Mutiny on the Bounty Page #5

- Well, I don't know...

- Hear me.

You will, all of you, no doubt

command your own ships some day.

Let us suppose

that your vessel is running in heavy seas.

The shrouds are covered with ice.

A gale is blowing.

It becomes necessary, in your opinion,

to order a seaman aloft.

He realizes, of course,

that if his fingers slip from the icy shrouds

for a split second,

he'll perish immediately.

Now, this is a typical seaman,

a half-witted, wife-beating,

habitual drunkard.

His whole life is spent evading

and defying authority.

Tell me, sir.

What is it that makes this man go aloft?

I think, depending on the man, sir,

any number of things.

You can put it in one word. Fear.

Fear of what you'll do to him.

Fear of punishment so vivid in his mind

that he fears it even more

than sudden death.

Now don't mistake me.

I'm not advising cruelty or brutality

with no purpose.

My point is that cruelty with purpose

is not cruelty.

It's efficiency.

But a man will never disobey you

once he's watched

his mate's backbone laid bare.

He'll remember

those white ribs staring at him,

he'll see the flesh jump

and hear the whistle of the whip

for the rest of his life.

Well, perhaps you're right, sir.

I'd be careful of that cheese

if I were you, sir.

It has a peculiar smell.

I think it's a bit tainted.

But then, of course,

it's a question of individual taste.

It's damn good port.

In the following weeks,

Captain Bligh worked the ship

for every furlong of gain it could give.

Every inch of canvas spread,

and God help the helmsman

if the wake were not arrow-straight.

Captain Bligh must've asked me

the same question a score of times.

"What day saw the beginning

of the breadfruit's dormant period?"

I told him repeatedly,

I could not name the exact date

for lack of knowing it.

It became clear he'd begun to worry

lest we arrive too late.

He studied his charts hour on hour,

I could not imagine why.

I'd been told there was only one way

to get to the other side of the world.

The long way,

around the Cape of Good Hope

at the bottom of Africa.

That was the course with favoring winds.

As for the other route,

the westward passage around the Horn,

while arithmetic said "yes" to that,

weather said "no."

May I share your merriment?

Just a pleasantry, sir. It was nothing.

Mayn't I be included?

Well, it was just the way

you were walking, sir.

It reminded me of a mutual friend,

Lord Folkestone.

- Do continue.

- Well, that's all, sir.

What was the resemblance?

Well, you just both have

this distinctive walk, sir.

Really? In what way distinctive?

Well, he was kicked by a horse, sir.

I'd rather not say where, sir.

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