DEPTFORD, LONDON, 16 AUGUST 1787

They stood dockside at the Naval Yard. Moored beside them was a solitary ship, a merchantman, unflagged and with her three masts bare. A team of carpenters were busy about her decks, measuring, sawing, hammering. It was apparent from the network of ropes and pulleys dangling from the masts that they had been shortened. It was a fine London afternoon and the workmen were shirtless in the heat.

William stared at the vessel and recited: ‘Built in Hull three years ago, served as a coastal trader. Coal, mainly. Two hundred and thirty tons, ninety-one feet long, just under twenty-five feet in breadth. Chosen by Sir Joseph, purchased last month by the Navy Board, for less than two thousand pounds.’

‘Her name?’ asked Fletcher.

‘Bethia. But that will be changed.’ He peered over the edge of the dock and at the hull. ‘She’s been sheathed with copper to keep out the teredo navalis.’

‘What boats will she carry?’

‘Two cutters, one of eighteen feet, the other sixteen, and a launch. The launch is not yet finished. I insisted that it be a decent size, twenty-three feet. The naval contractors will deliver the three boats after the rigging’s completed.’

Although Fletcher nodded, looking down at Bethia’s decks he wondered how a launch of such size could be accommodated there, as well as two cutters.

They walked along to the bow. Her figurehead was of a woman in a riding habit. Staring along the vessel’s larboard flank, Fletcher observed, ‘She seems small, for what she will be expected to achieve.’

‘Yes. But there will be more modifications. Before I ordered them topped, the masts were far too tall. They would have carried too much top weight for wild weather. And the ballast was excessive; I’ve ordered it reduced from forty-five to nineteen tons.’ He clicked his tongue impatiently. ‘There will be much more to do if we’re to get her to sea by September.’

Just then there was the shrill call of a ship’s whistle, and seconds later another vessel appeared at the stern of Bethia. It was a launch, coming downriver. The four naval oarsmen shipped their oars and the launch glided into the dock alongside the ship. Seated on a central thwart were two middle-aged men, dressed formally.

William’s jaw dropped. ‘Good God, I believe that’s Sir Joseph.’

The launch was tied up and two men climbed the steps to the dock, Banks leading. He was well-built and fleshy-faced; the man with him was thin and long-necked. As both removed their tricorns, William came forward. ‘Sir Joseph.’ He dipped his head and held out his hand. ‘William Bligh of His Majesty’s Navy.’ He turned to Fletcher. ‘And this is Fletcher Christian, late of the company of the merchantman Britannia, which I commanded.’

Banks nodded. ‘Ah, yes, Bligh, it’s good to meet you at last.’ He stood back. ‘Now, meet my good friend Lord Sydney, one of King George’s Secretaries of State. Sydney and I have planned your forthcoming voyage.’

Fletcher felt awed to be in the presence of the famous naturalist, the man who had underwritten Cook’s first world voyage, and who had sailed with him to Tahiti to observe the 1769 transit of Venus. He recalled Banks’ colourful account of the voyage and knew of his great reputation as a botanical collector.

Banks and Sydney observed Bethia with discerning expressions, then Banks said, ‘So this is our Tahiti breadfruit transporter. She looks sturdy.’

‘If a trifle small, sir,’ Fletcher felt obliged to point out.

Lord Sydney gave him a sharp look. ‘She is to carry breadfruit plants, Christian, not niggers or grain.’

Fletcher coloured slightly at this rebuke; William gave a small, apologetic cough. ‘I am certain she will prove adequate, my lord.’

Sydney nodded. ‘This will be a vital expedition, Bligh. To provide year-round sustenance for our niggers in the West Indies so that greater profits will accrue to our plantation owners. And to our government.’

‘Quite so, my lord,’ said William. ‘And I was delighted to learn that botanist David Nelson is to be part of my company. He sailed with Cook and myself on our voyage in search of the Northwest Passage.’

Banks nodded. ‘And collected many new botanical specimens from the North Pacific. Nelson is an admirable fellow. As his assistant I’ve appointed one William Brown, another experienced gardener.’

William turned to Lord Sydney. ‘May I ask you, my lord, what number of marines will accompany the expedition?’

Sydney gave him an austere look. ‘There will be no marines, Bligh. There will not be room.’ He tugged at a flap of loose flesh at his throat. ‘The ship will carry four short-carriage four-pound guns and ten half-pounder swivel guns. There will be muskets and other firearms, properly stowed, but no marine contingent.’

There was a stiff silence. William swallowed, then said, ‘But should there be difficulties with the natives, my lord—’

Banks laughed knowingly. ‘You are going to Tahiti, Bligh, not the murderous Sandwich Islands. Tahiti is Aphrodite’s Island, the island of love. As I well remember from ’69.’ He smirked. ‘The year of soixanteneuf, so to speak. The Tahitian men will welcome you with open arms; their women will welcome you with open legs.’ He smiled. ‘So marines will be unnecessary.’

William’s cheeks turned pink; Fletcher grinned. Banks looked again at the ship. ‘Well, let’s go below and inspect the modifications. By the way, Lord Sydney and I have renamed her. She’s to be called the Bounty. His Majesty’s Armed Vessel Bounty.’ He chuckled. ‘Bounty being shorthand for bountiful, naturally.’

Below decks in the stern, Fletcher stared in amazement at what the carpenters had done. Where there would normally have been a great cabin, extending the width of the ship, there was now a fully fitted-out conservatory.

Banks explained, ‘Originally this cabin extended eleven feet from the stern; it now reaches thirty feet for’ard, nearly as far as the aft hatchway. Nearly a trebling in size.’ He nodded with satisfaction at this statistic.

Fletcher looked around, intrigued by the adaptation. Shelves lined the walls of the cabin, filled with empty earthenware pots. Several platforms in the centre of the space, separated by aisles, held planks to contain more pots. There were gratings in the ceiling and scuttles on the starboard and larboard sides to admit fresh air. On the inner wall a stove had been installed and the floor was lined with a sheet of lead.

Lord Sydney reached out and tested the firmness of one of the pot racks. He grunted with satisfaction. ‘The first plan allowed for five hundred pots, but Banks and I decided she should carry more. One hundred and twenty-nine more, to be precise.’ From his tone it was easy to tell what value the secretary placed on precision.

The conservatory was undeniably impressive, Fletcher thought. Inspired, even. But how, he wondered, would the captain and crew — forty-five men in all — be accommodated in the remainder of the ship?

Banks and Sydney, having seen and approved of the greenhouse, wished to see nothing more of the ship. William went topside to see the dignitaries off, while Fletcher carried on with his inspection forward of the conservatory. He crept through the ship, head bent, encountering the familiar lower-deck odours of stale food and lantern smoke, overlaid with the less unwholesome smell of freshly applied spar varnish.

It was obvious that the accommodation would be cramped in the extreme. William’s cabin — already nameplated — was amidships on the lower deck, starboard side. It was, to be charitable, compact. Fletcher peered inside it, thinking, just as well he’s a small man.

The master’s cabin was opposite the captain’s, at the foot of the rear stairway. The captain’s dining room and pantry — also small — were between the stairway and the forecastle. The space for the master’s mates and the midshipmen was aft of the forward stairway. Fletcher paid close attention to this area, aware that this was where he was to be accommodated.

The rest of the crew, thirty-three men, and the galley, were to be crammed into the forecastle, in a space near the bow which Fletcher estimated to be only about twenty feet wide and forty feet long. It was dark, without scuttles, and Fletcher’s head cleared the ceiling by just a couple of inches. There were half-finished pens which would hold livestock — sheep, pigs and goats — alongside the crew’s quarters.

He went down into the hold. William had pointed out that the quarters of the specialist crew — the boatswain, carpenter, steward, surgeon, Bligh’s clerk, the gunner and the botanists — would be quartered here, on mezzanine decks added to either end of the hold. Fletcher noted that the headroom of this accommodation was higher, about seven feet.

Following the inspection, Fletcher and William took a ferry upriver to the City, and took refreshments in Garraway’s coffee house. There Fletcher listened to William’s litany of grumbles.

‘As you pointed out, the vessel is too small. Far too small for a two-year voyage. And the company is insufficient. Forty-five men. And of that number, only twenty-two able seamen. To maintain the watches, handle the sails, do any running repairs — let alone look after the breadfruit plants.’ He sipped his coffee. ‘No marines to enforce my authority or guard against theft by the natives.’ His blue eyes flashed. ‘And I am not to be promoted to captain’s rank, merely a lieutenant. As such, I am granted no officers, only three midshipmen. Were I to be a post captain, which I deserve to be, I would be entitled to one or two lieutenants to help me enforce discipline.’ His lip curled. ‘And not only will I command the ship, I am to be the purser as well, responsible for the issuing of rations, the welfare of the crew and their disciplining. Oh, and the purchase of the breadfruit plants.’ He sniffed. ‘And for all these responsibilities, I am to be paid the princely sum of four shillings a day. Seventy pounds a year.’

Fletcher started. ‘Seventy pounds only?’

‘You heard me. Quite a reduction, from the five hundred pounds Campbell paid me to command Britannia.’

Fletcher was shocked. He immediately thought of Betsy and her woes. This would only add to them. At least her husband’s absences in the West Indies had been offset by his generous salary, and voyages of about a four-month duration. This expedition would be for at least two years, and on a salary decline of  . . . He did a quick calculation: eighty-six per cent!

Attempting to offer some consolation, he said, ‘I’m sure that when the breadfruit scheme is brought to fruition, other rewards will flow to you.’

William raised his eyebrows sceptically. ‘Perhaps. They will need to, given the Navy Board’s niggardliness and the Admiralty’s failure to promote me.’ Fletcher was about to comment again but William held up his hand. ‘Oh yes, I know in peacetime promotions are seldom made, except at sea. But with my record on Resolution, my surveying, my navigating  . . .’ Again his eyes flashed. ‘What more must I do, to receive a captain’s rank? Furthermore, as you well know, for these past four years I’ve become used to working with merchants, men who believe in rewarding those who serve them well. And do so handsomely. But now I am given massive responsibilities by the navy for miserly recompense and no promotion.’

Fletcher listened to this tirade sympathetically. He well understood William’s frustrations and wounded pride. Yet overriding these sympathies for his friend was his own anticipation of the forthcoming voyage and the excitements it promised. Sailing in the wake of Cook into the South Atlantic, doubling Cape Horn and into the South Sea. The delights of Bougainville’s New Cythera and all that Tahitian cunny. He didn’t care about the overcrowding on board: he would sleep in the maintop so long as he got to Tahiti.

This reverie was broken by William producing a sheaf of papers from his briefcase and saying, ‘At least I was permitted to appoint the company myself, without interference from the petty officials in Whitehall.’ He handed the sheet to Fletcher. ‘All are volunteers. There will be no pressed men on board.’

Headed with the crest of the Admiralty, it was the ship’s muster roll, listing names and designations. Fletcher scanned it. Apart from the gardeners Nelson and Brown, at first glance the other names meant nothing to him. Curious about the man designated Master, whose role he knew would be important, he asked, ‘Who is John Fryer?’

‘He’s from Norfolk, thirty-four, newly married. Been seven years in the navy, was captured and imprisoned by the French for a year and a half. Most able, from his record.’

Paying more attention to the names, Fletcher said, ‘Lawrence Lebogue, sailmaker.’ He looked up. ‘I remember him from Britannia. But he’s old. Must be nearly forty.’

‘No matter for a sailmaker. Cook had John Ravenhill on Endeavour, and he was over seventy. Poor sod died on the way home, though.’

Another name on the roll stood out for Fletcher. ‘Peter Heywood, Acting Midshipman. I knew a Heywood family on the Isle of Man. Is he related to them?’

‘He is. I know the lad. He was nominated by Betsy’s parents. He’s the son of close friends of theirs. His father’s a deemster, like your forebears. Peter is only fifteen, but he’s a cheerful boy and keen as mustard to go to sea. He’ll stay with Betsy and me before we sail.’ He paused. ‘Another of the midshipmen, John Hallett, is also only fifteen. Betsy recommended him, he’s the brother of a London friend of hers. She also recommended Thomas Hayward, whose family she knows. The other midshipman, George Stewart, I invited to join the expedition because his parents took great care of me when Resolution was forced to take shelter from storms off Stromness, in Orkney, back in 1780.’

Fletcher thought, how important patronage is in such matters. He recalled cousin John’s words: ‘It’s not what you know, it’s who you know.’ That seemed truer than ever. The Blighs’ personal connections had been responsible for several of the crew being added to the list. Handing back the roll, he said, ‘The Isle of Man is well represented, William.’

William gave a rare smile. ‘Indeed. So perhaps Bethia, or I should say Bounty, should fly the Manx flag instead of the ensign.’

Over the next few weeks Fletcher and William met regularly, at Garraway’s and at a Shoreditch tavern, the Crab and Lobster, to discuss the expedition. Although William continued to cavil (‘The carpenters have still not finished the livestock pens’, ‘I still await my sailing orders from the Admiralty’, ‘Three men on the roll have scarpered and will need to be replaced’), his sense of expectation was obvious as the departure date neared.

By early October the trade goods had been purchased and were being stowed in Bounty’s hold. Again William shared the details with Fletcher, reading from the bill of lading: ‘Two hundred and thirty-four chisels, of various sizes. Four gross of knives, eight hundredweight of spike nails, four dozen hand saws, fourteen dozen hatchets, ten dozen gimlets, fourteen dozen looking glasses, eight pounds of glass beads — red, white and blue — and seventy-two shirts.’ He handed the list to Fletcher. ‘A considerable total. In value, over one hundred and twenty-five pounds.’ He pouted. ‘Nearly twice my meagre salary.’

Fletcher whistled softly as he looked at the list. ‘All goods, William. No money will be paid?’

‘I will be allowed one hundred ducats to cover expenses in ports beyond the South Sea. But in Tahiti real money has no use. The only currency the natives value is iron. Have you read Hawkesworth’s account of the Dolphin voyage?’

‘I have. Dolphin was nearly torn apart for its nails.’

‘Yes. And when I was there with Cook, the natives demanded more and more iron items.’ He took a spoonful of sugar and stirred it into his coffee. ‘But it’s only fair that we recompense the Tahitians for their breadfruit plants.’

Fletcher nodded. ‘And what of the provisioning?’

‘It continues, ordered by myself and overseen by the Victualling Board. We are provisioning for a year and a half. The balance will be obtained from the natives — mainly pork, poultry, fruits and vegetables. My time with Cook convinced me that diet is vital to a crew’s health. There will be no scurvy on Bounty, of that I’m determined. So there will be sauerkraut, malt, juice of wort, portable soup, wheat and barley instead of oatmeal.’ His expression became harsh. ‘And by God the men will eat it, every day. Cook made it a flogging offence not to, and I’ll do the same.’

They strolled along the path that led to the Tower of London. It was autumn now and the air was biting, the river water murky, the sky gravestone grey. A few merchantmen were working their way upriver, struggling to find favourable wind. The shouts of their crewmen carried across to the river bank.

‘I must say, Fletcher, that I’m looking forward to the blue skies of the South Sea.’

‘As I am. In fact I find myself thinking of those skies a great deal.’

William stopped, placed his hands behind his back and stared up at Fletcher. ‘Allow me to say how much I have valued your support over these last weeks.’

Fletcher shrugged. ‘It’s the least I could do. I’m repaying the help you’ve given me. Were it not for you I would still be on the Isle of Man, lamenting my lack of prospects. Now, I’m confident that when we return from Tahiti I will be qualified to be commissioned as a lieutenant.’

‘I’m sure that that will be the case.’ William flexed his shoulders awkwardly. ‘But I want you to know how much I value your friendship. I admire you a great deal, do you know that?’

Embarrassed, and avoiding William’s gaze, Fletcher said, ‘It’s been a pleasure to serve with you. And the anticipation of our voyage to Tahiti is one I cannot suppress.’

William grunted his agreement, and they resumed their walk. Hands still behind his back, he said, ‘Bounty will be ready to unmoor the week after next.’ He scowled. ‘Yet I still have not received my official sailing orders, sod the slack swine in Whitehall. So I’ve decided to wait no longer. We will set sail for Spithead on the second of November and I’ll collect my orders from there.’

On 3 September Bounty was unmoored from Deptford dock and dropped downriver. There her provisioning was carried out, under William’s strict supervision. Fletcher stayed with his brother Edward for a few days, in his rooms in Chancery Lane, then in mid-October returned briefly to Douglas to farewell his mother, cousin John and the Taubmans.

Although the aim of Bounty’s forthcoming voyage was officially a close secret, thanks to the Isle of Man’s connection with some of its crew the ship’s destination, if not its special mission, was common knowledge. The islanders expressed great pleasure that William, Fletcher and young Peter Heywood were to be a part of the expedition. The South Sea in general, and Tahiti in particular, had been popular subjects for local journal readers ever since Wallis’s discovery of the island.

Fletcher’s mother reported that his brother Charles, now medically qualified, had been on a voyage to Madras and Macao, as ship’s surgeon on the merchantman Middlesex. He would return to England shortly, she had been advised in a letter forwarded by the East India Company. Fletcher immediately regretted that this meant they would not be able to meet and discuss Charles’s voyage.

Once again Fletcher stood on the dock at Douglas harbour, waiting to board the packet to Liverpool. His mother, her face pale and drawn, bonneted and with a woollen shawl wrapped around her shoulders against the biting north wind, hugged him. ‘Goodbye darling. Safe voyage. Do take care.’

‘I shall. And the two years will go quickly. Then I shall be back here again with you. And, I hope, in the uniform of a naval lieutenant.’

‘Two years!’ Tears sprang into her eyes. ‘Charles will probably be away again, too, so all I have now is Edward.’ She heaved a sigh and closed her eyes. Tears leaked from beneath the lids.

Fletcher hugged her, then planted a kiss on her forehead. ‘Goodbye, Mother. I will write from Tenerife, since we shall be calling there. And I will be back before you know I’ve gone.’

He hugged her once more, then walked quickly up the gangplank.

On 28 October Bounty was unmoored from the dock at Long Reach on the lower Thames, where her four-pounders, swivel guns and arms chests, including muskets, pistols, ammunition and cutlasses, had been taken aboard and stowed. Then, with a growing sense of inquisitiveness among the crew (‘What is our exact destination?’ ‘What sort of a man is Captain Bligh?’ ‘How long will it be before we see England again?’) HMAV Bounty made for the Channel.

Although the winds there were mainly unfavourable, the little ship handled the conditions well, and on 4 November Bounty was anchored securely in the Solent. William was rowed across to Portsmouth, where he had obtained lodgings for Betsy and their daughters. There they would say their farewells. Fletcher had intended to remain on the Bounty, in order to get to know more of the crew, but next morning he saw entering the Solent from the west a three-masted merchantman, flying the flag of the East India Company. Peering through his spyglass, he saw it was the Middlesex. Brother Charles’s ship. He had not missed him after all.

‘Charles! Welcome home!’

‘Fletcher! How good it is to see you!’

