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Sir Joseph Banks carried my completed manuscripts back to London with him. Having finished my work, I asked permission to take up my quarters in the gun room again, and returned the same evening. The strain of waiting was less hard to endure in company. I told only Morrison of Tinkler’s return; it would have been cruel to have informed the others, men deprived of all hope of life.

Morrison’s Bible proved a resource to all of us during those last days. It was the same copy he had carried with him on the Bounty, and had been preserved even through the wreck of the Pandora. We read aloud, in turn, to the others, and we continued for hours so as to prevent ourselves from thinking of what was soon to come. Millward and Muspratt had aroused themselves from their stupor of despair. My liking and respect for these men increased greatly at this time. Tom Ellison had never for a moment lost his courage. It was a bitter thought that this lad, who had not an ounce of harm in him, was to lose his life as the result of a boyish indiscretion, at a time when he was most fitted to live. Only Burkitt remained as he had been from the day when sentence was pronounced. Except for brief intervals at mealtime, he paced up and down, hour after hour. Occasionally he would sit down for a moment, his head between his hands, staring dully at the floor; then he would lift his great shaggy head and glance around the room as though he had never seen it before, and a moment later spring to his feet and resume his pacing.

On the morning of October 26, we watched the Spitfire getting up her anchors. It was a windless day, and boats’ crews from the Hector and the Brunswick were sent to assist in towing her out of the harbour. We saw, or thought we saw, Dr. Hamilton standing on the poop as the ship moved slowly out toward Spithead. Whether or not it was the surgeon, we knew that he was thinking of us that morning as we were thinking of him and wishing him Godspeed.

We welcomed every diversion, however slight; not a ship’s boat crossing our line of vision escaped us. We criticized the way her men handled the oars, and conjectured as to where she was going and why. And every time the door of the gun room opened, every time the guard was changed or food was brought, I felt the cold chill about my heart that every condemned man must have known. Many a time during those weeks did I wish that the Admiralty Commissioners might have stood in our places for one day. The needless cruelty inflicted upon six men, prolonged during a period of more than a month, gave me a disgust for official routine which I retain to this day.

On the Sunday afternoon, Morrison was reading aloud to the rest of us. It was a cold day of drizzling rain, and Morrison was sitting close to one of the ports, holding his Bible on a level with his eyes that he might benefit by what dim light there was. All of us, excepting Burkitt, were gathered around him as we listened to that most beautiful of all the Psalms:—

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

Morrison read on in his clear musical voice, choosing those psalms that had comforted many generations of men in time of trouble. Of a sudden he halted in the midst of a sentence, and turned his head quickly toward the door. In so far as I remember we had heard nothing,—no sound, no voice, no tread of feet,—and yet we rose together and stood waiting, our eyes turned in the same direction. Burkitt stopped short and looked from the guards to us and back again. “What’s up?” he asked, hoarsely. There was no need to reply. The door opened and a lieutenant of marines entered, followed by the master-at-arms and a guard of eight men.

It was all but dark in the room and we could scarcely distinguish the faces of the men who had entered. The master-at-arms carried a paper in his hand. He crossed to one of the ports and held it up to the dim light.

“Thomas Burkitt—John Millward—Thomas Ellison.”

“The prisoners named step forward,” the lieutenant ordered.

The three men moved to the centre of the room. Handcuffs were snapped upon their wrists, and they were placed in the centre of the guard, four men in front and four behind.

“Forward, march!”

They were gone in an instant without a word of farewell being said. Morrison, Muspratt, and I stood where we were, and the door was closed and locked once more. A moment later, as we peered from the ports, we saw one of the Hector’s cutters put off from the gangway, and in the last grey light of the autumn afternoon we could distinguish the three shackled men on a thwart astern. Moored abreast of the Hector and about four hundred yards distant was H.M.S. Brunswick. We saw the cutter pass under her counter and disappear.

The anxiety of the night that followed is painful to recall. Morrison, Muspratt, and I made no pretense of sleeping. We sat by one of the ports, now and then peering out into the darkness toward the Brunswick, talking in low voices of the men who had gone. We knew well enough that it was their last night of life. The fact that we had been left behind gave us reason to hope that their fate was not to be ours. My heart went out to poor Muspratt, whose anguish of mind may be imagined. I did not dare hint, even now, at what Sir Joseph had told me concerning him, but I was glad that Morrison encouraged him to hope.

