Читать книгу Pitcairn's Island - James Norman Hall - Страница 5

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At dawn the following morning the island bore north, distant about three leagues. Close-hauled, on the larboard tack, the ship slid smoothly through the calm sea, and toward seven o’clock she passed the southeastern extremity of the island. About half a mile to the northwest, after rounding this point, was the shallow indentation where the Bounty had been anchored the previous day. Sounding continuously, with lookouts aloft and in the bows, she approached the land and again came to anchor half a mile from the beach, in seventeen fathoms.

Christian and Young stood together on the quarter-deck while the sails were clewed up and furled. With his spyglass Christian examined the foreshore carefully. Presently he turned to his companion.

“I shall be on shore the greater part of the day,” he said. “In case of any change in the weather, heave short and be ready to stand off.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We are fortunate in having this southwesterly breeze; I only pray that it may hold.”

“It will, never doubt it,” Young replied. “The sky promises that.”

“Be good enough to have one of the Indian canoes put into the water.”

This order was quickly complied with, and a few minutes later Christian, taking with him Minarii, Alexander Smith, Brown, the gardener, and two of the women, Maimiti and Moetua, set off for the beach. Minarii sat at the steering paddle. The bay was strewn with huge boulders against which the sea broke violently. To the right and left, walls of rock fell all but sheer to the cove, but midway along it they discovered a ribbon of shingly beach, the only spot where a boat might be landed in safety. Steering with great skill, directing the movements of the paddlers and watching the following seas, Minarii guided the canoe toward this spot. They waited for some time just beyond the break of the surf, then, seizing a favourable opportunity, they came in on the crest of a long wave, and, immediately the canoe had grounded, they sprang out and drew it up beyond reach of the surf.

Directly before them rose a steep, heavily wooded slope, the broken-down remnant of what must once have been a wall of rock. Casuarina trees, some of them of immense size, grew here and there, the lacy foliage continually wet with spray. Coconut palms and the screw pine raised their tufted tops above the tangle of vegetation, and ferns of many varieties grew in the dense shade. For a moment the members of the party gazed about them without speaking; then Maimiti, with an exclamation of pleasure, made her way quickly to a bush that grew in a cleft among the rocks. She returned with a branch covered with glossy leaves and small white blossoms of a waxlike texture. She held them against her face, breathing in their delicate fragrance.

“It is the tefano,” she said, turning to Christian. Moetua was equally delighted, and the two women immediately gathered an armful of the blossoms and sat down to make wreaths for their hair.

“We shall be happy in this place,” said Moetua. “See! There are pandanus trees and the aito and purau everywhere. Almost it might be Tahiti itself.”

“But when you look seaward it is not like Tahiti,” Maimiti added wistfully. “There is no reef. We shall miss our still lagoons. And where are the rivers? There can be none, surely, on so small an island that falls so steeply to the sea.”

“No,” said Christian. “We shall find no rivers like those of Tahiti; but there will be brooks in some of these ravines. What do you think, Minarii?”

The Tahitian nodded. “We shall not lack for water,” he said. “It is a good land; the thick bush growing even here among the rocks proves that. Our taro and yams and sweet potatoes will do well in this soil. We may even find them growing here in a wild state; and there are sure to be plantains in the ravines.”

Christian threw back his head, gazing at the green wall of vegetation rising so steeply above them. “We shall have work and to spare in clearing the land for our plantations,” he said.

“I’ll take to it kindly, for one,” Smith replied warmly. “It does my heart good to smell the land again. Brown and me is a pair will be pleased to quit ship here, if that’s your mind, sir. Eh, Will?”

The gardener nodded. “Shall we stop, sir?” he asked. “Is this Pitcairn’s Island, do ye think?”

“I’m convinced of it,” Christian replied. “It is far off the position marked for it on Captain Carteret’s chart, but it must be the island he sighted. Whether we shall stay remains to be seen.”

The women had now finished making their wreaths. They pressed them down over their thick black hair, which hung loosely over their shoulders. Christian gazed at them admiringly, thinking he had never seen a more beautiful sight than those two made in their kirtles of tapa cloth, with flecks of sunlight and shadows of leaves moving as the wind would have it across their faces and their slim brown bodies. Maimiti rose quickly. “Let us go on,” she said. “I am eager to see what lies beyond.”

