Mutiny: A Novel of the Bounty Page 11

  I opened my mouth to inform him that I had never seen the inside of a classroom, but held my counsel for fear that it may be considered sauce again.

  ‘The orobal is a wonderful plant to cultivate,’ he told me then. ‘It is a diuretic, you see, which is of course of great use on a voyage like ours.’

  ‘A what?’ I asked, unfamiliar with the word.

  ‘A diuretic,’ he repeated. ‘Really, Turnstile, must I explain everything? It has pain-relieving properties and can induce sleep in a poorly man. I think it might prosper too, if attended to correctly.’

  ‘Shall I be watering these plants for you, then, sir?’ asked I.

  ‘Oh, no,’ said he, shaking his head quickly. ‘No, you may leave them as they are. It’s not that I don’t trust you, you understand; on the contrary, you are proving a very fine servant’ – there was that word again, one I did not enjoy – ‘but I think I would rather enjoy tending to them myself and nurturing them to growth. It gives me a hobby, you see. Don’t you have hobbies, Turnstile? Back home with your family in Portsmouth, didn’t you have entertainments of your own? Frivolities that passed your time?’

  I stared at him, surprised by his own naïveté, and shook my head. This was the first time that the captain had asked me about my life back in England, or my family, and I realized immediately that he was under the false impression that I was in possession of one. Of course, he had not conversed with his friend Mr Zéla before my appearance on board the Bounty – I had merely been sent on board at the last moment to step into the shoes of the slippery donkey who had cracked his legs – and if he had, perhaps he would have known a little more about my situation. As it was, he assumed that all lads had a similar upbringing to his own, and in this he was sadly mistaken. The rich always consider lads like me to be ignorant, but they display just as much ignorance at times, albeit of a very different type.

  The notion of family was a strange one to me. I had known no such joy myself. I could recall neither father nor mother; my earliest memories were of a washerwoman in Westingham Street who let me sleep on her floor and eat from her table if I brought home fruit from the stalls for her supper, but she sold me to Mr Lewis when I was nine years old and told me as I was dragged away from her that I would be happy and well looked after at his establishment. There was no family back home for me. There was love, of course, of a sort. But no family.

  ‘Now, this might interest you, Turnstile,’ the captain was saying to me, and I blinked back into the here-and-now; he was touching the leaves of a small plant in the third pot with care. ‘The artemisia. When it prospers, it is a great help to the digestive system of any man who finds himself in difficulties, as I recall you were when we first set sail. It could be of great use if—’

  The lesson was interrupted at that moment by a sharp rap on the cabin door and we turned round to see Mr Christian standing there. He gave a brief nod to the captain and ignored me altogether, as was his wont. I think he considered me to be of slightly less interest than the wood panelling on the walls or the panes of glass in the windows. ‘The ship is setting sail, sir,’ he said. ‘You wanted to be informed.’

  ‘Excellent news,’ said the captain. ‘Excellent news! And what a worthwhile stay it was, Fletcher. I hope you thanked the governor for all his kindnesses?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘Very good. Then, you may sound the gun salute at your convenience.’ The captain turned back to his plants, but, realizing that Mr Christian had not stepped away, he turned round again. ‘Yes, Fletcher?’ he asked. ‘Was there something else?’

  Mr Christian’s face bore the look of a man who had a secret to impart and little wanted to be the messenger of it. ‘The gun salute,’ he said finally. ‘Perhaps we should keep our powder dry for now?’

  ‘Nonsense, Fletcher!’ said the captain with a laugh. ‘Our hosts have been of great assistance to us. We cannot part without a gesture of respect; how would such a thing look? You’ve seen it done before, of course. A mutual salute, ours to offer thanks, theirs to send us on our way with Godspeed.’

  There was a noticeable hesitancy on Mr Christian’s part, one that I’m sure both the captain and I were aware of, and it hovered in the air like a bad smell from a pestilent duck until the master’s mate opened a window to clear it. ‘I’m afraid there won’t be a return of salute, sir,’ he said finally, looking away.