“Your case has been taken under consideration, Muspratt; I am sure of it,” he said. “I have never doubted that it would be. The fact that we have been left here proves that there is something in the wind concerning us.”

“What do you think, Mr. Byam?” asked Muspratt.

“That Morrison is right,” I replied. “He has been recommended to the King’s clemency. The Court’s appeal on his behalf must have been granted. You and I have been left here with him. Don’t you see, Muspratt? If they intended to hang us, we would have been sent to the Brunswick with the rest.”

“But maybe they want to hang them first? Or what if they’re going to hang us on the Hector?”

So we talked the night long, and God knows it was long. We considered every possibility, every conceivable reason for our separation from the others. And the minutes and the hours dragged by, and at last the darkness was suffused with the ashy light of dawn, through which the huge mass of the Brunswick grew more and more distinct.

Our guard was changed with the watch, at eight bells. No news came. One of the few prohibitions imposed upon us—and a quite just one—was that we should not speak to the guards, so we had no means of knowing what news was current on the ship. At nine o’clock, Morrison, who was standing by a port, turned and said, “They’ve run up the signal for punishment on the Brunswick.”

On all British ships, eleven o’clock in the morning was the hour for inflicting punishment. We had no doubt as to whom the Brunswick’s signal concerned. Ellison, Burkitt, and Millward had but two hours to live.

At half-past ten we saw one of the Hector’s longboats, filled with seamen, put off to the Brunswick. Boats from other vessels in the harbour followed; the men in them, we knew, were being sent to witness the execution. Muspratt remained at the port, gazing toward the Brunswick as though fascinated by the sight of her lofty yards. Morrison and I paced the room together, talking in the Indian tongue of Teina and Itea and other friends at Tahiti, in a desperate attempt to occupy our minds. It was getting on toward the hour when Captain Montague entered, followed by the lieutenant who had come the night before. A glance at the captain’s face told us all we needed to know, but if there was still doubt in our minds it was banished when the lieutenant ordered the guard to dismiss. The men filed quickly out, glancing back at us with friendly smiles. Captain Montague unfolded the paper in his hand.

“James Morrison—William Muspratt,” he called.

The two men stepped forward. Captain Montague glanced at them over the top of the paper he held, a kindly gleam in his blue eyes. He then read, solemnly:—

“In response to the earnest appeal of Lord Hood (Admiral of the Blue, and President of the Court-Martial by which you have been tried, convicted, and condemned to death for the crime of mutiny on His Majesty’s armed transport, Bounty) who, by reason of certain extenuating circumstances, has begged that you may not be compelled to suffer the extreme penalty prescribed by our just laws, His Majesty is graciously pleased to grant to you, and each of you, a free and unconditional pardon.”

“Roger Byam.”

I took my place beside my two comrades.

“The Commissioners for executing the Office of Lord High Admiral of Great Britain and Ireland, having received and heard the sworn testimony of Robert Tinkler, former midshipman of His Majesty’s armed transport, Bounty, are convinced of your entire innocence of the crime of mutiny, for which you have been tried, convicted, and condemned to death. The Lord’s Commissioners do, therefore, annul the verdict of the Court-Martial as it respects your person, and you stand acquitted.”

Captain Montague then stepped forward and shook each of us warmly by the hand.

“I have no doubt,” he said, “that three loyal subjects have been spared to-day for further usefulness to His Majesty.”

My heart was too full for words. I could only mutter, “Thank you, sir!” but Morrison would not have been Morrison had he not been prepared even for such a moment as this.

“Sir,” he said, earnestly, “when the sentence of the law was passed upon me, I received it, I trust, as became a man; and if it had been carried into execution, I should have met my fate, I hope, in a manner becoming a Christian. I receive with gratitude my Sovereign’s mercy, for which my future life shall be faithfully devoted to His service.”

Captain Montague bowed gravely.

“Are we now at liberty, sir?” I asked, doubtingly.

“You are free to go this moment if you choose.”

“You will understand, sir, that we desire, if possible, to avoid....”

The captain turned to the lieutenant. “Mr. Cunningham, will you see to it that a boat is ordered at once?”