The party, led by Minarii, was soon toiling up the ridge, the natives, Smith among them, far in advance. Christian and Brown followed at a more leisurely pace, stopping now and then to examine the trees and plants around them. The ascent was steep indeed, and in places they found it necessary to pull themselves up by the roots of trees and bushes. Two hundred feet of steady climbing brought them to a gentler slope. Here the others were awaiting them.

Before them stretched a densely wooded country that seemed all but level, at first, after the steep climb to reach it. Far below was the sea, its colour of the deepest blue under the cloudless sky. In a southerly direction the land rose gently for a considerable distance, then with a steeper ascent as it approached the ridge which bounded their view on that side. To the northwest another ridge could be seen, culminating at either end in a mountain peak green to the summit, but the one to the north showed sections of bare perpendicular wall on the seaward side. The land before them was like a great plateau rather than a valley, traversed by half a dozen ravines, and lying at an angle, its high side resting upon the main southern ridge of the island, its lower side upon the cliffs that fronted the sea. The ridges to the west and south rose, as nearly as they could judge, five or six hundred feet above the place where they stood.

“That peak to the southwest must be all of a thousand feet above the sea,” said Christian.

“Aye, sir,” Smith replied. “We’ll be high and safe here, that’s sure. Ye’d little think, from below, there’s such good land.”

At a little distance before them the ground fell away to a small watercourse so heavily shaded by great trees that scarcely a ray of sunlight penetrated. Here they found a tiny stream of clear water and gladly halted to refresh themselves. Christian now divided his party.

“Minarii, do you and Moetua bear off to the left and climb the main ridge yonder. Smith, you and Brown follow the rise of the land to the westward; we must know what lies beyond. I will proceed along this northern rim of the island. Let us meet toward midday, farther along, somewhere below the peak you see before us. The island is so small that we can hardly go astray.”

They then separated. Keeping the sea within view on the right, Christian proceeded with Maimiti in a northwesterly direction. Now and then they caught glimpses through the foliage of the mountain that rose before them, heavily wooded to the topmost pinnacle, but descending in sheer walls of rock on the seaward side. Save for the heavy booming of the surf, far below, the silence of the place seemed never to have been broken since the beginning of time; but a few moments later, as they were resting, seated on the trunk of a fallen tree, they heard a faint bird-call, often repeated, that seemed to come from far away. They were surprised to discover the bird itself, a small dust-coloured creature with a whitish breast, quite near at hand, darting among the undergrowth as it uttered its lonely monotonous cry. They saw no other land birds, no living creatures, in fact, save for a small brown rat, and a tiny iridescent lizard scurrying over the dead leaves or peering at them with bright eyes from the limbs of trees. Of a sudden Maimiti halted.

“There have been people here before us,” she said.

“Here? Nonsense, Maimiti! What makes you think so?”

“I know it,” she replied gravely. “It must have been long ago, but there was once a path where we are now walking.”

Christian smiled incredulously. “I can’t believe it,” he said.

“Because you are not of our blood,” the girl replied. “But Moetua would know, or Minarii. I felt this as we were climbing up from the landing place. Now I am sure of it. People of my own race have lived here at some time.”

“Why have they gone, then?”

“Who knows?” she replied. “Perhaps it is not a happy place.”

“Not happy? An island so rich and beautiful?”

“The people may have brought some old unhappiness with them. It is not often the land that is to blame; it is those who come.”

“You can’t be right, Maimiti,” Christian said, after a moment of silence. “What could have brought them so far from any other land?”

“It is not only you white men with your great ships who make long voyages,” she replied. “There is no land in all this great ocean that people of my blood have not found before you. Even here they have come.”

“Perhaps.... Don’t you think we shall be happy here?” he asked presently. “You’re not sorry we came?”

“No ...” She hesitated. “But it is so far away.... Shall we never go back to Tahiti?”

Christian shook his head. “Never. I told you that before we came,” he added gently.

“I know....” She glanced up with a wistful smile, her eyes misted with tears. “You must not mind if I think of Tahiti sometimes.”

