He was very close, Christian knew. He’d been searching for three days, setting out immediately after digging a grave in the garden of the house in which they’d known such happiness and stumbling, eyes fogged with tears, through a burial service.
Twice he’d actually seen Quintal, once in the south-west of the island, where the banyan roots were thickest and where obviously the man imagined he had the best chance of hiding, and again, after flushing him from there, to the north-west, scrambling in the foothills of the highest cliffs. So it wouldn’t be long. The man was virtually trapped, herded towards the mountain. With every yard he climbed, his escape route narrowed.
It would have been easier had he accepted the offer of the other mutineers, he knew. Even Mickoy had volunteered help, but he’d spat at them, like the native whose woman they had taken. It was too late for them to salve their consciences now. Too late for anything, any more.
His unhealed leg throbbed and was swelling again, he knew. His clothes, stiff with yesterday’s sweat, were glued to him by that of today and the insects, undisturbed, drank at his face and throat. Something larger than a fly had bitten him high on his left cheek and the inflammation was pushing his eye closed.
Christian stopped, hunched against a palm, gazing upwards. The volcanic rock climbed away, chipped by ravines and gulleys. A hundred hiding places, he thought. Or points of ambush.
He would have to be very careful, Christian decided. Quintal had run because it was the instinctive, panic-driven thing to do. But that hysteria would be subsiding now. He’d be thinking again, calculating. He’d know Isabella’s murder would swing the mutineers behind Christian. There could be no other immediate reaction. But Quintal was cunning. He’d rationalise against that the contempt in which Christian was held. If it were he and not Christian who emerged from the jungle, then he’d know eventually that they would accept it. They’d despise him, at first, of course. But they’d come around, in time. Mickoy would be the first. Then Isaac Martin. Then John Mills. It would be inevitable that they would accept Quintal back, Christian realised, far more inevitable than that the sympathy with which they now regarded him would remain, after the initial shock had passed. He’d been right to reject them, Christian decided. Scum, all of them.
He felt his muscles setting and pushed away, grunting as the ground began to rise into the cliff. His cave was on the other side, he realised, suddenly, the viewpoint from which he’d looked down and first seen Quintal insult Isabella. She’d been very brave then, he remembered. And remained so, he thought, recalling the bruised, twisted hands. Quintal would have suffered already for the rape, he knew. But not as much as he was going to suffer. Christian carried a musket and shot. And a bayonet, too. But that wasn’t how Quintal was going to die. It had to be slow, painfully slow. He wanted Quintal to scream and beg for forgiveness, and then hurt him even more, just as he had denied her any pity.
Which was why he had to be so careful. He’d lost Isabella and so he’d lost everything, the very reason for bothering any more about life. But he wasn’t going to lose the final chance of revenge.
He had an advantage, he realised, despite his still bruised leg. Ever since they had arrived on Pitcairn he had climbed these cliffs and rocks, learning how to recognise footholds and vantage points and separate the safe ledges from those that crumbled under the slightest pressure. He’d kept fit and agile by climbing and felt more at home on the rockface than he did down below, in the sweating jungle.
But Quintal wouldn’t. He’d done virtually nothing, except drink himself into obesity: even his garden and land had been tilled by either Sarah or by one of the bullied natives. So he’d already be greatly weakened, his muscles stretched and quivering by the unrelenting hunt.
Christian hoped he was in agony up there somewhere, crouched in a hollow or a cave, breath clogged in his throat, shoulders heaving like the animal he was, run to ground.
He was making too much noise, he realised, suddenly. Rocks were skittering away underfoot, clattering down the cliffside and he had the musket looped in front of him, so that it scraped against the stone as he climbed. Christian slid the gun around behind him and began placing his feet with more care. He knew how to use the mountains, crabbing across in a series of traverses, so that he always approached a ravine or wide break in the rock from the side, never raising his head suddenly over the lip, where he would have presented a perfect target. And he was careful to find cover, moving nearly always under an overhang of rock or the shadow of a ledge, so that it would have been difficult to shoot at him from above.
The sun had baked the rocks, making them hot to touch. Twice a drowsing lizard scuttled away, jerkily, frightening him.
It was just after midday when he found Quintal.
It was an odd spot, where the rock had been hollowed out, the indentation like that of a hand being scooped into a flour tub. At the far end, the rocks had splintered and Quintal was pressed into the break, quite well concealed. He was crouched, knees held tightly under his chin and asleep with exhaustion, his head tilted back and his mouth half-open, like a man drinking beneath a water tap. He’d lost a shoe, Christian saw, and his foot was pulped and swollen into a bloody mass. His shirt was ripped, too. But that hadn’t happened in the pursuit, guessed the mutineer. Isabella had done that, raking him with her nails. The man’s face was scored, grooves furrowed down each cheek. Blood was congealed along the wounds, so that Quintal looked as if he were wearing war-paint. He’d obviously positioned the musket carefully, but he had dislodged it while he slept and it lay now almost out of reach, by his injured foot.
So easy, thought Christian, sighting along the barrel of his musket. His groin. That would be fitting. Or his stomach where it would take a long time to die. But not long enough. His kneecap then. Cripple him, so that he couldn’t run, then use him as a target, immobilising every limb before aiming at the body and even then taking care not to hit, not immediately anyway, any vital organ.
But he’d have to remain some distance away if he did that. And he wanted to be very close, to see the terror in the man’s eyes. And hear him beg. It was important, to have him beg.