After meeting on the Plymouth waterfront, the brothers quickly repaired to a nearby tavern, where over pints of ale and pork pies they caught up on all their news. Charles, at twenty-seven, was only three years senior to Fletcher but looked much older. His eyes were sunken, his cheeks gaunt and unshaven.

He explained why. ‘I picked up an illness in Madras. Found it hard to keep food down.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘A case of “physician, heal thyself”, as Saint Luke put it. Moreover, on the voyage home, there was a mutiny aboard Middlesex, and I was involved.’

‘A mutiny? For what reason?’

‘The captain, one John Rogers, proved to be a tyrant. His actions towards his crew became intolerable. One seaman, William Greace, was ordered to be flogged to death, merely for insolence. And indeed the poor sod almost bled his life away. After I treated him, he recovered, then obtained a loaded pistol and aimed it at Rogers. Our first officer, George Aitken, supported Greace, as did I. The second officer struck Rogers in anger.’

‘Did you and the others take control of the ship?’

‘No. Rogers persuaded some of the able seamen to overpower us. We were then locked in our cabins.’

There was a long silence as Fletcher absorbed this shocking news. Then he said, ‘And now, what is your punishment?’

Charles’s eyebrows knitted. ‘I am censured by the company, and suspended from further service with them for two years.’ He laughed. ‘Something that bothers me not at all.’ He shook his head. ‘I am done with the sea, Fletcher. To serve on a ship under a monster like Rogers is a ghastly experience.’ He took a draught from his tankard. ‘As officers we had no option but to take action against his abuse of authority. It was our moral duty, we agreed. We were driven to it by the captain’s behaviour.’ He rubbed his tired eyes. ‘Despots must be stood up to, Fletcher.’

Fletcher nodded. ‘I understand. Your hand was forced. Yet, if it had happened on a Royal Navy vessel—’

Charles held up his hand. ‘I know, I know. We would have been hanged from the yardarm. But because it occurred on a merchant ship, and we reported Rogers’ detestable behaviour truthfully, with witnesses to support us, we will receive no further punishment. We’ve been paid, and Rogers has been fined by the company. Five hundred pounds.’ He gave Fletcher a cautionary look. ‘So, brother, choose your captain carefully.’

‘There is no choice in the matter, as you well know.’

‘I jest, of course.’ He raised his chin. ‘So, this William Bligh, is he a fair man?’

‘He is. And he’s a fine navigator. He’s resentful at the way the Admiralty’s treated him, but I find that understandable.’ Fletcher drank more ale. ‘And to my surprise, he confides in me. He’s become a friend.’

‘Good. So your voyage will doubtless be a memorable one.’ Charles added reflectively, ‘In my experience, men cooped up below decks for long periods are tempted to lose their tolerance for one another. The smallest of habits begin to irritate, then infuriate. And when that happens, men can act irrationally.’ He got to his feet. ‘Now brother, that’s enough talk of irrationality. Allow me to buy you another pint.’

Bounty was still not able to leave Spithead. Although William’s sailing orders from the Admiralty had at last been delivered to the ship, and the crew had been given two months’ pay in advance, the elements were against them. Bounty was forced first into St Helen’s harbour, on the east coast of the Isle of Wight, and after attempting to leave from there was driven across to Spithead by the wind and confined there for the next fortnight. After they again tried to get clear of the Channel, the winds threatened to blow the ship onto the Normandy coast. Once more the winds forced them back to Spithead. Throughout the ship, frustrations deepened. It was now December. Whenever would they get shot of the sodding Solent?

Hunched over his charts of the Atlantic, William griped to Fletcher and Bounty’s master, John Fryer: ‘The shortest route to Tahiti is via the Horn, yet by the time we reach there the southern winter will be imminent. We may be out of season.’ He ground his teeth in frustration. ‘So I’m sending a note to Banks, asking that he obtain permission from the Admiralty for us to seek an alternative route, should it prove necessary to do so.’

In a reply dispatched with unusual promptness to the Bounty, the Admiralty granted William its discretionary consent for another route to be sought. But only if this was unavoidable.

At last the wind changed. On 23 December 1787, HMAV Bounty and her forty-five-man complement was able to weigh anchor and begin her long voyage to the far side of the world.

Santa Cruz, Tenerife, Canary Islands, 10 January 1788

Dearest Mother,

We arrived in this port four days ago and anchored in the roads of Santa Cruz, to the north-east of Tenerife, the largest of the seven Canary Islands. It was a relief to do so, since the beginning of the voyage was arduous in the extreme. Gales struck us two days after we left Spithead, and we spent Christmas Eve battling enormous seas. There was some respite on Christmas Day, when the weather abated, and William (Captain Bligh) ordered beef and plum pudding for midday dinner, with an extra ration of grog. But when we reached the Atlantic, Bounty was struck by a succession of rollers. The ship was flooded, the stern windows driven in by the force of the waves and some of the precious navigational instruments damaged, including an azimuth compass. The drenched ship was bitterly cold below decks, and I have seldom seen men so chilled and miserable. William ordered rum added to their beer, which eased their discomfort somewhat. The storm also caused some spare spars to be washed overboard, the boats were damaged, and our biscuit stores saturated with sea water. Several barrels of beer, though tied to the deck, were also washed away.

Not a propitious beginning! Things can only get better, I decided.

As we sailed south and the temperatures increased, we were able to dry our sodden gear and food under the welcome sun. Lebogue the sailmaker and Purcell the carpenter were hard at work repairing the sails, rigging and boats. Now that we have plain sailing at last, I will relate to you something of our shipboard routine.

William insists that the ship be always kept meticulously clean below decks, a policy he tells me was bequeathed to him by Captain Cook. William values Cook’s policies highly and implements them rigorously himself. For instance, when the weather permits it, the hatches are kept open to admit fresh air and the lower decks are fumigated with gunpowder and vinegar. William also insists that every Sunday the crew’s clothing and bedding is washed, dried and aired. Naturally, I was familiar with these practices from my time with him on Britannia, so I readily accept them. The men grumbled at this policy in the beginning, but now go along with it as a normal part of shipboard routine. They have also come to accept the anti-scorbutic diet he prescribes for them, albeit reluctantly, to ward off the scurvy. At first they screwed their faces up at the sauerkraut, juice of wort and soup, but as on Cook’s ships, when the men knew the officers ate it with gusto they emulated them. Anything is preferable to scurvy, even the most dullard sailor knows.

I am greatly admiring of William’s consideration for his men. After the Sunday cleaning below decks he personally inspects their clothing and persons. He then calls the men together to listen to his reading of the Articles of War. This is a reminder of their obligations, and the severity of the punishments should they transgress any of the navy’s rules. For example, refusal to obey an officer’s command, dereliction of watch duty or, heaven forbid, mutiny. Again, I assume this is Cook’s influence. After reciting the articles, William takes divine service, using the Common Book of Prayer. He takes this seriously, although few of the rest of us do. Then, and you will find this hard to imagine, he orders us to dance on deck, for up to two hours! Our jigging is accompanied by a fiddle, played by one of the able seamen, Michael Byrne, who is so short of sight as to be virtually blind. But sightless or not, he plays a fair fiddle, I have to say, and the exercise can do us no harm. Often we collapse with laughter, which is no bad thing either.

After we lowered the anchors in Santa Cruz harbour, it was my honour to be declared by William to be his and King George’s representative while ashore. As a mere mate on Bounty, I was greatly surprised, and honoured, to be so designated. It was my assumption that master’s mate William Elphinstone, who is my elder by fourteen years, would be asked to do this. However when offered the role, I agreed to it with alacrity. After the disappointment of being kept aboard when we called at Cape Verde in 1783, while serving on HMS Eurydice, you can imagine my delight at being taken ashore at Santa Cruz.

The island of Tenerife is ruled by Spain, so William asked me to pay his respects to the Governor, a nobleman called Marquis de Branciforte. I did so, at the Governor’s residence, an elaborate building on the Santa Cruz waterfront. De Branciforte is a tall, strongly built man with a dark goatee. He wears an overly ornate uniform, complete with gold-braided epaulettes and a heavily plumed hat, so that he put me in mind of a peacock. Although the Governor greeted me affably enough, he also had a conceited manner. This was confirmed when after I introduced myself and explained that I was the Bounty’s mate, the Governor’s interpreter told me: ‘So you are not the commander. Where is your commander?’

I told him that Captain Bligh was busy on board attending to the very important matter of overseeing the provisioning and stowage of the supplies and, as purser, balancing his books. But William had told me to convey the message to the Governor that he would fire a salute to him with the ship’s guns, provided that a matching salute was fired in return by his Excellency’s cannons. There was a long reply by the Governor to this suggestion, which was translated as: ‘My guns are only fired in recognition of a person of equal rank to myself.’ What vanity! As a consequence, no guns were fired to salute either party. But I departed from his residence on genial enough terms, considering that the Spanish are not natural allies of ours.

That incident excepted, I found the visit to Santa Cruz exciting. It is hot, exotic and loomed over by a volcano, Mt Teide. The mountain is over 12,000 feet high, its summit reaching to the clouds. Stupendous! Although it is mid-winter, tropical flowers still bloom on the island, and our gardener, Nelson, has gone ashore to botanise. The people of Tenerife, most of whom are Negroes, are very poor and raggedly clothed, and ruled over autocratically by the markedly wealthy Spaniards. Their women are haughty and did not even deign to reply when I greeted them in my only two words of Spanish (‘Buenos dias’). The town’s streets are tidy enough, and there are several Catholic churches, and a fort, and above the town, innumerable vineyards. There being no marines aboard Bounty, for safety I was accompanied by two of the ship’s ABs, Thomas Burkett and John Millward. They amused me by asking, when we got ashore, ‘Where are all the canaries, then, Fletch?’ The poor fellows did not know that the name ‘Canary’ comes from the Latin word ‘Canaria’, meaning ‘Dogs’. There were certainly plenty of them. Once again, I am grateful to my schooling in Latin from Cockermouth days! (Burkett also ventured to suggest, after I informed him of the word’s meaning, that ‘the Isle of Dogs’, in London’s dockland, should really be called ‘the Isle of Canaries’. We all had a good laugh about that one.)

I was also commissioned by our purser (i.e. Captain Bligh) to purchase more provisions while ashore. I did so, in the company of John Samuel, Bounty’s clerk. Regrettably, as it is not the growing season, fresh food supplies at an acceptable price were not freely available. The usual tropical fruits and vegetables — oranges, figs, sweet potatoes, pumpkins — were of poor quality, as was the island’s beef. The chickens were exorbitantly priced at three shillings each! However the wine supplies were almost limitless, so we purchased over 850 gallons of vin ordinaire, along with two hogsheads of vintage Canary wine, intended for Sir Joseph Banks’ cellar. Let us hope that His Eminence’s hogsheads are not broached by the crew before we return with them to London! In that case an immediate suspect would be our perpetually drunk surgeon, Thomas Huggan. I never knew a man to drink so much. I hope I am never in need of his ‘services’. Thank the Lord, Huggan’s assistant, Thomas Ledward, is usually sober.

We also take aboard casks of fresh water, the cost five shillings per ton. All these provisions are delivered to the ship by local boatmen. It has taken four full days to stow all the provisions.

I must end now. There is an English merchantman, Penelope, alongside us in the Santa Cruz roads. As she is bound for London, I shall convey this letter to her purser, with instructions to hand it to the postal authorities in London. In this way you should receive my news by the spring. I am also writing to Charles and Edward.

William is sending reports on our progress to Sir Joseph Banks, Lord Sydney and Duncan Campbell. Since our next stop will be the South Sea, there will be no further opportunity for me to write to you until our return voyage, next year.

Until then, I am, as always,

Your loving son,

Fletcher

On 11 January 1788 they weighed and set sail westward, in the direction of the coast of South America.

On the morning of their fourth day out, boatswain Cole called for the entire ship’s company to assemble mid-deck. In full dress uniform, William addressed the men: ‘Good day to you all.’ Placing his hands on the rail, he stared down at the assembly. ‘Now that we have been at sea for three weeks, I can inform you of the expedition’s destination and intent, along with other important matters.’ As the men stared up at him there was almost complete silence, broken only by the slop and gurgle of the swells against the hull. William cleared his throat. ‘We are bound for the island of Tahiti, in the South Sea, by the shortest possible route, via the South Atlantic, Tierra del Fuego and Cape Horn.’

There were murmurs among the assembly. Some of them exchanged knowing looks. Everyone knew of the Horn’s reputation, which was fearsome, but they also knew of Tahiti’s, for very different reasons.

‘While in Tahiti we will take aboard many young breadfruit plants for transportation to our islands in the West Indies. Bounty’s gardeners, Nelson and Brown, will be in charge of this collecting. The young plants will be accommodated in the modified cabin in the stern, which doubtless many of you have been curious about. Expect that part of Bounty to be a floating greenhouse upon our return voyage.’

He paused to allow a ripple of amusement to subside. ‘Because of the lateness of our departure — through no fault of mine, I’m bound to point out — the season is far spent. Doubling Cape Horn, probably in April, during the onset of the Southern winter, will test all our skills of seamanship. I know you will all be equal to the task.’ He leaned forward. ‘I have been impressed so far with your teamwork and diligence, which has brought us here, almost to the Tropic, without further mishap after the gales that beset us in the North Atlantic. Be assured, upon our return to England, all of you will receive promotion.’

A murmur of approbation passed through the men.

‘And while on the subject of promotion, I wish to announce that master’s mate Fletcher Christian is henceforth designated Acting Lieutenant Christian, a position which, as you will all be aware, carries additional rights and responsibilities. Mr Christian fulfilled that role while serving aboard HMS Eurydice in the Indian Ocean.’

Thomas Burkett, standing to Fletcher’s left, nudged him and muttered, ‘You will still speak to us, won’t you?’ To his right, Bounty’s master, Fryer, stared straight ahead, stony-faced. A tall, ascetic figure, he never smiled.

The announcement came as no surprise to Fletcher. Last night he had again dined with William in his cabin. After his servant, John Smith, had brought their food and wine, William raised his tankard. It was filled with Canary Islands red wine.

‘Good health, Fletcher.’

‘And to yours.’

They drank, then William leaned back in his chair. ‘I have news for you, Fletcher.’

‘Oh?’

‘I’m promoting you to lieutenant. Acting Lieutenant.’

Fletcher was taken aback. ‘Why so, sir?’

‘For an expedition of this importance, one officer is insufficient. Since the Admiralty denied me another, I’m using my authority while at sea to appoint one. And that officer is yourself.’

‘But should the promotion not go to Fryer? As master?’

William waved his hand airily. ‘No. Fryer’s current role is too important. No commander has ever promoted a sailing master while at sea.’ He gazed directly at Fletcher. ‘You are the one.’

‘I must admit, William, I’m flattered.’

‘It’s fully deserved. You’re competent. No, more than competent. You’re highly capable. The men like you, and respect you. And you were promoted to Acting Lieutenant on Eurydice, were you not?’

‘Yes. That too came as a surprise. An agreeable one, naturally.’

‘Good, good. You have a bright naval future, Fletcher, I’m certain of that. Now, let’s drink to Acting Lieutenant Fletcher Christian of HMAV Bounty.’

They clinked tankards again and locked eyes. William’s were very bright.

Now William’s gaze swept the assembled company. ‘Additional matters. From tomorrow onwards on we will stand three watches, not two. So your duty hours will be four hours on, and off eight, instead of four hours on and four off. This will afford you all more time for relaxation. Mr Christian will be in command of the third watch.’

He moved on to the more mundane. The bread allowance was to be cut by a third, to conserve supplies. The remaining bread supply was to be kept in casks, to minimise infestation by vermin. After they crossed the line and reached the latitudes of the South Atlantic, they would all be issued with heavy weather jackets.

Every day after four o’clock the fiddle-accompanied dancing continued. Byrne’s fiddling, and their dancing, was accompanied by the singing of shanties. One of the most popular of these was ‘Admiral Benbow’, whose lyrics were taught to them by sailmaker Lebogue, the oldest and most-travelled sailor aboard:

Come all you sailors bold – Lend an ear lend an ear

Come all you sailors bold lend an ear

It’s of our Admiral’s fame – Brave Benbow called by name

How he fought on the main – You shall hear

Brave Benbow he set sail – For to fight for to fight

Brave Benbow he set sail for to fight

Brave Benbow he set sail – With a fine and pleasant gale

But his captains they turned tail – In a fright

Says Kirby unto Wade – I will run, I will run

Says Kirby unto Wade I will run – I value not disgrace

Nor the losing of my place – My enemies I’ll not face with a gun

’Twas the Ruby and Noah’s Ark – Fought the French fought the French

’Twas the Ruby and Noah’s Ark fought the French

And there was ten in all – Poor souls they fought them all

They valued them not all – Nor their stench

It was our Admiral’s lot – With a chain shot with a chain shot

It was our Admiral’s lot with a chain shot – Our Admiral lost his legs

And to his men he begs – Fight on my boys he says – ’Tis my lot

Following the dancing, William again recited the Articles of War. Bored now by the repetition of the dire consequences of any wrongdoing, the men shuffled restlessly. But a week out of Santa Cruz, to conclude the customary bulletin, William declared in a more cheerful tone: ‘For today’s midday meal, fresh meat will be served to you all. Tenerife wine will accompany the meat, along with the usual ration of grog.’

A shout went up from surgeon Huggan, leaning against the mainmast. ‘Huzzah for Captain Bligh!’ He was already drunk.

Although the winds continued to be favourable, the Atlantic air was sweltering, the humidity close to one hundred per cent. When the rain came, usually in the late afternoon, it was mainly in short heavy bursts, and when it did William ordered awnings spread above the deck to catch it. The rainwater refreshed the water butts, and the awning protected the men against the rays of the tropical sun when the skies cleared.

William continued to enforce his regime of cleanliness below decks, with the regular washings with vinegar and gunpowder. The humidity caused a malignant mould to form, so that it had to be constantly scrubbed from the walls and ceiling. The crew’s clothing and bedding was ordered to be aired whenever the weather made this possible.

The benefits of this regime became obvious: the crew remained free of illness, and morale was buoyant. There had not been a single flogging.

They crossed the line on 14 February, accompanied by much-reduced rituals. William disapproved of ducking, he told Fletcher. So the first-timers — twenty-seven in all — were merely tarred, then shaved with a piece of iron barrel-hoop. Three bottles of rum were shared, and each man was issued with a half pint of wine. The crew became euphoric. ‘We are now in the Southern Hemisphere!’ they exclaimed to one another.

Fletcher relished his new role and the responsibility that came with it. The black fog which had at one time lodged in his mind was a thing of the past. Everything that lay before him was now filled with purpose, promise and expectation. He had never been so determined to fulfil those hopes and had never been better placed to do so. And for that he had one man to thank — his captain, William.

