Ocean Master Boats
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“What a strange place, sir,” said the quartermaster. He stood by Captain Bligh’s shoulder as he surveyed the huddled figures who filled the small boat landing on the island where the Bounty had made her last stand with Cook against French and Spanish ships.
A little over two months earlier, this spot had been crowded with boats full of frightened men trying to get away from the fighting; now it was deserted except for a single boat pulled up on the beach.
Bligh glanced at him. “How is Mr. Pym?”
The quartermaster shrugged his shoulders. “He has not spoken since you left us.” The captain sighed deeply, then turned back toward the boat. His first mate was still clinging to the side. He took the man’s hands in his own and helped pull him aboard. The quartermaster came up alongside them and they pushed off into deeper water.
They rowed out past the shallows to where another small boat lay half-buried on its side in the sand. This time there were three people in it: Lieutenant Dacres and two seamen whom Bligh guessed must be the men whose names they’d given him when he boarded the ship after their escape from the mutiny.
One of them, a young sailor with dark skin and an eager look, scrambled over the gunwales and clambered over the captain’s head to help haul in the sail.
Dacres, looking exhausted and unkempt, climbed aboard, too. Then the boat was pulled clear of the sea bottom and they set off back toward the main group that had gathered on the shore. There was no need to use a torch now.
The sun was well up, and the light that filtered down through the trees gave everything in the jungle a greenish cast—as if someone had painted it with oil. The sound of splashing feet could be heard ahead as the crew of the Bounty swam ashore.
It took nearly an hour to get everyone safely landed. Some had lost limbs or suffered more serious injuries in the fighting, but none was dead, as far as Bligh knew. They all clung together at one end of a long line, waiting for the men coming behind to make their own final landfall before being allowed to join them.
There were many things Bligh wanted to say to his crew—things about how sorry he was about having to leave them so abruptly; things about what happened next, both here and in Tahiti; some explanations and excuses—but the opportunity never presented itself. The moment they touched land, he saw that the situation had changed.
A group of sailors carrying muskets and wearing blue jackets had come ashore. They were accompanied by several marines and a couple of officers, including a tall, handsome young lieutenant with a short blond beard who seemed to know every man on board the ship. Bligh looked at him curiously as they approached, then frowned as he realized something.
“That’s not Mr. Bellingham,” he muttered.
The officer, who appeared to have command of the whole situation, ignored him, however, and began barking orders like a drill sergeant.
“Get them underarms!” he shouted, pointing to some of those already on the beach. “Take them over to the other side. I want every man armed and ready to march in five minutes.”
He turned to Bligh. “Mr. Bligh, will you please escort me to the governor’s residence? We are taking these prisoners directly to him.”
For a moment Bligh hesitated, then nodded and started walking toward the jungle. Behind him, the others followed, led by Dacres, while the quartermaster went with the lieutenant to see what was happening with the ship.
The men in the new arrivals’ party formed up along the bank of the river just upstream of where their boats had come ashore. Bligh, meanwhile, had been forced to go farther into the bush to avoid a small band of natives who were approaching. At that point, one of the newcomers called out a warning, and Bligh paused. In response, the group of newcomers turned and ran away from him.
Bligh waited until he could no longer hear their footsteps in the brush before moving forward again, and soon he was alone with his men. For a few moments, nobody spoke, but as he walked among them, he could feel their anger simmering under their silence. When he was sure that most of them were following him, Bligh stopped.
“Listen to me, my lads,” he said softly. “This may sound hard to believe, but it is true: You’re alive, and there are good reasons why we should rejoice. But first let me tell you this: Those fellows out there are our friends—not the enemy.
They mean well, but they’ve made mistakes. They’re not your enemies either, but the way things stand now it would be dangerous to trust them any further than we can throw a rope.”
He waited for them to nod, then went on: “You must understand that there are different factions within this group of people who call themselves the British Empire—and that they all hate each other. Our ship is a prize, and we have captured it fair and square.
But those who arrived here yesterday have taken it over as their own ship. This group calls itself the Bounty Society, and it has a mission—a very important one. That’s why they came here and took possession of our ship and all its provisions and gear—because they’re here to take the Pacific back for King James by any means necessary—which means by force if they have to.”
The men glanced at each other as Bligh paused and looked around. Finally, one spoke up.
“We don’t care,” he said simply. “What does it matter? What difference does it make who’s here?”
