Christian’s arrival on deck, driving Bligh before him, was like that of an orchestra conductor mounting the rostrum, bringing gradual silence from the players he was about to lead. The hush fell over everyone. They were shadowed and grey in the peculiar twilight preceding the immediate dawn and everyone stopped moving, apprehensively.
There was no laughter at the captain’s appearance, Christian realised, disappointed.
‘There’s the bugger!’
It was a bravado shout, like a small boy trying to create an echo in a dark tunnel to prove he wasn’t afraid of anything hiding there. It came from Churchill, who appeared immediately embarrassed by what he had done, snatching around, grinning, eager for smiles of response.
Ellison smirked and nodded. So did Birkitt. But the sight of Bligh, humiliated and bound, appeared to unsettle the men rather than bind them to him, as Christian had anticipated.
Passing doubt, Christian reassured himself, prodding the captain forward. They’d rally round, soon enough. They’d all be with him in the end. He knew they would.
‘Here. Bring him here.’ said Quintal by the mizzen mast.
Christian hesitated at the command. The stern area was obviously the most secure place to parade the captain and ensure that he couldn’t escape. But who the hell did Quintal imagine he was, giving orders? Didn’t he realise who the new commander was?
‘Aye,’ encouraged Ellison, sensing the uncertainty among those grouped on deck. ‘Bring him here. I’ll stand guard over him. One move and I’ll skewer the dog.’
Bligh’s head was held forward, but he was looking intently around, identifying everyone who spoke. Creating mental lists, decided Christian.
The mizzen was the only place, accepted Christian, moving the captain on. Churchill came alongside, pistol cocked and ready, and Smith and Birkitt positioned themselves behind Bligh, so that the captain stood in a circle of men, with the mast forming a barrier to one side. It would take a concerted attack to free the man, Christian realised, gratefully.
‘Just the slightest cause,’ Birkitt said, pushing Bligh more to sustain his own courage than to instil fear into the captain. ‘And I’ll blow your damned brains out.’
‘Hasn’t got any,’ insisted Churchill and they all sniggered.
Children, worried Christian. Frightened, nervous children, even in the way they were speaking. Bligh would recognise it, he knew. And attempt to capitalise upon it.
He was too encumbered, realised the mutineer. At the moment the crew were bemused by Bligh’s appearance, but it would not take long for them to sneer at the weapons with which he had armed himself. He handed his cutlass to Alexander Smith, who was standing nearby, then unclipped the bayonet from the musket. Just that would be sufficient, he thought. He detected Bligh straining against his bonds and reached out, managing to grab the trailing cord without physically touching him.
Now he’s my dog, thought Christian, happy at the reversal of roles. My dog, at the end of my leash, and he’ll have to perform the tricks that I command. He jerked the rope, to remind Bligh who was the master. Just as childish as Churchill, he recriminated almost immediately, loosening his hand on the rope. Careful. Mustn’t become hysterical. He was in charge now, in positive command. Couldn’t relax, not for a moment.
Heightening the theatricality of what was happening, dawn broke, the sun pulling up on the horizon and washing over the ship, like the lights coming up immediately after the curtains had been raised on a stage. Better able to see the state to which the captain had been reduced, a murmur flickered through the assembled crew, but Christian was unable to discern immediately whether it was sympathy for the man or approval for what had happened to him.
‘Here he is,’ announced Christian, loudly. He was still being the bully, he knew. And enjoying it. ‘Here’s the man who’s cheated and lashed and kept us short of our victuals.’
The murmuring was increasing. It was approval, recognised Christian. The men were with him. The majority anyway. And that’s all he needed, the majority. And weapons.
‘I’ll forget nothing of this, sir,’ said Bligh, speaking very softly and only to Christian. ‘Not one moment of it.’
He was trembling again, fighting against the temper. Bligh was like that volcano, far away to starboard, thought Christian. Always about to erupt.
‘Look at him,’ he commanded, like a fairground barker. His voice almost cracked and he gulped, quickly. ‘No more tyranny, lads … no more lash, for no reason at all. We’ve deposed him. He’s ours now, to do with as we like …’
Ellison started forward, his mouth moving.
‘Pig,’ he shouted and spat into Bligh’s face. The captain jerked back but couldn’t wipe it and the spittle ran slowly down his cheek.
Ellison looked away, down to the deck for acceptance, but only one or two people nodded and smiled approval.
‘Let’s not slack,’ shouted Christian. ‘I want that launch swung outboard.’
Activity would prevent them thinking, decided the mutineer. And if they didn’t think, they couldn’t have doubts. He wished Ellison hadn’t spat upon Bligh. It had created sympathy, he knew. And he didn’t want that emotion building up for the man.
Christian gazed about him, trying to estimate his support. He was sure of Churchill, Smith, Quintal and Birkitt. Ellison and Muspratt were armed and loyal. Both Edward Young and George Stewart would be with him, he was sure. They’d practically incited the uprising anyway. They couldn’t abandon him now. The eager Sumner was down in the well, with James Morrison the mate, unloading the yams and fruit from inside the launch, making it ready for those to be cast adrift. Thompson was still guarding the arms chest, preventing a counter-attack. Another supporter. Enough, decided Christian. He was going to succeed. He’d have been happier with more, but perhaps the support would grow as the idea of overthrowing Bligh settled fully in their minds.
Quintal hurried up, grinning at the new intimacy he imagined existed between himself and Christian.
‘Mr Fryer wants to come on deck,’ he reported. ‘Says it’s important to talk to you. Shall I tell him to go to hell?’
Damn the man, thought Christian. He’d have to be very careful of Quintal, he decided. Power was going to the man’s head like a pint of the best rum. If there were a second mutiny against his command, Christian thought, Quintal would lead it.
‘No,’ he said, sharply. ‘You’ll do nothing of the sort. Bring him here.’
Quintal frowned and stood there, arrogantly.
‘That might be a doubtful course,’ he said.
‘That’s a decision for me,’ insisted Christian. ‘Go and get him.’
Would the master throw in his lot with them, wondered Christian, as Quintal made his reluctant way below. Fryer hated Bligh, like they all did. For weeks communication between them had been restricted to the barest minimum necessary for the running of the ship.
Christian’s hopes at the man’s intentions wavered when he saw Fryer’s face. There was no support in that look, he knew. The master gazed without sympathy at Bligh, then at Christian. He appeared to be waiting for the mutineer to order away from their hearing the common seamen who clustered around, guarding the captain. And he would have liked to have dismissed them, realised Christian. He felt uncomfortable with them, knowing the barrier of authority between officer and men had been irretrievably breached. He couldn’t tell them to leave, he accepted. They might defy him and it was too early for his tenuous command to collapse.
‘These men can hear anything that passes between us,’ he told Fryer. His voice was weak, he knew, like a man reciting the lines of a speech that somebody else had written.
Still Fryer hesitated, unsure. Then he shrugged.
‘This is a sorry business, Mr Christian,’ he said. Then, adamantly, he continued: ‘And it’s got to stop. And stop now. Damned quick.’
Christian had never thought of Fryer as a brave man. Rather, he was a moaner, constantly complaining about the conditions and Bligh’s behaviour, but doing nothing practical about it apart from cutting himself away from the man. Yet he was speaking now in direct challenge to a group of armed men who, for all he knew, were as prepared to commit murder as they were to mutiny. Was it real courage? wondered Christian. Or surface bravery?
‘It will,’ assured Christian. ‘When he’s been set adrift.’
Fryer shook his head, in refusal.
‘Let’s talk about this privately, Mr Christian. Just the three of us …’
He paused, looking to Bligh for confirmation.
‘… I’m sure if it’s abandoned now, the captain is prepared to put it out of mind …’
Instead of replying, Bligh threw back his head, control ebbing, and bawled out, ‘Get Mr Christian! Attack, for God’s sake, attack!’
Once again every movement in the ship ceased and Bligh misconstrued it as response.
‘… Seize him, quickly,’ he urged, dribbling in his desperation and jiggling from foot to foot at the end of his securing rope. ‘You, Isaac Martin. Come on, man, don’t bugger about. And you, Jonathan Millward. You’ve a musket, man. For God’s sake, use it. Shoot him down, like the dog he is.’
No one moved.
Christian swung the bayonet first towards Bligh, who stood, blinking in surprise that nothing had happened, and then in the direction of Fryer, who gazed back at him quizzically, not believing his determination to use it. Why was it, wondered Christian, that no one laughed? The whole thing was unfolding like a farce.
‘Would he?’ said Christian, to Fryer. ‘Can you see him forgiving and forgetting that he’s been brought bare-assed up on deck, to be laughed at by those he’s terrorised for so long?’