Soundlessly, without any hurry, Christian skirted where Quintal lay, examining the route he would take when he fled. The crack in which he slept funnelled out, climbing gradually to a shelf of rock wide enough for several people to stand side by side. Like a rat up a drainpipe, thought Christian. The shelf projected on, almost forming a canopy over where he stood. He retraced his steps and stood at the spot where he had originally sighted Quintal, gazing directly up. Perfect. The cliff flattened here, so that it would be very easy to climb straight upwards, to the shelf. And when Quintal emerged, at the other end, he’d be waiting for him, musket primed again.
His first intention was to aim wide, merely to awaken Isabella’s murderer. But once he had raised the gun, he knew that wouldn’t be enough. The desire to hurt overwhelmed him, shaking through his body and oiling his face with sweat. The man’s bleeding foot was alongside a rock, he saw, smiling as the intention settled in his mind. He steadied the musket carefully, wedging it along a wide piece of rock, and aimed at the boulder twenty feet away. Because of its trajectory, the ball would ricochet, flattened and razor-sharp, towards the man’s outstretched leg, carrying stone splinters with it.
It was a perfect shot, the ball striking just where he had intended and whining off to the left. Quintal’s screams were inhuman, animal-like, as the pain jerked him awake. They would have heard, down in the village, realised Christian, already moving. They’d be huddled there, staring upwards and trying to determine what was happening. And how many would want him to win? he asked himself, clawing up to the ledge. None, he accepted.
He rammed the ball down the musket barrel, then primed the pin and crouched against the mountain, waiting. Quintal made a lot of noise scrambling up, his good leg pumping to push him through the funnel, sounds whimpering from him. He came straight out of the opening, not thinking that Christian could have got there before him. Christian had already positioned himself, musket trained upon the spot. A great sigh went through Quintal, at the belief he had reached not only safety but an excellent ambush position for the man he imagined would be pursuing along the same fissure he had just climbed.
Christian’s shot was not as accurate this time. He aimed for the man’s arm, the one supporting the gun, but missed. Instead the ball struck the rockface, spitting shards and dust up into the murderer’s face. Again Quintal screamed, more desperately this time, confused by the attack. He lurched backwards, clawing at his face. The musket tipped from his hand, poised momentarily on its barrel against the ledge, then toppled away, bounding and leaping down the mountainside.
They could have seen that, down in the village, if they’d been looking carefully, he thought. Christian took care reloading, working unhurriedly. Quintal had no weapon now. And he had to be given time to clear his eyes, so he could see what was going to happen to him. Christian stopped, staring along the ledge. He hoped to God the man only had dust in his eyes and hadn’t been permanently blinded. Quintal was shaking his head, as if he had been punched, but was slowly staring around, eyes squinted. Christian smiled, carefully tipping the powder from the horn.
‘I’m going to kill you,’ he shouted, along the ledge. The fear grunted out of the other man and he began groping backwards, shunting himself along on his behind and then twisting over, so he could crawl away.
‘Just like you killed her,’ added Christian. ‘Very slowly.’
He spoke quite calmly, conversationally almost.
The ledge curved about twenty yards ahead, and the scurrying man was disappearing behind a rock outcrop. Christian walked forward, gun held easily in his hand. He was going to kill a man. And he felt very relaxed, he thought. Very relaxed indeed. He was looking forward to it, almost.
Quintal’s attack was completely unexpected. He’d made the analogy of a rat, running up the tunnel. And he should have maintained the thought, knowing that a hopelessly cornered rat will eventually turn and fight. Christian had expected that Quintal would still be groping along the ledge, yards ahead, but instead he had stopped immediately around the bend in the shelf and pulled himself upwards. When Christian rounded the corner, Quintal was directly over him, the sort of boulder with which the Tahitians fought clutched in his hand.
Had Quintal not been wounded he would probably have succeeded in killing Christian. But he had only one foot upon which to support himself and as he moved, to leap upon his pursuer, he slipped, cascading stones ahead of him. Instead of hurtling down unexpectedly, he came down the cliffside on his back, but still with sufficient force to throw the other mutineer off balance.
Christian felt the musket knocked from his hand and skid over the edge. Quintal aimed the rock at his head, but off-balance he missed, crashing it down on Christian’s shoulder, numbing it. Christian lashed out, grimacing as his knuckles smashed into the man’s face and he kicked, too, remembering the other man’s foot. The ball must have sliced into Quintal because the kick collapsed him, spinning him along the rockface. He landed hunched, snarling up. Blood was pumping from the foot, Christian saw. His face was ribboned, where Isabella had tried to protect herself.
‘Frightened, Quintal?’ he goaded. ‘Frightened, like Isabella was?’
He lashed out again, kicking at the man’s head. Quintal covered himself for the first attempt, but Christian lunged again, immediately, and Quintal’s nose splintered under his toe.
The seaman fell back, unguarded, half supported against the cliff-face.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Please no.’
Blood clogged his throat, making it difficult to understand what he was saying.
This wasn’t right, thought Christian. He had wanted the man to fight, so he could have hit him, again and again. But he wasn’t fighting. He was just lying there, beaten.
‘Fight,’ demanded Christian.
Quintal said nothing, hands cupped over his face.
‘Fight, Quintal! Fight me!’
Quintal was looking at him, Christian saw, eyes alert, recognising the safety in inaction.
