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  “The breadfruit was an adequate mission in its own right. I was to be sent after the breadfruit in any event.”

  “No, William, you cannot believe that! I know that getting these breadfruit was the idea of Sir Joseph, the same man who was in a position to have some first-hand knowledge of what Carver wrote. Sir Joseph is the most prominent scientist in Britain, and undeniably influential at the Admiralty. It was he who arranged this whole mission, under the guise of obtaining breadfruit. You know this as well as I. The breadfruit was just a silly ploy, nearly useless.”

  Bligh was angered now, “That is not true, Mr. Christian! Not true. You misspeak!”

  Christian cut him off. “No, William. It is you who do not remember. You yourself laughed when you told me about these breadfruit. What an outrageous notion it was! You must accept, now, that the Admiralty would never have sent us after breadfruit alone. No, as you must remember as it was little more than a year ago, they used this nicely devised grocer’s errand as a convenient guise to conceal our true mission.”

  Bligh was quiet now, seemingly reflecting.

  “And we have not accomplished it, William. I am certain that what Carver spoke of is real. And it will change everything we know. Think about it. It will without doubt make England the most powerful nation in the world for all eternity. But if another nation recovers it, then England will sooner or later be destroyed. It is that plain. Now William, do you not see that we must go back to Otaheite? Even if there is only a tiny chance? Please, turn the ship around.”

  Bligh closed his eyes again, and whispered, “If we do, the breadfruit saplings will die.”

  Christian scoffed, “To hell with the breadfruit! Throw the wretched shrubberies overboard, and let the men have more water instead of conserving it for those blasted plants. We have not accomplished what we came to do! By heading back now, we are defying our orders. We are ignoring the directives of the Admiralty, and even the king. We are returning as failures!”

  That last struck a painful chord, and was too much for William Bligh. Too much when he was so tired. Too much when he had no reserve left. Too much when he was so completely on edge. He had failed in his earlier effort to circumnavigate the globe, beaten back at the Horn. He had failed at obtaining any evidence of this strange Maorian object about which the midshipman had written ten years earlier. He had failed to keep the morale of the crew high, and failed to arrive at the West Indies in time for the summer harvest. The whole mission had been a failure — except for one thing. He did have the breadfruit saplings — late perhaps, but he had them, and they would be delivered whatever the cost. No! He would not return a complete failure!

  In a most severe tone, Bligh chastised the man. “Mr. Christian, that is enough! This mission, and you and I, sir, are not failures! No, sir. We will successfully perform the only mission we have, the only mission that is written in any official document of the king’s navy. We will bring these breadfruit saplings back, or we will die trying. We will neither throw them over the side, nor risk their desiccation by returning to Otaheite in a futile quest for a nonexistent magical pagan article. I will not tolerate any further words on the subject.”

  Christian stood quietly by his captain’s side. He had his own orders from the Admiralty, orders that were as clear and complete as any. What he had hoped to avoid had now become inevitable, and his throat choked at the notion of the acts he was about to perpetrate. For this moment, this last moment, he stood by his captain’s side — his friend’s side. He did not want to leave it.

  “Good day, Mr. Christian!” Bligh said, with a tone indicating irrefutable dismissal.

  Fletcher Christian rubbed his face solemnly and turned away. “Damn you,” he said under his breath as he walked aft, leaving the side of his captain forever. “And damn me.”

  The ship’s bell, hanging in its place just forward of the mizzenmast, rang twice.

  The two days that followed were interminably long. Christian was frozen in indecision. He knew what must be done. He had been preparing for this for more than three weeks, but now that he had to do it, he was having great difficulty. He would be destroying, perhaps killing his friend. He would be destroying himself and dozens of other men as well. And none except he and Bligh would ever know the true reason for the mutiny that was about to occur.

  Christian had to keep complete secrecy — of that he was sure. The undercurrent of discontent that he had nurtured, not without the unwitting accommodation of Bligh, was what would secure the success of his effort to take command of the ship. The sailors on the vessel had been through hell when attempting to round the Horn, and then were placed in the lap of luxury, bathed in warmth and surrounded by the beautiful women of Otaheite. The women, bare chested and smiling, were fit and friendly and always willing to entertain the British sailors. The four months spent on Otaheite were the best months of the crew’s lives. But now they were at sea again, under the auspices of a tyrannical captain, living under harsh conditions with their water rations cut in half and grog almost nonexistent. It had not been hard to create a few situations that were very public, demeaning for the crew, and demoralizing. Enough of the crew, and several of the officers, and even the botanist who had been tending the breadfruit plants would all support him when he took control of the ship. This was so, even though they would be named mutineers and never, ever be able to see England again — unless it was a view while dangling from a hangman’s noose.

  Christian considered that again, as he had done several times in the last days: hanging by the neck from a rope off the starboard yardarm of some nameless man-o’-war in Portsmouth Harbour. Of course, if they were caught, he should escape that fate if the Admiralty were willing to admit to what they had been so careful to keep secret. But they weren’t likely to admit to it. Instead they would let him swing. The other men would have no defense, for they, in their crime, did not and could not share in Christian’s higher purpose. They would mutiny for the pleasures of women, and to avoid the harshness of the captain. The poor souls would not think so far ahead as to see the harshness that the British maritime court would pour forth upon them if they were ever caught and returned to England.

