‘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 j
ustice 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 g
o.’
‘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?’
Hell's Fire Page 6