Fryer misunderstood the reply as lessening conviction on the part of the other man and moved to reduce it further.
‘We’ve become well enough acquainted on this voyage, Mr Christian. So harken to me. No matter how badly you feel you’ve been treated …’
Again he stopped, looking at Bligh.
‘… and God knows, of everyone you’ve been bullied and harried more than most. And earned all our regard for the way you’ve taken that treatment … but no matter how bad it was, it doesn’t merit the course you’re taking …’
Christian snapped forward, suddenly losing his temper.
‘How in God’s name, sir, do you know what is justified and what isn’t?’ he demanded. He felt his eyes flood and blinked against it. Bligh had reduced him publicly to tears not twenty hours before, with the accusation that he was a thief over those coconuts. It wouldn’t happen again.
‘Nobody can know my treatment at the hands of this man,’ he said. He jerked the rope he still held, so that Bligh was forced forward. Jump, little dog, thought Christian. Jump when I tell you to jump.
‘Every day,’ continued Christian, the self-pity surfacing again, ‘without respite he has nagged and bullied and sworn. He’s tried to break me, Mr Fryer. He’s tried to take away my will and my mind, so that I would leap automatically to any command …’
Christian was completely distraught, realised Fryer. More than distraught, even. Demented perhaps. And he was armed and followed by at least a dozen men with guns who would, initially anyway, obey any order he gave them. The man would have to be handled very gently. From Bligh he intercepted a look of apology for the outburst. And so he should be sorry, thought Fryer. The man had thrown away an opportunity, judged the master. Alone in a cabin, he was sure, he could have weakened Christian’s resolve. Perhaps even overpowered him: he looked almost on the point of collapse. But Bligh, predictably, had been too stupid to realise it. It was typical of the man. He was a fool.
‘Take him to England under guard then,’ urged Fryer. ‘Bring him before a court martial.’
Christian shook his head, indicating the crewmen who had block and tackle fixed to the launch now, ready to swing it over the side.
‘How long do you imagine their determination would last, Mr Fryer?’ he asked, rhetorically. ‘Especially as we got closer to England and the prospect of justice from an Admiralty forced to choose between its captain or crew. No, sir, I’ll not keep him aboard, to foment my overthrow. He’s to go overboard.’
‘He might as well,’ said Fryer, interpreting the word literally. ‘Casting him adrift will just prolong his death. He’ll surely die. You know he will.’
‘So be it,’ dismissed Christian. He suddenly felt very tired. He had been without sleep for nearly forty-eight hours, he realised. He squinted against the rising sun and felt an overpowering need to close his eyes completely. How good it would be to be able to walk away from it, he thought. Just go below and crawl into his hammock and know that when he awoke Bligh would be gone. For ever. He wished the man dead, he accepted, considering Fryer’s warning. He wanted him dead yet hadn’t the courage to kill him outright. Which was cowardice.
He squeezed his eyes tightly, trying to drive away the fatigue, then opened them wide. On the far side of the quarter-deck, standing apart from everyone, was Jonathan Smith, Bligh’s servant. At that moment Smith looked towards him and Christian held the gaze, gesturing him forward. Smith approached apprehensively, eyes moving between the mutineer and the captain. He waited for the man to look directly at him, to guess his attitude. There was dislike in the expression, Christian saw. Dislike and contempt.
‘Rum,’ ordered Christian. ‘Break out the grog, for everyone …’
He hesitated, looking back to Bligh.
‘… and bring him some clothes,’ he added, suddenly disgusted with himself for what he had done in bringing Bligh on deck unclothed. It had been stupid. Stupid and juvenile, the sort of thing Bligh might have done to humiliate somebody whom he hated. The men would despise him for it, not admire him, Christian decided.
Smith waited, not moving immediately. Abruptly, so quickly that Christian had no time to bring up his bayonet to prevent it. Smith reached out and snatched at the caught-up nightshirt. It came down to Bligh’s ankles, concealing his behind.
‘It’ll do until I return,’ said Smith, to Christian.
He wanted to prove I’ve no longer any authority over him and that providing he’s brave enough he can do what he likes, judged Christian. Was that how it was to be from now on, he wondered, everyone determined to prove themselves, even lowly servants like Jonathan Smith?
Bligh’s head was still lowered and he was muttering, as if his reasoning had gone. It was names, realised Christian. The man was reciting names to himself, attempting to mark them in his mind, determined, if he survived, to provide the authorities with a full list of the mutineers.
The man had set himself a difficult task, thought Christian. Even he was still unsure who supported him and who didn’t.
Smith returned very quickly with the captain’s uniform. There was still some inherent respect for Bligh, realised Christian, as he watched Smith struggle to help the tethered man into his breeches and shirt. Perhaps it was more for the title than for the man, he thought, watching the way Churchill and Sumner and Millward stood back, actually half looking away as Bligh’s nightshirt came off. But it was still respect. Every minute that the man stayed aboard increased the risk of a counter-mutiny.
Christian took his rum neat, waving the glass for a second tot. Smith provided it, then, not bothering to conceal his hostility, moved from man to man, careless with the ration. Only the youngster Hallett insisted on water to dilute it and Christian was suddenly aware of a new alertness about Bligh. He was hoping they’d get drunk, realised Christian. He was very cunning.
‘Smith will go with the captain,’ Christian said, briskly, to Fryer. ‘And the two midshipmen, Hallett and Hayward.’
The master nodded, not looking to Christian but to Bligh.
‘It would be better if I stayed aboard, would it not, captain?’ he said.
Bligh looked up, head cocked to one side. He looked like a parrot, thought Christian, about to recite its words. A very alert parrot, whose beak it would be wiser to avoid.
‘Aye, Mr Fryer,’ he accepted, readily. ‘Stay aboard.’
Too quick, realised Christian, instantly. No words had passed between the two men, he knew. But there had been times when he had been looking at neither and they must have been able to determine some action by looks and half-nods.
‘Oh no, Mr Fryer,’ said Christian.
‘Sir?’ questioned the master.
‘We were acquainted on this trip,’ agreed Christian. ‘But I view that friendship with reserve, sir. It would be an ideal time, wouldn’t it, to mount a counter-attack, at the very moment we’re all engaged in setting the captain adrift? You’ll not stay aboard to organise that, Mr Fryer. You’ll go with the captain.’
‘The boat’s ready.’
Christian looked down at Sumner’s shout.
Through the crush on deck, Christian saw the ubiquitous Quintal thrusting forward, head moving from side to side. The damned man was even giving orders, already seeing himself the second-in-command to Christian’s captaincy.
Quintal arrived at the mizzen, nodding his head in half deference. Yes, decided Christian, that was very definitely the role the man saw for himself. Where were Young and Stewart? Those were the men he wanted as his junior officers, not an upstart from the lower deck.
‘What is it?’ he demanded, allowing the annoyance to show in his voice.
‘Alone,’ said Quintal, conspiratorially. ‘I’d like to talk to you alone.’
Christian hesitated, looking back to where Fryer and Bligh stood. They were closer now, he realised. Near enough for a whispered conversation.
‘Keep close watch,’ Christian instructed Churchill. He waited. ‘An eye on both of them,’ he added, indicating Fryer.
He walked a few feet away and turned to face Quintal, trying to show by the expression on his face his disapproval for the way Quintal was behaving.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘Not as good as we thought,’ said Quintal, confirming Christian’s thoughts at the man’s self-promotion. ‘We haven’t the support.’
Christian frowned.
‘I reckon there’ll be almost twenty people who’ll want to go with Bligh,’ added the seaman.
Christian swallowed, silenced by the number. Although he hadn’t admitted it to himself, Christian had expected his overthrow of Bligh to be accepted almost unanimously. And even from those who did not wholeheartedly approve, he had anticipated tacit acceptance of the new command. He’d never expected almost half the crew to choose abandonment in an open boat 12,000 miles from England, making it quite clear that but for Christian’s possession of the weapons, he would already have been deposed. Twenty people in an open boat, reflected Christian. Fryer’s words intruded into his mind again. To cast Bligh adrift would be murder, the man had said. And he was right. There was little chance of his surviving: the war canoes would be upon them the moment they came in sight of land. He’d always known his decision would mean Bligh’s death, Christian accepted, with belated honesty. Bligh’s death and those of the three or four most closely allied to him. But twenty people would be mass murder … mass murder of people with whom he had drunk and laughed and whored and whom he had regarded if not as friends then certainly as shipmates.
‘Even the launch will be overcrowded,’ said Quintal, adding to Christian’s self-recrimination.
