COCKERMOUTH, 15 JUNE 1778

The dark-haired lad trudged upwards, along the road to Eaglesfield. High summer, and dust from the road covered his boots. In his satchel were his schoolbooks: a times table, a nature study, his notebook and a history text, The Story of Cumbria. The history book had been loaned to him by Mr Rawlings, his master at Cockermouth Free Grammar School, who had pointed out to Fletcher that his family were mentioned more than once in the book.

‘You are a member of one of Cumbria’s oldest families, Christian,’ the wigged old schoolmaster had said, his voice somewhat awed. ‘And some of your father’s family — over on the Isle of Man — were deemsters. Eminent judges.’

Fletcher was pleased to learn of this connection. His father had died ten years ago, when he was not yet four, so he barely remembered him. His mother said little about her late husband’s family. Fletcher knew only that they had come from the Isle of Man, and that they were wealthy from their mining and farming interests. His mother, Ann Christian, always had a great deal to say about her own family, the Dixons, so much so that Fletcher grew tired of the stories about the uncles and grandparents whom he had never known. Now, at the age of fourteen, he was impatient to complete his schooling and take up a place at Cambridge, where his brother Edward was studying law. His other brother, Charles, was studying medicine in Edinburgh.

Fletcher walked on, the sweat inside his shirt causing an unpleasant itch. It was late afternoon, but still very hot. The sky was pale and streaked with feathers of cirrus. ‘Such cloud formations presage fine weather,’ Mr Rawlings had announced to the class while on a nature ramble earlier in the day. And after the schoolmaster’s prediction had proved correct Fletcher had made a mental note to himself: cirrus means fine weather.

He left the road and walked down onto the embankment which led to the Cocker River. Its long grass, shady trees and the river itself looked invitingly cool. The elm trees were in full leaf and he went to the nearest one, threw down his satchel and lay back on the grass beneath the tree, staring up through the foliage at the blue beyond, savouring the softness and scent of the grass.

At that moment the quietness was shattered by yells coming from further along the embankment. Fletcher sat up. The yells were followed by another sound, of high-pitched crying, coming from the same direction. The crying came again, now louder. Getting to his feet, picking up his satchel, Fletcher strode through the grass towards the source of the noise.

A little further down the embankment, under another elm, were two boys. One was about Fletcher’s size and age, the other much younger and smaller, only eight or nine perhaps. On the ground was an open school bag, and several sheets of paper were scattered about. The older boy’s shirt was hanging loose over his breeches and his long fair hair was dishevelled. The smaller boy was wearing a brown tweed suit, the jacket front unbuttoned. The front of his jacket was being held by the older boy, who was shaking him. He shouted, ‘Girly! Milksop!’, then slung the smaller boy to one side, so that he lost his footing and slid to the ground. The boy cowered there, whimpering, his hands over his face. The other boy began to kick him, in the stomach, in his side, in the back of the head.

Fletcher ran to the pair. He grabbed the larger boy by his shirt collar and jerked him backwards. The boy yelped in surprise, then turned. Fletcher recognised him from school. Chudleigh, a known dimwit and bully. Fletcher flung him to the ground, then hauled him to his feet. Under his grip Chudleigh’s shirt ripped and his face scrunched with fear.

The two boys were almost the same height. Bringing his face close to the other’s, Fletcher snarled. ‘You want to fight, Chudleigh? Then fight me.’ Swinging his right hand, he brought his fist into hard contact with the side of Chudleigh’s head.

Chudleigh cried out, ‘No! No!’

Ignoring this, Fletcher put his left arm around Chudleigh’s neck and held it there tightly. He hurled the boy to the ground, then stood back, swung his left foot and booted his backside as hard as he could. Chudleigh yelped again, and tried to scramble away on all fours.

The smaller boy was still lying on the ground, watching what was happening, his eyes popping with fright. Seeing that his tormentor was now disarmed he hesitantly got to his feet and began to do up his jacket buttons.

Chudleigh, crying now, began to crawl away in the direction of the river. Fletcher booted him in the backside again, at the same time hissing, ‘Yes, crawl away, you rat. And if I see you picking on anyone smaller than yourself again, I’ll give you a proper thrashing!’ Finding the Chudleigh backside too inviting a target to resist, he booted it once more. Chudleigh got to his feet and began to run, this time away from the river and towards the street that led to Cockermouth’s marketplace.

‘Here, wipe your face.’ Fletcher held his handkerchief out to the boy, who took it and began to wipe the tears from his cheeks. His hands were shaking and his mouth hung open. Fletcher gathered up the boy’s papers and began to put them back into his satchel. Noticing that the papers were covered in very neat handwriting, he asked, ‘Is this your homework?’

The boy shook his head. ‘No. That’s my writing. I like to write.’

‘Oh? What do you write?’

‘About things I like. Birds, trees, the sky.’ Bowing his head, he said, ‘That’s why he was hitting me. He said that only sissies write.’ He sniffed. ‘And so I must be a girl, he said.’

Fletcher snorted. ‘Chudleigh’s a numbskull.’ He handed the boy his satchel. ‘Who’s your teacher?’

‘Mistress Debenhouse. She lets me write. She’s kind.’

‘So I’ve heard.’ Straightening his collar, Fletcher picked up his own satchel. ‘Well, I’d best be on my way home. You can walk with me if you like.’

The boy nodded eagerly. ‘Thank you. You live at Moorland Close, don’t you?’

Surprised, Fletcher replied, ‘Yes. How did you know that?’

‘Everyone knows your family. The Christians, and your place, Moorland Close. I’ve watched you in the playground too. Winning running races and doing handstands.’ He gave an admiring little laugh. ‘You’re very good at handstands.’

Fletcher smiled. The boy was certainly observant. He had bright, intelligent eyes and a long, very straight nose. Fletcher said to him, ‘If Chudleigh, or anyone else for that matter, bullies you, let me know.’ He gave the boy a straight look. ‘Bullies have to be stood up to. Remember that.’

The boy nodded. ‘But when you’re small, it’s hard to.’

‘Well, if it happens again, let me know, and I’ll deal to him.’

They began to walk up the embankment towards the town, both with their satchels over their shoulders. There was no wind whatsoever, and the late afternoon was heavy with heat. As they walked Fletcher said, ‘What’s your name?’

‘I’m William. William Wordsworth.’

29 MAY 1779

His mother was in the drawing room, sitting on the divan under the bay window. She had on a scarlet gown and her best lace bonnet, the one she had bought in Bruges a few years ago while on a tour of the Low Countries. Behind her the red velvet drapes were drawn well back, so there was a clear view of the lawn, the sun dial in its centre and the old plane tree at the foot of the slope. Under the tree was the garden seat where Fletcher liked to sit and read. Beyond the property, visible through the summer haze, were the fells and forests of the Lake District.

His mother smiled at him tightly, then gestured towards the wing-back chair beside the fireplace.

‘Fletcher darling, do sit down.’

Above the fireplace was the portrait in oils of his father. Fletcher’s eyes dwelt on the painting for a few moments. His father had been portrayed seated in this very room. Wearing a large wig and bearing a stern expression, Charles Christian’s face was jowly, his nose prominent, the eyebrows bushy. He wore a maroon brocade waistcoat, navy blue topcoat and white breeches. An authority figure, certainly, but along with the sternness the portraitist had also captured a definite kindliness about his eyes. An attorney-at-law, Charles Christian had died aged thirty-nine, of the flux. For the umpteenth time, Fletcher wished he had known him.

Taking a seat in the chair, Fletcher returned his attention to his mother. Her expression was solemn. She was usually so animated. Her gravity made him feel a little uneasy. Had somebody in the family died? Smoothing her gown, she said, ‘We need to talk about your future, Fletcher.’

He brightened. He wanted to talk about it too. In a few weeks he would leave the school he had attended for the last eight years, and would be well ready to face a new future. Away from Cockermouth.

‘I’m so looking forward to going to Cambridge, Mother. This time next year—’

She heaved a sigh and her shoulders slumped. Turning away, she said quietly, ‘You will not be enrolling at Cambridge, Fletcher.’

He started. ‘But it was agreed—’

She held up her right hand. ‘I know, I know. But circumstances have changed.’

He felt giddy. Changed? Whatever did she mean? For years it had been planned for him to attend St John’s at Cambridge, like Edward, and read philosophy and law. That knowledge had driven him to succeed in his school studies, which in turn had earned him top marks in most of his subjects, especially Latin, History and English. He was more than ready for higher study. And now  . . .

‘I don’t understand, Mother.’ He stared at her and she seemed to shrink a little under his gaze. ‘What are these circumstances?’

Placing her hands together in her lap, looking down at them, she said in the same subdued voice, ‘I have become indebted.’

Her voice seemed to be coming from some foreign place. She had borrowed heavily against the Moorland Close estate, to finance Edward and Charles’s educations in law and medicine. She had been struggling, secretly, for years to maintain the family’s social position and finances, she said, but could no longer continue to do so. The family notary, Sir Stephen Galbraith, had advised her yesterday that her creditors were about to foreclose. Apart from Moorland Close she had virtually no assets, her debts were colossal, and as a consequence Ann Christian was insolvent.

Fletcher’s hands had gone clammy. He gripped the arms of the chair. His throat tight, he asked, ‘How much is the debt?’

‘Six and a half thousand pounds.’

He drew breath, sharply. ‘Six and a half thousand?’ Then his voice failed him completely.

‘Yes. On Sir Stephen’s advice, I must sell Moorland Close. And you cannot go up to Cambridge. The fees—’

He found his voice. ‘Sell this house?’ He looked around helplessly. ‘But our family has lived here for—’

She cut him off sharply. ‘Do not tell me what I am already well aware of, Fletcher.’ She fixed him with her beady eyes. ‘It was me who brought this house to my marriage to your father. It has been in the Dixon family for generations.’ She gave a dry little laugh. ‘People in the town describe it as “half castle, half homestead”. I’m aware of that insult.’ She looked down again. ‘But now I have no alternative but to sell the property to pay at least some of my creditors.’

Fletcher swallowed hard. ‘Have you let my brothers know about this matter?’

She gave a wave of her left hand. It was encrusted with rings, leading Fletcher to wonder whether she had considered putting some of them on the market. ‘I have written to Edward and Charles, informing them of my distressing circumstances, and the reasons. Edward agrees that this house must be sold.’

‘And Charles?’

‘He has not yet replied.’

For some time both she and Fletcher said nothing. He felt crushed. Realising how shocked her son now was, his mother lifted her chin in a small gesture of defiance. Pursing her lips, she said, ‘I did what I thought was right. The debts were incurred to guarantee my sons received the best possible education.’

Fletcher said dully, ‘But it was not right, Mother. And now, unlike my brothers, I cannot go up to the university I have dreamed of attending for years.’

Closing her eyes, she began to cry. She took a handkerchief from her sleeve and held it to her face. Shoulders convulsing, she said, ‘Fletcher, I am so sorry. I know how much you were looking forward to Cambridge.’

He went over to her, sat down and put his arm around her shoulders. He felt as if he had been struck about the head with a plank. His future, his family’s future, dissolving. How could she have done this? His mind seething, he asked, ‘Is there no way that we can keep this house?’

Eyes still shut, she shook her head. ‘The debts are too great.’ Head bowed, she said in a whisper, ‘I am destitute. Moorland Close must be sold. For me it is either that, or the debtors’ prison.’

Fletcher allowed a silence before asking, ‘And after it has been sold? What will you do? What will I do?’

Lifting her head, she said in a much firmer tone, ‘We will move to the Isle of Man. Edward advised me in his last letter that my English creditors have no authority there. The island has a separate jurisdiction.’

‘But where will we live there? How will we live?’

Squeezing the handkerchief in her hand, she said defiantly, ‘We will live at Milntown. On the estate of your father’s family. They are wealthy and influential.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘I brought Moorland Close to your father, so the least his family can do is return my family’s bounteousness.’

She makes it sound like a threat, Fletcher thought. Which perhaps it was.

30 SEPTEMBER 1779

Before this he had travelled no further than Cumbria, and within that region only to Carlisle and Barrow-in-Furness. During past summers they had holidayed in the two towns, alternately each year, he and his mother and his brothers, staying in terraced guest houses on the waterfront. He enjoyed those holidays, being so close to the sea, unlike Cockermouth, which was really just a river town.

During the holidays he had spent most of his days on the waterfront, staring out at the Irish Sea, watching the fishing boats returning with their catch and the merchant vessels discharging their barrels and loading timber and sacks of grain. Watching the seamen and the stevedores, Fletcher often wondered, what sort of a life was that? Living on the sea, battling the elements, visiting new ports, getting to know England’s bustling coastline.

But that life was not for him. His future lay in the cloisters and quadrangles of St John’s, reading history and philosophy, listening to choristers, punting on the Cam. Edward had told him so much about the place. ‘It’s a world in itself, Fletcher,’ he had said. ‘A place of unbelievable beauty, of hallowed halls, distinguished teachers and a love of learning. You will love it, brother.’

Now he and his mother were travelling by coach-and-four to Whitehaven, another busy port town on the north-west coast of England, a place of arrival and departure for the ships of Nicholson’s Packet Service between the Cumbria coast and the Isle of Man, thirty-five miles away.

Fletcher and his mother had been joined in the coach by a middle-aged couple, also from Cockermouth. The woman was overweight and fussy, constantly rearranging her gown and shawl, while her husband, a small man with a face like a dried apricot, kept peering through the coach window, as if expecting a highwayman to strike.

The coach jostled along the road, shaking over the ruts and bumps. Inside, the air was stale and smelt of horse farts. Soon after they left the coaching station in Cockermouth the woman had leaned forward and said to his mother, ‘I believe that Moorland Close is to be sold, madam.’

Ann Christian eyed her coldly. ‘It is.’

‘And you and the lad here are leaving Cockermouth.’

‘We are. As must be perfectly obvious.’

Not taking the hint, the woman continued, ‘I heard you’ll be moving to Douglas. On the Isle of Man.’

‘You heard incorrectly. My son and I will be living near Ramsey.’

‘Ramsey? Never heard of it.’

‘You have now.’

His mother turned away, staring out the coach’s other window. With an offended expression, the woman fell back in her seat and said no more. Fletcher patted his mother’s hand reassuringly. His admiration for her had grown over these past months since the news of the bankruptcy had broken. She had gone about organising her affairs crisply and without sentiment, spending most mornings seated at the table in the drawing room, quill in hand, writing letters to friends and family, and the afternoons supervising the packing up of the household belongings.

On most occasions she remained composed. But two days ago Fletcher had come across her in the drawing room, sitting in the chair by the fireplace, crying. Her hair was loose and bedraggled, which it never was, and her eyelids were puffy.

The portrait of Charles Christian had been removed earlier that day by the carriers, and taken away for storage. In the space where the painting had been hanging, a rich yellow rectangle of wallpaper stood out, contrasting with the faded lemony shade surrounding it. The yellow space was like a symbol of reproach, a metaphor for their impending loss. Upset at his mother’s distress, Fletcher had done his best to comfort her, while still resentful that her reckless investments had ruined the academic future he had so long dreamed of.

Moorland Close had not yet gained a buyer, but the property was on the market, and Sir Stephen Galbraith had been instructed by Ann Christian, ‘You are not to accept any offer necessarily. Instead you must insist on the best possible price you can obtain. As you well know, I need every penny I can get.’

The household furniture, carpets and paintings had been packed and placed in a warehouse in Cockermouth. The contents of the trunks strapped to the coach’s roof were mainly clothes, footwear and books. The rest of the belongings would be forwarded to the Isle, once suitable accommodation had been confirmed.

The coach jolted on. Leaning back in his corner, Fletcher’s mind seethed with recent memories. Farewells, so many farewells.

Mr Rawlings, the schoolmaster, shaking his hand. ‘You’ve been a fine student, Christian. Disappointing about Cambridge, but I’m sure you’ll do well, whatever vocation you eventually choose.’ And he had presented Fletcher with a copy of A Voyage towards the South Pole, and round the world. Performed in His Majesty’s ships the Resolution and Adventure, in the years 1772, 1773, 1774, and 1775. This was the account of the voyager Captain James Cook’s second global circumnavigation, written by the great navigator himself. The book had been published just two years earlier. Fletcher accepted the gift gratefully, touched by the schoolmaster’s consideration.

There were other farewells. The small boy whose aid he had come to a few weeks ago, Wordsworth, had approached him in the schoolyard on his last day there, and shyly presented him with a card. ‘When I heard you were leaving, I wrote something for you.’