Christian snatched the bayonet from his belt and moved towards him. The man didn’t cringe away, Christian saw. He was wedged against the rock and he thought he would survive. He imagined Christian would pull back, as he had so often in the past.
‘… you’re not a brave man, are you … you shout a bit and look good, but you rarely finish anything off, do you …?’
The taunt paraded itself in his mind. Quintal’s words, he remembered: the defiance when he’d been confronted in the garden. Isabella had been there then. Brave. Unafraid. Unsullied.
He swept the blade forward, driving it into Quintal and the breath squeaked from the man, more in surprise than pain. Then Christian stabbed him again and then a third time, the anger pumping from him and Quintal screamed, again the dreadful, primeval sound.
The seaman slumped sideways and Christian stared down at the body. He should feel something, he thought. There should be the release of revenge, a pleasure almost. But there was nothing, not even disgust at what he had done.
What should he do now? he wondered. There was nothing, he thought. Nothing at all. The children, he supposed. But he didn’t want them. Sarah could care for them better than he could. And she would, he knew. The Tahitians loved children. Even before he’d begun pursuing Quintal, the woman had chosen the role as mother to them. The baby was too young to realise what had happened, anyway. And Thursday was only four: he’d forget, soon enough. They’d be better, with Sarah.
His cave was the spot, he decided. It was to the cave he had come, within days of establishing the Pitcairn community. So it seemed right that it should be from the cave that he should kill himself. It would be very easy, he knew. Not even any pain. Unconscious by the time he struck the water, hundreds of feet below.
The ledge narrowed, but it was still quite easy to walk until he was only a hundred yards away. He picked up his normal route and spread across the rockface, finally reaching the little platform from which he could see the hidden village and the open sea beyond.
They were huddled down there, he saw, grouped together as if there were safety in numbers, some staring up at the mountain and others towards the jungle path from which the victor would emerge.
And then he saw something else. Along the path at the foot of the cliff, completely concealed from the waiting mutineers, crept Talaloo, musket in hand and with a cutlass in his belt. All the Tahitian men were with them, realised Christian, staring down … Timoa and Mehow, both with rifles, too, and Menalee and Oho, clutching the stones with which they were so adept at fighting. Tataheite had a pistol, he picked out. And a cutlass, held ready in his right hand.
He looked back to the mutineers. Not one armed, he saw. He’d warned them and they’d laughed at him, like they’d always done.
He could alert them, he realised. If he went beyond the screen of trees, waving with his shirt, he could attract their attention. They wouldn’t understand what he was attempting to indicate, but the natives below wouldn’t realise that and almost certainly would abandon the assault.
Thursday would be safe, in any battle, he reflected. And the baby, too. It was only the white men who were being attacked … the white men who had discarded him. He squatted, unmoving, watching the hunched progress of the natives.
It would be very swift, he decided, with all the mutineers bunched together like that. And Talaloo was planning his revenge very cleverly, fanning the natives out so they attacked from two sides.
Suddenly Talaloo raised his hand, halting the assault, and Christian frowned, unable to see the reason. The natives appeared to be talking, arguing almost, and then Talaloo swept his hand out into the bay and Christian followed the gesture.
And saw the whaler that must have been tacking into anchor for some time, nearly all its sails reefed and the crew lining the decks, staring at the island.
Elizabeth Bligh sat hunched in her shawl, slightly apart from her husband, attempting to conceal her embarrassment.
‘Please, Mr Bligh, don’t,’ she pleaded.
‘The man’s a fool,’ insisted Bligh, speaking not to the woman but to the boatman whose ability to manoeuvre his craft he had criticised constantly since they had embarked at Westminster. ‘A complete fool.’
The boatman rowed on, stolidly, glowering at Bligh.
‘Ever thought of using the tide,’ goaded Bligh, leaning forward to the man. ‘We have been at Kew this hour past.’
Around them the river was crowded with boats and barges all heading towards the reception different from that which the King usually gave. Normally he held levees, for men only, or drawing-room gatherings at St James’s, to which women were invited as well. Today’s gathering was a political move, Bligh knew, the determination of the King and his court to prove they weren’t frightened of being overthrown by the mob, like the French aristocracy.
A few of the surrounding craft, identifying Bligh, had come closer, Elizabeth realised. Hardly any had given any sign of recognition, she thought, although she knew nearly all of them.
His Betsy looked very beautiful, decided Bligh. She wore the dress of pink silk he had bought in the West Indies and although it had cost more money than he had been prepared to pay, he had had a jeweller make into a necklace the pink and red coral he had brought back from Tahiti.
‘There won’t be another woman with jewellery like that,’ promised the man, looking away from the boatman. ‘Unique, absolutely unique’
‘You’re very kind, Mr Bligh,’ thanked the woman.
Her husband looked tired, she thought. But that was to be expected, working as he did by candle-light into the early hours of every morning, answering the smears being manufactured at Portsmouth. But it wasn’t just fatigue, she knew. It was costing a great deal of money to get the rebuttal printed; she suspected that the printer knew her husband’s desperation and had even increased the cost, assured the acceptance was guaranteed. Thank God her father was so understanding. Mr Bligh would be very hurt if he knew the help she was receiving. Elizabeth didn’t like keeping secrets from her husband, but felt it necessary in this instance.
They had to wait fifteen minutes for room to land and Bligh’s exasperation with the boatman spilled over when the man missed two opportunities and was beaten to a mooring by other craft.
