* * *

  David Cheap made his way to London as well. He was nearly fifty, and during his long time in captivity he had seemingly kept revisiting every disastrous incident, every cruel snub. Now he discovered that John Bulkeley had accused him—in a book, no less—of being an incompetent and murderous commander, a charge that could end not only his military career but his life. Cheap, in a letter to an Admiralty official, decried Bulkeley and his associates as liars: “For what can be expected of such poltroons…after most inhumanly abandoning us and destroying at their departure everything they thought could be of any use to us.”

  Cheap burned to tell his own version. But he wouldn’t play Bulkeley’s game and publish a book. Instead, he would save his testimony—and fury—for a forum more determinative: a court-martial composed of a panel of judges, all of them commanding officers like him. He prepared a sworn deposition detailing his allegations, and in a letter to the secretary of the Admiralty, he insisted that once a judicial hearing was complete, “I flatter myself…that my conduct will appear unblameable both before and after our shipwreck.” In one of his few public comments, he remarked, “I have nothing to say for nor against the villains, until the day of trial”—when, he added, there would be nothing to stop these men from hanging.

  * * *

  The story—or stories—of the expedition continued to capture the public imagination. The press had grown exponentially, fueled by the loosening of government censorship and by wider literacy. And to satisfy the public’s insatiable thirst for news, there had emerged a professional class of scribblers who earned a living from sales rather than from aristocratic patronage, and whom the old literary establishment derided as “Grub Street hacks.” (Grub Street had been part of a poor area in London with doss-houses and brothels and fly-by-night publishing ventures.) And Grub Street, sniffing a good story, now seized on the so-called affair of the Wager.

  The Caledonian Mercury reported that Bulkeley and the mutinous crew had physically attacked not only Cheap and Hamilton but also their entire faction—“bound them hand and foot,” before leaving them to “the disposal of more merciful barbarians.” Another story offered Hamilton’s view that Cheap’s behavior was “often mysterious and always arrogant and high”; looking back now, though, it was clear to Hamilton that the captain had “always acted under the guidance of a sagacious foresight.”

  Once the broadsheet newspapers and periodicals were filled with breathless reports, book publishers competed to release firsthand accounts from the former castaways. Shortly after Cheap returned to England, Campbell arrived in another vessel from Chile. He published his own narrative exceeding a hundred pages, called The Sequel to Bulkeley and Cummins’s Voyage to the South-Seas, in which he defended himself from allegations of treason. But soon after, he fled the country and joined the Spanish military.

  John Byron believed that Bulkeley had tried to justify what “could not be considered in any other light than that of direct mutiny.” And though Byron might have released his own version, he seemed reluctant to speak poorly of his superior officers and indulge in what he called “egotism.” Meanwhile, other accounts proliferated. One booklet by a Grub Street hack, An Affecting Narrative of the Unfortunate Voyage and Catastrophe of His Majesty’s Ship Wager, noted that it had been “compiled from authentic journals, and transmitted, by letter, to a merchant in London, from a person who was an eye witness of all the affair.” However, as the scholar Philip Edwards has pointed out, the account is a perverse rehashing—sometimes word for word—of Bulkeley’s journal in which every detail is spun to support Cheap’s perspective and uphold the longstanding systems of authority. In a war of words, the gunner’s journal had been refashioned into a weapon against him.

  Because of the sheer number of accounts—including those of dubious provenance—perceptions of the Wager affair varied from reader to reader. Bulkeley, whose journal kept being pilfered by hacks, was incensed when he realized that it was increasingly being regarded with suspicion, as if it, too, might be fake.

  * * *

  Within days of Cheap’s return to England, the Admiralty issued a summons, publicized in newspapers, for all the Wager’s surviving officers, petty officers, and seamen to appear in Portsmouth for a court-martial. The trial, to commence in just a few weeks, would have to pierce through the fog of narratives—the contradictory, the shaded, even the fictitious—to discern what had really happened and thus mete out justice. As the writer Janet Malcolm once observed, “The law is the guardian of the ideal of unmediated truth, truth stripped bare of the ornament of narration….The story that can best withstand the attrition of the rules of evidence is the story that wins.” Yet, no matter which story prevailed, the trial would surely expose how the officers and seamen—part of that vanguard of the British Empire—had descended into anarchy and savagery. The sad spectacle might even supplant the glorious tale of Anson’s capturing the galleon.

  CHAPTER 24

  The Docket

  After Bulkeley had read in the newspaper about the court-martial summons, he was informed by an attorney that the Admiralty had issued a warrant for his detention. At the time, Bulkeley was in London, and he went to find the marshal who was looking for him. When he tracked him down, Bulkeley pretended to be a relative of one of the castaways who had made the journey in the longboat to Brazil. He inquired what should happen to these men now that Captain Cheap had returned.

  “Hanged,” the marshal replied.

  “For God’s sake, for what?” Bulkeley cried. “For not being drowned? And is a murderer at last come home to be their accuser?”

  “Sir, they have been guilty of such things to Captain Cheap whilst a prisoner that I believe the gunner and carpenter will be hanged, if nobody else.”

