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