Bligh sighed. “I understand how you feel, my friend,” he replied gently. “But think what you’re saying. If I’m right, then these people out there have come thousands of miles across a sea just to help us. And if I am right, then we’re lucky to be alive—especially given how badly we fought the other day.”
Another voice cut in before Bligh could respond. It was the same man who’d spoken before: “And besides,” he added, “we’re not the only ones who have fought. These fellows have too.”
There was laughter among the men, and Bligh nodded.
“Very well, then, we’ve talked enough. Let’s get moving.”
They marched through the bush without speaking, and though many still seemed confused and angry, at least they were moving in the right direction and Bligh felt relieved. As they left the woods behind and emerged onto the grassy flats above the river, however, the relief turned quickly to dread.
There was little undergrowth, and the sky overhead was open blue. The ground sloped down toward the riverbank, and ahead lay a long, low ridge covered with bushes and trees. Bligh knew that it ran along the length of the river’s delta, so as they continued toward the water he could tell that they were getting close to the village that the British had built near where the river met the ocean.
Ahead of him, a tall figure stepped out onto a flat rock. He was dressed in what appeared to be a British naval uniform, and even from a distance, he didn’t look friendly. When he raised his arms in a gesture of triumph, Bligh realized that he was holding an object that looked like a musket. It wasn’t aimed in their direction, but it was held tightly as he watched them march past.
At that same moment, a second man appeared, also dressed in the uniform of a British seaman. This time he had a rifle cradled in both arms. Though the weapon was pointed away from them, it was obvious that it was loaded and ready to fire. The two men stood together, watching the approaching group with undisguised hatred as they approached.
***
Captain Bligh had been in combat before—but never like this. Never so outnumbered and outgunned and with no chance to fight back. His stomach clenched into a tight ball at the thought of the men who were about to be shot dead—and for what?
For being here, when they weren’t wanted and needed. Just like us.
When the group reached the end of the low ridge and began to walk down the slope toward the village, Bligh’s men fell into formation again, though they remained silent and unmoving. The first man in line was the captain, and as he passed the other three men ahead of him, he heard their breathing slow and deepen; then, when he was directly in front of the two armed Britons, he paused.
“Wait,” he ordered, “just wait.”
He stopped in front of the two men, and the others formed a ring around him. Then he turned and faced them.
“I’ve got one question for you,” he said quietly. “If we surrender to you, will your friends shoot us?”
His words seemed to stun the British sailors, but they recovered quickly and answered.
“No, they won’t,” one answered quickly, glancing nervously at the other. “Not unless you do something stupid.”
Bligh grinned. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Then, to his surprise, he heard the unmistakable sound of a pistol cocking from somewhere behind him. He whirled around just in time to see the muzzle of a gun pointed directly at him. It wasn’t aimed at his chest or head; instead, the man behind the weapon was aiming straight at his mouth.
He closed his eyes tightly and braced himself for the blast of pain that would follow. But when it didn’t come, he opened his eyes and found himself staring into the cold, calculating eyes of the first Briton. The man behind the gun was looking right into Bligh’s eyes—and smiling.
“Don’t move,” the man warned him, his voice soft and menacing. “Keep your hands where I can see ’em, and you might live to be hanged.”
With those words, Bligh felt the tension drain from his body as quickly as it had flowed through it. He relaxed his shoulders slightly and kept his hands visible. The man behind the weapon didn’t seem worried that he might do anything, but rather seemed intent on making it clear that there were consequences to any foolish behavior.
The rest of the British sailors seemed equally unfazed by the threat. They stood with their hands on top of the barrels of their muskets, and Bligh could see the whites of their eyes peering out from behind the dark glasses. Even the young lieutenant seemed confident and calm in spite of the situation.
He stared back at Bligh calmly, his mouth set in a grim line, and then he turned to face forward again. The two men waited silently until they were sure that everyone else in their column was also keeping quiet. Then, at the same time, they both lowered their weapons.
Captain Bligh let out a deep breath and smiled weakly.
“Thank you,” he muttered. “I’m relieved.”
The first man glanced over his shoulder quickly and nodded. Then he took a step backward and disappeared into the trees. The second man stayed behind and walked forward until he stood next to Bligh. He was shorter than Bligh and thinner, too, though perhaps not quite as thin as he had looked from a distance.
His skin was tanned a dark brown color, and he wore his black hair cropped short. As he studied Bligh, his lips pulled back into a smile that was almost as frightening as his expressionless eyes. He had an air about him that was hard to describe: he wasn’t menacing, nor did he seem especially cruel.
