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 blood-streams 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,’ said 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.