William Bligh stirred in his tiny cabin and turned on his back, comfortably lulled between sleep and full consciousness, immediately thinking, as he had constantly since their departure from Tahiti two weeks earlier, of the honours that would be accorded him when he got back to England. It would be marvellous, he knew. To be famous. And respected. He’d have to be promoted, of course. Not just to full captain, which should have happened anyway before the Bounty had left England and for the failure to do which the Admiralty would be properly criticised when he returned. But even higher. He’d probably make history, he thought, twisting on to his back and shrugging his nightshirt around him. The youngest admiral in the King’s navy. Betsy would be so proud. And the children, when they understood what it meant. Admiral William Bligh! It had the proper sound about it: an important sound.
The recognition for what he had achieved would be immediate, of course. The Royal Society, which had organised the expedition and especially selected him to command it, had promised a gold medal if he were successful. And he had been, he knew. Beyond even their expectations.
Not ten feet away, in the main cabin which had been completely converted into a greenhouse, with lead-lined floor to capture and recycle water and lamps for artificial heat, were over a thousand breadfruit plants, carefully potted and held secure in their special racks.
The climate of Tahiti matched almost perfectly that of the West Indies, where he would anchor within months. The botanist they carried with them was convinced the breadfruit would transplant without the slightest difficulty. So he would earn the gratitude of all England, Bligh knew. Every landowner and person of importance in the country had a fortune invested in the sugar plantations of the West Indies. He’d seen the wealth for himself, after Betsy’s uncle, Duncan Campbell, had given him the merchant ship Britannia to command when the Admiralty had stood him down after the American war.
Unimaginable riches, he reflected, sleepily. And dependent entirely upon slaves. It had been only natural for the British establishment to become worried after American independence because the colonies had supplied the food for the chained and shackled workers. Now, because of what he’d done, there was no longer any need for concern. He was providing an alternative. More, even. The cultivation on the spot of the breadfruit, with its year-round crop, would provide even cheaper food than that which they had had to import. So their profit would be even greater from now on.
Oh yes, decided Bligh, the people who mattered in England would have every reason to be grateful to him. Very grateful indeed. King George would probably present him with the Royal Society medal, he thought happily. The sovereign’s patronage of the gardens at Kew, established by his mother, showed the royal interest in botany. So there was reason beyond the good he had done for his country. Yes, the King would definitely honour him. And that would secure his place in society, opening to him every door in London.
It was right that he should finally get some recognition, he thought. The anger roused him further and he opened his eyes, staring through the gloom at the bulkhead inches away. What had happened after James Cook’s last voyage had been a travesty of justice, he reflected, in familiar bitterness. He was as good a hydrographer and cartographer as that damned Grimsby coaster captain: at least half the charts and drawings produced after the Resolution’s Pacific journey had been his and he’d been given no credit. There was hardly a mention that he’d been Captain Cook’s sailing master, even. He’d put that right, though, once he’d become famous; he’d publish his own account of the Resolution’s hunt for the north-west passage and Cook’s death in Hawaii. And take care, very cleverly and without appearing to correct any previous accounts, to show who deserved credit as the better navigator.
He had no need to arise for another hour, he thought, lazily. Perhaps even longer. He closed his eyes, seeking sleep again. Life, he thought, was very good.
Around him the ship creaked and winced and far away he could hear the scuffle of the watch on deck. They’d turned out to be a bad crew. It might have been different, he supposed, had he been able to sail with the usual company of marines to guarantee internal control. But the space needed for the plants, which meant everyone, even himself, was uncomfortable and cramped, had made that impossible.
No captain could have taken greater care of his people, he told himself. He had imposed a special diet on the outward journey to keep them free from scurvy and even given over his own cabin when the gales soaked their quarters. Yet they had repaid him by insolence, carelessness and ingratitude.
Even Mr Christian. Perhaps Mr Christian worst of all. Bligh opened his eyes again in the darkness, annoyance bunching in his throat. Why? he wondered, recognising the recurring question. Why had Fletcher Christian, whom he had made a friend not just on this voyage but on the Britannia as well, turned upon him?