But he exuded power that was more palpable than his words and gestures—power that made Bligh shudder involuntarily. The man spoke slowly and deliberately.
“You’re Captain Bligh?”
Bligh nodded and then repeated, “Yes, that’s me.”
The man continued to stare into his eyes without blinking.
“You speak English well,” he observed.
The Britisher didn’t respond right away, and Bligh felt an uncomfortable tightening in his gut. Finally, the man broke the silence.
“Your crew is a bit disorganized,” he said. “I hope you don’t plan on doing anything rash while you’re under our roof.”
Bligh shrugged and smiled. “We aren’t planning on doing anything at all except sitting down, drinking tea, and talking.”
He didn’t know if he was lying or telling the truth, but either way, the Britisher’s expression softened a little.
“That seems like a wise plan,” he agreed. “Let’s get inside before it rains.”
***
After leaving the British sailors to guard the prisoners, James Fletcher led his party toward the center of the island. In order to avoid detection, they traveled through dense forest for half a mile or so until they reached a large clearing filled with tall, thick-trunked trees and lush green vines.
The ground here was mostly flat and covered by a carpet of grass that stretched out as far as the eye could see. To their left, across the wide expanse of open land, were dozens of small huts—the only houses on Pitcairn Island.
The huts were scattered randomly throughout the clearing and arranged in a rough grid, creating a maze that allowed the men easy access to each one. It was impossible to see the inhabitants of these homes from the road that the party was traveling, which meant that the men wouldn’t have to worry about being spotted as they passed them going to and fro between the huts.
At least that was how Fletcher hoped things would go: after all, it was still raining hard outside, and it would make more sense for the natives to stay home during such bad weather. And if they stayed in, there would be less chance that anyone else would wander out to take a look at the group of visitors.
As soon as they crossed over the last tree line into the open space, Fletcher stopped the procession to wait. This was one of the main villages that he had seen on previous visits to the island, and it was also where he planned to hold the ceremony.
As the group of men stood in the rain, they surveyed their surroundings, waiting for a sign to indicate when to begin the meeting with the natives. There was no way to tell what the locals were thinking or feeling, but Fletcher knew that this was just another example of their curious nature.
The Pitcairners were always fascinated by strangers and often acted in ways that defied logic. That was exactly why they’d been willing to help Fletcher find some food for his group; they liked having something new and interesting to observe, even if they had no intention of actually helping with anything themselves.
After about ten minutes, a middle-aged native woman emerged from a hut in the distance. She wore a simple shirt made out of white cotton cloth and carried a basket on her head. The basket was full of freshly picked greens that she carefully placed into the arms of a child standing nearby.
The young girl was no more than nine years old and had bright green eyes, pale skin, and hair that were straight and black as coal.
She stared at the newcomers, her mouth open slightly as she examined the men and women from a distance. Her eyes widened when she recognized Fletcher and then immediately darted back to study the rest of the group. After taking a few steps forward, she pointed at John Adams.
“Who are these people?” she asked.
Fletcher motioned for one of his men to translate.
“These men have come to offer you gifts,” Fletcher replied. “They want to make your tribe happy.”
The young woman glanced from one man to the next, as if trying to figure out who among the party spoke English. When she finally came to the conclusion that none of them did, she looked at Fletcher and shrugged her shoulders, indicating that there must be someone in the village who could explain things to her.
“Do you have any children in your family?” Fletcher asked her.
“No, we don’t have any children yet,” she answered.
This was not a common thing to hear from the natives, since most families usually had many young ones, even before they were married. Most of the time, this meant that women would die in childbirth, leaving their husbands without any more children. But for some reason, the people of Pitcairn had never been afflicted by this problem.
Fletcher smiled as he took note of this unusual occurrence. He wasn’t sure if this was simply because Pitcairn’s inhabitants were unusually fertile or perhaps they were just more fortunate than other Islanders.
Either way, Fletcher couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps these strange creatures called humans possessed the same ability as the Polynesians—that is, they could control the number of their offspring.
Fletcher turned his attention to his companions and gestured for them to approach the young woman.
“You may call me Uncle Jim, and my friends here are Captain Fletcher, John Adams, and Mr. Sorenson,” Fletcher told her.
Her smile quickly faded as she studied each of their faces, trying to determine whether these men truly belonged to Fletcher. If she didn’t believe that they were members of his crew, she might decide to report back to their captors and have them brought before him.