“Mind? Of course I shall not mind! ... But we shall be happy here, Maimiti. I am sure of it. The land is strange to us now; but soon we shall have our houses built, and when our children come it will be home to us. You will never be sad, then.”

The relationship between Christian and this daughter of Polynesian aristocrats was no casual or superficial one. It was an attachment that had its beginning shortly after the Bounty’s first arrival at Tahiti, and which had deepened day by day during the months the vessel remained there, assembling her cargo of young breadfruit trees. During the long sojourn on the island, Christian had made a serious effort to learn the native speech, with such success that he was now able to converse in it with considerable fluency. The language difficulty overcome, he had discovered that Maimiti was far more than the simple, unreflecting child of nature that he had, at first, supposed; but it was not until the time came when it was necessary for her to choose between him and giving up, forever, family and friends and all that had hitherto made life dear to her that he realized the depth of her loyalty and affection. There had been no hesitation on her part in deciding which it should be.

Presently she turned toward him again, making an attempt to smile. “Let us go on,” she said. She took Christian’s hand, as though for protection against the strangeness and silence of the place, and they proceeded slowly, peering into the thickets on either side, stopping frequently to explore some small glade where the dense foliage of the trees had prevented the undergrowth from thriving. Of a sudden Maimiti halted and gazed overhead. “Look!” she exclaimed. “Itatae!”

Coming from seaward, outlined in exquisite purity against the blue sky, were two snow-white terns. They watched them in silence for a moment.

“These are the birds I love most of all,” said Maimiti. “Do you remember them at Tahiti? Always you see two together.”

Christian nodded. “How close they come!” he said. “They seem to know you.”

“Of course they know me! Have I never told you how I chose the itatae for my own birds when I was a little girl? Oh, the beautiful things! You will see: within a week I shall have them eating out of my hand.”

She now looked about her with increasing interest and pleasure, pointing out to Christian various plants and trees and flowers familiar to her. Presently a parklike expanse, shaded by trees immemorially old, opened before them. On their right hand stood a gigantic banyan tree whose roots covered a great area of ground. Passing beyond this and descending the slope for a little way, they came to a knoll only a short distance above the place where the land fell steeply to the sea. It was an enchanting spot, fragrant with the odours of growing, blossoming things, and cooled by the breeze that rustled through the foliage of great trees that hemmed it in on the seaward side. Beyond, to the north, they looked across a narrow valley to the mountain which cut off the view in that direction. Christian turned to his companion.

“Maimiti, this is the spot I would choose for our home.”

She nodded. “I wished you to say that! It is the very place!”

“All of our houses can be scattered along this northern slope,” he added, “and we are certain to find water in one of these small valleys.”

Maimiti was now as light-hearted as she had been sad a little time before. They sat down on a grassy knoll and talked eagerly of plans for the future, of the precise spot where their house should stand; of the paths to be made through the forests, of the gardens to be planted, and the like. At length they rose, and, crossing the deeply shaded expanse above, they came to a breadfruit tree which towered above the surrounding forest. It was the first they had seen. Another smaller tree had sprung from one of its roots, and by means of this Maimiti climbed quickly to the lower branches of the great one, which was loaded with fruit. She twisted off a dozen or more of the large green globes, tossing them down to Christian.

“We shall have a feast to-day,” she called down. “Did you bring your fire-maker?”

Christian brought forth his flint and steel; they gathered twigs and leaves and dry sticks, and when the fire was burning briskly they placed the fruit in the midst of it to roast. When the rough green rinds had been blackened all round, they left the breadfruit among the hot ashes and again set out to explore further. Upon returning, an hour later, they found Minarii and Moetua squatting by the fire roasting sea birds’ eggs which they had collected along the tops of the cliffs beyond the southern ridge. And Minarii had brought a cluster of green drinking coconuts and a bunch of fine plantains he had found in the depths of the valley.

“We shall eat well to-day,” he said. “It is a rich land we have found. We have no need to seek further.”

“So I think,” Christian replied. “Did you climb the ridge to the south’ard?”

“Yes. There is good land beyond, better even than that in this valley. I was surprised to find it so; but on this side is where we should live.”

