The Bounty: The True Story of the Mutiny on the Bounty (62 page)
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Authors: Caroline Alexander
Tags: #History, #Europe, #Great Britain, #Military, #Naval
BOOK: The Bounty: The True Story of the Mutiny on the Bounty
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Adams died in March 1829, on the day after his sixty-sixth birthday—if the date he had told the captain of the
Maryland
on her visit in 1824 was true. His power to shape and embellish the story, however, continued posthumously. Just before the pious old mutineer expired, one reverential tribute—uniquely, and many years after the fact—reported, “[H]e said in a whisper as his countenance lighted up with joy ‘Let go the anchor’ and fell back upon his pillow and died.”
Maryland
on her visit in 1824 was true. His power to shape and embellish the story, however, continued posthumously. Just before the pious old mutineer expired, one reverential tribute—uniquely, and many years after the fact—reported, “[H]e said in a whisper as his countenance lighted up with joy ‘Let go the anchor’ and fell back upon his pillow and died.”
After Adams’s death, the next generation continued the tradition of telling the story of the
Bounty
to the steady stream of curious visitors, if with some fuzziness as to details. In relating the famous coconut scene, for example, a Pitcairn narrator described how some “fruit, which had been sent on board for the captain’s cabin . . . disappeared; Captain Bligh was exceedingly angry,” and had berated Christian by saying, “I suppose you have eaten it yourself, you hungry hound!” (“Can we be surprised at insults of this nature rankling in the mind of a susceptible man, and driving him at last to the desperate deed . . . ?” the visitor interjected.) These new narrators brought new details to light and accorded old ones new scrutiny. It was more openly recognized that Adams’s safeguarding of his own daughters’ virtue was in great part due to the fact that if they married they would cease to till his own fields. His stepdaughter was reported to retain “most unpleasant recollections of John Adams, who she insists killed her mother by his cruel treatment of her.” The patriarch’s insistence on religious observances had been rigorous, “even to severity of discipline,” whatever that might have entailed. It was also said that when the
Bounty
arrived at Pitcairn and Christian went ashore to scout the island, there had been a plot afoot among those, such as Adams, who had remained on board to leave their ringleader and take the ship back to Tahiti.
Bounty
to the steady stream of curious visitors, if with some fuzziness as to details. In relating the famous coconut scene, for example, a Pitcairn narrator described how some “fruit, which had been sent on board for the captain’s cabin . . . disappeared; Captain Bligh was exceedingly angry,” and had berated Christian by saying, “I suppose you have eaten it yourself, you hungry hound!” (“Can we be surprised at insults of this nature rankling in the mind of a susceptible man, and driving him at last to the desperate deed . . . ?” the visitor interjected.) These new narrators brought new details to light and accorded old ones new scrutiny. It was more openly recognized that Adams’s safeguarding of his own daughters’ virtue was in great part due to the fact that if they married they would cease to till his own fields. His stepdaughter was reported to retain “most unpleasant recollections of John Adams, who she insists killed her mother by his cruel treatment of her.” The patriarch’s insistence on religious observances had been rigorous, “even to severity of discipline,” whatever that might have entailed. It was also said that when the
Bounty
arrived at Pitcairn and Christian went ashore to scout the island, there had been a plot afoot among those, such as Adams, who had remained on board to leave their ringleader and take the ship back to Tahiti.
The growing legend was, however, able to absorb all its discrepancies as well as all its darker elements. Truly unfavorable reports were largely ignored—such as an account that the pious youths had been caught red-handed brewing spirits very much like whiskey; or that when Thursday October Christian had come on board the
Briton,
he had abruptly left the table when a West Indian member of the company entered, muttering, “I don’t like that black fellow, I must go.” Fletcher Christian’s offspring were generally treated with great tact and only very occasionally received anything less than flattering descriptions—such as the opinion of a visitor in 1830 that “Thursday and Charles Christian, the sons of the mutineer, are ignorant, uneducated persons, unable to maintain superiority.”
Briton,
he had abruptly left the table when a West Indian member of the company entered, muttering, “I don’t like that black fellow, I must go.” Fletcher Christian’s offspring were generally treated with great tact and only very occasionally received anything less than flattering descriptions—such as the opinion of a visitor in 1830 that “Thursday and Charles Christian, the sons of the mutineer, are ignorant, uneducated persons, unable to maintain superiority.”
