Voyages of the Bounty

He was curious, serious, perceptive; he recorded things in his journal not apparent to most men, small chips of the mosaic he was trying to assemble of that society. The manners of Tahitians, he wrote, are guided by simple and natural impulses: They do not offer refreshments a second time "for they have not the least idea of that ceremonious kind of refusal which expects a second invitation." He understood the prescriptions that guided the intercourse among the inhabitants of that faraway "paradise of the world"—as it was seen by those Europeans who first entered it—probably because some of them were obtained in the rigid society that produced him. Of Tahiti, he wrote, "I know not if any action, however meritorious, can elevate a man above the class in which he was born."

Among other things he was a naturalist, eager to learn everything he could about the physical world. "I shot two gannets," he wrote in Van Diemen's Land (Tasmania). "These birds were of the same size as those in England; their colour is a beautiful white, with the wings and tail tipped with jet black, and the top and back of the head of a very fine yellow. Their feet were black, with four claws, on each of which was a yellow line the whole length of the foot. The bill was four inches long, without nostrils, and very tapered and sharp pointed."

He had another side to him: He was given to "violent Tornadoes of temper," outbursts of rage and profanity, threats of death and brutal punishment; his anger, when he was seized by it, was always manifest. But it vanished like flame off a match, and he nursed no grudges. He was an inconsistent disciplinarian, quite the imperfect man.

He lived to know a broad swath of the world; as a navigator he was the equal of Magellan and Captain Cook. He made discoveries, mapped the sea and land, and the treacherous parts where they come together. He was convinced the accumulation and categorization of facts could be alchemized into knowledge. He believed felicity, even good health, could be stimulated through ordered circumstances and hygienic practices, especially at sea: he wanted always to bring his men home healthy, no small ambition back then. He had the crew wash down the ship regularly with vinegar and water. He even brought aboard a fiddler to encourage the men to dance around the deck—exercise they hated, but exercise nonetheless. He learned many of these salubrious practices from Captain Cook while exploring the South Pacific. Contrary to the popular belief, and unlike many of his contemporaries in the Royal Navy, he was averse to the use of the lash.

His life and career became part of one of those stories that seems never to fade, a tale larger than the sum of its protagonists and antagonists, its characters large and small. He was a hero in his time, he was a villain in his time—and has been ever since. Perhaps a reversal might occur again in these times, with their penchant for historical revision: that William Bligh, master of hms Bounty, might be vindicated again, as he was at his court-martial on October 22, 1790.

* * *

A dozen years ago, when we lived in London, my wife and I were strolling on the South Bank of the Thames across from the Houses of Parliament, when a storm broke over us. Nearly soaked, we reached a small Gothic church, which was no longer a church but which housed a peculiar institution called the History of Gardening Museum.

Once the Church of St. Mary-of-Lambeth, in the shadow of Lambeth Palace, it was deconsecrated in 1972, and deteriorated in its disuse. Just before it was to be razed, some important graves were discovered within the overgrown churchyard and the structure was rescued for its current purpose. The building's second life as a museum of this peculiar kind could not have been more appropriate, for among the tombs were those of two of England's more famous botanists, collectors of rare plants worldwide and exotic...