PANDORA'S BOX
1792 and fourteen captured sailors were on board HMS Pandora bound
for England's channel port of Portsmouth to stand trial for their part
in a notorious mutiny that occurred three years previously. Their accuser
was the hero Captain William Bligh. Among them was the cabin boy Thomas
Ellison (16years) a junior officer, Peter Heywood (18years) and junior
warrant officer James Morrison. They all faced the mandatory penalty for
mutineers, death by strangulation at the end of a pulled rope...
"Then sue God!" snapped
James Morrison. In the same Pacific ocean that extinguished HMS Bounty,
His Majesty's Schooner Pandora wallowed in a greasy sea and Morrison
and the others rolled likewise in their prison. It was a dark, specially
constructed wooden cell aptly named Pandora's box. "Just don't
complain to me about what you think of navy justice!" The half-blind
Burn still whined and muttered though with a little less insistence. It
was not a subject Morrison or any of the more sensible prisoners wanted
to discuss. "You all expect me to get you out of this," Morrison
growled. "Why me?"
This particular day James
Morrison was more on edge than usual. His measured tones becoming harsh
and impatient. He had learnt to speak only when absolutely necessary as
the effort seemed to sap his energy. His face twitched in the dark as he
reached down and found a fat insect attached to his leg. He squeezed hard,
felt it pop then flicked it away. He was aware most of the others looked
to him as their leader. It was a circumstance he neither enjoyed or encouraged.
Why me? I'm the one should be complaining. I'm the one that'll be tasting
salted eel. Not you! The thoughts were difficult to contain but as
usual Morrison held his temper. Tasting salted eel, he smirked at
the irony of that through his cracked, dry lips—it was sailors' talk for
being flogged. The eel was the cat of nine tails and the salt
was the brine used to wash the wounds. What most disturbed Morrison
was not the punishment so much as the waiting. He didn't know whether his
taste would come today, tomorrow or next week, and moreover, there
was nothing he could do about it—not a damned thing! He turned away and
felt his bare flesh slide in the slime of his own sweat. Damn it all why
didn't he go with Christian when he had the chance! How naively stupid
he was! Three months ago he believed in honour and justice. Now that seemed
like another lifetime. They were the thoughts of a fool, someone who lived
up in the clouds and looked down and saw only beautiful fluffy white mists
floating by. A person who had little knowledge of the rugged terrain underneath.
Well now he had crashed down on to those sharp rocks. Morrison wished it
would end; suddenly he wished everything would end.
Aye man,
don't you talk to me of justice!
He closed his eyes, hoisted
his body to relieve a numbed hip and remembered back to the day HMS Pandora
first appeared as a dot on Tahitie's sunlit horizon. The tiny speck grew
and grew, and two hours later the large Royal Naval schooner had dropped
anchor in Matavia Bay. His young friend Peter Heywood had spied the familiar
red and white flag, way off, and they had whooped, danced and hugged each
other. Salvation! They were going home. Heywood had torn off his shirt
and swum out to greet their rescuers.
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But their joy was short lived—so
very short thought Morrison—what fools they were! Everyone had thought
it impossible Bligh would ever make it home—and even if he did that he
would never name them as mutineers! Why them, what did they do wrong?
How quickly their hopes were dashed. Treated worse than Pandora's
livestock, they were unceremoniously arrested shackled and imprisoned in
a crude rough box. A twelve foot by eight foot by five foot prison of slab
timber, Captain Edwards had ironically named it 'Pandora's Box,'
he said for the evil it contained. They had been there, crouched down ever
since, twelve of them, for three long months. |
Pandora's cursed box James Morrison winced. Not
even room to stand!
Don't talk of justice!
A neighbour groaned and
Morrison wiped his cheek on his naked shoulder. It came away wetter than
before. He tasted the salt.
The tropical heat was
so intense rivers of sweat trickled into tiny blocked scuppers and produced
maggots. The filthy hammocks were breeding stations and home for all variety
of vermin; some visible and others known only by the sting and swelling
of their bites. Bedding was so lice infested the prisoners had unslung
their hammocks and slept on the boards and as they lay naked against one
another their sweat ran into the scuppers. In a corner, two containers
were provided for bodily functions. They stood uncovered and humming with
flies but no one noticed the stench any more. Morrison heard a different
groan and peered into the darkness. It was his friend Midshipman Peter
Heywood, the only other officer among the prisoners.