Captain Montague accompanied us to the upper deck, and a few moments later we were informed that the boat was waiting at the gangway. As I bade farewell to the captain he said, “I hope, Mr. Byam, to have the pleasure of meeting you again soon, under more fortunate circumstances.” We climbed hastily down the side, and the midshipman in charge of the boat’s crew gave orders to push off. We were in no position to enjoy the sweetness of those first moments of freedom. Six bells had struck while we were waiting on deck. Within two cables’ lengths of us lay the Brunswick, her lofty masts and yards clearly outlined against the grey sky, and on our way to the wharf at Portsmouth we had to pass directly under her carved and gilded stern. Three men on her upper deck were standing at the very brink of death. Well we knew what was happening there. We sat with averted faces. We drew away from her, the seamen pulling at their oars steadily and in silence, but I saw that their eyes were all turned in the same direction, toward the tall ship now astern.

Of a sudden a great gun broke the silence with a reverberating roar. Against my will I turned my head. A cloud of smoke half hid the vessel, but as it billowed out and drifted slowly away I saw three small black figures suspended in mid-air, twitching as they swayed slowly from side to side.

Captain Montague had given me a letter from Sir Joseph, written at the Admiralty immediately after the decision of the Commissioners was known. He had taken inside places for us on that night’s London coach. As a postscript he had written: “Mr. Erskine expects you at his house. You must not disappoint the old gentleman, Byam. You will want to see no one for several days; I quite understand that. When you have had the time you need alone, will you send me word? I have something of importance to communicate.”

Nothing could have been more characteristic of Sir Joseph than this postscript. With all his bluff, hearty, manly qualities, he combined the delicacy and thoughtfulness of a woman.

The three of us were too shaken in mind for conversation—too sore in spirit, too bewildered at the change in our fortunes. We sat gazing out at the fields of home gradually fading from view as the autumn evening closed in. Opposite me in the coach there was a vacant place, and it remained unoccupied all the way to London, which we reached at daylight the following morning. But for me, all through the night, Tom Ellison sat there. I heard his laughter, his cheery voice. I saw him peering eagerly out of the window, missing nothing, enjoying everything, engaging in conversation the old gentleman who sat next to me. “Yes, sir, we’ve been away from home five long years, lacking one month. If you’ve ever been a sailor you know what this journey means to us.... What’s that, sir? ... No, no; much farther than that. Ever hear of an island called Tahiti? Well, that’s where we’ve been. If you was to dig a hole straight through the earth you’d come out somewhere near it.”

Sea Law. Just—yes; just, savage, and implacable. I would have given the whole of the Articles of War and all those who wrote them to have had Tom Ellison sitting, in the flesh, opposite me in that seat in the London coach.

It saddens me to think of our brief, casual farewells. There was reason for this. We three had been together so long, it was inconceivable that we could drift apart. We stood outside the booking office at the Angel, St. Clements, Strand, watching foot passengers, carts, chaises, and hackney coaches passing by. Morrison and I were both well provided with money, he by his family and I by Mr. Erskine, but Muspratt, we knew, had not two ha’pence to rub together in his pocket. His home was in Yarmouth, where he had lived with his mother and two younger sisters. Morrison was bound to the North Country.

“See here, Muspratt,” he said, “how are you off for rhino?”

“Oh, I manage, Mr. Morrison,” he replied. “I’ve ridden shanks’ mare to Yarmouth before now.”

“And your mother’s waiting for you there? He’s not to ride shanks’ mare this time, eh, Byam?”

“That he is not!” I replied, heartily. We pressed five pounds each upon him, and it did our hearts good to see the expression of amazement and delight on Muspratt’s face. We shook his hand warmly and he hurried away at once to book his seat in the Yarmouth coach. We stood looking after him as he made his way down the crowded street. He turned and waved to us from the corner, and disappeared.

“Well, Byam?” said Morrison. I gripped his hand.

“God bless you, lad!” he said. “We must never lose track of each other.” A moment later I was alone, among strangers, for the first time in five years.