‘Oh, thank you.’ Opening the card Fletcher asked, ‘Has Chudleigh bothered you again?’

‘No, not at all. He sneers at me, but keeps away.’

‘Hah! Good!’

The message read, in a small, well-formed hand:

         For my friend Fletcher

         Your strength and kindness go together

         Close as clouds and sky, as ’twined as the weather

         Wherever you go, may you stay out of danger

         From peril on land or sea, or from a total stranger

         Go forth, loyal friend, I will not forget you!

         William

Fletcher nodded. ‘It’s a fine poem, Wordsworth. Thank you.’ He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘May there be many more.’

His brother Edward came from Cambridge to farewell them. The day after he arrived, he and Fletcher walked across the property to the hill above Moorland Close. Two years older than Fletcher but a little shorter, Edward had deep-set brown eyes, a square jaw and a receding hairline.

The pair of them sat atop the hill. Tugging at a clump of grass, Edward stared into the distance, in the direction of the sea. ‘I cannot begin to say how much I regret what has happened, Fletcher.’

‘Your regret cannot be worse than mine.’

‘All I can say is that I know you will do well, in spite of losing Cambridge.’

‘How can you be sure? My prospects are so much reduced.’

‘Because you’re well liked and diligent. Our father’s family will offer you prospects, I’m certain of it. We have uncles and cousins over on the island, and all are well connected, I believe. And their investments are considerable.’

Fletcher made no reply for some time. Then he stretched out his legs and said, ‘I find it hard to forgive Mother for what has happened. It was so irresponsible.’

‘Yes,’ said Edward. ‘But she’s vulnerable now, so you must do what you can to support her until Charles and I complete our studies. When I’m qualified in the law and Charles is a practising physician, we can both help her.’

Fletcher grunted. ‘But how can I help her? Now that I have been denied the chance of a higher education?’ He heeled a thistle viciously. ‘She has destroyed my future.’

Edward glared at him. ‘Don’t be so dramatic. Mother has not destroyed your future. She has merely altered it. And you never know, that alteration may be for the good. When one door shuts, another may open.’

‘At the moment, all doors seem closed to me.’

‘That may seem so, but something good will come your way, I’m sure of it.’ He stood up. ‘Come on, we must get back to the house. Mother will be expecting us.’

Fletcher met his school chums Isaac Wilkinson, Toby Hayes and Thomas Newbourn for a farewell pint at the Duck and Gun, in Cockermouth’s High Street. Isaac wrote poetry; Toby and Thomas were scholars and athletes, like Fletcher. And all four young men were virgins.

The trio drank and slapped his back and toasted him good fortune. Toby said, ‘I hear tell, Fletcher, that the girls on the Isle of Man are not only beautiful, they are wanton.’

Thomas grinned. ‘Yes. They say the place should more properly be called the Isle of Women.’

Fletcher laughed. ‘The girls there are more wanton than those in Cockermouth?’

‘That’s what’s said,’ Isaac added knowingly.

‘I’ve heard that too,’ added Toby. ‘Moreover, the Isle of Man’s flag, the one with three legs on it, joined at a thigh, shows three girls’ legs. And the thigh is theirs.’

Warming to this topic, Isaac said, ‘And it’s said that the Manx girls’ thighs are freely available to any good-looking young Englishman, such as yourself.’

Smiling, Fletcher said, ‘Well, I shall do my best to make a scientific comparison. I shall research the subject thoroughly.’

Although the others laughed, Fletcher became pensive. His mind flashed back to another, even more poignant farewell, one which he had made last Wednesday.

‘You will come back, won’t you, Fletcher? Come back to me, I mean.’

‘I will.’

Clarinda lay back in the grass, staring up at him. Her lightly freckled cheeks were flushed, her grey eyes wide and fixed on his. Her brown hair had been tied up in a bun on top of her head, but the comb had come loose so that her hair had fallen around her face. He found the dishevelled look irresistible.

They were lying together in the long grass, in a place well off the walking path that followed the river. She was thirteen, two years younger than him, but seemed much older. She was from a farm outside the town, and came to Cockermouth every market day to sell the eggs produced from her family’s property. Since one of Fletcher’s tasks was to buy the eggs for Moorland Close, he had got to know her. They had walked together regularly along the river path in the afternoons, after the market had closed. He had kissed her, often, but done nothing more. He was uncertain how to proceed after that.

He put his face close to hers, brushed her cheeks with his lips. She nibbled at his mouth. He could see, could feel, her chest rising and falling, rising and falling, and her breathing was quick, almost gasping. Coming from her was a marvellous fragrance, like nothing he had ever smelt before. Putting his face very close to hers, he drew a deep breath, absorbing her wonderful scent.

Suddenly she brought her hands up to her blouse and in one deft movement drew the blouse and the vest beneath it wide open.

Her breasts were very white, the nipples large and pink. Thinking them the most beautiful objects he had ever set his eyes upon, in an instant he was upon them, putting his lips around each in turn, feeling them swell and stiffen under his kisses. The rigidity inside his breeches tightened until it became almost painful, and he tried to adjust himself.

Clarinda giggled. ‘Kiss them again,’ she said, pushing her breasts up into his face.

He was only too willing to obey. At the same time he slid his right hand under her gown and between her legs.

She stiffened. ‘No, Fletcher, no. Not that. Not now.’

‘When, then?’

‘When you come back to me. From the island. Then you can have it. Have it all.’

Inside the coach, dwelling on the memory of those wonderful breasts and the confection of her nipples, his cock hardened again. Abashed, he tried to adjust it inside his breeches with his left hand, surreptitiously, hoping his mother and the ugly old couple wouldn’t notice. Managing to make himself a little more comfortable, he sank back into the corner of the coach and closed his eyes. Clarinda, Clarinda, will I ever see you again? Will that promise of your body ever be redeemed?

He managed at last to put these questions aside. But they were replaced by other, more immediate ones. What, and who, now lay ahead?

The island came into clearer focus. From the larboard mid-deck of Nicholson’s two-masted packet boat Lioness, Fletcher could see through the mist the island’s long, undulating shape. A valley was discernible, separating hills to the north-west and south-east of a small town. Visible too was a beach of pale sand and beyond it a row of dockside buildings.

The voyage across the Irish Sea from Whitehaven had taken only half a day, aided by a north-easterly wind which chopped the sea but kept the vessel moving steadily. The captain was anxious to have them inside the harbour before nightfall, the helmsman told Fletcher when he enquired about their progress.

Although the wind was dropping, at this rate they would be, Fletcher thought. He had spent most of the voyage on deck, watching the sailors going aloft and adjusting the sail-setting under the direction of the schooner’s burly master, bellowing his instructions from the deck. Fletcher had watched and listened, intrigued by the business.

After they came closer to the island he went below again. His mother was accommodated in a small cabin abaft on the larboard side. Weary after yesterday’s coach journey, she had taken to this berth shortly after Lioness cleared Whitehaven’s harbour and been ill for virtually the whole crossing. Several times he had come down to check, concerned at her pallor and listlessness.

On the table beside the berth, held in place by a bracket, was the jug of water he had brought her. He poured her another tumbler full. ‘More water, Mother?’

After she groaned and waved him away, he closed the cabin door and went back up on deck.

During the crossing he had felt not the slightest bit ill. Instead he found the chill of the wind and the sea’s salty scent invigorating. And now there was a growing sense of anticipation. Other passengers had come up from the saloon and were standing along the starboard rail, staring at the island.

The sky was darkening now and the air had become chillier. Although the coast was in shadow, Fletcher could see that the waterfront buildings were substantial, and that ahead and a little to starboard a pair of mandible-like breakwaters enclosed the harbour entrance. Within the harbour the masts of several bare-poled ships stood up like leafless trees. Above the harbour and town was a range of forested hills.

In spite of himself, he felt a tug of emotion. This was the island where his paternal forebears had lived for many generations, where his father had grown up. Some of that land, some of those ships, may be owned by his relatives, he thought.

The master was shouting, ‘Stand by to take in the flying jib! Stand by to take in the main sail!’

Men scampered up the shrouds to obey his commands. The ship’s sails were reduced, she slowed and the helmsman adjusted the wheel, preparing to aim for the harbour entrance. Staring up into the yards, sails and sheets, watching the men clinging there or inching along the yardarm, working as a team, Fletcher felt a stirring of interest in their work. I could do that, he thought. It could be no harder than climbing the top boughs of the elms at Moorland Close, which he had done for years.

And if he, as a mere passenger, felt such excitement, what must it feel like to be receiving, and giving, commands to work a ship?

Driven slowly by the light airs, Lioness was moving closer to the harbour entrance. Turning away from the rail, Fletcher went down the companionway to let his mother know they had arrived.

Ramsey, 11 November 1779

Dear Edward,

Greetings from Ramsey! (or ‘Rhumsaa’, as the Manxmen call the town, in their peculiar dialect). By now you will have heard from Mother, reporting on our new life here on the Isle. She doubtless told you that for her the move has not been a very happy one. Our late father’s family — including our cousin John, who is eight years older than me and unmarried — have not exactly welcomed her into the fold. I have the feeling that the family here are resentful of the fact that Father chose to live in Cumbria after he married Mother, rather than staying on the island. I have no proof of this, it is just a sense that I have. And now that Mother has been obliged to live on their charity, their umbrage is even greater. As a consequence she behaves very coolly towards the Manx Christians, making no secret of her resentment of them.

However I am warming to cousin John, and I believe the feeling is mutual. He is more like an uncle than a cousin, being much older, but does not condescend to me. Although his hair is auburn (from our Viking ancestors perhaps), in other respects he is very much like us: tall and strongly built, with deep-set hazel eyes, a heavy brow, prominent nose and cleft chin. He joked that there are so many ‘John Christians’ in our family tree that he should more properly be known as ‘John Christian XVII’.

He has provided Mother and me with rooms at Milntown, on the ground floor of a fine building near the banks of the Auldyn River, a tributary of the Sulby, whose estuary comprises the harbour of Ramsey. The Milntown estate is very grand, the farmstead large, with battlements atop its walls, so that it resembles a castle, with a matching portico entrance. Ancient oak trees grow in the grounds of the estate, and sheep and cattle graze the fields.

Our rooms are in the east wing of the house. We have a bedroom each and share the parlour and drawing room. The latter has a well-stocked library, many family portraits adorn the walls and the windows give wide views of the gardens. Mother spends most of her time walking in the garden, writing letters and on occasion, taking the coach into Ramsey to visit the shops. Her purchases are modest, however, as money is still short for us. Her much reduced circumstances she is finding very difficult to cope with. (She was grateful to last week receive a payment from Sir Stephen, a percentage from the deposit on the impending sale of Moorland Close, although she wept when she realised that the property will soon be gone from our family forever.)

There are several horses kept on the estate, one of which John has put at my disposal. A bay gelding called Walter, he has taken me all over the estate and beyond, to an upland heath, called the ‘Tops’. Between the estate and the Tops is a network of woods and narrow valleys which I have relished exploring, both on foot and on horseback. I have also ridden Walter down to the estuary of the Sulby and along the sandy beach which extends for many miles on both sides of it. Although the days are now shorter and much colder, I still find the island conducive to such excursions.

If this gives the impression that my life here is one of indolence, let me correct that notion. I spend a great deal of time cleaning out the stables, feeding and grooming the horses, and maintaining the estate — trimming the hedgerows, clearing out drains, cutting firewood and so forth. Demanding work, but I enjoy it. With winter coming soon, the livestock will have to be given additional feed, which will also be one of my responsibilities. But as I work at these duties, to earn the keep of Mother and myself, I wonder too, what else will I do with my life?

In the evenings I read a great deal. The book my teacher presented me with when I left Cockermouth School, the account of Captain Cook’s second world voyage, was the first I read. It is enthralling. His ships — HMS Resolution and HMS Adventure — sailed beyond the Antarctic Circle. Surrounded by ice mountains and beset by freezing fog, the ships became separated, were reunited in New Zealand, then separated again. He almost lost his ship in Tahiti, then stayed there for a time and made friends with a chief of the island. What a voyage! Captain Cook is a truly heroic figure, an Englishman whose achievements must rank with those of William Shakespeare and Sir Isaac Newton. As you probably know, Captain Cook is at present engaged upon yet another world voyage in Resolution. I look forward immensely to reading of that circumnavigation too, after his return.

In the library are several volumes of Manx history. These I find most interesting. One book told me that our surname Christian is an anglicised version of the Manx name, McCrystyn, which is probably of Scots origin. Other histories say it is Scandinavian, possibly Icelandic! I never knew that. Mother must have known, but neglected to tell me. (She still shows antipathy towards father’s family. John Christian’s branch have a pew at the local church, St Matthew’s, but Mother refuses to attend. ‘I’m not a real Christian,’ she says, in an attempt at humour. John’s family were not amused.) Another book, one on the island’s maritime history, told me about a French privateer called Captain Francois Thurot. He traded goods between Ireland and the Isle of Man, in the early years of this century. The archenemy of our navy, reputedly part of a planned French invasion of Britain, Thurot was defeated off the island’s north-west coast in 1760. His badly damaged vessel was brought into Ramsey Bay and its timbers were used to build cottages and a bridge. The latter was named after him, Thurot Bridge. I have ridden over it!

When I raised the subject of this man with cousin John, he surprised me by saying, ‘Thurot was well liked on this island. He was not seen by us as a foe.’

This brought home to me once again that Manxmen are more independent of thought than people of the English mainland. Smuggling goods from Ireland to this island is a common tradition, I’ve been told. The stable-hand who told me this added that the local Customs people do not make the most strenuous attempts to prevent the contraband entering the island’s ports. Another indication of the Manx propensity for preferring their own laws to those of England. I see their flag — the three-legged Manx triskelion — being flown more commonly here than the English flag!

This letter will be dispatched to each of you on the Nicholson packet vessel the day after tomorrow, so you should receive it in a month or so. I trust that your studies in Cambridge and Edinburgh are progressing. I do still envy you your illustrious academic worlds, but life here is more agreeable than I anticipated. Mother and I are travelling to Douglas in a few weeks to meet some naval friends of John’s.

I will write again next month,

Your loving brother,

Fletcher

PS We have a household cat with no tail, called Cassius. His lack of the usual rear feline appendage causes him no concern, as all the cats here lack tails. Strange.

He wrote a copy of the letter to Charles, then thought he would write to Clarinda as well. He would remind her of her promise to him. Then he realised this would be pointless; she could neither read nor write.

DOUGLAS, 20 JANUARY 1780

‘Fletcher, meet my friend, Captain George Courtnay. Captain, my first cousin, Fletcher Christian. My late brother Charles’s youngest son.’

Dressed in the uniform of a lieutenant in the Royal Navy, Courtnay was of medium height and thick at the waist, with a leathery complexion, a veined nose and pale green eyes. As he shook hands with him, Fletcher looked admiringly at his blue and white uniform, with its large cuffs and gold epaulettes. His navy tricorn was tucked under his left arm.

The trio were at a reception in the drawing room of the Douglas home of Fletcher’s second cousin, Edward Taubman, and his wife Loretta. The two-storeyed red-brick Taubman house was perched upon the hill above Douglas harbour, providing wide views of the Irish Sea. On the walls of the drawing room were framed charts of the East Indies and several ornately framed seascapes. Other paintings featured coastlines with palm trees, one with a coastal fort set among tropical foliage.

‘You are visiting the island on naval business, sir?’ Fletcher asked Captain Courtnay.

‘No. My visit is mainly social, although I’m also here to see my friend Duncan Campbell.’

John Christian explained. ‘Campbell is a ship owner, with plantation interests in the West Indies. Sugar and rum. Douglas is the home port for his merchant vessels. He will be joining us shortly.’ Turning the conversation back to the naval commander, he said, ‘Captain Courtnay commands HMS Eurydice, which serves our nation in the Atlantic and Indian Oceans.’

Fletcher’s eyes widened. ‘The Indian Ocean? How wonderful. Have you seen much of India itself?’

‘A little. The coastal ports. Bombay, Goa, Madras.’

John looked across the room. ‘Ah, here’s Campbell.’

The ship owner strode across the room towards the others. He was tall, with a lantern jaw and large hands, which he was holding together in front of him, as if in supplication. His expression was grave. Nodding at the others, he sighed heavily. ‘I bring terrible news. Captain Cook is dead.’

Everyone stood as if turned to stone. Then Courtnay demanded, ‘How?’

Campbell swallowed hard. ‘Killed. In an archipelago he discovered and called the Sandwich Islands after our First Sea Lord.’