‘They’ll not be dissuaded?’ tried Christian.
‘For what?’ dismissed Quintal. ‘To band together to attack whenever they felt like it. We might be able to watch over one or two who disagree. But there’s not enough of us to guard twenty people. We’ve scarcely enough to work the ship as it is.’
Christian nodded. The man was right, he knew. Such a number of dissidents couldn’t be kept aboard. Where the hell were Young and Stewart? He needed advice and counsel. He halted at the thought. Captains of ships made their own decisions, he told himself. And that’s what he was now. The captain. The man in supreme command. He didn’t like it, Christian realised. He didn’t like it at all.
‘Then they’ll have to go.’
‘It’s a lot of people,’ said Quintal. The man knew what would happen to them and was reluctant to be a party to such slaughter, Christian guessed. How many of those following him so fervently would back away from killing their friends when the time came to force them into the launch? If Bligh realised his opportunity, accepted Christian, he could re-seize the ship.
He looked beyond Quintal to where Smith stood, close to Bligh.
‘Rum,’ he shouted, to the servant. Perhaps drunk it would be easier for them. Was the nervousness discernible in his voice? Please God, don’t make it so, he thought.
‘Rum,’ he repeated, his voice stronger now. ‘More rum for everybody. And get that launch into the water.’
Bligh was smiling, Christian saw. The confounded man was smirking across the gap that separated them. Had he guessed? Christian asked himself. Had Bligh realised he could win, even now? Or was it just his madness, that tendency to grimace for no reason that was one of his more irritating habits?
The boat launched badly, hitting the water stern first and the prow slapping down moments later like the handclap of a teacher calling her pupils to attention. Christian, who was standing amidships, jumped at the sound, fearful that the launch, like the cutter, had rotted and broken up. If that had happened, there would be no way of getting rid of Bligh and his supporters, other than by throwing them overboard. And Bligh’s following appeared to be growing, Christian saw. William Cole, the bosun, was for’ard, in deep conversation with Purcell but avoiding any looks towards Christian. Instead, both men kept glancing towards the spot where Bligh and Fryer stood. They were awaiting a signal, decided Christian, nervously. The rival factions were beginning to form into two separate groups.
It wouldn’t do much good, but Hayward and Hallett would automatically swing behind any official effort to recapture the ship, Christian guessed. All they needed was one central figure around whom to gather, like the dissidents had followed him, thought Christian. And once a counter-revolt began, it would soon gather strength.
‘The boat?’ he shouted to Sumner, near the rail. ‘Is the boat all right?’
There was open fear in his voice, but Christian was careless of it, his only concern now to get Bligh and the men who might follow him away from the Bounty.
‘Aye,’ assured Sumner, detecting the tone and looking back curiously at his new leader. ‘Safe enough. Shipped a little water, but none that can’t be baled in a few moments.’
‘Overboard, then,’ commanded Christian, hurriedly. ‘Get them overboard. Look lively, now.’
No one moved to follow the order, he saw, desperately. Each mutineer was staring around him, no one willing to be the first to herd the men to their deaths.
Cole and Purcell were coming towards him, Christian saw, apprehensively, their bravery growing as they detected the increasing disunity among the mutineers. It meant there would be four people abaft the mizzen who opposed him, calculated Christian.
‘It’s to a certain death you’re sending us,’ said Cole, contemptuously.
‘Stay then,’ retorted Christian.
‘I’d rather die than be associated with a mutiny,’ said Cole. He was a burly, sea-weathered man whom Christian had always admired. He would have been a sobering influence had he thrown in his lot with them, thought Christian.
‘The launch is ship-shape enough,’ Christian tried to reassure the man. ‘And the sails and masts are good.’
He could vouch for that, thought Christian. The previous night he’d made his escape raft from them. It must be still down there somewhere, among the debris thrown out as the launch had been swung overboard. He hoped someone had realised it and stowed the masts back in the boat.
He looked towards the man alongside Cole. William Purcell had helped him in his desertion plans, he remembered, providing nails with which to trade with the natives and rope to lash his fragile craft together. The carpenter was a weak, vacillating man, Christian knew. Willing, eager in fact, to assist in a desertion and damning in his criticism of Bligh as he did so, yet the man lacked the courage to join in open opposition when the opportunity arose. A carping, always-complaining coward would be no loss, decided Christian. But his ability would. They’d need a carpenter.
He stared around, trying to locate Charles Norman. The carpenter’s mate had abandoned the shark and was standing in the stern, frowning at what was going on around him, his lips moving in private conversation with himself.
Christian turned back to Sumner, who had positioned himself at the head of the ladder.
‘Norman stays,’ he instructed. ‘We’ll need him.’
Sumner, confused by the statement, looked to the simpleminded man, then back to Christian.
‘Purcell’s going with the captain,’ enlarged Christian. ‘The captain.’ Even after overthrowing the man and attempting his ridicule, the term of respect came so naturally. The men he now led would never call him captain, Christian realised.
Down in the well he heard snatches of laughter. It was a nervous, almost hysterical outburst, recognised the mutineer, trying to locate it. Mickoy was drunk, Christian realised, watching the flushed, stumbling man as he moved around the deck, musket slung across his back, sniggering for no reason. The man could have been overpowered in a moment, Christian knew. So could Mills. The middle-aged gunner’s mate was slumped against the thwarts, head lolled on his chest. There would be others, he accepted, desperately. It had been ridiculous to break open the rum.
‘I’ll need my tools,’ demanded Purcell, with increasing determination, reminded of his professional ability in the exchange between Christian and Sumner.
‘Aye,’ agreed Christian, immediately.
‘No,’ protested Churchill.
The master-at-arms came around from behind Bligh, his face working with anger, and stood close to Christian.
‘Damn it, man,’ he said, clearly regarding Christian as an equal. ‘With his tools and the luck to land on a friendly island, there’s no knowing what sort of vessel they’ll be able to build.’
‘I’ve said he can have them,’ said Christian.
‘And I say he can’t.’
Christian felt Bligh and Fryer shift behind him and swung the bayonet towards them. It would be a good moment to fight, Christian realised. They would only need to overpower him and the mutiny would collapse like an open mainsail in a gale. It would be madness to continue the argument with Churchill, he thought, revealing their weakness.
‘Let’s talk no more of it,’ he tried to dismiss, but Churchill shook his head, sensing victory.
The appearance of Edward Young saved Christian, who turned upon the absent midshipman with the anger he felt for Churchill.
‘In what hole have you been skulking?’ he demanded, too loudly.
He heard laughter again, but controlled this time. He looked towards the mizzen and saw Bligh smiling at him, mockingly.
‘Not long, Mr Christian,’ he said, calmly. ‘Not long before your enterprise collapses.’
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Young, to his right.
Christian twisted, not knowing whom to address first. Oh God, he thought. Oh dear God. The captain, he decided. He had to reinforce his authority to the man who was the most direct challenge to him.
‘Stay here,’ he shouted at Young, knowing the man’s awareness of discipline would make him obey the command more readily than the seamen had been doing for the past hour.
He stalked towards Bligh with the bayonet held before him but the captain didn’t flinch away and it was Christian who had to lower the weapon to avoid driving it into the man’s stomach. Christian stood there, reduced to foolishness by the action, and Bligh laughed again, a forced sound, but still wounding in its mockery.
Bligh was controlled again now, Christian realised. Fryer must have lectured him about the stupidity of irrational outbursts, which would only remind the mutineers of the sort of man of whom they were ridding themselves and strengthen their resolve. Instead, guessed the mutineer, they had decided upon near silence, letting the uprising destroy itself by its own disorganisation.
‘Mind one thing, Captain Bligh,’ said Christian, vehemently, emotion building up in his throat, so that his face reddened, as if he were choking. ‘If events turn against me, then I’ll not be denied my revenge. I’ll not have this put aside without the satisfaction of your death.’
Bligh believed him, he thought. The sneer on the man’s smooth face flickered uncertainly, and he swallowed several times. I succeeded, thought Christian, feeling the euphoria flood through him. For several seconds, at least, I succeeded in frightening the man. But it wouldn’t last.
‘Abandon this madness, sir,’ intruded Fryer, still believing he could talk down the mutiny. ‘It’s doomed, as you must know …’
Both Smith and Birkitt were unsure now, Christian realised, looking beyond the two captives. There hadn’t been an exchange the two guards had missed during the last hour and both men had recognised the confusion.
‘Into the boat,’ yelled Christian, looking at Birkitt. ‘Get Fryer into the boat as soon as it’s pulled close to the ladder.’