  It was time. There would be no more waiting. Christian slapped his hands on his knees and then arose from his position near the main mast. He was officer of the watch this morning; no youthful midshipmen or other officers were above decks. It was almost four bells, and the sun would be rising on the horizon within a few minutes. The sea was calm and the wind light. The ship slid slowly through the water, with little noise. Even the lapping of the waves on the hull was particularly gentle this day. He would have to be quiet.

  He moved below decks and down the passageway to where the master-at-arms was sleeping. Tapping him gently on the shoulder, Christian was able to awaken him with ease.

  “Churchill, the time has come. This is your last chance to avoid this. If you change your mind later, it will not matter. You will still swing.”

  Rubbing his eyes clear, Churchill responded, “Let there be no further warnings, sir. ‘Tis the right thing to do.”

  Christian knew it was indeed the right thing to do, but not at all for the same reasons that the master-at-arms used to justify such a horrendous act as they were about to commit. Certainly the man had suffered under Bligh’s command, but he had earned such treatment by committing true offenses. “Get the keys to the arms locker. And wake the men who will be with us. Let the others be awakened later by the uproar. I will meet you outside the captain’s quarters in a moment.”

  As Christian walked aft along the passageway, he heard Churchill whispering repeatedly, “Wake up, wake up! Mr. Christian is taking the ship.”

  Mr. Christian was indeed taking the ship. Within minutes, pistol in hand and with seven men at his back, he marched into the captain’s cabin. Captain Bligh lay peacefully asleep on his berth, and he did not stir as they entered.

  “William,” muttered Christian to himself in deep depression. “Forgiv
e me.”

  He walked over to the berth, and holding the pistol to his friend’s head — his captain’s head — he said loudly for all to hear, “Lieutenant Bligh. Arise! Wake up, man! This is Fletcher Christian. I am taking charge of the ship.”

  The captain quickly came to full consciousness. “What is this? What are you doing? Get out of my cabin! Get out, all of you!”

  Christian pulled the captain to his feet. Then the men behind him took over, half carrying, half dragging Bligh out of his cabin and up to the deck.

  Word spread rapidly through the ship, and within four minutes all hands had gathered on deck. Almost a dozen of the crew were armed, with most pointing their weapons at Bligh, whom they had come to despise during the recent weeks.

  With the sails hanging limply from the masts and the ship glowing red with the beams of the rising sun, the long shadows of the men made for a surrealistic pallor. The scene before Christian was more horrific than he had imagined. His friend and captain stood before him, in nightclothes only, bound by hand and foot to the mizzenmast. The men leered at him, insulted him and spit upon him. Christian was not in control. Events were moving forth on their own now.

  “Let I be the one to kill him!” cried one of the younger able-bodied seaman.

  “No! I deserve to. It was I he had stay atop the mast all night!” another replied.

  “Neither of ye have a right that bests mine!” the gunner’s mate protested.

  Christian cut in, yelling at the top of his lungs and pushing all the men back. “There will be no killing! Do you hear me? There will be no killing! Mills, get the captain his clothes. Hurry, man! It is not right for him to be forced up on deck without clothes.” Turning to the left, he pointed to some of the men with guns, and spoke in the rough language of seamen. This language he had learned before the mast, as a gentlemen volunteering to be a seaman, on a different ship, at a different time, when Bligh had first become his mentor. “You men, do ye really think that seven guns need to be aimed at the captain? He is bound secure. Do ye think he is going to break free? If so, then ye had best relearn your knots!” The guns lowered marginally. “Move along then.”

  Then Christian turned toward the throng. He raised his voice so as to be heard above the commotion. “I have taken over the ship. I am relieving Lieutenant Bligh of command. Those of you who are with me, move this way now; those who aren’t, stay where you are.”

  Bligh hollered out to the men, “Be careful what you do, men! This is mutiny, pure and simple. You side with Mr. Christian, and you will most certainly hang!”

  Over the next moments the crew nearly evenly divided themselves into two groups.

  Christian wanted no misunderstandings. “Do think carefully of what you do now. The captain is correct. This is a mutiny, however justified. This is mutiny on the high seas. Those who side with me can never go home, never return to England. If you try, you will be caught and hanged. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, be sure you understand exactly what you are doing!” Bligh called out. “This will not end here. Not at all. England will send ships looking for the Bounty. They will find her; they will find you men. Think of this. Now release me immediately, and get back about the business of going home!”

  There was chatter, and two men slid back to the captain’s side. One said, “I would like to go with you Mr. Christian, but I’s got kids — a family you know.”

  “Right. As you see fit.” He turned and looked at the men who had sided with him against Bligh. The most discontented of the crew were of course there — true rabble who would as soon kill you as obey you. But there were good men among them too, men who had grown tired of Bligh’s perceived injustice. “You men, take guns and guard these here.” He pointed to the gathered group who refused to partake in the mutiny.

  Bligh called over. “Mr. Christian. Come here, man.”

