capitulated, lowering his eyes and nodding respectfully.
‘Aye, sir,’ he accepted.
It was ironic, thought Christian, that the discipline to which the man was instinctively, if belatedly, reacting had been beaten into him by Bligh.
Christian turned to Young, gratefully.
‘Stay here,’ he ordered. ‘Keep close to the captain …’
Still the respectful ‘captain’, thought Christian, going to the upper rail and gazing down into the boat. There were about fifteen people already there, he saw, knee-deep in hastily grabbed bundles. Littering the bottom were hammocks, twine, rope, sheets of canvas and sails and a jumble of boxes. But no food, he realised. The launch was almost too low in the water. With food to come and the remaining men, there would be dangerously little freeboard.
‘Victuals,’ he shouted to Sumner. ‘Get provisions in. No more belongings until the food is stored.’
It was Jonathan Smith who again rose to the responsibility, summoning Tinkler and Simpson from the launch to help him. Christian stared down, mentally checking the supplies as they were loaded aboard. One hundred and fifty pounds of bread went in first, he saw. Smith was a sensible man, going immediately for the basic food. Meat was the next thing the man collected. Sixteen pieces of pork was hardly enough, Christian thought, counting it as it was handed down. But to increase it might lead to opposition from Churchill or Quintal. And he might not win another confrontation. They had lines in the launch, he could see. And the sea was full of fish. Better to say nothing, he decided. And safer. Six quarts of rum and six bottles of wine were stowed at the stern of the launch, presumably where Bligh would sit, and then Smith handed four empty butts into the boat, in addition to the twenty-eight gallons of water. They’d be well able to catch whatever rain fell, Christian tried to reassure himself. Immediately came the contradiction. There would be eighteen men in that launch. What if it didn’t rain? And there were no fish to catch? It was a torturer’s death, he told himself. They were being cast adrift to starve or thirst to death.
Cole bustled up from the launch, heading immediately for the quarter-deck.
‘I want a compass,’ he said, imperiously, addressing Christian. It had the makings of another dangerous situation, realised Christian, startled by the man’s arrogance. Cole’s arrival put three unafraid men on the quarter-deck, with Hallett and Hayward still loitering nearby. And there were only Smith and Young, besides himself, to oppose them. He had to get rid of Cole immediately.
‘Take it,’ he agreed.
‘No.’
The protest this time came from Quintal, as the bo’sun began opening the binnacle. The man who had first joined Christian had come back unseen from the launch, and was standing with his musket held loosely across his body, half threatening to level it. At least Quintal’s arrival balanced the numbers with Bligh’s men, thought Christian. And created another problem.
‘What’s he want a damned compass for?’ demanded Quintal. ‘There’s land not five miles away.’
The man was drunk, Christian decided. A bayonet was hardly the weapon with which to challenge a drunken man with a musket at the ready. For the briefest moment he pressed his eyes closed again. How tired he was, he thought. Not just the fatigue that came from lack of sleep, but the lassitude and disgust arising from what he was doing. He’d made a mistake: a horrendous and terrifying mistake, ending one hell and immediately creating another for himself. He was damned, thought Christian. Damned forever. And all because of William Bligh.
Quintal had brought the musket up further, he saw. A musket ball would be a quicker way to die than being dragged down through the water by an uncertain weight, he thought, suddenly. How easy would it be, he wondered, to goad the man into using the gun? Quintal was a violent man. And very drunk. He’d used a knife, in lower-deck brawls, Christian knew. A man who would use a knife would use a gun. Quintal swayed, cockily, happy that Cole was standing before the compass box waiting permission to take the equipment out. Badly drunk, Christian thought again, seeing the movement. And so he might miss, wounding instead of killing him. Wounded, he would be captured by Bligh. No, it would have to be by drowning, if at all.
Christian walked over to the box, putting himself between Cole and Quintal, took the compass out and handed it to the bo’sun.