captain. He was on his back, one arm hanging loosely over the side of the cot. It was a neat, fussily kept room, every article of uniform folded and neatly stowed in its appointed place in its locker.
Christian felt the eyes of the other men upon him, expectantly. He tightened his grip upon the cutlass and shrugged the rifle further back upon his shoulder, tensing at the noise it made. The men were strained forward, like hunting dogs awaiting a command.
He moved his head, identifying Quintal, then indicated the closed door of Fryer’s cabin immediately opposite that of the captain. If Fryer had his pistols to hand, he could be a danger, Christian knew. Quintal nodded in understanding, then twisted at the same time as the apprehensive Birkitt at the sound behind them. Jonathan Sumner appeared, pistol held before him in his right hand. The new mutineer smiled, hopefully. Damn the man, thought Christian. He’d given the strictest orders that no one else was to come below decks. If they started milling around so soon, it would be impossible to isolate the mutineers from those who might remain loyal to Bligh. It would only need one loose shot and there would be carnage.
He’d punish the seaman later, he decided. He paused, stopped by the thought. How would he punish him? The captain of a ship punished by the right of his appointment, as the holder of the King’s commission. By what right did a mutineer punish? None, he realised. His only authority would be that which those who followed him would permit. And any order they disliked could be ignored. They were all just common mutineers, levelled by their complicity in crime. He was no longer an officer, Christian realised. He’d abandoned the right. Just a common mutineer now, like the rest.
He prodded Quintal, then indicated Sumner. If the damned man wanted involvement, then he could have it. Let him be the second man to face Fryer and the uncertainty of his pistols.
The tight-packed group were shuffling, the feeling among them mounting. Within minutes, thought Christian, his support would start to erode. He breathed deeply, preparing himself, then pushed against the cabin door with the point of the sword. It was wrong, he thought, immediately. Too slow and unsure. He should have burst in, frightening his victim with the noise. As if trying to recover from a mistake, Christian slapped at the captain’s arm with the flat of his sword, but misjudged that gesture, too. It hardly snicked the sleeve of the nightshirt, echoing instead against the edge of the berth. The other men were jamming in behind him, urging him on, so that he was scarcely a foot from where Bligh lay.
Christian swivelled the butt of the musket, bringing it up against Bligh’s legs, hitting him awake.
‘Awake, sir!’ he shouted. It sounded banal. Here I am, discarding my honour and perhaps my life and I rouse the man like a mother chiding her son for being late for school, he thought.
‘Up,’ he shouted again, unable to find better words.
Bligh blinked awake. And did nothing. The man, whose nearly every communication with his crew was conducted at a roar and who became enraged at the slightest infringement of regulations or authority, was numbed in his bewilderment.
‘I’ve taken control of the ship,’ announced Christian, formally. ‘You’re no longer in command, sir.’
Nothing he said seemed to be right. Weren’t men supposed to use momentous words on occasions like this?
Bligh still appeared unable to comprehend what was happening, Christian saw. The man’s mouth was moving, fish-like, as he groped for understanding.
Finally Bligh moved, wedging himself up on his elbow. Christian remembered the promise he had made himself. He brought the cutlass up, awkwardly, jabbing the point at the side of the captain’s throat.
Even now, Bligh’s reaction was wrong, decided the mutineer, prepared for a screaming, disjointed harangue and hearing instead quietly uttered words.
‘Mad,’ said Bligh, simply, straining away, his voice rusted with sleep and disbelief. ‘You’re completely mad.’
‘Aye, sir,’ agreed Christian. ‘And I know well enough who made me so.’
Bligh tried to shake his head, but it drove the sword-point into his throat and he stopped, head held unnaturally to one side. From the moment of awakening, he had not taken his eyes from those of Fletcher Christian. The unwavering, brittle-blue gaze had always unsettled him. Christian looked away, disconcerted, to where the sword pricked the man’s smooth neck.
Bligh wasn’t scared, realised the mutineer, sadly. The confounded man would rob him even of