‘Buffoon,’ he shouted, ignoring the amused attention from the other boats milling about. ‘Stupid fool.’
‘Another mutiny, by God!’
Bligh snatched around, trying to identify the speaker. A lot of people were staring at him, he realised. And many were laughing at the anonymous remark. Why had Betsy wrapped the shawl so tightly around her? he wondered. It was really quite a warm day.
The boat moved away from the jetty the moment Bligh was stepping out, so that he stumbled forward and had to snatch out to a bollard for support to prevent himself falling completely. There was fresh laughter all around.
‘Purposely,’ accused Bligh, crouching on the quay so that he was almost level with the boatman. ‘You let away purposely.’
The man stared back, saying nothing. Only his eyes moved, going to the people around, enjoying being the cause of their amusement.
‘There’s no point in arguing, Mr Bligh. Please,’ said Elizabeth, still in the boat.
‘Not a penny,’ said Bligh, determinedly. William Bligh wouldn’t be ridiculed by an illiterate man who couldn’t control a dory in an inland waterway. ‘For your insolence, you’ll not get a penny for this trip.’
The man had taken the boat about a foot from the mooring. He shifted very slightly and Bligh followed the movement. The man had cupped the oar, he saw, in the separating water across which Betsy had to step. In the new, pale pink dress that she had never worn before. There was mud on the oar-blade.
‘Hurry up,’ shouted someone.
‘Make room,’ demanded another, enjoying being part of the theatre.
‘We fixed a price,’ reminded the boatman. He pressed very slightly on the threatening oar. If he completed the movement, Bligh realised, his wife would be soaked. And covered in filth.
‘Hurry up, I say.’
Quickly, his face rigid with anger, Bligh threw the coins into the bottom of the boat, reaching out for Betsy’s hand. The boatman carefully brought the boat in and steadied it as she disembarked.
‘Four,’ ordered Bligh. ‘Be back here on the stroke of four.’
The boatman pushed away and when there was a boat’s length between them shouted, over-loudly: ‘Get yourself back, like you did from the Bounty.’
Bligh was shaking with fury, his mouth pumping for words. Elizabeth plucked at his arm, trying to pull him along the jetty.
‘Please, Mr Bligh. Please,’ she begged. ‘They’re all laughing at us.’
Bligh stumped angrily towards the park, holding his wife’s hand in the crook of his arm. He was tense with rage, she could feel, the muscles strained beneath the cloth of his coat.
The palace grounds were crowded. Brightly coloured pavilions, like medieval jousting tents, had been erected in several places and two bands played at separate ends of the walkway. Two stages had been erected for theatrical entertainments and between the tents the servants moved in constant procession, burdened with trays of drinks.
The reception had been carefully planned. Every foreign ambassador was in attendance, in case another country imagined the King’s weak health meant any more colonies could go the way of the Americas. To make the point as diplomatically clear as possible, the Prince of Wales had been sent to Brighton, to indicate his dispensability.
‘It’s so exciting,’ Betsy glowed, hugging her husband’s arm.
Bligh was staring around, looking for faces he recognised. He hadn’t been at all satisfied with the acceptance within the houses of influence in the capital of his rejection of the court martial innuendo. Only four letters, he recalled. And two of them unsigned and abusive. Which was why this afternoon was so important. He had to meet the King, he decided. Only the briefest encounter would be necessary before such an audience. It would make him acceptable. And his narrative, too. Then they’d change their stance, these popinjays and fops with little ability beyond the bottle and the boudoir and even that open to question.
He felt his wife stiffen and followed her look. Lady Harpindcne was parading slowly along the walkway towards them, a swarthily handsome, sharp-faced youth of little more than nineteen, dressed completely in white silk, even to his shoes, in fawning attention. Mrs Wittingdon was dutifully in place a few yards behind, her purple-faced merchant husband uninterestedly at her arm.
‘Why, Mrs Bligh!’ greeted the baronet’s wife, in that familiar voice of constant surprise. ‘And the worthy captain, too, I do declare.’
‘Your servant, ma’am,’ bowed Bligh. He could never understand why such people were so important to Betsy.
‘I haven’t made a mistake, have I?’ giggled the woman. ‘It is still captain? I haven’t missed a promotion in the Gazette?’
Elizabeth felt her husband’s arm go taut.
‘No, ma’am,’ she hurried. ‘The only thing you might have missed was my husband’s award from the Society.’
‘Cleverly done,’ praised Wittingdon, thickly, reaching the group. ‘Country indebted to you.’
The man was drunk, Bligh realised. But the praise still warmed him.
‘Thank you, sir,’ he said.
‘Such a brave man,’ gushed Lady Harpindene. ‘Despite all those nasty stories. I want you to know, captain, that everyone at my husband’s club is laughing at them.’
‘I mind they are, ma’am,’ said Bligh, heavily. ‘There seems to be much laughter these days.’
‘Not at your expense, surely, captain,’ intruded Mrs Wittingdon.
Both women were staring around them, Bligh realised, knowing themselves to be the point of attention and wanting to see who was observing them. Harpies, he decided. Both of them.
‘What an unusual necklace,’ said Lady Harpindene, turning to her youthful companion, so that he stared at Elizabeth’s jewellery, eyes wide in mock amazement. Both women sniggered.
