Hell's Fire

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘What are you proposing, Mr Christian?’ he demanded, directly.

  Christian hesitated, suddenly scared.

  ‘I’m going to seize the ship,’ he blurted. ‘Seize the ship and cast Bligh adrift.’

  Quintal stared at the wild-eyed man in the half darkness, silenced by the confirmation.

  ‘But there’ll be no murder,’ qualified Christian, imagining Quintal’s reaction to be that of reluctance. ‘No violence at all. And they’ll have provisions. Are you with me?’

  Still Quintal did not reply and Christian shifted, nervously. If Quintal rejected him, he was lost. The conversation would be around the ship within hours. Bligh would hear of it, without doubt. And demand an explanation. He’d have the ship searched, too, and find the raft. Christian felt the weight around his neck. Was it sufficiently heavy to bear him down? he wondered. Please God, make it so.

  ‘I’ll follow you, Mr Christian,’ undertook Quintal, breaking the silence. He smiled at the relief on Christian’s face. ‘And I know the others will, too.’

  Christian reached out, clasping the seaman’s shoulder. It was too friendly a gesture between an officer and a lower deck man, he recognised. But he discarded the hesitation.

  ‘We’ll not fail,’ he promised.

  Quintal nodded, his growing excitement erasing any doubt.

  ‘Muskets,’ he said, immediately. ‘We’ll need muskets.’

  For a moment, Christian paused. Then he said: ‘Thank God Mr Fryer is such a lazy bugger.’

  For several months Joseph Coleman, the armourer, had been entrusted with the keys to the arms chests, given the chore without Bligh’s knowledge because the master was irritated at being awakened by seamen wanting muskets to shoot fish or birds first at sea and then in Tahiti.

  ‘I’m doubtful that Coleman will join us,’ cautioned Quintal.

  ‘I’ll not invite him,’ said Christian. He gestured and moved off towards the armourer’s berth. Quintal followed, so closely their bodies touched going down the companion-way.

  Christian stopped by the sleeping man. Another point of commitment, he thought. Abruptly he reached out, grabbing the armourer’s shoulder.

  ‘A shark, Mr Coleman,’ he said, softly. ‘The keys, if you please. I’ll have some meat for you.’

  Coleman reacted automatically, burrowing the keys from beneath his hammock pillow and handing them over without even looking at Christian.

  Behind Quintal sniggered his nervousness and Christian turned quickly, pushing him away before the noise could arouse the now sleeping man.

  ‘Sorry,’ apologised Quintal. ‘It just appeared so easy.’

  ‘It won’t be easy,’ warned Christian.

  Back on deck, they stood together, gazing down at the keys.

  ‘We can do it,’ said Quintal, almost in disbelief. ‘We’ve got the means to do it.’

  ‘But not sufficient men,’ rejected Christian.

  ‘Isaac’s been flogged,’ reminded Quintal, nodding to the other seaman on the opposite side of the deck.

  Isaac Martin was an American, a crop-haired, sallow man, almost 6 ft tall. Like almost everyone else, he had been tattooed in Tahiti. He was very proud of the star on his chest and often worked stripped to the waist. When he did, it was still possible to see the marks of Bligh’s beating.

  Christian and Quintal approached the man together and this time Christian was more positive, seeking instant support.

  Martin frowned at the second-in-command, moving uncomfortably from foot to foot.

  ‘Who’s following you, Mr Christian,’ he demanded, carefully.

  ‘Most of the people below,’ guaranteed Quintal, gesturing expansively to the orlop deck.

  Martin shook his head in disbelief.

  ‘Where are they?’ he insisted.

  ‘They’ll follow,’ assured Quintal.

  ‘I’ve no more reason to love Bligh than anyone else,’ said the American. ‘But I’ll not involve myself in a scheme that won’t work.’

  ‘So you’re not with us?’ asked Christian, immediately apprehensive.

  ‘Let’s see your following,’ said Martin.

  It was Quintal who moved, turning without any command and running barefoot down the hatchway to the lowest deck in the ship. He knew the hammocks of every man and went unerringly to those of his friends of whose support he was convinced.

