The vessel named fusta is a long, shallow, Indian-built row-boat, which uses latine sails in fine weather. These boats are usually open, but Botelho covered his with a deck: its dimensions, according to Lavanha, in his edition of De Barros' unfinished Decade, are as follows:—length, twenty-two palmos, or sixteen feet six inches. Breadth, twelve palmos, or nine feet. Depth, six palmos, or four feet six inches. Bligh's boat was twenty-three feet long, six feet nine inches broad, and two feet nine inches deep. From the circumstance mentioned of some of his crew having perished with cold, it is probable that they were natives of India, whom the Portuguese were in the habit of bringing home as part of their crew.
Previous to the writing of this letter, the following copy of verses shows how anxiously this young lady's mind was engaged on the unhappy circumstances under which her brother was placed.
On the tedious and mournful Absence of a most
beloved BROTHER, who was in the Bounty with
Captain BLIGH at the Time of the FATAL MUTINY,
which happened April 28th, 1789, in the South Seas,
and who, instead of returning with the Boat when
she left the Ship, stayed behind.
Tell me, thou busy flatt'ring Telltale, why—
Why flow these tears—why heaves this deep-felt sigh,—
Why is all joy from my sad bosom flown,
Why lost that cheerfulness I thought my own;
Why seek I now in solitude for ease.
Which once was centred in a wish to please,
When ev'ry hour in joy and gladness past,
And each new day shone brighter than the last;
When in society I loved to join;
When to enjoy, and give delight, was mine?—
Now—sad reverse! in sorrow wakes each day,
And griefs sad tones inspire each plaintive lay:
Alas! too plain these mournful tears can tell
The pangs of woe my lab'ring bosom swell!
Thou best of brothers—friend, companion, guide,
Joy of my youth, my honour, and my pride!
Lost is all peace—all happiness to me,
And fled all comfort, since deprived of thee.
In vain, my Lycidas, thy loss I mourn,
In vain indulge a hope of thy return;
Still years roll on and still I vainly sigh,
Still tears of anguish drown each gushing eye.
Ah I cruel Time I how slow thy ling'ring pace,
Which keeps me from his tender, loved embrace.
At home to see him, or to know him near,
How much I wish—and yet how much I fear!
Oh I fatal voyage! which robb'd my soul of peace
And wreck'd my happiness in stormy seas!
Why, my loved Lycidas, why did'st thou stay,
Why waste thy life from friendship far away?
Though guiltless thou of mutiny or blame,
And free from aught which could disgrace thy name;
Though thy pure soul, in honour's footsteps train'd,
Was never yet by disobedience stain'd;
Yet is thy fame exposed to slander's wound,
And fell suspicion whispering around.
In vain—to those who knew thy worth and truth,
Who watch'd each op'ning virtue of thy youth;
When noblest principles inform'd thy mind,
Where sense and sensibility were join'd;
Love to inspire, to charm, to win each heart,
And ev'ry tender sentiment impart;
Thy outward form adorn'd with ev'ry grace;
With beauty's softest charms thy heav'nly face,
Where sweet expression beaming ever proved
The index of that soul, by all beloved;
Thy wit so keen, thy genius form'd to soar,
By fancy wing'd, new science to explore;
Thy temper, ever gentle, good, and kind,
Where all but guilt an advocate could find:
To those who know this character was thine,
(And in this truth assenting numbers join)
How vain th' attempt to fix a crime on thee,
Which thou disdain'st—from which each thought is free!
No, my loved brother, ne'er will I believe
Thy seeming worth was meant but to deceive;
Still will I think (each circumstance though strange)
That thy firm principles could never change;
That hopes of preservation urged thy stay,
Or force, which those resistless must obey.
If this is error, let me still remain
In error wrapp'd—nor wake to truth again!
Come then, sweet Hope, with all thy train of joy
Nor let Despair each rapt'rous thought destroy;
Indulgent Heav'n, in pity to our tears,
At length will bless a parent's sinking years;
Again shall I behold thy lovely face,
By manhood form'd, and ripen'd ev'ry grace,
Again I'll press thee to my anxious breast,
And ev'ry sorrow shall be hush'd to rest.
Thy presence only can each comfort give.
Come then, my Lycidas, and let me live;
life without thee is but a wretched load,
Thy love alone can smooth its thorny road;
But blest with thee, how light were every woe;
How would my soul with joy and rapture glow I
Kind Heav'n! thou hast my happiness in store,
Restore him innocent—I ask no more!
Isle of Man, Feb. 25, 1792. NESSY HEYWOOD.
This interesting letter is given in the following Chapter, to which it appropriately belongs.