without apparent concern the risk of arrest from any search boats that would come had Bligh survived, it had been Stewart who had led the break-up of the mutineers. Christian had intended to leave behind those who had been unwilling participants, like the midshipman Heywood and the carpenters Charles Norman and Thomas McIntosh and the blind violinist, Michael Byrn. But he hadn’t expected so many others to risk a rope’s end against the uncertainty of following him in the Bounty. Twenty-four men had remained on the ship when Bligh had been set adrift. And when he had sailed the second time from Tahiti, in the middle of that September night in 1789 to trap aboard some of the sleeping women who might have been unwilling to accompany them into exile, the number had dwindled to eight.
Nearly all of those who had stayed behind had been the most willing mutineers, he remembered. Ellison, who’d wanted to run Bligh through; Birkitt, whom he had feared might band together with Churchill and Quintal and overthrow him during the actual mutiny; Churchill himself, the man who’d done more shouting than anybody; Thompson, who’d guarded the arms chest and by so doing guaranteed the success of the uprising.
Christian sighed, enjoying the sun upon his face. How quickly they’d lost faith in him, he reflected. Just over four months and men he’d regarded as his most ardent supporters had decided the possibility of death was preferable to his leadership.
Would they still be in Tahiti, he wondered, undetected and surrounded by every sexual indulgence and luxury? How good their life would be if that were so, instead of being trapped like he was among a community of little more than twenty people, with hardly any of them prepared to engage in the most trivial conversation.
The remark of Quintal’s had been accurate, he thought. He had become just like Bligh, despised and ostracised by everyone around him.
He would have sailed back to Tahiti if he had had a ship, Christian knew. And been glad, almost, if a British man-o’-war had been waiting in Matavai harbour to arrest him.
But he didn’t have the Bounty. It had disappeared in flames, before they had even had a chance properly to strip it and certainly before any destruction had been decided, either by him or by discussion with the other hard-core mutineers. It had been Edward Young, he remembered, stiff-legged from the rum he had consumed, goaded by Quintal, both of them groping drunkenly from the hold with torches in their hands, giggling at what they’d done. Young had almost died in the blaze, recalled Christian. Pity he hadn’t. It had been Young, following so closely upon Stewart, who had fomented the idea of a mutiny. Twice, thought Christian, he had been trapped by the man.
And now the mutineers appeared more willing to take notice of Young than they did of him.
Perhaps, thought Christian, he should suggest they build another escape craft, like the one they had constructed when the women had become so discontented with life on Pitcairn. It had only been done to placate them, with no care to trim or design and the vessel had capsized immediately they had launched it. convincing the women that return to Tahiti was impossible. But they could get back, Christian knew. Providing enough attention was paid this time to the balance of the vessel. And that they planned their departure for the best weather, to avoid the squalls and storms.
Being on Pitcairn was like being locked in a cupboard, Christian thought. On Tahiti he would be able to breathe again, as if the door had suddenly been thrown open.
And to return would have a practical advantage as well. There was a dangerously uneven balance of men and women on Pitcairn. Jealousy was building up, he knew. When it burst out, it would bring bloodshed.
There was no question, thought Christian, that he would kill rather than share Isabella with anyone. He might have stood back from the commitment to murder in the past, but about her he had no doubts; to keep Isabella entirely to himself there was nothing he would not do.
‘Why do you look so angry?’
He smiled across at her question. Thursday had become bored, he saw, and was striding off fat-bottomed to join the other children.
How lovely she was, he decided, studying the woman, admiring the gleaming, polished hair that made a curtain down her back, her open face always poised for laughter, even here on Pitcairn.