Peter Heywood was on morning watch at the main masthead when Fletcher scaled the rigging to join him. Bounty was in full sail with a following wind, and the sun was near its midday zenith. Even though Heywood and Fletcher were eight years apart in age, their common Manx background meant they always had much to talk about. Both were now barefoot, wearing only their crewman’s calico trousers. Fletcher’s torso was streaming with sweat; Peter’s shoulders were pink from the sun. Below, the helmsmen were holding Bounty on a southwesterly course and she was making a steady four knots. There were just a few streaks of cloud high in the sky’s blue dome.

Suddenly Fletcher pointed to starboard. ‘Look!’

‘What? Oh, yes. How wonderful.’

A school of porpoises, sleek and glistening, was swimming alongside the ship. They turned their bodies, plunging, rearing and grinning like a troupe of performing clowns. Above them, a flock of petrels dipped and soared, and much higher above them, a fork-tailed frigate bird glided, peering down at the ship. Yesterday whales had broached just a few yards from the larboard bow, their spouting spraying the decks. Master-at-arms Charles Churchill fired at them with a musket, but he may as well have been using a pea-shooter.

Fletcher and Peter chatted. Both were pleased with their allocated roles on the ship, both had ambitions to gain permanent commissions, both agreed that a life at sea was the only one to be contemplated. And both had lately been dreaming of Tahitian maidens.

‘They say,’ mused Peter, ‘that the price of a Tahitian woman is just one nail.’

Fletcher smiled. ‘I’ve read that too. And do you know, there are thousands of nails in the hold.’

‘Blast and bugger your bloody eyes, you putrid lump of Cornish shit!’

Startled, they looked down. Matthew Quintal was standing before the mainmast, hands dangling at his sides. William was standing in front of him and Fryer was behind the captain. William turned to Bounty’s master. ‘What was it that this broken arse said to you, Mr Fryer?’

‘He said, after I told him to clean the head properly, “You can go and fuck yourself, Fryer. That’s not my shit”.’

William put his face closer to Quintal’s. ‘Is that what you said, you fucking arse-licker?’

Quintal raised his chin. ‘Yeah, I said it. ’Cause it needed to be said.’

‘Oh? It needed to be said, did it? Well, I’ll tell you something else that needs to be said, Quintal.’ He turned back to Fryer. ‘This burnt-arse shit bag, this Cornish pasty, is to receive two dozen lashes for his insolence and contempt.’ He stood back. ‘Tell Morrison to let the cat out of the bag. And order the men to watch.’

Quintal stood at the grating, tied at the wrists and ankles. There was a wooden peg between his teeth. William read the charges, announced the sentence, then stood back for boatswain’s mate Morrison, who had the cat-o’-nine-tails at the ready.

One, two, three. Quintal began to quiver. Morrison’s arm rose and fell. Four, five, six. Teeth clamped on the peg, Quintal’s eyes bulged. Morrison continued to lay it on. Seven, eight, nine. Quintal’s back was turning red. Ten, eleven, twelve. Gobbets of flesh and blood flew. Quintal was squirming.

William snapped at Morrison. ‘Right. Throw water over him. Salt water. Then give him another twelve.’

When the ropes were untied, Quintal staggered backwards and reeled. His entire back was bloodied and pulpy. Face dripping with sweat, chest heaving, he spat out the peg and eyeballed not Morrison, but his master and commander. For some seconds he stared into William’s face. His expression was of such loathing that it imprinted itself indelibly on the consciousness of every witness to it. Fletcher in particular would never forget it.

By March they were sailing down the east coast of South America, out of sight of land and driven by the south-east trade wind. Temperatures fell but the seas were moderate, so much so that they were able to cover up to thirty nautical miles daily. When it rained it now came with less intensity. Men trailed lines and hooks baited with pork rind, caught plump porpoises and hauled them aboard. Their steaks made a welcome change from their otherwise monotonous diet of salt pork and beef.

‘Land! Land! Off the starboard bow!’

The cry came from able seaman Alex Smith, from the masthead. It was mid-afternoon on 22 March and the autumn sky was clear, the sun low.

From the decks they saw an expanse of undulating land. Hours earlier Fletcher had shot the sun at midday and reported to William that they had reached 54° 47' South latitude.

Standing alongside him, Peter nudged Fletcher. ‘What is it?’

‘Tierra del Fuego. We’re approaching the south of South America.’ He put his spyglass to his eye. A headland and a long rocky island, streaked with snow, came into view. He and William had studied the charts of Tierra del Fuego’s coast last evening, in the captain’s cabin. ‘That must be Cape San Diego,’ Fletcher told Peter, spyglass still trained on the island. ‘And to the west, Staten Island.’

‘So we’re nearing Cape Horn?’

‘We are.’

Grinning, Peter waved his hand at the gently rolling swells. ‘The infamous Cape Horn? Look at this sea — it couldn’t be kinder.’

The ocean had turned into a mass of moving mountains, moving in several directions at once. They came at the ship from all quarters, rearing then collapsing onto Bounty’s bow and decks. Seawater streamed over the ship, poured down the companionways and into the cabins; the wind howled in the rigging like a pack of feuding wolves.

Standing by the aft companionway, mate Elphinstone screamed at the few crewmen who were not aloft, ‘More men to the pumps! More! More! Ellison, Muspratt, get below and lend a hand! Look fast there! Fast!’

Another cry came from Fryer on the quarterdeck, yelling up at the top men, who were swaying crazily as the ship arced like an overwound metronome. ‘Shorten the foresail! Take in the main!’

One of the released mainmast sails, freed from its sheet, was caught by the wind and wrapped itself around the mast. The ship began to vibrate, then lurch. The men aloft hugged the yards, their feet supported by loops of rope; the men on deck stumbled about like drunkards, clutching at the rails and sheets for a handhold. With every wave that struck the ship the force knocked them down. They glissaded along the deck, slammed into the gunwales, boats or masts, cursing their hurt.

The mountains of black water kept rushing at Bounty. It was as if a huge dam had ruptured somewhere in the mountains of Tierra del Fuego and its lake’s contents were pouring down over them. As swell after mountainous swell struck Bounty, she pitched with punishing force, pluckily defying her massive attackers.

At the helm, quartermasters Norton and Linkletter had lashed themselves to the wheel. William and Fletcher stood behind them, both caped, tricorns tied under their chins, staring up at the close-reefed topsails and the three nearly bare masts swaying like tree trunks in an earthquake.

Sheets of rain, driven by the gale-force westerlies, swept over the ship, so that for the crew the whole world seemed to have turned to water. Water that was black and icy and driven into their faces like grapeshot. It was impossible to know the time of day, or what if any westward progress they were making. All they knew for certain was that they and Bounty were fighting for their lives.

‘Hold your course! Hold your course!’ Legs apart, William braced himself and bellowed at the helmsmen. ‘Bring her to! Keep her into the wind! Hard into the wind!’

Fletcher yelled in his ear. ‘Have you ever seen a sea such as this?’

‘Never! This is the worst!’ He stumbled, then recovered. ‘And it is all the sodding Admiralty’s fault!’

‘What? For the gale?’

William turned to him, his eyes wild. ‘Yes! If those swine-fucking quill-pushers in Whitehall had got off their lardy arses, we would have left England two months earlier and not missed the season at the Cape!’

The ship lurched again, even more violently, and William dropped to his knees. Fletcher helped him to his feet and together they reached for the quarterdeck rail and gripped it. Then, looking up, Fletcher screamed, ‘Oh, Jesus!’

To larboard, a wall of black water was rearing above them, as high as the mainmast.

The wind tore at its curling crest, then the giant comber collapsed and the ship was engulfed. There were cries from below as Bounty fell on her beam ends. The top men hugged the yards for dear life, miniature figures high in the sky, unable to move up or down. The ship rose, then righted herself. Sheets of water raced across the decks, then drained through the scuttles. But she had no sooner come onto an even keel when another gigantic wave reared, this time off the starboard bow, rushed towards the ship and fell upon her like a feeding beast.

Hours passed. The gale continued. There was snow, then hail, which froze their fingers and blasted their faces. William ordered all the hatches battened down, so that the only entrance to the lower deck was through the aft hatchway. But the sea was relentless, continuing to pour into the lower decks, saturating the crew’s clothes and bedding.

For over three weeks they fought off the Cape Horn gales. The tiny ship was like a toy, a plaything of the gusts which abated for only a few hours, when they switched briefly to the east and the sun broke through. During these brief respites the crew attempted to dry their wet clothes and bedding, but hours later the wind resumed its assault, again from the west.

After Fryer reported that the ship was leaking, William ordered the pumps manned through all three watches, day after day. Below decks the men off duty lay in their berths, noses running, rendered speechless by the cold and wet, unable to get up, puking if they ate, joints aching with the cold and damp. The cook struggled to keep alight the galley stove, the sole source of heat, with lengths of dampened wood. William ordered the crew to have grog that was full-strength, not diluted, to help combat the cold. Hot soup and boiled wheat and sugar helped too. He also allowed some of the men whose berths were wet to have his cabin at night, in turns, so that they might get some sleep. Fletcher observed this humane gesture, and admired him for it.

There were casualties. Quartermaster Linkletter fell into the fore cockpit and was concussed; seaman Skinner was slammed into the mainmast base and bruised his spine. Both were treated by assistant surgeon Ledward, who was himself stricken with a chill. Surgeon Huggan, intoxicated from his private grog supply, ventured topside briefly, then in rapid retreat tumbled down the after ladder and dislocated his shoulder. Upon regaining consciousness Huggan croaked to Ledward: ‘Never mind the shoulder, get me more grog.’ Ledward shook his head and shoved the shoulder back into place.

Below decks, frustrations worsened. There was a brawl in the galley as men tried to huddle closer to the fire-box and the cook’s ribs were broken. Another scuffle resulted in Churchill’s hand being burned. Heywood, desperate for sleep, was late for his duty. When this was reported to William, without hesitation William told the midshipman: ‘No excuses, Heywood. You are mastheaded. Now.’ The lad spent five miserable hours aloft when the gale was at its most violent.

Fletcher moved constantly about the ship, below decks and topside. He helped man the pumps at night, then during the hours of dismal daylight went aloft to keep the sails reefed tight. He ordered ropes tied across the deck so the men had something to hold on to. He relieved quartermaster Norton when he was too exhausted to hold the wheel. Worn out himself, Fletcher barely slept.

On 17 April, at midday, William had to get Fletcher to tie him to the mainmast in order for him to take his sextant sights. At that point Fletcher realised they had all had enough. ‘It’s too much,’ he told William as he untied him. Bounty rolled again, wildly, and they both snatched at the mainmast ladder. ‘We can’t go on.’

William looked at him with furious eyes. Then he nodded curtly and turned away.

An hour later, with the ship still pitching madly, William called for the men to assemble below decks. Standing before them, saturated, he declared: ‘You have all put up a brave fight against the elements. I could ask no more of any crew. But the conditions these last twenty-nine days have exceeded the worst I have ever experienced at sea.’ He tipped his head back and grimaced. ‘It is clear that we cannot proceed westward. Accordingly, we shall go about and set a course for Cape Town.’

Some of the crew closed their eyes and gave thanks. There were ragged cheers from others. Several were close to tears. Scotsman McCoy muttered to his Cornish mate Quintal, ‘Fuck Cape Horn forever, let’s have the Cape of Good Hope.’

Fletcher put a consoling hand on William’s shoulder. ‘This isn’t a defeat,’ he told him. ‘It’s just a setback.’

‘Thank you, thank you,’ William replied wearily. Then he retired to his cabin to plot Bounty’s reversed course.

False Bay, Cape Town, 24 May 1788

Dearest Mother,

You will doubtless be surprised to receive this letter from Cape Town, after the one I sent from Tenerife earlier in the year averred that you would not hear from me again until my return to England. None of us aboard Bounty suspected that we would be in Cape Town at this time.

We are now in this Dutch colony, rather than Tahiti, because the adverse gale-force winds of Cape Horn did not permit us safe passage through to the South Sea. After several gruelling weeks of battling wind and sea, we could not pass around the Horn. William puts the blame for this on our late departure from England, and it is true that had we been even three weeks earlier at the Cape, we may well have passed through the Le Maire Strait under more favourable conditions. Our gunner, Peckover, who sailed on all three world voyages with Captain Cook, told me that he had never seen seas like the ones at the Horn, for height and length of swell. So it was with considerable relief that we turned and sailed east, reaching Cape Town five weeks later.

Now that ‘flaming June’ is almost upon you on the Isle of Man, you will be enjoying long summer days on the island. Perhaps Edward and Charles have paid you a visit in the past weeks. If they have not, then this missive may compensate.

You will recall that I have been in this port before, while serving on HMS Eurydice. It is good to be back and enjoying the benefits of European civilisation again, albeit briefly. Bounty took such a battering in the South Atlantic that she requires much repairing: her decks need recaulking and many of her sails and much of her rigging must be replaced. Naturally, we also need to reprovision before venturing to traverse the Indian Ocean. Fortunately the facilities in this Dutch town are well used to providing the goods and services which voyaging ships require. There are seven other ships in the harbour, all Dutch East Indiamen.

William complains at the cost of all this — as purser he must make the necessary purchases and account for every expense, an onerous task. Pilfering, or the suspicion of it, is a constant problem. When a cask of cheese was opened, the supplies of it were found to be short by several cheeses. William declared that a theft had occurred, and stopped the men’s cheese rations. When aroused, he has a fiery temper and will brook no dissent (as is his right as commander). As a protest against his cheese policy, the men refused to eat their butter allowance until the cheese ration was restored, thereby cutting off their noses to spite their faces (or rather, their stomachs). Such are the petty problems that plague a ship’s purser! I cannot emphasise too strongly the importance that food assumes during a long sea voyage. Meals are one of the few pleasures available to seamen, so to lose any food allowance is a loss more keenly felt than anything similar on land, where replacement commodities can be readily obtained. William is particularly sensitive about this matter, and is only too aware of the importance of keeping scurvy at bay. He insists that the men eat a breakfast of hot oatmeal, and also insists that they take their dried malt, sauerkraut and portable soup. They obey, knowing that like Cook’s men they will be lashed if they do not (I have to say, though, that William spares the lash far more than Cook did, in his accounts. There have been only two floggings so far on Bounty; one for insolence while at sea and the other here at Cape Town for want of duty in heaving a lead-line).

Provisions are being ferried to the ship from the shore; fresh beef and Cape wine, sheep and goats to replace those who died of the cold earlier, and bags of seeds which gardener Nelson will plant in Tahiti: apples, corn, lemons and oranges. Thus, we may be taking the Tahitians’ breadfruit, but we will bequeath them our English fruits!

I will end here, as I must also write to Charles and Edward, and to cousin John. I will ensure that all my letters are dispatched on the next ship to England which sails from this port. It is William’s expectation that we will be provisioned and our sails and rigging overhauled by the end of June. After which we will weigh anchor and again set sail for Tahiti, this time via Van Diemen’s Land. But wherever I may be, my thoughts will also be with you.

I am,

Your loving son,

Fletcher

Fletcher and Peter wandered along the Cape Town waterfront, both wearing their hats and capes, both walking with the sailor’s gait that the Cape Horn sea had bestowed upon them. After a week spent helping with the cleaning and repairing of Bounty, they had been given two days’ leave. Winter was approaching in Southern Africa: the sky was a hard, bright blue and the profile of Table Mountain, looming above the town, was silhouetted against the blueness. The day was windless, the harbour water metallic. Bounty was at anchor in the bay alongside a much larger East Indiaman.

The cobbled streets were bustling with carriages, carts and wagons, men on horseback and pedestrians. Dutch women in clogs, baskets on their arms, stood about talking outside the coffee houses and shops, and there were smells in the air of freshly baked bread, smoked sausages, spices, cigar smoke and horse and oxen dung.

Barefoot Hottentot labourers staggered along the dock, laden down with sacks of flour; a few of their women, infants strapped to their backs, were sweeping the cobbles with brushwood brooms. Pairs of Dutch marines in orange uniforms strolled along, muskets with fixed bayonets shouldered. Thin cats wandered about, looking up at the passers-by hopefully. Fletcher was eating a smoked sausage he had bought from a street vendor. ‘Here you go,’ he said, tossing the nearest cat a piece of sausage. It was snapped up.

Staring up at Table Mountain, Peter said, ‘I like it here, Fletcher. It’s so different from anywhere I’ve been before. The mountain, the town, the people. All so different.’

Fletcher nodded. ‘Very different from Douglas, certainly.’

They came to the end of the waterfront, where a canal flowed into the harbour. There were streets on both sides of the canal, and a humpbacked bridge crossed it. Barges were tied up to bollards on one side of the canal and bargemen were loading sacks of grain and barrels of wine onto them from wagons, ready to be transferred to the ships in the harbour.

They crossed the bridge. The street on the other side was lined with more gabled buildings, taverns, warehouses, sail lofts and chandleries. On the corner was a two-storeyed brick tavern with a swinging sign above its door, bearing a painting of a red-faced man with huge side-whiskers, and the name ‘Ambroos’.

‘Fancy an ale?’ Fletcher asked Peter.

‘Yes!’

They went inside. The room was large, with bare wooden floors and several high tables and stools. Mullioned windows were set into the wall facing the harbour. A few middle-aged Dutchmen sat at the tables, smoking clay pipes and playing cards. There was a wood fire stove burning in one corner, with an iron pot on its hot plate, and a servery occupied the rear wall. A staircase led up to the next floor from beside the servery. The men at the tables looked up at the two young men as they entered, muttered among themselves, then returned to their card games.

Behind the servery was a stout, balding man of about fifty, with a white beard and cheeks as red as the ones on the tavern sign. His waistcoat was unbuttoned, exposing a stained blouse. Fletcher and Peter greeted him and ordered tankards of beer. As he poured them from the barrel on the counter, the man asked, ‘Which is your ship?’

They told him, and he smiled. His teeth were yellow, his beard smoke-stained. ‘Ja, ja, Bounty. I watch her come in, the other day.’ Passing the pewter tankards over, he announced, ‘My name Ambroos.’ They told him theirs, then took two of the stools at the servery and drank the ale. It was malty and refreshing. They chatted with the proprietor, telling him about their tribulations at the Horn and how pleased they were to be here, safely. But they made sure not to divulge the purpose of Bounty’s voyage.

When they were on their second beers the Dutchman leaned forward, and asked them in a low voice, ‘You want a woman?’

Both were momentarily disconcerted. Then Fletcher asked, ‘To hire?’

‘Ja.’

Fletcher looked at Peter. ‘You want one?’

Startled, Peter said, ‘I don’t know. Do you?’

‘Yes!’ He asked Ambroos, ‘You have a woman for sale?’

‘Ja. Very pretty.’

‘Can we see her?’ Fletcher asked.

By way of an answer he came out from behind the servery and walked up the stairs. A few minutes later he returned with a tall blonde woman of about thirty, in a pale beige gown. Her flaxen hair was tied back, her bearing was upright and the gown was tight-fitting, emphasising her breasts, waist and hips. The man led her to Fletcher and Peter, and said, ‘This is Meike.’ He said to her, ‘English.’