As long ago as 1791, when the
Pandora
had been roaming the broad Pacific in her hapless search for the
Bounty,
Surgeon George Hamilton had mused on a far-fetched and, under the circumstances, inappropriate fantasy: should Christian “elude the hand of justice, it may be hoped he will employ his talents in humanizing the rude savages, so that, at some future period, a British Ilion may blaze forth in the south, with all the characteristic virtues of the English nation, and complete the great prophecy, by propagating the Christian knowledge amongst the infidels.” And so, improbably, it had come to pass. Few in England, apparently, were able to discern that the Pitcairn Islanders’ traits were more readily traced to their Polynesian ancestry than to English Christendom. Their selfless and communal identity, the much marveled lack of locks on their doors, their open-handed generosity, their cleanliness—these were Otaheite characteristics that the men of the
Bounty
had admired, and not found in the society that had only recently ceased to gibbet executed criminals along the Thames.
Pandora
had been roaming the broad Pacific in her hapless search for the
Bounty,
Surgeon George Hamilton had mused on a far-fetched and, under the circumstances, inappropriate fantasy: should Christian “elude the hand of justice, it may be hoped he will employ his talents in humanizing the rude savages, so that, at some future period, a British Ilion may blaze forth in the south, with all the characteristic virtues of the English nation, and complete the great prophecy, by propagating the Christian knowledge amongst the infidels.” And so, improbably, it had come to pass. Few in England, apparently, were able to discern that the Pitcairn Islanders’ traits were more readily traced to their Polynesian ancestry than to English Christendom. Their selfless and communal identity, the much marveled lack of locks on their doors, their open-handed generosity, their cleanliness—these were Otaheite characteristics that the men of the
Bounty
had admired, and not found in the society that had only recently ceased to gibbet executed criminals along the Thames.
This chapter of the
Bounty
saga was also to serve English poetry. “Christina, the Maid of the South Seas” was written by Mary Russell Mitford in 1811, following the news of the discovery by the
Topaz
—the poem was then one of the few public responses to the event. Relating the love of Christian’s daughter Christina for “Henry,” an English sailor somehow serving on the American
Topaz,
the poem received editorial assistance from two old
Bounty
hands: Rear Admiral James Burney, who had edited Bligh’s log for publication, and Samuel Taylor Coleridge. In an ill-advised preface, the authoress expressed some anguish at both having to recognize “the sufferings of Captain Bligh” on the one hand and “irritating the feelings of a highly respectable family” on the other; one may be sure that this in itself succeeded in irritating the Christian Curwens.
Bounty
saga was also to serve English poetry. “Christina, the Maid of the South Seas” was written by Mary Russell Mitford in 1811, following the news of the discovery by the
Topaz
—the poem was then one of the few public responses to the event. Relating the love of Christian’s daughter Christina for “Henry,” an English sailor somehow serving on the American
Topaz,
the poem received editorial assistance from two old
Bounty
hands: Rear Admiral James Burney, who had edited Bligh’s log for publication, and Samuel Taylor Coleridge. In an ill-advised preface, the authoress expressed some anguish at both having to recognize “the sufferings of Captain Bligh” on the one hand and “irritating the feelings of a highly respectable family” on the other; one may be sure that this in itself succeeded in irritating the Christian Curwens.
Another poet inspired by this most romantic tale of love and exile was none other than that arch-romantic Lord Byron. By the time he published
The Island
in 1823, Byron was near the end of his wild life and had perfected his self-image as the dark-haired exile, dragging his intriguing taint of unspecified wrongdoing across Europe. Who better to immortalize the charismatic mutineer! And yet, in a role reversal of breathtaking unexpectedness, Byron championed William Bligh.
As for the mutineers—
(Perhaps Byron’s uncharacteristic disapproval of so romantic a figure arose from pique, a wounded sense that Fletcher Christian—his long hair loose, his shirt collar open—had out-Byroned Byron.)
The Island
in 1823, Byron was near the end of his wild life and had perfected his self-image as the dark-haired exile, dragging his intriguing taint of unspecified wrongdoing across Europe. Who better to immortalize the charismatic mutineer! And yet, in a role reversal of breathtaking unexpectedness, Byron championed William Bligh.
Awake, bold Bligh! the foe is at the gate!
Awake! awake!—Alas it is too late!
Fiercely beside thy cot the mutineer
Stands, and proclaims the reign of rage and fear.
Young hearts, which languish’d for some sunny isle,
Where summer years and summer women smile;
Men without country, who, too long estranged,
Had found no native home, or found it changed,
And, half uncivilised, preferr’d the cave
Of some soft savage to the uncertain wave—
A number of the survivors of the
Bounty
did not live to learn of Fletcher Christian’s fate. Loyalist Charles Norman died in December 1793, which would explain his absence as a “witness” in the dueling pamphlets of Bligh and Edward Christian. He had been buried in the Gosport church of his baptism, and so had not strayed far from Portsmouth Harbour after his acquittal and release.