It had been Tahiti, Bligh determined. There was no place on earth more like Sodom and Gomorrah. Where else did women crowd, three or four to a man, groping and pulling at him, demanding a European child? And men, too, cockaded and perfumed, but still men, flaunting themselves in opposition to the laughing girls, lifting their skirts in open invitation to any aberration.
In almost every festival performed for his benefit, until he’d insisted it should stop, there had been disgusting scenes of blatant sex, with men and women distending their sexual parts in obscene gestures. He shuddered at the recollection.
The men had been satiated and spoiled by the island and its easy life. Even Mr Christian.
It was only natural, he supposed, that the man should miss Tahiti. Mr Christian had been shore commander of the breadfruit plantation for nearly six months and had known the relaxations better than most men aboard. He’d even, finally, made a wife of one of the native girls, a chief’s daughter. Actually given her a European name, Isabella. And a child, yet to be born.
Yes, very natural to miss it, during these early weeks. But the man would get over it, Bligh convinced himself.
The episode on Anamoka had upset Mr Christian. And that stupid argument the previous night over the theft of the coconuts. He’d been correct, of course, Bligh knew; he always was. For six months they had known little discipline, so it was important to remind them they were at sea again, sailing under the King’s Regulations. Even something as insignificant as a missing coconut, especially one belonging to the captain, had to be challenged and the culprit seen to be punished. It had just been unfortunate that Mr Christian had taken it and had had to be publicly rebuked.
Perhaps, thought Bligh, I should try to curb my impatience. Certainly with Mr Christian. Yes, definitely with Mr Christian. To bully and drive was the only way to get the crew ship-shape. But Mr Christian was different. It was stupid not to have realised it before, decided Bligh, in rare self-criticism. He closed his eyes again, turning towards the starboard bulkhead.
Damn Tahiti, he thought, before drifting back to sleep.
There were five of them, in single line, hugging the weapons against them to prevent any sound, feeling their way soft-footed down the companion-way into the after cockpit.
Fletcher Christian led, stomach churned with doubt, his ever-wet hands slipping greasily along the stock of the musket. Bligh’s cabin was small, he remembered: two men in it were a crowd. So a cutlass would be easier than the cumbersome, long-barrelled gun lengthened even further by the fixed bayonet. He shifted the sword to his right hand, in readiness. He’d never seen Bligh frightened, he realised. Angry, certainly. Irrational, to the point of insanity, many times. Every emotion, in fact. But never fear. But he’d witness it now, Christian promised himself. He’d make the man grovel, he determined, remembering his thoughts over the arms chest. Christian shook his head, like a man trying to dislodge an irritating insect, annoyed by the persistent doubt The accusation kept repeating itself, like a litany, in his mind. Fletcher Christian, mutineer: Fletcher Christian, murderer. Not my fault, he tried to contradict. Not my fault at all. Mutineer, he thought again. Murderer.
Quintal followed Christian, still excited. He had to fight against the strange desire to laugh, tongue clamped between his teeth, biting himself to force away the nervousness. Churchill and Smith were bunched together next in line, needing physical contact for reassurance, and Birkitt, at the rear, kept glancing behind him, as if fearing a surprise attack.
They huddled together outside Bligh’s cabin, staring through the crack which the man had left for ventilation. It was almost light now and they could make out the figure of the sleeping captain. He was on his back, one arm hanging loosely over the side of the cot. It was a neat, fussily kept room, every article of uniform folded and neatly stowed in its appointed place in its locker.
Christian felt the eyes of the other men upon him, expectantly. He tightened his grip upon the cutlass and shrugged the rifle further back upon his shoulder, tensing at the noise it made. The men were strained forward, like hunting dogs awaiting a command.
He moved his head, identifying Quintal, then indicated the closed door of Fryer’s cabin immediately opposite that of the captain. If Fryer had his pistols to hand, he could be a danger, Christian knew. Quintal nodded in understanding, then twisted at the same time as the apprehensive Birkitt at the sound behind them. Jonathan Sumner appeared, pistol held before him in his right hand. The new mutineer smiled, hopefully. Damn the man, thought Christian. He’d given the strictest orders that no one else was to come below decks. If they started milling around so soon, it would be impossible to isolate the mutineers from those who might remain loyal to Bligh. It would only need one loose shot and there would be carnage.
