tightly as he stared deeply into my eyes. ‘I am very happy, Mr Turnstile, that your life was a successful one. Perhaps I did something good that day on the docks of Spithead.’
‘I know you did, sir,’ I told him. ‘I know not what course my life might have taken otherwise.’
He smiled and nodded but said nothing more, sweeping out of the hostelry with his nephew in tow. I watched from the window as he marched down the street and out of sight; I never saw or heard from him again. Whether his address was lost or never sent, I do not know.
The conversation between Mr Zéla and me played out in my mind for days afterwards. I considered what he had said about recording the events of my life, but I was soon back to sea and there was no time for that. A decade later, however, and I was back in London with my sailing days behind me. A sea battle had left me deprived of my left leg, and although my life was not threatened I was forced at the age of fifty-five to return to a quieter life, one that involved the solace of grandchildren and the satisfaction of a place upon the Admiralty board, selecting officers, choosing captains, assigning great tasks to worthy men.
But of course my time was a little more free than it had been before and so I returned to that day, and that conversation, and I sat down with pen and paper and wrote a simple sentence at the top of it:
There was once a gentleman, a tall fellow with an air of superiority about him, who made it his business to come down to the marketplace in Portsmouth on the first Sunday of every month in order to replenish his library.
And, with that, I began my recollections, which now feel as if they have finally come to an end. My hope is that the captain’s true character has emerged in these pages, as has that of the villain Fletcher Christian, and that when the generations who follow have cause to think of those two men, as they surely must, then the accolades will be placed correctly.
And as for me . . . I have lived a long and happy life, a life that was blessed by a chance encounter with one man that led to a position of willing duty to another. I had many more adventures in the decades that followed – adventures that would fill many thousands of pages, but which my pen is now too drained to write of – but in truth there were none that exceeded in excitement or wonder the ones spent on our mission to and from the island of Otaheite when I was a boy.
But those days are past now. I must still look towards the future.
Acknowledgements
The following books were of great help to me during the writing of this novel:
Caroline Alexander, The Bounty (HarperCollins, 2003)
William Bligh & Edward Christian, The Bounty Mutiny (Penguin Classics, 2001)
ICB Dear & Peter Kemp, The Oxford Companion to the Sea, 2nd ed. (Oxford University Press, 2005)
Greg Dening, Mr Bligh’s Bad Language (Cambridge University Press, 1992)
Richard Hough, Captain James Cook (Hodder Headline, 1994)
Richard Hough, Captain Bligh & Mister Christian (Hutchinson, 1972)
John Toohey, Captain Bligh’s Portable Nightmare (Fourth Estate, 1999)
The transcripts of the various trials that were held in relation to the Bounty mutiny were also extremely useful in assembling my story of what took place on board the ship.
John Boyne, Mutiny: A Novel of the Bounty
(Series: # )
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