  ‘No return?’ asked the captain, frowning and stepping towards him. ‘I don’t understand. You and Mr Fryer gave the governor our parting gifts?’

  ‘Yes, sir, we did,’ he replied. ‘And of course Mr Fryer, as ship’s master, discussed the matter of the salute with the governor, that being his place as the officer of rank. Shall I fetch him and have him explain?’

  ‘Damn and blast it, Fletcher, I care not whose place it is,’ snapped the captain, whose voice was growing more and more testy as the minutes passed; he did not like to be kept in the dark about matters that were taking place around him, particularly when he perceived a slight. ‘I simply ask you why the salute shall not be returned when I have just given orders that—’

  ‘It was to be returned,’ said Mr Christian, interrupting him. ‘Six shots apiece, as is standard. Unfortunately Mr Fryer was forced to reveal the fact that . . . due to the circumstances of our ship and your own ranking . . .’

  ‘My own ranking?’ Bligh asked slowly, as if he was trying to rush forward in the conversation himself to discover where it might be leading. ‘I don’t . . . ?’

  ‘As lieutenant, I mean,’ explained Mr Christian. ‘Rather than captain. The fact of the ship’s size not meriting a—’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Mr Bligh, turning away now so that neither of us could observe his phizzy, his voice growing gloomier by the minute. ‘I understand fully.’ He coughed several times and closed his eyes for a moment as he held a hand across his mouth. When he spoke again, his tone was low and depressive. ‘Of course, Fletcher. The governor will not return a salute to one of lesser rank than he.’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s rather the long and the short of it,’ said Mr Christian quietly.

  ‘Well, Mr Fryer spoke correctly in informing the governor,’ said the captain, although he did not sound as though he believed a word of it. ‘It would have been highly inappropriate and if he had discovered the truth subsequently, then it might have damaged his relations with the crown.’

  ‘For what it’s worth, sir—’ began Mr Christian, but the captain held a hand up to silence him.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Christian,’ he said. ‘You may go on deck now. Mr Fryer is up there, I presume?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then, he may stay there, damn his boots, for the time being. Set the pace, Mr Christian. See that the men are keen.’

  ‘Aye, sir,’ he replied, turning then and leaving the cabin.

  I stood there awkwardly, shuffling from foot to foot. I could see that the captain felt humiliated by what had transpired but was trying not to show any such emotion on his face. The issue of his own status was one that clearly rankled him, particularly as the fact of it was common currency among the men. I tried to think of what to say to make matters better but could think of nothing at all until I happened to look to my left again and saw salvation there.

  ‘And this pot, Captain,’ said I, pointing to the fourth and final pot on the mantel. ‘What does this contain?’

  He turned his head slowly and stared at me, as if he had forgotten my presence entirely, before looking towards the pot that I had indicated and shaking his head. ‘Thank you, Turnstile,’ he said in a deep and troubled voice. ‘You may leave now.’

  I opened my mouth to say more but thought better of it. As I left, and closed the cabin door behind me, I could feel the ship setting off quite smoothly into the sea again and caught a final vision of the captain sitting down behind his desk and not retrieving his quill, but, rather, reaching across for the portrait of his wife, and running his finger gently along her face. I shut the door f
irmly and resolved to go on deck and keep my eyes focused on the land as it disappeared behind us, for the devil only knew when I might catch sight of it again.

  14

  SOON AFTER THAT, THE DANCING began.

  For weeks we sailed on, steering the Bounty ever closer to the Equator, making keen progress through twenty-five degrees, twenty degrees, fifteen degrees latitude. I followed our progress daily on the charts that Captain Bligh kept in his cabin, many of which (he told me) he had drawn himself from his previous voyages with Captain Cook. I begged him to tell me more about their travels together, but he always found a reason to put the tales off and I was left to imagine the adventures they had undertaken and dramatize their heroism in my imagination. In the meantime, the storms grew and subsided, the winds blustered and waned, and the mood on the ship seemed to be inextricably linked to the weather, with days of great humour interspersed with others in which the atmosphere was fraught with tension. At this time, the feeling between the captain and the officers, and the captain and the men, was generally positive and I saw no reason why it should not continue to be so. Of course, it was clear that Mr Fryer would never be a favourite of the captain’s in the way that Mr Christian was, but neither man seemed troubled by this fact and as far as I could see the ship’s master went about his duties without rancour or complaint.

