at the thought, everyone knew.
‘And it must be a united decision,’ added Young, looking directly at Christian.
So his invitation was not really an afterthought, corrected Christian. The mutineers recognised that the natives, at least, still regarded him as the leader of the community and that any decision they reached would have to appear to have his open support.
‘It won’t be, will it?’ he said.
‘Going to lead the destruction of what we’ve got here, just like you did last time?’ demanded Mickoy.
‘No one forced you to do what you did,’ said Christian.
‘You’re the one worried about bloodshed,’ reminded Adams, moving to block another argument. ‘If you’re not seen to enforce the decision, it’ll be an encouragement for them to fight.’
The man was right, accepted Christian. For the doubtful peace of the island, he would have to appear in agreement with them. But why should he? he asked himself. What did he owe any of these men, except contempt?
‘We need to move together,’ enforced Young, carelessly.
‘Do we, Mr Young?’ snatched Christian, goading his former friend. ‘This reminds me of a conversation of many years ago … a conversation most of us here wish had never taken place …’
Young flushed, annoyed at being caught.
Quintal was relapsing into the tipsy clown, turning the bottle upside down to examine the neck for any last drops.
‘… in the ass,’ he advised, slurring. ‘Kick them in the ass.’
‘For the safety of the island …’ began Adams, then stopped. ‘For the safety of Isabella and the children,’ he started again, the argument prepared. ‘Will you come in with us?’
They’d won, accepted Christian. For any of the men with whom he was sitting he would do nothing, nothing at all. But to minimise a threat to Isabella, he would agree to anything.
‘You know why I will,’ he capitulated, staring around. ‘But I want you all to know something else, as well. I think you are all scum, all of you. Worthless scum.’
They detested him, he decided again, looking back at their faces. Every one of them.
‘Nancy,’ said Williams, frightened once more the chance would be lost. ‘Let’s go to get Nancy.’
The mutineers shuffled into a group and moved off further down the village, towards the native settlement at the far end. Christian was manoeuvred into a leading position in the procession, but noticed that the other Englishmen managed to keep apart from him.
‘She’s in Talaloo’s house,’ advised Williams. He was smiling, eagerly, like a child being taken to a toyshop at Christmas. Animals, thought Christian, again.
Talaloo appeared in the doorway when they were about twenty feet away. The man had been expecting them, Christian realised. It was not surprising. The wives of the other mutineers would have known the reason for the counsel that afternoon and the Tahitian women gossiped constantly among themselves.
‘You want my woman?’ challenged the Tahitian, immediately.
‘Mr Williams does not have one,’ replied Christian, lapsing easily into the language.
‘It is unfair,’ protested the man. He was the leader of the natives, Christian remembered. For his partner to be taken would mean loss of face among the other Tahitians.
It has been decided,’ said Christian, awkwardly. Why did it have to be him? he thought. Why did he have to be the spokesman for a proposal to which he was the only objector? It was obscene.
The woman appeared behind Talaloo, looking out anxiously. She would want to join Williams, Christian knew. It was regarded by them as a greater honour to sleep with a white man than one of their own kind.
‘I do not want it,’ rejected Talaloo.
‘What does Nancy want?’ asked Christian. The others had withdrawn even further from him. he realised, standing at least five feet behind. He’d been trapped into taking the whole responsibility.
‘It does not matter what she wants,’ said the man. ‘She is my woman.’
Christian detected movement behind and glanced sideways as Williams came level to him.
‘I do not want us to become bad friends,’ Williams said, moving further forward.
Williams had become the metal-worker on the island, setting up a forge on the outskirts of the village and utilising every piece of iron salvaged from the Bounty. The canvas bag he offered jingled with nails and trinkets he had prepared.
Christian winced, disgusted. Just like the cattle market, he thought again. Would they spit on their palms, then slap their hands together to seal the deal, as they did at Cockermouth?
Nancy moved past Talaloo, then stopped. Christian had not heard what the man had said. The conversation continued, very quietly, the woman frequently nodding,