The Breadfruit Factor

While most people believe they know all about what happened during the Bounty's historic voyage to the South Seas, a recent discovery sheds some new light on an old story. Excerpted from the secret diary of William Bligh, captain, HMS Bounty, lately uncovered in an ancient sea chest belonging to the captain's great grand niece.

Day. 2237. Wind good. Speed 5 knots. Tern factor, 18 moderate.

The gathering of the breadfruit goes on without incident. The men are their usual churlish selves. They are in a pout as I forbade them consort with the aborigine women. Mr Christian, as might be expected from a man who rouges his lips, has taken this directive rather well.

Day 2237. Wind cobalt. Sky-ruddy puce. Tern factor, minus 1. Went ashore to record my impressions of the aborigines and their ways. They are just as I expected: Disgusting and without moral fiber. As I was strolling along the strand, a pack of wild-eyed males, grinning from ear-to-ear, their arms filled with breadfruit, approached me. I stood my ground and grasped my cutlass. Jabbering away, they seemed not to notice me, and swept by, nearly knocking me down in the process. I took them to be under some kind of spell and decided to follow them. They disappeared into a palm grove. As I neared, there issued from that place low growls, moans, punctuated at intervals by explosive, high-pitched barks. I recognized the sounds at once. I had not served in her Majesty's navy all these years without knowing something of the love that dare not speak its name. I crept closer to observe the beasts in flagrante, but I was to receive the shock of my life. These aborigines were not entangled one with the other; they were locked in conjugal embrace with the breadfruit: I nearly fainted. They continued rolling and moaning for the better part of an hour and never once sensed my presence. I returned to the Bounty in awe of man's depravity.

Day 2240.Wind modest. Clouds thin. Tern factor, 12 recumbent.

Slabtongs whizzled fore and aft; mizzenmast and twillsinkers pobbed and crabled. Ready to weigh anchor. The Bounty is pudged to the gunwales with breadfruit. I wonder why there is no such thing as butter fruit? Makes you think. I have observed that in an obvious effort to mock me, the men have clogged their quarters with breadfruit. This seems to amuse them. They can have their little game, for now. A taste of the lash will wipe those simpering grins off their faces.

Mr. Christian has brought on board several flagons of a perfume he concocted from local wild flowers. He made me a gift of a bottle. Christian isn't a bad chap. If he only would stop rouging his lips and abandon that eternal mincing about. Still, the men seem to like him.

Later. Night, under sail. Dogpins flimmed starboard. Tern factor nil, nil and aught. As I hearkened to the sweet music a ship makes as she is rocked and pitched upon the main, I began to hear scattered, high-pitched yelps coming from below decks. I called for Mr. Christian. When he did not respond presently, I went to his quarters only to find that he too had succumbed to the native ways. By midnight, the yelps turned to howls and the Bounty became a lair of wolves in high heat. I returned to my cabin to deliberate. I could not allow the men to make whoopee with plants. It just wasn't the navy way.

Day 2241. Midday. Winds light. Sky is blue. Clouds white. Tern factor, ungulled and retromingent. Still, one never knows. In light of last nights debauch, I have had all unauthorized breadfruit set adrift, and the remaining consignment placed under heavy guard. The men are steamed. I made it clear to them that I would not tolerate this aborigineal perversion. I reminded them that they were Navy men, and as such, heirs to a long and respected British tradition. If sodomy was good enough for the likes of Drake and Nelson, well, by Jove, it would have to serve. Christian gave his support with a lispish, "Three cheers for the Captain," to no avail.

Later. Evening. Moon rising. Tern factor, moderate 8. Bindlecleats snaffled to; patchskittles all chucked and drubbed. Several of the crew drowned in an attempt to reunite with their jettisoned lovers.

Day 2243. Ocean blue. Sky blue. Clouds white. Speed 3 knots. Tern factor, two and one half rotated for mid-course integration. Dogpins slogged. Sidesails lipspindled. Men restless and un-cooperative. Refuse to work. Have applied the lash with a venegeance. To no effect. Mr. Christian has requested that the men be permitted to visit the breadfruit under guard just for friendly conversation. I refused. We all know where these "friendly conversations" lead. First it's a little chat, then a little kiss, then it's wholesale debauchery. I sense trouble ahead. Mr. Christian has stopped rouging his lips, which makes him look ever so oldish ••••• (at this point Captain Bligh's secret diary breaks off, leaving us to speculate on, the powerful circumstantial evidence.)

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