Captain Bligh's Odyssey

Nostalgia. Sweet, stubborn nostalgia. Who among us, as boys, didn’t dream of a heroic calling? To become an astronaut, a pilot, or a football star?

Times change, manners change. Today, most people reach for the portfolios of bankers, financiers, managers, or, in the worst case, bureaucrats and politicians.

And yet… admit it. Someone out there dreamed of becoming a pirate.

To step boldly onto the pirate’s path, hoist the Jolly Roger, fire the great guns at a royal flagship… Pistols ready? Machetes sharpened?

“Surrender your vessel or face the devil!”

Forward! Board her!

Piasters! Piasters!

Romance, danger, treasure — Captain Flint’s chest, our own Treasure Island, our childhood fantasies.

“Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest —

Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!

Drink and the devil had done for the rest —

Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!”

What thoughts, for instance, come with the date December 23? Or let’s ask differently: what does the word Bounty bring to mind?

Most will shrug: “A chocolate bar with coconut filling.”

But long before the candy bar, Bounty was the name of a small vessel — more brig than frigate, judging by her modest 215 tons — serving His Majesty King George III. And it was aboard this ship that the events below unfolded.

At the end of the eighteenth century, London’s colonial administrators decided it was time to settle, once and for all, the question of food for the Black population of the West Indies — islands that supplied the Empire with slaves. Even slaves had to be fed with something, and preferably something cheap. Someone recalled Captain Cook’s enthusiastic descriptions of a local tree in the South Seas whose fruit tasted like bread and grew as large as coconuts. Not quite bread, but edible enough to fill the bellies of plantation workers after a day in the cane fields. Cheap and practical — just what the British needed.

Let us not forget: the British Empire truly ruled the seas then. It opened new territories, expanded its dominions, and was deeply invested in rapid colonization. The West Indies were no exception. Slaves were a “workforce,” and a workforce had to be fed.

The idea of bringing the breadfruit tree to the Americas first came to Governor Morris, who petitioned the English Cabinet to equip an expedition to Oceania. The Admiralty responded quickly. Their choice fell on Lieutenant William Bligh — an experienced sailor who had already sailed with James Cook, knew the customs of the islanders, and was hardened by long voyages.

Bligh was received by Joseph Banks, President of the Royal Society, Knight Grand Cross of the Order of the Bath — a man who financed expeditions, collected curiosities, advised the Crown, and was known as a great naturalist.

“What route do you propose, Bligh?”

The Admiralty’s audience was more formal than an examination; no one doubted his competence.

“I believe we should sail to the coast of South America, round Cape Horn, and enter the Pacific.”

The “Pacific” — named by Ferdinand Magellan, who first crossed it under unusually calm skies during his circumnavigation. Officially, he sought spices; in truth, it was a business deal: Spain funded the voyage, and Magellan promised a share of the treasures.

“This will save us time, sir.”

“A reasonable approach.”

Bligh was just past thirty — the age of Christ. Strong, compact, broad-shouldered, with a commanding voice that forced attention from anyone, regardless of rank. A seasoned sea wolf. He had sailed to Jamaica, circled the globe, and accompanied Cook to Tahiti.

Some accused Bligh of provoking the islanders during Cook’s fatal encounter — claiming he fired the shot that enraged them. But this is almost certainly fiction. Cook’s monument stands on Kauai, Hawaii, where he died on February 14, 1779. His remains were thrown into the sea. Bligh, in truth, served as master on Cook’s third voyage — but whether he fired a weapon that day, history does not say. Most likely Cook himself did. Carelessness led to tragedy.

Before receiving his lieutenant’s uniform, Bligh had commanded both naval and merchant vessels. By all accounts, he was the ideal candidate for the Royal Society’s mission.

“And when do you expect to return?”

“Two years, perhaps three — depending on the weather.”

Banks handed him a bundle of handwritten pages.

“A Tahitian dictionary I compiled with Captain Cook’s help. Communication with the tribes must no longer end in bloodshed. Win over the chiefs, make allies of them. Success of the expedition — and Britain’s influence — depends on it. Remember our motto: an iron hand in a velvet glove.”

