come, sir,” said Young, heartily, “don’t give way to despondency. You know we were driven to act as we did, and it can’t be helped now.”
“We were driven! My poor fellow,” returned Christian, laying a hand on the midshipman’s shoulder, “you had no part in this miserable business. It is I who have drawn you all into it, but—well, well, as you say, it can’t be helped now. We must make the best of it,—God help us!”
He spoke in a low, soft tone of profound sadness, and continued his wistful gaze over the stern of the Bounty. Presently he looked quickly round, and, taking Young’s arm, began to pace the deck while he spoke to him.
“As you say, Edward, we shall anchor once more in Matavai Bay, but I am firmly resolved not to remain there.”
“I’m sorry to hear it, sir,” said Young, “for most of the men are as firmly resolved to stay, and you know several of them are resolute, not to say desperate, characters.”
“I am quite aware of that, but I shall make a proposal to them, which I think they will accept. I will first of all propose to leave Otaheite for some safer place of refuge, and when they object to that, I will propose to divide the whole of the ship’s stores and property among us all, landing that portion which belongs to those who elect to remain on the island, and sailing away with the rest, and with those who choose to follow my fortunes, to seek a more distant and a safer home.”
“That may perhaps suit them,” said Young.
“Suit them,” rejoined Christian, with a quick glance; “then you don’t count yourself one of them?”
“No,” returned the midshipman with a frank look, “I will follow you now, sir, to the end. How far I am guilty is a question that does not concern me at present. If the British Government gets hold of me, my fate is sealed. I am in the same boat with yourself, Mr Christian, and I mean to stick by it.”
There was a strange spasm on Christian’s countenance, as if of conflicting emotions, while he grasped the youth’s hand and squeezed it.
“Thank you, Edward, thank you. Go now and see the anchor cleared to let go.”
He descended quickly to the cabin, while the unfortunate midshipman went forward to give the order.
When the proposal just referred to was made the following day, after landing at Otaheite, it was at once agreed to. Peter Heywood, Stewart, Morrison, and others who had taken no active part in the mutiny, were glad to have the prospect of being enabled, sooner or later, to make a voluntary surrender of themselves, while the thoughtless and reckless among the men were well pleased to have done with uncertain wanderings, and to be allowed to settle among their amiable native friends.
Preparations for instant departure were made by Christian and those who chose to follow his lead. The contents of the Bounty were landed and fairly divided; then the vessel was got ready for her final voyage. Those who resolved to sail in her were as follows:—
Fletcher Christian, formerly acting lieutenant—age 24.
Edward Young, midshipman—age 22.
John Adams, seaman—age 22.
William McCoy, seaman—age 25.
Matthew Quintal, seaman—age 21.
John Williams, seaman—age 25.
Isaac Martin, seaman—age 30.
John Mills, gunner’s mate—age 40.
William Brown, botanist’s assistant—age 27.
All these had married native women of Otaheite, who agreed to forsake home and kindred and follow the fortunes of their white husbands. There were also six native men who consented to accompany them. Their names were Talaloo, Ohoo, Timoa, Nehow, Tetaheite, and Menalee. Three of these had wives, and one of the wives had a baby girl by a former husband. The European sailors named the infant Sally. She was a round light-brown embodiment of gleeful impudence, and had barely reached the staggering age of infancy when taken on board the Bounty to begin her strange career.
Thus the party consisted of twenty-eight souls—namely, nine mutineers, six native men, twelve native women, and the light-brown baby.
It was a pleasant bright morning in September 1790 when Fletcher Christian and his followers bade farewell to Otaheite. For some time the breeze was light, and the Bounty hovered round the Island as if loath to leave it. In the dusk of evening a boat put off from her, pulled to the shore, and Christian landed, alone, near the house of a chief who had become the special friend of Peter Heywood and Stewart. With the two midshipmen he spent some time in earnest conversation.
“I could not leave you,” he said in conclusion, “without relieving my mind of all that I have just said about the mutiny, because you are sure to be sent for and taken to England as soon as the intelligence of this sad affair reaches. I advise you to go off at once to the first ship that may appear, and give yourselves up to the commander.”
“Such is our intention,” said Heywood.
“Right,” rejoined Christian; “you are both innocent. No harm can come to you, for you took no part in the mutiny. For me, my fate is fixed. I go to search for some remote and uninhabited island, where I hope to spend the remainder of my days without seeing the face of any Europeans except those who accompany me. It is a dreary thought, lads, to lose country and kindred and friends for ever by the act of one dark hour. Now, remember, Heywood, what I have told you to tell my friends. God knows I do not plead guiltless; I am alone responsible for the mutiny, and I exonerate all, even my adherents, from so much as suggesting it to me; nevertheless, there are some who love me in England, to whom I would beg of you to relate the circumstances that I have told you. These may extenuate though they cannot justify the crime I have committed. I assure you, most solemnly, that almost up to the last I had no intention of doing more than making my own escape from the ship which the injustice and brutality of Bligh had made a place of torment to me. When you called me, Stewart, to relieve the watch, my brain seemed on fire, and it was when I found the two officers both asleep, who should have been on duty, that I suddenly made up my mind to take the ship. Now,” concluded Christian, grasping the hands of the youths, “I must say farewell. I have done you grievous wrong. God forgive me, and bless you. Good-bye, Peter; good-bye, Stewart, good-bye.”
He turned abruptly, stepped into his boat, and was rowed out to sea.
The young midshipmen, with moistened eyes, stood silently watching the boat until it reached the ship. Then they saw the Bounty steering away to the northward. Before daylight was quite gone she had disappeared on the distant horizon.
Thus did Fletcher Christian and his comrades pass from the sight and ken of man, and they were not heard of after that for more than twenty years!
But you and I, reader, have a special privilege to follow up these mutineers. Before doing so, however, let us note briefly what became of their comrades left on Otaheite.
These, to the number of sixteen, soon distributed themselves among the houses of their various friends, and proceeded to make themselves quite at home. Some of them, however, were not disposed to take up a permanent abode there. Among these was the boatswain’s mate, James Morrison, a man of superior mental power and energy, who kept an interesting and graphic journal of events.1
He, with the armourer, cooper, carpenter’s mate,
Part of this journal is quoted in an excellent account of the