She looked them up and down, first Fletcher, then Peter. Her face was oval-shaped, her complexion pale and unmarked, her eyes grey. Her nose was slightly upturned, her lips shapely and like her cheeks, entirely unpainted.

In a moment, Fletcher was in love. Peter too kept staring at her. Both were speechless. She was so beautiful.

Ambroos leered. ‘Meike,’ he said again. ‘Pretty.’ She gave him a sharp look, then stared at Fletcher and pointed upstairs. Her expression hardened. ‘You vant?’ she demanded.

Fletcher recalled Madras, and how he had been deceived and attacked. Then he dismissed the thought. This was different, this was a white woman, being sold by a white man. Breathing heavily, he said to the man, ‘How much?’

‘Ten guilder. For each time, ten guilder.’

Fletcher looked at Peter, uncertain. ‘That is  . . .?’

Peter frowned. ‘I think five shillings.’

Fletcher winced. A small fortune. He had only a few pence, hardly enough for another sausage and one more ale. Peter shook his head. ‘I’ve only six pence to my name,’ he said. Fletcher looked again at Meike. Her expression was now expectant as she tucked a stray lock of hair behind one ear. She was so alluring. And so obtainable. For a hefty price. But he had to have her. Must have her. It had been so long since Isabella.

To the Dutchman he said, ‘Tell her, I will get the money. I will come back tomorrow and pay you ten guilders.’

The man spoke to her in Dutch. Meike pouted and looked sceptical. She turned away. Eyes fixed on her, Fletcher swallowed hard then repeated, ‘I will come back. Tomorrow afternoon. With the money.’ He tugged at Peter’s sleeve. ‘Come on.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘Back to the ship.’

‘Come!’

Following his knock, Fletcher entered William’s cabin. He was bent over his desk, quill in hand, an accounts book open in front of him. Fletcher could see columns of figures. He looked up. ‘Fletcher, come in. Sit down.’ Pushing the book to one side, he indicated the spare chair. Fletcher took it.

‘So,’ William said, ‘how was ashore?’

‘Very good. It’s an interesting town. The last we shall see for some time.’

‘Indeed. Tahiti and its breadfruit await us.’

Easing himself into the chair, Fletcher said, ‘While in the town I came upon an artisan’s studio. It belonged to a Dutch wood carver. He makes exquisite carvings of African animals. I was very taken with his work.’

‘Did you purchase any?’

‘Sadly, no. They are costly and, well, I have virtually no money. In the hand, that is.’ William nodded, and Fletcher pressed on. ‘So I wonder, William, if you would be prepared to advance me a sum of money so I can buy some of the carvings.’

‘For yourself?’

‘No, no. For my cousin. John Christian. You remember John, he’s something of a collector of exotic artefacts. I’d like to buy him some of the carvings.’

William’s brow furrowed. ‘What sum would you need, to purchase them?’

‘His price in Dutch currency is twenty guilders for six carvings. In our currency, ten shillings. That is the sum I would like to borrow. It would be repayable immediately upon our return to England, naturally.’

There was a longish pause. Then William said, ‘It’s a considerable sum, but I will advance you the money.’ He placed a hand on Fletcher’s arm. ‘And I do so because you are a trusted friend.’

He took a key from his waistcoat pocket, went to the cabinet beside his bed and unlocked it. He withdrew a metal box and took from it a sheaf of Dutch currency. He counted out several notes then passed them over, saying, ‘Twenty guilders.’ He smiled and added, ‘You may like to bargain with the Dutch artist. Obtain the carvings for a lesser price.’

‘I shall certainly try.’ Folding the notes, Fletcher said, ‘I’m very grateful to you, William. Cousin John will be, too.’

William held up his hand. ‘It’s a loan, remember, not a gift.’

‘I understand. And it will be repaid.’

William nodded. But he also had a strange expression on his face, one that Fletcher could not fathom. Something between doubt and triumph.

But although he could not really comprehend the meaning of that look, Fletcher later recalled that it may have been from that moment onwards that William’s feelings towards him shifted. It was as if he knew that Fletcher now had a moral as well as a financial obligation towards him.

She undressed carefully, removing her gown and undergarments, then folding them and placing them on the chest at the foot of the four-poster bed. Lying upon it, Fletcher watched, entranced, as she revealed her alabaster body. And by the time she came to the bed and lay down with him, he was beside himself with desire.

At last spent, they began to talk, Fletcher overflowing with gratitude for her softness, her suppleness, her capacity for giving.

Meike struggled with her English, but they managed.

She had been married to the captain of an East India merchantman, she told him. From Rotterdam. He was part-owner of this tavern. But two years ago his ship foundered in the monsoon, off the coast of Batavia. Although the ship was within sight of land, it went down with the loss of all but a few hands. Her husband had left her with many debts to repay, and she needed to meet them before she could return to Holland. They had had no children.

‘Are you making enough money to repay the debts?’ he asked her.

She smiled, drowsily. ‘Ja. I make money. But I must share with Ambroos.’

Again he was aroused by the sight and scent of her, her porcelain skin and the depths of her grey eyes. But he had given her all his loan money. He explained. ‘Meike, I’m so sorry. I have no more guilders for you.’

Still smiling, she said, ‘No mind the money. I like you, Fletcher, you are a nice man. You can have this time for free.’ She stroked his face. ‘But doan tell Ambroos.’

That evening over supper, William asked, ‘The purchase of the curios went satisfactorily, Fletcher?’

‘Oh yes. They are very fine carvings.’

‘Good, good.’ William gave a thin smile. ‘Can you show them to me?’

Fletcher swallowed, then coughed to cover his discomfort. Putting his kerchief to his mouth, he said, ‘Oh excuse me.’ Recovering, he replied, ‘I’m afraid I’ve already dispatched the carvings to my cousin. From the postal bureau, this afternoon. It was important that I consign them immediately, to catch the next sailing to London.’

William gave a little grunt, and looked away. Fletcher said hastily, ‘I also found an excellent coffee house, a little way back from the waterfront. Jacob’s. Fine coffee, excellent sausages. Would you like to join me there for luncheon tomorrow?’

William drummed his fingers on the table then shook his head. ‘No, no. I have other business to attend to.’

VAN DIEMEN’S LAND, 21 AUGUST 1788

The bay was on an island in the south of Van Diemen’s Land, in the extreme south of New Holland. William chose this place for replenishment because he had been here with Cook in Resolution eleven years earlier, and had partly surveyed the bay’s coastline. Englishman Tobias Furneaux had named the bay ‘Adventure’ in 1773, after his ship and Cook’s Resolution had become separated in Antarctic waters. Adventure had stayed in the bay for five days.

It had taken Bounty twenty-three days of hard sailing to get to Adventure Bay from Cape Town. After her anchors were lowered near the centre of the bay, Fletcher and William studied the land from the quarterdeck. The captain’s pleasure at returning to the place he had been the very first to properly survey was obvious.

Today Adventure Bay was bathed in spring sunshine, and the land looked inviting. Ranges of hills, covered in forest, rose above the coast. A large bird — some sort of eagle — was gliding above the bay, and a few twirls of smoke arose from the forest, confirming that there were people here.

Looking to the north, they saw that the land tapered away to a low isthmus, covered in dry scrub, which was joined to another humped island. Between the isthmus and the headland at the eastern end of the bay the land looked inviting. Along the coast were stretches of golden sand, separated by shelves of rock.

Fletcher lowered his spyglass. ‘The bay is well wooded. Is there water?’

‘Yes. A stream flows into the sea there.’ He pointed to a place halfway along the shore.

‘What of the natives?’

‘A strange people. Black, primitive and ugly, but not aggressive. They have no seagoing vessels, and live by hunting.’ He slipped his spyglass into its holder. ‘They should cause us no trouble.’ He pointed to a rock shelf to their left. ‘With Cook we first landed there. But we’ll put in further along, closer to the stream mouth.’

The men were already busy on deck, preparing to hoist out the boats, supervised by boatswain Cole. William said to Fletcher, ‘You’re in charge of the wooding party. Take Purcell and four others. Peckover’s in charge of the watering. I’ll go with Nelson, to do some planting. Fruit trees, mainly.’ He stared again at the land. ‘Apples should grow well in this place.’

Fletcher, Purcell and the others did not need to go far to get the wood. Trees grew everywhere, from forest giants to scrubby ti tree. It was cool and dry within the forest, and the absence of undergrowth made it easy for the party to work their way into it. Crows perched on boughs and pairs of green and red parrots squawked at them from the trees then flew away; a long-tailed furry animal scampered away at their approach.

They reached a stand of tall ti tree. ‘Right, lads,’ said Fletcher. ‘Let’s get cutting.’

It soon became clear that Purcell resented this work. A scrawny fellow with outsize ears, he cursed as he hacked at a ti-tree trunk with an axe. Lowering it, he spat on the ground. ‘Fuck this job,’ he said.

Fletcher paused in his cutting. ‘Why’s that?’ he demanded.

‘I’m a carpenter, a skilled worker, not a fuckin’ woodcutter.’

‘We all need wood for the galley. Just get on with it.’

He stood back and his ti tree crashed to the ground. More parrots squawked and flew off. Further away, Muspratt and Thompson were doing their cutting. Purcell swung his axe at the tree trunk, still cursing.

When they dragged their wood out onto the beach, Purcell was still in a foul mood, flinging his onto a pile. Fletcher moved further along the beach to see how far Peckover’s party had progressed with the filling of the water casks. As he did so William and Nelson emerged from the bushline, both with packs on their backs.

William walked up to the wood pile. Removing his pack, he glared at the carpenter. ‘What’s this, Purcell?’

‘Wood, innit.’

‘And what’s it for?’

Purcell, truculently: ‘The galley.’

‘No it isn’t. It’s too long.’ He bent down, picked up a long piece of ti tree and thrust it in Purcell’s face. ‘Can you see this fitting into the fire-box?’

‘It will if it’s cut down.’

‘Then why didn’t you do so? Look at it. It’s all too big. For the galley, or stowage. You’re an idiot, Purcell.’

Purcell glared back. ‘And all you can do is criticise. A man can’t do anything right.’ He picked up his axe and tossed it at William. ‘You want the right-sized wood? Chop it yourself.’ He walked away.

The rest looked at each other in shock. This was insubordination of the worst kind. Much worse than Quintal’s rudeness, which had incurred a severe flogging.

Fletcher, who had overheard the altercation, went up to William. ‘Intolerable insolence, Captain. Shall I take him back to the ship and confine him?’ As a warrant officer, Purcell could not be lashed, but some action had to be taken.

For a moment William looked confused. Then he recovered. ‘No, no.’ He shouted at the carpenter’s back, ‘Purcell! Come here!’

Purcell returned, his face flushed and his big ears pink from the sun. Standing before the captain, he looked down and awaited his judgment.

‘Since you can’t cut firewood properly, Purcell,’ William said, ‘I shall give you a very simple job. A job befitting a simpleton. Go and help unload the water casks.’ He waved his hand. ‘And from now on you’ll be assigned labourer’s duties.’

Purcell gave him a contemptuous look, then turned and trudged off towards the stream mouth. Fletcher said to William, ‘Is that sufficient admonishment, Captain? For such disrespect?’

‘It is.’ William’s face had reddened. ‘And it’s not your place to question my judgment. You were in charge of the wooding party — why didn’t you insist that the wood was cut to proper lengths?’

Irked, Fletcher replied, ‘I fully intended to after it was taken down to the beach. It was more straightforward to drag the lengths here uncut.’

William made no reply. Instead he stalked off. Staring after him, Fletcher thought, the man has a very short fuse. And a vicious tongue with which to light it. He was familiar with the verbal abuse William was so adept at from their time on Britannia. But then his judgments had been sound. Now he seemed indecisive and inconsistent. Why is he so reluctant to punish Purcell, when the man had shown such open contempt towards him? He ought in the very least to have been confined below decks as a punishment. He stared out at the bay where Bounty was riding at anchor. William as a naval commander was displaying tendencies which he had never shown during his merchant service.

Why had he changed?

Other matters concerned Fletcher. The unity the crew had displayed while they battled the Horn storms now seemed under strain. Although there had been only the two floggings so far, fissures were appearing among the Bounty’s company, cracks that Fletcher thought were widening under the rays of the Antipodean sun.

He thought back over the last few weeks. Leading the disaffected was the master, Fryer. Churlish to the core, he was keeping more and more to himself, not even joining the other officers for meals. Was he aggrieved that Fletcher had been promoted over him? Fletcher decided not — Fryer disliked everyone. And the feeling was reciprocated: no one liked him either.

Then there was the surgeon, Huggan. All now realised he was not merely incompetent, but because of his constant inebriation he was a liability. When James Valentine, a fit twenty-eight-year-old able seaman, became ill after Cape Town, Huggan opened Valentine’s arm and let blood flow from the incision. This was standard treatment. But the wound was left uncleaned, became inflamed, and the man’s general condition worsened. After Huggan applied blisters to his chest instead of his back, Valentine grew very ill.

William visited the patient in the forecastle and saw how serious his condition had become. He berated the surgeon. ‘You’re a drunken sot, Huggan. You’re a fucking disgrace to medicine.’ The surgeon stumbled away, muttering incomprehensibly.

Among all the company general unease deepened. If you couldn’t rely on the surgeon for competence, who could you rely on?

And the case of Purcell was not over. Sentenced by William to carry out labouring duties, he complained that his warrant officer status prohibited his doing this work as well. Fletcher looked on as William told the carpenter that unless he obeyed his order he would be denied any provisions. He added, ‘And anyone who comes to your assistance with their own provisions will also be punished.’

Realising this edict made his situation untenable, Purcell carried out the labourer’s duties, but did so with undisguised bitterness.

William gloated to Fletcher, ‘You see? I’ve put the scraggy sod in his place.’ Fletcher said nothing but thought, all this rancour over lengths of unchopped firewood. He did his best to stay clear of the growing discord, but remained concerned about the widening cracks in the company, and the fact that William’s behaviour was becoming so unbecoming. He did concede, though, that some of his outbursts were understandable. He shared William’s dislike of the surly Fryer, and was relieved that his own health remained sound so that he had no need of Huggan’s worthless treatments.

As a distraction from these conflicts, Fletcher firmed up his friendship with Peter Heywood. Since the midshipman’s schooling had been disrupted by his joining the expedition, Fletcher began tutoring the lad in Latin, Greek and mathematics. He proved an able student, and was grateful for the help. Fletcher and Peter also got on well with another of the midshipmen, George Stewart, a stocky Orkney Islander. Fletcher, Peter and George found they had much in common: a curiosity about exotic cultures and a desire to learn all they could about them.

Twenty-one-year-old midshipman Ned Young was another the trio got on well with. Part-West Indian, Ned had curly, coal-black hair and rotting front teeth. He was an exuberant character who made it clear that he was on the voyage to have as good a time as possible. William disliked Young for this attitude, once remarking to Fletcher, ‘He’s a feckless fellow. It’s his nigger blood coming through.’

During their stay at Adventure Bay the friendship between Fletcher, Heywood and Stewart, and to a lesser extent Young, intensified. This comradeship marked them apart from the other crewmen, who showed little interest in learning much about anything. Another exception to this rule was boatswain’s mate James Morrison. A Scotsman, he was a well-read young man, and was known to be keeping a journal, against regulations. But Morrison kept very much to himself, which was not unfitting, given that one of his roles was to administer the lash. As such, he was obliged to keep his distance. But Fletcher found Morrison to be a literate, reflective man.

On one of their last days at the bay, Fletcher, Heywood and Stewart went for a walk along the shore. Gardener Nelson, just returned from his last planting, joined them. Wide-brimmed straw hat on his head, he enthusiastically described the work he had carried out on the eastern side of the bay: ‘I’ve planted apple trees, grapevines, peach stones and pear seeds. Corn and cherries, too.’ He looked up at the clear sky. ‘In this climate, they should do well.’ He smiled with satisfaction. ‘So when you lads come back to this bay in years to come, you’ll have fruit and wine aplenty!’

Just then five native men emerged from the bush and wandered down to the water. They were naked, slender and woolly haired, their facial features concealed under a thick layer of soot. Nelson stared at one of them, an elderly hunchback. ‘Good God, that fellow. The cripple. I saw him when I was here with Cook.’

‘Are you sure it’s the same one?’ asked Fletcher.

‘Yes. That deformity, it’s unmistakable.’ Nelson hailed him. ‘Hello! Hello!’

Looking up from his bent position, the man grinned, revealing that he had no teeth. The other Aboriginals chuckled. Nelson pointed to himself and said, ‘I met you here once before. Eleven years ago. Are you keeping well?’

Not understanding a word, the hunchback went, ‘Huh, huh, huh.’ He was still grinning. Fletcher took his handkerchief from his pocket and gave it to the man. He examined it carefully, then put it on the top of his head. When the other Aboriginals burst out laughing, the visitors joined in.

After this all-round mirth the natives walked back into the bush, making melodic little cries as they went, which could have been song.

It was something of a relief when on 5 September, now fully provisioned, Bounty’s anchor was weighed and she sailed from Adventure Bay. All experienced officers knew that discipline was much more difficult to enforce onshore than aboard ship, when duties kept everyone occupied and purposeful and there were few distractions from the tasks at hand. Also, all aboard Bounty were impatient to reach their real destination.

William had set a south-east course which would loop them around the south of New Zealand, to take advantage of the Roaring Forties. They would then follow a north-east course, to pick up the mid-latitude trade winds. That would take them on a path to the west, and thence to the Windward Group of the Society Islands, the primary island of which was Tahiti.

The afternoon dancing routine resumed, with Byrne fiddling on, his poor eyes firmly shut against the sun. As the crew jigged and jumped and sang their shanties, their minds were concentrated on what lay ahead on Tahiti, although few of those thoughts related to breadfruit.

Meanwhile, two men aboard did their best to discredit the belief that discipline was more enforceable at sea than on land. They were John Fryer and Thomas Huggan.

The relationship between Fryer and his captain was becoming rancorous. Walking past William’s cabin, Fletcher overheard a quarrel between the captain and the master. It was something to do with Fryer refusing to countersign the expenses book, a duty which had to be done monthly.

Fryer’s voice grew louder. ‘I refuse to sign it unless you also sign a statement certifying that my behaviour on the voyage so far has been exemplary.’

A snort from William. ‘What’s the point of that, man? The voyage is not even half over. I shall report on your conduct, but not until we return.’

Fryer stormed from the cabin, scowling at Fletcher as he passed.

Later over dinner, William discussed the conversation with Fletcher. He was mystified by Fryer’s demand: ‘Why does he want me to certify him now? It’s almost as if he anticipates trouble on the ship and wants me to cover his arse, should there be any sort of enquiry when we get back home.’

‘Did you sign a statement testifying to his behaviour?’

‘I did not.’

Later that afternoon William called for all hands to assemble on the main deck. Once again he read the Articles of War, referring to the rules regarding ‘Printed Instructions’, specifically the mandatory joint signing of the expenses book by the master and the captain.

