School was recorded the fact that he was once a pupil, together with the poet William Wordsworth.
Other than that, there is no monument to him.
Neither is there on Pitcairn.
Southampton, 1977
J.M.
‘… I would rather die ten thousand deaths than bear this treatment any longer … I always do my duty as an officer and as a man ought, yet I receive this scandalous usage … I am in hell …’
Fletcher Christian, April 28, 1789,
at the moment of mutiny
Like an occasional fly on the chest of a sleeping man, the Bounty rose and fell softly in the Pacific swell. It should have been cool, so early in the morning, but there was no wind for the sails that sagged empty from the masthead and the heat draped over the tiny, almost stationary vessel like a thick blanket.
And few people slept comfortably.
Only Captain William Bligh appeared undisturbed. He even wore a nightcap and nightshirt, but the door of his cabin was ajar, to catch any breeze. He stirred from time to time, mumbling in some private dream, but did not awaken. The difficult part of the voyage was over now: he was returning home, in triumph. He was a contented man.
It was too hot in his bunk for the ship’s master, James Fryer. Seeking some relief, he had arranged bed-covering into a mattress and was lodged precariously on top of his sea chest, dozing fitfully and half aware of the ship’s sounds around him. The two loaded pistols he always kept at hand were on the far side of the cabin, locked in a small cupboard. They were at sea now, miles from the nearest island and safe from any surprise attack, so the precautions weren’t necessary any more.
Charles Norman, the carpenter’s mate, had abandoned sleep altogether. He stood at the rear of the vessel, gazing down at the bubbled whiteness the huge, scavenging shark created, arcing and scything around the Bounty, Charles Norman liked fish, much better than human beings. He’d told people that, several times. But they hadn’t taken much notice, because Charles Norman was thought to be mad.
He would have warned Fletcher Christian, had he known what the second-in-command was planning. But the carpenter’s mate was the last person to whom any confidence could be entrusted.
It was only a few minutes before the end of midshipman George Stewart’s watch. It would stink down below, among the sweating, unwashed men, he knew. He stayed aloft, breathing deeply, like a swimmer about to make the plunge. The volcano on Tofoa, twenty miles away, was a spectacular sight, belching towards a full-scale eruption but already with great gouts of fire and lava shooting from it, like a roman candle.
The island was too far away for Fletcher, thought George Stewart, worriedly. And too dangerous, now, with the prospect of its being destroyed by the volcano.
Christian was insane, Stewart decided. With good reason, perhaps. But definitely insane. The man would have to be dissuaded, for his own safety. Stewart began making his way towards the hatchway, pausing to look towards the stern. What was Norman staring at so intently? he wondered. He shrugged, uninterested. Norman was soft in the head. Nothing he was doing could be important.
Like Norman, William Muspratt had decided to get up on deck. For’ard, near the galley, he inhaled the fresher air. A hatchet lay near the breakfast logs and on impulse he decided to split some for the cook. It would be a guaranteed way to get extra rations. Almost immediately came the protest from Michael Byrn, the ship’s sightless fiddler.
‘Hell’s teeth, shut up and let’s get some sleep. It’s not four yet.’
‘Shut up yourself, you blind bugger,’ shouted back Muspratt. He stopped though: it was too hot to chop wood. And who needed extra rations anyway, in weather like this?
In his bunk below, the sleepless Christian heard the footsteps approaching and drew back, instinctively, as the canvas screen was pulled aside from his starboard berth. From childhood, Christian had been bothered by excessive perspiration, so bad he stained things the moment he touched them. He was soaked now, his shoulder-length hair coiled in wet ringlets, his face smeared and greasy. And it wasn’t the heat, decided George Stewart, staring at the man who was to take the watch at 4 a.m. The acting midshipman was shocked by the appearance of Christian, with whom he had become friends during the sixteen months they had been at sea. Christian was as mad as Norman, on deck above, thought Stewart again. Maybe