Authors: Tony Parsons

Tags: #General Fiction

Beyond the Bounty (7 page)

The old native lifted the rock high above his head and brought it down with as much force as he could muster.

I believe that William McCoy was dead before he hit the ground. Some of his grey brains splashed across my bare feet.

All hell broke loose.

Englishmen and native warriors were immediately locked in hand-to-hand combat.

And then, like a flock of birds acting with one will, the natives broke away from us and headed for the hills of the interior.

We caught our breath and tended our wounds. Then we armed ourselves with knives and went after them.

But the day was almost over now and night falls quickly in that part of the tropics. They were conditions that favoured the game rather than the hunter. We slowed our pace as we entered the green heart of Pitcairn, catching our breath at every strange noise.

The natives ambushed us by the waterfall.

They had been hiding behind the crashing avalanche of water. They came screaming blue murder out of the falls, slashing wildly with their knives.

I saw the death of William Brown, the four-eyed gardener, stabbed in the back by Hu.

And I saw Jack Williams die, his throat slashed ear to ear by Tetahiti – poor Jack dead after just one night of rough love with the King’s daughter.

Then we were on them and they were on us.

Men gripping the wrists and the throats of other men. Screaming oaths in terror and fury in the gathering twilight, the waterfall pounding behind us.

And then a single gunshot.

Like the voice of God speaking to Adam in the Garden of Eden.

A long crack that split the air and froze our blood.

We looked at John Adams, the musket still smoking in his hands.

‘Enough,’ he said. ‘No more killing. Not today. Not ever.’

The colour of our skin suddenly mattered no more. Tahitian and English sailor, we walked back to the village, carrying our dead.

The English seamen had lost three men – William McCoy with his brains dashed out as he raised the whip. Jack Williams, the happy groom. And William Brown, the four-eyed gardener, stabbed to death in the ambush. The natives had also lost three of their number. When we gathered once more in the settlement, the cat-o’-nine-tails lying there like the serpent in the good book, John Adams spoke to us in his terrible voice.

‘We live together or we die together,’ he said. ‘From this day forth, we live as equals. Every man has one vote – English seaman or South Sea native, white or brown.’

I snorted with scorn.

‘John,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you give a vote to the women? And how about the monkeys? Do the monkeys get a vote?’

John Mills laughed at that, and then his laughter died in his throat. He looked around wildly.

‘Where are the women?’ he said.

We ran to the cliff top. I had half-expected to see that the women had dashed themselves to death on the rocks below. But no – they were out on Bounty Bay, sailing a raft that they must have been secretly building for months.

‘The women grow weary of men,’ said Tetahiti, that wise old bird. ‘All men.’

The women clung to their raft and their children. Perhaps they would have made it out to open sea without the babies and the children.

But their squawking offspring howled with terror and clung to their mothers, demanding to be soothed. And one hand for the sea and another for the children was not enough. It was an escape plan that would have required all hands.

The wild waves of Bounty Bay flung the little raft back onto the rocks.

Repeatedly the women tried to escape from our island’s water – repeatedly the sea threw them back to Pitcairn.

In the end whatever rough twine had bound the wood of their raft came apart. The logs separated. The raft seemed to melt on the moon-washed sea. The women trod water and held their children above the waves. They believed that they would all now drown.

Down on the narrow sandy beach, we men tore off our native kirtles. We cried out that help was on its way. Then we swam out to the floundering women and children.

And we carried them home to Pitcairn.

10
King of the World

Maimiti smiled at me once.

There had been a time when I had hoped that she might be my wife. It was a mad dream – that the daughter of a king, and the widow of Fletcher Christian, would take the hand of a toothless sailor such as myself.

She was not for me.

But one day, as our children played on the top of the white cliffs, she gave me a smile.

And for those few happy moments, Maimiti made me the King of the South Seas.

Thursday Fletcher Christian was older than my boy Captain. But Thursday – or Friday, as he was sometimes known – was one of those kind children whose joy it is to care for smaller children.

The boys played a game of tag. Captain would stagger on his fat little legs after Thursday. The older boy would let him get just within range and then hop off. They both laughed merrily at this, as did Maimiti and myself.

We sat on the grass as it sloped upwards, keeping ourselves between the two children and the edge of the cliff. We laughed and laughed at the game our children played.

‘They will be great friends,’ I said.

‘They will be brothers,’ Maimiti said, and her laughter subsided to the most beautiful smile that any man has ever seen.

Then she coughed.

Just once.

With her hand over her mouth (she had lovely manners).

And her smile faded when she took her hand away.

I saw the black spot of blood on the palm of her hand.

We gathered the children and walked quickly back to the camp, all laughter gone.

I saw a dead bird on the path, and then another. And then I saw hundreds of dead birds.

Sickness had come to the island.

It was a sickness that came on like a fever.

Sweating. Sore throat. Your muscles feeling as though they were made of lead. But the worst of the sickness was down in your lungs. That was where the sickness began – and where it would seek your end.

My wife was already in her bed, raving with the pain and sweats. Captain bawled to see his mother in such distress. I got wet rags and tried to cool the fire.

Then I picked up Captain and went to see John Adams.

All over the village I could hear the moans and groans of the sick.

‘This is a judgement,’ John Adams told me, glowering at me from his cabin’s doorway like some sun-baked Moses.

