4–28 APRIL 1789

Aware that discipline had to be re-imposed after the inertia that Tahiti had produced, and knowing that testing conditions lay ahead, Bligh set the crew to work in a way they had not done for months. Sail and line-handling were practised daily, and the below-decks hygiene regime was once again strictly enforced.

Although the crew obeyed his commands, most performed the tasks perfunctorily. The contrast between the now and then could not have been starker. The minds of the men were mostly still ashore.

But they were not yet done with the Society Islands. Bounty called briefly at Huahine. There William was given the news of the death of Omai, the Society Islands native whom Cook had taken to England in 1773 aboard HMS Adventure and returned to Huahine during Cook’s final voyage. The Raiatean’s two New Zealand Maori servants had also died, William was told, and the house Cook had had built for Omai had been destroyed. But not before he had used the English guns he had been given, to defeat his enemies from Bora Bora.

Fletcher resumed his journal-writing.

10 April 1789

Time to write is precious. Bligh has once more instituted a regime of cleaning and washing, as well as regular small arms practice, so I have very little time to myself. The cleaning below decks is now done daily, Bligh insists, whereas before it was done only twice a week. Washing the hammocks is now also to be done every day. The men may be grubby, but they are not so unwashed that their hammocks need cleaning as frequently as that. They complain and curse as they scrub, and for that I don’t blame them.

Furthermore, Bligh demands that these chores must always be carried out in the morning, during the period when I am the watch officer. I cannot help concluding that this is not a coincidence. He knows that heaping these extra duties upon me makes my life more difficult. This is nothing but spite on his part. For what reason does he single me out for this punishment? My conclusion, which I can confide to no one, is that it is because of my rejection of his unnatural overture while we were at Tahiti. That advance was deeply offensive to me, as he must have later realised.

Other factors, I also conclude, compound his antipathy towards me: the fact that I incurred a debt to him in Cape Town, and that on Tahiti I found a woman with whom I fell deeply in love. The first — the borrowing — was my error, done purely for the sake of lust. I regret that. The second — my love for Isabella — was something so wonderful that the memory of it will remain with me forever. How well do I now know the difference, the gulf, between lust and love!

Yet to Bligh these matters are evidently so disagreeable that he has determined that I will be punished for them. Although he heaps abuse on all his officers, accusing them of incompetence, it is me he singles out for particular criticism. Could he have discovered the improper use to which I put his loan money? Impossible. Only Peter would have suspected what happened, and he would never have informed on me to Bligh. He is a young man of honour, and a loyal shipmate. No, Bligh’s vindictiveness is motivated by jealousy, I’m sure. And knowing that his is the ultimate authority aboard Bounty, he wields it on every occasion. He makes more reference to our backgrounds, contrasting mine with his. I am, it seems, a person of privilege. This to me is unjust. I did not choose my family or its status. It was thrust upon me, a fact so obvious that it should not need stating.

Bligh’s bullying is becoming habitual. It puts me in mind of an incident when I was a lad, when one day I came upon a small boy being bullied by an older and stronger boy. This I thought so unfair that I attacked the bully and defeated him. Although I cannot now recall the names of either boy, what I do remember is how the bully retreated once I confronted him. He was, I then realised, a poltroon. If all bullies are so, as Charles pointed out to me, then Bligh must be one. But such are the circumstances on this ship that I cannot take action against him, as I did with the boy in Cockermouth. So what am I to do?

I am powerless to take any action to alleviate these circumstances. I am like the principal character in Shakespeare’s Hamlet, a play which Edward and I saw in the Haymarket in London two years ago. It was about a man who was doomed to inaction. Although I am determined not to succumb to Hamlet-like self-pity, the thought of enduring Bligh’s malice for many more months does induce in me a Hamlet-like melancholia.

Bligh makes threats to all his officers. He says that our incompetence will lead us to destruction in the Endeavour Straits. If so, that day cannot come quickly enough.

I must end this entry now. My watch begins on the hour.

They resumed a westerly course, aware that the Friendly Isles, which Bligh knew well from his time there with Cook in 1777, would be raised before the end of April. There they would obtain more fresh food and water in readiness for the haul north to the Endeavour Straits, then through that perilous passage.

Fletcher carried out his duties in silence, still consumed by what he had lost. Whenever possible he gave his captain a wide berth, aware that since the bizarre incident on Tahiti their relationship had fundamentally changed. They came together only over the dining table, and then the conversation was stilted. Bligh would glance at Fletcher from time to time, as if poised to say something significant, then remain silent, as if he thought it better left unsaid. In this way the resentments simmered. The only person Fletcher could confide in was Peter, who was experiencing his own sense of loss, but he told him nothing of what he suspected about their captain.

While on watch, staring out at Bounty’s wake, Fletcher could feel the barometer within him plummeting. What he was feeling now was beyond melancholia. He was not alone. With each day that passed the atmosphere throughout the ship grew more depressed. Most of the crew were too well aware of what they had lost, and what they were now faced with: months of gruelling sailing, unyielding authority and carnal deprivation. There was no sense of expectation, as there had been on the outward voyage, and the shipboard rigour was now unwelcome. Although well fed for the time being, the men went about their duties sullenly. They bridled at being ordered about, especially by Fryer, whose testiness increased by the day. Only Nelson, fussing constantly over his beloved breadfruit babies, showed any enthusiasm for his work. His colleague Brown was now as glum as the rest of the crew.

On Tahiti time had become meaningless. There was sunrise and sunset, light and darkness, with little but pleasure in between: bathing, feasting, fucking, laughing. Now on Bounty there was again the tyranny of the timepiece, the hourglass, the chronometer, the knot-line, the eight-hour watch. Nothing demonstrated the difference between the Tahitian day and the shipboard day more cruelly than these unyielding measurements of time.

Bligh was fractious. It seemed that after being treated royally for so long on the island, he resented the fact that he had been reduced to the status of a mere mortal again. Determined to reassert his authority, after young able seaman Sumner swore at Fryer, he ordered him to be given twelve lashes. All witnessed the flogging. As the lash rose and fell, it was another reminder that the good times had gone. From now on the cat would be let out of the bag for any infraction, Bligh warned his crew.

Fletcher thought constantly of Isabella, imagining every detail of her face and body. What was she doing today? Where was she going? To their pool? To the garden? To the fare in the mountains?

A small consolation was the journal he had begun on Tahiti. Writing of the present helped take his mind off the lost past. He now wrote in it whenever he could, retreating to his cabin to do so when not on watch or attending to other duties.