As Bligh prepared to leave, Banks added:

“And take plenty of cheap trinkets for the island women. They will open doors for you. You will be fed, sheltered, and — most importantly — their husbands will be grateful.”

Gathering a crew proved difficult. “Free” sailors had to be recruited in port taverns — hardly the best representatives of the profession. There was no personnel department, no recommendations. A sailor was working cattle. Officers, however, were chosen carefully.

Equipping the Bounty was equally troublesome: new rigging, sails, provisions, spars. Bligh relied heavily on Fletcher Christian, young, ambitious, the son of an impoverished nobleman, eager to rise by merit alone. Bligh believed he knew him from a previous voyage to Jamaica. But to know a man well, as the saying goes, you must eat a barrel of salt with him.

On the morning of December 23, 1787 (some sources say late November), after her stay at Deptford dock, the Bounty — with 48 sailors aboard — raised anchor. The hemp cable creaked, the cast-iron anchor rose, the mainmast filled, and the brig leapt forward like a spirited horse toward the English Channel. Her mission: reach Polynesia, collect breadfruit seedlings, and deliver them to Jamaica.

A brief digression. Few men willingly joined the Royal Navy then. Officers mocked the crew, living conditions were miserable, food was poor, and — crucially — there were no women. Months at sea bred discontent. Protests were crushed brutally. Instigators were hanged or thrown overboard; the “lucky” ones were beaten half to death.

The Bounty was no exception. A warship with excellent seaworthiness and strict discipline. Bligh knew the route to Tahiti well. The ten‑month voyage passed without major incident — surprisingly smoothly. But life aboard was far from harmonious. Bligh’s temper, his beatings and insults, made him hated. Murmurs grew, resentment fermented — until it erupted into mutiny near Tofua in the Tonga archipelago.

The rebellion, on April 28, 1789, was led by Bligh’s own assistant — proof that still waters run deep. Officers remained loyal, but the armed mutineers seized the ship easily. No blood was shed. They spared Bligh — unlike he had spared them — lowering him and his loyal men into a small boat with a few days’ provisions. Bligh descended in full dress uniform, clinging to a rope.

“William,” Christian pleaded, “stay with us. I promise you paradise. Tahitian girls — pure, obedient, warm. Your sailor’s oath? We’re at the edge of the world. A harem under the palms is worth more than your Admiralty. You know what the whip is. Twelve strokes turn a man’s back to mince. Come with us before it’s too late.”

“You were almost my friend, Fletcher. Don’t laugh. Yes, I was harsh — for the sake of order. But I cannot betray my oath to the Crown. We must be different from you. God will judge you. But remember: you will not escape. You will be hunted, and you will hang from a yardarm. England does not forget.”

Why did the mutiny happen? Many blame Bligh — and rightly so — for driving the crew to the brink. Yet harsh discipline was common in the Royal Navy. Sailors knew what they signed up for. They grumbled, cursed, and endured.

The first alarm sounded in Tenerife, where the Bounty stopped for water and food. Fresh meat should have lifted spirits — everyone was sick of salted beef — but one sailor shouted he wouldn’t eat “dead mule,” and the portions went overboard. Bligh was furious but restrained himself. He even appointed a Christian officer of the watch — perhaps an attempt at reconciliation.

But trouble followed. Bligh personally oversaw meat rations, slicing portions with suspicious zeal. Sailors believed he kept the best cuts for himself. When he threatened flogging, conflict became inevitable.

They refused to eat the foul meat. As the old saying goes, the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.

“A pack of drunkards!” Bligh roared. “No respect! I’ll beat the stupidity out of you!”

“Captain,” Christian ventured, “you don’t need the whip to command. A little kindness—”

“What do you know, boy! A sailor understands fear — nothing else. Fear and discipline! Is this a warship or a tavern? Surrounded by crooks and fools! And don’t you dare contradict me!”

Christian and several officers soon refused to dine with Bligh. Meanwhile, complaints about rotten food grew. Discontent rose like yeast. But where could they escape in the open sea?

Near Cape Horn, storms, snow, and bitter cold blocked their passage. Bligh abandoned the original route and headed for the Cape of Good Hope. In warmer latitudes, spirits improved. In Cape Town, the crew enjoyed five weeks of rest, drinking, wandering, and visiting brothels. After repairs, the Bounty sailed toward Australia.