“That is good news, Minarii,” Christian replied. “I, too, supposed that the sea lay directly below the southern ridge. How wide are the lands beyond?”

“In some places they extend for all of five or six hundred paces, sloping gently down from the ridge to the high cliffs that front the sea.”

“Have you found any streams?”

“One. It is small, but the water is good.”

“We shall not lack for sea fowls’ eggs,” said Moetua. “All the cliffs on that southern side are filled with crannies where they nest. I collected these in little time, but there is danger in gathering them; it made my eyes swim to look below.”

It was now getting on toward midday, but the lofty trees spread for them their grateful shade, and the breeze, though light, was refreshingly cool. While preparations for the meal went forward, Christian again strolled to the seaward side of the plateau, where he had a view of the full half-circle of the horizon. Far below, to the east, he could see the Bounty, looking small indeed under the cliffs, against the wide background of empty sea. Her anchors were holding well. Having satisfied himself that the ship had maintained her position, he seated himself with his back to a tree, hands clasped around his knees, and remained thus until he heard Maimiti’s voice calling him from above. He rose and went slowly back to the others.

Their meal was under way before Smith and Brown appeared. Both were enthusiastic over what they had found.

“It’s as fine a little place as ever I see, Mr. Christian,” Smith said, warmly. “We climbed to the top of that peak, yonder.”

“How much land is there beyond the western ridge?”

“Little enough, sir, and what there is, is all rocks and gullies.”

Christian turned to Brown. “What have you found in the way of useful plants and trees?”

“I needn’t speak of the coconut palms and the pandanus, sir. Ye’ve seen for yourself that there’s more than enough for our needs. Then there’s miro and sandalwood, and the tutui ...”

“The candlenut? There is a useful find indeed!”

“There’s a good few scattered about; and the miro, as ye know, is a fine wood for house-building. As for food plants, it’s as well we’ve a stock on board. We’ve found wild yams and a kind of taro, but little else.”

“You could overlook the whole of the island from the peak?”

“Aye, sir,” Smith replied.

“What would you say of its extent, judging roughly?”

“It can’t be much over two miles long, sir, if that; and about half as wide. What do ye think, Will?”

“Aye, it’s about that,” the gardener replied. “There’s a fine grove of breadfruit on the shelf of land ye can see from here, sir, but I’m as glad we brought some young trees with us. We’ve varieties I didn’t see, here, in looking about this morning.”

“Have you found any evidence that people have been here before us?”

“To say the truth, sir, I never even thought of that,” Brown replied.

“Ye don’t mean white men, Mr. Christian?” Smith asked.

“No. We are the first, I am sure, who have ever landed here; but Maimiti thinks Indians have once inhabited the place.”

“If they did, it must have been long ago. Never a trace did we see of anything of the kind.”

Christian now turned to Minarii, addressing him in the native tongue. “Minarii, is it possible, do you think, that Maoris have ever visited this land?”

“É,” he remarked, quietly. “There has been a settlement here, where we now are. It is the place that would have been chosen for a village, and that great banyan tree has been planted. The breadfruit as well.”

Maimiti turned to Christian. “You see?” she said. “Did I not tell you so?”

Christian smiled, incredulously. “I have great respect for your judgment, Minarii,” he said, “but in this case I am sure you are wrong. Before us sea birds alone have inhabited this land.”

Minarii inserted his hand into the twist of tapa at his waist and drew forth a small stone adze, beautifully made and ground to perfect smoothness. “Then the sea fowl brought that?” he asked.

It was late afternoon when the party returned to the ship. Smith and Brown went forward, where they were surrounded at once by the other seamen, eager for a report of conditions ashore. Christian retired to his cabin and supped there, alone. Toward sunset he joined Young on deck. For some time he paced up and down, then halted by his companion, who stood at the rail gazing at the high slopes before them, all golden now in the light of the sinking sun.

“We will call this ‘Bounty Bay,’ Mr. Young, unless you have a better suggestion?”

“I was thinking that ‘Christian’s Landing’ would be a suitable name, sir.”

Christian shook his head. “I wish my name to be attached to nothing here,” he said, “not even to one of those rocks offshore. Tell me,” he added, “now that we have found the place, how do you feel about it?”