He’d punish the seaman later, he decided. He paused, stopped by the thought. How would he punish him? The captain of a ship punished by the right of his appointment, as the holder of the King’s commission. By what right did a mutineer punish? None, he realised. His only authority would be that which those who followed him would permit. And any order they disliked could be ignored. They were all just common mutineers, levelled by their complicity in crime. He was no longer an officer, Christian realised. He’d abandoned the right. Just a common mutineer now, like the rest.
He prodded Quintal, then indicated Sumner. If the damned man wanted involvement, then he could have it. Let him be the second man to face Fryer and the uncertainty of his pistols.
The tight-packed group were shuffling, the feeling among them mounting. Within minutes, thought Christian, his support would start to erode. He breathed deeply, preparing himself, then pushed against the cabin door with the point of the sword. It was wrong, he thought, immediately. Too slow and unsure. He should have burst in, frightening his victim with the noise. As if trying to recover from a mistake, Christian slapped at the captain’s arm with the flat of his sword, but misjudged that gesture, too. It hardly snicked the sleeve of the nightshirt, echoing instead against the edge of the berth. The other men were jamming in behind him, urging him on, so that he was scarcely a foot from where Bligh lay.
Christian swivelled the butt of the musket, bringing it up against Bligh’s legs, hitting him awake.
‘Awake, sir!’ he shouted. It sounded banal. Here I am, discarding my honour and perhaps my life and I rouse the man like a mother chiding her son for being late for school, he thought.
‘Up,’ he shouted again, unable to find better words.
Bligh blinked awake. And did nothing. The man, whose nearly every communication with his crew was conducted at a roar and who became enraged at the slightest infringement of regulations or authority, was numbed in his bewilderment.
‘I’ve taken control of the ship,’ announced Christian, formally. ‘You’re no longer in command, sir.’
Nothing he said seemed to be right. Weren’t men supposed to use momentous words on occasions like this?
Bligh still appeared unable to comprehend what was happening, Christian saw. The man’s mouth was moving, fish-like, as he groped for understanding.
Finally Bligh moved, wedging himself up on his elbow. Christian remembered the promise he had made himself. He brought the cutlass up, awkwardly, jabbing the point at the side of the captain’s throat.
Even now, Bligh’s reaction was wrong, decided the mutineer, prepared for a screaming, disjointed harangue and hearing instead quietly uttered words.
‘Mad,’ said Bligh, simply, straining away, his voice rusted with sleep and disbelief. ‘You’re completely mad.’
‘Aye, sir,’ agreed Christian. ‘And I know well enough who made me so.’
Bligh tried to shake his head, but it drove the sword-point into his throat and he stopped, head held unnaturally to one side. From the moment of awakening, he had not taken his eyes from those of Fletcher Christian. The unwavering, brittle-blue gaze had always unsettled him. Christian looked away, disconcerted, to where the sword pricked the man’s smooth neck.
Bligh wasn’t scared, realised the mutineer, sadly. The confounded man would rob him even of that satisfaction, like he had robbed him of everything else.
‘Murder!’
Bligh seemed conscious for the first time of the enormity of what was happening. He screamed the word, suddenly, jerking back further in his bed, so that the cutlass point was temporarily away from his throat. Everyone jumped and was immediately embarrassed by their reaction.
‘Murder! To arms!’
Christian pinned him again, driving his head up, the doubts he’d had washed away by the momentum of the events.
‘Aye, sir,’ he said. ‘There may well be murder. And I’d be justified in doing it, well justified.’
Bligh stared back, balefully. He still wasn’t frightened, Christian knew. Damn the man: damn him in hell. He pushed back against those crowding into him.
‘Give me room, I say,’ he demanded. ‘Don’t crowd upon me so.’
Bligh appeared to be listening, expecting to hear the sound of his rescuers.
‘There’s no man on this vessel who will help you,’ predicted Christian.
‘You,’ said Bligh, softly. ‘You, Mr Christian. Of all people.’
‘Tie him up,’ demanded Churchill, from behind. ‘He’s a shifty bugger. Let’s not leave him loose.’
The captain’s screams had echoed throughout the ship and there was noise everywhere now. Churchill moved away, making more room in the tiny quarters.
‘Hand down some rope,’ he yelled up the companion-way, unable to see who was above. ‘Something to secure the captain.’