Birkitt straightened at being addressed, but made no move towards the master. Not one order obeyed, thought Christian, exasperated. Each man was looking inside himself, acting as the mood took him. It was anarchy, complete anarchy.
‘What’s happening?’ demanded Young, on the far side of the mizzen.
Christian hurried to him, needing support.
‘The whole thing is collapsing, that’s what’s happening,’ he said, his voice a whisper. ‘You urged me to this, Mr Young. You and Mr Stewart, with your assurances that everyone was behind me, to a man …’
‘… and …’
‘… and almost half the crew are openly defying me and siding with Mr Bligh,’ cut off Christian. His emotion broke and his fears poured out at the other man.
‘… I’ve had to stand here all alone, trying to hold the thing together, while you two hid away below …’
There was a whine in his voice, he knew, the complaint of a child fearing he’d been left alone in an empty house.
‘I was not hiding,’ denied Young, without strength. He hurried on, knowing he had to say more. ‘I was testing your support.’
‘A lie, sir,’ threw back Christian. ‘I tested my support hours ago. It took Quintal not fifteen minutes to gauge it.’
Young shuffled before his friend.
‘I’m with you, Mr Christian. You know that.’
‘Then show yourself to be,’ said Christian, anxiously. ‘I need you behind me. And some order. Everyone is doing whatever enters their head. Unless we get some command recognised, we’ll all be in irons before this day ends.’
Bligh had been right, hours ago, thought Christian. They were a bad crew, officers and lower deck alike.
Christian swivelled at a shout and saw Churchill gesturing over the rail. Purcell was staggering along the deck, weighted down by his toolbox, and the master-at-arms was yelling at Sumner to prevent its going into the launch. But Sumner appeared not to hear, turning instead towards the stem of the ship. Purcell, apparently oblivious to all around him, struggled on down the gangway with his box.
‘I’m buggered if he’ll have it,’ said Churchill, moving away from the captain and the master he was supposed to be guarding.
‘Stay at your post, sir,’ yelled Christian, abandoning his determination not to argue with the man again in front of Bligh and Fryer.
Churchill paused, gazing back towards Christian.
‘A pox on what you say,’ he refused. He scrambled down into the launch, threatening Purcell with his pistol, groping into the toolchest with his free hand.
‘Matthew,’ called Churchill, without looking away from the carpenter. ‘Here, Matt, take this.’
Quintal responded immediately, positioning himself halfway down the ladder and creating a middle link in the chain, with Sumner at the top, to pass back the tools that the master-at-arms was seizing at random and returning to the ship.
Other men were moving towards the launch and Christian tensed, his immediate fear that it was the first movement by crewmen loyal to Bligh. Then he saw they carried bundles of possessions and scraps of food and realised that, unbidden, they were following Purcell into the boat, removing from any mutineer the responsibility for personally ordering them into the small vessel. The botanist, David Nelson, was going, Christian saw. He’d lived with the man, in adjoining tents, throughout their stay in Tahiti and had come to like him. Taciturn, perhaps. And silently critical of the sexuality into which the crew had plunged with sudden abandon. But a fine man. Without his expertise, Christian knew, the breadfruit plants would not be in their greenhouse amidships. Nelson would suffer, having to abandon the plants he had tended with such care. He had seen almost as much honour in the expedition as Bligh had anticipated. Lawrence Leboque, the sail-maker, had decided to stay with the captain. And Robert Tinkler and Robert Lamb. Tinkler paused at the rail-edge, looking up at Christian. It was in the able seaman’s bedroll that Christian had hidden the food he had intended taking with him when he deserted. Tinkler had found it and recognised the bag as belonging to Christian. He’d known its purpose, Christian remembered. Without judgment the man had returned the food hoard, absolving himself with just seven words: ‘I want to know nothing of this.’ And still he wanted to know nothing; poor Tinkler.
Christian felt a jump of regret at the sight of the gunner, William Peckover, scrambling down the ladder. There might not have been friendship between the two men, but Peckover was a solid, reliable man who could be depended upon in moments of emergency. ‘Reliable’ stayed in Christian’s mind. All the stalwart men were going with Bligh, he thought. And all the hotheads were staying aboard the Bounty, becoming mutineers with the eagerness of children introduced into a new game of which they would soon tire. Thomas Ledward, the acting surgeon, was going into the launch with his medical supplies. And George Simpson, his assistant. So they were without a physician. Because of the promiscuity in Tahiti there had been many outbreaks of venereal infection, recalled the mutineer. He’d caught it himself and been cured by Ledward. Where would they get their treatment now? he wondered. It was said that, untreated, the disease sent a man mad. The two useless midshipmen, Hallett and Hayward, came stumbling from the hatchway, holding on to each other’s clothing like abandoned children, both clutching a knotted shirt of belongings. Hayward was crying, Christian saw, his nose running to mix with his tears.
‘I’m getting all the good men,’ said Bligh, from behind. ‘You’re left with just the scum, Mr Christian.’
‘No, Mr Bligh,’ corrected Christian, heavily, looking back at him. ‘I’m ridding myself of some scum, too.’
Bligh’s mouth snapped shut. Christian saw Fryer seize the captain’s arm in warning and Bligh stood there fighting an internal battle with his temper. So they still thought they could regain control by remaining calm, realised Christian.
Jonathan Smith, the newly courageous servant, came out of the entrance to the captain’s quarters with logbooks and charts. but at the ladder-head Sumner stopped him, retrieving the maps.
‘To be set adrift, without even a route to follow,’ accused Fryer, seeing the incident.
‘We could tow you towards Tofoa,’ offered Christian, without thought.
‘Holy Mother of God,’ exploded Birkitt.
Christian looked up in surprise at the outburst. The second guard was storming away, leaving only Alexander Smith to watch over the captain and Fryer.
‘Come back,’ shouted Christian, desperately. ‘Consider what you’re doing, man.’
Birkitt ignored him, not even bothering to turn at the protest. Christian twisted again, looking for Young. He’d had a musket, he remembered. The other midshipman had vanished again. A coward, Christian thought; an abject bloody coward.
‘Shoot,’ ordered Christian, going back to Alexander Smith. ‘If they so much as make a move, put a ball into them.’
Smith nodded, doubtfully. He wouldn’t do it, Christian realised. With a little encouragement, the man would abandon his post, like Churchill and Birkitt before him. Birkitt was by the ladder now, gesturing to Quintal and Churchill, waving his arms back towards where Christian stood.
‘The thieves fall out,’ mocked Bligh.
‘A matter of indifference to you, sir,’ retorted Christian. ‘Your fate’s decided, whatever happens.’
‘Sure, Mr Christian?’ said Bligh. He almost appeared to be enjoying himself, thought Christian, worriedly. The man definitely saw events swinging back in his favour, even though the majority of his supporters were away from the Bounty now.
Bligh half turned, looking at Alexander Smith. The thick-set, sturdy man shifted uncomfortably under the examination.
‘Smith,’ identified Bligh, as if seeing the man for the first time. ‘Alexander Smith! Tell me, Mr Smith, what are you going to do when this matter is reversed and that madman comes towards me with the bayonet? Are you going to stand there and let him run me through? Or are you going to put a ball into his head? Protecting the captain’s life like that could absolve you from whatever has gone before … earn you a commendation, even …’
‘Pay him no heed,’ yelled Christian. ‘It’s a trick, nothing more.’
‘Think on it, Alexander Smith,’ encouraged Bligh, his usually strident voice soothing and soft. ‘Think of your choice: protect the captain’s life, to be honoured. Or stay a mutineer and be hanged. And you will be hanged, you know? You’ll dance at the yardarm, unless you abandon it tight now.’
Christian ran to the man he hated, prodding the bayonet into the sagging flesh of his belly.
‘Enough,’ he threatened Bligh. ‘Or by God I’ll get it over with now.’
He jabbed the weapon forward, pricking the skin, enjoying it when Bligh winced. Their faces were only inches apart. He could actually see his own features mirrored in the man’s eyes, realised Christian. Bligh’s breath smelt sickly sweet.
‘One more word,’ Christian repeated, ‘and this knife will be through your belly.’
‘No, it won’t,’ challenged Bligh.
The man wasn’t sure whether he’d complete the threat, Christian knew. But he still had the courage to argue. He was a brave man, decided Christian, in reluctant admiration.
‘You won’t kill me, not in cold blood,’ said Bligh, his voice strengthening. ‘You might, by setting me adrift in a boat, with no chance of survival. But that would be different, wouldn’t it … you wouldn’t have to see it happen …’
‘Kill him. Go on, kill him.’
The demand came from behind and Christian turned. Churchill and Birkitt had returned from the ladder-head and were staring at the confrontation.