But thankfully for Fletcher and his men, this did not seem like an option that the natives would entertain. In fact, she seemed to accept the explanation without question. She continued staring at them all for several moments longer until she finally spoke again.
“If you will follow us,” she said, “we can give you shelter so that you won’t get wet in the rain.”
Fletcher nodded, and everyone started walking down the main thoroughfare leading into the village. As he walked alongside the natives, he noticed that they kept glancing in his direction, as if trying to gauge whether he was friend or foe.
They had likely been taught to fear outsiders, which was understandable given the violent acts committed by the mutineers during the past few months. So far, however, they appeared to have nothing to fear from Fletcher and his small group of survivors, and so they kept looking at him curiously instead.
They followed the woman and her son for about half a mile until they came to the entrance of an ancient stone building that had been built on top of the largest hill overlooking the village. The hut was much larger than the homes that Fletcher had previously seen on the island, which made it obvious that the inhabitants here were quite prosperous.
It also gave them room to store more food and water, which would be vital to their survival now that their supplies aboard the Bounty were gone.
As soon as they entered the hut, Fletcher motioned for his men to take a seat on the floor. There weren’t any chairs in the village, since the Islanders didn’t use wood products or nails to construct their buildings. Instead, their structures consisted of wooden frames covered with grass mats, which allowed the houses to withstand strong winds and storms without being destroyed. The only furniture that Fletcher had ever seen in the village before was the bed frame used by the young boy’s mother.
As he watched the young child playing around the house, he couldn’t help but feel sorry for the child’s parents; they had both died of disease before they could teach the child how to speak and walk. This left him feeling even more grateful that the natives here did not have to face such dangers anymore.
For some reason, Fletcher felt a connection with this little boy and was determined to do everything in his power to protect him.
When the two women finished cleaning up after the meal, they began preparing the beds for Fletcher’s guests. They placed a large blanket on top of each of the sleeping platforms, then laid another one across the middle section of the hut that separated the two beds. When the blankets were ready, Fletcher motioned for the women to leave, so they did so without complaint.
He sat down on a bed and took off his boots before laying himself down, which immediately put him to sleep. He was exhausted from having spent almost two weeks fighting his way through Pitcairn Island’s dense jungles; his mind and body needed rest.
Unfortunately, he still dreamed of those terrible days in Tahiti when he had been forced to endure the torture that was heaped upon him by Fletcher’s former shipmates.
When he awoke the following morning, Fletcher stretched out his arms and legs to relieve some of the stiffness that had accumulated throughout the night. His muscles felt refreshed now that his body was no longer dehydrated and hungry.
After eating breakfast—which consisted of breadfruit that was mixed with salt, dried fish that was soaked in water overnight, and coconut milk that had been warmed over a fire—he and his companions gathered some fresh coconuts from a tree that was growing near the beach.
Then they went back inside the hut and ate the meat and drank the milk of the fruits. It tasted much better than anything that they had eaten on Pitcairn Island before; in fact, it was delicious!
After eating the fruit, Fletcher and his companions set out for the village. As they walked down the main street toward the ocean, Fletcher glanced to his right. He noticed that there wasn’t anyone else who was walking on this side of the village.
It was just him, his men, and the women who had brought him food yesterday. No other villagers were going to the harbor this early in the morning; they preferred to stay indoors once the sun came up.
As they neared the waterfront, Fletcher saw a large fishing boat parked beside another small sailboat anchored offshore. Both vessels had been damaged during the storm that Fletcher and his crew encountered earlier when they first arrived in this part of the Pacific Ocean.
When he reached the end of the dock, he and his men turned around and looked behind them. All of the houses in the village were constructed in a circle, like an upside-down “U,” and they faced the ocean. The center of the hut was open, allowing for air circulation.
At the very front of the village stood a tall tower that acted as a lighthouse beacon for ships at sea. The structure had been built from a combination of palm trees and coral rock.
While most of the buildings were made entirely from natural materials, a handful had been constructed using steel and wood. These structures were primarily used for storage purposes because the Islanders didn’t believe in hoarding valuable items or wasting resources.
They believed that if they didn’t need something, they shouldn’t have it. This made sense to Fletcher; it was a great way to save food and water for future consumption while also conserving precious metals that could be used to make useful tools and weapons later on.
When Fletcher reached the center of the hut, he stopped and gazed toward the south. To his surprise, he could see what looked like several islands floating on the horizon—or maybe it was just a mirage?
The End