There was the sound of shuffling, but no reply.
‘A line,’ shouted Churchill. ‘Give me a line.’
It was Mills, one of the first to follow Christian, who responded. He went to the mizzen and cut off a section of the cord matching that which Christian still wore around his neck, weighted by the suicide lead. He threw it down and Churchill bustled past Christian, grabbing at Bligh’s hands. Christian moved back, glad to be away from the unremitting stare. Churchill pulled the tiny, fat-bellied man out of his cot, then turned him, to face down over it. The balding master-at-arms screwed the cord tight into the captain’s wrists, as determined as Christian for him to cry out in pain. Bligh winced, but said nothing. The end of his nightshirt was caught up as he was tied, so that his thighs and buttocks were exposed to the grinning men. It would have taken the smallest tug to cover the man, but no one moved, enjoying his humiliation.
In the cabin opposite, the startled Fryer was staring at the wavering pistol held by Sumner. It had been a frightening awakening, the sound of Bligh’s screams coming at the very moment his door opened, splitting back upon its hinges. He crouched up, still unsure, trying to see into Bligh’s quarters. Men were milling about in the captain’s cabin, colliding and getting in each other’s way. There was no order among them, he saw.
Quintal stood between him and the cupboard in which the pistols were kept, Fryer realised, coming back to his own surroundings. He’d be blown apart before he could get his legs off the sea-chest. It was the time for talking, not fighting. Perhaps that would come later. There was much to learn first.
‘What’s afoot?’ he demanded.
‘Mr Christian has seized the ship,’ reported Quintal, eagerly. ‘The captain has been overthrown.’
‘What’s to become of him?’
‘Cast adrift,’ said Sumner. ‘With the pig’s rations he’s expected us to eat.’
‘In what?’ asked Fryer, thinking clearly now. He wasn’t frightened, he realised, in sudden self-admiration. Fryer was a sharp-featured, querulous man whose annoyance throughout the voyage at Bligh’s over-bearing, nagging attitude to his officers and men had finally led to his refusal to sit at the captain’s meal-table. But the man’s overthrow was wrong. Without Bligh in command, he thought, it would be difficult to get the Bounty to a place of safety. Certainly Fletcher Christian would have difficulty in doing it: Fryer didn’t share Bligh’s confidence in the younger man’s seamanship.
‘The cutter, sir,’ said Sumner.
‘Then he’ll die,’ said Fryer, immediately. ‘The bottom has rotted out and well you know it. You might as easy throw him overboard to the sharks and be done with it.’
‘It’s a matter for Mr Christian,’ avoided Quintal, hurriedly. He kept looking over his shoulder, more interested in what was happening in Bligh’s cabin.
‘You’ll hang, you know,’ warned Fryer. They weren’t completely committed, he guessed. If he worked cleverly, he could sabotage the uprising. He decided to experiment.
‘Go to the captain’s cabin, if you so desire,’ he allowed.
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Quintal, instinctively, moving back. He snapped around at Fryer, knowing he’d been tricked.
‘Take care, Mr Fryer,’ he warned, uneasily.
Quintal was definitely unsure, decided the master. If Quintal were, then they would all be uncertain.
‘What’s happening?’ demanded Sumner, snatching glances behind and trying to keep the pistol upon Fryer at the same time. The seaman was nipping at the inside of his lips and moving from foot to foot, uncomfortably, like a child wanting a chamber pot.
Quintal glanced resentfully at Fryer. ‘I’ll go and see,’ he said.
Fryer stared after Quintal, observing Bligh for the first time. The captain’s nightcap hung lopsided like a mongrel’s ear and his nightshirt was caught up. He looked ridiculous, thought Fryer.
‘On deck,’ said Churchill, in the opposite cabin. ‘Let’s get the bugger topside, where everyone can see he’s done for.’
It might bind the mutineers to him, to see that Bligh was a captive, thought Christian. Or be the signal for a counter-attack by those loyal to the man.
He was conscious of Quintal crowding into the cabin and turned, alarmed.
‘Mr Fryer? Who guards the master?’ he demanded, looking into the facing cabin.
‘Securely held,’ reported Quintal, carelessly. ‘Sumner can watch him. I wanted to see what was happening here.’
They were rabble, thought Christian, worriedly, disorganised rabble following whatever whim took them.