‘It must be something very cute and unusual from the country,’ patronised Mrs Wittingdon, whose décolletage was studded with rubies. ‘Something native to the Isle of Man, perhaps.’
‘I’m surprised at your mistake, ma’am,’ returned Elizabeth. ‘With the frequency with which you both go to the country, I’d have thought you would know that not to be the case.’
‘It’s called coral,’ identified Bligh, sensing the importance to his wife of the exchange. ‘Rarer than any gem. Only necklace of its kind in England. The King has some, of course. Personal present.’
Both women shifted, deflated.
‘You must excuse us, ladies,’ apologised Bligh, knowing they were ahead in the exchange. ‘Someone I have to see.’
He hurried his wife around them, trying to keep Sir Joseph Banks in sight.
‘I was very proud of you, then,’ said Elizabeth, softly. ‘And you didn’t lose your temper.’
‘Sluts,’ dismissed Bligh, cursorily. ‘Stupid to bother yourself with them.’
Sir Joseph saw them approach and turned gratefully towards them. He had been scouring the park ever since the man he had positioned especially to alert him of the Blighs’ arrival had told him of the stupid scene with the boatman. Pitt had been furious at his promise to Bligh, Banks remembered, insisting he be personally responsible for the man during his attendance.
‘Sir Joseph,’ greeted Bligh.
‘Your servant, ma’am,’ said Banks, lifting Elizabeth’s hand to his lips. ‘You look quite lovely … quite lovely …’
‘You’re most kind, Sir Joseph,’ blushed Elizabeth.
Slowly they began to move along the walkway towards the main building, from which the monarch would emerge.
‘How is the King?’ enquired Bligh, immediately. He felt very contented at having made contact with Sir Joseph before the sovereign came out to greet the guests. Now he was guaranteed an introduction.
‘Occupied with affairs of state. But well,’ reported Banks, discerning a point to Bligh’s question.
Bligh frowned.
‘Were it not for the problems it might have caused,’ disclosed Banks, nodding towards where the foreign ambassadors were clustered, ‘the event would have been cancelled. As it is, the King’s appearance will be very brief.’
‘How brief?’
‘A walk along the main thoroughfare. Perhaps the briefest stop at the big pavilion, that’s all.’
He’d rarely seen Pitt so agitated, reflected Banks. But for the man’s concern with some unforeseen disaster that might befall the King, his annoyance over the Bligh invitation would have been far greater. Banks felt the ministers were far too nervous about the King’s health: it had been several years since his last collapse.
‘I had hoped …’ trailed Bligh, still hopeful.
‘Impossible, I fear,’ refused Banks. ‘We’re anxious there should be no encounters whatsoever.’
‘How much longer do you anticipate the enquiry will continue in Portsmouth?’ asked Bligh. Banks would be receiving daily reports even more detailed than those being put into public circulation, Bligh guessed.
‘Almost over now,’ generalised Banks. ‘Unpleasant business.’
‘Have you read my replies?’
‘Aye,’ replied Banks. ‘But there was little need for me to have done so. I’ve never doubted you.’
‘For which I’m grateful,’ said Bligh.
‘Still wish you’d taken my advice and not involved yourself in a public argument,’ said Banks, regretfully.
‘It’s been an expensive business,’ embarked Bligh. It was an ideal opportunity to discuss his problem, he thought. But faced with admitting his penury to his patron, Bligh held back, embarrassed. It was not in his character to beg, for anything.
‘Expensive?’ helped Sir Joseph.
Bligh nodded. ‘My only wish is to serve my King and my country,’ he said, choosing an easy path. ‘As well you must know. But I’ve made two trips to Tahiti now for less than a quarter of the salary I would be getting as a merchant captain.’
It had been careless of him not to have realised the difficulty, decided Banks. One of the favourite stories from the court martial was how Bligh had manipulated the Bounty’s victualling to make a profit. Here, perhaps, was the reason.
‘The Admiralty still refuse to see me to discuss my next position. They plead embarrassment for the duration of the court martial,’ said Bligh. ‘So I’m considering accepting the offer from Mrs Bligh’s family to return to the merchant service.’
Bligh’s critics would see it as running away, decided Banks. Which perhaps it would be. He felt very responsible for the man. Whatever his personality defects, he was a brilliant seaman and a competent administrator. And undeniably brave. He needed help, not the treatment being presently accorded him.
Brave administrator. The phrase presented itself in the man’s mind, as if for examination. Would Bligh be the man to solve one of the country’s many problems? wondered Banks. At dinner only yesterday Pitt had been bemoaning the difficulty and the fact that there were more pressing problems nearer home which prevented him from giving it his full attention. The idea would arouse enormous opposition, he knew. Few would see Bligh as the ideal choice. But there was no argument that couldn’t be overcome, if he were sufficiently determined. And he was determined, decided Banks. Bligh undoubtedly possessed the qualities necessary for what he was considering.
He stopped, so that Bligh halted alongside.
‘Delay a while,’ he advised. ‘Keep your commission a few more weeks, at least.’
‘Why, sir?’ demanded Bligh, curiously.
‘I’ve always been a good adviser to you,’ avoided Banks. ‘And I hope to remain so. Let’s just get this damned court martial out of the way.’
‘Another position?’ anticipated Bligh, eagerly.