Fryer was standing on one side of William, Fletcher on the other. William’s clerk, Samuel, held out the open expenses book and a quill to Fryer. With the entire crew looking on, William demanded, ‘Now, sign it, Mr Fryer.’

Snatching the quill from Samuel, Fryer said loudly, ‘I sign in obedience to your orders, but this may be cancelled thereafter.’ And he scrawled his signature. The men looked on, incredulous. Ignoring Fryer, William told them, ‘Return to your duties!’

Afterwards, in his cabin, William remarked to Fletcher, gleefully, ‘You see? He signed. I was able to call the bugger’s bluff.’

Fletcher said nothing, knowing that everyone else who had witnessed the altercation interpreted it differently. Fryer had not technically disobeyed a command. But his signing had been accompanied by a caveat, virtually a threat, and one which verged on the mutinous. But like Purcell, Fryer had not been punished for his open disdain. It was one of the most extraordinary scenes any of them had witnessed. What was the captain thinking?

A few days later Fletcher heard Fryer shout at William outside his cabin, ‘I’ll not dine with you again on this ship!’ It was then that Fletcher realised that the rift between the master and the captain was unbridgeable. This knowledge troubled him. What could he do to bridge the divide between them?

On 9 October, James Valentine died.

After Huggan reported the death to William, he said, ‘The man was a case of scurvy, Captain.’ He made a rumbling noise. ‘And I have found others.’

William erupted. ‘Scurvy? On my ship? You lying fucking swine, Huggan, you pathetic apology for a surgeon. There’s never been an instance of scurvy on my ship. My dietary regime precludes it. Valentine died from your botched bloodletting and general bungling!’

Huggan stumbled away to his private grog supply.

The next day Valentine was given a sea burial, the naval rites conducted by a sombre William. The mood throughout the ship was forlorn. Apart from the crew’s sorrow at the death, any hand lost put more of a strain on the others to work the ship.

Valentine’s only possessions — two shirts, one pair of trousers and a pair of boots — were given to the men who had cared for him during his dying hours.

25 OCTOBER 1788

A cry came from George Stewart, at Bounty’s masthead. It was late afternoon.

‘Land! Land! To starboard!’

The sun was low, the sky pale, and Bounty was being driven by a ten-knot wind. Those on deck rushed to the starboard rails. The ones aloft clung to the rigging or leaned over the yards. As Bounty began to raise the island, all were reduced to silence at what was becoming clearer by the minute.

Peaks, jagged and forested, rose from the sea. They soared like spires into the sky and their slopes were creased into valleys. It was an ethereal sight, like a vision of an island.

Tahiti.

It had taken them ten months to get here. They had sailed twenty-seven thousand nautical miles, at an average of one hundred and eight miles a day. The voyage had been arduous, but now that their destination was in sight their tribulations were forgotten.

Away to the north-west, off the starboard quarter, was another mountainous island, its steep flanks illuminated by the sinking sun. It too had a saw-tooth profile.

The sun sank lower and the sky began to take on a blush. As Bounty came closer to the island ahead of them they saw that the mountains swept down to the coast, levelling out onto a plain covered with trees. They were mostly coconut palms, their crowns inclined towards the sea. Interspersed with them were much sturdier trees.

William joined Fletcher and Peter on the quarterdeck. Below them, Fryer stood behind the helmsman, Linkletter, and the boatswain, Cole. It was very hot, and they were all in their shirtsleeves.

‘Two points to larboard,’ Fryer ordered, eyes on the compass. Linkletter moved the wheel: Bounty swung, shuddered, then settled again.

William murmured, ‘Quite a sight, is it not?’

Fletcher shook his head in wonder. ‘Amazing. I’ve never seen anything like it.’

‘Those mountains  . . .’ Peter began, then was lost for words.

William smiled. ‘Cook told me that although he had approached Tahiti several times, he could never get over the sight. He was not a sentimental man, but he loved this island.’

Fletcher pointed towards the more distant island. ‘What is that one?’

‘Moorea,’ William told him. ‘The people in the north of the island are the enemies of the Tahitians. After our goats were stolen there, Cook laid waste to several villages.’

Bounty came closer to their destination and they saw a ruffle of white water directly ahead. The reef. The ocean swells were streaming towards it, then erupting in bursts of spray which hung in the air briefly, then dissolved into the blue. Inside the reef the lagoon water was still and shiny, in contrast to the choppy water surrounding them. A few hundred yards to starboard a flock of feeding terns, wings fluttering, were hovering, then diving into the sea.

Fletcher kept staring at the island, mesmerised. He had heard that Tahiti was beautiful, but this was beyond expectations. The reef and lagoon, those mountains, the valleys, the forest. This place must be like no other on Earth.

William called down to Linkletter, ‘Bring her to, we’ll not go in until the morning. The pass is four leagues to the north-west.’ And to Cole he ordered, ‘Call the crew to assemble.’

William looked at his sheet of prepared notes, then down at the men. ‘The following are your instructions while ashore on this island. Any infringement of them will incur the severest of penalties.

‘Firstly, there is to be no mention of the death of our great Captain Cook. The fact that he was killed by Indians could work to our fatal disadvantage. If questioned, say that Tute — that is what the Tahitians call him — is retired from the sea and living in Peretane, their name for Britain.

‘Secondly, make no mention yet of the purpose of our expedition. The fact that we are here to acquire breadfruit plants is a matter which I alone will negotiate with the island’s leaders. Until I do so, divulge nothing of our intentions.

‘You are to treat the natives with every possible consideration. Remember, we will be guests on their island, so behave towards them as all good guests should. Do not steal or show violence of any kind. Fire upon them only if your own life is in peril.

‘I warn you, however, that the Tahitians, like all natives, have a propensity to thieve. Therefore it is your responsibility, if placed in charge of valuable implements, firearms in particular, to guard those items with every possible care. Should they be stolen, their cost will be charged against you. Furthermore, it is forbidden for you to exchange any item of Bounty’s store for items which the natives may wish to exchange.

‘I am appointing Peckover in charge of all trade with the natives. As many of you know, he sailed to these islands with Cook on all three of his voyages, and consequently speaks the natives’ language well. Peckover?’ The gunner held up his hand. He was a wiry man with greying hair tied back in a queue. ‘I trust you to carry out that important duty with due diligence and honesty. Is that clear?’

‘Aye, Captain.’

‘So, the rest of you, always bear this in mind: any trade that you wish to carry out with the natives must be done only through Peckover.’

William folded his sheet of notes. ‘One more instruction. Before the arrival of Europeans there were no venereals on this island. But when I came here with Cook in ’77, many of the natives were poxed. We deduced that the venereals had been introduced here by Bougainville’s men who came in 1768, then the Spanish, who came in ’74. Like Cook, I am determined that we will not spread the venereals further among the Tahitians. To this end, no one who shows venereal symptoms will be permitted ashore. You are all required to be examined today by surgeon Huggan.’ William’s gaze swept the company. ‘Huggan? Where’s Huggan?’

When his hand did not appear, McCoy called out, ‘He must be sleeping orf the grog, Captain.’ The crew chortled. William called down to McCoy, ‘In that case, go down and wake him. And get him to examine your cock first.’

‘Maeva!’ ‘Maeva!’ ‘Maeva!’

‘Taio!’ ‘Taio!’ ‘Taio!’

The cries of ‘Welcome!’ and ‘Friend!’ came from the mouths of hundreds of Tahitians. Their canoes had put out from the shore at first light as Bounty was being worked through the pass and into Matavai Bay. Some canoes carried drummers whose frantic beating filled the morning air. Many of the people were chanting and a few men blew on conches, so that the bay thrummed with ecstatic sounds.

Two hundred yards from the shore, Fryer ordered Bounty’s bow anchors lowered. The outriggers surrounded the ship, and their occupants — women, men and children — swarmed aboard. They smiled delightedly at the crew, whose mouths were agog at the invasion. The women — most bare-breasted and in bark cloth skirts, their brown skin glistening with monoi oil — carried garlands of the native blossom, tiare, which they placed around the necks of all the sailors. The Tahitian men carried woven baskets of pork, fish and fruit which they placed at the base of the mainmast.

The sailors continued to stare, entranced. Most had experienced nothing like the warmth and spontaneity of this all-embracing reception.

William and Fletcher, both in dress uniform on the quarterdeck, stood out as the ship’s leaders. Accordingly, they were garlanded more heavily than the rest. Bedecked with the blossoms, Fletcher brought a garland up to his nose. Its fragrance was sweet and heady, almost intoxicating.

The captain asked Peckover to tell the Tahitian men that he wished to speak to their leaders. The gunner, obviously enjoying this new responsibility, stepped forward. Although his Tahitian was stumbling, the men understood, nodding and muttering, ‘Ae, ae, ae.’

Peckover reported to William. ‘Some chiefs will come aboard tomorrow.’

Already the garlanded crew were choosing women and taking them by the hand. Some were leading them down the companionways, their intention obvious. Fletcher looked at William to gauge his reaction. He appeared unconcerned, so much so that Fletcher, surprised, asked William, ‘You have no objection to the women going below?’

‘No.’ He leaned over the rail. ‘If we allow the Tahitians to establish friendships, to find special taios, to use their word, then they are more likely to cooperate, and allow us to have their breadfruit.’

‘But the venereals—’

William waved a hand dismissively. ‘Huggan has assured me that none of the men are infected.’

Fletcher looked away, thinking this improbable. Several of the men had told him they had symptoms of the pox. Again he wondered at William’s judgment. Placing his faith in Huggan’s diagnosis, when he had recently castigated the surgeon for his incompetence, was at the very least optimistic. Not that Fletcher blamed the men for their lust: under the circumstances it was entirely understandable. He longed for some cunny himself. After all, disregarding the sooty creatures of Adventure Bay, it was many months since any of them had seen a woman. And for him the Dutch woman, Meike, was now just a distant memory.

So the women stayed, and below decks there was mass, joyful copulation. The law of supply and demand greatly favoured the crew. For every seaman there were two or more women. Several times a hammock’s ropes broke, sending its occupants — a heaving man and two frantic females — tumbling to the boards. After nightfall, others fucked on the decks. Fletcher looked on enviously; William pretended it wasn’t happening.

Next morning Bounty was moved to a more secure anchorage, closer to the shore. Five chiefs were paddled out and came aboard. After gifts were exchanged — beads and mirrors for cooked pigs and plantains — Peckover was able to establish that these were only minor leaders. William was disappointed by their lack of status, but they assured him that their paramount chief, Tu, would shortly be brought out to meet him.

Through Peckover, one of the chiefs, a rotund fellow, asked, ‘How is Tute?’

William replied. ‘Captain Tute is very well. He is retired from the sea now, and is living with Mrs Cook and their children in their house in London.’

The man frowned. Again with Peckover translating, he said: ‘Another ship from Peretane came to Tahiti, a few months ago. Its name was Lady Penrhyn. Some of its sailors told us that Tute had been killed, in Hawaii, years ago.’

Colouring slightly, William shook his head. ‘No, no, Tute lives. And he sent me, his son, to Tahiti, to send his best wishes to the people here.’

The chiefs looked confused for a moment. Then one asked, ‘You are the son of Tute?’

‘Yes. I, William Bligh, am the son of Captain Cook.’

The men’s faces broke into smiles. ‘Ah, ah. Maeva, Parai, son of Tute. Manuia Parai!’

Observing these blatant untruths, Fletcher smiled. When it suited his purposes, the man could lie at the drop of a cocked hat.

He peered again at the land through his spyglass, impatient to get ashore. Point Venus, where Cook observed the transit of the planet nineteen years ago, was a level promontory covered in coconut palms, plantains and breadfruit trees. Fletcher saw that a stream flowed into the lagoon from the centre of the point, and that the western shore of Matavai Bay was bordered by a black-sand beach. He raised his spyglass a little. Inland the terrain rose steeply, first to forested foothills, then to the jagged peaks they had first seen two days ago. Steep-sided valleys separated the mountains; waterfalls cascaded down their sides, glittering in the morning sun. Bruise-black rainclouds were gathering about the mountaintops.

Clearly, Fletcher decided, Point Venus would be the ideal collection centre for the breadfruit plants, as well as for making repairs to the ship. There was wood and water aplenty nearby. Coconuts, too. Swinging his spyglass to the right, he could see a mile or so away a clearing in which there was a large, open-sided house, thatched with palm fronds. Smoke from an earth oven beside the house rose into the air. Could that be the paramount chief ’s residence?

Later that morning William held a briefing with Fletcher, Heywood, Peckover and the gardeners, Nelson and Brown. ‘You will all go ashore today,’ he ordered. ‘Take spare sails and a tent with you, and erect them as shelters, in the centre of Point Venus. That will comprise our shore encampment and the site for a breadfruit plant nursery. Able seamen Lamb, Ellison, Tinkler and Williams will go with you, to assist.

‘Acting Lieutenant Christian, you will stay ashore and be in charge of the camp. Take all your necessary belongings, including your hammock. The seamen will be issued with muskets, as a deterrent against thieving by the natives. Armourer Coleman will also go ashore too, and set up a forge on the point. The axes and knives we traded with the natives back in ’77 are sorely in need of repair, I’ve been told.’ William paused. ‘We must do everything we can to earn the natives’ friendship, so that the breadfruit plants will accrue to the nursery. Peckover, you will use your linguistic skills as trade supervisor for the breadfruit.’

Fletcher was delighted to be given his new role. Once ashore, he slung his hammock between the trunks of two coconut palms. Looking up into their crowns, he saw clusters of yellow nuts. Food and drink, growing at his front and back door! Stripping to the waist, he supervised the erection of the tarpaulin shelters. The ship’s boats had transported the hundreds of pots to the shore, and Nelson and Brown were stacking them under the trees, ready for filling with earth and breadfruit shoots. Nelson explained to Fletcher that the breadfruit grows not from seeds, but from suckers and shoots from a mature tree’s roots. Tanned and bearded, Nelson contrasted strongly with Brown, who was short, tubby and in spite of his name, very pale. But both men looked the part of dedicated horticulturalists, wearing wreaths of tiare flowers around the crowns of their straw hats.

Later that day William came ashore and inspected the camp. There had been squally rain in the morning but the sky had cleared, although the ground was still damp under the palms and the air was muggy. The improvised shelters, their corners roped firmly to palm tree trunks, had held up well in the wind and rain.

Fletcher offered William a coconut and he swigged its juice. Nodding approvingly at the pots, now laid out in serried rows, he said, ‘A miniature Kew Gardens. Sir Joseph Banks would be delighted.’ He tossed the nut aside. ‘Fletcher, I am shortly to meet Tu, the Tahitians’ high chief. When I do, I want you to be there too.’

‘Why so?’

‘Tu is, Peckover reports, from the highest class of Tahitians. He’s the ari’i rahi, the highest chief. He’s also been an arioi, another exclusive class. So it’s fitting that you accompany me when I meet him.’

‘I don’t follow you, William.’

‘You, too, are of an upper-class background.’

Fletcher found it hard not to laugh. ‘William, I am from the aristocracy of Cumbria and the Isle of Man. Minor aristocracy. He is a paramount chief. All the chief and I have in common is that we are both islanders.’

William’s expression became strained. ‘My point is, Fletcher, that you are from a class higher than my own. And it shows in your bearing. The Tahitian people are greatly conscious of status. Cook learned that, and so did Banks. The Tahitian rulers truly respect only those of a class similar to themselves. Those men who visited us at first were lesser chiefs. Tu is the most important leader. Those of his class have contempt for the lower class, the manahune, and even more so for the very lowest class, the teu teu. Conversely, they have deep respect for the upper class.

‘It’s my impression that most of the women who have come aboard Bounty are teu teu.’ He snorted. ‘Fitting, since most of our crew are from England’s lowest class. Our own teu teu. But as I said, there is no one else among Bounty’s company who is of your elevated background. I have the authority of naval command, you have the authority which stems from your lineage. So it’s fitting that you are with me when I meet with the high chief. It will help our cause.’ His eyes bored into Fletcher’s. ‘All right?’

‘Very well.’ But he thought, that is a very odd stance for the captain to adopt.

When Tu, his wife and their retinue were paddled into Matavai Bay in their pahi, a large double-hulled canoe, Fletcher greeted them on the beach, dressed in his officer’s uniform. That too was suitable protocol, William had told him. The chief must be met by a person in authority, in keeping with his great status.

Tu certainly looked the part. He was tall, well over six feet, and powerfully built. A tangled bush of dark curly hair covered the sides of his face. He had a straggled moustache, a prominent nose and a small clump of wiry hair on his chin. Itia, his wife, was short and very fat, with long dark hair which hung loose. Both leaders were wrapped in several layers of white bark cloth.

Fletcher offered the chief and his wife his hand and greeted them the way Peckover had instructed him. ‘Ia ora na. Maeva. To’u i’oa o, Lieutenant Fletcher Christian, of King George’s ship, HMAV Bounty.’

Visibly impressed with Fletcher’s uniform and demeanour, Tu inclined his head respectfully, then said, ‘Maururu roa. To’u i’oa o, Tu. Ia ora na. Maeva.’

They were paddled out to the ship in the pahi. The three men and three women manahune accompanying the leaders had baskets of food in their laps. One man carried something wrapped in tapa cloth.

The canoe drew alongside Bounty and they all disembarked, Fletcher leading. Itia was so ungainly it took two seamen to get her up onto the deck. William greeted them at the starboard gate, removing his cocked hat and bowing. ‘Welcome, Chief Tu. Welcome Mistress Itia. Welcome to this ship of the navy of King George of Peretane, HMAV Bounty.’

Fletcher stood back, now deferring to William. Observing the scene, he saw that it had a slightly absurd aspect. William was so short, the chief so tall, the one pale, the other bronzed. William’s head reached only to Tu’s chest. Because of this, his authority seemed diminished. Fletcher had been told that the natives revered physical size and prowess. If that was so, William did not stack up. Yet Tu was treating him respectfully, in keeping with his status as commander of this vaka nui, this big ship.

On deck, gifts were given and received. Lengths of bark cloth, a large cooked pig and some breadfruit from the Tahitians were exchanged for adzes, axes, knives, files, a saw and mirrors from William to Tu. To Itia, William presented beads, necklaces and earrings. To Fletcher’s amusement Itia showed indifference towards these geegaws, indicating that she was much more interested in the axes.

Tu then beckoned a man to come forward, the one who was carrying the parcel. He handed it to Tu, who handed it to William, who opened it.

‘Good God  . . .’

It was a portrait of James Cook, painted in oils on canvas. His expression was stern, his features haggard.

Fletcher stared at it, amazed. ‘Who did it?’ he asked William.

‘John Webber, our artist, when we were here in ’77.’ He said to Tu, ‘You have been looking after this for many years?’

The chief nodded. ‘Tute ari’i no Tahiti.’

Peckover translated. ‘That means, he calls the picture “Cook, the high chief of Tahiti”. It is a treasured object to his people, I think.’

‘Yes, yes.’ William handed the portrait back. ‘You must keep it. Tute’s son orders you to keep his portrait. Forever.’