‘Kill him,’ Churchill said again. The man had been given nearly fifty lashes when he was recaptured after his desertion in Tahiti, remembered Christian.
‘I said there would be no killing,’ replied Christian, uneasily. He sounded foolish, he knew; death threats one moment, backing away the next.
‘Here’s your new commander, lads,’ Bligh shouted to them. ‘Quivering with the vapours. Tuck him in sound at night, so he won’t see shapes in the dark.’
It was a poor jibe, but effective, Christian knew. He had been robbed of any authority over those who followed him by his very action in leading the uprising. Now Bligh was undermining any respect they might have retained. Fryer’s counsel was proving very dangerous; the taunts were more damaging than any blows would have been.
‘I’m permitting only the barest necessities,’ reported Churchill, belligerently, gesturing back to the boat. ‘There’ll be no tow to any damned island.’
First Quintal, now Churchill, thought Christian. If Bligh and his remaining supporters weren’t away from the Bounty within the hour, the mutiny would be over.
‘I’ll decide what they’re to have,’ insisted Christian. He had to restore some command, he knew. He felt the lead against his chest as he walked over to the two mutineers; it still might be needed.
‘They’ll have food,’ he ordered. ‘And navigation equipment …’
He hesitated, preparing the threat. ‘And from you, sir, I’ll have obedience,’ he completed.
Christian stood directly in front of Churchill, the bayonet tight in his hand. He’d never killed anyone, he realised, suddenly. But he might have to kill Churchill, to bring the men back behind him. What would it be like? he wondered. Would the blade go in easily, without striking a bone? Would Churchill die immediately? Or linger, thrashing at his feet? Would the blood splash on him, still warm, staining his hands for a moment and his mind for ever?
Mutineers and loyalists alike were watching, further along the deck, Christian realised. The revolt could end at this moment. He detected movement to his right. To look would mean taking his eyes from Churchill’s face. And if he did that, it would be taken as weakness. He stared ahead, unflinching, waiting to be attacked. The figure came into his vision and he saw it was Young, musket in hand. The midshipman positioned himself behind Christian, the backing implicit, and Christian felt the tension seep away. Confronted by two officers, Churchill capitulated, lowering his eyes and nodding respectfully.
‘Aye, sir,’ he accepted.
It was ironic, thought Christian, that the discipline to which the man was instinctively, if belatedly, reacting had been beaten into him by Bligh.
Christian turned to Young, gratefully.
‘Stay here,’ he ordered. ‘Keep close to the captain …’
Still the respectful ‘captain’, thought Christian, going to the upper rail and gazing down into the boat. There were about fifteen people already there, he saw, knee-deep in hastily grabbed bundles. Littering the bottom were hammocks, twine, rope, sheets of canvas and sails and a jumble of boxes. But no food, he realised. The launch was almost too low in the water. With food to come and the remaining men, there would be dangerously little freeboard.
‘Victuals,’ he shouted to Sumner. ‘Get provisions in. No more belongings until the food is stored.’
It was Jonathan Smith who again rose to the responsibility, summoning Tinkler and Simpson from the launch to help him. Christian stared down, mentally checking the supplies as they were loaded aboard. One hundred and fifty pounds of bread went in first, he saw. Smith was a sensible man, going immediately for the basic food. Meat was the next thing the man collected. Sixteen pieces of pork was hardly enough, Christian thought, counting it as it was handed down. But to increase it might lead to opposition from Churchill or Quintal. And he might not win another confrontation. They had lines in the launch, he could see. And the sea was full of fish. Better to say nothing, he decided. And safer. Six quarts of rum and six bottles of wine were stowed at the stern of the launch, presumably where Bligh would sit, and then Smith handed four empty butts into the boat, in addition to the twenty-eight gallons of water. They’d be well able to catch whatever rain fell, Christian tried to reassure himself. Immediately came the contradiction. There would be eighteen men in that launch. What if it didn’t rain? And there were no fish to catch? It was a torturer’s death, he told himself. They were being cast adrift to starve or thirst to death.
Cole bustled up from the launch, heading immediately for the quarter-deck.
‘I want a compass,’ he said, imperiously, addressing Christian. It had the makings of another dangerous situation, realised Christian, startled by the man’s arrogance. Cole’s arrival put three unafraid men on the quarter-deck, with Hallett and Hayward still loitering nearby. And there were only Smith and Young, besides himself, to oppose them. He had to get rid of Cole immediately.
‘Take it,’ he agreed.
‘No.’
The protest this time came from Quintal, as the bo’sun began opening the binnacle. The man who had first joined Christian had come back unseen from the launch, and was standing with his musket held loosely across his body, half threatening to level it. At least Quintal’s arrival balanced the numbers with Bligh’s men, thought Christian. And created another problem.
‘What’s he want a damned compass for?’ demanded Quintal. ‘There’s land not five miles away.’
The man was drunk, Christian decided. A bayonet was hardly the weapon with which to challenge a drunken man with a musket at the ready. For the briefest moment he pressed his eyes closed again. How tired he was, he thought. Not just the fatigue that came from lack of sleep, but the lassitude and disgust arising from what he was doing. He’d made a mistake: a horrendous and terrifying mistake, ending one hell and immediately creating another for himself. He was damned, thought Christian. Damned forever. And all because of William Bligh.
Quintal had brought the musket up further, he saw. A musket ball would be a quicker way to die than being dragged down through the water by an uncertain weight, he thought, suddenly. How easy would it be, he wondered, to goad the man into using the gun? Quintal was a violent man. And very drunk. He’d used a knife, in lower-deck brawls, Christian knew. A man who would use a knife would use a gun. Quintal swayed, cockily, happy that Cole was standing before the compass box waiting permission to take the equipment out. Badly drunk, Christian thought again, seeing the movement. And so he might miss, wounding instead of killing him. Wounded, he would be captured by Bligh. No, it would have to be by drowning, if at all.
Christian walked over to the box, putting himself between Cole and Quintal, took the compass out and handed it to the bo’sun.
‘I said he wasn’t to have it,’ shouted Quintal.
‘Go back to the launch,’ Christian said to Cole, ignoring the man behind him.
He turned back to Quintal, looking beyond him to Bligh and Fryer. Get rid of them, he thought, wearily. Just get rid of the immediate danger of Bligh and his men and perhaps he could get below, to rest.
Quintal was still pointing the gun but there was no determination in his attitude. There never had been, accepted the mutineer. It had been a challenge without substance.
He waved the man towards their captives.
‘Into the boat,’ he said, embracing Alexander Smith in the order. ‘Get Mr Fryer and Mr Bligh into the boat.’
They moved at last from the mizzen, shuffling forward in a ragged half-circle.
Churchill had a bottle of rum open in his hand, Christian saw as they approached the ladder, and he was almost as drunk as Quintal. The master-at-arms was barring the final descent into the launch of Jonathan Smith, loaded with Bligh’s chart cases, logs and personal papers. The captain’s servant was a determined man, thought Christian, remembering his earlier attempt to take them aboard.
‘No,’ refused Christian, as they came up to the scene. The only way to avoid trouble with Churchill and Quintal now was to agree with whatever they said, he decided. ‘You can only have the charts and the log tables that are already inboard. You’ll have nothing more.’
‘Afraid I might use them to dangerous purpose?’ said Bligh, from his left. ‘I’m a good enough navigator to survive, you know.’
‘Let’s kill the dog and be done with it,’ belched Churchill, blinking to clear his rum-blurred vision.
‘All right,’ said Christian, moving away. ‘Go ahead and kill him.’
Let him, decided Christian, positively. Let the drunken fool put a ball into Bligh and end the whole business. He didn’t care any more. It didn’t matter whether Bligh lived or died or he lived or died or anyone lived or died. He swayed, like the drunks clustered around him. So weak, he thought. He felt so weak and tired.
‘No killing.’
It was Edward Young who spoke, from behind, the edge of command still in his voice.
‘Out of the way, Mr Churchill,’ the midshipman continued, thrusting his way into the group. ‘Give them pathway to the launch.’
He seized the barrel of Churchill’s musket and pushed it across the man’s chest, forcing him back from the ladder opening. Churchill stumbled away, clutching his bottle and giggling.
Young shoved roughly at Jonathan Smith’s shoulder, hurrying him towards the ladder.
‘What about the captain’s things?’ tried the man, once more.
‘They stay,’ said Young, crisply. ‘You next, Mr Fryer.’
The master paused at the deck edge, staring down into the wallowing launch.
‘My God, she’s low in the water,’ he said, almost to himself.
‘And will be lower,’ said Young, still brisk. ‘Come now, Mr Fryer, don’t delay.’
