All language subtitles for In the Wake of the Bounty (1933) english

♪ Blow the man down,
bullies, blow the man down ♪

♪ Hey hey, blow the man down ♪

♪ Blow the man down into Liverpool town ♪

♪ Give me some time to blow the man down ♪

♪ Blow the man down,
bullies, blow the man down ♪

♪ Hey hey, blow the man down ♪

♪ Blow the man down into Liverpool town ♪

♪ Give me some time to blow the man down ♪

That ditty takes me back
to the days of the Bounty.

Days in hell, nights in paradise.

Then, days in hell again.

Michael, tell us the
story of the Bounty.

I've never heard the truth of it.

Yes, Michael, you ole son of a gun,

I'd sell me britches to hear
the truth of that mutiny.

You remember.

You said the tune you played just now,

brought back memories.

♪ Blow the man down,
bullies, blow the man down ♪

♪ Hey hey, blow the man down ♪

♪ Blow the man down into Liverpool town ♪

♪ Give me some time to blow the man down ♪

Storms from hell strained the bounty,

and the temper of Bligh.

And soon we became only a cargo of gloom.

The heat of the equator
burnt through our very hides.

And always, Bligh found fault.

I know that Cooper to
be a damned infernal liar.

Now take these orders, Mr. Christian,

and see that they are carried out.

Groans, aye? Groans.

And we've only just begun.

Well, your ship for
adventure, young cocko.

Adventure.

Lord what blimey fools we are.

Aye. You're right, Fighting Jack.

There's been black and bloody
doings these last few days.

But if Bligh don't find his cheese,

well, things'll get no better.

And on the next banyan day,
butter only will be served

to your low-deck swabbers.

There'll be no more cheese
until May is returned to me.

Your choice of seamen
surprises me, Mr. Christian.

You've picked a bunch
of thieving jellyfish.

There is a feeling on this
craft like creeping murder.

Don't you feel it yourself?

Something in the wind,

something in the creek, on the timbers.

Our bread rations were then cut down,

and we were flogged for
the slightest of things.

I remember quite early in the voyage,

the lashing of poor Quinton.

Enough.

Come on, water.

My god, look what the
swine's done. Damn you.

Blasted swine.

- Oh, the great...
- Damn him.

God, if I can only live
to see him suffer like,

like we've been suffering.

The grub allowed us was so meagre

that we drew lots to see
who should take it all.

Many times we fought like wild beasts.

Give it to me!

Steward.

Steward.

Steward.

What's that confounded noise out there?

If I may beg to say, sir,

the allowance of food is so small

that the men are drawing lots
and, and fighting for it.

The damned infernal scoundrels.

I'll make them eat grass
or anything they can catch,

before I'm done with them.

Send Mr. Christian to me.

For weeks, we battled
against the seas of Cape Horn,

before Bligh decided to
turn from that course.

Hey boys, we're leaving the cape.

Ole redcoat's turning the ship 'round.

Well, we'll be out of
this hell hole, anyhow.

We're filling them up
again, aren't we lads?

We bet it, we are.

Of course.

Ooh, I can feel the
cold wind of the horn

blowing us on and on to the
warm fairy land of Tahiti.

Oh, the memory of those
nights, as we skimmed the sea

all silver with moonlight, and
then at last saw land birds

coming to meet us.

And then, one day...

Tahiti!

Tahiti!

Tahiti!

Tahiti!

Tahiti! Tahiti!

Tahiti!

Come on, boys. Tahiti!

Crown gods, sculptured
in a primitive time,

carried great canoes to the waterfront.

Princess Teatia, decked
with garlands of frangipani,

passes on her way to greet
the men of the Bounty.

Their muscles that are
shaped by the rippling pools

they swim in.

From every little day,

Tahiti's people were running to meet us.

Come, let us drink to those
Tahiti days, to those girls.

Me lads, what girls,
what days, what nights.

A new world strayed before us,

a soft land between heaven and Earth,

of gentle beaches and waving palms,

fascinating our eyes that were
tired of the eternal scene.

The crews of Wallace and Cook were right

when they told strange tales

of this paradise beneath the sun.

Aye, me lads, they were right.

Great slumbering valleys cut their way

through the jagged heart
of this lotus land.

In the heart of Tahiti, we
heard the song of birds,

as great waterfalls lept from
precipice to turn to mist.

Mischievous brown girls,
whose pleasing souls

were one in laughter,

played the hours away
in cool, mountain pools.