  Bulkeley finally admitted that he was “the unfortunate gunner of the Wager.”

  The marshal, stunned, said that he had no choice but to take him into custody. Bulkeley was confined until several other officers from the Wager had been rounded up, among them Lieutenant Baynes; the carpenter, Cummins; and the boatswain, King. Then they were all transported to Portsmouth—the marshal warned to “take particular care that the gunner and carpenter did not make their escape.” At the harbor, a transport boat rowed them out to HMS Prince George, a ninety-gun man-of-war anchored beyond the harbor. They were sequestered onboard, imprisoned once more by the sea. Bulkeley complained that he was not allowed to receive letters from family or friends.

  Byron was also summoned, as were other members of the crew. Cheap boarded the ship on his own volition but likely had to surrender his sword. He had been suffering from gout and respiratory issues since the expedition, but he had regained some of his formidable presence, with his elegant officer’s waistcoat and severe eyes and taut lips.

  It was the first time that these men had been together since the island. Now each of them would have to, as Bulkeley had said, “give account of his actions,” and let “justice take place.” Eighteenth-century British naval law has a reputation for being draconian, but it was often more flexible and forgiving in reality. Under the Articles of War, many transgressions, including falling asleep on watch, were punishable by death, yet there was usually an important caveat: a court could hand down a lesser sentence if it saw fit. And although overthrowing a captain was a grave crime, “mutinous” behavior often applied to minor insubordinations not deemed worthy of severe punishment.

  Nevertheless, the case against all of the men of the Wager seemed overwhelming. They were not accused of negligible misconduct but, rather, of a complete breakdown of naval order, from the highest levels of command to the rank and file. And though they had each tried to shape their stories in ways that justified their actions, the legal system was designed to strip these narratives down to the bare, hard, unemotive facts. In Lord Jim, Joseph Conrad writes of an official naval inquiry: “They wanted facts. Facts! They demanded facts.” And all the former castaways’ accounts contained, at their core, certain incontrovertible facts. Neither side disputed that Bulkeley, Baynes, and their party had tied up their captain and left him on the island, or that Cheap had shot an unarmed man without any legal proceedings or even any warning. These were the facts!

  Bulkeley and his party appeared to have violated the most statutes of the Articles of War: Article 19, which barred “mutinous assemblies upon any pretence whatsoever, upon pain of death”; Article 20, which said that no one “shall conceal any traitorous or mutinous practices, designs, or words”; Article 21, which forbade quarreling or striking a superior officer; and Article 17, which decreed that any seaman who runs away “shall be punished with death.” A stringent prosecutor could tack on more charges, including cowardice, for defying Cheap’s orders to pursue their Spanish enemies and come to the aid of Anson; theft, for taking the transport boats and other supplies; and even “scandalous actions in derogation of God’s honour, and corruption of good manners.” Moreover, Cheap had accused Bulkeley and his party not just of a full-fledged mutiny but also of attempted murder, because they had abandoned him and his followers on the island.

  Yet Cheap himself would surely face the most damning charge of all: homicide. It was one of the few statutes that offered no leniency for violators. Article 28 stated unequivocally, “All murders and willful killing of any person in the ship shall be punished with death.”

  Even Byron could not rest easy. He himself had briefly mutinied when he initially deserted Cheap on the island and went off with Bulkeley and his party. He had turned back, but was that enough?

  Although many of the defendants had written accounts in attempts to clear their names, they were rife with glaring omissions. Cheap’s report never explicitly acknowledged the shooting of Cozens—it merely noted that their altercation had led to “extremities.” Bulkeley’s journal described his abandonment of Cheap on the island as if he had been dutifully complying with his captain’s wishes.

  Even worse, many of the legalistic documents produced by the defendants during the expedition indicated a consciousness of guilt. These men knew the rules and regulations, knew exactly what they were doing, and after each violation had tried to create a paper trail to help them escape the consequences.

  A naval court-martial was intended to do more than adjudicate the innocence or guilt of those on trial; it was meant to uphold and reinforce discipline throughout the service. As one expert put it, the system was “contrived to convey the majesty and strength of the state,” and to ensure that the few who were guilty of serious crimes would serve as examples: “The underlying theory was that simple mariners, having witnessed these spectacles, would be left trembling at the prospect that such tremendous force—the power of life and death—might one day be used against them in the event that they violated the law.”

  After the famous mutiny on HMS Bounty, in 1789, the Admiralty dispatched a ship all the way to the Pacific to hunt down the suspects and bring them to justice in England. Following a court-martial, three were sentenced to die. On a ship moored in Portsmouth, they were led up to the forecastle, where three nooses dangled, neck high, from a yardarm. The crew of the ship stood on deck, looking on solemnly. A yellow flag was hoisted—the signal of death—and other vessels in the harbor assembled around the ship; their companies were obliged to watch, too. Crowds of spectators, including children, observed from the shore.

  After the condemned men prayed, they were asked if they had any last words. One of them was reported by a witness to have said, “Brother seamen, you see before you three lusty young fellows about to suffer a shameful death for the dreadful crime of mutiny and desertion. Take warning by our example never to desert your officers, and should they behave ill to you, remember it is not their cause, it is the cause of your country you are bound to support.”