‘Let me stay,’ pleaded Fryer, turning to Christian.
At last his courage has gone, thought Christian. He never thought it would get this far and now it has he’s scared.
‘No, Mr Fryer,’ refused Christian. He jerked his head back towards the rear mast. ‘You threw in your lot with the captain back there and did your damnedest to get me put down. You made your choice. Now you can stay with it.’
‘Scum,’ cried Fryer, in desperate defiance.
‘Get aboard, sir,’ said Christian, dismissively.
The man scrambled away and Bligh came forward, still unafraid.
‘I never thought you’d actually do it, Mr Christian,’ he said.
‘Not the first time you’ve been wrong about me,’ replied Christian, heavily.
‘I meant what I said, back there in the cabin,’ threatened Bligh. ‘I’ll damn your name and you with it in every part of the civilised world.’
In the cabin, it had seemed a serious threat, remembered Christian. Now it didn’t matter at all. Nothing mattered any more. He was sickened by the whole affair.
He turned to Alexander Smith.
‘In my locker,’ he said. ‘My sextant. Get it for me.’
He turned back to Bligh.
‘I’m already damned, sir,’ he said. ‘There’s little worse you can do.’
‘Weapons,’ demanded Purcell, from the launch. ‘You must give us weapons. We can’t go ashore on these unknown islands without muskets.’
The request was met with derision by Quintal and Churchill.
‘A shooting match, is that the game?’ mocked Quintal, waving the musket. ‘Ship to ship, man to man?’
There was a real risk of one of the mutineers letting off a musket very soon, thought Christian. And no one aboard any longer to treat a wound, he added, looking down at the two physicians in the boat.
Alexander Smith hurried up, the instrument in his hand.
Christian held it as if testing its balance, then moved around Bligh, bringing the bayonet up to sever the rope. The man’s hands were whitened almost bloodless and where the cord had been were purple grooves. Bligh must have been in agony for hours, realised Christian. Yet he’d refused to give them the satisfaction of showing it.
He thrust the instrument towards Bligh.
‘It’s a good sextant,’ he said. ‘You know that, well enough.’
Bligh frowned, confused at the gesture. Quintal and Churchill were watching, a few yards away.
‘No tow,’ insisted Birkitt, reminded of the half promise that had driven him enraged from the mizzen and afraid Christian would offer more concessions. ‘We can’t allow a tow.’
‘Try it and we’ll use their boat for target practice,’ reinforced Churchill.
They probably would, thought Christian.
‘All right,’ he accepted. ‘No tow.’
And there would be no discipline against those who had ignored his commands, he knew.
Bligh’s hands were too numb for him to hold the sextant. Instead he clutched it against his body. Still he lingered at the top of the ladder. The anger began to pump at the vein in his forehead and Christian knew there was to be a burst of temper.
‘There’ll not be a day when I don’t think of you,’ said Bligh. He tried to control the rising emotion and his voice jumped, unevenly, so that the watching men giggled, misinterpreting the tone as fear.
Only Christian didn’t smile. There was nothing about Bligh he found amusing, he thought.
‘I’ll think of you, Mr Christian,’ continued Bligh, sneering. ‘I’ll know the torment you’ve created for yourself. And I’ll laugh at it.’
‘Be gone, sir,’ said Christian, contemptuously. He waved his hands before him, like a man trying to drive away a summer insect. ‘Get into the boat before it’s too late.’
‘Too late for whom? You? Or me?’
Christian turned away, tired of the protracted scene. He’d Stood on deck for almost four hours, he thought. The sun pressed down on him, burning through his shirt. His own odour, sour and stale, offended him.
Behind him he heard Quintal and Churchill driving the unsteady Bligh down the steps.
Morrison ran along the deck, cutlasses across his forearm. He slowed when he saw Christian.
‘Only swords,’ he apologised. ‘They’ll be no danger in the boat with swords. It’ll be some protection, on the islands.’
‘Aye,’ nodded Christian, ready now to permit almost anything. ‘Let them have swords.’
The drunken group of mutineers didn’t see the weapons until they landed in the boat. Churchill turned angrily upon Morrison, standing at the rail from which he had thrown them. The master-at-arms lashed out with his hand to hit the mate. He missed, wildly, almost throwing himself off balance.
‘Fight,’ slurred Quintal, fumbling with the musket. ‘They’re going to fight.’
‘Stop it,’ said Christian, his voice strained. ‘For God’s sake, stop it.’
He looked to Alexander Smith. He wasn’t as intoxicated as the others, he decided.
‘Cast them adrift,’ he ordered. ‘Get that launch away from the Bounty.’
He had not intended to look at Bligh again. But it was impossible to remain staring inboard until the boat was out of sight, Christian accepted.
Bligh drew him like fire attracting a child who knew it would be burned if it reached out towards the flames but tried to grasp them anyway. The man was in the stern, already in command, the sextant and the compass on the seat beside him. He would try hard to survive, thought Christian. Very hard.
The castaways had heard Quintal’s threat, he guessed, gazing down from the poop. Bligh had his men at the oars, putting distance between them and the Bounty. Purcell was rummaging in the bottom of the vessel, trying to raise a mast to tack against any wind, and Bligh’s curses at the man’s slowness echoed back to the ship.
When they were twenty yards away and out of immediate danger from the muskets, Bligh let his men rest their oars.
‘Not a day,’ he called, his bruised hands cupped to his mouth so that Christian would hear him. ‘Not a day without torment. Remember that, Mr Christian.’
‘Oh God,’ said Christian, quietly. ‘Oh dear God, what have I done?’
‘… one of the hardest cases which can befall any man is to be reduced to the necessity of defending his character by his own assertions only …’
Captain William Bligh, 1792, in
a written rebuttal to Edward
Christian’s attack upon him
Although September and unseasonably cold, even for autumn, the main cabin of the Duke would become hot by the middle of the afternoon, decided the court martial President, Lord Hood.
And the enquiry would doubtless last more than a week. Confounded nuisance. Damned stupid to stick to tradition and have them aboard a warship at all, determined the sharp-faced, autocratic admiral. Much better facilities ashore, in Portsmouth barracks. Safer, too. Not that the men arraigned before them looked much danger. Hardly surprising really. After the ordeal they’d been through it was a miracle any had survived at all. Just ten out of the fourteen who had been seized in Tahiti by the search ship Pandora in March 1791. More would have survived the Pandora shipwreck, thought Hood, if they hadn’t been incarcerated in cages on deck and left in chains until minutes before the vessel had been abandoned. The Pandora’s commander, Captain Edward Edwards, had been exonerated for losing his ship and those who had died. Too sweeping a verdict, decided Hood. Wouldn’t have happened here, not in his court. Still, they had been suspected criminals. Couldn’t have expected better.
He glared around the room, glad the open ports in the fantail behind would bring him air. The others further into the cabin, particularly on the witness bench, would suffer. Too bad.
Unfortunate business, the Bounty, determined the President, shifting his sword to make himself comfortable. Admiralty had handled it quite wrongly, in his view. Important not to be tainted by their mistakes, though. Have to examine the whole thing properly; get right to the root of the matter. Discipline was the thing to remember. Discipline and the King’s Regulations. Couldn’t have damned ruffians seizing ships; example had to be made, to see it didn’t happen again. Pity they’d suffered so much already. And that Bligh wasn’t to give evidence personally. Another mistake. The Admiralty would regret not waiting, decided Hood. It would not have amounted to more than a few weeks. According to reports they were getting from the fast packets, Bligh was already homeward bound. Only eighteen months since their arrest, after all. Few more weeks wouldn’t have mattered. It would have enabled justice better to be done. That was the important thing. Still, not his decision. Have to accept orders, that’s all.
Lord Hood looked at the men sitting before him, wondering who would be the spy for the Christian family. There would definitely be one, he knew. Ever since the mutiny and Bligh’s well-publicised account of what had happened, the relatives of Fletcher Christian had worked unceasingly to sway public opinion. Hadn’t done very well so far, despite the advantage that the man’s brother, Edward Christian, was one of the best lawyers in the country: rumour had it he was to become a judge very shortly. Another story said he was here, in Portsmouth, for the enquiry.
The President concentrated upon those defending the accused men. That was where the informant would be, he guessed. Among the lawyers. Their sort always stuck together. Wouldn’t allow any legal trickery, decided the admiral. Not that there was anything to worry about. He was going to conduct a very thorough and completely fair investigation, keeping strictly to naval law but bringing out all the facts. There would be nothing permitted which could give rise to criticism of a court of which Lord Hood was President. He coughed, indicating his readiness to start, and dutifully the blur of conversation subsided.