  Charley Churchill, the master-at-arms, twice flogged and put into irons for desertion in Tahiti, listened without question to Quintal’s whispers and nodded, just once, swinging out of his berth.

  Burly William Mickoy, scarred in two places from knife fights, was perhaps Quintal’s closest friend on board.

  ‘Too long overdue,’ he accepted. ‘Have we guns?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Quintal, holding up the keys like a talisman.

  ‘Then we can’t fail.’

  Alexander Smith immediately committed himself. So did Matthew Thompson, at forty one of the oldest seamen aboard and the first man to label Bligh a tyrant. Jack Williams, the slow-talking, slow-moving Guernseyman, thought about Quintal’s approach for several minutes.

  ‘You’ve my support,’ he agreed, at last.

  Separately, to avoid arousing the suspicions of the other crewmen who stirred and twisted in their hammocks, the mutineers slowly mounted the ladders, fighting against the excitement that made them want to hurry, trying to appear men bothered by the heat going aloft for some relief.

  Only Quintal and Thompson remained below, moving towards the arms locker. The keys in Quintal’s hand jingled with the man’s nervousness.

  ‘Damn,’ said Quintal, softly. He stopped in the alley and Thompson stumbled into him. Sprawled over the arms store, asleep but completely securing it, lay fifteen-year-old John Hallett, the midshipman missing from Christian’s watch.

  ‘We must have weapons,’ muttered Thompson, his conviction immediately faltering.

  Quintal nodded. Mickoy had demanded the same, he recalled. Support for the overthrow would blow away like sea mist in a rising wind if they couldn’t get to the muskets.

  ‘The other store,’ suggested Quintal.

  Both men, worried now, hurried on deck, making for the knot of men grouped nervously around Fletcher Christian. It could be only minutes before the activity aroused suspicion, Christian knew.

  ‘We can’t get to the arms chest,’ reported Quintal, speaking softly to avoid alarming the uncertain men. ‘Hallett is asleep on it.’

  Christian groaned.

  ‘And Thomas Hayward is sleeping on the second one,’ he responded. He had checked the arms cache while Quintal was rousing the others below, hoping desperately there’d be no bar to the first chest.

  ‘Without guns, we’re lost,’ said Quintal, unnecessarily.

  And for having gone this far, I will swing at a rope’s end, thought Christian. It would be day soon, he realised, staring over the rail towards the lightening horizon: in daylight, they’d be seized in minutes.

  He turned incisively to the men around him, pushing away his fear.

  ‘Thompson, Quintal, come with me,’ he ordered. ‘The rest of you spread around the deck: don’t hold together.’

  Hallett was on his back when they got to the wind-drafted arsenal, his chest lifting in breathy snores.

  Christian motioned Quintal and Thompson further into the companion-way, where they were half hidden, then kicked out at the foot of the young midshipman.

  ‘Up, Mr Hallett. Up,’ he said, head close to the boy. He wanted no one but Hallett roused. ‘You’re an hour late on the watch; you could be on report for this, sir.’

  The boy jerked awake, bewildered. He pulled up, mouthing for words.

  ‘Up, sir! About your duties.’

  Hallett, mind still fogged with sleep, stumbled into a half crouch, moving instinctively towards the hatchway, oblivious to both Thompson and Quintal.

  Quintal moved swiftly, the key already in his hand.

  Now the positive commitment to crime,
realised Christian, as Quintal swung the lid up off the chest. Fletcher Christian, proud son of an even prouder family, second-in-command of a ship engaged upon an expedition that had the interest of King George III himself, assured before he was fifty of an admiral’s flag, had become a mutineer. For the briefest moment, his resolve wavered. A mutineer, he thought again. And made so because of a man who slept not fifty feet away and had driven him to the point of despair.

  The other two men were standing back, waiting for his lead, Christian saw. He gazed down at the weapons neatly arranged before him. If it still went wrong, he would need to fight people off, until he could get to the rail to cast himself over. Abruptly he moved, reaching into the chest. He clipped a bayonet on to a musket, then looped his arm through the canvas webbing. Into his belt he thrust a pistol and then took up a box of shot. He paused, then snatched at a cutlass. He’d prick Bligh with it, he decided. He’d make the bugger cringe.