Bounty
did not live to learn of Fletcher Christian’s fate. Loyalist Charles Norman died in December 1793, which would explain his absence as a “witness” in the dueling pamphlets of Bligh and Edward Christian. He had been buried in the Gosport church of his baptism, and so had not strayed far from Portsmouth Harbour after his acquittal and release.
After the court-martial John Hallett joined the
Penelope
as third lieutenant, and a little over a year later, while the ship was in the West Indies, the muster indicates that he was “Invalided” for the remainder of the voyage. Hallett died in Bedford in December 1794, “after a long and severe illness,” as the
Times
reported. Another obituary indicated he had lost the use of his limbs following the open-boat voyage, and although recovered sufficiently to make another voyage, he “again lost the use of his limbs, and recovered them no more.” Hallett was only twenty-two years old at the time of his death. His parish church registry noted he had been a “gentleman.”
Penelope
as third lieutenant, and a little over a year later, while the ship was in the West Indies, the muster indicates that he was “Invalided” for the remainder of the voyage. Hallett died in Bedford in December 1794, “after a long and severe illness,” as the
Times
reported. Another obituary indicated he had lost the use of his limbs following the open-boat voyage, and although recovered sufficiently to make another voyage, he “again lost the use of his limbs, and recovered them no more.” Hallett was only twenty-two years old at the time of his death. His parish church registry noted he had been a “gentleman.”
A later tradition put out by the Heywood family represented that Mr. Hallett had died on board the
Penelope
—and that in “his last moments he expressed his contrition for the unfavorable evidence he had given against his friend Peter Heywood.” He had been bewildered by the events of the mutiny and too much under the influence of Lieutenant Bligh—so Hallett had himself confessed to “one of the most distinguished flag-officers in the service, who was then first lieutenant of the
Penelope.
” The first lieutenant of the
Penelope
had been Pulteney Malcolm—another of Thomas Pasley’s nephews as it turns out, although this striking fact was not publicized. Doubtless, the rumor of Hallett’s “death on board,” instead of by slow and dreadful paralysis allegedly resulting from his ordeals in the open boat, was intended to deflect invidious attention from those persons who had made him suffer. An elaborate memorial tablet of white marble in the chancel of St. Mary’s, Bedford, reflected both his proud parents’ grief and their social pretensions: amid engrailed sable arms and a demi-lion rampant was inscribed his epithet: “
Juvenis Laboris patiens, Virtute praeditus, nec Tempestate nec Fama nec Periculo Fracta:
A youth patient in his duties, outstanding in his valour, broken neither by tempest, nor rumour nor danger.” The notion that “Fama”—rumor—could be a threat to a naval officer of only twenty-two is so curious that one must suspect that it was pointed.
Penelope
—and that in “his last moments he expressed his contrition for the unfavorable evidence he had given against his friend Peter Heywood.” He had been bewildered by the events of the mutiny and too much under the influence of Lieutenant Bligh—so Hallett had himself confessed to “one of the most distinguished flag-officers in the service, who was then first lieutenant of the
Penelope.
” The first lieutenant of the
Penelope
had been Pulteney Malcolm—another of Thomas Pasley’s nephews as it turns out, although this striking fact was not publicized. Doubtless, the rumor of Hallett’s “death on board,” instead of by slow and dreadful paralysis allegedly resulting from his ordeals in the open boat, was intended to deflect invidious attention from those persons who had made him suffer. An elaborate memorial tablet of white marble in the chancel of St. Mary’s, Bedford, reflected both his proud parents’ grief and their social pretensions: amid engrailed sable arms and a demi-lion rampant was inscribed his epithet: “
Juvenis Laboris patiens, Virtute praeditus, nec Tempestate nec Fama nec Periculo Fracta:
A youth patient in his duties, outstanding in his valour, broken neither by tempest, nor rumour nor danger.” The notion that “Fama”—rumor—could be a threat to a naval officer of only twenty-two is so curious that one must suspect that it was pointed.
Lawrence Lebogue died in the spring of 1795, on board the
Jason,
while she was moored in Plymouth Harbour. Lebogue was forty-eight at the time of his death and had served Bligh loyally in the West Indies, on both breadfruit voyages, and in his outspoken affidavit on Bligh’s behalf once back in England; for this latter he had incurred the full wrath of Edward Christian who had declared that Lebogue’s was “the most wicked and perjured affidavit that ever was sworn before a magistrate, or published to the world.” That the open-boat journey had ruined his health, as it had ruined so many others’, is suggested by his suffering, like Bligh and John Smith, from fever on the
Providence.