15 April 1789

Today, at 19° South latitude, 160° West longitude, we sighted an uncharted island, and stood off it. I saw through my spyglass that although the island is enclosed by a reef, it is not high like Tahiti. Neither does there appear to be any pass through the reef. The island has a lagoon, white sand beaches and a humped mountain in its centre. I could see that the mountain — really just a hill approximately three hundred feet high — was covered in scrubby vegetation, and that around it is a fringing plain covered in coconut palms. Inhabited the island must be, for I saw smoke rising from the plain. In confirmation of this, four men came out to the ship in a canoe and came aboard. They were perfectly affable. Very like the Tahitians in their physiognomy, their language was also similar, so that those of us who spoke Tahitian were able to converse with them. They told us that their island was called Ay-too-tuck-ee and that its highest point is called Maun-ga Pu. After they showed amazement at our animals, never having seen such creatures, Bligh presented the men with a sow and a boar, in the hope that they might breed on the island. He also gave them some nails, beads and mirrors. In return, one of the men gave Bligh his handsome pearl shell breastplate, which had a cord of plaited human hair.

The captain was jubilant at coming across and recording the island, exclaiming to us, ‘I have made a discovery! A new island! One that even Cook did not find!’ Bligh’s vanity is such that it was as if he had discovered the Great Southern Continent.

Resuming our westward course, on 17 April we sighted the place Cook named Savage Island in 1774. It has the appearance of having been raised a few hundred feet from the sea, and is composed of coral rock riddled with caves and coves. It has a level crown, covered with forest.

Curious about the people who inhabited the island, I suggested to Bligh  . . .

‘Should we not go ashore here? If only briefly?’

‘Why?’

‘To make contact with the natives. To show them we mean no harm.’

‘Ah. You do like to make contact with the natives, don’t you?’

‘You misconstrue me, sir. I merely intended for us to establish with the people on the island that we are not hostile towards them.’

‘I see. And do you not think that Captain Cook had the same intention?’

‘I’m sure he did.’

‘Yes. And the great man was attacked by the people here. On two occasions. Repelled by them, violently. So your suggestion is a foolish one. We will not make a landing on this island.’

He walked away, calling down to the helmsmen, ‘Hold your course. West-north-west.’

The man has become a swine. A sarcastic swine. He seeks now to humiliate me, the way he humiliates all who disagree with him.

Two days later Bounty was struck by squally weather from the southeast. In the midst of the gale Fletcher was in the bow, helping Quintal and McCoy bring in the spritsail, which had been ripped by the wind. As they wrestled with the canvas, a caped figure appeared through the rain. It was Bligh. He shouted above the wind: ‘What in hell’s name are you doing?’

Fletcher turned. ‘Bringing in the spritsail. It’s torn.’

‘Torn? Where?’

Fletcher pointed to the tear. ‘There.’

‘I see. And I know the cause.’

‘So do I. The squall.’

‘No, not the squall. You are the cause. You have not cared for the sails. You failed to air them properly while we were at Pare. Consequently, they have rotted.’

Fletcher felt his jaw drop. Quintal and McCoy, both drenched, looked at Bligh incredulously. This was unjust. Maintenance of the sails was the responsibility of Fryer and Lebogue, master and sailmaker, not a midshipman-promoted-acting-lieutenant.

Fletcher’s voice rose above the wind. ‘That allegation is unfair. You know that maintenance of the sails is not part of my duties. Why are you making this accusation?’

Bligh erupted. ‘God damn your eyes, Christian, I’m making it because it needs to be made. You’re the slackest officer a commander ever had to contend with!’ He kicked at the heap of split canvas. ‘Now get the sail below and tell Lebogue to mend it!’

As he stalked off through the rain towards the quarterdeck, McCoy shook his head in disbelief. ‘The man’s a nackle-arse.’

Quintal nodded. ‘You shouldn’t have to put up with that shit, Christian.’ He stared balefully at Bligh’s retreating figure. ‘None of us should.’

Later that day, when Fletcher returned to his cabin to change out of his saturated clothing, he found a note under his cabin door. It read, ‘Mr Christian, Mr Hayward is to be my guest at supper this evening. I hope you will be able to join us. Yours, William.’

Fletcher stared at the missive in disbelief. How could the man make such an offer, so soon after his tirade of abuse? What sort of a man was he dealing with now? Either Bligh was going out of his mind, or he was.

He screwed up the invitation.

22 April 1789

Yesterday we sighted some of the westernmost islands of the Friendly Isles. The most prominent is Kao, which rises like a pyramid from the sea. Its summit gives off smoke. Not far south of it is Tofua, which is steep-sided but lacks peaks. Bligh has decided we will not make a landing on either of these, but instead on Nomuka (20° South, 174° West), which he knows. This is a low island, as flat as a flounder, triangular shaped, with an unusual feature for a South Sea island — a large freshwater lake, a little way inland. This will enable us to replenish our water casks. We will also take aboard wood, as this will likely be the last opportunity to do so before we reach New Holland.

The first European to chart Nomuka was Abel Tasman, in 1643. He called it Rotterdam. We anchored on the north side of the island, in approximately the same place as Cook moored Resolution twelve years ago. After we anchored some canoes came out, bearing coconuts and yams, but it was not until the next day that a native came aboard. This was an old chief named Tapa, who walked with a limp and had a scar on one cheek. He offered us the use of a canoe house on the island.

Bligh went ashore with him, but was in a foul mood again after master’s mate Elphinstone lost the bower anchor buoy. Bligh also told us that we should not anticipate a warm welcome on Nomuka, since Cook had had Tapa’s son lashed after he killed a ship’s cat. The Nomukans had not forgotten this insult, we were warned. So Bligh urged us to be cautious at all times. He also reported that the people here are in a poor state of health. Many have fingers missing and there are sores on their bodies. How did they become so diseased? Is it the venereals? Or leprosy?

Bligh has put me in charge of a watering party of eleven men. It will be good to be ashore again, although I am still tormented by thoughts of Isabella and Tahiti. No other island can compare.

‘In view of the natives’ likely restlessness, you are to take muskets and ammunition,’ Bligh ordered Fletcher. ‘But you are forbidden to fire them.’

‘Will the fact that we are carrying firearms not be provocative?’

‘You will not carry the muskets. You will leave them in the launch.’

‘Then why bother to take them?’

‘As a deterrent.’

Fletcher walked away. Ridiculous.