‘Get aloft,’ he ordered, trying to convey his anger. ‘Gather the support.’
Later, he thought, he’d discipline the man. He and Sumner both. One command had to be replaced by another.
‘Let’s stop this, Mr Christian,’ said Bligh, sensing the disorder. ‘Before it goes any further.’
Christian laughed at him, without humour.
‘That time has long since passed, sir.’
‘Do you really know what you’re about?’
‘Freeing myself of you.’
Bligh frowned: ‘There won’t be a port you can put into … no civilised land where you can berth, not even for a day …’
‘The world is too big,’ refuted Christian.
He turned, at the movement by his elbow.
‘Almost the whole ship is with us,’ exaggerated Quintal, returning. ‘And those not in open support show no sign of backing the captain.’
The man had been too quick, reluctant to quit the centre of the action, thought Christian. So the assurance was worthless. He cocked his head, listening to the noise above him. Men were running everywhere, without purpose or direction.
‘Who’s under guard?’ demanded Christian.
‘Mr Fryer,’ listed Quintal. ‘The gunner, Mr Peckover, has rejected us. So has Purcell, the carpenter. And William Elphinstone, the other mate, won’t commit himself.’
‘Take heed,’ ordered Christian. ‘There are too many weapons about. Ensure those that hold them are truly with us.’
Quintal nodded, then indicated Bligh.
‘How many men are to go overboard with him?’
‘I don’t know yet,’ said Christian. What right had Quintal, a lower deck seaman, to question him? And in so disrespectful a manner?
‘The cutter’s no good,’ cautioned Quintal. ‘She’d go under within the hour.’
‘Mr Christian!’
The mutineer turned back to Bligh.
‘There’s still much for us to say,’ suggested the captain.
‘We’ve done our talking,’ rejected Christian. It was remarkable how calm Bligh was, he thought. Just one outburst: he had pictured the man screaming in constant rage. Nothing was unfolding as he had expected.
‘An hour will make no difference with what you’re about,’ pleaded Bligh.
Christian smiled, pleased at the tone in the man’s voice. Perhaps he was scared after all, he thought, hopefully. He always had been a devious man. Perhaps he was just better able to conceal his fear than most people.
‘There’s little for us to say to each other,’ prolonged Christian, enjoying the feeling of superiority.
Several minutes elapsed before Bligh spoke again.
‘Please,’ he said, at last.
It was a word he had never heard Bligh use before, realised Christian, in sudden surprise. It would be good to savour the man’s humility.
The mutineer turned to Quintal.
‘The captain and I will talk privately,’ he said. ‘I want everyone else up on deck, in control there.’
‘What do you want to speak alone for?’ demanded Quintal and Christian jerked back at the impudence, remembering his earlier doubts about authority.
‘Because I choose to do so,’ he replied.
‘That’s how it will always be, Mr Christian,’ judged Bligh, as he watched the doubtful men back away from the cabin. ‘They’ll do as they like now.’
Every eye had been upon him, Christian knew. Now up on deck every mind would be questioning, wondering at his resolve. He felt the sounding lead thump against his chest as he slammed the door. It might still be necessary, he thought.
‘Untie me, Mr Christian.’
‘No.’
‘At least release my shirt, sir, so I can cover myself.’
‘No.’
He couldn’t touch the man, Christian realised. Was it revulsion? he wondered. Or fear?
Bligh was half turned, offering as best he could his bound wrists. His legs were varicosed, Christian saw, the veins knotted and roped over his calves. Unclothed, he was an ugly little man.
‘Please, Mr Christian.’
‘I said no, sir.’
Bligh straightened, looking at the younger officer sadly.
‘You’ll not succeed in this enterprise.’
‘I will,’ insisted Christian, desperately.
‘The people will rise up to free me. Be sure of it.’
‘Where are they then?’ demanded Christian. ‘There’s no one on this ship now who doesn’t know what’s happening. You’ve no support, sir. No support at all. You never have had.’
‘There’s no more serious crime,’ tried Bligh.
He wouldn’t get his wish, Christian realised, unhappily. Bligh wouldn’t beg. Damn him.
‘I know that well enough, sir,’ said the mutineer.
‘I’ve been a fair captain, Mr Christian.’