‘Prisoners will stand,’ ordered the clerk.
Lord Hood lounged back, studying the men as they rose, already aware of the identities of the accused from the Circumstantial Letter which set out the evidence to be produced and which had, by the same tradition that decreed the enquiry be held aboard ship, been circulated to the officers conducting the court martial. Some of the prisoners would have to be discharged, Hood knew. In a deposition before the court, Bligh had exonerated completely the blind fiddler, Michael Byrn, who was groping to his feet, head held respectfully to one side to locate from the sound which way he should face. Charles Norman had been kept on the Bounty because Christian had wanted the skills of a carpenter, not because the man had thrown in his lot with them, Hood remembered. And Thomas McIntosh had been carried away against his will. Bligh had been emphatic about that, as insistent as he had been that the armourer, Joseph Coleman, had taken no part in the affair. Evidence would have to be called, before their discharge, though. Justice very positively had to be seen to be done at the enquiry. He had always to keep in mind what would happen after the court martial, Hood knew. The affair had already dragged on for three years and become a cause célèbre in English society. It wouldn’t end, he guessed, with whatever was to happen in an overcrowded enquiry room on a British man-o’-war.
He moved on, studying the rest of the prisoners awaiting the charge to be read to them. Why was it, wondered the admiral, lips twisting in disdain, that they’d all seen fit to have those disgusting pictures indelibly marked upon their bodies? Tattooing, it was called, he believed. Captain Cook had referred to the native practice, in the journal of his Pacific voyages. And Bligh, too, in the narrative of the disastrous journey on the Bounty. Shouldn’t have let the men deface their bodies like that, determined the admiral. It was pagan. How could a man expect to maintain discipline in his ship if he let his crew descend to the level of unchristian savages? Point to bear in mind, decided Hood. He wondered if the thought had occurred to the rest of the court martial officers. Must remember to mention it during their deliberations.
The midshipman, Peter Heywood, appeared very frightened, thought Hood. To be expected, accepted the admiral. He was only a lad of seventeen, after all. Came from a good family, too. Well connected. Little secret that for months now there had been every pressure possible brought to bear to show the boy an innocent victim of events that had swept him along in their wake.
The bo’sun’s mate, James Morrison, seemed better controlled. But then he was a grown man. And intelligent, too. The document he’d submitted, indicating he was going to conduct his own defence, showed an education far higher than most seamen. Better than some officers even, mused the President, glancing along the table at which the court sat. Some could hardly write their damned names.
Thomas Birkitt and Thomas Ellison had been very actively involved in the insurrection, recalled Hood, coming back to the shackled men and feeling the edge of the Circumstantial Letter. They seemed to have accepted their fate already, he thought, watching as the men stood, heads contritely bowed, even before the evidence against them was presented.
Jonathan Millward was apprehensive, too, realised the President, coming towards the end of the line. Several times since the enquiry had opened, the man had turned to the last prisoner, William Muspratt, as if seeking encouragement, but the bearded Muspratt had ignored him, staring fixedly at some point at the stern of the ship, his lips moving in apparent repetition of the accusation being laid against them.
The clerk was coming to the end of the preliminaries, Hood realised, and arriving at the actual charge.
‘… against each and every one of you that upon April 28, 1789, you did mutinously run away with the said armed vessel, the Bounty, and by so doing deserted from His Majesty’s service …’
Where was Fletcher Christian? wondered Hood, as the court martial settled itself after the formal opening. The men before him now were meaningless, he decided, as unimportant as the pilot fish who unquestioningly follow the lead of a shark. Fletcher Christian was the key. And he had vanished.
But Bligh’s absence was the most irritating. It was not for him to question the wisdom of the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty. Or of the King himself, upon whose direct instructions the Pandora had been dispatched. But to rely upon Bligh’s evidence from a deposition that could be introduced into the court but upon which there could be no cross-examination was a mistake, Hood felt. Particularly with the man so near England. He had little doubt the Christian family would use it to their advantage: their determination to harass Bligh appeared implacable. It was almost as if they were preparing the way for the mutineer’s eventual reappearance. Surely they didn’t think they could so discredit Bligh that Fletcher Christian could some time in the future return to England? No, dismissed Hood. Whatever their purpose, it could not be that. There could be no mitigating circumstances to prevent the man’s immediate arrest and subsequent hanging. Edward Christian would know that, well enough. It could only be the determination of a proud family to salvage something of their reputation.
It was just possible, the President tried to rationalise, that there would be advantage in not having the major participants before the court. The witnesses might possibly speak more openly, without the restricting presence of either man. And frankness was damned important: from the brief details set out in the summary of evidence, Lord Hood couldn’t understand why the mutiny had occurred in the first place.
He coughed again, clearing his throat this time.
‘This is to be, in many ways, an unusual enquiry,’ he opened. ‘We are to hear evidence into an armed uprising, three years ago and thousands of miles from these shores, led by the second-in-command against his superior officer. It will be unusual in that neither the alleged leader of the mutiny, Fletcher Christian, nor the captain, William Bligh, will appear to give evidence. Fletcher Christian cannot appear because no one knows where he is …’
The President paused, deciding to break away from his carefully rehearsed statement.
‘… but let me say every endeavour will be made at this hearing to discover his whereabouts.’
He stared up, looking at the lawyers again. Let that get back to the Christian family, he thought, defiantly.
‘Captain Bligh will not give evidence personally,’ picked up Lord Hood. ‘Because he had already embarked upon the second voyage to Tahiti and from there to the West Indies before the apprehension of the accused and it was not thought proper by the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty to delay this trial until Captain Bligh’s uncertain return …’
They should have delayed, determined Hood again. It could not be a proper trial without him. The Admiralty was a bumbling collection of fools.
‘… such a decision was reached,’ he hurried on, alert to the bustle of note-taking that was occurring at the lawyers’ bench ‘… in the sound belief that the full and detailed facts of the uprising have been carefully taken down and notarised by a lawyer, to be presented at such time as I and my fellow officers deem necessary.’
Hood sipped from the glass of diluted wine on the table before him. He had been right, he decided. Already the overcrowded room was getting too hot. Thank God he wasn’t among those poor buggers way at the back of the cabin. He looked towards the witnesses, wedged on their narrow bench.
‘… for not only do we have the written evidence of Captain Bligh,’ enlarged Lord Hood. ‘We have, for this enquiry, the castaways most closely involved in the insurrection whose evidence we can hear first-hand. We shall hear from the master, James Fryer. From the bo’sun, William Cole. From the gunner, William Peckover. From the carpenter, William Purcell. And from the two midshipmen who were in the watch of Fletcher Christian and who were among the first to be aware of the uprising, Lieutenants Thomas Hayward and John Hallett.’
Another glance up at the lawyers. There! thought Hood, triumphantly. They might be without Bligh, but no fault could be found with a witnesses’ list like that.
‘… and about the facts of the mutiny itself,’ he continued. ‘There appears little doubt …’
He paused, looking first to the prisoners, then to the lawyers, waiting for a contradiction. No one challenged him.
‘… therefore the purpose of this enquiry, which I intend to be as far-reaching as possible, is to determine the circumstances that led up to those facts and the reasons for them …’
Someone appeared to be smiling at the back, thought Hood, curiously. It was Fryer, he recognised, squinting in the semidarkness of the cabin. What, he wondered, did the master find so amusing about what he said?
At the insistence of Bligh, Fryer and Purcell had been accused of near revolt before a Dutch enquiry at Timor after their incredible survival in the open launch, recalled Lord Hood. And both had been found culpable during the investigation. The evidence of Fryer would have to be examined with particular care, thought the President. And perhaps some pointed questions directed at the man. Odd, reflected Lord Hood, that there had been a second uprising, particularly in the middle of a 3,600-mile voyage which no one knew they were going to complete so miraculously and when, presumably, men should have been bound by the common need for survival rather than splintered by dissent. It really was damned inconvenient that Bligh wasn’t going to be before him in person: inconsistencies like this were going to arise frequently before the end of the enquiry. Bligh must be a damned funny man.
‘… because neither Fletcher Christian nor Captain Bligh are present, I intend conducting this court martial with complete impartiality and purposely to introduce evidence that would have come from one or other of them, had they been here. For that reason, although the facts are not in dispute, I am going to have the clerk read out the details in the Circumstantial Letter, according to naval regulations. That will conclude the hearing for today. We will begin tomorrow with the evidence of the master, James Fryer …’
That had made the bugger jump, thought Lord Hood, relaxing back into his chair but with his eyes still upon the master at the rear of the cabin. The man had started forward in his seat at the announcement and the smile had gone from his face. That would teach him to grin in a court of which Lord Hood was the presiding judge. What was going on in the Duke was damned serious, not an occasion for stupid giggling. There were a lot of questions he would put to Mr Fryer when the man took the witness stand.