While Elphinstone went off with four men armed with axes for the wood cutting, Fletcher and eleven others walked to the lake. Some of his men carried the muskets, as he had considered it too great a risk to leave the weapons in the launch. Others rolled the water casks. The sky was graphite-grey, the humidity high.

As the party followed the track, several local men slipped in alongside them, carrying spears and clubs. They were different from the mostly slim Tahitians, Fletcher realised. They were bigger-boned, heavier, stronger. And threatening. Soon they began making darting attacks, jostling the sailors, snatching at their muskets and kicking the water casks. A tall youth leapt at Fletcher, trying to grab his tricorn, and he knocked him aside angrily. Minutes later there was a scuffle at the rear of the party and McCoy cried out, ‘He’s grabbed my axe!’ A man ran towards the bush, wielding it. Fletcher brought his musket up to his shoulder and aimed it at him. The others did the same. But as they had been expressly forbidden to fire, aiming it was all he could do.

When the natives realised the muskets would not be fired they began to jeer. They taunted the sailors with their spears and clubs, waving them in their faces. Some began to throw stones.

Confused, the men looked at Fletcher. ‘What do we do, sir?’ McCoy asked.

‘First, get the casks filled. Under guard.’

While three men stood guard at the lake’s edge, the others filled the barrels and hammered in the bungs. Then, with the natives still hurling what were obviously insults or looking on menacingly, the barrels were rolled back to the shore and loaded into the launch.

Bligh was amidships, entertaining Tapa and three other chiefs, seated and wrapped in the mats the natives called ta’ovala. Fletcher and McCoy climbed up onto the deck.

‘Are the casks filled?’ Bligh demanded of Fletcher.

‘They are. But we had great difficulty carrying out the duties.’

‘How so?’

‘The islanders threatened us.’

‘Did you not have the muskets?’

‘We did, but the natives were unafraid of them.’

‘Why?’

Fletcher spoke through gritted teeth. ‘Because your order prohibited us from using them.’ He turned to McCoy. ‘Was that not the order?’

McCoy nodded. Several of the others did too. They had all heard Bligh say it. Tapa and the other chiefs looked on, frowning, unable to comprehend this exchange.

Bligh took a step forward. His next words struck Fletcher like hurled gravel.

‘You, Christian, are a coward. You are afraid of a few naked savages, even when you are bearing arms.’

Fletcher braced himself. Staring down at his commander, he asked, ‘What use are arms, when your orders were expressly for us not to use them?’

Bligh’s eyes narrowed. ‘You are a disgrace to His Majesty’s Navy. Of all my officers, you are the worst. You are a cowardly scoundrel.’

In the background, the men looked at one another, aghast. This was a very public shaming of a respected officer, and the very worst kind of insult for a commander to hurl at a lieutenant in front of his men. The Nomukan chiefs looked at one another, perplexed. What were these Papalagi doing to one another?

Fletcher could endure no more. Sweating profusely, he glared at Bligh but said nothing. His hands began to shake. Turning on his heels, he went down the aft stairway to his cabin. There he threw himself down on his bunk. What to do? What to do?

Next morning Fryer went ashore with several of the men to repair some barrels. While they were resting a man darted from the bush, snatched up the cooper’s adze and ran off with it. It could not be recovered. Then at the beach, while Fryer’s party was getting into the cutter, a crowd gathered around the boat, threatening to upset it. After Martin threw out a grapnel to stabilise the cutter, a boy dived down, cut the rope, grabbed the grapnel and ran inland with it. Fryer, close to panicking, ordered the men to row back to the ship.

‘You lost an adze and a grapnel?’ Bligh was apoplectic.

Fryer nodded. ‘Yes. Both were stolen.’

Sensing another confrontation, Fletcher came down from the quarterdeck and joined them.

Bligh stamped his foot, Rumpelstiltskin-like. ‘God damn your eyes, man, that brings our equipment losses to three.’ He pointed at Fletcher. ‘First, this one loses an axe, then you, Fryer, lose two more tools. Holy fucking shit, this is insupportable. It’s negligence of the worst kind. You should both be court-martialled!’

Staring straight ahead, Fryer replied, ‘I do not consider the losses very great, sir. We have more axes, and more grapnels, in the hold.’

‘Get to hell and stay there, Fryer! The loss may not be very great to you, but it is to me!’ Bligh bunched his right hand into a fist and shook it at the sky. ‘Was ever a commander cursed with such a useless bunch of officers as I am? That grapnel is precious and I intend to get it back!’

Fletcher and Fryer exchanged glances but said nothing. Both walked away. The commander was out of control.

On Tahiti, Peckover had been in sole charge of trading. This system worked well, preventing the men from accumulating and hoarding native artefacts, which they knew could be sold for profit back in England. But since accumulating heaps of mementos would put pressure on the ship’s stowage space, Bligh had forbidden the practice.

But on their fourth day at anchor off Nomuka, Bligh announced unexpectedly, ‘The men may trade with the natives for what they wish.’

The word spread rapidly. Soon the ship was surrounded by canoes whose occupants brought out clubs, spears, carvings and tapa cloth. Food, too. There was an outbreak of trading, the crew offering their personal trinkets in exchange for what the natives offered them. The four Nomuka chiefs remained on board, mingling with the traders of both parties, offering comments and suggesting terms. There had been nothing like it during the voyage.

The decks became cluttered with artefacts. The carvings included turtles, whales, flying fish and kava bowls. The lengths of tapa, unlike the Tahitian cloth, were decorated with attractive brown patterns.

Fletcher and Peckover looked at the scene in bewilderment. Why had a sensible policy been abandoned in favour of this disorder?

In the midst of the bartering, Bligh climbed onto the quarterdeck and shouted down to Fryer, ‘Order the anchors raised! We’re leaving!’ He waved at the natives. ‘You lot, off! Off!’ Clutching their trinkets, they returned to their canoes. But when the chiefs made to do so, Bligh raised his hand. ‘No! No! You are to stay aboard! Cole and Morrison, stand by the gate and ensure those ones don’t leave!’

Tapa and the other three chiefs were halted at the mid-deck gate. They looked up at Bligh furiously. Tapa shook his fist. Why were they not allowed to leave with the others?

Men raced to the capstan and the yards. The anchors were raised and catted, some sail made, and Bounty moved off to the west, propelled by a sou’easterly breeze.

Fletcher stood on the masthead platform, observing the confusion below. The small canoes had been paddled off, but one double-hulled canoe trailed in Bounty’s wake. It was clear to him why this was so: the men in the big canoe would not abandon their chiefs.