“That we might have searched the Pacific over without having discovered a more suitable one.”

“There is no real anchorage here,” Christian went on. “The place where we lie is the best the island affords. You can imagine what this cove will be in a northerly blow. No ship would be safe for ten minutes in such an exposed position. You realize what a decision to remain here means? Our voyages are over until our last day.”

“That is of course, sir,” Young replied, quietly.

“And you are content that it shall be so?”

“Quite.”

Christian turned his head and gave him a swift, scrutinizing glance. When he spoke again it was not as the Bounty’s captain addressing an inferior officer. There was a friendly gleam in his eyes, and a note of appeal in his voice.

“Old friend,” he said, “from this time on, let there be no more ship’s formality between us. The success or failure of the little colony we shall plant here depends largely upon us. I shall need your help badly, and it may be that you will need mine. Whatever happens, let us stand by each other.”

“That we shall,” Young replied warmly, “and there is my hand upon it.”

Christian seized and pressed it cordially. “We have rough men to handle,” he continued. “It was to be expected that the more unruly ones should have come here with me.... Tell me frankly, why did you come? There was no need. You took no part in the mutiny; you might have remained on Tahiti with the other innocent men to wait for a ship to take you home. Once there, a court-martial would certainly have vindicated you.”

“Let me assure you of this,” Young replied, “I have never regretted my decision.”

Christian turned again to look at him. “You mean that,” he said, “I can see that you do. And yet, when I think what you have given up to throw in your lot with me ...”

“Do you remember Van Diemen’s Land,” Young asked, “where Bligh had me seized up at one of the guns and flogged?”

“I am not likely to forget that,” Christian replied, grimly.

“I was a mutineer at heart from that day,” Young went on. “I have never told you of this, but, had there been an opportunity, I would have deserted the ship before we sailed from Tahiti—for home, as we then thought. As you know, I slept through the whole of the mutiny. When I was awakened and ordered on deck, the thing was done. Bligh and those who went with him had been cast adrift, and the launch was far astern. Had I known in advance what you meant to do ...” He paused. “I will not say, Christian, that I would have given you my active support. I think I should have lacked the courage ...”

“Let us speak no more of that,” Christian interrupted. “You are here. You little know what comfort that thought brings me.... I was thinking,” he added presently, “what a paradise Pitcairn’s Island might prove, could we have chosen our companions here. We have an opportunity such as chance rarely grants to men—to form a little world cut off from the rest of mankind, and to rear our children in complete ignorance of any life save what they will find on this small island.”

Young nodded. “Whom would you have chosen, could you have had your wish, from the Bounty’s original company?”

“I prefer not to think of the matter,” Christian replied, gloomily. “We must do what we can with those we have. The Indians are fine fellows, with one or, perhaps, two exceptions. I have few regrets concerning them. As for the men of our own blood ...” He broke off, leaving the sentence unfinished.

“Brown and Alex Smith might have been chosen in any event,” Young remarked.

“I should have excepted them. They are good men, both.”

“And their respect and admiration for you are very near idolatry,” Young added, with a faint smile. “That of Smith in particular; you’ve a loyal henchman there.”

“I’m glad you think so. I’ve a great liking for Smith. What do you know of him? Where does he come from?”

“I’ve learned more about him these past three months than I did during the whole of the voyage out from England. He was a lighterman on the Thames at the time Bligh was signing on the Bounty men, but he hated the business and was only waiting for a suitable opportunity to go to sea again. He has told me that his true name is Adams, John Adams, and that he was born and reared in a foundling home near London.”

“Adams, you say? That’s curious! Why did he change his name?”

“He volunteered no information on that score, and I didn’t feel free to question him.”

“No, naturally not. Well, whatever scrape he may have been in, I’ll warrant there was nothing mean or underhanded in his share of it.”

“I’d be willing to take my oath on that,” Young replied, heartily. “He’s rough and uncouth, but you can depend upon him. He hasn’t a tricky or a dishonest bone in his body.”

“There is a decision we must make soon,” Christian said, after a moment of silence. “It concerns the vessel.”