William and Tu then exchanged names, signifying that each was now the valued taio of the other. William murmured to Fletcher, ‘Being taios means we will always support each other. Including supplying plenty of breadfruit for us.’

They went below decks to the dining room, Itia included. William told Fletcher that normally Tahitian men and women dined separately, but Itia’s distinguished status meant that this edict would be waived. With Peckover’s language skills again being put to good use, William explained the purpose of their visit. What they needed, he told Tu, were young uru, breadfruit plants, to take back to King George of Peretane. He wished to grow them in his palace garden, in London.

Tu nodded, Parai could have all the uru he wished. He also explained that Matari’i’i’raro, the Season of Scarcity when the breadfruit was not mature, was nearly over. Matari’i’i’ni’a, the Season of Plenty, when much rain came, would shortly be upon them. The breadfruit would from then on be ripening, he said. But the young breadfruit shoots would be suitable for transplanting now.

As the chief and his entourage were farewelled, Tu told them that William, Fletcher and Peckover — who had obviously earned mana from his good spoken Tahitian — would be welcome as Tu’s guests the next day, at his fare nui, his big house along the coast at Pare. He would send a servant to guide them there.

Nudging Fletcher, William said jubilantly, ‘You see? My tactics worked.’ Aware that Peckover had overheard him, he warned, ‘Don’t bother translating that.’

The trio walked inland, guided by a barefoot boy. In spite of the cloying heat, both William and Fletcher again wore their uniforms, including cocked hats; William had buckled on his sword. Peckover, though, wore a plain jacket and cap.

A well-formed trail led up through the forest, then veered right and ran parallel to the coast. Overhead were the crowns of huge trees: tamanu, toa, mape and uru, their leaves dripping from recent rain. Shrubs of flowering aute, fara and tiare grew prolifically, and clumps of plantains were everywhere. The foliage exuded an earthy smell, overlaid with the scent of wild herbs. Colourful parrots called to one another, then flew away at the men’s approach. William and Fletcher swatted away insistent, buzzing insects with their hats.

After an hour’s walk through the forest, trailing the boy, they were all sweating profusely and it was a relief when they reached a clearing. ‘Here it is,’ Peckover announced, panting. ‘The fare nui of chief Tu.’

Built atop a long mound, the house occupied the centre of the clearing. A crowd of onlookers had gathered around it, and they burst into excited conversations as the servant boy and the trio of Popa’a — foreigners — emerged from the forest. Some of the women began to sing and sway their hips; others tossed tiare blossoms at the visitors.

The house was open-sided, its palm-frond roof supported by timber posts. Tu and Itia, both still wrapped in white cloth cloaks, greeted their guests by touching noses, then led them into the house. A mat of bark cloth like a hall runner was laid out along the length of the building, and seated at one end was Tu’s extended family, including his father, grey-haired Teina, and Tu’s young son. Behind them on a wooden platform was a display of food: two large cooked pigs, several baked tuna, sticks of sugar cane and fruits of all kinds. A large carved ’ava bowl had been placed in front of the food.

Tu went to William and wound a length of white bark cloth around his shoulders. It was large and bulky. Encased in this cloth carapace, his bare head protruding from it, William resembled an albino turtle, Fletcher thought.

Tu indicated that he and William should walk the length of the long mat and back again. As they did so Tu’s voice boomed out. ‘Parai, taio. Tama e Tute!’ ‘Good friend Bligh! Son of Tute!’

The spectators looking on echoed his acclamation, crying out ‘Fa’aitoito!’ ‘Well said!’

Fletcher sat to one side, observing the scene and the ceremony. He was entranced. The cheering and singing crowd, the women’s seductive dancing, the exoticness and exuberance — it was all captivating.

Tu and William sat down in front of the chief ’s family, with Fletcher and Peckover to one side. A servant filled a coconut shell cup with ’ava and handed it to Tu, who drank from it, then passed it to William. He sipped it, then passed the cup on hurriedly to Fletcher. He took a mouthful. It looked and tasted like a muddy puddle, but had an aftertaste that was refreshing. Thirst-quenching, too, although it left his lips a little numb.

As Fletcher passed the shell cup to Peckover, he noticed someone on the other side of the fare, next to one of the pillars. A young woman, sitting cross-legged on a mat by herself, wearing a cape of white bark cloth. She had a mane of long black hair and a scarlet hibiscus flower behind her right ear.

Unable to resist, and seeing that William was now eating with Tu’s party, Fletcher went over to her. He indicated that he wished to sit next to her. ‘Ia ora na. May I?’

She nodded, then looked at him inquisitively. Her face was oval, her nose slightly flattened, her cheekbones prominent. She looked to be in her mid-twenties. He sat down and crossed his legs, then beckoned Peckover over. ‘Tell her who I am, and where I’m from.’

Peckover said to her, ‘O Fletcher Christian to’u i’oa. No te mai rau Peretane.’

She nodded, then tapped her breast. ‘O Mauatua to’u i’oa.’ Her eyes were lustrous, almost black.

‘Ah  . . .’ said Fletcher, rolling the vowels. ‘Mow-ah-too-ah.’

‘Ae.’

She smiled, showing bright white teeth, then placed her hands in her lap. She stared at his uniform, then his face, assessing both. He noticed that the back of her right hand, and all her fingers, were intricately tattooed. The fingers themselves were very long and slender. Like Isabella’s.

Fletcher said to Peckover. ‘Tell her, tell Mauatua, that she is very beautiful.’

He did so, and she smiled. She’s not unused to compliments, Fletcher thought.

He wanted to be with her, alone.

‘Ask her, if she would like to walk with me.’

As Peckover did so he watched anxiously for her reaction. She blushed slightly, then posed a question. Peckover said, ‘She wants to know when.’

‘Now.’

Peckover asked her and she responded unhesitatingly. ‘Ae.’

Then she reached out and put her hand on Fletcher’s sweaty brow. She held it there for a moment, frowned, then said, ‘Mahanahana.’

‘She says you’re very hot,’ Peckover said.

Fletcher nodded, only too aware of that fact.

When she stood up, Fletcher was taken aback. She was very tall, only a little less so than he was. And slender-limbed. She glanced around. People were watching. She gestured for him to follow.

Peckover returned to his interpreting duties. When Fletcher looked across at William, he saw that he was deep in mimed conversation with Tu and Itia.

Fletcher and Mauatua passed through the crowd of spectators, she leading. The people murmured to one another and nodded approvingly at the handsome pair.

She walked tall and perfectly upright, her head held high. She didn’t follow the path that he had come by, instead turning off to the right and along another, steeper trail. ‘Where are we going?’ he asked. She stopped, looked at him quizzically. ‘Where are we going?’ he repeated, pointing ahead. She nodded, understanding, then made sweeping gestures with her arms. He frowned, then said, ‘Swimming?’ Without replying she resumed walking, her bare feet pressing into the mud of the track. He followed, admiring her slim figure and the mane of coal-black hair.

He heard the sound of gushing water before he saw the cascade. Brushing aside some ferns, she led him into a clearing. Above it was a waterfall, pouring into a pool several yards across. The water streamed through a chasm between two boulders, then crashed into the pool. Around it were grasses with bright yellow and red flowers and a little further back, forest giants with enormous boughs, epiphytes entwined around them. The water streamed out through a channel on the lower side of the pool.

Sheltered from any breeze, the clearing was searingly hot. Overhead the sky was as blue and bright as a stained-glass window.

Mauatua pointed at the waterfall. ‘Vaiharuru,’ she said.

‘Vay-ha-roo-roo,’ he repeated, and she smiled at his clumsy inflections.

‘Aita. No. Vai-ha-ru-ru.’

She sat on the sedge at the edge of the pool and slipped her feet into the water, indicating that Fletcher should do the same. He tugged off his muddy boots, then removed his hat and jacket. Rolling up his hose, he put his feet into the water. In spite of the sweltering air, it was icy cold, and he gasped at the contrast. Laughing, Mauatua flicked back her hair.

Fletcher rubbed his bare feet. Becoming accustomed to the cold, he sighed with pleasure at the water’s freshness. Beside him, Mauatua cupped some in her hands and splashed it over her face. Noticing again the tattoos on her right hand, he took it in his. Tracing the intricate, blue-black lines, which resembled a glove of blue lace, he asked, ‘Was it painful? To have this done?’ He thought for a moment, then screwed up his face and flinched hard, miming pain.

Understanding, she nodded, and mimicked his pained expression. ‘Ae. Tah-tau.’

‘Tattoo.’

She shook her head. ‘Aita. Tah-tau.’

They both laughed.

Then, without warning, she stood up and removed her cape and skirt. Fletcher gasped. Her skin was pale, and shone with monoi oil. He stared, spellbound.

Then she turned, took a few steps forward, raised her arms and dived neatly into the pool. She vanished for several seconds. The red hibiscus flower bobbed to the surface and floated there. She surfaced, her face towards him, her mouth wide open. She swept her hair back, then beckoned him forward. Seconds later he was beside her in the cool, translucent water.

‘I am Fletcher Christian,’ he said, standing on the sandy floor of the pool and touching his chest.

She shook her head. The surname was unpronounceable to her. She reached out and touched his shoulder. ‘Tee-ter-ree-ah-naw.’

He was newly christened. Titereano.

He took her in his arms. They were both cool now, and dripping. He put his face to hers, his mouth seeking her lips. But she pulled away, saying ‘Nei, nei,’ and instead put her nose against his, and blew a breath through it. It was warm, and smelled of something sweet. Some sort of fruit, perhaps. They touched noses again, then he held her, and they went to the grass at the side of the pool.

Minutes later they came together.

And from that moment on, the lives of both of them were changed forever.

TAHITI, OCTOBER 1788–APRIL 1789

Later, he would recall those weeks as the happiest of his life. His role as commander of the shore camp, never demanding, became less so as the weeks went by. It required him only to oversee the breadfruit collecting of the gardeners and ensure that the duty seamen maintained security at the nursery. This was not difficult, as there was no thieving by the local Tahitians. In fact they seemed pleased to help, willingly transferring the cut shoots to the camp, and assisting to pot them.

Mauatua’s family fare was a fifteen-minute walk east of Point Venus, on an elevated headland. From now on Fletcher stayed there, calling at the plant nursery every other day to check on the potting. When he realised his presence was largely superfluous — Nelson and Brown were preoccupied with their horticultural duties — he paid fewer visits to the point.

Consequently he saw less and less of William. So did the rest of the crew. The captain either entertained Tu, Itia and their feti’i — the extended family — aboard Bounty, or was a guest ashore, at the fare nui at Pare or at one of the marae along Tahiti’s northern coast. It became obvious to the crew that William preferred the company of the Tahitian chiefs to them.

That suited the crew, too. Once the essential maintenance on Bounty had been carried out — the sails dried and repaired, the seams recaulked, the rigging checked — they idled their time away, both on the ship and ashore. They fished with lines from the decks, then brought aboard and cooked their catches. If rostered for shore leave by Fryer, they roamed the coastal plain with their taios. Many brought women back to the ship. There the vahines stayed, had sex and helped prepare meals in the galley, cooking the fish and the pork they brought aboard. Bounty had become a comfortable hub, lacking authority. The very antithesis of a Royal Navy ship.

Late in October William paid a visit to Point Venus when Fletcher was there. After glancing at the rows of potted plants, he told Fletcher, ‘I am to be the honoured guest at another heiva today. At Papy-noo. I will be paddled along the lagoon to the marae there. I will probably stay three days.’

In the tropical heat he still wore his formal uniform. Adjusting his wig, he added, ‘These people continue to treat me royally. Two days ago, at Aru-aye, I was carried across a river by four warriors, then borne onto the marae on their shoulders.’ He added as an afterthought, ‘Fryer remains in charge of Bounty.’

He strode off, clerk Samuel following with a canvas pack filled with gifts for his hosts. McCoy, one of the guards on greenhouse duty, had overheard William’s little speech. He sniggered, and remarked to his friend Quintal, ‘Thinks hisself the fuckin’ king of Tahiti now.’

Although Fletcher ignored the comment, he had come to much the same conclusion. William’s sense of his own importance was being inflated through the hospitality of the natives towards him. But this munificence, Fletcher believed, derived principally from William’s gift-giving, and his ongoing dissemination of the fiction that he was the son of Captain Tute.

Fletcher’s days were now filled with love-making, swimming and exploring the forest with Mauatua. They swam at the waterfall pool, Vaiharuru, and at Matavai Bay’s beach. Never in his life had Fletcher felt so clean and fit and healthy. Leaving his uniform at the encampment, most days he wore just his sailor’s trousers. His skin was becoming deeply tanned. He not only looked like a native, he felt like one.

And Mauatua’s lithe body continued to enchant him.

Once, while kissing her bare armpit, he asked, ‘Why is there no hair here?’ He stroked her bare mons Veneris. ‘Or here?’

She laughed. ‘We take away hair. Like this.’ She reached for one of his pubic hairs, and plucked it between her fingers. Wincing, he said, ‘I will leave my hair there. But I shall take on the responsibility of plucking yours.’

A natural linguist, Fletcher picked up her language quickly, appreciating the vowel-rich Tahitian. The names of trees, plants, flowers and places he absorbed and memorised, while at the same time teaching her English words and phrases. The Tahitian phrase ‘Aita papu’ — ‘I don’t understand’ — and its English equivalent, they used less and less.

There were other words they taught one another. ‘What is your name for this?’ he asked, caressing her. ‘Raho,’ she said, gasping. ‘You call?’

‘Cunny.’

She reached down and took him in hand, tenderly. ‘We call this one ure.’

‘Ah,’ said Fletcher. ‘Ure and raho. Nice names. They go well together.’

She told him of her lineage. Her family were high-born: her now-deceased father had been an important ari’i. She had been brought up mainly by her grandmother, Tetua. It was she who had rolled Mauatua’s fingers between hers when she was a baby, and stretched them, every day, so that they grew long and slender. Grandmother Tetua had also pressed Mauatua’s baby nose with her forefinger for a few minutes each day, so that it became slightly flattened. Long fingers and a flattened nose, Mauatua explained, signified beauty. Her mother, Maoiti, encouraged her to weave and plait and make bark cloth, activities which, unlike working the soil, would protect her fine fingers. ‘Only teu teu put their hands in the earth,’ her mother told her.

‘Your hands are beautiful,’ Fletcher said, tracing the outline of her tattoos. ‘And your nose.’ He brought his gently onto hers. She laughed with delight.

She was eager to learn about his family and how they lived. When he told her they had once owned a fare nui and fenua — a big house and land — but had lost both, she was mystified. ‘How can land be lost?’ she asked, waving her fingers towards the horizon to suggest infinity. ‘Land is owned by a feti’i forever.’

Fletcher shook his head. ‘Not in Peretane,’ he said. ‘My family’s land has gone from us forever.’

Mauatua looked horrified: to her, such a loss was inconceivable. Then, when he told her about the Isle of Man, she asked what trees grew on Fletcher’s island. Breadfruit? Coconuts? Bananas?

‘No,’ he replied each time, at the same time loving her for the questions.

She remembered the visits that Captain Tute had made to her island, even though she had been only a little girl during his first one. Her grandmother had been a taio of Tute’s and took her to see the sacred Webber portrait at Tu’s fare. Everyone had loved the great Captain Tute.

One morning she took Fletcher a little way inland and showed him a garden plot and English vegetables whose seeds had been planted by Tute’s gardener during his second visit to Tahiti. Although the plot had been invaded by weeds, the plants were still growing vigorously, and seeding. Her people collected the seeds, to grow the English plants in their own gardens. He told her the names of the vegetables in the plot and she repeated them carefully: ‘Pum-kin. Pee. Pean. Pars-nip. Car-rot. Ca-bage.’

Peter Heywood had also made a special taio, a cheery girl with almond eyes called Maire. Also a member of Mauatua’s chiefly extended family, Maire had the habit of breaking into song whenever she felt happy, a state which she seemed constantly in when with Peter. And as she sang, her hands traced patterns in the air and she swayed her hips languidly.

Peter had moved into Maire’s family’s fare at Arue, where he was made very welcome. He too was learning Tahitian, under Maire’s tutelage. ‘Her name means Fern of the Gods,’ he told Fletcher. ‘Tahitian’s an uncomplicated language. There are no genders, no declensions, no conjugations. Although the vowels are pronounced more like they are in Spanish, there are just five of them, as in English.’ He showed Fletcher a notebook. ‘I’m compiling a dictionary.’ In it he had listed common words and phrases in Tahitian, and their English equivalents.

He recited one entry to Fletcher, speaking like a schoolmaster to his pupil: ‘O vai to oe i’oa? Meaning, “What is your name?” O Peter to’u i’oa. My name is Peter.’ He said challengingly, ‘Get it, Fletcher?’

‘Yes. Mauatua has already taught me how to say that. O Titereano to’u i ’oa.’

‘Impressive. Now, can you say “I love you”?’ Peter was grinning.

‘Ae. Ua here vauia oe.’ He smiled. ‘It is a statement I have had much cause to use, recently.’

‘Indeed, I have used it much myself.’ Peter laughed. ‘It’s a most common statement to make, on this island.’ He brandished the notebook. ‘When we return to England I shall get this published.’

Fletcher nodded, but the words ‘return to England’ were chilling. Although he often thought of his family, he thought less and less of England or the Isle of Man. What he had discovered on this island, especially the love of Mauatua, was precious. When she lay in his arms on the fare mat, their love-making complete, his thoughts began to border on the subversive. Why should he return to England? For the sake of a few hundred sodding breadfruit plants? Which were destined to sustain a system he despised — slavery.

He lay on his back staring up at the underside of the palm fronds. Mauatua was asleep now beside him. The scent of their bodies, combined with that of the tipani blooms and monoi oil, clung about them both. Closing his eyes, he thought, this island could be where the rest of my life could lie.

One morning he and Mauatua walked through the forest so she could show him her people’s special marae, Tarahoi. It was forbidden for her to go onto the marae because it was only for men, she told him. ‘For vahine it is ra’a. Forbidden. But you can go.’

They emerged from the forest, hand-in-hand, and entered a large clearing. Mauatua stood well back while Fletcher walked over to the marae.

It consisted of a series of tiered stone slab platforms, rising in steps and culminating in what looked like an altar, also of stone. Surrounding the complex were coconut palms, flowering tipani trees and pandanus shrubs. To one side of the marae was a squat statue carved from pitted red stone, about six feet high and five feet wide.

Fletcher walked up to the highest tier. On it was a wooden frame, and dangling from it were strips of bark cloth and dozens of bleached human jawbones. Heaps of other bones lay beneath the frame. There were several rotting pig carcasses there too, putrid and swarming with flies.

Although the marae setting was bucolic, the sight of the bones and the stench of the rotting flesh made Fletcher blench. There was a sinister atmosphere about this place: it reeked of violent death. How many gruesome ceremonies, he wondered, had it witnessed?