The second-in-command spat, unable to put into words his amazement and disgust at the assertion.
‘Fair!’ he echoed. ‘You’re a tyrant, sir, a bullying, insecure swine who takes a strange delight in driving men until they can stand no more.’
‘Is that what they think?’
‘It’s what they know. There’s hardly a man who hasn’t been driven to the point of going overboard because of your treatment.’
‘And is that what you think?’ demanded Bligh.
‘You know well enough what I think,’ said Christian.
Bligh was twisting his hands behind him and Christian brought the sword up, threateningly.
‘Only the shirt,’ said Bligh, coolly. ‘I’m only trying to dislodge the shirt.’
‘Leave it,’ ordered Christian, unsure. ‘I’ll not suffer you to move about.’
‘You’re very frightened, aren’t you, Mr Christian?’ jabbed Bligh.
‘Oh no,’ refuted Christian, shaking his head to enforce the hollow denial. ‘Not fear, Captain Bligh. I’ll own to only one feeling towards you, I despise you, sir. Despise you.’
‘It wasn’t always so,’ said Bligh.
No, thought Christian, sadly. How anxious he’d been to work under Bligh, he remembered, after the stories that had spread of the man’s expertise as a navigator, cajoling and begging anyone he thought might help him to become a member of the man’s crew. Christian had used every influence he could muster among his powerful, well-connected cousins and uncles to pressure Bligh, particularly when he’d discovered the Christians were acquainted with the family of Bligh’s wife. Even Bligh’s rejection that his officer list for the Britannia was full hadn’t deterred him, he recalled.
‘Wages are no object,’ he had written back. ‘I only wish to learn my profession and if you would permit me to mess with the gentlemen, I will readily enter your ship as a foremaster, until there is a vacancy among the officers. We midshipmen are gentlemen, we never pull at a rope: but I should even be glad to go on one voyage in that situation, for there may be occasions when officers may be called upon to do the duties of a common man …’
Bligh still had the letter, Christian knew, carefully preserved in the document case somewhere in the cabin. How many times, wondered Christian, as they had sat at that cramped dinner table had he heard how that letter had appealed to the man.
‘… officers may be called upon to do the duties of a common man …’ The phrase recurred in Christian’s mind. Or the duties of a common mutineer …
‘No, sir, not always so,’ he conceded.
‘Let’s turn back,’ urged Bligh, anxiously. ‘It’s not too late, not yet.’
Christian shook his head.
‘I’ll muster the entire crew,’ promised Bligh. ‘Assure them the whole matter was a mistake, an error between us that we’ve resolved …’
‘Stop, sir!’ rejected Christian. ‘The whole ship’s in arms … they’ll be at the rum, before long. Do you imagine any one of them would willingly put themselves back under your command, after what’s passed in the last few hours? They’d rather kill you outright. Or themselves.’
‘You have my word I’ll victimise no one.’
‘Your word!’ accused Christian, contemptuously. ‘Your word, sir, is the most valueless thing about this vessel.’
‘How so?’ demanded Bligh, nostrils flaring in the familiar prelude to an irrational tirade.
Rarely, thought Christian again, suddenly alert, had he known a man less able to control his temper. Yet apart from that momentary slip, now subdued, the two of them could have been discussing an everyday problem of the voyage, rather than an event that was going to alter both their lives from that day on.
Bligh’s behaviour, with his promises, was a ploy, accepted Christian warily, a super-human exercise of will by a man on the lip of insanity to secure his release. Once Bligh were set free, he would go berserk. Maniacs were often very cunning, thought Christian.
He brought the cutlass up again, jabbing it towards the other man. Was it to frighten Bligh? Christian wondered. Or to reassure himself?
‘You are not a simpleton, Captain Bligh,’ lectured Christian. ‘One of the worst captains ever to sail under the English flag, perhaps. And a thief and a cheat, to boot. But not a fool. So don’t appear surprised at the worth your men set upon your promises.’
Bligh’s face was tight, Christian saw. He was trying hard to control the outburst, the feeling shaking at his body.
‘Take care, sir,’ grated Bligh, through clamped lips. ‘Were my hands not tied, then upon my honour …’
‘I know well enough what you’d do,’ broke off Christian. ‘There’s been hardly a day when we haven’t suffered the ways of your demented mind.’