Their voices sang to us a song of freedom,

and we listened, thinking like misers,

we could snatch for
ourselves this most priceless

of all man's wishes.

It took us six
months to gather bread fruit

in Tahiti.

We oughta get 'em
in here before we're off.

By God, I won't.

I don't think Christian will either.

You know, he's mad about a girl.

He's not the only man mad about a girl.

Well, come on mates.

Here's to further months in hell.

Yes, hell. Think of it.

Mr. Christian, sit down.

For the desertion of Churchill me lad,

I hold the mate of the watch responsible.

You will have Hayward
turned before the mast

and put in irons for this.

Sir, as an officer, I caution you.

As a man, I ask you to
bear more with the men.

Six months was too long in Tahiti.

Your sailors have left their hearts there

at the cost of their reason.

You are well informed, Mr. Christian.

Are you stating the case of
your men or that of yourself?

Sir, I...

Shut up.

Your merry infatuation with
the half-cast girl, Isabel,

is the talk of the ship.

It's a lie!

Mr. Christian, you dare?

Yes, sir. I dare.

That night while we slept,

Fletcher Christian, aided
by only a handful of men,

quietly seized the Bounty.

Not a shot was fired,
not a sound was heard.

Are you with me in this
adventure, Edward Young?

Yes, sir.

Then break out the arms, immediately.

It's a desperate act, Mr. Christian.

Are you sure of what you're doing?

Yes, all the starboard watch are asleep,

and my men are already in Bligh's cabin.

Be gone.

Ah! What's the meaning of this?

Hey there, governor, come on, come on.

Come on, get outta there.

Come on.

Look here, you scoundrels.

Treacherous fools.

Come on here.

I'll have you...

Come on. Up on deck with him.

Put that rope on. Up on deck.

Mates, mates. Wake up, wake up.

Damn you, rouse yourself, Fighting Jack.

Turn out, men, turn out. Rouse up.

Now listen, all hands on deck.

Mr. Christian has taken
Lieutenant Bligh prisoner.

- Prisoner?
- Aye, prisoner.

And he's now in command of the Bounty.

Take it up, men.

Steady, boys. Steady.

Hold it, Jack, or I'll bust
your head. Now get on deck.

All of ya, get on deck.

Come on, go on.

Come on. Get up.

You, Christian.

An Englishmen and an
officer, to have sunk so low.

The Admiral Lee will see you
all hang for this reason.

Like madmen bewitched
by Tahiti's soft guile,

we sent Bligh and 18 of
his loyal men adrift,

to suffer thirst and
hunger on that endless sea.

Then, as the darkness engulfed them,

we turned to our young commander,
calling, "Tahiti, Tahiti."

Boo-ya, boo-ya, hooray, Tahiti, Tahiti.

Gentlemen, I will carry you

and land you wherever you please.

I desire none to stay with me.

I have only one favour to beg,
that you grant me the Bounty.

Make fast the foresail, and
leave me to run before the wind.

I have done such an act that
I cannot stay at Tahiti,

and I'll never live to be carried home

a disgrace to my family.

Go where you will, Mr. Christian.

We shall never leave you.

Aye, aye, aye!

We tried to make a colony
on an island called Tubai.

And what happened there?

We drank heavily and
fought over the women,

until Christian decided
at the risk of his life

to drive us from those accursed islands.

We formed two parties,

one to remain on Tahiti and risk capture,

and the others to join Christian,

who planned to take the
Bounty into uncharted seas.

Christian left Tahiti
with eight of his mates,

nine native men, and 10 native women.

♪ Blow the man down,
bullies, blow the man down ♪

♪ Hey hey, blow the man down ♪

♪ Blow the man down into Liverpool town ♪

♪ Give me some time to blow the man down ♪

♪ Blow the man down,
bullies, blow the man down ♪

♪ Hey hey, blow the man down ♪

♪ Blow the man down into Liverpool town ♪

♪ Give me some time to blow the man down ♪

We have become self-made villains.

So long as we live, we are hunted men.

You exaggerate, sir.

There be lovely islands of plenty,

where we can never be found.

Aye, but unfortunately we
cannot escape from ourselves,

nor from our own contempt.

The dye has been cast, Edward Young,

and there is no turning back.

The future holds the most
awful adventure of all,

worse than the gallows.

Mutiny,

piracy, and lust.

Oh God, where will it all end?

And so, Christian and
his hearties disappeared.

20 years have passed, and never a sound

has been heard of 'em.