The King’s arrival spared Banks from replying. The portly figure was surrounded by court intimates and there was an outer protection of politicians, both in and out of the government. Queen Charlotte was on the King’s right arm. Bligh identified the Duke of Clarence and smiled in recognition. The King’s son saw him and nodded. Lord Hawkesbury was in attendance, Bligh saw, with Henry Addington. And Lord Grenville, always the eager politician. The shy King was smiling, emptily, unhappy at so many people. His difficulty with a large crowd was legendary, remembered Bligh; he must be hating it. The promenade had been cleverly staged, with rehearsed people positioned at various spots where the King could appear to pause and engage in small talk. Even the bursts of polite amusement seemed spontaneous.
When the royal party drew level, the Duke of Clarence detached himself and moved towards Bligh. Elizabeth curtsied and Bligh bowed, slightly ahead of Sir Joseph.
‘A pleasure to see you back among us, Captain Bligh,’ greeted the Duke.
‘It’s been my pleasure, sir, to be of service to my country.’
‘A service of which I know my father is well aware,’ assured the Duke.
Bligh glanced aside, briefly, anxious to gauge how many people were witnessing the exchange. They were the complete focal point, he saw. Let them mock now, Bligh thought, confidently.
‘I await only fresh orders,’ said Bligh. He thought he detected the attention of the younger Pitt. Let that remark get back to him and the Admiralty, thought Bligh, hopefully. A feeling of great satisfaction suffused him.
‘You must be very proud, ma’am,’ praised the Duke, addressing Elizabeth. She was blushing, Bligh realised, glancing sideways. Darling Betsy. The harridans of society wouldn’t ignore her after today. The royal group had passed Lady Harpindene without a glance.
‘I am, sir,’ replied the woman, shyly. ‘Very proud.’
‘You must call at my house,’ invited the Duke. ‘Certainly before you embark upon another enterprise. I share the interest of my father in navigation.’
‘It would be the greatest honour,’ accepted Bligh.
‘Settled then. Excellent,’ smiled the Duke, moving back to join the King.
Imperceptibly, Elizabeth squeezed her husband’s arm. She felt very hot. Excitement, judged Bligh.
‘Well, Captain Bligh,’ said Sir Joseph. ‘Do you need any further indication of how the establishment of this country feels about one of its most famous sailors?’
‘Very comforting,’ said Bligh, finding awkwardness with the words. Court etiquette and diplomacy was a damned nuisance, he thought, with impressions and attitudes decided upon with the exchange of a word. He felt far more at home on a quarter-deck, man to man, without this foppishness.
‘They saw,’ whispered Elizabeth, by his side, ‘They all saw, Mr Bligh.’
She was very excited, he realised. He hoped she wasn’t disappointed.
The royal promenade was almost over, Bligh saw, the King impatiently moving back towards the palace.
‘Why not return to London in my carriage?’ offered Sir Joseph, recalling his informant’s account of the jetty argument. Nothing should be allowed to mar Bligh’s triumph.
Bligh permitted his wife her exaggerated entry into Sir Joseph’s ornate, crested carriage, as aware as she of the attention of a large group of people. Those who only an hour before had looked without recognition were now smiling and nodding, he saw. It was pleasant to ignore them.
Sir Joseph’s importance was no secret, thought Bligh, happily. First conversation with the King’s son. Now being escorted home by one of the most influential men in the land. That should halt a lot of tongues, he decided, seating himself comfortably on the rich-smelling leather.
He confided his hopes to Betsy that night, after all the children had been put to bed and they were alone, in the dining room.
‘What sort of position?’ she wondered.
‘He wouldn’t say,’ admitted Bligh. ‘But I’m sure that’s what he meant.’
Elizabeth frowned, doubtfully.
‘I pray he won’t turn against you, Mr Bligh. like all the rest.’
Despite what had happened that day at court, she was still suffering very badly, realised Bligh, sadly.
‘They were laughing at us today, Mr Bligh,’ said the woman, suddenly. ‘I hated it.’
‘Not in the end,’ insisted Bligh. ‘What happened today will halt the smears, you see.’
Elizabeth shook her head, unconvinced.
‘There’s rarely a day that passes, Mr Bligh,’ she said, reflectively, ‘without my lamenting the moment we first heard of the Bounty.’
‘Hush, Betsy,’ said Bligh, smiling across the table. ‘Everything will be resolved, don’t you fret.’
‘That’s the trouble,’ agreed his wife. ‘I do worry … I worry nearly all the time …’
Pitt laughed, uncertainly, imagining Banks was attempting a joke.
‘I’m quite serious, sir,’ asserted Six Joseph. ‘I say he’d be the ideal man.’
‘But you can’t be,’ protested the politician. ‘Why, it’s madness!’
‘Give the proposal proper consideration,’ demanded Banks, undismayed by the opposition. ‘He’s got every qualification.’
‘And I say he’d be a disaster, sir,’ refused Pitt. Banks was too assured of his importance, decided the premier. Far too assured.
‘But why?’ asked Banks. ‘Give me a reason, supported by fact, why William Bligh isn’t the obvious choice. Fact, remember. Not a porridge of smear and rumour …’
‘… it would be bad politics,’ rejected Pitt, unable to give a direct reply. ‘The man’s surrounded by scandal.’
‘So is Admiral Lord Nelson, because of his blatant association with the Hamilton woman,’ scored Banks, not enjoying his descent to gutter argument. ‘I don’t see that deterring the Admiralty Lords from calling upon him.’
‘The situation is altogether different,’ replied Pitt, angrily. The man’s face, coloured by his fondness for port wine, deepened and the redness was accentuated by the whiteness of his hair.