“You mean to destroy her?”

“Yes. Do you agree to the plan?”

“Heartily.”

“There is nothing else we can do, the island being what it is; but I want the suggestion to come from the men themselves. They must soon see the necessity, if they have not already.”

“Supposing there were a safe anchorage?”

“Not even then should I have wanted to keep her. No, we must burn all bridges behind us. I fancy there is not a lonelier island in the Pacific, and yet the place is known, and there is always the possibility of its being visited. A ship can’t be concealed, but once we are rid of the Bounty we can so place our settlement that no evidence of it will appear from the sea. The landing is a dangerous one and not likely to be attempted by any vessel that may pass this way; certainly not if the place is thought to be uninhabited. We shall have little to fear, once we are rid of the vessel.”

“May I make a suggestion?”

“Please do. Speak your mind to me at all times.”

“The men are impatient, I know, to learn of your plans. Would it not be well to tell them, to-night, how the island impresses you?”

Christian reflected for a moment. “Good. I agree,” he said. “Call them aft, will you?”

He paced the quarter-deck while Young was carrying out this order. The men, both white and brown, gathered in a half-circle by the mizzenmast to await Christian’s pleasure. The women assembled behind them, peering over their shoulders and talking in subdued voices. It was a strange ship’s company that gathered on the Bounty’s deck to listen to the words of their leader.

“Before anything more is done,” he began, “I wish to be sure that you are satisfied with this island as a home for us. You were all agreed that we should search for the place, and that, if we found it suitable, we should settle here. You will have learned from your shipmates who went ashore with me what the island has to offer us. Remember, if we go ashore, we go to stay. If any object, now is the time to speak.”

There was an immediate response from several of the men.

“I’m for stopping, Mr. Christian.”

“It’s a snug little place. We couldn’t wish for better, sir.”

Mills was the first of the dissenting party to speak.

“It’s not my notion of a snug little place.”

“Why not?” Christian asked.

Addressed thus directly by his commanding officer, Mills shifted from one foot to the other, scowling uneasily at his companions.

“I’ve spoke my mind, Mr. Christian; it ain’t my notion of a place, and I’ll stand by that.”

“But that’s no reason, man! You must know why you’re not satisfied. What is it that you object to?”

“He’d be satisfied with no place, Mr. Christian; that’s the truth of it,” Williams, the blacksmith, put in.

“You prefer Tahiti. Is that it?” Christian asked.

“I’m not sayin’ I’d not go back if the chance was offered.”

Christian regarded him in silence for a moment.

“Listen to me, Mills,” he proceeded. “And the rest of you as well. I have spoken of this matter before. I will repeat what I’ve said, and for the last time. We are not English seamen in good standing, in our own ship, free to do as we choose and to go where we choose. We are fugitives from justice, guilty of the double crime of mutiny and piracy. That we will be searched for, as soon as the fact of the mutiny is known, is beyond question.”

“Ye don’t think old Bligh’ll ever reach England, sir?” Martin interrupted.

Christian paused and glanced darkly at him.

“I could wish that he might,” he said, “for the sake of the innocent men who went with him. As matters stand, it is not likely that any of them will ever again be heard of. Nevertheless, His Majesty will not suffer one of his vessels to disappear without ordering a wide and careful search to be made, to learn, if possible, her fate. A ship-of-war will be sent out for that purpose, and Tahiti will be her destination. There she will learn of the mutiny from those of our company who remained on that island. The Pacific will then be combed for our hiding place; every island considered at all likely as our refuge will be visited. Should we be discovered and taken, death will be the portion of every man of us. For my own part, I mean never to be taken.”

“Nor I, sir!” Smith put in. Others of the mutineers added their voices to his. There was no doubt as to the general feeling concerning the necessity for a safe hiding place.