God, thought Hood, it was confounded hot. It had been a wise decision to rise at noon.
Edward Christian sat, knees beneath his chin, in the window seat of his lodgings at Sally Port, the pot of porter forgotten on the table beside him. There was no breeze at all to move the curtains and the clouds were rumbling up over the Isle of Wight and gathering at Spithead. The day would end in thunder, he decided. It would be uncomfortable out there on the Duke, he thought, looking over the Narrows as the warship slowly veered to starboard as the tide turned. But he’d still have given a thousand guineas to be there, in person, so he could have actually questioned in the environment of a court men who had been with Fletcher and knew what he had had to endure from Bligh. He’d have got the truth, the lawyer knew. He always had, which was why he had risen so high in the legal profession. It hadn’t been easy, though, after the slander that Bligh had spread to involve the whole family. It had hindered his career, Edward knew. At one time, aware of the opposition he was facing, he had actually considered abandoning the law altogether.
He smiled at the recollection. Now he was being selected for appointment as a judge. He’d have forgone even that, he thought, to have been out there, aboard that warship, stripping away the deceits and excuses with which everyone involved would by now have covered their part in the mutiny. In that they’d had guidance enough from Bligh.
Edward Christian sighed, turning towards his forgotten drink and sipping the beer, without interest.
But he couldn’t attend. So therefore it was pointless to speculate about it. Far better to concentrate upon the daily reports from John Bunyan, the eager young lawyer who was defending the midshipman Heywood and who appeared flattered at the interest from the older man. Through Bunyan, Edward hoped, he would be able to introduce the sort of questions and accusations he would have made had he been there in person.
Edward Christian was a man very different from his seafaring brother. He was a short, precise and scholarly person, of abrupt incisive movements, hair receding to form a wide forehead above which he habitually lodged his spectacles. In a family remarkable for their sense of purpose, Edward Christian was probably the most determined. And for the past three years that resoluteness had been directed solely to the defence of a younger brother damned to ridicule by a man who had become a favourite of London society and even honoured by King George himself.
It had been a solitary and largely unsuccessful campaign, he acknowledged, staring back out of the window as the first full splashes of the thunderstorm slapped against the sill outside. Bunyan would get wet, he thought.
It had been in October 1789, two months after he had written it from the Dutch settlement at Timor, that Bligh’s dispatch of the mutiny of the Bounty had first become public knowledge and the hero-worship had begun. That a man, with just a sextant, compass and book of longitudinal tables, could have safely navigated a vessel with just seven inches of freeboard for a distance of over 5,600 miles and saved the lives of seventeen other castaways had been a tale to enrapture London society. The adulation had increased with the official enquiry, during which the name of Fletcher Christian had been vilified, and then been confirmed with the publication of Bligh’s book. It was said there was hardly a house in London without a copy and that the strutting, bouncing figure of Captain Bligh was a familiar sight, moving from salon to salon, autographing copies as he went, always with another untold anecdote of Christian’s villainy.
He’d reverse it, Edward vowed. No matter if it took him the rest of his life, he’d destroy the esteem in which Bligh was held. And discover what had really happened to make his brother lead a mutiny.
And there was little legal doubt that his brother had been the ringleader, he reflected, sadly. Edward had reached that objective conclusion, regrettable though it was, long before learning the outline of the evidence that was to be presented to the court martial and about which he had read in the Circumstantial Letter that Bunyan had allowed him to study the previous night.
But there had to be mitigating circumstances, he knew. More than that, even. A proper, understandable explanation. Just had to be. As boys they had been inseparable in the Cumberland dales and valleys near Cockermouth. At Cockermouth grammar school it had been unthinkable they would not sit side by side and when Fletcher had determined upon a career in the navy, it had been Edward who had accompanied him to join his first ship at Liverpool No man knew another better than he knew Fletcher. And that was why Edward had no doubt that there was something which would explain completely why Fletcher had involved himself in the overthrow of his captain. And he’d discover it, vowed the lawyer. He’d discover it and use it to make William Bligh a pariah in the very society in which he was at the moment so revered.
He turned at the knock on his door and saw, immediately it was opened by the inn servant, the polished, anxious face of Bunyan.
‘Come in, sir! Come in,’ invited Edward. The other man was soaked, he saw, water running from his hair in tiny streams.
‘A towel, Mr Bunyan? And some refreshment? A little wine, perhaps?’
The younger lawyer nodded, head buried in the cloth that Edward had offered him.
‘Well?’ demanded Edward, urgently, when Bunyan had dried himself.
‘Little enough to tell,’ replied Bunyan, wishing he had a better report for the man recognised to be one of the leading barristers in London. ‘It was a formal opening, nothing more.’
‘No evidence?’
Bunyan shook his head.
‘None,’ he said. ‘Lord Hood has said he’ll call Fryer when the court resumes tomorrow.’
Edward nodded, slowly. Fryer would know more than anyone, he decided. He would have been the man most associated with both Bligh and his brother. In the restricted conditions of the Bounty, a plan of which he had studied and knew by heart, the ship’s master would have been aware of everything that passed between the two men.
‘He’s important,’ stressed Edward. ‘Get all you can from him, particularly about what sort of man Bligh was. Don’t forget there was an enquiry, immediately after they arrived in Timor, upon Bligh’s complaint. There’ll be no love for the man, I’ll wager.’
Bunyan nodded, accepting the wine from the returning servant.
‘How far do you think you’ll be allowed to go with your questioning?’
‘A goodly way,’ guessed Bunyan. ‘The President insisted he would make it as extensive an enquiry as possible … said he wanted to be fair to your brother and Bligh …’
That was interesting, decided Edward. Why should the President make such a point? Did it mean the Admiralty weren’t happy with the account they had so far received from Bligh? God, it was infuriating that he couldn’t attend the damned hearing.
‘What about your client?’ he asked, politely.
‘I’ve a good chance, I think,’ said Bunyan, smiling gratefully at the interest. ‘He was little more than fifteen when it happened … a child, almost. There appears to be some evidence of his having seized a weapon, but to what point nobody is clear.’
Edward nodded.
‘Make much of the confusion,’ he advised. ‘The Circumstantial Letter indicates there was uproar.’
‘Bligh’s deposition says otherwise,’ contradicted Bunyan. ‘He insists it was a planned affair.’
‘Then it must be attacked,’ said Edward, urgently. ‘For the sake of your client. And for my brother. A conspiracy would be the worst thing that could be proven.’
Bunyan moved his head in acceptance of the advice, sipping his wine, slowly.
‘What about Hood?’ demanded Edward.
Bunyan considered the question.
‘An authoritarian, from all I’ve learned. Strict believer in discipline. But a fair man.’
‘He’ll allow some latitude in the questioning, then?’
‘I trust so,’ said Bunyan, fervently. ‘I got that impression from his opening today.’
‘Handle it gently,’ counselled Edward. ‘These court martial panels are laymen, who resent trained lawyers. At the first hint of being patronised, they’ll be against you.’
‘I know,’ said Bunyan. ‘I’ll be very careful.’
I hope so, thought Edward. Bunyan was his only contact with the court and if the man antagonised Hood and the other officers, then the chance to intrude into the hearing would be lost.
‘I’ve had a long conversation with the man Morrison, as well as my own client,’ offered Bunyan. ‘Morrison is a clever man, defending himself. Neither he nor Heywood believe your brother has perished.’
Edward started up at the statement.
‘Where then? Where the hell is he?’
Bunyan gestured, helplessly.
‘They’ve no clue. The Pandora spent another three months going from island to island after the Tahiti capture … and found nothing. But they did discover charred spars, bearing the Bounty’s name, indicating a fire at sea.’
Edward waved the variance away, impatiently, wanting to believe Fletcher was still alive.
‘If only he could be found,’ said Edward, distantly. ‘If only Fletcher could be produced, to refute before a court of law all that has been said against him.’
‘He’d do so as a defendant,’ reminded Bunyan.
‘I know he would,’ agreed Edward. ‘But I’d be defending him. And by God, sir, I’d get to the truth of this affair.’
The older man was unsure of his ability to cross-examine the witnesses, realised Bunyan, unhappily.
‘I’ll do my best,’ said Bunyan, allowing the edge of annoyance into his voice.
‘I know you will, sir … know you will,’ assured Edward, effusively. ‘I was just dreaming. If only Fletcher knew what was being done for him …’