‘Was he killed in battle?’ John asked, his voice just above a whisper.

Campbell shook his head. ‘The London news sheets just report that “He died during a fracas”. On one of the islands, at some bay with an unpronounceable native name. He was beaten to death with clubs by the savages there.’

The stunned silence returned. They stared at each other with dazed expressions. Captain Cook dead? It seemed impossible. Fletcher’s mind reeled. Of all Englishmen, he seemed the most destined for immortality.

‘How was the news delivered?’ asked Taubman.

‘Overland from Russia. Following the killing, Cook’s ships Resolution and Discovery sailed from the Sandwich Islands to Petropavlovsk, on the Kamchatka peninsula. Charles Clerke, Cook’s second-in-command, wrote a letter to the Admiralty reporting Cook’s death. It reached London ten days ago, and the news sheets last week.’

The news seeped through the room like marsh gas, bringing a pall that settled over them all. Cook the great navigator and discoverer, charterer of the Gulf of St Lawrence, Newfoundland, Tahiti, New Zealand, eastern Australia, the New Hebrides. The colossus, the titan of the Royal Navy, dead. It seemed inconceivable.

That night Fletcher lay in bed in the annex at the rear of the Taubman house, unable to sleep. He sat up, then drew aside the bedroom curtain. The moon was almost full, a shimmering disc in the eastern sky. The Irish Sea was inky, lit only by a rippling ribbon of moonlight.

But it was not the moonlight that had kept him awake, it was the knowledge that a great man had fallen, that an era of Britain’s history was over. After Cook there could be no one who could compare. Yet Fletcher was also aware from his reading that there was so much of the world which was still not yet fully charted: islands, sounds, estuaries. The voyages of exploration must continue, commanders must continue to seek lands for King George. Commanders like Captain Courtnay. What places he had sailed to, what sights he must have seen on the coasts of India!

Lately Fletcher had been watching the vessels entering and leaving Ramsey and Douglas harbours. And he had come to a decision. Since Cambridge had been denied him, he would seek another future. One which offered adventure in distant lands. He would make of his life what James Cook had made of his. Drawing the curtains, he blocked out the moonlight. And before sleep came, he had decided where his future lay.

On the sea.

His mother was sitting by the fire in the parlour, knitting a scarf for Edward. The Cambridge winters were bitter, he had written to tell her, and this was her response. She had already knitted one for Charles. She looked up and smiled as Fletcher entered the room.

‘Darling, welcome back. How was Douglas?’

‘It was good, thank you.’ He sat down on the armless chair opposite her. ‘Cousin John introduced me to some very interesting people there.’

‘Oh?’ Clicking her needles, she asked, ‘And did you hear the dreadful news? About Captain Cook?’

‘Yes. People could hardly believe it. It was almost as if God himself was dead.’

‘I know, I know.’ She paused. ‘Before you were born Charles and I once holidayed in Whitby. Such a pretty town, with small ships coming and going. The news reports said that was where Captain Cook learned navigation.’

‘Yes. And where he learned to sail.’ Realising that this had given him an opportunity, Fletcher looked directly at her. ‘Mother, I too wish to go to sea. With the Royal Navy.’

Her fingers froze, her hands dropped, taking the wool with them. She raised her chin, frowned. ‘You wish to go to sea?’

‘I do. I see it as an opportunity to serve my country.’ He cleared his throat. ‘And see the world.’

Her frown deepened. Shaking her head, she said in a low voice, ‘I forbid it, Fletcher.’

‘Why?’

‘You are needed here.’

He threw up his hands. ‘To do what? Muck out the other Christians’ stables? Feed their pigs? Chop their firewood?’ He shook his head. ‘That’s not the life I want.’

‘Fletcher, I need you. I have no one else. Edward will practise law in London, Charles is intending to serve as a surgeon in a hospital there. Should you leave this island, I will be bereft. And at the mercy of Charles’s family.’

‘And whose fault is that, Mother? Who lost our family fortune?’

‘I did. But do not reproach me further about it. Life must go on. We are comfortably accommodated here, in spite of your father’s family’s resentment of me. I cannot return to Cumbria. So you and I must stay on this island. This is our future.’

‘No! It may be our present, it may even be your future. But it’s not mine. Can you not understand that I yearn to see the rest of the world, the one beyond this boring island?’

Her mouth became a tight line. She nodded. ‘I do understand that. You are young and keen to see the world. But can you also not understand my need for your companionship? As my youngest child?’ Her eyes became watery.

Fletcher looked down. He felt helpless. He hated it when she appealed to such sentiment. And yet he loved her, he did not want her left alone, did not want to heap further unhappiness upon her.

After a long silence he said, ‘How would it be if I wait for a time. Say, another year and a half.’ He gave her a hard look. ‘Legally, Mother, I will have the right to leave then.’ He attempted a smile. ‘But I would rather do so with your blessing.’

Looking down, she nodded. Then after another long silence, replied with a sigh, ‘Very well. When you are eighteen, you may do as you wish.’

THE ISLE OF MAN, 1781–1782

The ensuing two years seemed as long as a decade. Fletcher spent the time working on the estate, tending the sheep and cattle and the six horses in the Milntown stables, and supervising the piggery. His spare time was spent hiking or riding across the island, exploring its hills and forests.

This outdoors life suited him, and he felt fitter and stronger from the exercise, knowing that when he went to sea this conditioning would stand him in good stead.

When the weather was favourable — and this eastern side of the island was markedly drier than Cumbria — he sometimes rode up the river valley which extended inland south of Ramsey, then followed a horse trail along a gully and up to the summit of Snaefell, which at just over two thousand feet was the island’s highest point.

He slipped from the saddle of his mare, Sara, and looped her reins to a bush. The broom was flaring in golden clumps across the mountaintop, between expanses of grass. While the horse grazed contentedly, Fletcher savoured the view from Snaefell’s broad summit. It was a clear day in April and the visibility was good. People on the island boasted that from up here five kingdoms could be seen: the Isle of Man, Ireland, Scotland, England and the Kingdom of Heaven.

Looking east, Fletcher smiled at this notion, just another instance of the parochialism with which the island overflowed. Across the Irish Sea the mountains of Cumbria were certainly visible, and to the north he could see the coast of Scotland — Dumfries and Galloway. He turned. To the west, Ireland was hidden in a bank of cloud. As for the Kingdom of Heaven, well, that was sheer fancy. Pie in the sky, as it were. He knew too that in Cumbria there were much higher and more spectacular mountains than this one. When he was only twelve he and Charles had climbed one of them, Pillar, which was nearly three thousand feet high. And at that, only the eighth highest mountain in the Lake District. Still, the view from Snaefell was undeniably uplifting, the air fresh and invigorating.

On another occasion he rode even further, to a place called Meayll Hill, in the south of the island. On the hill was a ring of twelve burial chambers. No one could tell him who had built or inhabited these mysterious monuments, which someone described as ‘prehistoric’. The word was new to him, but he knew it meant ‘before history was written’. In another word, ancient.

When the weather was not conducive to riding or rambling, he spent his spare time writing to his Cumbria friends, to his brothers, or reading in the library. History was still his favourite subject. Detailed accounts of the revolutionary war in America were being published regularly now, and as cousin John subscribed to several London magazines, he read these articles avidly. Voyages of exploration were continuing, particularly in the eastern Pacific, along the western coast of the Americas, and reports of these absorbed him, too.

There was fiction in the library, as well. He read Samuel Richardson’s novel Pamela; or, Virtue Rewarded, admired the writing, and recommended it to his mother. After reading it, she dismissed it with one word: ‘dissolute’. He also read Daniel Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe, as well as an account of the real-life inspiration for the work, the story of the Scots castaway Alexander Selkirk.

Accounts of past voyages had produced narratives of calamities and illness at sea. Reading of the voyages of the Portuguese navigator Ferdinand Magellan, and the Englishman George Anson, both of whom lost hundreds of men to the seaman’s scourge, scurvy, confirmed its causes and effects. Captain Cook’s chronicles made it clear that he was a visionary in the prevention of scurvy aboard his ships. His anti-scorbutic measures were so effective that he lost not a single sailor to scurvy. Accidents, other diseases, but never scurvy. Cook’s record was remarkable, Fletcher realised. His physician brother had read widely of the methods used to keep scurvy at bay, and sent Fletcher copies of these scientific papers. Strictly enforced diet and shipboard hygiene, it was now generally acknowledged, were the keys to combating the vile disease. That was the secret of Cook’s success during his epic voyages, Charles had concluded.

Fletcher also read the first volume of John Hawkesworth’s An account of the voyages undertaken by the order of His present Majesty for making discoveries in the Southern Hemisphere, and successively performed by Commodore Byron, Captain Wallis, Captain Carteret, and Captain Cook, in the Dolphin, the Swallow, and the Endeavour: drawn up from the journals which were kept by the several commanders, and from the papers of Joseph Banks, esq. In 1767 the Wallis expedition had come across a beautiful uncharted high island in the mid-Pacific, which Captain Wallis named ‘King George’s Island’ and later was known as ‘Tahiti’. George Robertson had been sailing master on Dolphin, and had recorded in particular the trade between Wallis’s sailors and the native women of King George’s Island. The women first traded their carnal favours for one ten penny nail, but when they realised how hungry the sailors were for their bodies the price soon escalated to the point where the seamen were trading their hammock hooks and tearing the cleats from the Dolphin’s hull. When Captain Wallis found out about this commerce, Robertson wrote, ‘He no longer wondered that the ship was in danger of being pulled to pieces for the nails and iron that held her together.’

Fletcher was captivated by Robertson’s report. What a place was this Tahiti, where a cunny could be bought for just a nail!

Also in the library was the English translation of the book called A Voyage round the World, describing the expedition of the French explorer Louis Antoine de Bougainville. This included his ten-day stay, in 1768, on Tahiti. Bougainville’s men too had been entranced by the island’s women. Fletcher chuckled when he read the Frenchman’s account of when his frigate La Boudeuse was standing off Tahiti:

Despite all the precautions which we took, a young girl got on board and came onto the forecastle and stood by one of the hatchways which are over the capstan. The girl let negligently fall her robe and stood for all to see, as Venus stood forth before the Phrygian shepherd; and she had the celestial shape of Venus. The sailors and soldiers rushed to get at the hatchway, and never was a capstan turned with such eagerness. We managed to restrain these bedevilled men, however, but it was no less difficult to control oneself.

After they got ashore Bougainville’s men sated themselves with the island’s women. He called Tahiti ‘New Cythera’, after the legendary Cythera, the island of Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of love.

Reading of these voyages and their perils, pleasures and triumphs, Fletcher’s appetite for the world’s distant places was whetted further. Yearning for his own exotic adventures, he was more conscious than ever that his time on this island was just an overture to his future career. And as far as he was concerned, that overture could not come to an end quickly enough, so that the real show could begin.

His brothers wrote to him regularly, letting him know of their progress. Charles had completed his physician’s degree at Edinburgh. He wrote: ‘I am considering becoming a merchant mariner, and applying for a position as ship’s surgeon on an East Indiaman. A difficult role, I imagine, but one which could take me far.’

Edward had graduated from St John’s College and had been admitted to Gray’s Inn, in London. He had become friends with a fellow-Cambridge man, he wrote, one William Wilberforce, a Yorkshireman and an evangelical Christian. ‘I do not share his religious fervour,’ Edward wrote, ‘but I do whole-heartedly agree with his views on the despicable trade of slavery. Wilberforce now leads the abolitionist movement, and there is no more noble cause, I believe.’

On the Isle of Man the sea was a constant presence. Standing dockside during visits to Douglas, accompanied by the cawing of gulls and the stench of curing herrings, Fletcher observed the sloops, schooners, packet boats and privateers entering or departing from the harbour, their mooring and unmooring, the stowing and unloading of cargoes. Occasionally a storm blew in from the north, endangering the ships and their crews in Douglas harbour, and making it clear why the Tower of Refuge, the castle-like shelter built on Conister Rock in the bay, was so necessary.

He watched the merchant vessels and the Royal Navy ships being provisioned. The navy ships spent most of their time looking for smugglers’ boats, which persisted in bringing contraband from Ireland or the Continent. Fletcher eavesdropped, listening to the banter, laughter and curses of the sailors, and this made him more determined than ever to become a part of their world.

As his eighteenth birthday drew closer, his anticipation of a life at sea quickened. One of Fletcher’s visits to Douglas with cousin John coincided with the arrival in the harbour of the man-of-war HMS Eurydice, still commanded by Captain Courtnay. A 24-gunner, Eurydice had recently returned from duty in the Arabian Sea, and her decks were being re-caulked in the harbour.

Captain Courtnay and Fletcher and John Christian were invited to supper with the Taubmans, Edward and Loretta. In the course of the conversation Fletcher told Courtnay of his hopes for a career at sea, and requested his advice regarding service with the Royal Navy. The leather-faced sea captain screwed up his eyes at the young man’s question.

‘A naval career? Is there a naval branch of the Christian family?’ The captain’s tone was interrogatory.

‘None that I know of, sir,’ Fletcher replied.

‘And how old are you?’

‘I will turn eighteen in four months.’

Courtnay grunted. ‘No nautical family members. And eighteen, an advanced age for going to sea. Most mariners start at eleven or twelve years.’

Fletcher returned the captain’s direct look. ‘I am aware of that, sir. I’m also aware that there was no nautical tradition in Captain Cook’s family. And that he first went to sea when he was nearly twenty.’ He allowed a pause. ‘And he didn’t do so badly in the navy, did he?’

Loretta Taubman broke into peals of laughter, then picked up her napkin and placed it over her mouth. Fletcher’s cousin chuckled, and even Courtnay had the grace to smile. Then, serious again, he said, ‘And like Cook, you would have to start at the very bottom. On the orlop deck.’

‘As an able seaman?’

‘As a cabin boy.’

Taken aback, Fletcher said, ‘An eighteen-year-old cabin boy?’

‘Yes.’ Courtnay swallowed some more red wine. ‘But His Majesty’s navy is noted for acknowledging talent.’ He harrumphed. ‘Unlike his army, which buys and sells its commissions and rewards only incompetence, it seems to me. The navy rewards merit. That is how Cook rose to the top. We gave due recognition to his obvious talents.’ Turning back to Fletcher, he said, ‘So I recommend that you sign on as a cabin boy, and if you prove your competence at sea you may progress to the status of midshipman.’ He flicked up his eyebrows. ‘And after that, who knows?’

Fletcher nodded, then hesitantly asked, ‘I wonder, sir, if it would be possible for you to write a letter of introduction, for me to present to the naval authorities.’

Courtnay thought for a moment. ‘That is possible. I will write to my colleague, Admiral Hood, recommending that you begin service as a cabin boy. Albeit a rather elderly one.’ Becoming more genial, he added, ‘Moreover, should your apprenticeship prove satisfactory, I could recommend that you are next signed on with me, on Eurydice, as a midshipman.’

Fletcher beamed. ‘That would be wonderful, sir. Thank you.’

Two days later Fletcher met other members of the Christian clan, also friends of Edward and Loretta. John’s second cousin Mary Duncan and her seventeen-year-old daughter, Isabella, were from Peel, on the west coast of the Isle of Man, where Mary’s husband Roland was a shipping agent. He was currently in Belfast on business with their son, Thomas.

Isabella was studying musical composition at a school in Peel. She was tall like her mother, but there was nothing else of her mother in her features. Of slender build, with a narrow face and slightly upturned nose, she had green eyes, long auburn hair and a demure manner. She wore a pale brown gown with sleeves of lace. As she ate, Fletcher noticed her long fingers. A musician’s fingers, he supposed. She said little, but he was conscious of her glancing at him from time to time. It discomfited him. What did those glances mean?

Mary Duncan was tall, with greying hair, a beaky nose and strong, somewhat masculine features. She gave Fletcher the impression of snobbery. At the supper table in the dining room she referred to his mother as ‘that poor woman who was forced to sell her home’, adding that ‘her reduced circumstances must be so distressing for her.’ Then she said to Fletcher, in a pitying tone, ‘What a good thing, young man, that she has you to support her in her exile. When she has lost everything she possessed.’

Fletcher was moved to reprove her. He said forcefully, ‘My mother has not lost everything, madam. She still has her family, and her health. And in time, with the help of my brothers and me, she will be restored to her former position.’

There was an uncomfortable silence. Mary Duncan pouted; Isabella looked down at her plate, her cheeks reddening.

