Stewart sighed. Bligh was a bastard, an unmitigated, bullying bastard, to have reduced a man to this state. Perhaps another officer wouldn’t have been so badly affected, but Christian was a sensitive, highly strung man and Bligh should have recognised the effect of his behaviour. They’d known each other long enough, after all.
‘You’ll not escape,’ insisted Stewart.
‘I’ve got to. Somehow.’
There would be a lot of men who knew of Christian’s plan to desert the ship, reflected Stewart. The ship’s carpenter, William Purcell, was certainly aware, because he’d provided the planks with which the second-in-command had lashed together a make-shift raft, utilising the masts of the ship’s launch. He’d given Christian some nails, too, to trade with the natives if he reached an island. The cook, Tom Hall, had supplied a roasted hog. So he knew. And any intelligent man, having seen the petulance with which Bligh had treated. Christian during the two weeks since they had sailed from Tahiti and witnessed how, the previous night, after that blazing, childish row, Christian had gone from friend to friend, bestowing his personal belongings as gifts and finally throwing letters and papers overboard, must have guessed the man was in a desperate, almost demented, state of mind.
‘There’ll be sharks near the boat,’ warned Stewart, unaware of Norman’s interest in the stern of the vessel.
Christian gestured, uncaring.
‘It could be a year before we finally get back to England,’ reminded Christian. ‘Do you think I can stand the man for that long?’
‘If you reach an island, you’ll be slaughtered,’ predicted Stewart. ‘This isn’t Tahiti any more. The natives are hostile, cannibals maybe. If you get ashore, you’ll be killed.’
‘Maybe I’ll find a friendly island.’
Stewart sighed, exasperated. Enough of Christian’s friends knew, thought Stewart again. Should he round them up, to overpower the man for his own good? But that wouldn’t work. Bligh would have to be informed. Yet Bligh couldn’t be told the truth because the reason for their action would put Christian in irons for the rest of the voyage, then get him hanged at Spithead for desertion. So the captain would construe it as an attack upon the second-in-command and accuse them of mutiny. And they would be hanged at Portsmouth.
But the word lodged like a burr in Stewart’s mind. They were thousands of miles from England, in an area where few Europeans had explored before. And God knows they had reason enough to take command of the ship. You only hanged for mutiny if you were caught.
‘You’re not alone in your feelings for the captain, Mr Christian,’ said Stewart, suddenly.
Christian shifted in his cramped bunk. He smelled, he realised. Damn the sweat. Yes, he thought, he hated Bligh now. He felt suffocated by the man. He was always conscious of him. Of those staring, pale eyes that followed every movement, eager for mistakes, either real or imagined, any cause for yet another irrational outburst.
‘But I’m the victim of his madness,’ complained Christian.
‘You’re badly treated, right enough,’ sympathised Stewart, detecting the self-pity. He paused.
‘Yet there’s hardly a man better liked than you aboard this ship.’
Once the praise would have pleased him, Christian accepted. Always he had enjoyed being liked and respected. Doubtless the reason he’d welcomed Bligh’s friendship, all those years ago.
Now Stewart’s assertion brought him no pleasure. Bligh had drained him of all the feelings he had once had.
‘It’s no good, Mr Stewart. I’m trapped with the man and can stand it no longer. Even to die would be a better fate than staying aboard the Bounty a moment longer.’
Christian shuddered, unexpectedly, reminded of Stewart’s warning about sharks. Sometimes the men had amused themselves by throwing bones and rotting meat into the water, watching those huge mouths with their saw-edged teeth crush and tear at the bait. He closed his eyes, imagining a leg or an arm being ripped away from his body as he spread-eagled on his raft, trying to paddle towards the uncertain safety of an island he couldn’t see.
Stewart frowned at the shaking of his friend. Christian was chilled, he decided. Men’s minds often went when they were fevered.
If Christian were caught trying to slip over the side, Bligh would make the man’s life hell on earth, Stewart knew. Or even more of a hell than he was making it at present. He’d clap him in irons, of course. And keep him, like a pet bear or dog, paraded every day to be goaded and taunted. Before the