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  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.