Breaking the silence, Edward Taubman stood up and announced briskly, ‘Well, John and I should retire to the library now, for a pipe and a port.’ He looked at Fletcher. ‘Will you join us?’

‘Thank you, sir, but no. I’ll take some fresh air on the terrace.’

After Loretta, Mary and Isabella said their goodnights and left the dining room, Fletcher went through the French doors and out onto the terrace at the rear of the house. There an ancient wisteria vine climbed up the wall, over the pergola above the terrace and entwined itself with the terrace’s balustrade.

There was a new moon, a bright cuticle in the western sky. Stars glittered, and the air was mild. Fletcher leaned on the balustrade, still fretting over the horsey woman’s comments about his mother. She was so condescending, he thought. Obviously thought herself a grande dame. But she was not so grande, and not much of a dame, either.

Continuing to brood, he saw a figure emerge from the shadows at the end of the terrace. It was Isabella, now with a cream shawl around her shoulders. She walked over to him. Tipping her head back, she stared up into his face. Although the new moon gave off little light, he was conscious of her eyes peering into his. Placing a hand on his forearm, she said earnestly, ‘I must apologise for my mother’s comments at supper, Fletcher. She is so crass at times. I could tell her comments offended you.’

‘It is of no consequence.’

She shook her head. ‘I think it is of consequence. I definitely owe you something.’ She placed her hand on his.

He drew a long deep breath, and responding to her hand signal, reached out and touched her cheek. Still staring, she said quietly, ‘I had heard about you, from Aunt Loretta. But you are even more handsome than she said you were.’ Her fingers tightened around his wrist. His heart began to race. For a few moments neither of them moved. Then, still looking into his face, she asked quietly, ‘Where is your room?’

He pointed down at the annex at the rear of the house. ‘There.’

‘Leave your door unlocked. I will be there shortly.’

He stared back at her, then nodded. His heart was sprinting now.

He could tell that she was far more experienced than himself, and this unnerved him. She undressed him first, removing his shirt, taking down his breeches. As he reached for her, he wondered, how had she learned to do this?

Then he ceased to think about that, and instead took her around the waist, bent and kissed her neck, her cheeks, smelling her lavender and rose water scent, marvelling at the softness of her skin. After he met her lips with his own she pulled her gown from her shoulders, then quickly removed her undergarments. He drew her towards the bed and they fell upon it together.

The first blush of sunrise was visible through the drapes when she got up, cleaned herself with the guest towel by the bed, and began to pull her gown back over her head. Sated, but transfixed still by the sight of her body, Fletcher raised himself on one elbow. ‘Your mother, won’t she—’

Isabella gave a little laugh. ‘She sleeps like a night watchman. And snores like one too.’ Putting her lips to his still-sweaty forehead, she murmured, ‘Good morning, sweet cousin.’

RAMSEY, 14 MARCH 1782

Fletcher stood with his mother, dockside. His sea chest was on the wharf beside them, waiting to be taken aboard the sloop Lady Jane. She was tied up but readying to unmoor, bound for Liverpool. From there he would take a coach, first to Birmingham, and after several changes, eventually to Spithead. The naval authorities had informed him by letter that he would be signed on there as cabin boy on HMS Cambridge, an 80-gunner.

Last evening there had been a farewell dinner for him at Milntown. The mood was thoughtful rather than celebratory, and his mother’s face remained overcast throughout, although when he put an arm around her shoulders and hugged her, she smiled gamely. Cousin John toasted his future, and presented him with a copy of Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels (‘To read when you’re not on watch’, John suggested).

At the end of the meal he made a brief speech. ‘We will miss you, Fletcher,’ he concluded, ‘and so will the staff. You’ve worked well on the estate.’

‘Thank you,’ Fletcher replied. ‘I’ve relished my time here. I almost feel like a Manxman now.’ He paused. ‘But I have to move on, to try my hand at something new.’

John nodded. ‘I understand. And since you’re now a Manxman, when you gain your leave, make sure you spend it here.’

‘I shall.’

Two sailors took his chest and carried it up the gangplank. There was a stiff westerly wind, and men were already aloft, preparing to let go the sails. When the boatswain began his piping and the dockhands readied themselves to release the mooring ropes from the bollards, Fletcher bent and kissed his mother on the cheek. ‘Bye, Mother. And good luck. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

Tears were streaming down her cheeks, a sight which filled him with guilt. How would she cope without him? In his last letter to Edward and Charles, informing them of his move, he had also urged them to visit her. Soon, he emphasised. He held her close, feeling her body convulsing, then released her gently. ‘Goodbye, Mother. Goodbye.’

He turned and walked briskly up the gangplank and onto the mid-deck. Along with the exhilaration he felt was another feeling, just as strong. Relief.

The Bay of Biscay, 17 July 1782

Dearest Mother,

We have now been at sea for six weeks, and no doubt it will be another six before you will receive this, since I cannot dispatch it until we get to Plymouth next month.

Well, I am a seaman, or rather a seaboy on HMS Cambridge, the lowest of the low. Never mind, I am part of the crew, and an important part, I like to think. My tasks are menial, but demanding: cleaning, fetching, carrying, running after all others, helping keep watch. We have encountered storms in the bay, the last of which caused the mizzen mast to be sprung (cracked). Hence the need to make for Plymouth. So far we have made no contact with enemy vessels, either French or Spanish, although we have sailed as far as Cape Finisterre and some distance into the Atlantic. So my longing to visit exotic lands has not yet been realised, since the Bay of Biscay is mostly grey and unwelcoming.

Cambridge is a fine ship, and already I feel an affinity with her. Launched at Deptford in 1755, she is an 80-gunner, 3rd rate. Her guns have not yet been fired in anger on this voyage, but at practice the gunners are certainly on their mettle. The noise! No wonder most of them are deaf.

As the ship’s dogsbody I was at first the target of the crew’s bullies, a pair of scrofulous ABs from Bristol who threatened to beat me. I grabbed one by the shirt and lifted him clear off the floor of the mess. Then I dropped him and did the same to the other. This prompted such derision from the others that I was not bothered again by the pair. No one bullies a Christian!

I sleep in a hammock along with the able seamen, before the mast, and mess with them as well. I need to tell you about the victuals. You would be appalled at the fare we must eat, but as you know, I am never fussy about food. The navy’s standard rations are: a pound of ship’s biscuit daily (the others call it ‘bread’ but it bears no resemblance, being rock-hard), 1 lb salt pork (twice a week), 1 lb salt beef (twice a week), half a pint of pease (daily on four days), a pint of oatmeal every other day, plus two ounces of butter and four of cheese every second day. As well, we get a gallon of beer every day. So, not haute cuisine, as you would say, but I get so famished from the many exertions that I will eat anything. Our cook, Radford, is a man of great influence, the galley the most important part of our area of the ship, and the midday meal is definitely the highlight of the day. But I do miss the produce from the Christian farm, the fresh milk, eggs and bacon especially.

There is a set tradition we follow in the preparation and serving of the midday meal on board. It involves what’s called ‘the mess’. This means a group of men who eat their meals together. One man from each group is appointed the ‘mess cook’ and it’s his duty to collect the day’s food rations from the purser or the purser’s steward.

The members of each mess take it in turn to be mess cook, and they do this for one week at a time. The mess cook also carries out some food preparation, like mixing the flour, suet and raisins for the puddings, then taking them in their bags or nets to the galley boiler. Each mess cook also prepares his men’s table and puts the benches in place for them to sit on. Once the food is cooked and ready to be served, the mess cook collects it from the galley and serves it to his group. There is a tradition attached to the serving of the beef and pork, too. The mess cook carves the meat and distributes it to the others, but he must first call out ‘Who shall have this?’ Then another member of the mess, his back to the table, answers with his name. When all the men have been served and the meal’s been eaten, the others resume their shipboard duties, while the mess cook cleans the table.

The navy is full of traditions like this, I’m learning, rituals that have been carried out for many years. I enjoy being part of them.

I only glimpse our commander, Captain Forsyth. He and his officers and the ship’s sailing master lead separate lives. They meet in the Great Cabin and dine together in the officers’ mess. Captain Forsyth puts in a regular appearance beside the helmsmen, though, to check our course. The ten midshipmen — all younger than me, by the look of them — also keep mostly separate from us, the lowest orders. More visible are our first officer, Lieutenant Grove, and the master, Abraham Troy. None of these take much notice of me. I am answerable mainly to the boatswain, Charlie Winscombe, and his mate, Will Anderson. Both are strict but fair, and take the time to show me the ropes when I am uncertain as to how to carry out a duty. Every day I learn something new.

When the airs are light and the ship is becalmed, we gather on the mid-deck, sing fiddle-accompanied shanties and have wrestling and boxing matches. These are keenly contested. I don’t box, but I wrestle, and have won some bouts.

Another popular challenge is the leaping contest. This is to determine who can carry out a standing jump from inside one barrel and into another next to it. The efforts cause much hilarity, with most men unable to get clear of the first barrel, let alone being able to land satisfactorily in the one next to it. But I can do it! I bunch my leg muscles, draw several breaths, clasp my hands in front of me, then spring like a frog out of the first barrel and over into the second. This dexterity must be the result of my fitness from the farm work. Whatever the reason, being able to achieve this when no one else can affords me admiration from the others. Also, my forearms are now strong enough for me to be able to hold out a musket with one hand at arm’s length and keep it completely level. I do not wish to sound boastful, but this too is a feat that none of the others can manage. Physical prowess counts for a great deal aboard ship, I’ve learned.

Academic competence, however, counts for nothing. Most of those on board can neither write nor read, which is why as I write this at the mess table I am receiving some strange looks from my shipmates. A quill to them is a strange instrument, far less useful than their sailors’ knives, to which they are greatly attached. They even grumble at me when I read a book in my hammock by candlelight!

Every day on the ship I learn something new; every day my respect for the sea deepens. It is my vocation, I am certain of that now.

I must end now, as my watch impends. I trust that you are well and that you have had recent news from Edward and Charles. Please pass my best regards to cousin John.

Your loving son,

Fletcher

He also wrote to his brothers, and to Isabella, confessing that he would love to see her again, when he had gained enough leave to return to the Isle.

Captain Courtnay proved to be a dependable patron. After receiving a favourable report of Fletcher’s conduct on HMS Cambridge from Captain Forsyth (‘A young man of definite promise, dutiful, courageous, and educated to an unusual level’), Courtnay had written to his colleague Admiral Hood, requesting that Fletcher be added to the muster roll as a midshipman on his ship HMS Eurydice on her next voyage to the Far East. He had served as cabin boy on Cambridge for just one year.

Hood sanctioned the appointment, and Fletcher was ordered to sign on to Eurydice. She was to sail on 25 April 1783.

After being signed off from HMS Cambridge and bidding farewell to his shipmates, he travelled by coach from Spithead to Liverpool, and from there to the island, greatly looking forward to a few weeks on land and seeing again his mother and his cousins. Isabella especially.

‘Mother! How are you?’

‘Fletcher, darling.’ Leaning back, she stared up at him. ‘I’m coping. And you’re even taller!’

‘Ha! Must be all that salt meat and ship’s biscuit.’

They sat in the garden at Milntown, under the big elm that was bursting into leaf. He told her something of his year at sea, but she showed only token interest in his new life. She said that she had heard regularly from Edward and Charles, and that they had spent Christmas with her on the island. Edward had begun practising as attorney-at-law in London, and Charles was employed as a surgeon at a hospital in Chelsea, but was still thinking of serving in the merchant marine.

His mother reported all this with more than a hint of reproach that Fletcher was the only one of her sons who was for the time being not within reasonable reach. He reminded himself to be tolerant of her attitude, knowing that she must be lonely for long periods of time. But he still found her carping tiresome.

‘Your father’s family have still not accepted me,’ she complained. ‘They keep their distance. Emotionally, I mean. And I do so much miss Cumbria.’

‘I understand. I still miss it myself.’ He put a hand over hers. ‘But I am growing to love the sea, Mother. Even when it frightens me, I still savour its moods. And its challenges.’

She nodded, but sorrowfully, realising that this would mean his continued absence from the island for long periods. After he told her he would like to spend some time in Douglas, and see the Taubmans, he said, ‘And cousin Isabella. Is there a letter here for me from her?’

‘No.’

‘Well, I would like to visit her, in Peel.’

His mother gave him a hooded look. ‘It will not be possible to see her.’

‘Why not?’

‘Two months ago there was a scandal involving Isabella. John reported it to me.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Isabella has eloped. To Dublin.’

For some moments Fletcher couldn’t speak. Then he said, ‘With whom?’

‘Her music professor. He’s twice her age. And has a wife and four children in Peel. The elopement scandalised the town.’

‘Good grief.’

He could think of nothing else to say. But he was thinking plenty. It must have been the professor who had schooled her in the arts of love-making as well as pianoforte. And now she had gone, and he would almost certainly never see her again. Well, he wished her good fortune, but that seemed unlikely, since it was an ageing man she had run off with. But he would never forget the night they had spent together. Beautiful, wonderful, wanton Isabella.

Again he said his farewells to his family on the island and travelled to Spithead. There he was issued with his midshipman’s uniform and signed on for service on Captain Courtnay’s 24-gun ship, HMS Eurydice.

Familiar with the vessel from her visits to Douglas, Fletcher was now accommodated more comfortably mid-decks along with the other midshipmen, most of whom were five or six years younger than himself. As such, he found some of them tiresome, particularly thirteen-year-old Samuel Evans, who seemed to think Fletcher was his elder brother and never stopped following him.

The best part of his enhanced status was the midshipman’s dress uniform: indigo coat with white patches on the collar and brass buttons at the cuff, cream waistcoat, white ruffled blouse, black neck cloth, ivory trousers and a belt with a scabbard for a cutlass. The crowning touch was the tall, round, black hat. Whenever he put on the uniform, he felt grand. What a change from the calico trousers, coarse shirt and fearnought jacket of his cabin-boy year.

They set sail for the Coromandel coast of eastern India on 2 May 1783, via the Cape Verde Islands and Cape Town.

Throughout May Eurydice made steady progress into the South Atlantic. They encountered no enemy vessels, only other British ships-of-the-line to whom they sent flag signals, but did not stop for Captain Courtnay to parley with their commanders.

For Fletcher and the other midshipmen this part of the voyage was one long lesson in seamanship. Rain, gale or sunshine, they kept strictly to their allotted duties, overseen by the officers: learning the flag signals, taking and recording soundings, marking the ship’s log board, taking observations to mark her position and determine noon, running messages between the lieutenants and the captain. Each midshipman also oversaw and commanded a gun crew, ensured each member had clean clothing and that all gunnery equipment and the powder cartridges were at hand, and that the guns were ready for action at a moment’s notice.

When off duty they studied the navigation manuals, trigonometry texts and the general skills of seamanship, such as the procedure for hoisting out the launches and catting the bow anchors. Every day’s activities had to be recorded in their log books and handed in to the Great Cabin for reviewing by Captain Courtnay.

Unlike Fletcher’s shipmates on HMS Cambridge, all the midshipmen were literate, although not schooled to a high level. Evans and several of the others sometimes asked him how to construct a sentence correctly or spell a word (‘It’s “spritsail”, Evans, not “spirit-sail”’, and he consistently misspelled ‘Eurydice’). And every night following supper the young men collapsed into their berths, exhausted from the demands on their day.

They reached Funchal, Madeira’s capital town, off the west coast of Africa, on 10 June. The midshipmen were not permitted to go ashore there while the ship was being reprovisioned, much to Fletcher’s disappointment. He had read of Captain Cook’s Endeavour’s calling there in August 1768, during his first world voyage.

Most of the four days that Eurydice was anchored in the Funchal roads he spent aloft, staring at the island’s forested mountains and sniffing the scent of the tropics, the smell of wet earth and foliage and wood smoke from the natives’ cooking fires. He watched enviously as the ship’s launches transferred onions, sugar cane, lemons, fresh beef, brandy and wine from shore to ship.

Then they weighed anchor again, prepared for the next long reach to Cape Town.

The day after the summer solstice, 23 June, Eurydice crossed the line. The topsails were close reefed, the course hauled up and the top gallant sails furled. The initiation rituals were observed under the direction of King Neptune, alias boatswain Robert Johnstone. Dressed in a horsehair wig and grey beard, tin crown atop his head and trident in hand, Neptune ordered every midshipman and able seaman who had not previously crossed the Equator to be liberally coated with pitch and galley filth, then tossed by the ‘Trusty Shellbacks’ and ‘Sons of Neptune’ — those crew members who had crossed the line before — into a seawater pool contained in a spare sail extended out from the starboard hull with a yard arm. The captain and officers, most of whom had paid their way out of the ducking by bribing the boatswain with a bottle of rum from their private grog supplies, watched the hilarity from the quarterdeck.