It was a wonder, thought Banks, that Pitt had been spared the severity of gout that had killed his father.
‘I ask you only to consider it,’ pleaded Banks. ‘Consider it objectively, in the light of everything known of the man. I say he’s the obvious choice.’
Pitt stared back at him, unmoved.
Lord Hood hated public hangings. They were necessary, for the maintenance of discipline, he accepted. But he still hated them. He stood uncomfortably in the main cabin of the Brunswick, feeling the vessel shift to anchor, his wine glass forgotten in his hand. The eleven other officers who had determined the verdict grouped around, all subdued at the thought of what was to happen. Hood stared through the port, at the other ships commanded to witness the executions, their crews lined up to order. Rarely, he thought, could so many ships be gathered at anchor with such little noise. It was always the same.
It had been a fair verdict, the President reassured himself. Heywood and Morrison had been rightly pardoned. Muspratt was the only man whose fate had not been decided cleanly. The man had been found guilty, like the remainder, but had won a stay of execution upon the technicality that he had been unable to call the proper witnesses for his defence. But that had not been his decision, recalled Hood. That had been the attitude of the Admiralty and any subsequent decision would have to be theirs, so any criticism would adhere to them, not him.
He heard the scuffle of feet on deck above. Any moment now, he knew, the yellow flag would be run up, calling the fleet to attention. He supposed he had to go aloft to watch it. The other officers were looking at him, expectantly. Slowly he put his glass on a table and led the way up the companion ladder, shivering as the wind swept round him.
Ellison, Millward and Birkitt were amidships, quite composed. Millward was even smiling. They’d been given rum, realised Hood, gratefully. It was a good idea to get accused men drunk. He’d once witnessed a hanging of a sober man and had been physically sick afterwards at the man’s collapse.
There were other boats, Hood realised. Graft of every size had come out from Portsmouth and were circling around, to see the spectacle. Hardly surprising, he thought, after the publicity that had been generated by the trial. Ghouls, he criticised, silently.
The three men were slowly herded towards the ropes. Over their heads the flag burst open, climbing up the yard, and at a signal from the timekeeper the gun was fired, once. Not a sound, Hood realised, not even from the gawping public. They all died cleanly, just one quick snap. And then it was over. Hood was the first to turn away, hurrying back down the companion-way. He took the rest of his wine in one gulp and gestured almost irritably towards the steward for more.
‘Always unpleasant,’ offered Sir Andrew Snape Hammond, by his side.
‘Yes.’
‘And this a particularly nasty business.’
‘And still unresolved, for my mind,’ suggested Hood.
‘Were the Admiralty insistent about young Heywood?’ probed Hammond.
The rebuke to Bligh had astonished everyone, causing almost as big a sensation as the trial itself, and Hammond wanted to be the man with the accurate gossip.
‘Absolutely,’ insisted Hood. The Admiralty had been adamant that the action be interpreted correctly, so there was no indiscretion in talking about it, he decided.
‘The First Lord himself said they wanted Heywood offered an immediate post,’ he said.
‘But for it to be upon your flagship, the very man before whom he appeared accused of the worst crime in the navy!’ tempted Hammond.
‘Lord Chatham was equally insistent about that,’ provided Hood.
‘So Bligh’s out of favour?’ mused Hammond.
‘I’m not sure. He was well received at the King’s reception, so I hear. There are some strange things afoot,’ said Hood. He paused, playing with the stem of his glass. ‘I knew the Christian family had powerful connections,’ he said. ‘But I never imagined they would be able to turn public opinion as successfully as they have. It’s hard to imagine that Bligh was being received a hero into every salon in London such a short time ago.’
Hammond nodded.
‘Were Fletcher Christian to reappear from the dead,’ tried Hammond, ‘I doubt that those same people wouldn’t lionise him now.’
Hood nodded, becoming bored with the conversation.
‘Let’s hope it’s the last we hear of the matter,’ he dismissed. ‘To my mind, the Bounty is just a confounded nuisance.’
Fletcher Christian had remained hidden for the three days the Topaz had kin at anchor in the bay off Pitcairn, witnessing every contact between the American crew and the mutineers. They’d been very frightened at first, he knew, remembering the panic of the six men who had milled around at the first sighting of the whaler, some making off towards the village, others abandoning flight almost immediately, resigned to whatever happened to them.
But now it was very different. He’d gazed down from his vantage point, prostrate against the rock so he would not be seen, and watched as the officers had come ashore and how the tensions had relaxed with present-giving and even a meal, in the Tillage square, with them all sitting around the large table. They’d laughed a lot, Christian had seen: some of the native women had even sung traditional Tahitian songs.
There had never been such a relaxed feast on Pitcairn before, he realised. Certainly not with so much laughter.
And they’d found Quintal’s body, as he had intended them to. Perhaps that was the reason for some of the laughter, he speculated. Because the body, mutilated as he had arranged for it to be by its fall down the cliffside and then immersed for two days among the scavenging fish of the bay, had been identified not as the murdering seaman’s, but as his.