‘This is no judgement,’ I said. ‘It is something to do with the birds. Can’t you see? They are all dying. And we eat enough of them.’

He had other ideas.

‘This island was the Garden of Eden and we were all the serpent,’ said John Adams. ‘And now comes God’s judgement.’ The big black ship’s Bible was in his hands, but he did not need to read. John Adams knew the words by heart. ‘
Fallen is Babylon the Great – she has become a home for demons and a haunt for every evil spirit
.’

Captain began to cry a bit at this news.

I picked him up and hugged him.

‘John,’ I said. ‘We must stop eating the birds.’

‘
A haunt for every unclean and detestable bird
,’ he continued. ‘
In one hour she has been brought to ruin!
’

‘There is a sickness among the birds on the island,’ I said. ‘It is the birds who brought it here.’

‘No,’ said John Adams. ‘We carried it with us. From England. From Tahiti. From the
Bounty
.’

A dead bird fell at our feet.

I felt myself growing dizzy. My head was slick with sweat and heat. I staggered where I stood. My small son shivered in my arms. I feared I might drop him and the thought terrified me.

‘The sins of the fathers shall be visited on the sons,’ John Adams said, his mad eyes rolling.

I cursed him.

Then I saw that he was sick too. That we were all sick.

I walked away, my feet unsteady.

It was as if I was back at sea, and the wild ocean was rolling beneath me.

‘Daddy?’ said Captain, his face against my chest.

My beautiful boy.

I awoke to a changed world.

My cabin was empty. Outside the island was silent. Not even the sound of the birds disturbed the still air. If I listened carefully, I could hear a soft breeze in the palms and the distant sigh of the sea.

But beyond that, nothing.

It was as if man had stepped on Pitcairn for but a brief moment in time. And now wild nature had returned to reclaim the island.

I left my cabin. I saw no man, no woman, and no child. But as I walked up the little path towards the white cliffs, I heard the voice of John Adams. His words travelled to me through the palms.

‘Ashes to ashes,’ he said. ‘Dust to dust.’

A small white cross stood on the top of the hill.

John held his Bible over a newly dug grave.

Around him I saw only women and children.

I saw my wife. I saw Maimiti. But I did not see young Isaac Martin, that good lad who I liked so well, and I did not see John Mills, that drunken seadog.

I did not see proud young Hu and I did not see the elder, Tetahiti. John Adams walked towards me.

‘How long did I sleep?’ I said.

‘Seven days and seven nights,’ he said.

I could scarcely believe it. But I knew that it was true.

‘Where are the other men?’ I said.

‘I buried them days ago,’ he said. ‘The judgement seems to be on the men. Not the women and children. All of the women have survived. And most of the children.’

And then I understood.

‘No,’ I said.

John Adams stared at me with eyes that contained all eternity.

‘Not my boy?’ I said.

John placed a rough hand on my shoulder. ‘I am sorry, Ned,’ he said. ‘It is a harsh judgement that has been passed on our island.’

I could not bear for the women to see my tears. I could not bear to look at that small white cross. And I could not bear to look at the saintly face of the man with the Bible. But I did not run away.

Instead, I took my knife from my kirtle and held it to his throat.

‘I thought you wanted to be William Bligh,’ I said bitterly. ‘But now I see you want to be God.’

He stared calmly at the blade against his throat.

Then he smiled.

‘You can’t kill me,’ he said. ‘You will have no one to talk to.’ His face grew serious. ‘I am truly sorry about your son, Ned,’ he said. ‘I know he was the light of your life.’

I broke down then.

I wanted him to fight me. I wanted him to curse me. I wanted him to tell me that I was damned to the fires of hell.

I could deal with anything but his small act of kindness.

The knife slipped through my fingers. I left it where it fell. And I let John Adams lead me from that heart-breaking grave on the top of the white cliffs and down to the beach.

We sat on the sand and stared out to sea.

I felt myself grow warm although the evening breeze was cool. I felt tired, so tired now, although I had slept for seven days and seven nights. And I knew that very soon I would join my son.

‘Rest,’ John Adams told me, his voice more gentle than I had ever known. ‘Stretch out on the sand and rest your weary body, old friend.’

I felt myself weaken.

I felt that I should lie down to rest for a while – or perhaps until Judgement Day. And so I did. Yet there was no rest. It was becoming difficult to breathe and I was suddenly afraid.

But then my mother was standing by my side, smiling at me, and I felt at peace. Even though my mother died at the other end of the world when I was four years old. Even though my mother was gone at the other end of a lifetime.

But she was smiling at me now, and that was real.

John Adams and I stared out at the bay.

Soon it would be just him and the women and children. It would be a chance to start again. I hoped that he would build a better world than the one we had known.

‘Do you remember the night we burned the
Bounty
?’ I said.

‘She made a grand light,’ John Adams said, and he smiled. ‘A light that men will remember for centuries.’

‘Good English oak,’ I said. ‘It makes a mighty fire.’

About the Author

Tony Parsons is the author of
Man and Boy,
which won the Book of the Year prize. His other novels –
One For My Baby
,
Man and Wife
,
The Family Way
,
Stories We Could Tell
,
My Favourite Wife
,
Starting Over
and
Men from the Boys
– were all bestsellers. He was recently writer-in-residence at Heathrow.
Departures
, his first collection of stories, is the result. Tony is the son and grandson of sailors and lives in London.