Bligh was shouting now, calling for the officers and crew to assemble on the mid-deck. The four chiefs sat by the rail, frowning, muttering among themselves, irate at being detained.

Fletcher joined the men on the mid-deck, not wanting to go near Bligh. Now he stood alone on the quarterdeck, his pistol tucked into his belt. He began to rant again.

‘The slackness among this ship’s company is deplorable! You are all, officers and crew, a disgrace to the King’s navy! Yesterday a valuable grapnel was stolen by a native, under the very eyes of the officers and crew of this ship. But I intend to get the grapnel back! And I will get it back!’

He drew the pistol from his belt and began waving it about. ‘Peckover, tell that lot in the big canoe the grapnel must be returned. Cole and Morrison, take the natives below. They are to be kept there until the grapnel is returned. And give the buggers some coconuts to husk.’ He leaned over the rail. ‘Do it now!’

The boatswain and his mate obeyed, although they looked far from happy at this order. The chiefs were outraged. This was the very worst kind of insult. Only kakai — commoners — husked coconuts. By being forced to do this work, the chiefs’ mana was being publicly stripped away.

As the men were taken below, Fletcher realised what Bligh’s tactic was. It had been Cook’s strategy, if items of equipment were stolen, to take chiefs hostage and hold them until the objects were returned. Now Bligh was attempting to do the same as Cook had done, notably on the island of Raiatea, when he sought to force the return of some deserters by holding a chief and his family hostage. Yet this furore was over such a minor item. And it was obvious that the chiefs themselves were in no position to force the grapnel to be retrieved. Neither were those in the big canoe.

Fletcher shook his head in frustration. All this strife for one frigging grapnel?

Hours passed. Bligh had gone below. Norton and Linkletter were at the helm, Fryer beside them. Fletcher climbed up to the mainmast platform. The big canoe was still following them. Nomuka was now just a low line away to the south-east.

Without warning Bligh came back up the stairs to the deck. He yelled up at Fryer, ‘Put her about!’

The sheets were loosed, Bounty went about, the sheets were pulled in and made fast. She began to sail on her reversed course. The canoe switched its lateen sail so that its course too was altered. Bligh yelled again, ‘Cole, Morrison! Bring the buggers up from below!’

On the mid-deck, Bligh shook Tapa and the other three by the hand and presented each of them with an axe and a chisel. Although they accepted the tools, they continued to glower at Bligh.

The canoe drew up alongside and the chiefs got down into it. It was filled with furious-looking men.

The canoe’s line was cast off and it quickly slipped away, a tall man controlling its steering paddle. Fletcher and Bounty’s crew watched its departure in silence. This visit had been a disaster. The Friendly Isles? More like the fiendly ones. And their commander was the fiendliest of all.

Bligh returned to the quarterdeck. He declared, ‘You see how I treated those chiefs? That’s the way to do it, show them who’s in charge. The natives always respect a strong attitude.’

Fletcher thought, nothing could be further from the truth. The chiefs had realised they could not for the moment avenge the insult to their mana, so had made a pretence of acquiescing. But they were undoubtedly smouldering inside, like Kao, the nearby volcanic island. He would not like to be aboard the next British ship that called at Nomuka. Retribution would surely erupt towards the ship’s company. And the grapnel has not been returned.

Fletcher kept staring southward towards the declining profile of Nomuka. But his mind lay far beyond it, in Tahiti. The island he had lost. He had many more months to endure on this floating prison, with its malicious gaoler. Bounty had become as much a penal vessel as those Thames prison hulks.

He looked north. Off the starboard bow he could see two spectral shapes, appearing to overlap, one conical and smoking, the other forested with a blunted summit. Kao and Tofua. Above them were dark clouds, bunched and crowded, like a herd of charging elephants. Storm clouds.

‘Mr Christian, have you overseen the cleaning of the crew’s quarters?’

‘I have, sir.’

‘And were they cleaned to your satisfaction?’

‘They were.’

‘Not to mine. I have just inspected them myself. I found filth in the crew’s mess. Unwashed benches and cockroaches. It is not good enough.’

‘I saw no evidence of filth when I left the mess an hour ago.’

‘God damn you, man! I saw it with my own eyes. Filth! I won’t stand for it on this ship!’

‘As I said, the cleaning and washing was done to my satisfaction.’

‘Oh, it was, was it? Well, it was not done to mine. We obviously have different standards, Christian. You may be from a superior class to mine, but always remember, on this ship that counts for nothing. Your Cumbrian pedigree is meaningless now.’

‘I have never claimed otherwise.’

‘But you think it, don’t you? Yes, I know, you think you and your class are superior. But I am in charge here, I control this ship. Never forget that fact. Here your background counts for nothing. Furthermore, you owe me money. Never forget that.’

Fletcher walked away, sickened. To think he once respected the man.

Bligh next appeared on deck at noon the following day. Fletcher was on the quarterdeck with Peter Heywood and Ned Young; Norton and Simpson were on the wheel, Fryer beside them. The captain stalked along the larboard side of the ship. When he reached a pile of coconuts, he stopped. This was his personal supply, supplied by chief Tapa. Bligh turned and called up to Bounty’s master, ‘Mr Fryer, this pile of coconuts appears somewhat reduced. Get down here.’

Fryer studied the pile. ‘It does seem smaller. Perhaps the men walking over it has reduced its size. The deck is so crowded, what with all the livestock and the produce. It obliges the men to walk over the coconuts.’

Bligh shook his head. ‘No, Fryer. I believe a theft has been committed.’ His voice rose as he directed it at Cole. ‘Call the ship’s company together! And tell them to bring up every coconut stowed below!’

The crew stood beside their personal piles of nuts. Some grinned, conscious of the farcical nature of this exercise. The nuts had been traded on Nomuka at the rate of one nail for twenty nuts. Standing beside Fryer, Fletcher shook his head in exasperation.

Noticing the gesture, Bligh swung about. ‘Was it you who stole my coconuts, Christian?’

‘I took one, yes. It was hot last night, I was thirsty, and I thought the loss of one nut of no consequence.’

‘One? One? You lying hound. I believe you have stolen half the pile.’

‘I have not, sir. I took only one.’

Bligh strode over and thrust his face up at Fletcher’s. ‘You lie. You have stolen half of them!’

‘That is not so, sir. Why do think I would be so mean as to steal half your nuts?’