Fletcher bore the humiliation good-naturedly, and supported young Evans when he almost choked on seawater during his ducking. Fletcher had learned to swim during his boyhood, in the River Cocker, but few of the others could. Evans took his ducking gamely, but as Fletcher hoisted him clear of the water he realised that there were tears as well as seawater running down his cheeks. ‘Just think, Evans,’ he reassured the boy, ‘you’re now a Trusty Shellback yourself. So come next time, you’ll be able to duck others.’

When he came back aboard, still smeared in filth, Fletcher lay on the deck and stared up through the shrouds into the blue sky and felt satisfied as well as exhausted. From now on they would be sailing in the Southern Hemisphere, where for years he had longed to be.

Cape Town, 28 July 1783

Dear Mother,

I am in Africa! Or, at least, in Cape Town, anchored in Table Bay, at the southern end of Africa. Some repairs are needed to Eurydice’s rudder stock, as well as the need for fresh food and water, so we are in port for at least ten days. On two of those days I have been onshore leave, in the company of some of the other midshipmen. What a place Cape Town is! Looming above the town is a huge, flat-topped fell, aptly called Table Mountain. A river flows down from its slopes, providing fresh water for the town and any visiting ships. Cape Town’s location west of the Cape of Good Hope means that nearly every ship sailing between Europe and Asia calls here for victualling, and does so too on their return voyage. The provisions are brought down to the port in vast quantities: fresh vegetables, grain, meat and wine — all produced in the town’s hinterland and purchased by Eurydice’s purser, George Cutler.

As it is winter here (yes, so peculiar, winter in July!), a cold wind blows down from Table Mountain, often bringing rain showers, so that we must wear our waistcoats, topcoats and hats when we are ashore. Cape Town is clustered around the waterfront, but could hardly be more different to a British port town. The buildings are very strange, tall, narrow and gabled ornately, with window boxes. Most fly the Dutch flag. The shops along the quay sell very unusual foods: smoked sausages, pickled herring served with sliced onion and gherkins, thick ham soups and spicy fried rice. I tried some of the spicy rice, it’s called ‘nasi goreng’, a dish introduced by the Dutch from the East Indies. Delicious.

Dutch people gather on the main street and in coffee houses. The women are rather stout and plain, with black gowns and ornate, lacy bonnets. The men too are plump and well fed-looking, most with wigs, black topcoats and always smoking pipes. These Dutch people look at us curiously but do not show any sign of friendship. They do not like the English, I’ve been told, and it shows. Far more interesting are the African people, the ‘Hottentots’ as they are called. We see the men only; their women must be in the little houses at the back of the town, quite separate from their Dutch rulers. The skins of the Hottentots are very black, their hair is frizzy, their lips prominent, their noses flat. Most go barefooted in spite of the cold and their clothes are ragged. They are the beasts of burden for the Dutch and appear to be very strong, their legs muscular and sinewy. Some carry sacks of grain or flour across their shoulders, others pull handcarts piled high with produce or drive wagons pulled by oxen, all heading for the dock. Unlike the Dutch, these natives smile and greet us cheerily, calling out ‘Hay-low Boss,’ ‘Hay-low Boss,’ whenever they pass us on the street. We wave back. I feel rather sorry for them, as they are such poor creatures. I saw a Dutchman threatening a native with a stock whip and berating him with cries of, ‘Lui kaffir! Lui kaffir!’ I didn’t know the meaning of these words, but it sounded very insulting. I didn’t like it.

I will end this missive now, as the ship’s noon bell has just rung, signalling that dinner will be served shortly. Pleasant as it is to be in port, I relish the prospect of setting sail again, since it means that our long haul across the Indian Ocean will soon be under way.

I shall ask one of the other midshipmen to dispatch this letter at the town’s postal office when the next one goes ashore.

Your loving son,

Fletcher

By September they were in the Indian Ocean, on a due north course. Temperatures rose again and the winds were accompanied by drifting rain which saturated the decks and sails. The humidity was measured at over ninety per cent, and below decks it was sweltering. Men worked topside only in trousers, their feet bare, kerchiefs around their necks to block the sweat which streamed down their faces. The slightest exertion made it stream more. The seamen inched along the yardarms as they worked the sails, anxious not to slip.

They re-crossed the Equator on 13 October. A week later, at five degrees north, they were in the vicinity of the Maldives, a cluster of atolls scarcely above sea level. Men were posted to the top of the mainmast day and night, as the coral reefs surrounding these islands were capable of tearing open Eurydice’s hull. The waves breaking on the atolls’ reefs were bright white, even at night, so that a man aloft could shout to the helmsmen below to warn of the approaching hazard, but the frequent squalls hid the reefs, necessitating the launch being sent ahead to check that the course was safe. From the decks and rigging they saw palms growing from the cays, and black, loin-clothed figures standing on the strand or fishing from canoes.

Once safely through the Maldives, Eurydice bore due east for the Gulf of Mannar and the Palk Strait separating Ceylon from India.

‘Land! Land ho! Off the larboard bow!’

They rushed to the rails, and there it was, a dark mound in the mist. India. A tremor of excitement passed through the ship. Some of them had read of this legendary land, and the rest had heard other sailors’ tales. India, land of strange religions and languages, of temples and turbaned rulers, of bazaars, spices, elephants and tigers. And dark-skinned, sari-clad women.

Eurydice sailed north along India’s Coromandel coast, keeping well off, then into the Bay of Bengal, as far as twenty degrees north. The air was clogged with heat; the sea was the colour of mulligatawny. ‘It’s the water from the Ganges,’ one veteran sailor told Fletcher. ‘The river flowing into the bay.’ And although they were out of sight of land, when they sampled the brown water it was fresh.

For two weeks they patrolled the region, tacking back and forth across the bay, seeking French vessels to attack but seeing only merchant vessels of the East India Company and native craft called parias, trading between Calcutta and Chittagong. They did not call at Calcutta, located on one of the Ganges’ many mouths, and at the end of January Captain Courtnay ordered the ship to go about and follow a direct southerly course, back down the Coromandel coast.

With the apparently endless hills and plains of India usually visible off their starboard bow, they were now bound for Madras. There they would take on fresh food, water and firewood, supplies of which were running low.

Fletcher had read of Madras’s history in a recently published book loaned to him by Captain Courtnay. It was entitled The Subjugation of the French and Others by the British in East India, 1626–1780, by Alexander Dalrymple, who had been in the employ of the British East India Company. Fletcher was aware that Dalrymple had been keen to command the Royal Navy’s expedition to observe the transit of Venus in June 1769, but had been rejected because he had arrogantly insisted on also commanding the ship, something he was not entitled to do. The role was then awarded to James Cook, who proved an inspired choice.

Nevertheless, Dalrymple’s history of Madras fascinated Fletcher. Its early chapters chronicled the establishment of the town, which was once just a sleepy fishing village, as far back as 1522, when the Portuguese built a trading port on the coast. In 1612 the Dutch arrived, establishing a small settlement at Pulicat, just north of Madras. Then in 1626 the British arrived, in the form of the English East India Company. The company established a factory processing the region’s principal product, calico cloth, at Armagon, thirty-five miles north of Pulicat. To protect their trading interests, in 1640 the company built a small fortified settlement which they named Fort St George.

Although Madras was surrounded by territories ruled by often hostile Hindu and Moslem powers, it was Britain’s old foe, France, which had captured Fort St George, in 1746. Their victory was short-lived, however, as control over the fort was regained by the British in 1749, under the Treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle. The fort was subsequently strengthened and enlarged. The British also fought the native leaders and won control of East India, known as the Kingdom of Mysore.

Fletcher appreciated the concluding statement of Dalrymple’s history:

By 1780, seventeen years after the victorious conclusion of the Seven Years’ War, Britain was in complete control of Madras and its surrounding region, with all her European enemies defeated and the native Hindu and Moslem authorities subjugated. Thus the conditions were ripe for the port town of Madras to become not only a vital trading and administrative centre in eastern India, but an important base for the victorious Navy of his Majesty, King George III. In conjunction with the other British trading towns on the coast of the sub-continent of India, the consolidation of Madras forms the basis for continuing British trade, prosperity and power. Greatness for our nation lies ahead!

Eurydice was worked slowly through the mouth of the Adyar River and into Madras Harbour. Although its entrance was only about a hundred yards wide, once the ship was through it the river opened to the tidal basin which comprised the harbour proper. It was crammed with ships, mostly vessels flying the flag of the East India Company, and all at anchor, sails furled. Much smaller native fishing vessels moved slowly through the cluster of British ships, like small dogs among a herd of cattle. Some were being rowed, others were under lateen sail.

Eurydice’s anchors were lowered near the centre of the harbour, alongside an East Indiaman sloop. There was little wind, and the mid-morning sun was blistering. Fletcher and Samuel Evans leaned on the larboard rail, near the bow, looking over towards the town, which was built on flat land along the northern bank of the river.

A line of palm trees grew along the shore, with a few thatched huts scattered among them. Inland, behind the town, was a series of hills, burned brown by the sun. Smells of the land wafted across to them: burning wood and grass, the odour of drying fish. Some distance from the dock, to the west, was a temple, a complex structure of blocks and towers. Directly ahead and a little way back from the river bank was a fortress with stone walls, battlements and, above its entrance, a central turret. The Union Jack was hanging limp from a pole atop the turret. Dwarfing everything around it, the fort appeared impregnable.

‘Fort St George,’ Fletcher said.

‘It’s huge,’ said Evans, awed. ‘Are we permitted to go ashore?’

‘I’ve not been told. I hope so. It looks an exciting town.’

‘You two! Don’t just stand about talking! Attend to your duties!’ The shout came from Lieutenant Drake, striding down the deck towards them.

‘Aye, sir,’ replied Fletcher and Evans together. They hurried off to help release the ship’s pinnace, which was being hoisted out from the foredeck.

The following day half the midshipmen, including Fletcher and Evans, were given leave to go ashore for the day. Ferried in the pinnace to one of the jetties which extended into the river, they stepped off the boat and into India.

People, people, people, everywhere. The dusty road that ran parallel to the river bank was filled with people scurrying in all directions at once, like crabs whose rock has been overturned. There were women porters in brightly coloured gowns, barefoot and bearing pottery urns on their heads, swaying gracefully as they walked. Most had gold rings through their noses. Other young women had babies strapped to their backs. Bearded men in dhotis carried baskets of goods or pulled handcarts piled high with fruit and vegetables, bound for the market across the road. There were oxen drawing carts which struggled through the hordes, their passengers turbaned, imperious men. Horned cows with bony shoulders and pale hides wandered about languorously, shitting, pissing and ignoring the human crowd. Chickens and dogs crept among the human and animal zoo. And the smells! The hot air reeked of spiced food, over-ripe fruit and vegetables, human sweat, animal and human dung.

Gagging at the stench, Fletcher and Evans fought their way through the hordes to the other side of the road. They came to a line of spice stalls, and braziers frying rice and vegetables. Behind the food stalls was a row of stone buildings, separated by alleyways. ‘Black Town’, they had been told this area was called. As Fletcher and Evans made their way between the stalls their female proprietors held out bowls of food and cried shrilly, ‘English, English! Special food for you! Cheap, cheap!’

Feeling conspicuous amid the crowds of importuning natives, the pair struggled into the street at the rear of the market, then entered one of the alleys. On either side of it were more stalls, run by men squatting beside piles of spices and chillies heaped onto banana palm leaves. The spices were brightly coloured: saffron, red, ginger, yellow, brown.

As Fletcher and Evans made their way further into Black Town they were again assailed by shrieking vendors. ‘English! English! Nice spices for you! Special! Special!’

Fletcher turned to Evans and grinned. ‘We should take some back for our cook. It might improve the taste of his meat.’

Further into the alley there were no more spice stalls, just open doorways with stone steps on which men and women were sitting. The turbaned men were thin-faced and unshaven; the hollow-cheeked women wore threadbare saris and gold bangles on their wrists. All were barefooted. Some women were nursing babies which they held out to the young sailors, imploringly. ‘English, English! Money, money for baby!’

Increasingly unsettled by this poverty, Evans said, ‘I think we should go back to the ship. All these beggars, I don’t like it.’

Fletcher shook his head. ‘You can. I want to explore some more.’

As Evans turned, he said, ‘Be careful.’

‘I will.’

The alley grew narrower. Overhead, items of clothing dangled from bamboo poles protruding from upstairs windows or hung from balconies. Some of the washing dripped onto Fletcher and he turned up his collar. It was stifling in the alley and the mud stank, but he pressed on, excited by the exoticness he was immersed in, keen to see where the alleyway led.

A little further along, in an open doorway, stood a girl. She was quite short, not five feet in height, and wore a dark red sari. Her feet were bare and her head was uncovered, her raven-black hair hanging loose. As Fletcher approached she beamed at him. Her face was round, the skin unmarked except for a crimson dot in the centre of her forehead and a gold ring in her nose. Her most striking feature was her eyes. They were dark brown and lustrous. Still beaming, making beckoning movements with one hand, she said, ‘English, English. Nice man English.’

She lifted her sari with both hands. Fletcher stared. Beneath the sari she was naked, and at the pit of her rounded belly was a mat of black hair. ‘Fuck? Fuck?’ she asked. Fixated, he nodded. Lifting the sari higher, she exposed her brown breasts and said, ‘Money? Money?’

He nodded. They had all been allocated a small allowance by the purser for buying meals while ashore. The girl lowered her sari, stood back and ushered him into the unlit, earth-floored passage. ‘Come,’ she said, and he followed her. Heart pounding, he groped for the coins in his pocket. She turned, still smiling, still beckoning. ‘Here, here. Fuck in here.’

From out of the darkness to his right, a figure rushed at him, one arm raised, in its hand a cosh. Fletcher just had time to see that the figure was male, skinny, and that it wore just a loincloth, before the cosh came down on his head.

It was his midshipman’s hat that saved him. Although his head rang with the blow, and red lights danced behind his eyes, the hat absorbed most of the blow’s force. And although he reeled from it, that gave him time to retaliate. He reached out, grabbed the cosh before the man had time to strike another blow, and hauled on it as hard as he could. His assailant came forward, stumbled, fell on his face. The cosh fell to the ground. Fletcher bent, grabbed the man’s hair, hauled him upwards. He was very light. Fletcher swung his right arm and struck the man on the side of the face. He cried out, spitting blood. Fletcher hit him again, then hurled him against the opposite wall.

Before running from the building, Fletcher turned and looked for the girl. She had disappeared.

It was halfway through his second voyage to India on Eurydice that Fletcher received a summons from Captain Courtnay’s servant, ordering him to report to him in the Great Cabin. That was still a part of the ship to which, as a mere midshipman, he was usually denied entry. The servant, Dunmorton, knocked on the door of the captain’s cabin then opened it. Captain Courtnay rose.

‘Christian, come in.’ He waved his hand at a chair opposite him. ‘Sit down.’ There was a pipe on the table in front of the captain, and a small knife.

Staring at Fletcher, the commander rubbed his chin. ‘You’ve been with Eurydice for almost a year, is that correct?’

‘It is, sir. I signed on in April last year.’

‘Yes.’ He picked up his pipe and began to ream out the bowl with the knife. Fletcher watched him, puzzled. He had ordered him here just to tell him what he already knew?

The captain leaned back in his chair. ‘I’ve been impressed with your performance, Christian, throughout the two voyages. The way you work with the younger midshipmen, and support them. Your leadership has not gone unnoticed.’

Fletcher shrugged. ‘I’m older, so I help them when they need it. It’s no more than my duty to do so, sir.’

‘Many would not see it that way,’ said Courtnay. ‘The other thing that impresses me is your logbook. For a midshipman, it’s the best-kept I’ve ever read. The care you take with the written word is impressive.’

‘I had the advantage of attending a very good school, sir.’

‘Evidently.’ He stared at Fletcher across the table. ‘As from tomorrow, I’m promoting you to Acting Lieutenant. And Watch Leader.’

Fletcher’s head spun. Acting Lieutenant? Watch Leader? For some moments he couldn’t speak. As Courtnay took a wad of tobacco from a pouch and filled his pipe bowl, Fletcher said at last, ‘This comes as a great surprise to me, sir.’

‘An agreeable one, I trust.’