  ‘Stand guard on the chest,’ Christian ordered Thompson. ‘Only those supporting us are to have guns; if any try to rush you, put a ball over their heads. But over their heads, remember. I’ll have no one dead.’

  ‘There’s the other chest,’ warned Quintal. ‘If they seize that, they could stand us off.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Christian. ‘But we’re armed now. We can shift Hayward.’

  Christian emerged cautiously from the hatchway. Until this moment the tiny gathering of men could only have aroused passing curiosity. But now he was festooned with weapons, like a make-believe pirate at those country fairs he’d once enjoyed in Cumberland. No one who saw him would have any doubt what he was about.

  Keeping in the shadow of the booms, he moved with Quintal towards the second chest, nodding to those mutineers he passed to go to where Thompson stood and arm themselves.

  ‘He’s gone,’ he said, needlessly, when he got to the chest. He gazed around, suddenly alert. If Hayward had discovered what was happening and gone to awaken Bligh, the uprising would collapse now.

  ‘There,’ pointed Quintal.

  Christian looked towards the poop. The second midshipman was engrossed with the soft-minded Norman, gazing down at the great fish swimming sentinel behind them.

  There was movement from the left and Christian turned to sec Mickoy approaching. The seaman gestured over his shoulder.

  ‘Tom has thrown in his lot with us,’ he reported.

  Thomas Birkitt, fair and solid-bodied, his face holed with pockmarks, nodded and smiled nervously. There was still the rest of his watch, remembered Christian. Ellison would be with him. And Mills, when he saw the growing size of the mutineers. And the doubtful Isaac Martin had seized a musket, he saw.

  For’ard came the sound of chopping as Muspratt started again on the breakfast kindling.

  ‘See if he’ll commit himself,’ ordered Christian, to Quintal.

  From the direction of the poop Hayward, bored with Norman’s shark, moved forward, then stopped at the sight of the mutineers.

  ‘What in the name of God …?’ he demanded, his voice trailing away in disbelief.

  ‘Quiet, sir!’ silenced Christian. He’d shouted, he realised; an over-reaction to the first challenge. He’d have to control it. Nervousness was contagious.

  ‘Have you given mind to what you’re doing, Mr Christian?’ pressed Hayward, immediately aware of what was happening.

  ‘I ordered you quiet.’

  ‘It’s a hanging crime, sir.’

  ‘Too much has passed to be vexed about that,’ said Christian, emptily.

  He detected movement in the shadows near Hayward and swung the musket towards it. Hallett, blinking rapidly from the combination of fear and the effect of sleep, moved into the light. He looked first to Christian, then to Hayward for guidance. When none came, he moved closer to Hayward, seeking protection from the older unarmed midshipman.

  Christian jerked his head at Martin, then indicated the two young officers.

  ‘Guard them,’ he instructed. ‘They’re to stay where they are.’

  ‘What now?’ asked the attentive Quintal, at Christian’s side.

  ‘Bligh,’ responded Christian, shortly. ‘We go to get Captain Bligh.’

  William Bligh stirred in his tiny cabin and turned on his back, comfortably lulled between sleep and full consciousness, immediately thinking, as he had constantly since their departure from Tahiti two weeks earlier, of the honours that would be accorded him when he got back to England. It would be marvellous, he knew. To be famous. And respected. He’d have to be promoted, of course. Not just to full captain, which should have happened anyway before the Bounty had left England and for the failure to do which the Admiralty would be properly criticised when he returned. But even higher. He’d probably make history, he thought, twisting on to his back and shrugging his nightshirt around him. The youngest admiral in the King’s navy. Betsy would be so proud. And the children, when they understood what it meant. Admiral William Bligh! It had the proper sound about it: an important sound.

  The recognition for what he had achieved would be immediate, of course. The Royal Society, which had organised the expedition and especially selected him to command it, had promised a gold medal if he were successful. And he had been, he knew. Beyond even their expectations.