‘Because you are a thief. A thief and a liar.’ He spun about. ‘I’ll get to the bottom of this!’

Later those who were present reported that this seemed like the first act in a charade which was to reach its climax a day later. Bligh interrogated each crew member in turn as he stood beside his personal pile of coconuts. Surrounded by the pig and goat pens, chicken coops and piles of fruit and vegetables, the scene resembled a disorderly country market overseen by an escaped lunatic. And as before, it was his officers at whom Bligh directed most of his vitriol.

‘Young! How many nuts did you buy?’

‘Twenty.’

‘And how many have you eaten?’

Young shrugged. ‘Dunno. I wasn’t counting.’

‘God damn you, man! You’re a rogue as well! Like all my officers! All thieves and scoundrels. Next you’ll be stealing my yams!’ He turned to Samuel, his clerk. ‘The men may take their nuts back below. The officers’ nuts are to be stowed aft and they are not to have the use of them.’ He faced the crew again. ‘You lot, your grog is stopped, and your yam ration halved.’ His voice rose further. ‘I’ll make half of you jump overboard before you get through the Endeavour Straits!’

Fletcher and the other officers stood in silence, astounded at this raving. In one fell swoop their commander had attacked their integrity, curtailed their private and public food supply, and stopped their liquor entitlements. Morrison muttered to Fletcher, ‘He’s not touching my nuts. I’ll hide them under my cot.’

Bligh’s eyes swept the assembly again. ‘Attend to your duties!’ He went below.

That afternoon, as Fletcher sat brooding on the after deck, Bligh appeared at the top of the stairway. ‘Mr Christian!’

Fletcher looked up. ‘What is it?’

‘Have your nuts been taken below and stowed?’

‘I did not trade for any nuts on Nomuka, so I have none to stow.’

‘Ha! And I know why. Because you steal them from the others. The way you stole mine. You are a thieving swine, Christian. You are unfit to be an officer!’

Fletcher got up and walked away, his cheeks burning. Tears streamed from his eyes. He went along to the larboard side to the foredeck, trying to put as much distance between himself and the captain as was possible. He felt drained, emptied of hope. Beneath him, Bounty rose and fell with the swells. Now there was only one thing he could do.

Purcell was on the foredeck, working on a repair to the cutter’s keel. The carpenter looked up, and frowned. ‘What is it, Christian?’

‘I can’t take any more.’

‘Of his rages?’ Purcell snorted. ‘You think you’re alone in that?’ He brought his hammer down on a spike nail. ‘You’ve seen the way he treats me.’ He attempted a smile. ‘But bear an even strain, Christian. We have a following wind, and we’re on our way home.’

‘But think what we must endure before then.’ Ashamed of his unmanly tears, Fletcher blinked them away. ‘The Barrier Reef, the Endeavour Straits. He threatens us all with what he will do to us in those waters.’ He shook his head. ‘I tell you, Will, I can take no more of it. I’m leaving.’

‘What do you mean, leaving? The ship?’ Purcell looked around, to determine if anyone else could hear.

‘Yes. I’ll make a raft, and take it to that island.’ He pointed towards distant Tofua. ‘With your help.’

‘That’s a crazy notion.’

‘It isn’t. It would be crazy for me to stay. Bligh is driving me out of my mind. I have to go.’

‘Christian, abandon that plan.’ He waved at the sea. ‘I’ve seen sharks out there. Big ones. And the natives of these islands are not well disposed towards us. If you made it ashore they would likely kill you. It would be madness to take that course.’

‘I must. It’s the only honourable course to take.’

‘Honourable? A strange word to describe what you intend. Going to your certain death.’

‘It is the right word, because for me to stay would be dishonourable.’

Purcell gave him a pitying look. ‘So what do you need?’

‘Planks, spars, ropes. If you get them for me tonight, I’ll put a raft together and go over the side.’

There was a long pause, then Purcell nodded. ‘I’ll get the materials. Be back here at ten bells.’

‘Thanks, Will.’ Fletcher gripped the carpenter’s arm. ‘It has to be done. I can stand him no more. At ten bells, then.’

That evening a new moon rose in the east, a cuticle in the blackness. This presaged a full moon by the time they reached the reef-ridden New Holland coast. Helpful. To the north Kao’s summit glowed like a firework; to starboard Tofua was an inky mass. The afternoon breeze had died away, the night was warm, the ocean lapped at Bounty’s hull. An unusual silence had befallen the ship, disturbed only by the creak of her timbers.

In his berth, Fletcher was beginning to get together his possessions. Bligh’s servant, John Smith, appeared in the cabin doorway. Touching his forehead, he said, ‘Scusing me Mr Christian, but Captain Bligh would be pleased if you could join him for supper this evening.’

Fletcher’s jaw dropped. ‘He wishes me to—’

Obviously appreciating the irony of the invitation — he had overheard Bligh’s latest tirade — Smith nodded. ‘Join him for supper, yes.’

Fletcher exhaled. ‘Tell the captain that I will not be able to attend his supper as I am feeling unwell. But do give him my compliments.’

Getting the ironical message, Smith flicked up his eyebrows. As the man who had had to do Bligh’s bidding day and night for a year and a half, he too had been on the receiving end of his verbal attacks.

Fletcher mulled over the supper invitation. It mystified him. Did the man have no idea how deeply his razor tongue cut? How wounding his words were? Had he no conception of how the victims of his abuse felt? Could he not imagine the feelings of others? The answers to all those questions was an emphatic ‘no’, Fletcher concluded.

Almost everyone had given up dining with Bligh. Only the toady Hayward, whom no one liked, still accepted the captain’s invitation to dine with him. And below decks the men hissed Hayward for doing so.

Purcell kept his word: he had produced the materials Fletcher needed. Under cover of darkness on the foredeck, he lashed six planks to two spars. He had a pack full of provisions and a water flask. As he worked he felt fatalistic. If he drowned on the way to Tofua he didn’t care, at least he would die a free man.

But now nature conspired against him. The night was stifling, Bounty was almost becalmed, and below decks the air was so muggy that nearly all the crew were lying topside, spread about the decks. Fletcher had no hope of getting his raft over the side without the alarm being raised by one of them. Then he might be rescued, and incarcerated by Bligh for desertion.

His next watch would begin at four in the morning. He would wait till then, he decided, when it was cooler and the crew had gone below to their berths. Then he would go over the side. He returned to his cabin and his hammock.