‘Yes. But it usually takes several years of experience to be offered a commission.’

‘True. But the fact that I’m offering you one after two years at sea is testimony to your capabilities. You are strict, yet the men like you.’ He grunted. ‘A rare combination.’

‘I am honoured, sir. Thank you.’

‘Good. Tomorrow Dunmorton will issue you with your lieutenant’s uniform. And from now on you will dine with us in the Officers’ Mess.’ He stood up and walked to the cabinet under the bookcase. ‘Now, let’s celebrate your promotion with a glass of brandy.’

Fletcher revelled his new status on Eurydice. There appeared to be little resentment among the other midshipmen over his elevation. Indeed, they seemed pleased. ‘Acting Lieutenant,’ said Evans proudly, as if it was himself who had been promoted. ‘But you will still visit us in our quarters, won’t you?’

Fletcher mimed a cuff to his ear. ‘Not if you ask stupid questions like that, lad.’ He grinned. ‘But of course I will.’

Shortly after Eurydice finished her latest tour of duty and Fletcher returned to the Isle on leave, there was a startling international development. After negotiations at the highest level, a deal had been brokered and a peace agreement reached between Britain and the new nation, the United States of America. France, which had supported America, was badly in debt from the war, and could not continue fighting.

The Treaty of Paris was signed on 3 September 1783 by representatives of King George III for Britain and those from the United States, whose delegates included the redoubtable Benjamin Franklin. Negotiations had begun in April 1782, and had continued into the next year before the treaty was eventually signed. This ended the American Revolutionary War. There were separate peace treaties between Britain and the nations that had supported the American cause: France, Spain and the Dutch Republic. Peace had again descended on Europe.

But the concord brought unexpected consequences.

‘A letter for you, Fletcher.’ His mother turned it over. ‘It looks very official. From the Admiralty.’

Ann Christian was now living in upstairs rooms in a house in Woodbourne Road, Douglas, three streets back from the Promenade. She had been financially assisted in this move by Edward, Charles and Fletcher. It was a comfortable property. The rooms all had sloping walls papered with heraldic scenes; there was a fireplace in the small drawing room; and sash windows gave views of Douglas Bay, the harbour and Onchan Head. Apple and plum trees grew in the small walled garden at the rear of the house. Fletcher was staying with his mother, sleeping in the small bedroom at the rear of the building.

‘I’m grateful to you,’ she told him, ‘for helping me escape from Milntown.’ He pressed his lips together, to avoid clicking his tongue in irritation. Escape? Why dramatise the move? Why didn’t she just accept her improved position and be done with it?

They were seated on a chaise longue under one of the drawing room windows. His mother handed him the letter and he opened it eagerly. Was the Admiralty writing to offer him a permanent commission?

21 November 1784

Dear Acting Lieutenant Christian,

You have doubtless read of the cessation of hostilities between Great Britain, France and the United States of America. This is a development to be greatly welcomed, as it will save our nation considerably in lives and capital. Accordingly, the Chancellor of the Exchequer has announced that the activities of Great Britain’s Army and Navy will be substantially reduced, and henceforth military personnel will be retained on half pay. The vessel on which you last served, HMS Eurydice, will be kept in dock at Deptford, and will not sail on active service again in the foreseeable future.

We know that you will rejoice in the new peace agreement as ratified by the Treaty of Paris and will look forward, as we do, to a future for Britain and Europe of peace and prosperity.

Yours faithfully,

Philip Stephens, Secretary to the Admiralty, Whitehall, London.

‘What is the news?’ his mother asked.

He handed her the letter. She read it, and her brow creased. ‘No further service? Half pay?’

Nodding, he stared out the window. His career in the navy, shattered. No more voyages to India, no more training on the high seas, no more promotions. Half pay — a shilling a day — would scarcely support him on land. His mind clouded over. Just when his tide had begun to flow strongly, it had turned and ebbed, leaving him stranded on this dull island.

‘What will you do?’ asked his mother, still clutching the letter.

Quite unable to answer, he just shook his head.

Later that day he climbed Bray Hill at the back of the town and sat gazing at the sea. The sun was bright and the features of the harbour’s Tower of Refuge were clearly defined. To banish the view, he looked down. In his mind a black fog had formed, and lodged there. It blotted out his future. Confined to land? He couldn’t bear it. The sea had become his life: he couldn’t renounce it and become a landlubber. Everything he had learned over the last two years — and that was plenty — was now gone to waste. Sod the peace treaty.

The last two years had been the best of his life. He had become accustomed to, and savoured, the endless, ever-changing sea. The exhilaration of sails and gales, the howl of the wind in the shrouds, the creaking of the strakes, the pitching and rolling of the ship. And the rambunctious camaraderie of the lower deck, then the more formal company of the officers’ mess. The shores of India, the smells of its ports and their foods, the chatter of native voices, the allure of exotic women. None of that could ever be matched by a life on land.

He shook his head, but could not dislodge the blackness in there. His hands had gone clammy, and he wiped them on his breeches. Assailed by despair, he put his head in his hands. What could he do? Where could he go? He certainly couldn’t stay here on this island with his difficult mother.

It was another hour before he got up and walked back down the hill and into the town. There was a glimmer of hope on the horizon, he thought. Cousin John, who knew everyone who made a living on land, could speak to Captain Courtnay, who knew everyone here who made a living on the sea.

The Douglas Club was on the Douglas waterfront, a two-level stone building covered in Virginia creeper whose bare winter vines clung to its walls like clutching fingers. The building’s windows were mullioned, its porticoed entrance dignified.

The air in the social room was thick with smoke from a coal fire and the pipes of most of the members. A candelabrum hung from a ceiling rose, its multiple flames casting light over the room. On the walls were paintings of hunting scenes and sea battles. The flag of the Isle of Man hung above a servery, on which were carafes of wine, port and brandy. A Negro waiter moved through the crowd of members, holding out a silver salver upon which they placed their glasses for him to refill.

Looking around, Fletcher saw that he was the only person present who wasn’t wearing a wig. Most of the members were in their forties; a few very elderly ones must have been over fifty. Their faces were universally rubicund, their bellies bulged beneath their waistcoats. The room thrummed with hail-fellow-well-met greetings, loud conversations and even louder guffawing.

Fletcher noticed someone he had met before, Duncan Campbell, standing by the servery, engaged in earnest conversation with another man of about the same age. Campbell owned ships that traded between England and the West Indies. ‘Sugar Rum Campbell, we call him,’ John Christian had said. Campbell also owned several prison ships — hulks moored in the Thames in which convicted felons were kept. This venture had made him even wealthier.

John beckoned the Negro waiter over and placed his own and Fletcher’s glass on his tray. ‘Another two brandies, there’s a good fellow,’ he said. Turning back to Fletcher, he made an exasperated face. ‘I’ve just been told that Courtnay’s away in Liverpool at the moment, so can’t be here this evening.’ He brightened. ‘However, I asked Campbell to invite someone else along who may be able to help you. He’s had extensive naval experience and is married to Campbell’s niece, Elizabeth Betham, who’s from Douglas. Campbell is influential, so that connection may be helpful to you.’ He put a hand on Fletcher’s shoulder. ‘One way or another, young man, we’ll get you back to sea again.’

‘Thank you. I appreciate it.’

Looking across the room, Fletcher saw another man enter. He was short — barely five feet — but sturdy and stiff-shouldered. Wigged, he wore a dark blue frock coat, white hose and highly polished boots. He looked about thirty. Noticing John, he moved through the crowd and approached him.

John held out his hand. ‘William, welcome.’

‘Thank you. It’s good to be in here and out of the cold.’ He turned to Fletcher. ‘And this is?’

‘My cousin Fletcher. Ann Christian’s son. Fletcher, meet Lieutenant William Bligh, late of His Majesty’s navy.’

The first thing that struck Fletcher was the man’s eyes. They were pale blue and as piercing as gimlets. Being short, he had to tilt his head to meet Fletcher’s gaze, but the eyes kept boring into his. Fletcher noted his other features: a broad, pale forehead, pointed nose, a full, shapely mouth and a small chin.

He shook Fletcher’s hand. ‘Well, another Christian. Good evening.’

John said, ‘Lieutenant Bligh served with Captain Cook on HMS Resolution.’

Fletcher gasped. ‘How wonderful.’ Then realising the insensitivity of his reaction, corrected himself. ‘Not wonderful, perhaps, but memorable, surely.’

As they talked Fletcher was disconcerted by the man’s eyes, which continued to track him until he was obliged to look away. Although he seemed a little distant, he did show interest in Fletcher’s experiences on Eurydice. He had met Captain Courtnay on more than one occasion, Bligh told him.

‘Well, I’ll leave you to chat,’ John said, and moved away in the direction of Campbell.

As Fletcher and Bligh talked, the older man appeared to relax. They had some things in common, most notably the fact that they had both been discharged from the navy on half pay. ‘My naval career ended two years ago,’ Bligh announced with obvious resentment, ‘and isn’t likely to be resurrected unless war breaks out. In which case both of us will be needed again.’

Fletcher nodded. He and this fellow Bligh were both in the same boat, so to speak. Or rather, not in one.

Bligh asked about Fletcher’s family. When told that his father had been a lawyer in Cumbria and that his brothers had attended Cambridge and Edinburgh universities, Bligh’s eyes widened. He had been born in Plymouth, he said, where his father had worked in the Customs department. He had first gone to sea at the age of fifteen, on the warship HMS Hunter.

Fletcher was intrigued by this, but more by the fact that this man had sailed with Cook. He pressed him for details of that voyage and Cook’s violent death in the Sandwich Islands. But at mention of this, Bligh’s expression dimmed. He said tersely, ‘I have nothing to add to what has already been written about that voyage. Now I must go and talk to Campbell.’ And he turned away.

Staring after him, Fletcher frowned. What an unusual fellow. So changeable.

Later that evening, walking back along the waterfront with John, Fletcher learned more about Bligh. Although his cousin related the story matter-of-factly, it was obvious to Fletcher that it had caused great interest in Isle of Man society.

‘Bligh earned a reputation while on Cook’s last voyage as a fine navigator and hydrographer. An accomplished cartographer, too. So when he was discharged and put on half pay, he took it badly.’

‘I know the feeling,’ Fletcher put in.

‘But you’re young and single. Bligh is a married man with a baby daughter. When he and Betsy moved here they were penurious, so she went to her Uncle Duncan and asked for help. He loaned them money to lease and furnish a house in Douglas. And Bligh is now in Campbell’s employ.’ He tapped his nose and laughed. ‘On this island the saying that it’s not what you know, it’s who you know is very true.’

Fletcher said, ‘Bligh became disgruntled when I asked him about his voyage with Cook. Why was that, do you think? I really wanted to know about it.’

‘Well, Bligh feels he was done an injustice following that voyage. He was sailing master on Cook’s Resolution. And a diligent one, by all accounts. He carried out surveys, charting coastlines all along the way. Of the Kerguelen Island, Van Diemen’s Land, the Sandwich Isles, North America.’ He put his hand on his tricorn to hold it in place against the wind. ‘Bligh’s mate on Resolution was Henry Roberts. Now the charts from the voyage are being published, and Roberts claims the credit for them and for the engravings that were produced. Bligh is receiving no credit for his great work.’

‘That’s unjust, surely.’

‘Indeed it is. Roberts was never a proper surveyor, and Bligh is. And he’s bitter with Roberts over the way he has purloined his charts.’

‘I don’t blame him.’

They walked on in silence for a time. The wind had strengthened and waves were being driven against the sea wall. It was chilly, too. Fletcher wrapped his topcoat more firmly about him and tightened his scarf. A storm was brewing.

John went on. ‘However, Bligh’s career as a merchant mariner is blossoming. He has commanded two West Indiamen on the Caribbean route.’ He chuckled. ‘It’s well known that Campbell is paying Bligh far more than he got in the navy. An annual salary of five hundred pounds. And now he’s been given command of Campbell’s merchantman, Britannia.’

A spark flashed in Fletcher’s mind. Why should he not become a merchant mariner, as Bligh had done? Royal Navy or merchant marine, a ship was a ship, after all.

After considering the matter for some time, he composed a letter, one which required a great deal of writing and rewriting, first in pencil, then finally with quill and ink.

8 July 1785

Dear Captain Bligh,

You may recall that we met at the Douglas Club, when I was in the company of my cousin, John Christian. We had in common the distressing fact that both of us had been paid off by the navy following the signing of the Treaty of Paris. I had served for two years on HMS Eurydice as a midshipman, and was promoted to Acting Lieutenant by Captain George Courtnay.

I hold a strong desire to return to sea, as during my two years on HMS Eurydice I grew to love the life. It is now over six months since I was last at sea, and I miss it sorely. I am aware that you have been granted leave from our King’s navy and have gained the command of the West Indiaman, Britannia. Allow me to congratulate you on this appointment, I am sure that this will further consolidate your already successful career as a merchant marine commander.

Since my career in the Royal Navy has been similarly truncated for the foreseeable future, I would respectfully request to apply for a position aboard your latest vessel and serve on her when she next sails for the West Indies. I believe I possess all the necessary skills to make myself an asset on a merchantman such as Britannia.

Next September I will be twenty-one years of age, and I am willing to serve in whatever capacity it may take, in order to return to the sea. Please allow me, sir, to do so.

I am, sir, your obliged and very humble servant,

Fletcher Christian

He read and reread the letter. Was it too boastful? Unduly modest? Had anything important been omitted? When he was satisfied, he completed the final draft, placed the sheet of notepaper in an envelope and delivered it to the residence in Douglas where William and Elizabeth Bligh lived. He felt confident at his prospects. How could the man possibly decline such a request?

Four days later he received a reply.

12 July 1785

Dear Fletcher Christian,

Thank you for your letter, in which you request to be added to the muster roll of my vessel, Britannia. However as the ship’s complement is full, I must decline your request.

Yours faithfully,

William Bligh

Once again the black fog threatened to return. What had seemed like a chance had been dashed, in just three lines. Damn the man! His mother, who had brought the letter to him, asked to see it. Clicking her tongue, she cast it aside. ‘The man is a fool, Fletcher, to refuse you.’

‘He’s by no means a fool, Mother. But he is a trifle strange.’

‘In what way?’

‘I can’t say, exactly. Just somehow  . . . strange.’

‘Would it help to write to Mr Campbell? He owns the ship, after all.’

‘No. It is the captain’s role to appoint his crew. I should try again, I think. Make my case more forcibly.’

‘I will phrase the new letter for you, darling.’

He shot her an irritated look. ‘Thank you, Mother, but no. I’ve sailed to India. Twice. So I’m capable of writing a persuasive letter.’

She looked away, obviously offended, and Fletcher retired to his room.

15 July 1785

Dear Captain Bligh,

I regret that you were not able to include me on the muster roll of Britannia, for her forthcoming voyage to Jamaica. Perhaps, sir, I did not make my desire to return to sea clearly enough. You must be aware, since we share the experience, of how discouraging it was when we were compulsorily retired from active naval duties. For me this was like a blow to the guts, one which I did not think I would recover from, since the sea has come to run so strongly in my veins. Yours too, of that I am certain. So I would prevail upon you, sir, to reconsider, and accept me as a crewman on Britannia. Wages are no object; I only wish to learn more of the skills of professional seamanship, and if you would permit me to mess with the gentlemen, I will readily enter your ship as a foremaster, until there is a vacancy among the officers. We midshipmen are gentlemen, we never pull at a rope; I should even be glad to go one voyage in that situation, for there may be occasions when officers may be called upon to do the duties of a common man.

All I ask for, sir, is the chance to prove myself.

I remain, your obliged and most humble servant,

Fletcher Christian

A reply came two days later.

Dear Fletcher Christian,

Coincidentally, the gunner on Britannia has fallen ill and cannot sail when we weigh next month for the West Indies. I presume you are familiar with the duties of a gunner, from your time as a supervising midshipman on Eurydice. Aboard Britannia, you will work as a rating and mess as an officer.

Report to my ship in Douglas Harbour at your earliest convenience, to receive further instructions.

Yours faithfully,

William Bligh

Elated, Fletcher read and reread the letter.

When he arrived on the waterfront, crewmen were busy loading goods onto Britannia. She was tied up to the main wharf, and the sailors were lugging sacks and barrels up gangplanks under the direction of the boatswain. The ship’s purser stood by, carefully noting the nature of the cargo and the quantities.