  I began to spend more time on deck during those weeks and would often pass the evening sitting on my haunches with three or four of the midshipmen as they smoked their pipes and drank their rations of ale, telling one another stories of the wives and sweethearts they had left behind. On most evenings, one man would find himself the butt of the others’ jokes and from time to time a fight would break out if one fellow accused another’s wife of playing the strumpet while he was at sea. On one occasion I stood by while John Millward beat three shades of shite out of Richard Skinner on a trifling complaint and I looked to Mr Christian and Mr Elphinstone, the officers on deck, to step in and spare us the bloodshed that followed, but to my surprise they turned their backs on the fighting and walked away. Later that same evening, Mr Christian surprised me in my sleep when he was going to his cabin, the toe of his boot kicking upwards into my bunk, unsettling me and spilling me over on to the floor below, which collided in a painful fashion with my head.

  ‘Damn and blast it!’ I roared in surprise, disturbed as I was in the middle of a happy dream wherein I found myself a man of wealth and property, much beloved by the impoverished but happy servants who worked my farms and gave me comfort on the long, dark evenings. ‘What the—?’ I didn’t have to finish my question, however, for looking up from my horizontal position, there was the master’s mate standing above me, looking down and shaking his head contemptuously.

  ‘Still your tongue, Turnip, you young brat,’ he said, reaching down and offering me his hand. ‘I meant merely to waken you, not upset you out of the bunk altogether. Are you of a nervous nature? I never saw a fellow jump so.’

  ‘No, Mr Christian,’ said I, attempting to regain my dignity as I found my feet again. ‘I am not a victim to my nerves. However, I am not accustomed to being kicked in the arse in the middle of the night either.’

  The words were out of my mouth before I could think on their wisdom and my regret began to surface almost immediately as I saw the smile fade away from his face and his eyes narrow. I looked down at my feet and wondered whether he would continue the act and kick me all the way overboard. The only thing that might prevent him from doing so, I decided, was the fact that it could give him the perspirations and that in turn would unsettle his features and unpart his hair, a thing beyond all others that Mr Christian would detest.

  ‘In the first place, it is not the middle of the night, Turnstile, it is late evening,’ he said finally, visibly trying to control his temper. ‘And when the captain is about, so should his servant lad be, and the captain is currently on deck. And in the second place, shall I take it that you have momentarily forgotten yourself in the shock of the awakening and knew not who it was you were addressing?’

  I nodded my head, chastened; when I looked up there was a trace of a smile back on his face and I felt relieved that I was not to be locked in irons for the remainder of our voyage.

  ‘Very well,’ said he. ‘I think you were upset by the disagreement earlier, were you not?’

  ‘The disagreement?’ said I, considering it. ‘If you mean the fight between Millward and Skinner, aye, I was, for Skinner’ll not walk straight for a week after that.’

  ‘And I expect you wonder why neither I nor Mr Elphinstone stepped in to separate the two men?’

  I said nothing to this; of course that was what I was thinking, and he knew it too, but it was not my place to suggest such a thing. So I played the sensible game and kept my lip buttoned.

  ‘You haven’t been at sea before, have you, Turnip?’ he asked and I shook my head. ‘You learn certain things when you spend some time on the oceans. And one of them is to allow the men to exercise themselves when they need to. They wouldn’t thank an officer for stepping into a moment like that. If anything, they would resent it. Even Skinner, the poor fool, would be unhappy about it, despite the beating he took. It’s the nature of men. There are no women about for them to exert themselves on, so they must find release with one another. I suspect you understand a little of that, yes?’