Perhaps someday a lonely
island will be found

with a strange people living there.

Then, the rest of my story can be told.

Tahiti today is
a beautiful dream of the past.

Along its golden strands,
moving across its limpid pools,

crooning down through
its damp-scented forest,

come the songs of yesterday,

when this strange land below the sun

was a world of one dreams,

when its forests echoed to the
maddening dance of primitives

or to the laughter and
blasphemy of the ruthless pirate

and carefree time.

These are still the scenes,
which in the roaring days,

made many an old shellback gasp.

The great molten mountains,
the glamorous lagoons,

the valleys of shadow and cloud.

This great lagoon is now
the harbour of Tahiti,

Paris of the Pacific,
where passionate pleasure

and scheming commerce mix in a melting pot

of colour and creed.

A divine creator has massed
great clouds up on the island

all year.

Through the rigging of our
ship we can see Tahiti,

sleeping under the noon day's spell.

Upon calm harbours of reflection,

lie the luxury yachts of
millionaire and wealthy trader.

Like mounds of snow the tropic hidden,

great cloud banks mass behind spool stars.

We move along the fringe
of Tahiti's great lagoon.

A haven without wave or tide,

only warm winds to make a music ripple

and impress one's mind with
memories that never fade.

Along a lazy coral key, the
schooners large and small,

which plough their tracks to
every corner of the vast Pacific,

bringing home priceless pearls
from the dangerous atolls,

tortoise shell, copra, and vanilla,

taking clothes and food
to lonely outposts,

many leaving their skeletons to bleach

upon forgotten strands.

This schooner, the White
Feather, is being provisioned

to take you down through
the dangerous archipelago,

upon the same trail taken
by Fletcher Christian

when he left Tahiti with his mutineers,

never to be seen again.

A following wind filled the
sails of the White Feather,

as the showgirls left Tahiti
to follow the Bounty's trail.

We have now entered the doldrums,
now running by motor power

through a silver sea of sleep.

The first of the continental shows up,

a little fantasy of reef and sand.

The fate of the Bounty remained
a mystery until a whaler,

blown from its course, stumbled
across a grim little island

thousand miles south of Tahiti.

The discoverer of this island
called it Pitcairn's Island,

and found it to be inhabited
by a strange race of half casts

the descendants of the Bounty mutineers.

These atolls, which are generally
termed the dangerous isles

are 80 in number.

With waving palms and
beds of brilliant coral,

they extend for a distance
of nearly a thousand miles

south from Tahiti.

As dense shadows of palm, they
pass by upon a heated sky.

Many are large and populous.

Others have only sand and
strutting bosun birds.

Solitude succeeds
solitude, and lonely wrecks

by bleaching under devouring sun,

grim reminders that we are traversing

the most dangerous sea trek on the globe.

The miracle is that Fletcher Christian

was able to keep clear of
these treacherous isles.

The shipping line to England by Panama

runs within 200 miles of
lonely Pitcairn Island.

By arrangement, the showgirls
transferred to an ocean liner,

which was deflected from its
course to call at Pitcairn.

After 10 lonely days, Pitcairn
appeared on the horizon.

For the first time, a
motion picture camera

was to record its shape
and rugged outline.

Soon we'll be with the
descendants of the mutineers,

living their life and
sharing their hardships.

Young Pitcairners have sited the steamer.

The arrival of a ship
marks a red letter day

for these isolated people,
who hurry to the waterfront

to man their boats.

They will take out fruit and souvenirs

with which to barter for
flour and any small comfort

the steamer can spare.

From the timber of wrecked ships

and the small trees of Pitcairn,

they have fashioned wonderful boats.

Throughout four generations,

the art of boat building
has been handed down

from the sailors of the Bounty.

This tiny inlet is the
only safe landing place

on the rugged little island.

The first boat bounds
to sea, manned by a crew

of the best oarsman in the Pacific.

For a brief hour, the steamer
will link this lonely island

to our civilization.

Having shift oars, the first island boat

slides to the steamer's side.

Like a piece of cargo,
Mrs. Chauvel was swung

to the Pitcairn boat.

She will be the first Australian woman

ever to land on Pitcairn Island.

As we move in closer to the island,

with its foaming seashore
and precipitous wall,

and hear the crash of the surf,

we realise how well Fletcher Christian

had chosen his hiding place.

A narrow passageway between
rocks has to be negotiated

before a landing can
be made at Bounty Bay.

Even during the calmest
weather, a heavy surf rolls in

and boats have to await their
turn to ride from the back

of an incoming wave.