"Aha," came
the sound as Peter Heywood clutched at his stomach and removed his head
from the stinking bucket. The dry-retching and the cramps had returned
with a vengeance and Peter Heywood felt much worse than last week when
the cramps crippled him. His glazed eyes searched the gloom but the teenage
officer registered nothing in his brain. All he could do was feel the pain
in his stomach.
Morrison knew there was
nothing anyone could do to help his friend and he slumped back against
the heat of the searing jack-wood planks. He closed his eyes still muttering,
'Don't talk to me of justice.'
Twelve prisoners, including
Morrison, Peter Heywood and Tom Ellison had no options but to lie atrophied
in their semi-darkness while outside the tropical sun blazed hot and white.
Morrison closed his eyes and tried to empty his mind.
"Wake up, wake up!"
The shrill voice pierced the mesmerising sounds of flapping canvas and
slapping sea and the prisoners groaned. It was the unmistakable voice of
their jailer Thomas Hayward. As usual, the cherub-faced Lieutenant banged
the hilt of his cutlass on the side of Pandora's box. Morrison stiffened
and scratched the edges of the tropical ulcer growing on his left ankle.
The others mostly shifted from their own torpidity into pain and consciousness.
Five feet above them the
rusty steel hatch bolts clanked and rattled as they were withdrawn and
slapped down. Salty hinges squealed as the top-hatch was forced. Eleven
men and a boy sucked at the new air. A few came awake from dreams of cool
winds and England's green fields. Forearms shielded eyes as the opening
produced a shaft of brilliant blinding light. Tiny particles spiralled
weightlessly about and were caught as the slanting beam illuminated the
doom. Morrison watched a few rising gnats, flies and other winged insects.
He had read a book about Egypt and thousand year old crypts under huge
pyramids and wondered what it would be like to be inside when one was opened.
Now he thought he knew.
A set of stubby steps
snaked down making a thump as the stumps hit the floor.
"Wake up, wake up
you scum of the sea," came a familiar high pitched whine. Known as
'the catspaw' among the prisoners Lieutenant Thomas Hayward had grown in
confidence from the time he realised a number of the younger midshipmen
seemed impressed by boldness. Never before had he tried to be assertive,
he had always just stood on the sidelines and waited for his chance. It
was his sworn policy to leave the dangerous work to others. Now things
had changed and he had 'respect.' To top it off, when his hero Captain
Edwards had called him 'responsible' his chest had swelled so much he felt
it might burst and his heart fall out and go bouncing around the deck.
A ship's surgeon on Bounty had once told him his heart needed more
bounce and the words had stuck in his mind.
He banged the hilt of
his cutlass hard against the hatch. Most of the Bounty prisoners still
gave him no respect so Thomas Hayward hated them all. They were all old
shipmates, the same Bounty bastards who cast him out, and
he wanted his vengeance. Now the tables were turned it was ripe for them
to squirm, to suffer like he did when they made him go with Bligh in the
boat. If Captain Edwards called them the flotsam of the navy why should
Lieutenant Thomas Hayward argue? To him they were just that and worse.
Some kept begging him to inform the Captain of their innocence, to explain
their unwillingness to join with Fletcher Christian and to tell that they
only did so by force. Thomas knew there was no reward for him in that so
bugger the lot of them. He particularly despised the their growing mateship
and superior airs. He banged the box again. "Shift yourselves you
useless scum!"
What annoyed the young
Lieutenant even more was that some of Pandora's midshipmen deliberately
confused him with the prisoner Peter Heywood, and continued to ask if he
was related. More jokes at his expense. It was a mystery why some of his
own messmates still picked on him.
The prisoners watched
as Hayward's shiny brass-buckled shoes and silk-stockinged legs entered
the box. Hayward stopped and posed in the light, one hand rested on his
hip the other on the hilt of his cutlass.
A real peacock, Morrison
thought disgustedly..