Among Fletcher’s closest shipmates — Peter, Ned and George — the word had been passed that their friend was planning to abandon the Bounty.

George was determined to dissuade his friend from deserting. Just before four he went below. Fletcher’s berth was a few feet forward of the foot of the companionway ladder. A seal-oil lantern hung near the foot of the ladder, giving off a pallid light. Fletcher’s berth was screened by a sheet of canvas.

Lifting the canvas, George growled in his Orkney accent, ‘Fla-tcher!’

‘What is it?’

Fletcher sat up. He had hardly slept, plagued by thoughts of his impending action and probable death. Crouching beside him, George spoke urgently. ‘Don’t take to the raft, it’s a daft idea. Don’t do it.’

‘I must. It’s the only way.’

‘No, it is not the only way.’

‘For my own sanity, George, I must leave.’

‘You don’t have to leave.’ George paused, and Fletcher could hear his deep breathing. ‘The men are ripe for anything, Fletcher.’

The canvas fell and George was gone. Fletcher lay for a few minutes, his mind churning. Ripe for anything. What did that mean? Did the men want Bligh taken down? He got up, pulled on his shirt and trousers and climbed the stairs. Topside, he replaced Peckover as watchman. Ellison was at the helm, with Mills. Fletcher greeted them with feigned casualness.

He settled in to his watch, standing at the base of the mainmast, one arm around it. His mind continued to seethe. Bounty’s timbers creaked as she rolled in the swells; above him the sails drooped and flapped.

Out of the darkness another figure appeared. Ned. ‘Fletcher!’ he whispered.

‘What is it?’

‘The raft notion. Drop it.’

‘What else can I do? I’ve been in hell these past weeks.’

Ned glanced around, then murmured, ‘We can seize the bastard and take the ship. Now’s the time. All we need to do is get some of the men on our side and take control of the arms chests. With the arms we take the ship. We’ll cast Bligh adrift in the cutter. There’s no need for bloodshed. The people are ready, Fletcher.’

He slipped away.

Take the ship. Now’s the time. Fletcher’s mind was on another course now. If there was to be an insurrection, he was the one to lead it. The fact that Bligh had been his friend was irrelevant now. His mentor had become his tormentor. His brother Charles’s advice beamed at him through the darkness: Despots must be stood up to, Fletcher.

Control of the ship meant deposing Bligh and establishing a new authority. He, Fletcher, would be free. Now’s the time. Yes, those in authority — Bligh, Fryer, Elphinstone and Cole — were all below and still sleeping.

But who could he count on to support him? In his mind he drew up a list.

He thought of the ones whom Bligh had had lashed: Quintal, more than once, McCoy, Alex Smith, Thompson, Williams, Sumner. They had committed reckless acts and had been flogged for it. The would-be deserters, Millward and Muspratt, had been punished by Bligh. Martin? Yes, he too had been lashed and abused, and had been heard to curse the commander. Ned would join in. So, eleven men with motivation. Yes, that would probably be enough for them to take the ship. Provided they had the arms.

But at what price? If he failed, a fatal one. Confinement, a court martial, loss of honour and death by strangulation from a navy yardarm. A high price indeed. Yet what he was now experiencing — false accusation, verbal abuse and humiliation — amounted to a kind of living death. He could, and would, endure it no longer. His mind had become filled with the blackest of thoughts, ones there was no hope of ridding himself of while he shared the ship with Bligh. The man’s conduct, for whatever reason — envy, mania, or the worst to consider, his unnatural desire — had become insufferable. He was treating all his officers with disdain, but he, Fletcher, was being singled out for special contempt.

Again he brought to mind his brother Charles’s case. He and his other insurgents had deposed their commander but had not been held culpable. The commander had been in effect found to be at fault. Was the case of Bligh not similar? Mutiny could in some circumstances be justified, surely. And Bligh’s conduct may well not survive scrutiny by the authorities, should sworn eyewitness evidence of his misconduct be heard. As Charles’s captain’s had been.

Fletcher hugged the mainmast more tightly. Yes, rebellion was the only way. But first, a precaution. If he failed, he must die, and do so on his own terms.

He went aft to the mizzen mast, from which the sounding lines dangled. With his knife he cut one of the lines, with a heavy lead weight attached, and tied it round his neck, slipping the weight under his shirt. Should he fail, he would leap overboard and let the lead take him down with it. The sharks would do the rest.

Quintal and McCoy were among those still sleeping on the foredeck. Fletcher went to them. ‘Matt! Will!’ Both came to and looked at him groggily. ‘What is it?’ McCoy mumbled.

‘I’m taking the ship. Are you both with me?’

They sat up. Quintal’s expression became animated. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘I’m with you.’ He turned to McCoy. ‘Will?’

‘Aye, me too.’ Both scrambled to their feet.

Fletcher put his face close to theirs. ‘Go below and rouse those who should be with us. Lamb, Martin, Churchill, Millward, Muspratt, Alex Smith. I’ll let the others on watch know. But there is to be no bloodshed.’

Coleman was dozing by the starboard rail. Fletcher shook him awake. ‘Joseph!’ He stirred. Fletcher whispered, ‘I’m taking the ship. Are you with me?’

The armourer’s eyes gleamed. ‘Sure I am.’

‘We need the keys to the arms chests. Fryer will have them. Can you get them from his berth?’

Coleman grinned. He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew two sets of keys. ‘No need, Fletcher. Here they are.’

‘How did you—’

‘Fryer passed them to me. He was tired of being wakened by that dimwit Norman, wanting access to the chests at night so he could shoot at sharks.’

‘Right. Unlock the chests. We’ll all need pistols and cutlasses, as well as muskets. Ammunition, too, and bayonets.’

Below on the orlop deck, Quintal obeyed Fletcher’s instructions. He knew who detested Bligh, knew who could be relied on to join the mutiny. One after another, roused figures came up on deck through the for’ard hatchway: Burkett, Lamb, Muspratt, Williams, Alex Smith. Now, the arms chests. One was below by the main hatchway, the other on the upper deck.

Two of the midshipmen, Hallett and Hayward, were asleep on the chests, Hayward on the one below, Hallett on the upper deck chest. Fletcher shook Hayward’s shoulder. ‘Wake up! Wake up!’

When he sat up, Fletcher admonished him. ‘Get up on deck and attend to your duties, man!’

Hayward stumbled to the ladder and went topside.

The chest was now unguarded. Fletcher unlocked it, then eyed the contents. Muskets, pistols, cutlasses, cartons of ammunition. His heart began to race. Armed, they couldn’t fail. Mustn’t fail.