After their battle with Old Man Sea,

the island boats are drawn into
sheds above the landing ramp

to be safe from further onslaught.

A community spirit not to be
excelled elsewhere in the world

makes light work of
every task on Pitcairn.

In their exile,

these people cling very
closely to each other,

sharing their joys and sorrow,

and making light of their difficulties.

From the outskirts of their village,

we look down upon Bounty Bay.

Ship's dunnage, traded to
the islanders for fruit,

is being carried to their village,

500 feet above the crashing surf.

This timber will be used to
build their homes and boats,

and will be equally divided
among those who need it most.

Adamstown's only village
sprawls upon a ledge

500 feet above the sea.

It is significant that this little village

should look towards the sea,
as everything has come to it

from the sea.

Its homes have been built
mostly from ships dunnage

and the timber of wrecks.

Every Pitcairn baby's born
with a tang of salt water

in its nostrils, and the boom
of the surf in its yearn.

A little village where
life moves lazily by

without rates or taxes,
or the need of money.

Simple homes, within
whose walls are hearts

that know of peace, un-shaken
by the distant rumblings

of the world.

This is Andy Warren,
the grandson of a whaler

who joined the Pitcairners 60 years ago.

Mrs. Chauvel quickly entered
into the life of the village,

helping the women with their children,

regardless of youthful protest.

Pitcairn is a little utopia,
with its luscious fruits

and tropic flowers.

The Bounty brought the
bread fruit to Pitcairn

instead of to the West Indies,

and sea captains have added their share

to the buried collection of plants.

This Pitcairn girl is weaving a straw hat

from the dried leaves
of the pandanus palm.

In this village of primitive ways,

girls with long hair still carry pitchers

to fill at the wells.

This girl, a descendant
of midshipman Young,

is carrying a jar, which came
to Pitcairn on the Bounty.

Under the community system,

all rations from passing
steamers are divided equally

among the 52 families of the island.

At the courthouse,

flour received from our
steamer is being rationed.

Here, you get a good
peak at the descendants

of the Bounty mutineers.

In the majority of cases,
the Tahitian type prevails.

They are thin and strong, and
speak a language of their own,

a mixture of Tahiti and broken English.

The peace of Pitcairn today
makes it hard to realise

how terribly it was stained
with crime and bloodshed

by the early struggle for
supremacy between the mutineers

and the men of Tahiti, when
all excepting two mutineers,

succumbed to the clash of colour.

This is William Christian,

the great grandson of Fletcher Christian.

Fletcher Christian's
son afterwards married

a pure native girl, who as
a baby, was brought ashore

from the Bounty in a barrel,

and so the dark blood of
the Christians predominate.

William Christian is hoeing the same plot

where Fletcher Christian was
killed by the Tahitian men.

These are the family plots of Pitcairn,

in little fertile valleys,
1,000 feet above the sea.

Here the mutineers and
their pagan companions

fought and killed each
other until only one,

John Adams, remained.

He, by the aid of the Bounty's
Bible, preached the gospel

to the remaining women and children.

Upon this site, stood Fletcher
Christians' first cabin.

We now turn back the pages of history.

I wonder how much longer
it'll be before those black dogs

put a knife in our backs.

Why cannot have it be tonight.

Death would be a release from the remorse

which dogs my footsteps day
and night, night and day.

Who do you torture
yourself about? Bligh? Ah.

He deserved his fate.

No, my friend.

Whatever Bligh's faults, he
was a brave British officer.

And in my presence,

I would still have you
speak of him as such.

John Adams has made a strange request.

He has asked for the Bible,

believing he can cleanse
this spawning hell

by preaching the gospel.

Oh, blessed Lord, look with
mercy on Pitcairn Island,

and upon the fathers of
these little children

who died in shameful strife.

By the shedding of their blood, oh Lord,

strengthen us for the
trials for the future

in this isolation.

People of Pitcairn,
remember the Lord said,

"Come unto me all ye that suffer."

And little children, the Lord said,

"Suffer little children to come unto me."

From the humble
services held by John Adams

in a hut, has sprung
the present-day church,

a large building of two stories,

the most pretentious in the village.

There is no labour on the sabbath,

and church is held three
times during the day.

Every man who possesses the naval uniform

wears it to church,

when clothes of all descriptions are worn.

Most of the timber for this
church was cut from the trees

of an island 200 miles from Pitcairn.