Mauatua had earlier told him something of the terrible war that had occurred between her people and those who lived at Tahiti-Iti, at the other end of the island, when she was a little girl. There had been many, many deaths, she said.

Fletcher’s misgivings about the marae’s purpose were confirmed after he rejoined her at the edge of the forest. He asked her, ‘Whose bones are those on the marae? Enemies of your people?’

She hesitated, searching for the words. ‘Not enemies.’ She mimed someone being struck on the back of the head. ‘Men killed for atua. For gods.’

He understood. ‘Sacrifice. Human sacrifice.’

‘Suck-ree-fice.’ She rolled the word around in her mouth.

‘Who were they? The people sacrificed?’

‘Teu teu man. Always teu teu man killed for atua.’ They weren’t killed on the marae, she explained, they were killed elsewhere, then their bodies were brought here. She explained this matter-of-factly.

‘And that statue?’ He pointed at the stone image.

‘Tee-kee. Atua.’

‘A god?’

‘Ae. Teekee atua. Tapu.’ She pointed towards the serrated peaks that loomed above the clearing. Bunches of dark clouds were roiling over their summits. Mauatua waved her hand in that direction. ‘In mountains, many, many marae.’

On their return to Matavai, the clouds broke and rain fell in torrents. As they sheltered under a huge banyan tree, Mauatua looked out at the rain. ‘Matari’i’i’ni’a. Te tau miti rahi,’ she announced. ‘Season of plenty, season of rain and storms, has started.’

On the last day of November Fletcher put on trousers, shirt and boots and returned to Bounty. He needed to collect a notebook, quill and ink from his cabin. He had decided it was time he started a journal recording his experiences on Tahiti, a decision inspired by his reading of the vivid journal Banks had kept back in 1769.

While searching for the writing materials among his belongings, Fletcher was struck by how constricted the cabin was, compared to his accommodation ashore. Being back here was like being a prisoner in a cell, or a cock in a coop. The air was fetid, still stinking of the body odours which had been washed away in Matavai Bay and at the waterfall pool. In confirmation of the cabin’s cramped nature, as he stood up he cracked his head on the ceiling. Leaving the cabin, rubbing his scalp, he saw William entering his. The captain stopped, and looked surprised.

‘Fletcher, good day. We have seen so little of each other of late.’ He held open his cabin door. ‘Come and chat.’

They sat facing each other over the table. William was wigless, and wore just his blouse and breeches. Fletcher noticed he had put on weight: the blouse now strained to cope with his bulging belly. His parsnip-pale face contrasted with the crescents of darkness under his eyes. Fame is obviously an exhausting business, Fletcher thought.

They chatted. William was affable and relaxed. Yes, Nelson and Brown were doing a grand job. They had already collected several hundred breadfruit plants. No, there had been hardly any thefts by the Tahitians. But yes, the time was dragging on. What was supposed to take eight weeks had already taken ten. But no, it was not his fault: that was caused by their delay in leaving England. And yes, the Admiralty officials were to blame for the lateness, for they had caused Bounty’s much-delayed departure and subsequent loss of time. If they had sailed when they were supposed to, the work would have been finished by now.

Fletcher listened without comment to this familiar litany. As always, William sounded both confident and condemnatory. If there was a fault, it always lay elsewhere.

Changing the subject, Fletcher said, ‘I’ve been told that the storm season is imminent here.’

‘Really?’ William sounded unconcerned.

‘Yes. So it occurred to me that Bounty should be moved to a more sheltered anchorage. For reasons of safety.’

‘Oh? You know what the weather is going to do, do you?’

Ignoring his sarcasm, Fletcher said, ‘Evidently from December onwards, wild weather often comes from the north. In which case Bounty could be vulnerable.’

‘Today the sky is blue, the wind merely a zephyr. The ship is firmly anchored fore and aft. We cannot waste time moving her.’

Fletcher shrugged. ‘The decision is yours. I merely suggested the move.’

William met his level look. For some moments he was silent, staring intently at Fletcher to the extent that it made him feel uneasy. He looked away. Feeling his hands becoming slippery, he rubbed them on his breeches.

Then, changing tack, William said, ‘Two days ago I was the guest at a heiva, at Aroo-aye. It was most interesting. Along with the usual singing, dancing, drumming and all the rest of it, there were some mahoo there.’ He paused. ‘Do you know what mahoo are?’

‘I’ve been told. Men who behave like women.’

‘That’s right. Big strong men, but they wear flowers and shell jewellery, and exhibit female mannerisms.’ William rubbed at his stubbly chin. ‘Curious about the mahoo’s private parts, I took the chance to closely examine one. I asked, first, naturally, if he, or she, I should say, would let me look closely between its legs. The mahoo agreed, then lay down and opened its legs. And I examined it closely.’ William gave a half-smile. ‘The penis and testicles had been pulled right back and tied, so that they were hardly visible. They had shrivelled almost entirely away. The cock and balls being hidden helps them to act like a female. Remarkable, don’t you think?’

Fletcher made no comment. But he thought, if a short, bewigged English sea captain got down and examined my cock and balls, they would certainly shrivel.

Still with an odd half-smile, William continued his report. ‘I asked one of the chiefs if the mahoo indulge in carnal activities. He explained to me — by mime — that they perform fellatio. No sodomy. And only on their superiors, as a sexual service. Very interesting, don’t you think?’

Fletcher just nodded. Where is this conversation headed?

William leaned back and put his hands behind his head. ‘I’m told you have a woman on the shore,’ he said. Fletcher gave a short nod. William tilted his head slightly. ‘Is she any good?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘In the carnal sense.’ His eyes were now tightly focused. ‘I assume you are knowing her carnally. So, as I said, is she any good?’

Affronted, feeling himself colouring, Fletcher said, ‘I consider that an improper question. It is no business but my own. And Mauatua’s.’ He met William’s stare. ‘Would you answer such a question if I asked it of you and Betsy?’

William made a scoffing noise. ‘No. But the situations are not comparable. Betsy is my wife. You and the native woman are not married.’ He gave a little laugh. ‘At least I assume you and she have not gone through a form of native marriage, shall we say.’

‘You assume correctly.’ Fletcher stood up. ‘And I have no wish to continue this conversation.’

William also got to his feet. His expression changed. Looking up into Fletcher’s face, he put his right hand on his wrist and held it there. He said, falteringly, ‘We are friends, are we not?’

Fletcher swallowed. ‘I believe so. I’m grateful for what you’ve done for me.’

William nodded. ‘So I do want you to know that after we leave Tahiti, should you feel  . . . in want of companionship, of comfort, you need look no further than this cabin.’ His hand was trembling, his stare intense, his pupils dilated.

Fletcher pulled his arm away. Speechless at the implications of these words, he could only shake his head in revulsion. He turned abruptly and left the cabin. As he did so, William called, ‘Don’t forget, Fletcher, you owe me money!’

‘Good God. Listen to that!’

Fletcher sat up. Naked beside him, Mauatua stirred. The noise came again, a massive thunderclap, seeming to be directly above the fare. Then another, and another boom, echoing from the mountains. Mauatua woke. There was a crack like musket fire, then a flash of lightning across the sky, momentarily turning the night into day. A second later the light was gone and darkness returned. With it came rain that fell in torrents, drenching the surrounding forest, the fare and everything else beneath it. Water poured from the little house’s eaves and formed pools that began to rise around the building. Wind began to blow from the north-west. It quickly grew stronger. In minutes it was tearing at the foliage and blowing rain and leaves into the fare. They heard branches cracking.

Mauatua reached for her cape. ‘Te tau miti rahi,’ she said. ‘It has come.’

Daylight came, but the rain was still so intense that visibility was limited, and the wind was gaining strength. Leaving Mauatua in the fare, Fletcher trudged barefoot through the forest to Point Venus. Once there he stopped. The Tuauru stream was in spate, gushing across the point in a brown flood, carrying palm fronds, coconuts and tree branches with it. On the other side of the stream, in front of the breadfruit nursery, Nelson and Brown were frantically digging a channel to divert the flow away from the plants. It was obvious that if a diversion was not dug, all the plants would be lost.

Fletcher waded into the swollen stream, pushing against the trunks of the palm trees to stop himself being swept into the lagoon. Half-swimming, half-wading, dodging the debris being swept along by the water, he reached the other side of the stream.

The two gardeners, drenched and wild-eyed, were working desperately at their channel. ‘Get another spade!’ Nelson shouted at him through the wind and rain. The wind was ripping fronds from the palms and hurling them across the point.

The three of them kept digging into the sandy soil and chopping at palm roots, at the same time watching anxiously as the rising stream waters came closer, aware that the storm was placing the entire raison d’être for the expedition in jeopardy. The sail-cloth covering the breadfruit plants sagged under the weight of the water which cascaded from its edges, forming curtains of water all around the nursery.

After an hour of frantic digging and mounding dirt and sand into a dyke around the nursery, a moat of sorts had begun to redirect the flood water. Now, instead of rising it was running into the ditch and gushing from the end that led down to the lagoon. The muddy water continued to stream across the point, but the water was coming no closer to the precious plants.

Chests heaving, Fletcher and the gardeners stayed their spades. Shouting above the storm, Nelson said, ‘I think we’ve done it.’ Fletcher nodded. They rested on the spades, soaked but relieved.

It was daylight now. Although the wind was still raging the rain had eased and they could see out into the lagoon. Staring through the palms and into the mist, Fletcher said, ‘Oh Christ, the ship.’

Bounty, bare-poled, was pitching as wildly as a bucking mare and straining at her cables. Forward of the ship the reef was no longer visible: it was covered completely by huge waves being driven in from the open sea by the gale. It was as if the lagoon had been completely swallowed by the sea. Waves were striking Bounty’s bow and pouring over her decks. The ship was being battered like a toy ship by the elements, and it was obvious that if her cables broke she would be doomed. Fletcher could just discern through the mist a group of men on her foredeck trying to lower a second bower anchor. Others were battening down the mid-deck hatches. Not a soul was aloft.

Shouting above the wind, Nelson said, ‘Should we go out and help?’

Fletcher shook his head. ‘We’d never get there.’ This view was confirmed when a great comber reared, then crashed down on the shore in front of them.

They watched anxiously from the shore for three hours. Bounty’s anchors held, and gradually the wind began to abate. After it at last died away, Fletcher and the gardeners were taken out to the ship in one of Tu’s canoes, which had battled its way into the bay from Pare and picked them up.

Aboard Bounty Nelson and Brown, with Fletcher standing behind them, reported to William that the plants had been saved. Clearly relieved at the news, he thanked the three of them. ‘Well done, well done,’ he concluded. He gave not the slightest indication to Fletcher that their recent altercation had taken place. It was as if it had been completely deleted from his memory. Unlike Fletcher, who could not forget it.

Fryer joined them. ‘What are we to do with the ship?’ he asked William. Now that the storm season had struck, it was clear that their present anchorage was unsafe. Resisting the temptation to point out that his earlier warning had been correct, Fletcher suggested to the others that Bounty be moved further west, out of the path of the storm season’s prevailing winds. Mauatua had told him of a cove at a place called Toaroa. ‘Very peaceful there,’ she said. ‘No waves.’

William considered this, then said, ‘I thought a bay on the island of Moorea would be a suitable place to ride out the storm season.’ He pointed to the north-west, the direction in which the other island lay. ‘We found a fine sheltered bay there, with Cook, on the north coast.’

Fletcher replied, ‘That would not be advisable, in my opinion.’

William looked at him peevishly. ‘Oh? Why not?’

‘The leader of the people of Moorea, Mahine, is Tu’s mortal enemy. Our chief would be mightily aggrieved if we were to seek sanctuary there. He would see it as a betrayal of our friendship. Moreover, we would have to move all the breadfruit plants across to Moorea.’

Fryer nodded. ‘I agree. I think it best if we move the ship around to this place you suggested, Christian. To—, To—’

‘Toaroa. Yes, I’m told it’s sheltered, from almost every wind. And it’s near Pare, and therefore close to Tu’s bailiwick.’

William grunted, suggesting a concession. ‘Very well, Fryer, order the men to—’

There was a banging on the cabin door, then it was thrust open. The flushed face of assistant surgeon Ledward appeared. ‘Begging your pardon, Captain, but it’s Mr Huggan. He’s very poorly.’

They went to his berth. The surgeon was in his cot, unconscious. His face was grey, his eyes open but unseeing. The berth stank of piss, shit and vomit. There was puke all over Huggan’s shirt front, and on the cabin floor was a port bottle, next to a slurry of vomit. William picked the bottle up. It was empty. Tossing it aside, he made a hissing sound.

Huggan was breathing, but his breath was coming in a series of rasps and rattles. Then he made a noise like a lowing bull, and gave a groan. And was silent.

Ledward went to him, took his left wrist and felt for a pulse. After feeling it for some time, he turned to the others and shook his head. ‘He’s finished,’ he said. ‘Choked on his own vomit.’ He looked away, closed his eyes. However unsatisfactory Huggan was, the man had been his colleague.

William scowled. ‘The drunken, inept fool. He killed Valentine, and now he’s killed himself. Poetic justice.’ He grimaced. ‘He shamed his honourable profession.’ To Ledward he said, ‘You shall have his berth, and his position. But first, clean up this filth.’ He glared at Huggan’s corpse. ‘We’ll take the sod ashore and inter him there. Burying him at sea would pollute the ocean.’

Huggan was interred on Point Venus the next day, his grave aligned firmly east to west, in accordance with the rising and the setting of the sun. Tu, whose permission they had gained to allow the burial, had instructed that it be done this way. Priests from ‘Rima’ — Spanish missionaries from Lima — had told Tu that Popa’a people must be buried that way.

The day before Christmas the Point Venus encampment was struck and the breadfruit plants taken out to Bounty’s greenhouse cabin. Early on Christmas morning her anchors were weighed, the sails raised, and the ship turned several points to the west.

It soon became obvious that the move would not be straightforward. Swells still surged within the lagoon, which was stained brown with floodwaters, and Bounty had to be hauled across the wind. The sails were furled, the boats launched and Fryer climbed to the masthead to direct the oarsmen from above.

Getting Bounty under way early in the morning, when the sun was low, proved a mistake. Even from overhead Fryer could not see the coral heads clearly. An hour after the move began, Bounty graunched, then shuddered to a halt. She had gone aground on a shoal and the for’ard part of the ship was no longer afloat. Fryer screamed down at the men in the launch. ‘Haul her off! Haul her off!’ Lines were thrown, the oars were worked frantically. Had she been holed by the coral?

Fletcher stood in the bow above the remaining catted anchor, helping direct the rescue. The other anchor and its cable, lowered to stabilise the ship, had also become fouled on the coral.

It became obvious to Fletcher that a vital aspect of crewing — teamwork — was now missing. As they fought to haul the ship off and untangle the cable, the men yelled and swore at one another. Several of them tumbled into the lagoon, then surfaced, cursing even louder. Fryer, yelling in all directions, seemed unable to coordinate the haulage.

Fletcher watched William observing all this from the quarterdeck, his expression thunderous. Why doesn’t he intervene? Why is he leaving the mess for Fryer to clean up? Aware that Tu and his people would be observing this incompetence from the shore, he could only conclude that William did not want to be associated with the disorder. By standing apart from it, he could lay the blame for the mess at the feet of Fryer.

Slowly, laboriously, Bounty was hauled off the coral, then worked along the lagoon. Hours later she reached Toaroa and her anchors were lowered in a small bay. It was obvious that this location was indeed more advantageous than Matavai Bay. Toaroa was protected from the north-westerlies by prominent reefs, there was an adjacent promontory where a new shore encampment could be set up, and Tu and Itia’s fare nui was close by. After Isaac Martin, a competent swimmer, submerged and groped at Bounty’s keel, he was able to report that it was still intact.

The ship was made secure in her new anchorage. Throughout the procedure Fryer remained livid, aware that he had been made to appear ineffectual before an audience. William has made yet another enemy, Fletcher concluded, one whom he could ill afford to make. He didn’t like Fryer either, but the man’s role was important to the expedition.

Because the move had taken so long, the company celebrated Christmas late, on 28 December. William allowed a double ration of grog. He also ordered that a cannon and some muskets be fired. The detonations terrified the locals, but had the effect of reminding those on the shore of the power of the Popa’a weapons. There must be no hostility from the natives, William reminded his officers over their belated Christmas dinner.

The New Year — 1789 — was imminent, and the season of storms well under way. Tu informed William that te tau miti rahi would last for ‘another four moons’. For all that time the winds would be unfavourable for a return voyage via the Endeavour Straits, William announced to the others. He also told them he had discounted going to the West Indies via Cape Horn, as the winds there would also be adverse during this season. Accordingly, Bounty and her cherished cargo could not possibly leave Tahiti before April, when the storm season was over and the south-easterly trades would begin to blow again.

William had intended that they would be on Tahiti for twelve weeks; by the time they left it would be closer to five months. How would they spend this additional time?

Once again only a few of the ship’s company had work which occupied them constructively. The crew went back to their taios, Nelson and Brown resumed their potting, and William spent most of his time hosting Tahiti’s notables aboard or being feted ashore by various chiefs. When Tu, Itia and their entourage came aboard they always brought pork, fish and fruit, so William dined well. Continuing to be flattered by the attention he was accorded by the chiefs, he appeared unconcerned about the condition of the ship.

The crew now lived for the day, and the day was pretty good. But while Bounty rode gently at anchor at Toaroa, the season’s constant dampness leached its way through her seams, below decks and into the holds. Content to ignore this, the crew carried out minimal duties then returned to their taios.

Their lassitude was interrupted by a couple of floggings. Muspratt was lashed for neglect of duties and Lamb received a dozen strokes for allowing a meat cleaver to be stolen by a native. But these punishments were out of the ordinary: in general an atmosphere of indolence reigned.

Fletcher, Peter and Ned now lived ashore with their lovers. Others, including Peckover, Stewart and Martin, spent most of their time on land. All spoke Tahitian well now.

Fletcher and Peter lay with their backs against palm trunks, drinking nuts beside them. Both wore breeches and the pandanus hats which Mauatua and Maire had woven for them. Fletcher’s skin was like mahogany (‘Brown as me, and I’m half-native,’ as Ned put it), but Peter’s skin was pink. Unlike Fletcher, he had stopped shaving, and his face was covered with auburn whiskers.

Peter picked up his coconut and swigged from it. Putting it down, wiping the juice from his mouth, he said, ‘I’ve been writing about the arioi people. In my journal. Maire has been telling me about them.’

Eyes half-closed, Fletcher said, ‘They’re a class of priests, is that right?’

‘Yes, but they’re entertainers as well. They have great mana and are very privileged. They never marry. And if the females become pregnant, they bear the child then kill it at birth.’

‘Why?’

‘So they can continue their real role. Children would interfere with that.’

‘That is so callous. Killing one’s own children!’

‘Indeed. But some arioi, Maire told me, commit infanticide over and over again.’ He lay back on the sand. ‘But apart from that barbarity, this is a wonderful island. I’m happy here, Fletcher. Happier than I thought possible. Aren’t you?’