“Very well,” Christian continued. “It is agreed, apparently, by all, or most of you, that you have no wish to swing at a yardarm from one of His Majesty’s ships-of-war. What, then, is best to be done? Surely it is to seek out some island unlikely to be visited for as long as we may live. We have found such an island; it lies before us. We are distant, here, more than a thousand miles from Tahiti, and far from the tracks of any vessel likely to cross the Pacific in whatever direction. It is a fertile and pleasant place; that you can see for yourselves. Our Indian friends, whose judgment I trust more than my own in such matters, say that it is capable of supplying all our needs. There are no inhabitants to molest us; our experiences at Tupuai will not be repeated here. To me it seems an ideal spot, and Mr. Young agrees that we might have searched the Pacific over without having found one better suited to men in our position. Now, then, reflect carefully. Shall we make our home here or shall we not? And those who are opposed must give better reasons than that of Mills.”

“Is this to be for good, Mr. Christian?” McCoy asked.

“Yes. Let there be no mistake about that. I have already said that if we go ashore we go to stay.”

“Then I don’t favour it.”

“For what reason?”

“The place is too sma’. We’d do better for ourselves on that island we raised after the mutiny, on our way to Tupuai.”

“Rarotonga, you mean.”

“Aye. It’s a likelier place.”

Christian reflected for a moment.

“I will say this, McCoy. I seriously considered taking the vessel to Rarotonga, but there are the best of reasons why I decided against the plan. The place is known to those of the Bounty’s company who remained on Tahiti, and amongst them are men who will be sure to speak of it to the officers of whatever vessel may be sent in search of us. Furthermore, it is but little more than a hundred leagues from Tahiti. We could never feel safe there.... Have you anything further to say?”

He waited, glancing from one to another of the mutineers. Mills avoided his gaze and stood with his arms folded, scowling at vacancy. Martin looked at Quintal and kicked him with his bare foot as though urging him to speak, but no further objections were offered.

“Very well, then. Those who favour choosing Pitcairn’s Island as our home, show hands.”

Five hands were lifted at once. McCoy, after a moment of hesitation, joined the affirmative vote. Martin followed.

“Well, Mills?” said Christian, sharply.

The old seaman raised his hand with an effort. “I can see it’s best, Mr. Christian, but I deem it hard to be cut off for life on a rock the like o’ this.”

“You would find it harder still to be cut off at a rope’s end,” Christian replied, grimly.

“What’s to be done with the ship, sir?” Martin asked.

“Burn her, I say.” It was Smith who spoke.

“Aye, burn and scuttle her, Mr. Christian,” said Williams. “There’s no other way.”

There was immediate dissent to this proposal on the part of both Martin and Mills, and for a moment all the seamen were shouting at once. Christian waited, then gave an order for silence.

“Not a man of you but is seaman enough to know that we can’t keep the ship here,” he said, quietly. “She must be dismantled and burned. What else could we do with her?”

The matter was discussed at some length, but it was plain to all that no other possibility offered itself, and when the question was put to a vote the show of hands was again unanimous.

“I have only one other thing to add,” Christian said. “In matters of importance that concern us as a community, every man, from this day on, shall have his vote. All questions shall be decided by the will of the majority. Are you agreed to this?”

All were in favour of the proposal, and Christian, having admonished them to remember this in the future, dismissed them. When they had gone, Young turned to his commander.

“For their own good, Christian, you have been too generous.”

“In granting them a voice in our affairs?”

“Yes. I think ultimate decisions should rest with you.”

“I well realize the danger,” Christian replied; “but there is no alternative. I alone am the cause of their being here. Had I not incited them to mutiny, the Bounty would now be nearing England—home.” He broke off, staring gloomily at the land. “That thought must be often in their minds.”

“They were your eager assistants,” Young replied. “Not one of them joined you against his will.”

“I know. Nevertheless, I swept them into action on the spur of the moment. They had no time to reflect upon the consequences. No, Edward, I owe the meanest man among them whatever compensation is now possible. Justice demands that I give each of them a voice in our affairs; yes, even though I know it to be to their own hurt. But you and I, together, can, I hope, direct them to wise decisions.”

The sun had now set and the silence of the land seemed to flow outward to meet the silence of the sea. High overhead, sea birds in countless numbers floated to and fro with lonely cries in the still air, their wings catching the light streaming up from beyond the horizon. The Bounty rocked gently over the long smooth undulations sweeping in from the open sea.

At length Christian turned from the rail. “It is a peaceful spot, Edward,” he said. “God grant that we may keep it so!”