These are three prominent
church people, Roy Clark,

Aunt Anne McCoy, and Dora Warren.

Edwin Christian, the Beau
Brummell of Pitcairn,

talks with his wife after
the morning service.

In Pitcairn smithy, old Benjamin Young,

the great grandson of midshipman Young,

is turning the Bounty's vice,

which is still doing
service on the island today.

Benjamin Young is 84 years of age

and is one of the keenest men on Pitcairn.

Aunt Anne McCoy, descendant
of mutineer McCoy,

is busy making a basket

from the leaves of the pandanus palm.

Her old fingers are almost as deft

as those of the young people.

A woman of the large Christian
family spends her spare time

hand painting souvenirs
made from coconuts.

Edwin Christian is the
spiritual leader of Pitcairn,

his sterling qualities
being an inspiration to all.

When death comes to the Pitcairner,

a tombstone is cut from the
rocks washed smooth by the sea.

Edwin Christian is here seen
hewing a tombstone from a rock

below the landing place.

The stones ovens of the island

are also made from these rocks.

As long as the sea shall
break upon Pitcairn,

there is a name whose
glory will never die,

and whose works will
always remain, John Adams.

Necessity has taught Pitcairn
to be entirely self-supporting

as the possibility of a steamer
calling becomes more remote,

as modern commerce is speeded up.

Here we see Pitcairners making their salt.

Each family owns its saltwater
pools on the seafront,

where in rough shelters
the water is boiled off,

leaving a coarse-grained salt.

This is the crude sugar
mill of the island,

which is used by each family
to manufacture the juice,

which takes the place of refined sugar.

Every member of each family
takes a turn of the wheel,

and the only horse on the
island is available to all

under the community rule.

Two families are busy
at the arrowroot mill.

The roots of the plants are being grated,

preparatory to being ground to pulp.

Arrowroot is one of
Pitcairn's staple foods,

and the young children are
practically reared upon it

and coconut milk.

Little Viola Christian is a worthy example

of Pitcairn's youngest generation.

The roots are ground
and the pulp is squeezed

of its precious juices,
which, when set become arable.

The dried pulp goes back
onto the land as fertiliser.

Each family has its saw blade.

This is the only method of
sawing timber on the island.

For community work, such as
boat building and case making,

each family does its share,
and more than 30 saw blades

will be in action at
once, making light work.

There are no slackers
upon this little island.

Every man does his bit.

One of the large canoes
from the fishing fleet

is being carried to the
village for repairs.

The Pitcairners take great
pride in their boats,

which are kept in excellent order.

A young boat builder,

they go to the sea in ships at
a very early age on Pitcairn.

The large canoe is being corked,

ready for its battle against a tyrant sea,

and the uncertain currents
of the Pitcairn fishing bank.

The Pitcairners make their own violins,

and the girls give their
hair as strings for the bows.

There are no music masters on Pitcairn,

they are all self-taught.

Here's Pitcairn's Don Bradman,
making his own cricket bat.

An attempt is made to
educate the young Pitcairner,

who only goes to school for
two hours before breakfast,

and then spends the
remainder of the day at play.

The young men of Pitcairn
are of excellent physique,

and although they climb and swim,

they are great believers
in physical culture.

These young men are the
product of inbreeding

for a period of 160 years.

Realising this, the physique
and mental capabilities

of these people surprise one.

We now leave the village,
to visit the rough coastline

of Pitcairn.

A fine salt mist drives in from the surf,

sweeping past mountain and palm.

For thousands of miles, a lonely sea

develops huge land swells,

which break upon little
Pitcairn with giant force,

shaking the island from end to end.

The roar of Pitcairn surf can
be heard for many miles at sea

and ships will give it a wide berth.

Sheltered from the winds, the
surf rolls in more lightly

upon Bounty Bay.

In all kinds of weather, rough or calm,

Pitcairn's fishing fleet goes out.

All together, there are
30 large fishing canoes,

all built on Pitcairn.

A Pitcairner is returning
home with his fish.

He will have to shoot the breakers.

A great wave rushes to envelop him.

He's on its back.

Will he make it?

No.

Ah! He's over.

So are the fish.

Another man comes in.
He has his battle too.

But succeeds, as they generally do.

Bounty Bay, where the
Bounty, after being fired

by mutineer Quintel, sank in flames,

burying her shame from the
eyes of man forevermore.

Hearing from the Pitcairners

that a portion of the Bounty's skeleton

could still be seen at
the coral bed of this bay,

the Chauvels searched with cameras

set in glass-bottomed boxes.