Yet, when a friend of Bligh’s looked the sailmaker up for a glass of grog after his ordeal, remarking wryly that this was “better than being in the boat,” Lebogue had been dismissive.
Jason,
while she was moored in Plymouth Harbour. Lebogue was forty-eight at the time of his death and had served Bligh loyally in the West Indies, on both breadfruit voyages, and in his outspoken affidavit on Bligh’s behalf once back in England; for this latter he had incurred the full wrath of Edward Christian who had declared that Lebogue’s was “the most wicked and perjured affidavit that ever was sworn before a magistrate, or published to the world.” That the open-boat journey had ruined his health, as it had ruined so many others’, is suggested by his suffering, like Bligh and John Smith, from fever on the
Providence.
Yet, when a friend of Bligh’s looked the sailmaker up for a glass of grog after his ordeal, remarking wryly that this was “better than being in the boat,” Lebogue had been dismissive.
“Oh damn me, I never think of the boat!” he had replied.
Following his return to England with the last of the
Pandora
’s crew in September 1792, Thomas Hayward had joined the
Diomede
as second lieutenant. Incredibly, he was to endure yet another shipwreck, albeit less dramatic than that of the
Pandora.
Off the coast of Ceylon in August 1795, working against a strong wind, the ship struck a rock and gained water so quickly that there had only just been time to evacuate. The next year, Hayward received what was to be his last commission. Appointed commander of the 18-gun sloop
Swift,
he was en route from Macao to England with a convoy of merchantmen when overtaken by a violent typhoon in the South China Sea. The sloop was observed making signals of distress before foundering with all souls lost. Thomas Hayward was twenty-nine years old. In his short life he had served in ten ships and survived a mutiny, two historic open-boat voyages and two shipwrecks, before succumbing to the sea. He left behind him a series of unremarkable charts, which indicated ambition if no particular talent. His watchful father had given his son some blank logbooks for the
Bounty
voyage. One of these was found in the Pitcairn library of old John Adams, still bearing the name of Thomas’s father and a fanciful coat of arms with the motto “
Pro Deo patria et amicis”—
For God, country and friends.
Pandora
’s crew in September 1792, Thomas Hayward had joined the
Diomede
as second lieutenant. Incredibly, he was to endure yet another shipwreck, albeit less dramatic than that of the
Pandora.
Off the coast of Ceylon in August 1795, working against a strong wind, the ship struck a rock and gained water so quickly that there had only just been time to evacuate. The next year, Hayward received what was to be his last commission. Appointed commander of the 18-gun sloop
Swift,
he was en route from Macao to England with a convoy of merchantmen when overtaken by a violent typhoon in the South China Sea. The sloop was observed making signals of distress before foundering with all souls lost. Thomas Hayward was twenty-nine years old. In his short life he had served in ten ships and survived a mutiny, two historic open-boat voyages and two shipwrecks, before succumbing to the sea. He left behind him a series of unremarkable charts, which indicated ambition if no particular talent. His watchful father had given his son some blank logbooks for the
Bounty
voyage. One of these was found in the Pitcairn library of old John Adams, still bearing the name of Thomas’s father and a fanciful coat of arms with the motto “
Pro Deo patria et amicis”—
For God, country and friends.
George Simpson, the
Bounty
’s quartermaster’s mate, was found dead in his hammock on the
Princess of Orange
in 1801. No cause of death was given, and his personal effects were turned over to his father in the Lake District.
Bounty
’s quartermaster’s mate, was found dead in his hammock on the
Princess of Orange
in 1801. No cause of death was given, and his personal effects were turned over to his father in the Lake District.
William Muspratt had remained on the
Hector
until early February 1793, and following his successful legal plea had been discharged to the
Royal William,
a ship on which it appears, however, he did not serve. Later the same year, however, he wrote a will identifying himself as “a Seaman belonging to His Majesty’s Ship
Bellerophon
”; if this was correctly stated, Muspratt had joined his former shipmate Peter Heywood on his uncle Pasley’s ship—however, his name is not listed on the ship’s muster; it is possible that, given his history, he took a “purser’s name.” Muspratt’s will was “proved” in 1798, indicating that the
Bounty
steward was dead by this time. Shortly after receiving his pardon, Muspratt had been bold enough to disconcert the Admiralty with a petition for his back wages; only two prior cases could be found to bear any similarity to his, and in one, as the Admiralty secretary reported, the recipient had already been hanged. Whether or not his
Bounty
wages were included in his estate, William Muspratt left everything to his “dearly beloved Brother Joseph” of Fareham.