Then came the mutiny — and there was no turning back.

Bligh knew survival meant reaching land — not just any land, but a European settlement. That meant Great Timor. He sailed 3,618 nautical miles in an open boat — an astonishing feat — reaching the island after 47 days with only a sextant and no charts.

Fortune favoured him. He sent word to the Admiralty about the mutiny and waited for a ship of the East India Company bound for England. It arrived in March 1790.

What's the matter? Why did everything happen the way it happened? William Bligh wasn't, of course, a friend to sailors, but it would have been too to talk about the conflict on the ship as such: well, they quarrelled and peacefully went their separate ways, as the vessels diverged into the sea, changing their tack. In our guess, most likely, rebels, having had time to taste a little bit of overseas life in Tahiti, did not want to part with appetizing Tahitian women, warm sea and air bathtubs, and why return to cold, damp and not at all hospitable Albion? What was waiting for them there? Daily routine: raise and lower the sails, scrape to the shine of the deck, night watches, tight cockpit (koebrug - Holland) for a sailor, food which mumbles in the stomach. And discipline is like in prison. Beer, grog, and Spanish wine on big holidays. Brandy, rum - for officers, the best remedy for all sorts of illnesses, moping and yearning for the homeland. And where is the home for a sailor? - Right, in the sea. Only in the sea can a sailor be happy, only in the sea.

And why the rebel leader had the privilege of becoming a captain's assistant - it is also clear: Bly used to treat him as a servant, humiliated him in front of all the sailors. Christian, a young man of 24 years old, dark, black-haired, with an eagle's nose and a romantic soul, loved women, and they loved him - hardly coped with his "Spanish" temperament, was stubborn and ambitious to the point of impossibility. Occupying a subordinate position in the ship's table of ranks, feeling abandoned, he was always ready to make a daring, reckless act, rush into a gamble, despite the probable severe punishment. He dreamed of escaping the ship as soon as the opportunity arose. And the possibility presented itself: his Majesty Occasion. That's the thing.

But let's go back to William Bligh. Having received his report, the minister-lord of the Admiralty ordered to catch the rebels and bring them to justice. Lieutenant Bligh, who had returned home, was sent again on a special mission to Tahiti, and this time he delivered the breadfruit seedlings to Jamaica. But the ungrateful Negroes were dissatisfied with the bread on their menu, preferring the usual bananas. It turns out that the old sea wolf did try for nothing? No! William Bligh was promoted and finished his service in the Navy to the rank of Vice-Admiral. And what about the rebellious sailors?

They swam for a couple of months under sails of freedom without any purpose, returned to Tahiti, where some of them decided to "anchor," not knowing that the island paradise would soon turn into a real hell for them: the ship "Pandora" under the command of Captain Edwards had already been sent behind them.

The rest was predictable. The Empire forgave no one: the rebels were arrested, shackled and sent on a gallows. But not everybody managed to finish their life journey in this way. The Pandora sank in the storm at the Great Barrier Reef, hitting the rocks. Most of the detainees, however, survived but later found themselves in Australia, where they were partially caught and then transferred to England, and there was a quick but fair royal court waiting for them.

Captain Edwards, as we can see, due to insurmountable force majeure circumstances, was unable to complete his task, namely, to find and arrest all the rebels. The luckier sea vagrants with the Bounty, led by Fletcher Christian, had found refuge on the inconspicuous and uninhabited island of Pitcairn, lost in the Pacific Ocean. This remarkable event took place on January 15, 1790. What did the new islanders do next? At first, the Bounty was burned down so as not to leave any traces, and then they dissolved among the wildlife. During the wanderings, they providentially brought with them for the company of several aborigines from Tahiti, Tupai and Raiatea - women and men, all creatures in pairs, according to the Biblical covenant. Alas, not all of them survived - the quarrels and bloody showdown among the colonists over food and women (look for a woman!) reduced their ranks. Four years later, there were only four Englishmen left on Pitcairn, and five years later, the whole colony consisted of 9 Tahitian women, 19 mestizo children and... one white man. You obviously guessed what his name was. Yes, yes, Fletcher Christian.