I could not have wished for a kinder, more considerate host than Mr. Erskine, my father’s old friend. He had long been a widower, and still lived, with three elderly servants, in the house in Fig-Tree Court, near the Temple, where I had last visited him on my way to join the Bounty. The silence of that well-ordered house, where I had no appointments to keep and might do as I pleased from morning till night, was as healing to my spirit as the breath of the sea to a man at the end of a long illness. I wandered about the quiet streets in the vicinity of the Temple, or sat for hours by the window in my pleasant room overlooking Fig-Tree Court, where scarcely a dozen passers-by were to be seen in the course of an afternoon. And I thought of nothing. I had to accustom myself by degrees to the business of living—to the very thought that the gift of life was still mine to enjoy. Meanwhile, I was scarcely more animate than the two old trees that cast faint shadows on the pavement in the wan autumnal sun.

I had gone for my usual walk that day. When I returned, at five o’clock, Mr. Erskine had not yet come in, but Clegg, his butler, met me in the hallway.

“There’s a gentleman waiting to see you, sir. He’s in the library.”

I took the stairs three at a time. I knew that my letter would bring him at the earliest possible moment. I flung open the door. There was Tinkler, standing with his back to the sea-coal fire.

Mr. Erskine was engaged that evening. At least, he sent word by Clegg to that effect; but my belief is that, upon coming home and learning that Tinkler was there, he had retired to his own room for no other reason than that we might have the evening together, alone. We had dinner in the library, in front of the fire. There was so much to be said that we scarcely knew how or where to begin. Tinkler had not yet recovered from his astonishment at the manner in which he had been pounced upon and kidnapped by Sir Joseph Banks.

“Remember, Byam, that I still thought of you as being somewhere on the other side of the world. When I had returned from my first voyage to the West Indies, I had heard that a ship, the Pandora, had been sent out to search for the Bounty. That was the extent of my information about you, and months had passed since that time. I had heard nothing of Edwards’s return, and not a word of the court-martial. I had come ashore the previous evening, in clothing borrowed from men on the Sapphire, the ship that had rescued us. Another time I’ll tell you the story of the Carib Maid and how she was lost. Only ten of us survived,—the other boats were lost,—and there we were at an inn about a stone’s throw from the dock where the Sapphire was berthed. I’d had a glorious breakfast of eggs and bacon, and was just on the point of setting out for my brother-in-law’s house when a fine carriage and pair drove up, and before I could say How-do-you-do or God bless me I found myself inside, sitting opposite Sir Joseph Banks.

“I had never laid eyes on him until that moment. He gave not even a hint of what he required of me, but I imagined that it must, somehow, concern the Bounty. ‘Possess your soul in patience, Mr. Tinkler,’ he said. ‘I shall see to it that Mr. Fryer is notified of your arrival. I will merely say this, now: Mr. Fryer will strongly approve of my taking you in charge in this high-handed fashion.’ With that I had to be content. Sir Joseph gave some instructions to his coachman and we drove westward at more than a smart clip. Presently we stopped before a very splendid house. Sir Joseph leaped out, strode up to the door, vanished, and ten minutes later out he came again with Admiral Hood in tow! Naturally, I was more mystified than ever, but I felt highly flattered at having two such guardians. We drove straight to the Admiralty.

“I shan’t go into the details. Sir Joseph and the Admiral left me in charge of a Captain Maxon—Matson—some such name. He was a very courteous, pleasant, and vigilant companion, and didn’t let me out of his sight for a moment. I spent the rest of that day, the following night, and until ten o’clock the next morning in his company. We told each other the stories of our lives, but all I gathered from him as to the business in hand was that it concerned the Bounty.

“Promptly at ten that morning, I was taken before the Board of Admiralty Commissioners. Picture me, still dressed in the cast-off clothing of three men, standing before that august assembly! I was sworn, and then graciously permitted to sit down.

“ ‘Mr. Tinkler, will you please to inform the Commissioners of anything you may know concerning Roger Byam, former midshipman of His Majesty’s armed transport, Bounty.’

“You can imagine, Byam, how the mention of your name affected me. I felt a cold shiver of apprehension running with considerable speed up my spine and on to the roots of my hair. I had by no means forgotten how often Bligh had damned you as a piratical scoundrel without permitting any of us to say a word in your defense. Believe me, I had tried; and the second time I attempted it I thought he meant to throw me out of the boat. Now I thought, ‘By God, old Byam’s caught! He’s in trouble, here or somewhere.’ I looked from one to another of the Commissioners for a hint of what was expected of me.

“ ‘Do you mean, sir, concerning his present whereabouts?’ I asked.