He might not be able to inculcate fear into the other man, realised Christian. But he could reduce him to an impotent anger and for Bligh to be unable to vent that annoyance in some punishment or beating would probably hurt him as much. It was very important to make Bligh suffer, decided Christian.
‘There could be another course open to us, rather than setting you adrift,’ he began, gently.
Bligh stared at him, head cocked to one side.
‘We could return you to England in irons, for a court martial. King’s Regulations permit a trial for tyranny on the accusation of a junior officer,’ said Christian.
Why was he playing with the man? wondered Christian. He had no intention of taking him prisoner.
‘And pray, sir, how would you work the ship for a voyage of 12,000 miles, with every other officer under guard?’ challenged Bligh. ‘I haven’t forgotten what Quintal said. Your only support is the scum of the lower deck.’
He was a clever man, admitted Christian. He wouldn’t be deflected, he decided. He’d ridicule Bligh, one way or another.
‘A court martial would be a good way to discover what happened to the ship’s rations,’ he continued. ‘And of learning how much money was really spent in victualling.’
Bligh’s face was puce and a vein throbbed in his forehead. He’d touched the nerve, Christian knew. As a merchant captain, commanding the Britannia for Duncan Campbell, Bligh had earned £500 a year. Coming back into the King’s service, yet not promoted to full post captain, had meant his salary had dropped to £70 a year.
There wasn’t a man aboard who didn’t know how Bligh had made up that deficiency. Or who hadn’t suffered because of the man’s determination to line his own pocket.
‘I made not a penny piece at the expense of the crew,’ hissed Bligh.
‘Balderdash, sir,’ said Christian. ‘What you supplied as beef on the outward voyage and no doubt listed full charge for was donkey, without a doubt. No one could nor would eat it. The whole lot went overboard.’
Bligh straightened, listening intently to the disclosure. He was sure the men had taken it.
‘And there was no reason, apart from not wanting to resupply, for cutting down the bread ration either,’ insisted Christian. ‘Replacing the loss with extra rum would, I’d wager, be seen by a court martial for the device it was, a sop to avert any protest from the men.’
‘It was necessary to preserve our supplies,’ seized Bligh, defensively. ‘We were beaten back from Cape Horn. The voyage took months longer than expected.’
‘There was bread enough, even with the rerouting. It was obvious we would refit in Capetown, if we failed to round the Horn. So there was never any danger to supplies,’ countered Christian.’
It was his own private trial, decided Christian, enjoying himself. Bligh was an arrogant bugger, always convinced he could succeed in everything. It was good to show him nobody had been deceived by his cheating.
‘And John Williams would be a good witness at any enquiry into your honesty,’ said Christian.
‘Do you think the Admiralty would take the word of an illiterate, common seaman against a commissioned captain?’ sneered Bligh.
It was working, thought Christian, triumphantly. Bligh was confused and uncertain. That he remembered immediately the incident involving Williams indicated his guilt.
‘Supported by the word of the cooper, who would swear that the cheese barrel had already been broached when he examined it, I imagine they’d accept the word of Williams that upon your specific instructions he took the cheeses to your lodgings at Portsmouth, for the use of you and your family.’
‘Lies,’ declared Bligh, desperately.
‘As you insisted during the outward voyage,’ recalled Christian. ‘Not a man believed you then and neither do they now.’
Bligh shifted and Christian saw his hands were whitening, so tight had Churchill secured them. He must be in great pain, thought the mutineer.
‘Satisfied?’ demanded Bligh, suddenly.
Christian did not reply.
‘You’re like a child,’ accused the captain. ‘Bottled up with imagined grievances, breaking toys in its bed chamber.’
‘My grievances aren’t imagined,’ said Christian.
For several moments they stared at each other, eyes held. Neither wished to be the first to look away.
‘This is all the fault of Tahiti,’ said Bligh, suddenly.
Christian frowned.
‘Tahiti infected you,’ insisted Bligh. ‘Spoiled everyone.’
‘Rot, sir.’
‘Everyone,’ repeated Bligh. He was staring down now, talking almost to himself. ‘Infected with sex and debauchery, like a disease.’
‘And you the only one to stay aloof and free from taint,’ mocked Christian.