Never, thought chiristian, had he imagined the intoxicated moment when he and Quintal had had their buttocks tattooed in Tahiti would become so important to him. He’d seen them crowd around on the beach and watched them draw the breeches away from the body for the definite identification. He’d carefully positioned other things, of course. He’d risked his life to retrieve his musket because it had his initials carved in the stock. And when he’d pulled the body from the water, early on the third day, he’d carefully placed the gun alongside. He’d looped his belt around Quintal’s waist, too, knowing the buckle would be recognised by every mutineer on the island. He sighed, happily. Fletcher Christian was dead, he thought. As he should have been, years ago.
It was almost time to move, he decided. For over an hour now, there had been elaborate farewells enacted down there; and now the cutter was leaving the Topaz with what appeared to be supplies for the mutineers. It would return with the officers down there, he knew.
Christian started to descend to the west, away from the village and the risk of being seen, sure of his route. He went down almost vertically, careless of the noise, frightened he might have left his move too late.
He had to be aboard almost the moment the ship departed, he had estimated. And then conceal himself for at least a day, so they would be too far from the island for him to be put back.
Christian entered the water as the cutter beached. It was a good moment, he decided, striking out against the breakers. All the attention was on the jolly boat and what it contained. The exchanges would take more than an hour, he thought. He would need all of that.
Once in the water, he realised the whaler was anchored further from the shore than he had estimated. And the drift of the waves was against him. He swam slowly, as deep in the water as possible, recognising almost immediately how much the three-day pursuit and then the fight with Quintal had drained him. And it hadn’t ended then, he thought. There had been the manhandling of the body and the descent and ascending of the cliffs again, to plant the evidence with it.
And he wouldn’t be able to approach the Topaz directly, he knew. He would have to swim out and then circle back towards it from seawards. Any sailor looking out would be concentrating upon the island and its unusual inhabitants. He groped on, feeling his body numb not from the cold of the water but from fatigue.
He turned towards the ship before he had intended, knowing his strength was failing too quickly to enable him to make the approach he had wanted. Christian was almost unconscious when he grabbed out, seizing the bower cable. He hung there, arms locked around the mooring. The cable hole looked so far away, he thought, his mind as well as his body emptied by the exertion. So very far away. And he had no strength to pull himself up. The current spun him, turning him towards the shore. The cutter had left, he saw. The men were bending at the oars and the officers were standing in the thwarts, waving back towards Pitcairn.
An hour, he thought. He had no more than an hour. He locked his legs as well as his arms around the cable and pulled upwards, lips clamped against any sound, not able to feel whether his limbs were moving as he wanted. It took him almost fifteen minutes to clear the water and then the climb was even more difficult. He hung suspended, the rope sliding between his hands and with nothing against which he could jam his feet, to push himself up. He could hear the creak of the oars and the shouts of the men as they came near, on the far side of the vessel. Less than an hour now. Far less.
But he was ascending. Slowly, perhaps too slowly. But getting near the deck. The knowledge spurred him. He paused, straining for sufficient strength, then jerked upwards in a rush, knowing that if he failed to reach the anchor entrance with this spurt there would be nothing left and he would fall back into the water. He felt, rather than saw, the cable door. He snatched out, missing it first time and almost pulling himself away from the rope, then grabbed again, finding hand-holds at last. He allowed the briefest hesitation, just sufficient to inhale, then hauled himself into the opening, jamming himself there.
He began shuddering, uncontrollably, at the very point of collapse. He’d succeeded, he told himself. He was aboard. Aboard and, for the moment, undetected.
The cable door was a good hiding place, he accepted. But a limited one. Once the anchor was lifted, he would be discovered. And that would happen the moment they got the cutter aboard. On the far side, he saw the pulleys go out to bring it in.
The layout of the whaler was new to him and he wedged there, studying it. Aboard a ship again, he thought, suddenly. For the first time, in so many years, he was on a deck, feeling a vessel move and shift beneath him. There was no excitement, not like there had been that day when he and Edward had travelled to Liverpool and he had seen his first ship and held his brother’s hand with the thrill of it and promised, ‘One day I’ll be a famous mariner. You see, Edward. Famous.’
The rope locker. It was the obvious place, he thought, shaking off the reminiscence and locating the tiny shed. And very near, too, little more than five feet away.
He tensed, awaiting the proper moment. It came as the cutter reached deck level and everyone’s attention was upon it. He jerked away, bent double, body taut for any sudden challenge, scurrying across the intervening space.
He was very cramped. He had to pull himself down upon the coiled rope to prevent his body protruding the locker top off its rest. He lay there, tiredness pulling at him but resisting sleep, wanting to feel the ship move and know he was safe before he relaxed.
It seemed a very long time. He heard it first, the hiss of the cable up which he’d clambered being wound around the capstan and then there was the crack of sheets against the mast and the pitch of the ship under way.
It had been dusk when he got aboard and he waited for several hours, refusing to let his eyes close, before lifting the edge of the locker. They must all mess together on a whaler, he decided, sucking at the salt air. The deck was deserted, only the helm manned at all.
He crept out, accepting the foolishness of his action, but needing to do it.
He bunched in the cable door again, peering out through the tiny gap. He could just discern Pitcairn, jutting blackly against the horizon. Talaloo would attack almost immediately, Christian decided. The natives were probably on the cliff now, just waiting for the Topaz to get far enough away.
He’d warned them, Christian tried to assure himself. He’d warned them and they’d laughed at him, so there was no cause for remorse. He certainly didn’t feel any. He paused at the thought. It would be difficult to know any emotion ever again, he knew.
‘Goodbye, Isabella,’ he said softly, in the darkness. ‘Goodbye, my darling.’