Seaweed shall grow,
the coral shall spread,

and man, his work shall cease.

So spoke the old priest of Polynesia.

The Bounty from its rotting timbers,

we seem to hear spirit voices.

And so, the seaweed-covered
memories of a day

when man went straight to
pleasure, glory, or fortune,

without much meditation.

Now we will land, and this
time climb the steep cliffs

above the sea, to visit the
great swimming pool on Pitcairn.

Through a giant gateway,
the blue Pacific surges

to refresh the waters
of the most beautiful

and fantastic swimming
pool in all the world.

A mirror of cool waters, set
behind great fairy casements

of battle, a sublime
fantasy of rock and sea.

The gift of the gods to Pitcairn.

As specs in a foaming sea,
the news of the fishing fleet

lied by the devils' gateway as
they returned to Bounty Bay.

We climbed to a great wall
of rock above the pool.

A thousand years of
pagan history is buried

in a bed of coral rubble
and shattered idols

at the base of this cliff.

There were men here in a Stone Age,

making hammerheads and chisels of stone,

and etching their histories and beliefs

upon the mountainsides.

On this wall, Charles Chauvel discovers

what is perhaps the
heathen story of creation,

as the sacred birds of old
Polynesia are plainly outlined

with the fruitful tree,
the stars of the sky,

and the fishy of the sea.

We climb on to the higher
peaks of the island,

and look down to the rugged
coastline we have left behind.

Each family owns its block of goats,

and they are ear-marked just
as we ear mark our sheep.

This is Goat House Mountain,
on which can be seen

Fletcher Christian's cave.

By the aid of ropes,

the camera party is now nearing the cave.

In this cave, far above the sea,

Fletcher Christian as a
hunted and distracted man,

spent long periods away from the village,

longing for the sight of a sail.

Back in the village, we come to Pitcairn's

public notice board, where
all announcements are posted.

"If any person can give a
reason why Allan Christian

should not marry Eva Christian,

let him now speak or
forever hold his peace."

A Christian man desires to keep

another Christian's daughter.

Hence, the shout of rose petal,

and the passing of Pitcairn's
admiral, chief engineer,

and steward, in the uniform
of numerous shipping lines.

The second notice is a very different one.

"David Young's first
born is failing hourly.

The ship Matapopa is
now due in these waters

and its doctor can save David's child.

Volunteers are needed to
keep the beacon alight

and to take turn at the wireless."

Sometimes, an expected
steamer will pass by,

not bothering to call
at the little island,

and a Pitcairn life in
need of medical attention

will pass away.

This night on the cliffs, a
little band will watch and hope.

Oh magnify the Lord with me

and let us exalt his name together.

I found the Lord and he heard me...

David.

And...

David, do you think the ship will call?

We can only hope and pray, Martha.

As the good Lord wills, so shall it be.

So shall it be.

This poor man cried
and the Lord heard him.

Any fireworks on deck tonight?

No, it's as dead as a
doornail down there tonight.

The blonde's off colour
and has had to see old doc.

Oh.

Thanks.

I always did prefer medicine to wireless.

You know, I should have
been a doctor, Jim.

You don't do so badly for
yourself, you ole blighter.

Can you call the ship, Edgar?

I don't think so, Mother.

And even if I did reach them,

I don't think they'd come near Pitcairn.

Oh Edgar, I'm afraid the baby's failing.

The angel of the Lord
encampeth around all them

that fear him, and deliverth them.

- All fear the Lord...
- David, stop that.

For he is good.

I can't stand anymore.

Fear the Lord, ye of faint heart.

I want a doctor. Do you
hear, David? A doctor.

Martha.

Anything to report?

Oh, nothing important.
Someone was trying to get us.

I think it was Pitcairn Island,
but they faded right out.

And I haven't heard them since.

Oh, Pitcairn is always bothering us

about something or other.

Well, it's no use than
bothering us anyway.

The old man wouldn't venture
near that lonely rock.

Besides, we are pressed for time.

Well, castle's yours,
old man. Goodnight, Jim.

Goodnight.

They seem to be getting
further away every minute.

And even if I got them
now, they wouldn't come.

They'd lose too much time.

Sorry, old man, but I've
done my best, David.

Dear Father, thou has seen
fit to pluck this blossom

from our garden.

Let us spare our burden
as atonement for the past,

and help us to lift up our eyes to be

with true Pitcairn
courage, and to echo daily

thy holy will be done.