Hector
until early February 1793, and following his successful legal plea had been discharged to the
Royal William,
a ship on which it appears, however, he did not serve. Later the same year, however, he wrote a will identifying himself as “a Seaman belonging to His Majesty’s Ship
Bellerophon
”; if this was correctly stated, Muspratt had joined his former shipmate Peter Heywood on his uncle Pasley’s ship—however, his name is not listed on the ship’s muster; it is possible that, given his history, he took a “purser’s name.” Muspratt’s will was “proved” in 1798, indicating that the
Bounty
steward was dead by this time. Shortly after receiving his pardon, Muspratt had been bold enough to disconcert the Admiralty with a petition for his back wages; only two prior cases could be found to bear any similarity to his, and in one, as the Admiralty secretary reported, the recipient had already been hanged. Whether or not his
Bounty
wages were included in his estate, William Muspratt left everything to his “dearly beloved Brother Joseph” of Fareham.
Befitting his temperament, James Morrison’s career following his pardon was full of action, smoke and thundering explosions. Reverting to the profession for which he had qualified before the
Bounty,
Morrison eventually achieved the rank of master gunner, and in this capacity saw heated action in the Mediterranean. In 1801, Morrison’s service took him back to Jamaica and the West Indies; here, one may be sure, he added to the island’s knowledge of the breadfruit expeditions. In 1803, Morrison was in the
Tonnant,
which, while engaged in a blockade off the Spanish coast during tempestuous weather, found herself unable to re-supply. Eventually, the captain was reduced to sending his purser ashore to a safe cove to seek out local provisions. One wonders how the long-haired master gunner endured this pinch—with many a knowing conversation, discussing pounds and ounces and equivalent weights owed, and dire grumblings of short rations? Or had he mellowed somewhat since his
Bounty
days?
Bounty,
Morrison eventually achieved the rank of master gunner, and in this capacity saw heated action in the Mediterranean. In 1801, Morrison’s service took him back to Jamaica and the West Indies; here, one may be sure, he added to the island’s knowledge of the breadfruit expeditions. In 1803, Morrison was in the
Tonnant,
which, while engaged in a blockade off the Spanish coast during tempestuous weather, found herself unable to re-supply. Eventually, the captain was reduced to sending his purser ashore to a safe cove to seek out local provisions. One wonders how the long-haired master gunner endured this pinch—with many a knowing conversation, discussing pounds and ounces and equivalent weights owed, and dire grumblings of short rations? Or had he mellowed somewhat since his
Bounty
days?
Following a stint as a gunnery instructor in Plymouth, Morrison joined the distinguished Rear Admiral Sir Thomas Troubridge, with whom he had served before, apparently to mutual satisfaction, in the
Blenheim.
In 1806, en route to the Cape of Good Hope (now British), at which station he was to take command, Troubridge grounded the
Blenheim
on a sandbar. The damage sustained by the ship was severe, and, broken and gaining water, she had limped to safe harbor in Madras. But Troubridge was a proud man and, despite being warned of the
Blenheim
’s obvious defects, flattered himself that he could overcome yet one more challenge, and determined to continue to the Cape. The
Blenheim
was last seen by another of His Majesty’s ships off the coast of Madagascar, lying fatally low in the water in the wake of a severe gale. Morrison had expended considerable energy railing against Bligh on matters that would have appeared in hindsight to have been very slight—especially when reviewed, say, from a broken ship commanded by a captain who had chosen to bet his men’s life against his own pride.
Blenheim.
In 1806, en route to the Cape of Good Hope (now British), at which station he was to take command, Troubridge grounded the
Blenheim
on a sandbar. The damage sustained by the ship was severe, and, broken and gaining water, she had limped to safe harbor in Madras. But Troubridge was a proud man and, despite being warned of the
Blenheim
’s obvious defects, flattered himself that he could overcome yet one more challenge, and determined to continue to the Cape. The
Blenheim
was last seen by another of His Majesty’s ships off the coast of Madagascar, lying fatally low in the water in the wake of a severe gale. Morrison had expended considerable energy railing against Bligh on matters that would have appeared in hindsight to have been very slight—especially when reviewed, say, from a broken ship commanded by a captain who had chosen to bet his men’s life against his own pride.
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