  Not ten feet away, in the main cabin which had been completely converted into a greenhouse, with lead-lined floor to capture and recycle water and lamps for artificial heat, were over a thousand breadfruit plants, carefully potted and held secure in their special racks.

  The climate of Tahiti matched almost perfectly that of the West Indies, where he would anchor within months. The botanist they carried with them was convinced the breadfruit would transplant without the slightest difficulty. So he would earn the gratitude of all England, Bligh knew. Every landowner and person of importance in the country had a fortune invested in the sugar plantations of the West Indies. He’d seen the wealth for himself, after Betsy’s uncle, Duncan Campbell, had given him the merchant ship Britannia to command when the Admiralty had stood him down after the American war.

  Unimaginable riches, he reflected, sleepily. And dependent entirely upon slaves. It had been only natural for the British establishment to become worried after American independence because the colonies had supplied the food for the chained and shackled workers. Now, because of what he’d done, there was no longer any need for concern. He was providing an alternative. More, even. The cultivation on the spot of the breadfruit, with its year-round crop, would provide even cheaper food than that which they had had to import. So their profit would be even greater from now on.

  Oh yes, decided Bligh, the people who mattered in England would have every reason to be grateful to him. Very grateful indeed. King George would probably present him with the Royal Society medal, he thought happily. The sovereign’s patronage of the gardens at Kew, established by his mother, showed the royal interest in botany. So there was reason beyond the good he had done for his country. Yes, the King would definitely honour him. And that would secure his place in society, opening to him every door in London.

  It was right that he should finally get some recognition, he thought. The anger roused him further and he opened his eyes, staring through the gloom at the bulkhead inches away. What had happened after James Cook’s last voyage had been a travesty of justice, he reflected, in familiar bitterness. He was as good a hydrographer and cartographer as that damned Grimsby coaster captain: at least half the charts and drawings produced after the Resolution’s Pacific journey had been his and he’d been given no credit. There was hardly a mention that he’d been Captain Cook’s sailing master, even. He’d put that right, though, once he’d become famous; he’d publish his own account of the Resolution’s hunt for the north-west passage and Cook’s death in Hawaii. And take care, very cleverly and without appearing to correct any previous accounts, to show who deserved credit as the better navigator.

  He had no need to arise for another hour, he thought, lazily. Perhaps even long
er. He closed his eyes, seeking sleep again. Life, he thought, was very good.

  Around him the ship creaked and winced and far away he could hear the scuffle of the watch on deck. They’d turned out to be a bad crew. It might have been different, he supposed, had he been able to sail with the usual company of marines to guarantee internal control. But the space needed for the plants, which meant everyone, even himself, was uncomfortable and cramped, had made that impossible.

  No captain could have taken greater care of his people, he told himself. He had imposed a special diet on the outward journey to keep them free from scurvy and even given over his own cabin when the gales soaked their quarters. Yet they had repaid him by insolence, carelessness and ingratitude.

  Even Mr Christian. Perhaps Mr Christian worst of all. Bligh opened his eyes again in the darkness, annoyance bunching in his throat. Why? he wondered, recognising the recurring question. Why had Fletcher Christian, whom he had made a friend not just on this voyage but on the Britannia as well, turned upon him?

  It had been Tahiti, Bligh determined. There was no place on earth more like Sodom and Gomorrah. Where else did women crowd, three or four to a man, groping and pulling at him, demanding a European child? And men, too, cockaded and perfumed, but still men, flaunting themselves in opposition to the laughing girls, lifting their skirts in open invitation to any aberration.

  In almost every festival performed for his benefit, until he’d insisted it should stop, there had been disgusting scenes of blatant sex, with men and women distending their sexual parts in obscene gestures. He shuddered at the recollection.

  The men had been satiated and spoiled by the island and its easy life. Even Mr Christian.

  It was only natural, he supposed, that the man should miss Tahiti. Mr Christian had been shore commander of the breadfruit plantation for nearly six months and had known the relaxations better than most men aboard. He’d even, finally, made a wife of one of the native girls, a chief’s daughter. Actually given her a European name, Isabella. And a child, yet to be born.

  Yes, very natural to miss it, during these early weeks. But the man would get over it, Bligh convinced himself.