Also on the wharf was a hansom cab, drawn by a chestnut mare. It became obvious for whom the cab was waiting when William Bligh emerged from below decks in the company of a youngish woman. He helped her across one of the gangplanks and ushered her out onto the deck. Seeing Fletcher, he led her by the arm to him.

‘My wife Elizabeth, Fletcher Christian. Betsy, this is Fletcher Christian, who is to join the crew of Britannia.’

Fletcher inclined his head respectfully. ‘Mistress Bligh, good day.’

She was about thirty, with thick black hair which cascaded over her shoulders. Her eyes were brown, her eyebrows two perfect arcs, her face round, the nose slightly aquiline, the cheeks rouged. Her gown was pale grey with an ornate collar tied with a bow of matching silk. Her figure was petite. The overall effect was prettiness and daintiness combined.

Lifting her chin a little, she appraised Fletcher carefully. ‘I know your Manx family, naturally, Mr Christian.’

They chatted briefly. She and William were leaving the island soon, she said, and were moving to Lambeth, in London. ‘I must leave now.’ She smiled. ‘It was very nice to meet you.’

‘Likewise,’ replied Fletcher, bowing to her. She really was very pretty.

Britannia was one hundred and seventy feet long, weighed eleven hundred tons and carried forty cannons as a defence against piracy. Her holds were capacious and she carried a crew of eighty-six, mostly seasoned merchantmen.

It took four and a half weeks for her to cross the Atlantic from England to the West Indies. ‘Crossing the pond’, as the old-timers put it. Taking advantage of the easterly winds and complementary currents, they sailed south-west until they reached the Tropic of Cancer. They then approached the islands of the Greater Antilles from the north, driven by a following wind.

It was late afternoon and rain was sweeping over the ship from the north. Screams came from the masthead. It was Charlie Rogers, the man on watch. ‘White water! Off the larboard bow! Bring her about! Bring her about!’

Britannia lurched, her timbers growled, then with terrible slowness and canvas slumping, she came about, missing the uncharted reef with only yards to spare.

That evening Captain Bligh rewarded Rogers with a double ration of rum.

The following day, in clear weather, they passed safely through the Windward Passage between Haiti and Hispaniola.

Fletcher stood at Britannia’s mid-deck rail, looking out at Port Royal, Kingston, Jamaica. It was late afternoon, and there had been rain, but the sky was now clear, though the air remained sticky. There was the smell of the sea and the smell of the land, and both were heady. Looking shoreward, he felt the same expectation he had experienced when Eurydice arrived in Madras. The atmosphere was similar too: the sultry air, the smoke from open fires, the earthy smells of the tropics drifting across to the ship.

Men were already aloft, furling Britannia’s sails in preparation for docking, and the helmsmen were working the ship carefully towards the quay. Port Royal harbour contained several other merchantmen, most at anchor, although some were docked and discharging cargo. A ship of the line, HMS Valiant, was the largest vessel in the harbour. Her marines could be seen drilling on deck. Negroes, naked from the waist up, pulling carts or with sacks across their shoulders, were struggling towards the quay with their loads. Scarlet-jacketed infantrymen were patrolling the waterfront with muskets shouldered.

Captain Bligh had told Fletcher something of Jamaica’s history. The French, coveting the island for its sugar cane, had in 1758 sent a fleet to try to take her from the British. Admiral Rodney intercepted the French fleet in the Straits Passage of Dominica and defeated it decisively, enabling the British to retain control of the Caribbean’s sugar islands.

Bligh concluded, ‘Our Navigation Act makes it illegal for Jamaica to trade with the so-called United States of America. And there’s a problem with the smuggling out of sugar from these islands.’ He looked peeved. ‘All the more reason to regret the Admiralty’s decision to run the navy down. If they hadn’t done so we could be apprehending smugglers in a man-of-war in these waters, the way I used to in the Irish Sea.’

A road ran parallel to the shoreline, lined with warehouses, a Customs House, goods stores and an army barracks flying the British flag. Red jackets were on sentry duty beside its entrance. An avenue, lined on both sides with coconut palms, led off to the right, shadowing the shoreline.

The governor’s mansion was sited at the rear of Kingston, atop a hillock. Fletcher trained his spyglass on the building. It was two-storeyed, built of stone, with a veranda along its frontage. The British flag was hoisted above its entrance.

‘A grand sight, is it not?’ said Bligh.

‘It is, sir.’

‘Our nation’s power, for all to see.’ He produced his spyglass and held it to his eye. ‘Campbell once told me that Kingston’s streets were built on a grid system. The ones that form the town boundaries are wide, to allow easier wagon transport to the plantations and back.’

‘Where are the plantations, sir?’

‘To the north, on the plains at Liguanea.’ He swung his spyglass in that direction. ‘That’s where the sugar cane is grown. Rice, too.’ Smoke billowed from that area. ‘The cane fields are being fired in preparation for the harvest.’

Fletcher nodded. ‘When will we go ashore, sir?’

‘In the morning. I shall first report to the governor, then visit Campbell’s plantation.’ He lowered his ’scope. ‘You’re welcome to accompany me. Would you like that?’

‘I would, sir. Thank you.’

For the first two weeks of the voyage Captain Bligh had remained aloof, treating Fletcher like any other member of the crew. He accepted this; after all, the man was ten years his senior. But as the voyage progressed his manner began to change. Fletcher was conscious of being observed as he undertook his deck duties, particularly the care of the swivel guns. Once he was stopped and asked how he was finding the voyage. Fletcher replied candidly that conditions on this ship were not as rigorous as they had been on Eurydice. Here things were less regimented. He also pointed out that it was a welcome change not having armed marines on board to enforce naval discipline. He appreciated this difference. Then he smiled wryly at the captain. ‘But the food is much the same.’

One day during the third week, conditions being favourable, the captain accorded Fletcher the responsibility of shooting the sun at midday and recording the ship’s position. After he did so satisfactorily, from then on Fletcher was conscious of the captain taking a personal interest in his nautical education. He felt grateful for this. Already familiar with the fundamentals of seamanship — boxing the compass, splicing, knotting, reefing, furling — he was now being tutored by his commander in the more esoteric skills: keeping an estimate of a ship’s progress by dead reckoning and taking observations using the sun or stars. These, he knew, were significant skills.

At the end of the third week Fletcher was invited to dine with the officers in their mess. There he appreciated the difference in the table conversations; from the crudities and grumblings of the lower deck to the more mature discussions of the captain and his officers. Here the talk was of politics, books and voyaging. Evidently Fletcher had passed some sort of unwritten test, as a few days later he was again invited to the captain’s cabin. There, over coffee, Captain Bligh showed him his charts and explained in detail the course he was plotting for Britannia’s sailing master, Charlie Rogers.

Fletcher’s knowledge of navigation was enhanced by this. Always eager to learn, he looked forward to these sessions and began to warm to the commander. This captain, he realised, was an exceptional seaman. No wonder Captain Cook had appointed him sailing master on Resolution. Even as a twenty-two-year-old, Bligh must have been an outstanding candidate for the role.

While on Eurydice, Fletcher had witnessed floggings of ordinary seamen, standard naval punishment for transgressions such as insolence to an officer or negligence while on duty. Once Captain Courtnay had ordered an able seaman to receive twenty strokes of the cat for drawing a knife on the cook and threatening to cut off his balls after he was served putrid meat. But a curious thing about Captain Bligh was that not once during Britannia’s voyage out did he order a man flogged.

This, Fletcher soon realised, was probably because he had an even sharper arrow in his quiver — his tongue. Never had he heard a man curse like this captain. Any seaman who contravened regulations was hauled before him on deck and treated not to physical but verbal violence. After one hapless seaman, John Gibling, was caught in the act of stealing the rum ration of the master, Rogers, he was stood before the quarterdeck in front of the crew. There the captain brought down curses upon him like a shower of molten lead.

‘God damn you, Gibling, you thieving fucking swine. Blast and bugger your eyes, you’re no better than a burnt-arsed whore! Steal again, you nackle-arse, and I’ll have you keel-hauled to buggery.’ He leaned over the railing. ‘What have you got to say for yourself, you fucking arse-licker?’

Gibling shook his head. ‘Nothin’, Captain.’

‘Well then, you thieving, arse-licking pig-fucker, get below and hand your rum ration over to Rogers!’

Gibling, head hanging, trembling with shame and humiliation, slunk down the nearest companionway. He never stole again.

Fletcher witnessed this admonishment in amazement. How could a man change so rapidly in manner from the urbane character of the Great Cabin to the foul-mouthed name-caller topside? A man would prefer strokes of the cat rather than be abused in this manner. And, he wondered, what would demure Elizabeth Bligh think if she heard such cursing?

The other odd thing was that when the captain’s fulminations were over, he reverted instantly to a calm demeanour, as if not a single curse had passed his lips.

Moreover, the commander never uttered so much as a ‘damn’ in Fletcher’s presence. His language was mild, his demeanour considerate, even avuncular. Fletcher was by now invited to dine in the officers’ mess every other day.

The increasing interest that the captain was taking in his gunner’s progress did not go unnoticed by the rest of the crew. Britannia’s first mate was Edward Lamb, a hollow-cheeked fellow with close-together eyes. One morning as he and Fletcher sat in the bow, splicing a damaged sheet, Lamb remarked, ‘I hear the captain’s had you to dine with him again.’

‘He has. What of it?’

‘You’re just a gunner. Gunners don’t eat with the officers.’

‘They do if they’re invited to. And I was.’

‘The old man must be playing favourites, then.’

Hacking at the cordage with his knife, Fletcher scowled. ‘Jealous are you, Lamb? That he’s not invited you?’

Lamb snorted. ‘Jealous be buggered. I only eat with the men. The real men.’

He said no more, causing Fletcher to wonder what on earth he meant by that remark.

The Governor of Jamaica, Sir Thomas Norcroft, provided the captain with an open, two-horse carriage and a driver, so that they could make their visit to one of Campbell’s plantations. It was to the north of Kingston, occupying the whole of a river plain which the river meandered across. Each of its flood plains was covered in a forest of mature sugar cane.

Fletcher observed the scene before him with awe. A field of cane, its stalks blackened from recent firing, was being harvested by men, women and children. All Negroes. The cane stalks were tall, much taller than the workers, and the men wielded long knives, slicing the stalks off at ground level, then trimming the leaves, working their way steadily into the blackened forest. Their canvas trousers were smeared with reddish dirt and soot.

Behind them, women wearing threadbare cotton frocks and with coloured scarves around their heads collected up the cut stalks. Dozens of children in short pants were helping the women, coming along behind them, scooping up armfuls of cane and putting them onto wagons to which teams of draught horses were harnessed. All the workers were barefoot and in the midday heat their arms rose and fell, rose and fell, their muscular bodies glistening with sweat.

Overseeing the cutting and loading were two Englishmen in broad-brimmed hats, open shirts, heavy trousers and boots. Muskets slung over their shoulders, stock whips in their hands, they strode up and down behind the workers, urging them on with guttural cries. More white overseers were supervising the loading of the big sugar stalks onto the wagons, ready for conveying to the mill. One overseer had a huge-headed Staffordshire bull terrier on a lead and was patrolling up and down with the dog behind the line of workers. Fletcher noticed the children glancing at the dog with frightened eyes.

Slaves, Fletcher thought, these are all slaves. Human beings who have been bought and sold like livestock.

The windmill was further along the road, its four sails turning languidly in the breeze. More male slaves were feeding the cane stalks into the mill for crushing between steel rollers; others were carrying away the cane juice in buckets and loading them onto another wagon.

Fletcher and his captain observed the industrious scene for some time, without speaking. But as he watched, Fletcher recalled the words from one of Edward’s letters, sent from Gray’s Inn:

Slavery is an abominable institution, Fletcher. No civilised nation can possibly condone it. That English companies are a part of it is a stain on our nation. My friend Wilberforce is doing everything in his power to make the practice unlawful. He intends to stand for Parliament, and if elected will rally the abolitionist cause at Westminster.

Yet here, before Fletcher’s very eyes, an Englishman’s plantation was operating, based on slave labour. Fletcher did not know how exactly much profit Campbell was making from his plantations, but knew it must be considerable. Even after the cost of feeding the slaves and paying for the transport of the commodities back to England, the price they fetched there was so high that the man must be making a fortune. And he was doing so off the backs of these poor wretches.

Just then one of the overseers blew a whistle and called out, ‘Luncheon! Luncheon!’

Other Negro women carried an urn, some loaves of bread and a bunch of bananas from an open fire over to a banyan tree beside the road. The workers put down their knives, walked over to the tree, dipped their mugs into the urn, took some of the bread and fruit and sank down under the tree. There, panting and sweating, they sipped their tea. Only then did Fletcher notice that several of the men were shackled together at the ankles.

The captain had said nothing for some time. He just stared at the slaves with an impassive expression.

Feeling the need to comment on the proceedings, Fletcher said, ‘Slavery, sir, I think is immoral. Those poor people.’

The captain looked at him curiously. ‘You sound like an abolitionist, Christian.’

‘I believe I am, sir. My brother certainly is. He’s a friend of William Wilberforce’s.’

The captain harrumphed. ‘A troublemaker, that fellow. Hewers of wood and drawers of water. That is the destiny of the nigger race.’

‘Who said so, sir?’

‘The Bible.’ He stared upwards. ‘Joshua, chapter 9, verse 23. “Now therefore, you are cursed, and you shall never cease being slaves, both hewers of wood and drawers of water, for the house of my God”.’

Taken aback, Fletcher said, ‘Slavery is condoned in the Bible?’

‘It is. And since the Bible is God’s word, we must accept it.’ Bligh squinted. ‘Moreover, if the cane wasn’t harvested and processed, then we would not be employed by Campbell, would we?’ He stared at Fletcher. ‘Either of us.’

Fletcher made no reply. His conscience had been pricked by this remark. The captain’s point was valid: in a way they owed their present position to this business, vile though it was. He stared again at the group of black people huddled under the tree, seeking shade as they ate their miserable lunch, the women feeding their children. This is not right, he thought, and the Bible is wrong. But he said nothing more.

Hearing a loud crack, then another, Fletcher saw the overseer with the dog waving his whip. He cracked it again, then shouted at the slaves. ‘Right, you lot, break’s over. Get up and back to work! Now!’ Again his whip cracked. The people rose, slowly, the women shepherding the children towards the cane.

It was a scene Fletcher would never forget.

On the way back to the ship he sat in silence in the open carriage, filled with conflicting emotions: anger, sorrow, disbelief. And, mostly, guilt. Beside him, the captain said nothing. He just looked around approvingly at the cane fields, flourishing under the West Indian sun.

The return voyage would be tougher, the captain warned Fletcher, as Britannia would face mostly adverse winds. And again he was given lessons in navigation. In the Great Cabin the captain had a chart of the West Atlantic laid out on the table, weighed down with lead ingots. Yesterday they had tacked cautiously west of the low-lying Caicos Islands and were now sailing on a north-easterly course towards the Atlantic.

Holding a pair of dividers, the captain stepped them carefully across the chart. ‘Our current approximate position is here, some miles east of the Bahamas. The latest coordinates are longitude 73° west, latitude 25° north.’ He glanced overhead at the dangling compass. Its needle confirmed they were on a NNE course.

‘We should cross the Tropic of Cancer the day after tomorrow. Then, still on this course, at about latitude 33° north, we will pick up the Gulf Stream. Thereafter we will be borne along by it.’ He stared at Fletcher. ‘The current was so-named by Benjamin Franklin, did you know that?’ Fletcher shook his head. ‘Yes, he named the Gulf Stream in 1770. Clever chap, for an American. The stream is a powerful current, driven by wind stress, as Franklin realised. It has long been used for the west to east Atlantic crossing. Cook certainly made use of it, whenever he sailed to England from Newfoundland.’

Fletcher watched closely as the captain again stepped the dividers. ‘At about here, 40° north, we shall alter course and bear due east.’ He closed the dividers. ‘My reckoning is that we will sight the south coast of England in late November.’ He leaned back. ‘Any questions?’

‘No sir. Thank you for the information.’

As they sailed further north, the temperatures grew cooler and the barometer dropped. Conditions topside were wet and unpleasant. Fletcher’s days were filled with his menial shipboard duties: checking the cannons and shot, re-caulking leaking seams, greasing the blocks with pork fat. All under a darkened sky and a slate-grey sea.

Britannia bore these conditions well, driving into the swells and keeping on an even keel. Her belly bulged with hundreds of barrels filled with sugar, molasses and rum. The ship reeked like a distillery, and when the crew received their daily grog ration, unlike the navy’s it was not diluted. As the Atlantic days grew colder, the Jamaica rum warmed the crew’s guts mightily.