Uppermost in Lieutenant
Hayward's mind was another comment made just five minutes past by his captain
who, referring to the prisoners had smiled and remarked, 'they seem to
be causing us no trouble at all, 'well done Thomas!' It was this very comment
that precipitated this present un-scheduled visit. He stepped down a rung
or two and swung his upper body imperiously about as he bent his head and
peered into the darkness. He held no fear because he knew illness and cramp
had already destroyed the spirit of his prisoners. Instead he tried to
think of something to say some announcement to justify his visit. As usual
he was never caught short when it came to speech making.
"Traitors,"
he hissed, "attend me well! For a life of ease and to breech some
brown-skinned, virgin's vault you would cast your shipmates to their doom,
eh?" He paused and peered into the shadows. "So far as I am concerned
you are all traitors, navy riff-raff . Cast me out would you! If
it was by my hand you would all be swinging—scragged, bagged and ottomised."
This produced a groan
or two and some sliding noises as the prisoners sweating bodies glistened
snake like in the half light. Morrison, nearest the ladder, held his ground
while his black eyes bored into his tormentor. "You bastard Hayward,."
he said as fiercely as he could manage. Morrison was no stranger to punishment
and had himself had occasion to wield the lash, but as boatswain's mate
it was his duty and there was never any joy. Fate and circumstance had
put him in this hell hole, nothing else. Low born his commission was earned
not bought like the peacock on the ladder. He knew Hayward's type well
enough, the navy was full of them, common and cowardly individuals who
abused underlings in direct proportion to the force of authority they would
accept from their own superiors. They were the worst of all bureaucrats
and at the first sign of danger they usually hid or wailed for protection.
Morrison grimaced as Hayward's hand went to his cutlass. "Going to
draw your sword against bare hands you damned coward?" Morrison sneered
and jerked mockingly forward.
Hayward flinched, and
dropped his hand. His blue eyes blinked with suppressed anger. "You
won't be talking like that soon Morrison, your punishment is scheduled
for today."
As soon as the words were
out Hayward regretted them. Now the black-eyed bastard Morrison would have
a chance to prepare himself, he cursed inwardly.
To recover his lost poise,
the young Lieutenant shrugged, spun around and addressed the rest of the
prisoners. "I have decided to notify you as to what pleasantries await
when you reach Portsmouth. You will be transferred to another ship where
you will receive no special treatment or favours, but you will receive
protection from the population who will, no doubt, be in attendance to
see your necks stretched. Rarely do they have the opportunity to welcome
such a notorious band of human flotsam! At the transfer you will remain
in your manacles with the addition of leg irons and waist chains. You will
have no family visits; in truth, you will have no visits at all apart from
naval officers involved in your prosecution or, God forbid, your defence!
Nor will you be entitled to receive any goods or food from friends or relatives."
Hayward rubbed his chin as he had momentarily run out of words. "And
I wish you all the pain and misfortune that was the unhappy lot of your
victims—remember it was your selfishness that caused Mr Evans to be slaughtered
at Tofua, and Leward, Elphinstone and the others to die in Batavia? You
are all responsible for our suffering, their deaths and the grief our their
families; and – damn you – you will all hang" As a parting shot he
pinched his nose between thumb and forefinger and sneered, "I don't
know how you exist in this appalling cesspit?"
As Thomas Hayward climbed
back up the steps, instead of the feeling the euphoria he expected, all
he felt was the dissatisfaction of the hunter who discovers his ammunition
exhausted while his wounded game limps off. That damned Morrison always
made him feel like that, but he consoled himself with an image of the man
screaming and bleeding under the waiting lash. Well at least he hoped
Morrison would let out a scream or two.
The hatch slammed shut.
As one the prisoners looked
forward to Portsmouth. They looked forward to cool air and less cramped
conditions even if in the bowels of some anchored man-o-war.
Morrison gently turned
to see what the cabin boy Tom Ellison thought of it all. He saw the youth
was asleep. Had he slept through Lieutenant Hayward's whole performance?
"Aye, that lad would
sleep through his own execution," muttered the envious Able Seaman
Milward who shared a leg iron with the teenager and responded to Morrison's
look. Millward was under no illusion as to what awaited him and the boy
when they arrived home—that was if they ever got there for, with Captain
Edward's constant punishments, doubtful seamanship and their own illnesses
there was great doubt they would make it at all.
"Don't talk to me
of justice," Morrison whispered to himself and turned away.
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