He helped himself to a musket with a fixed bayonet and a carton of cartridges. Pocketing the ammunition, he slipped a cutlass through his belt, then went back topside. The insurgents were clustered on the foredeck, speaking in low tones. When Fletcher appeared on deck, armed like a buccaneer, the men murmured approval. Quintal gripped his arm. ‘You’re in charge, now, Christian. Go for the bastard.’

‘Not yet,’ he replied. ‘Thompson and Burkett, get to the chest below and collect the arms. And cartridges, enough for all of us. And make no noise. We mustn’t wake Bligh, Fryer and the others before we’re ready to.’

The pair nodded and crept off.

It was now after five. The eastern sky was becoming paler, although there was still no wind. Swells slopped and slurped against Bounty’s bow. Her timbers were moaning softly, like a cello ensemble. The figures on the foredeck were becoming more distinct, but they still could not be seen by the helmsmen at the other end of the ship. Looking at the lightening sky, Fletcher knew the point of no return had been reached. An impetus had built: now the moment had come for him to confront the man who had become his nemesis.

The door of Bligh’s cabin was ajar. Cutlass in his right hand, Fletcher yanked it open. Behind him were Churchill, Burkett and Mills, all holding muskets with bayonets fixed. Bligh woke up. He was wearing a nightshirt and cap. Fletcher took a step forward and put the cutlass to his throat. Bligh struggled into an upright position, eyes bulging with disbelief. This is a nightmare, the popping eyes implied.

Fletcher gripped the cutlass. Now he had him. ‘Get up!’ he shouted. He grabbed the nightshirt with his left hand and hauled him from his cot.

Bligh began to yell. ‘What is the meaning of this violence, Christian?’

‘I’m taking the ship. Hold your tongue and you won’t be hurt.’

‘What’s the matter? What’s the matter?’

‘The matter is that you have put me in hell these past weeks.’

Tearing off his cap, Bligh screamed. ‘Murder! Murder! Murder!’

His howls were so loud they could be heard throughout the lower deck.

Churchill shoved his way forward, a length of cord in his hands. ‘Sod you, Bligh,’ he snarled. ‘I’m trussing you.’ Towering over the captain, he grabbed Bligh by the arm and spun him about. With Fletcher standing back, Churchill and Burkett tied Bligh’s wrists and his arms behind his back, grunting with satisfaction as they tightened the rope. The tail of his nightshirt had become caught up in the rope, leaving his white bum exposed. He looked like a deranged patient who had wandered out of an infirmary.

Fryer’s cabin was on the other side of the aft stairway. Having heard the yelling, he pushed his door open, but it was now guarded by Quintal and Sumner. They shoved him back inside.

‘You’re our prisoner, Fryer,’ Quintal told him.

The master looked about wildly, as if expecting assistance from some of the others. Quintal grabbed his shirt front and shook him hard.

‘Unhand me, Quintal, you swine!’

‘Hold your tongue or you’re a dead man! Mr Christian is the captain of the Bounty now.’

‘What are you doing with the captain?’

Sumner pushed forward, grinning. ‘We’re putting him in the cutter and setting him adrift. Then we’ll see if the bugger can survive on three quarters of a pound of yams a day!’

‘Into the cutter? For what reason?’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, can’t you understand? We’re getting rid of the pig.’

Fryer cried out, ‘But the cutter’s not seaworthy! It’s been eaten by worms.’

Fletcher came over to them, still brandishing the cutlass. Full of assurance now, he ordered Sumner and Quintal, ‘Confine Fryer to his cabin.’

He turned back to Bligh, whose expression was dazed, his mouth hanging open. ‘On deck with you,’ Fletcher ordered, pointing to the stairs with the cutlass. Realising he had no option, Bligh shuffled to the stairs, one buttock still exposed. Fletcher was brimming with the power of authority and the satisfaction of redress. Now it is me who humiliates you, he thought, and it is a satisfying feeling.

He led Bligh up on deck. It was daylight now and the armed men were visible.

‘What’s the meaning of this?’ Bligh demanded again, blinking at the insurgents.

Fletcher put his face close to his. ‘How can you ask that, when you have treated me so abominably?’

‘I, abominable? I taught you all you know! I advanced you money!’

Fletcher’s reply was in a bitter tone. ‘Yes, you were my benefactor for a time. Then, after I spurned your advances, you turned treacherous.’ He drew back. ‘You have treated me and the other officers like flunkies. You have abused and insulted us. You have proven unfit for command. Now, get aft!’

With the cutlass, Fletcher prodded Bligh to the mizzen mast, near Bounty’s stern. There, hands still tied behind his back, he was guarded by Churchill, Burkett and Alex Smith, all with bayonets pointed at him. ‘Hold him there,’ Fletcher ordered. Smith tugged Bligh’s nightshirt tail out from under the rope in which it had become snagged.

Fletcher began to go for’ard, Bligh’s cries following him. ‘Infamy! Outrage! You’ll fucking hang for this, Christian! You and all the other shits!’

Turning back, Fletcher stared at the abject figure. Lapsing into Tahitian, he shouted ‘Mamoo! Hold your tongue and I’ll not hurt you.’

To think he had once been friends with this stunted, foul-mouthed bully. How could he have so misjudged the man?

Ignoring Bligh’s continuing cries, Fletcher went to the front of the ship. He tore the lead line from around his neck and flung it overboard. No need for that, now. He was in charge, and he had much to live for.

On the foredeck he carried out a head count. He reckoned there were now fifteen hard men on his side. And because they were all armed, they had control. Among those who had been doubtful, Millward had been ordered by his friend Churchill to join the mutineers. He concurred; nobody argued with Churchill. Young Ellison too had joined the revolt.

Fletcher now considered the Bligh loyalists. Of these, Fryer was still confined to his cabin. Cole, Lebogue and Coleman had not gone over to the side of the mutineers. Neither had Morrison, McIntosh, Norman, Simpson and John Smith. Samuel, Hayward and Hallett would not join, and neither would purblind Byrne. Surprisingly, Will Purcell had declined to support the mutiny, despite loathing Bligh.

Gardener Nelson’s allegiance lay with his breadfruit plants; he had been sleeping with them in the greenhouse since Tahiti. He remained loyal to Bligh. His colleague, Brown, did not. Loving Tahiti and despising Bligh, he willingly joined Fletcher’s team.