Bligh laughed, an attempt at a contemptuous sound.
‘That’s the difference, perhaps, Mr Christian. I’m not an animal … I didn’t have to rut and fornicate …’
There was a vicarious thrill in being a torturer, thought Christian.
‘Because you couldn’t,’ said the mutineer. ‘You were the captain, a man who always had to have respect. You couldn’t touch it because it would have been public knowledge, on board and ashore. And you feared they’d laugh at you, didn’t you? You couldn’t risk being laughed at, could you, sir!’
Bligh stared back, meeting the challenge.
‘Have you forgotten Mrs Bligh, who offered you her friendship, Mr Christian? And my babies, whom you held upon your knee?’
‘No,’ replied Christian, immediately. ‘Convince me that you hadn’t forgotten them either, sir.’
Bligh looked away, silenced. His face was pinched with the pain the ties were causing upon his wrists, Christian saw. He heard the scrape of feet outside the door and half turned, apprehensively. The door opened, without a knock, and Quintal appeared.
‘What’s about?’ he demanded.
‘Is all quiet on deck?’ asked Christian, ignoring the question.
‘Right enough. But the men are growing restless. They don’t know what’s happening.’
‘They’ll know, soon enough,’ promised Christian.
‘We’ve looked at the cutter. It’s useless,’ said Quintal.
‘The launch then. Give them the launch,’ ordered Christian. ‘Start unshipping it.’
‘What will that leave us with?’ said the seaman.
‘The Bounty. We’ll need no more,’ said the mutineer.
‘That doesn’t rest well with me,’ argued Quintal. He remained standing in the doorway.
‘I don’t give a damn what you like,’ yelled Christian. ‘Go aloft and do as I say.’
Still Quintal hesitated and Christian swept the butt of the musket against the door edge, slamming it in the man’s face.
‘You’ve no authority, Mr Christian,’ said Bligh, again. ‘They were already a scurvy lot. You knew that, right enough. You’ll not be able to lead them.’
‘Quiet, sir!’ ordered Christian.
‘Don’t do it,’ tried Bligh, sensing the other man’s lack of conviction.
‘It’s done,’ insisted Christian. ‘Done and nothing can alter it.’
The nose flared again and into Bligh’s eyes came the glazed, staring look that always showed at moments when his control was almost gone. But his voice remained level, little more than a whisper, the words spaced and evenly spoken.
‘I’ll see you destroyed for this, Mr Christian. I shall survive and do everything in my power to bring you down. I’ll not rest until you’re twisting at the rope’s end and the name Fletcher Christian is damned throughout the length and breadth of England. You’re a lost man, Mr Christian. A lost man.’
‘I was a lost man the very moment I stepped aboard a ship commanded by you,’ said the mutineer. ‘One of us will be destroyed by this day. And if there is a God, sir, then that person will be you.’
He jerked open the door he had so recently closed, gesturing towards it with the cutlass.
‘On deck,’ he commanded.
Bligh didn’t move.
‘My shirt,’ he pleaded. ‘Please let me cover myself.’
He would not touch the ropes, decided Christian. Or the man.
‘Let them see what sort of man there is beneath that starched and proper uniform,’ rejected Christian, perversely.
‘Damn you,’ said Bligh, his temper gone now and the words coming in a roar. ‘Damn you in every hell.’
He shook his head, like a dog throwing off water, and the nightcap fell to the floor. Without it, he looked slightly less stupid, thought Christian. But only slightly. He was still a ludicrous sight.
Bligh groped with difficulty along the still darkened alleyway, ignoring the call that came from Fryer’s cabin as they passed before it. At the foot of the companion-way, Bligh stopped, gazing up at the quilt of faces looking down expectantly. They would laugh at him, he knew, when they saw him. He turned back to the following man.
‘Mark my oath, Mr Christian,’ he warned, his voice even again. ‘Mark it and mark this day. There will never be a moment, for the rest of your life, when you will be able to forget what passed between us.’
He had never thought it possible for so much hatred to exist between two people, thought Christian, staring back at the man. He jabbed out at Bligh’s exposed buttocks with the point of the sword, snickering when the man skipped aside to avoid being pricked.
‘Get aloft,’ said the mutineer. ‘I want them to laugh at you.’