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Beyond the Bounty. Tony Parsons
Читать онлайн.Название Beyond the Bounty
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9780007459797
Автор произведения Tony Parsons
Жанр Приключения: прочее
Издательство HarperCollins
I murmured vaguely. Then I nodded towards the grave. Only the raven-haired tops of those Tahitian heads were visible now. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I think they’ve almost finished.’
The Tahitians clambered out and we all formed a circle around the grave. And what a strange little tribe we were, those of us starting from scratch on this uncharted island.
Eight English seamen, some of us still wearing the tattered rags we had worn on the Bounty, others in the light cotton wraps worn by the natives – kirtles, they were called.
Six Tahitian men who had helped us crew the Bounty after we left half of our fellow mutineers on Tahiti.
Eleven women of all shapes and sizes, plus a baby boy who had been born on the quarterdeck of the Bounty.
One of the women gently led Fletcher’s widow to the graveside so we could get on with the funeral. ‘Maimiti,’ said the woman who comforted her, ‘Maimiti.’ It always sounded like ‘My Meaty’ to my scurvy English ears.
Maimiti was across the black hole from me and I had a good look at her. She was the kind of woman that a man can’t stop looking at.
I realised that I had always enjoyed looking at her. Though when our master and commander was husband to her, it had to be done out of the corner of my eye, on the sly.
We were silent apart from the choking sobs of Maimiti. The English mutineers. The Tahitians. Even the baby was sleeping.
John Adams opened his Bible and said a few words.
‘Today we say goodbye to our fallen leader and our beloved brother,’ said John, his voice booming across the open grave. ‘Master’s mate and true captain of His Majesty’s Ship Bounty – Fletcher Christian.’
John gave the nod and a couple of our crew began lowering his body into the grave. The Tahitian man next to me – no more than a boy, really – was examining the dirt under his fingernails. I gave him a quick kick and then he gave the funeral service his full attention.
‘Fletcher believed that we would find no happiness here,’ said John. ‘That we would be forever hiding and shivering like convicts. That life here would be another way of dying. As we say goodbye to our fallen brother, and as we dedicate our lives here to living in the light of the Lord, we hope to prove him wrong …’
It was impressive stuff from John Adams – full of fire and brimstone, the wrath of God and the promise of streets of gold. But I was not really listening. I was too busy watching Maimiti on the other side of the grave, noticing how her body curved under that thin native dress.
She was the loveliest of the lot. The fairest woman I have ever seen. Her eyes flashed with black light. Her skin looked as though it had never spent one day out of the sun. Her teeth were white as bone.
The King’s daughter, so they said. I believe he had several hundred of them.
But this one here, she was said to be the favourite child of King Tynah of Tahiti. And a real king he was too. Although a king in these parts was not quite the same as a king back home. I believe His Majesty King Tynah was the type of monarch who had fifty wives and wiped his royal arse with his hand.
But still, she was the daughter of the king of Tahiti. Maimiti, Maimiti. Daughter of the king, widow of the captain, the most beautiful sight in all of our tropical Eden.
John didn’t look up from his old Bible.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. All of that. The usual mournful farewells.
But the other men – Tahitians and English, boys and men – kept glancing up from Fletcher Christian’s grave to steal a look at his young widow.
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