Bligh’s clerk, Samuel, showed courage by going below and asking Mills for entry to the captain’s cabin. When consent was grudgingly given Samuel gathered up Bligh’s compass, his purser’s records and his commission authority. But Mills refused to let him take any charts, journals or navigational devices.

Fryer was still in his cabin, but his shouting could be heard topside. Quintal’s head appeared at the top of the stairway. ‘He’s beggin’ to talk to you,’ he told Fletcher. ‘Shall we let him?’

‘Yes, bring him up. But keep him well guarded.’

Fryer strode up to Fletcher, his face distraught, his eyes wild. ‘For God’s sake, Christian, release the captain.’

‘It’s too late for that, Fryer. Bligh has brought this upon himself. He’s to be set adrift. As are you and his other followers.’

‘But why—’

‘He’s leaving the ship. And so are you!’ He ordered Quintal and Sumner, ‘Take Fryer back to his cabin!’

It was now seven-thirty. As Fletcher issued orders to his supporters, Bligh’s loyalists stood about dumbly. A few, notably Hayward and Hallett, were tearful. Fryer, now allowed on deck, looked like a dead man standing. Some of Fletcher’s supporters had not been issued with weapons, so were hard to define as his followers. Others had snatched up weapons in the excitement of the hour, without committing to the mutiny. Peter Heywood was one of these. He raced about the decks, waving a cutlass like a boy playing pirates.

Temporarily released from his bonds, Bligh pulled on his shirt, trousers and jacket, which had been brought up by his servant. Then, roped once again to the mast, he continued to stare about him in disbelief at what was happening.

Now that the boil had been lanced, the pus flowed. Relishing their newly won freedom of speech, the mutineers began taunting their deposed commander. ‘Shoot the bugger!’ Young shouted. ‘Blow his brains out!’ cried Churchill. ‘Now you try and live on our rations!’ Burkett yelled. ‘No more fiddling our rations!’ McCoy shouted. ‘Scrub the deck yerself now, you short-arsed bastard!’ Quintal bellowed.

Cole approached Fletcher on the mid-deck. He pleaded, ‘I beg you to stop this scheme, Christian. Before it’s too late.’

‘It’s already too late, Cole. You well know how the man has mistreated me.’

‘We all know it. But you must drop your plan.’

‘No. Bligh’s tyranny is finished.’

The boatswain put his face in his hands.

On the foredeck, preparations were being made to launch the smaller cutter. Purcell confirmed that it was indeed rotting at the keel. But so was the larger boat, he reported. ‘It will leak grievously,’ he said. He begged Fletcher, ‘We must use the launch instead.’

Fletcher gave this consideration. If the cutters weren’t seaworthy, it was the ship’s launch or nothing. He had no intention of committing murder, directly or indirectly. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Prepare to lower the launch.’

Eighteen men volunteered to go with Bligh in the launch, which was tied alongside the ship, starboard side. After Fryer and the other loyalists got down into it, it became low in the water. There were barely seven inches of freeboard. Yet armourer Coleman and carpenter’s mates Norman and McIntosh still pleaded with Fletcher to be allowed to go with their captain. He refused. ‘You’re staying with the ship,’ he told them. ‘Your skills are needed.’

Some supplies had to be taken aboard the launch. Cole and a few of the others had collected up bags of ship’s biscuit, a cask of water and some coconuts. Reluctantly Fletcher also allowed four cutlasses and some of Purcell’s woodworking tools to be taken into the launch. More food and some clothing was thrown down into the launch by the loyalists still on the Bounty.

Now came the turn of the man who just hours ago had been the commander. Fletcher led Bligh to the rail, prodding his side with his bayonet, resisting an urge to slide the steel between his ribs, having to again remind himself again that he must not commit murder.

At the rail, Fletcher untied Bligh’s wrists. ‘I must have a sextant,’ Bligh said. ‘And writing materials. My notebooks and journal. Is that too much to ask?’

Stripped of his authority and dignity, mocked and derided by many of his men, Bligh presented an ignominious figure. Fletcher felt a flash of compassion for the man. ‘Very well,’ he said, and told Martin to fetch what Bligh wanted.

When Martin returned with the sextant, books and writing materials, Bligh hugged them to his chest. Then he gave one last look at his captor, his mouth twisting into a sneer. Fletcher’s hatred for the man came rushing back, but he said nothing more.

Not so Bligh. He raised a fist defiantly. ‘You cannot hide, Christian,’ he said, his chest rising and falling. ‘We will find you. And after we do, you will hang like the common criminal you are.’

Fryer held out his hand to Bligh and he took a seat in the stern of the launch. Standing at the rail of Bounty, verging on tears, were loyalists Coleman, McIntosh and Norman. Fiddler Byrne was weeping, aware that there was no place for an almost blind man in a boat cast adrift. Coleman shouted down to Bligh, ‘Remember, sir, I had no part in this hideous business!’

Looking up at them, Bligh yelled back, ‘Never fear, my lads, I know you can’t all come with me. I know which of you have not followed the mutineer Christian. And I’ll do you justice if ever I reach England!’

There were now nineteen men in the launch and twenty-five aboard the ship. Fletcher cast its line off and the launch slipped sternward. On Bounty’s after deck, Young broke into a Tahitian dance, waving his arms, gyrating his hips and whooping with joy. Churchill, McCoy and Alex Smith were grinning like mad men as they swigged the grog ration that Fletcher had rewarded them with. They began to shout, ‘Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah for Tahiti!’

The Bligh loyalists on board stood about in mute uncertainty, staring at the departing launch, not knowing where they would now be taken or what their fate would be.

In the launch, six men picked up the oars and began to row the overladen vessel. From Bounty’s decks they watched its solitary sail being raised. It caught the breeze. Then, with Bligh gripping the tiller, it turned and headed in the direction of Tofua, fifteen miles to the east.

Fletcher stood on the quarterdeck, watching the launch grow smaller. He had given Ellison the helm and told him to take a southeasterly course. The sun was high now, the wind a steady five knots. To larboard the islands of Kao and Tofua were fading into the mist and the launch was disappearing then appearing among the swells.

The breadfruit plants were tossed out Bounty’s stern windows, accompanied by shouts of glee from the throwers, among them gardener Brown. From the taffrail Fletcher watched the pots floating briefly in the wake, their foliage waving in the wind before they sank into the sea. The great breadfruit transplantation scheme was over.

We will now be able to claim the Great Cabin’s space, Fletcher realised. And he wondered, what else can we claim?