  I looked up at him and my face took on the reddenings as never before. How could I help but wonder what he might have meant by that? I had spoken to no one on board about my life before the Bounty; could Mr Christian read things in my face that I thought were hidden? He continued to look at me as if he could see right through to my very soul and – I knew not why – I felt a sting of tears prickling away behind my eyes.

  ‘Anyway,’ he said finally. ‘Enough of this chatter. Up on deck with you, Turnip. The captain wishes to address the crew.’

  I went through the great cabin, followed by Mr Christian, aware at all times of his eyes boring into my back and for the first time since we had left Spithead I began to feel how small the ship truly was. Of course, I was accustomed to confined spaces; Mr Lewis’s establishment contained barely enough room to swing a cat. But now, walking towards the deck followed by the master’s mate, I wished for nothing more than to be left alone, to answer to no one, to have a room I could call my own where no one might lay eyes on me. I wished in vain. Such delights were not the lot of lads like me.

  On deck, the captain seemed to be in one of his moods. He was pacing back and forth as the men gathered, shouting at them to get into line and sharpish. The light was starting to fade and the waters were reasonably calm as he addressed us.

  ‘Men,’ said he, ‘we’ve been at sea for a month now and, as you know, there’s still a long way to go before our mission is even half begun. You’ve all been at sea before—’

  ‘Except young Turnstile,’ said Mr Christian, pushing me forward into the middle of the deck as he used my proper name at last, and the captain turned to look at me.

  ‘Almost all of you have been at sea before,’ said he, correcting himself. ‘And, as you are only too aware, men’s spirits can get low and the body can begin to disintegrate if it is not exercised regularly. I’ve noticed that several of you have a lethargic look to you and a pale complexion and I have decided on two courses of action to improve our conditions from now on.’

  There was a general murmur of approval from the men, who looked at one another and muttered suggestions about increased rations and more ale, but they were quickly silenced by Mr Elphinstone, who shouted at them to be silent and to pay attention to their captain.

  ‘All goes well here so far,’ continued the captain, and I fancied that he was a little nervous in his words as he addressed us forty men and lads. ‘We haven’t lost any men to ill health, thank the Saviour, and I dare say we may have set a new record in His Majesty’s navy for the greatest number of days without a single disciplinary action taking place.’

  ‘Hurrah!’ cried th
e men in unison and Captain Bligh looked rightly pleased when they did so.

  ‘To reward your fine service and to keep each man as healthy as he can possibly be, I propose to change the schedule of the ship’s watches from tomorrow. Instead of two shifts of twelve hours apiece, there will be three shifts of eight hours each, thus ensuring that every man has the benefit of eight hours in his own berth to rest his eyes and catch up on his sleep. I think you’ll agree that this will lead to a stronger and more alert crew for the difficult waters ahead.’

  Again, there was more mutterings of approval from the men and I could see that the captain’s mood was improving as he was delighted with their response, breaking into a broad smile when they gave him a hearty cheer. Just at that moment, however, Mr Fryer stepped forward a foot or two to shatter his good humour. I couldn’t help but wonder why he always took it upon himself to act as he did.

  ‘Captain,’ said he, ‘do you think that’s wise considering the—’

  ‘Dammit, man!’ roared the captain immediately, in such a voice that made every man turn immediately silent, and I confess that even I jumped in fright at the sound of it and might have leapt overboard had the notion taken me. ‘Can’t you understand an order when you hear it, Mr Fryer? I’m captain of the Bounty and if I say there are to be three watches of eight hours apiece, then there are to be three watches of eight hours apiece – not two, not four, but three – and I’ll not stand to hear questions on it. Do you understand me, Mr Fryer?’

  I looked – we all looked – in Mr Fryer’s direction and if the captain’s face had gone suddenly scarlet with fury, then Mr Fryer’s had immediately become pale in bewilderment. The captain’s anger had appeared out of nowhere and the master stood there now with his mouth wide open as if in preparation for the sentence he had planned on finishing. No words came from him now, however, and after a few moments he closed his mouth again and stepped back in place silently, staring down at the deck. The look on his face would have curdled milk. I glanced in Mr Christian’s direction and was sure that I could see a hint of a smile there.