It was during their second-to-last night at sea, while coasting the south littoral of the Isle of Wight, that Fletcher and his captain shared a last supper in the Great Cabin, over some of Campbell’s over-proof rum. The two men sat facing each other across the table, which had been cleared of its plates by the captain’s servant.

Captain Bligh’s face, normally marble-white, was slightly flushed and his blouse collar was undone. Fletcher sipped a little of the rum from his tankard and winced. Too strong. Without warning Britannia rolled heavily and both men clutched their tankards. As the ship settled again the captain took a mouthful of rum, then set his tankard down on the table. He let out a long sigh. ‘Christian, there’s something I want you to know before we are discharged.’

‘Yes, sir?’

The captain waved his right hand. ‘Enough of this “sir”. Call me William from now on. In private only, of course. And in private I shall refer to you as Fletcher.’

Fletcher blinked with surprise. ‘Very well  . . . William.’

The captain leaned forward. ‘And I’d like you to know this.’ He stared into Fletcher’s eyes. ‘I have appreciated your company during this voyage.’

‘Thank you. And I have appreciated yours. It’s been a privilege to regularly dine with you. And to learn so much along the way. I’m grateful.’

William waved a hand dismissively. ‘You learn quickly. One day you’ll have your own command, I’m certain of that.’ He took another mouthful of rum. ‘But what I also want you to know is how much I appreciate the company of someone with your background.’

‘I don’t follow you, William.’

The captain sat back. ‘Your family are important people. Betsy has told me how elevated they have been, in island society, for generations. Your father’s family were judges on the Isle of Man. Your mother’s family too, by all accounts, were notable people. Landowners in Cumbria.’ He made a face. ‘Whereas my family were always just petty officials.’ He looked away.

It took a few moments for Fletcher to take this in. Then he said, ‘William, with respect, that is ridiculous. What counts is what you have achieved. You served with Cook, you surveyed new lands, you’ve circumnavigated the world, you’ve commanded naval ships. It’s a distinguished record.’

William grunted. ‘Don’t think I was seeking praise. I wasn’t. Those who go in search of praise seldom find it.’ He belched, and Fletcher realised he was a little drunk. In vino veritas, he thought.

Bligh continued, ‘I want you to know how much I respect your lineage, and your education. In this profession one must rub shoulders with many blockheads and ruffians. An uncivilised lot. Even some officers are less than couth. To keep the company of a  . . . of a refined man, has done my spirits good.’

Fletcher looked down. ‘I like to think that I get on well with all the men. It’s important to do so, below decks.’

‘Indeed, indeed. But you have many natural advantages. You are tall, handsome, athletic. Your barrel jumping trick, the men love that.’ He held out his tankard and clinked it with Fletcher’s. ‘So, thank you, Fletcher, for your good fellowship.’ He reached for the rum decanter. ‘Now, let’s have another drink.’

Embarrassed now by this effusion, Fletcher said, ‘And thank you, William, for your fellowship.’

But he wondered, how could a man given to disgusting cursing be drawn to the company of those who valued sensibility?

They raised the Downs on 14 November and docked at Wapping the following day. After a team of Customs officials had done their work and the cargo had been authorised for discharge, the imposing figure of Duncan Campbell was waiting on the dock to greet them. Stouter than ever, he wore a black topcoat, a matching tricorn and shoes with outsized brass buckles, highly polished.

The ship’s manifest documents in one hand, he shook William’s hand with the other. ‘Splendid work, Bligh. A fine cargo, safely delivered. The profits will be considerable.’ Noticing Fletcher disembarking with his sea chest, he extended his hand to the young man. ‘Christian. Welcome back. How was the voyage?’

‘Very good, sir, thank you. I’ve learned a great deal.’

‘And do you now return to the Isle of Man?’

‘A little later, yes. After I’ve paid a visit to my brothers in the City. But I promised my mother I would be home for Christmas.’

‘Hah, there’s a dutiful son. Do pass my fondest regards to John Christian and the Taubmans.’

Fletcher farewelled William on the dock. The captain would spend Christmas in Lambeth with Elizabeth and their baby daughters, Mary and Harriet. Looking cheerier than Fletcher had ever seen him, he shook his hand. ‘You’ve done well, Fletcher. I hope you will sail with us again.’

‘Is that possible?’

Still gripping his hand, William nodded. ‘Britannia will sail again for the West Indies. In February, Campbell estimates. I shall let you know if there’s a position aboard for you.’

After three days in London, Fletcher took a coach to Liverpool and the packet boat across to Douglas. There he moved back into the room at the rear of his mother’s townhouse.

If he had found life in Douglas quiet before, it was now utterly silent. There were few ships in the harbour, and its water was as grey as a sheet of lead. Snow fell the day before Christmas, coming in flurries from the north and settling on the hills above the town.

He walked the lifeless streets, climbed Bray’s Hill and stared seaward, then returned to sit on the waterfront, willing the time to go faster. The dark fog that had invaded his mind before began to hover once again. He found himself brooding, longing to get away. His mother irritated him more than ever, forever imagining slights from the Christians and gossiping about the family and the townsfolk. (‘Mary Duncan was struck with the flux.’ ‘There was a brawl on the waterfront, between a press gang and some local youths.’ ‘Loretta fell from her horse and broke her leg.’ ‘Isabella Duncan has had a child by her adulterous lover.’)

Of these titbits, only the last one moved him in any way. No wonder she had never replied to any of his letters. Poor Isabella. That night with her he would never forget. Whenever he was pleasuring himself — shaking the snake, as the saying had it, and such shaking was not infrequent — it was always Isabella he had in mind.

His only other solace was meeting cousin John in the Douglas Club and discussing the West Indies voyage with him. John was a good listener and showed gratifying interest in the expedition, and Jamaica. The club still had its Negro servant, Joseph. Remembering the shackled slaves in the cane fields, Fletcher went out of his way to treat him courteously. Joseph was a very decent fellow, and by returning his kindness Fletcher in a small way assuaged the guilt he still felt at his nation’s sanctioning of West Indian slavery.

Adding to his frustrations, he heard nothing more from William. As the New Year came and went and there was still no word, he became increasingly despondent. The fog in his head darkened. Would he ever get to sea again?

Then in mid-January, he received a letter.

Durham Place, Lambeth

Dear Fletcher,

I trust you and your family are well on the island. Your relatives must have enjoyed hearing of your voyage to the far side of the Atlantic, as have Betsy and our two infant daughters. And what delights they have afforded me over Yuletide and the New Year. Betsy’s parents, Dr Richard and Mrs Betham, have been our guests at Christmas, and greatly appreciated the pleasures of the London social scene.

I hope that 1787 will bring us both good health and good fortune.

With that in mind, I am delighted to inform you that I have been contracted again by Campbell to command Britannia on a voyage to the West Indies, to deliver trade goods to our compatriots there, and procure and convey to London more commodities from his Jamaica plantations. Furthermore, Campbell having received such positive reports from me pertaining to your diligence during our recent voyage, he has suggested that I once again engage your services.

I will be very pleased to do so, and hereby offer you the position as second mate aboard Britannia for the duration of her next voyage. That date is set down for no earlier than the 8th of February and no later than the 20th of the same month of this year.

Should you accept this offer, it will afford Betsy and myself great pleasure if you could spend time with our household in Lambeth in the days prior to the departure of Britannia.

I am,

Yours faithfully,

William Bligh

Fletcher set the letter down. Second mate. Wonderful.

The cab stopped in front of the block of townhouses. Fletcher got out, paid the driver and looked up at the Bligh house, which was the second in from the left of the block.

The brown brick, three-storeyed house was newish-looking. A flight of steps led up to the front entrance, lined on both sides with black spear-top railings. The door was navy blue, and above it was a wide white arch set into the brick. It matched the frames of the sash windows in the walls to the right and left of the entrance.

Fletcher rapped on the front door with its brass knocker.

The maidservant showed him into the drawing room, where William, Betsy and their infant daughters were waiting. The room was small, its walls papered dark green with gold floral patterns. A coal fire was burning in the grate and above it on an oak mantelpiece was a collection of South Sea artefacts: a carved club, a jade adze, fans of woven pandanus and an elaborate headdress with a crest of red feathers. Above all this was an oil painting of a ship in full sail, flying the Royal Navy ensign.

Elizabeth greeted Fletcher affably. Her pale blue gown was fastened at the front with a cameo brooch. Her hair hung loose and there were dark crescents under her eyes. Tiredness from child-caring, Fletcher presumed. The baby was in a cane crib under the window; the other daughter was stacking blocks in front of the fire.

William, in open-necked blouse, blue waistcoat, white hose and soft shoes, explained the significance of the mantelpiece artefacts. ‘The headdress is from the Sandwich Islands, from the island the natives call O-why-hee. That was where Cook was murdered. The club and fans are from Nomuka, in the Friendly Isles; the jade adze is from New Zealand. Poo-na-moo, the natives there call it.’

Fletcher glanced up at the painting. The ship’s name was painted across the stern: HMS Resolution.

‘A fine ship by all accounts, William.’

‘Certainly. She was Cook’s favourite vessel, he once told me. Took him around the world twice.’ He corrected himself. ‘One and a half times.’

After the maid brought in tea and scones, they sat round the fire chatting. Whenever William mentioned the forthcoming voyage, Fletcher noticed Elizabeth’s expression darkening. After a time she fell silent.

He stayed with the Blighs for three days, sleeping in an attic room at the top of the house. At times he was kept awake at night by the persistent crying of the baby, from the floor below his. By day he walked with William along the Thames path, or crossed the river to Westminster and took coffee at Wallbrooke’s, in the Haymarket. At the house he spent time playing with the little girl, Mary, whom he found delightful. Just starting to speak, she found his name hard to pronounce. ‘Lecture’, she called him, climbing on his back and pretending to ride him to Banbury Cross. Fletcher envied William these domestic delights, and the companionship of a wife and children. One day, he hoped, he would have such a loving family.

It was on his final day in the Bligh house, when William had gone off for a meeting with Campbell, that Elizabeth poured her heart out to him. Over morning tea in the parlour, they had been talking about the imminent voyage, and estimating how long it would take William away from England. Elizabeth said: ‘It’s hard being the wife of a sea captain, Fletcher. The long absences, the uncertainties. Being left with the babies, and with little Harriet being such a sickly child, it wears me down.’ Her eyes began to water.

Fletcher nodded. He could imagine how hard it was, and he felt for her. But would the benefits not compensate? The generous salary that Campbell paid her husband, the security of a career in the merchant marine. However, he did not venture to say this, and Elizabeth seemed to want to continue confiding in him.

‘After he returned with Resolution, after being away for over four years, William wrote to Elizabeth Cook, Captain Cook’s widow, expressing his condolences over her husband’s murder.’ She plucked a handkerchief from her gown sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. ‘And do you know what Mistress Cook did?’ Fletcher shook his head. ‘Although she replied to William, she also wrote a note to me, inviting me to meet her. At her house in Clapham.’

‘Did you go?’

‘I did. It was an honour to be invited. What a brave woman she was, not knowing where her husband was for all those years, then never seeing him again. And before that, the deaths of three of her young children.’ She took a deep breath, almost faltered. ‘Mistress Cook told me that people used to say that her husband only came ashore to father children. A cruel remark, but not without some truth.’ She sighed heavily and stared at Fletcher with her tired eyes. ‘I am with child again myself, you see.’

The second voyage to the West Indies afforded Fletcher further valuable experience. As second mate he was accorded the privilege of dining with the ship’s officers regularly. Throughout the voyage William was his usual efficient self, both at sea and on land, negotiating contracts in Kingston, then bringing Campbell another valuable cargo of sugar-derived products home to London. And although Fletcher still disapproved of the human exploitation that was the foundation of this profiting, the pleasure of once more being at sea, then in an exotic port, had the effect of overriding this concern. The authority that accompanied the role of second mate he relished, too. On navigational matters William took him into his confidence, so that at times Fletcher felt that the commander was becoming almost a father figure to him, replacing the natural one he had never known. His respect for the man grew. Yet in a way he still didn’t really know William. He was such a contradictory man.

Shortly after their return to England, while he was again the Blighs’ guest at Durham Place, William divulged to Fletcher a unique opportunity which had just arisen. The autumn nights were drawing in and they were seated in front of the fire, drinking port wine. William said in a low, almost conspiratorial voice, ‘You know of Sir Joseph Banks?’

‘Of course. Our greatest natural philosopher.’

‘Indeed. And a great thinker.’ He set his glass down on the fireside table. ‘While in Wapping yesterday, meeting with Campbell, I heard of a scheme which Banks has devised.’

‘What sort of scheme?’

‘Artocarpus altilis. Do you know what that is?’

‘Breadfruit.’

William’s face fell. ‘How did you know that?’

‘I’ve read Sir Joseph’s journal, the account of his time on Tahiti with Cook. Breadfruit is a staple of the Tahitian diet. A remarkable fruit, he says.’

‘Yes. Dampier first described its qualities, observed during his circumnavigation, way back in 1688.’ William sipped his port. ‘Artocarpus altilis grows prolifically in some parts of the tropics. When the fruit is baked and the crust removed, on the inside its flesh is white and tender. As delicious and nourishing as a penny loaf, Dampier said. So, literally, food growing on trees. Banks also observed that even Cook’s common seamen loved breadfruit, and we know how conservative they are in their eating habits. I too saw how palatable the men found baked breadfruit when I was in the Society Islands with Cook in ’77.’

‘What exactly is Banks’ scheme?’

William explained. Since Britain lost the War of Independence, food could no longer be imported to the West Indies from North America. But supplies were needed there to sustain the plantation slaves. Campbell complained that the cost of feeding the slaves on his plantations with food imported from Britain was eating into his profits. Something had to be done.

After Campbell discussed this dilemma with Banks, the naturalist had come up with a plan. Since the climate of the West Indies — alternating wet and dry seasons, and hot all year round — was very similar to that of Tahiti, Banks suggested that young breadfruit plants be taken from that island and transported to the West Indies. There the plants would grow, mature and provide a cheap food source for the slaves. Campbell had enthusiastically endorsed this novel idea.

At this point Fletcher interrupted. ‘But William, is it feasible to take young tropical tree plants around the world? Carry them on a ship for weeks from Tahiti? Wouldn’t they die of the cold in the high latitudes? While being taken round the Horn, for instance?’

‘I had the same doubts. But Banks being Banks, he has a solution to that problem.’ A botanist would accompany the expedition to oversee the collecting of the young plants. These would be accommodated in special conditions, aboard a specially fitted-out part of the ship, kept warm by a cabin stove, kept watered by an irrigation system. In that way the breadfruit could be successfully transported across the world.

William concluded: ‘The scheme has the support of King George and the Admiralty, and the expedition will be underwritten by the Royal Navy.’

Fletcher nodded thoughtfully. ‘It’s certainly original. Banks is very enterprising. But it’s also challenging. Does he suggest who might lead such an expedition?’

‘He does.’ William patted his chest. ‘And it’s me. He has nominated me to lead it.’

He went to the escritoire and handed Fletcher an as-yet unposted letter he had written to Banks. It was his reply to the invitation to lead the breadfruit transporting expedition. William smiled and said, ‘Do tell me if my phrasing is unsuitable in any way.’

Durham Place, Lambeth, 6 August 1787

Sir, I arrived yesterday from Jamaica and should have instantly paid my respects to you, had Mr Campbell not told me you were not to return from the country until Thursday. I have heard the flattering news of your great goodness to me, intending to honour me with the command of the vessel you propose should go to the South Sea, for which, after offering you my most grateful thanks I can only assure you I shall endeavour, and I hope succeed, in deserving such a trust.

I await your commands, and am with the sincerest respect, Sir, your obliged and very Humble Servant.

Wm Bligh.

‘Well?’ William demanded.

Fletcher frowned. ‘Don’t you think its tone is a trifle  . . .’ He searched for the right word. ‘Obsequious?’

William half-closed his eyes. ‘What does that mean, exactly?’

‘Fawning.’

‘Fawning? Not at all. Sir Joseph is a baronet, the President of the Royal Society, and I’m expressing my gratitude to him. To a man of a much higher station than myself, for his unique offer.’

‘Well, the tone is certainly one of gratitude.’

Fletcher was being evasive. He did think the letter excessive. Grovelling, even. But he had his own future to think of. If William Bligh was to command an expedition to Tahiti, he wanted to be part of it. Desperately.