“ ‘No. Perhaps the question was a little vague. You are quite naturally mystified. We wish to know the particulars, if you recall them, of a conversation said to have taken place on the quarter-deck of the Bounty between Mr. Fletcher Christian and Mr. Byam on the night previous to the mutiny on that ship. Did you overhear such a conversation?’

“I remembered it at once, and it was at that moment, Byam, that light began to dawn upon me.

“ ‘Yes, sir,’ I replied; ‘I remember it quite well.’

“ ‘Reflect carefully, Mr. Tinkler. A man’s life depends upon what you shall now depose concerning that conversation. Take as much time as you need to collect your thoughts. Omit no smallest detail.’

“The whole business came clear to me, Byam. I knew then precisely what was wanted, and you may thank God that my memory is as yet unimpaired by old age. But here’s the extraordinary thing: from the night when you and Christian were talking between the larboard guns on the quarter-deck until the moment when I stood before the Commissioners, I’d forgotten the immensely important fact that Bligh had overheard a part of what you said. Wouldn’t you think that might have stuck in my mind? There’s a reasonable explanation, of course: during the boat voyage to Timor, and afterward, old Bligh never once, to my knowledge, explained why he considered you of Christian’s party. We all believed that the reason was your failing to appear on deck before the launch was veered astern. And we knew that Christian had spoken to you a number of times on the morning of the mutiny. Furthermore, you were Christian’s friend. That was more than enough to make the old rascal damn you straight out.

“You may believe that I took my time in proceeding. I told the story from the moment when we went on deck together during Peckover’s watch. I’d forgotten nothing. I even told them how I’d confessed to you that I was one of the culprits who had stolen Bligh’s invaluable coconuts. I told them how I lay down to take a caulk between the guns just before Christian came along and engaged you in conversation. But above everything, Byam, thank heaven and Robert Tinkler for this: I remembered how Bligh came up at the very moment you were shaking Christian’s hand, when you said, ‘You can count on me.’

“The Commissioners sat leaning forward in their chairs. One old fellow sat with a hand cupped behind his ear. On his behalf I spoke with particular slowness and distinctness. ‘Mr. Christian replied: “Good, Byam,” or “Thank you, Byam,” I cannot be certain which, and they shook hands upon it. At this moment Mr. Bligh interrupted them; they had not heard him approach. He made some remark about their being up late, and....’ ”

“ ‘That will do, Mr. Tinkler,’ I was told. I was ushered out of the room, and ... well, old lad, here we are!”

“You know, Byam,” Tinkler went on, after a moment of silence, “I’ve often wondered whether that affair of the coconuts was not the actual cause of the mutiny. Do you remember how Bligh abused Christian?”

“I’m not likely to forget that,” I replied.

“I can recall Bligh’s very words: ‘Yes, you bloody hound! I do think so! You must have stolen some of mine or you would be able to give a better account of your own!’ What a thing to say to his second-in-command! I more than half believe that was what goaded Christian to desperation. What do you think?”

“Let’s not talk of it, Tinkler,” I said. “I’m sick to death of the business.”

“Forgive me, lad. Of course you are.”

“But I’d like nothing better than to hear about your voyage in the launch to Timor.”

“I say this, Byam: in that situation, Bligh was beyond all praise. He was the same old blackguard, and he ruled us with an iron hand, but, by God, he brought us through! I don’t believe there’s another man in England who could have done it.”

“What prevented him and Purcell from murdering each other, cooped up as they were in a small boat?”

“It was a near thing, a very near thing. Matters came to a head at a small island on the Great Barrier Reef. We were in a desperate situation and had put in there for the night. I’ve forgotten how the dispute started, but I remember Bligh and Purcell standing on a sandy beach facing each other like a couple of old bulls. We were damn near dead of hunger and thirst, but these two still had fight in ’em. Bligh made a stride to the boat, took two of our four cutlasses, and handed one to the carpenter. ‘Now, sir,’ he said, ‘defend yourself or forever hold your peace!’ The rest of us scarecrows stood looking on; we were too wretched to care what might happen. And Purcell backed down. He apologized. That was the only time there was ever a question of Bligh’s authority.”

“Do you remember Coupang, Tinkler?”

“Coupang! That heaven on earth! Let me tell you how we came in. It was about three in the morning ... but wait a minute! How about filling my glass? As a host, Byam, you leave something to be desired.”

And so it went the night through.