  Christian obliged.

  Bligh was fully aware of the mortal danger he was in. Quietly, he spoke. “Mr. Christian, Fletcher. Stop this thing now, before it goes too far.”

  Christian cried loudly in response, “Dammit, William. It has already gone too far! You have made me a mutineer. A mutineer! God help me!” Impassioned tears flowed down his swarthy face, but there was an unquestionable and intense anger in his black eyes.

  “I will forget it ever happened. Yes, forget it happened. We will go back to Otaheite, if you wish. Whatever you wish. I am a reasonable man.”

  “It is too late for reason. It is too late for you. And it is too late for me.”

  Bligh struggled to stand straight and raised his voice. “Well then, Mr. Christian. There is no turning back then. God damn you! I say Damn you! I spit on you. You are a mutineer. And I promise that I will not rest until I see you and your rabble all hanged. I will not rest!”

  The crew had moved over again. Guns were aimed back at the captain.

  “Let me kill ‘im, Mr. Christian. If any man deserve to die, it be he!”

  “No!” Christian pushed them away again. “No.”

  “What will we do with them all then?” asked Churchill.

  Christian pointed to the portside longboat. This launch was in better shape than the worm-eaten cutter. “We set them adrift. Yes, we set them all adrift.”

  Bligh spoke crisply now. “Might as well just shoot us now, Mr. Christian. What you speak of is just as certain a death sentence.”

  “You will have food and water. You can find islands to resupply.”

  “These islands are all filled with cannibals. We will get killed if we set foot on any of them.”

  “Well, dammit, good luck to you then!” Christian turned to two seaman. “McCoy, Millward, float the launch! And stock it with food and cheese and whatever else you think we can spare. Then get those men on it and get them off my ship.” The sooner the captain was off the Bounty, the better. Christian could in no way guarantee his safety as long as he remained aboard now. These men were a desperate bunch.

  Yet the crew went about their tasks methodically, as if this were just a routine day. Over the next hour the longboat had been filled to capacity with men and supplies. Bligh had been allowed to dress, and he stood at the stern of the little boat with his foot on the gunwale.

  “I need my charts, Mr. Christian,” he demanded.

  The reply was curt. “You are the best navigator I have ever known. You will have a sextant and a compass. As to the charts, you will not get them, sir. I have need of them as well. Now go, sir. Go!”

  Bligh sneered defiantly. The nineteen men who had barely fit aboard the tiny boat looked up at their former shipmates.

  As two of the mutineers used the oars from the cutter to push the launch away from the beam of the Bounty, Bligh gazed upward and spoke to Christian for the last time. “It is not the end of this, Mr. Christian. You will be hunted down. I will see you hanged!” And with that, Bligh turned away, toward the bow of the cramped little boat.

  Christian never saw his friend’s face again.

  That had been two years ago. Now, with his hands grasping those same oars that had once pushed Bligh’s pathetic craft away, Fletcher Christian sat on a rotting thwart — a board that was beaten by time and weather and distance. He looked at his boat. This was roughly the same sized craft upon which he had set adrift all those men. Nineteen good men he had sent to their certain doom, including one of the best men he had ever known. Christian, soaked and miserable in the pounding and ceaseless torrent, had never again been out of the Pacific, and had no way of knowing that Bligh had brought that little open boat and all but one of the men through a three-month, 3,600-mile voyage to the French island of Timor, from where they were returned to England. He had no way of knowing that Bligh, over the years, would be given several more commands, including serving as the governor of New South Wales. And he had no foreknowledge of the events that would someday occur in New South Wales under that governor. For, fifteen years later, there would be another mutiny against Bligh.

  But Christian cou
ld never even have considered the possibility. In his tortured mind, William Bligh — and all those other men — had died at his hand. He and the other surviving mutineers were forever barred from seeing their homes, and were branded as traitors to England for all eternity. And what had it all been for? What had it all been for?

  He pulled at the oars, again and again. He hoped beyond hope that he could reach the tiny island that he knew must lie somewhere out there ahead of him, across the dark and malicious ocean.

  1. Impending Doom

  Year 2012

  TRAVELING SOUTH on the George Washington Parkway on the Arlington side of the Potomac at rush hour can be a downright frustrating experience even when one is not in a hurry. But this particular afternoon, Petur Bjarnasson was very much in a hurry. For months he had not had a single positive response to his proposal, and now, in one day, he had two unsolicited potential financiers. The first, Joseph Onbacher, apparently had access to a large family fortune. The second, Thomas Standall, was a venture capitalist who had struck it rich developing medical instruments.

  A decrepit red pickup was tucked over on the right side of the parkway, slowing traffic to a crawl. Passing drivers were scrutinizing the scene because of the payload in the back — a pair of familiar golden arches that the news stations reported had been abducted from a District of Columbia fast-food restaurant two days earlier. Petur was unaware of their significance, for he had just flown in from San Diego an hour ago. With the limited flights into Reagan National, he ended up flying into BWI, forty-five minutes north of the District at the best of times. His first contact was in Alexandria, Virginia, right next to Reagan National, which was unfortunately where most of the traffic happened to be today.