  Each mutineer had a bag placed over his head. A plaited noose was then looped around his neck. Shortly before noon, at the sound of a gun, several crewmen began to pull the ropes, lifting the mutineers high above the sea. The nooses tightened. The men strained for air and their legs and arms convulsed until they suffocated. Their bodies were left to swing for two hours.

  * * *

  One Sunday, while the men from the Wager were still waiting on the Prince George for the trial to commence, they attended a religious service on deck. The chaplain noted that a man who goes to sea often descends into the troubled depths where his “soul is melted.” And he warned the rattled congregants that they should not hold on to “vain notions or expectations of a reprieve or pardon.” The survivors of the Wager had every reason to expect to be hanged—or, as Bulkeley put it, to “fall by the violence of power.”

  CHAPTER 25

  The Court-Martial

  On April 15, 1746, a Union Jack flag was hoisted atop one of the Prince George’s masts and a cannon fired. The court-martial was beginning. The sea novelist Frederick Marryat, who entered the Royal Navy in 1806 at the age of fourteen and rose to captain, once wrote that the pomp of such proceedings was calculated to “strike the mind with awe—even of a captain himself.” He added, “The ship is arranged with the greatest nicety; her decks are as white as snow—her hammocks are stowed with care—her ropes are taut—her yards square—her guns run out—and a guard of marines, under the orders of a lieutenant, prepared to receive every member of the court with the honour due to his rank….The great cabin is prepared, with a long table covered with a green cloth. Pens, ink, paper, prayer-books, and the Articles of War are laid round to every member.”

  The thirteen judges assigned to the Wager trial appeared on deck in their formal dress. All were officers of high rank: captains and commodores, and the lead judge, the so-called president, was Sir James Steuart, a nearly seventy-year-old vice-admiral who was commander-in-chief of all His Majesty’s Ships at Portsmouth. These men clearly seemed more like peers of Cheap than of Bulkeley and his followers, yet judges were known to punish a fellow officer. In 1757, Admiral John Byng would be executed after being found guilty of failing to “do his utmost” during battle, prompting Voltaire to remark in Candide that the English believed it proper to “kill an admiral from time to time in order to encourage the others.”

  Steuart sat at the head of the table, and the other judges placed themselves on either side of him, in a descending order of seniority. The judges swore to uphold their duty to administer justice without favor or affection. A prosecutor was present, and so was a judge advocate who helped to run the tribunal and provide its members with legal advice.

  George Anson was not there, but a year earlier, during his steady ascent through the ranks, he had been appointed to the powerful Board of the Admiralty, which oversaw the general policy of naval discipline. And he undoubtedly had a deep interest in the proceedings involving his former men, especially his protégé Cheap. Over the years, Anson had proven an astute judge of character, and many of the men in the squadron whom he promoted would go on to become some of the most illustrious commanders of the Navy—among them, the Centurion’s lieutenant, Charles Saunders, the midshipman Augustus Keppel, and the Severn’s midshipman Richard Howe. But the man Anson had chosen to command the Wager was at risk of being convicted as a murderer.

  Cheap had earlier sent Anson a letter, congratulating him on his victory over the Covadonga and the promotions “you so justly deserve in the opinion of all mankind.” He wrote, “I take the liberty to assure you that no man on earth wishes your prosperity with a warmer heart than I do,” and then added, “I must beg your favour and protection which I flatter myself I shall have whilst I behave myself as I ought, and when I behave otherwise I shall expect neither.” Anson told a relative of Cheap that he remained supportive of his former lieutenant.

  Cheap and the other defendants were brought in to face the court. As was then customary, they were not represented by attorneys: they had to defend themselves. But they could receive legal advice from the court or a colleague. Crucially, they could call and cross-examine witnesses.

  Prior to the hearing, each defendant had been required to give a statement of facts, which was then presented into evidence. When Bulkeley was called to record his, he protested that he still did not know exactly what charges were being filed against him. Ever conscious of his rights, he said, “I always thought, or at least the laws of my country tell me, that when a man is a prisoner, he must be accused.” Bulkeley complained that he had no way to properly prepare a defense. He was told that at the moment, he simply needed to provide a deposition on the cause of the shipwreck. Whenever one of His Majesty’s Ships was lost, an inquiry was held to determine if any of the officers or crew were responsible.

  Now, as the trial began, Cheap was the first to answer questions. On the limited matter regarding the wrecking of the Wager, he leveled just one accusation: that Lieutenant Baynes had been derelict in his duties by, among other things, failing to inform him that the carpenter, Cummins, had reported seeing land the day before the ship struck the rocks.

  A judge asked Cheap, “Do you charge any officer besides the lieutenant with being in any degree accessory to the loss of the Wager?”

  “No, sir, I acquit them all of that,” he replied.

  He was not pressed on his other allegations. And before long it was Bulkeley’s turn. He, too, was interrogated only about the loss of the Wager. A judge asked him why, before the ship ran aground, he had not tried with others to release its anchor.

  “The cable was foul,” Bulkeley replied.