‘Yes. I don’t want to leave.’ Lately the black fog had begun to hover on his horizon.

‘But we must. It’s our duty.’ When Fletcher made no reply Peter asked, ‘Isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’ He paused. ‘But what happens when duty and personal happiness conflict? Which wins?’

‘If one is a naval man, duty does.’

‘Yes.’ A longer pause. ‘But the thought of going back to sea for months  . . . with that man  . . .’

‘I thought you and he were friends.’

‘We were. But he has changed, and I don’t like what he’s become. He loves the adulation he gets from the Tahitian leaders. But it’s my belief that they only fete him because he gives them the things they cherish, the nails, the iron tools, the trinkets, the English clothing. And because of the lie that he’s Cook’s son.’

Peter wiped beads of sweat from his brow. ‘You may well be right. I have the feeling that many of the Tahitians don’t really like him. Tu and Itia certainly do, though.’

‘And they are well rewarded for it.’

‘Indeed.’ He frowned. ‘But why have you changed your mind about the captain?’

‘Never mind. It’s not your problem.’ Fletcher picked up a handful of sand and let it run through his fingers. ‘But I have to say, Peter, I’m torn. Between Tahiti and the deep blue sea.’

Peter nodded. ‘That I do understand. I’ve told Maire that I’ll come back here. And I will, somehow.’ He sat up. ‘I’m going to be tattooed tomorrow.’

‘Really? Where?’

‘Here.’ He touched his left breast. ‘With a star of St George. Like the Order of the Garter. Maire’s organising the tattooist. I’ve drawn a St George star for him, as a pattern.’

‘Well, if you get one, then I shall too. To prove how Tahitian I’ve become.’ Fletcher smiled. ‘We shall be the Knights of Tahiti.’

From the direction of the lagoon came a shout. ‘Christian! Heywood!’

They both stood up. Fletcher called out. ‘Who’s that? What is it?’

‘It’s Cole! You’re both to report to the ship, immediately. There’s an emergency.’

The crew assembled on deck, barefooted and dishevelled. Their women had been sent back to the shore. Fletcher stood alongside William on the quarterdeck, Fryer on his other side. William’s face was puce.

‘This morning the watch relief, Martin, found the duty officer, Hayward, asleep at his post. For that he will be punished severely.’ He glowered at the crew. ‘And I have reason to believe there have been desertions.’ There was a collective intake of breath from the men. They looked at each other. Who was missing? ‘Cole will now take a roll call. Cole!’

The boatswain read the list of names. As each was called, a hand went up, accompanied by an ‘Aye.’ Fryer ticked them all. Except for three: able seamen Millward and Muspratt, and master-at-arms Churchill.

William’s eyes narrowed. ‘So, Millward, Muspratt and Churchill. All guilty of desertion. And Bounty’s cutter has gone with them.’ A tremor went through the assembly. ‘And eight muskets and ammunition.’ There was another shocked reaction. These were all hanging offences. A few, who had known of the deserters’ plan, stared down at the deck.

William’s expression darkened. ‘All will pay heavily after they are captured. And they will be.’ He called down to Cole. ‘Take Hayward below and put him in irons. I’ll go ashore and speak with chief Tu. He’ll have informants who will seek rewards. They will know where the treacherous swine have gone!’

Next day the cutter was found abandoned in Matavai Bay. After it was returned to the ship by some local men they reported that the deserters had gone in a canoe to the atoll of Tetiaroa, twenty miles north-east of Tahiti.

Two of Tu’s most trusted men, Ariipaea and Moana, agreed to sail to the island and return with the deserters. This was a risky proposition, given that Churchill, Millward and Muspratt were known to be armed.

Then the weather turned foul, with rain and gales, and it wasn’t until nine days later that Tu’s pair of vigilantes sailed off for Tetiaroa. But they did so determinedly, confident that Captain Parai would reward them for their work.

Shortly after the Tahitians left in their canoe, Fletcher was summoned to meet William in his cabin. He knocked, then entered.

‘Ah, Mr Christian.’

Fletcher blinked. Mr Christian? William was holding a sheet of paper. He waved it. ‘This was found after I searched Churchill’s chest this morning.’

‘What is it?’

‘It’s a list. Of the men who have been ashore.’

‘Oh. What of it?’

‘What of it? Your name is on it.’ He looked down. ‘Along with Heywood, Young, Peckover, Stewart and Martin.’ He paused. ‘And the deserters, Churchill, Millward and Muspratt.’

Fletcher nodded. ‘Yes, we’ve all been staying ashore.’

‘Then why are the deserters’ names on this list?’

‘Because they’ve been onshore as well. As I’m sure you know.’

Fletcher felt sweat starting to pour from his face and hands. The implications were obvious. As well as the names of those who had deserted, the others on Churchill’s list could be construed as potential deserters. The other thing the men had in common was that they had all received a tattoo on the island, the St George star on the left breast. So Churchill’s list comprised a kind of brotherhood. But Fletcher had no idea why he had written the names down.

William waved the list, looking at Fletcher sceptically, an expression which suggested that Fletcher and the others on it had collaborated in the trio’s desertion.

Fletcher decided not to mention the tattooed brotherhood. It would only heighten the captain’s suspicions. He simply said, ‘I’ve had nothing to do with the list. I didn’t know it existed.’

William kept staring at him. ‘And you have no idea why those names are on it?’

‘No. It is meaningless to me.’

William maintained his stare. Then he said, ‘Well, I shall keep Churchill’s list. And memorise the names that are on it.’

‘That is your prerogative.’

‘Yes.’ William turned away. ‘I need detain you no longer. Go.’ Then he turned back. ‘Oh yes, one other thing. That money I advanced you in Cape Town. You will be charged interest on the repayment.’

They all watched in silence as the deserters were brought aboard in irons. Their story had already been circulated: after Tetiaroa the trio had tried to sail to Moorea in their canoe, to seek sanctuary there with Tu’s foe. But they had missed the island and had instead landed back on Tahiti, at Fa’a, a few miles west of Pare. Their ammunition was useless, as it had become saturated, Tu’s informants reported. The captain and four armed sailors had gone in the launch to arrest the deserters and return them to the ship.

‘From the Articles of War. “Every person in or belonging to the fleet, who shall desert or entice others to do so, shall suffer death, or such other punishment as the circumstances of the offence shall deserve, and a court martial shall judge fit.”’

Standing before the assembled company, Bligh set his commander’s handbook aside. Churchill, Millward and Muspratt, shackled at the wrists and ankles, stood below him on the mid-deck, guarded by Cole and Morrison. An abject Hayward, hands together in front of him, stood to one side.

Bligh thrust back his shoulders, as if trying to make himself taller. ‘The men you see before you have brought shame on His Majesty’s Navy. Thomas Hayward slept on watch and so allowed these three scum to steal a boat, muskets and ammunition, and desert our ship. Were their labour not essential to our return voyage, they would already be hanging from the yardarm.’ He stared up at the spar in question, then back at the company. ‘Instead, until we return to England and they appear before a court martial, they will each be given two dozen lashes. They will be kept in irons for a fortnight, then given another two dozen.’ He raised his chin. ‘As for Hayward, he will be taken below and shackled again. Then sent before the mast.’

Those watching looked down, some with closed eyes. The guilty trio stared ahead impassively. Hayward looked close to tears.

Fletcher stood in silence, his eyes drifting in the direction of the shore, where he knew Mauatua would be waiting. He yearned to be off the ship again. He well understood why the trio had run. In his heart he was sorry they had been recaptured. He too longed to be free from this wooden prison, this place of brutality and incarceration. During these last weeks he had been living a completely different way of life, a freer, gentler, more loving one. The knowledge that he would soon have to leave it all behind was unbearable. He belonged on Tahiti now, not on a vermin-infested ship commanded by a vain, foul-mouthed, perverted dwarf.

On the horizon in his mind, the black fog was looming. He shut his eyes tightly, desperate to rid himself of it. And as soon as he could, he returned to shore.

Mauatua’s family had a fare in the hills above Point Venus where they went to stay when the weather on the coast was oppressively humid. As it was now. When she suggested they spend a night there, Fletcher was only too pleased to agree. The further away from Bounty the better, he told her.

They walked up through the forest, along the same trail that led to the waterfall pool. There they stopped and swam in its cool water and Mauatua washed her hair under the cascade. Aroused by her nakedness, Fletcher led her to the side of the pool, where they made love.

Afterwards they lay there, bound by an afterglow. She took a tiare bloom from her garland and slipped it behind his left ear. ‘Titereano, mauruuru roa. You are a nice man.’

‘And you are so lovely. Ua here vau ia oe.’

‘Ua here vau ia oe. I love you, too.’ She touched his left breast, where the tattooed star was starting to heal. ‘Does it still hurt?’

‘Not as much.’ He sat up. ‘Shall we go on now?’

The trail led up a valley, then rose to a ridge. Mist clung about the mountain peaks and parakeets, doves and petrels flittered about the forest. Fletcher carried a pack containing some cooked pork and tuna, bananas and drinking nuts.

As the afternoon sun grew stronger the mist melted away. The fare was in a clearing atop the ridge. The foliage had been cleared on the side that faced the sea, giving views across the coast below. Forest giants grew over the rest of the clearing: puarata, tamanu and uru. The globular breadfruit were beginning to mature now.

They sat on the lip of the clearing, staring down at the coast below. Mauatua pointed and recited the names of the districts she knew, from east to west. ‘Papenoo, Mahina, Pare, Atehuru  . . .’ Point Venus protruded into the lagoon like a sprocket. Inland from it the knoll that Captain Wallis had named ‘One Tree Hill’ also stood out. They could see Bounty at her mooring, resembling a child’s model boat afloat on a village pond.

Mauatua pointed to the north-east. ‘There, Tetiaroa.’ The atoll was just visible on the horizon, a bracelet of green, palm-covered islets, enclosing their cerulean lagoon.

To the north-west was Moorea, its jagged profile now backlit by the sinking sun. The shadowed side of the island was purple; a few gauzy clouds clung to its peaks. Between the two islands the sea had a pearly sheen. Fletcher wondered, could there be a lovelier sight in all the world?

His arm around Mauatua, he asked, ‘Have you been there? To Moorea.’

‘No. Enemies of my people live on the other side of that island.’

‘But from here it is very beautiful.’

‘Ae. Very beautiful. To see, but not to go.’

They stayed watching until the sun slipped below the horizon. Then the sky began to flare, suffused with different colours: red, pink, orange, vermilion. The display of brilliant light lasted only a few minutes, then the colours faded. Minutes later darkness fell, and from the forest came the din of shrieking insects. Away to the east, a rising crescent moon glowed through the velvet blackness and a few pinpricks of starlight began to appear. But to them it seemed that the world beyond the fare had ceased to exist.

Using his flint, Fletcher lit the candlenuts Mauatua had collected on the way up. Then, lying on the fare mats, they ate by their light.

Mauatua said, ‘It is good to eat with a man. Before you, I never ate with a man.’

‘Because it is ra’a?’

‘Ae.’ She took another mouthful of pork. ‘It is good to share food with you, Titereano.’

Fletcher smiled. ‘And I prefer to eat with you, rather than the crew. They are pigs. Pigs who eat pigs.’

They talked well into the night. He asked why the Tahitians had such a love for nails. ‘Because iron is special. So strong,’ she said. ‘And we never had it.’ She told him about the people from Hitia, on Tahiti’s east coast. After Bougainville’s men traded nails for their cunnies, the women planted the nails in the ground, thinking a tree would grow from them, bearing nails. She looked scornful. ‘Hitia people are very stupid.’

She was still curious about him, his family, and Peretane. ‘Where does King George live?’

‘In London. In a very, very big fare.’

‘How many wives does he have?’

‘Only one. Queen Charlotte.’

‘Do they have children?’

‘Yes. Twelve, at the last count.’

‘What is London like?’

‘Very big. Many houses, many people. Beside a wide river.’

‘Captain Tute brought horses with him to Tahiti. We had never seen such a creature. It was huge. We called it pua’a horo henua. Did you have a horse?’

‘Yes, on the Isle of Man I rode a horse. To the top of the island.’

‘Does Captain Parai live with his father, Tute, in Peretane?’

‘No. Parai is not Tute’s son, Mauatua. And Tute is dead. He was killed on Owhyhee.’

This shocked her. ‘Aayaa. Not Tute’s son? And Tute is killed? So Parai has told lies?’

‘Yes. Parai is a liar.’

‘Oh. That is not good.’

‘No, it isn’t.’ But he was pleased that now one Tahitian knew the truth.

After they had again made love, as she lay in his arms he said: ‘You call me by a Tahitian name, now I shall give you an English name.’

‘Which name?’

‘Isabella.’

‘Izz-a-pella.’ She laid her head on his chest. ‘Why that name?’

‘Because it’s lovely. Like you.’

He did not add, because it was also the name of my first love.

On 6 March Fletcher and the others living ashore were summoned back to Bounty. Fryer and Cole were present, along with the midshipmen. Assembled on the quarterdeck, they were addressed by an irate William Bligh.

‘This morning I ordered the men bring up and lay out the spare sails. After they did, I found them to be mildewed. Some were even rotten.’ He stared at Fryer. ‘Why did you not air the sails properly?’

‘I was not instructed to.’ Fryer’s voice was icy.

‘Huh? Must I instruct you to do everything? Do you have no awareness of your responsibilities as master of this ship?’ His blazing eyes alighted on Cole. ‘Furthermore, I also inspected the cutter. There is rot in its keel. There is also rot in the stock of the bower anchor. Why did you not note that, Mr Cole? And take steps to remedy these faults?’

‘I was unaware of the rot, Captain.’

‘Holy fucking shit, man, there’s far too much unawareness on this ship! I doubt if any commander in naval history has had to put up with so much damnable unawareness.’ He glared at them. ‘The slackness you’ve all shown on this ship is shameful. You are all — and I include you midshipmen — guilty of dereliction of duty.’ He paused to regain his breath. ‘I have recorded every instance of it, and it will be reported fully, upon our return to England.

‘Contrasting with your negligence, the work of Nelson and Brown has been splendid. We have more than a thousand breadfruit plants, as well as other living botanical specimens which will shortly be taken aboard. So our work here is almost done. From the first day of April we will prepare the ship for sailing, and be at sea as soon after that as possible.

‘Fryer, instruct Lebogue to dry and repair the rotting sails. Cole, get Purcell to attend to defects in the cutter and the bower anchor. Fryer, oversee that work.’ He flicked his hand dismissively. ‘Now, all of you, leave, and attend to your duties. Properly.’

As they went below, Peter muttered to Fletcher, ‘What about his own negligence? All he’s done these last weeks is toady to Tu and his fat missus, and visit the other chiefs like a potentate. The biggest slacker on Bounty is its commander. Bugger the duties, I’m going back ashore. Coming?’

‘I am,’ said Fletcher.

The first day of April. Fool’s day. The thought of departure sickened him. The dark fog was rolling in.

Bounty’s decks were scrubbed; more repairs were made to the sails and awnings. Provisions were bartered for by Peckover and taken aboard: green plantains, breadfruit and many coconuts. These were stowed below or piled about the decks. Pigs were butchered and the pork salted down. Two dozen live pigs and seventeen goats were brought aboard and penned mid-deck. Water casks were repaired and filled.

One thousand and fifteen flourishing breadfruit plants were stowed in the Great Cabin, in pots on the racks and in tubs and boxes on the quarterdeck. Bounty took on the appearance of a floating Kew Gardens. Nelson continued to fuss over the plants like a new parent with his babies: watering them, nurturing them and putting them to bed. But Brown, who had made a special taio on the island, had lost his enthusiasm for gardening.

As the word spread that Tute’s son and the Bounty would soon be leaving, hundreds of Tahitians descended on Pare. Many came aboard, where they sang, chanted, danced, drummed and feasted on the produce they had brought with them. But there was also an overlying air of sadness as the departure impended.

For the last time, William hosted Tu and Itia on board. He inscribed his name and the dates of his stay on the back of the Webber portrait of Cook, thereby adding to its potency. There were rounds of gift-giving. From Tu to William: arioi costumes of bark cloth embellished with tropic bird tail feathers, and pigs, breadfruit, plantains and many coconuts. From William to Tu: shirts, mirrors, fish hooks, knives, gimlets, saws, dolls, a musket, a pair of pistols and hundreds of rounds of ammunition. This was the greatest gift of all, ensuring that Tu would from now on be Tahiti’s most formidable ari’i.

Fletcher delayed boarding for as long as he possibly could. So too did Peter, George and Ned. They and several others were leaving special taios.

On the path below the fare, he held Isabella and buried his face in her hair. Feeling her trembling, for some time he couldn’t speak. Then at last he drew back, parted her hair and told her, ‘I will come back. I promise I will. And I will take you with me to Peretane. We will be man and wife. In London.’ He stared into her lovely face for the last time. It was wet with tears, her eyes were tightly closed and she was shaking her head. It was as if she knew that it could never happen, knew that this was their final parting. There could be only heartache from now on, for both of them.

‘Christian! The cutter’s leaving! Now!’ Cole’s voice, coming up from the shore.

He released her, turned and walked away. Moments later he heard a cry, ‘Aue!’ Then her parting words. ‘E eritape ta iti e, eiaha roa oe e faaru’e ia’u nei!’ ‘Do not leave me!’

He stumbled down to the shore as if mortally wounded.

All the Tahitians who had been on board were taken off the ship. Tu and Itia were the last to leave. When they left both wept inconsolably.

Bounty’s anchors were weighed, buoys were placed in the channel and the boats prepared to tow her back to Matavai Bay, the point of final departure. When this was seen to be happening, the chanting, singing and drumming died. An eerie silence, a kind of mourning, descended on Pare. People of all ages lined the shore, staring at the Bounty. No Popa’a ship had ever stayed so long on the island. The Tahitian men were either silent or weeping; the women tore at their scalps with sharks’ teeth, so that blood ran down their faces, reddening their tears.

Bounty, sails still furled, was hauled down the channel. William, in full uniform, stood on her quarterdeck, arms at his side. His jubilation was obvious. Mission accomplished, his stance declared. The red ensign was raised. Tu had requested that the ship fire a cannon salute, but William demurred, saying the noise might disturb the breadfruit plants. Instead he ordered the crew to line the starboard rail, and when he called for three cheers their cries rang out across the lagoon: ‘Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!’

Fletcher stood alone in the stern, staring back at the island that had changed his life. He felt hollowed out, as if a vital part of him had been removed and left there, a part he could never retrieve. He gripped the taffrail with damp hands. Isabella, Isabella. All he could see before him was her face. He closed his eyes tightly and her face vanished. Moments later, in its place was the black fog.

At Matavai Bay the boats were taken aboard and made fast. The capstan was turned, the anchors raised and catted. Men edged along the yards and let go the sails. They caught the afternoon breeze and began to billow. Bounty glided through the passage in the reef and into open sea. The helmsmen turned the wheel three points to larboard and she turned towards the sinking sun, settling into the west-north-west course that William had set for her.