Hell's Fire

by Brian Freemantle

  She would never manage the confusing nuances of the language, thought Christian. He was beginning to prefer the simple directness of Tahitian himself.

  ‘It was an angry thought,’ he tried. ‘I was imagining how it would be to lose you.’

  There was never a moment, he thought, when that concern was far from his mind.

  ‘Lose me?’

  Again she frowned, head lodged to one side in misunderstanding.

  ‘But how could you lose me? I am yours …’

  The worry deepened as the doubt occurred to her.

  ‘… unless you are not happy and don’t want me …’

  He went to her, urgently, cupping her face between his hands and staring down into her wet-black eyes.

  ‘Oh my darling,’ he said. ‘Don’t ever think that. No matter what happens, there will never be a moment when I don’t want you …’

  He paused, recalling his earlier thoughts.

  ‘… if you were to die. Or be taken from me in a way I couldn’t prevent, then I would kill myself. I’ve lost everything. Except you.’

  She smiled, still uncertain.

  ‘Are you sure … I would understand …’

  He brought his hands around, so that she could not speak.

  ‘So sure,’ he said. ‘So very sure. I’ll always be there, when you turn to look for me.’

  ‘The constant lovers.’

  Christian recognised the voice, without turning to face Quintal.

  ‘The sort of tenderness that Sarah might appreciate,’ retorted Christian. It was no secret that Quintal beat the girl who had happily followed him from Tahiti and to whom he had given an English name, as they all had to their women.

  ‘She’s happy enough,’ blurred Quintal. He was drunk, Christian saw, as he was by mid-afternoon most days. William Mickoy had brought with him to Pitcairn the ability to make a still that he had learned as a distillery worker in Scotland and once the rum had been exhausted, they had both adapted to the native drink made from the root of the taro plant.

  ‘What do you want?’ demanded Christian, hostilely.

  ‘Want? Why should I want anything?’

  ‘Social visits aren’t a practice on Pitcairn,’ rejected Christian.

  Quintal nodded, despite his drunkenness.

  ‘Aye,’ he said, sadly. ‘That’s right enough. I never thought that on a South Sea island, where it is always summer, with food waiting on the trees to be picked and a woman content with me, I should be so unhappy.’

  The attitude of them all, thought Christian. Boredom was eating into them as destructively as the worms that had devoured the boat in which he had wanted to set Bligh adrift.

  ‘He’s a fine child,’ tried Quintal, gesturing after Thursday.

  The mutineer nodded, pleased with the admiration despite his dislike of the man.

  ‘That’s hardly surprising, though,’ continued Quintal, smiling down at Isabella. ‘With such a lovely mother.’

  Christian frowned at the crude compliment. He wished her breasts had been covered. She sat quite unashamed, smiling up innocently at the man’s remark.

  ‘What are the others doing?’ asked Christian, to regain the man’s attention.

  He knew by now he should have adjusted to the fact, but it always distressed him that so little happened to them on the island that there was virtually nothing to talk about. They were atrophying, he thought, like the fossils they sometimes found in the rocks on the seashore, among the relics of the Polynesians who had long ago abandoned the island.

  ‘Tending their plots,’ said Quintal, uninterested. ‘Some of the women are egg-collecting, up on the cliffs.’

  ‘I think we should be careful of that,’ said Christian. ‘Those rocks are dangerous.’

  Quintal looked up sharply at the thought that Christian was attempting to issue an order, even now. There’d been enough of that immediately after the mutiny, when the damned man had behaved as if he were a reincarnation of Bligh. Quintal relaxed. Christian was staring into the ground, hardly aware of what he was saying. The time when Christian could issue orders had long passed and everyone accepted it.

  ‘They’re safe enough,’ Quintal said. ‘They’re as sure-footed as goats.’

  ‘I was thinking of Tahiti today,’ said Christian, almost to himself.

  ‘I often do,’ confessed Quintal.

  ‘Pity the Bounty was destroyed.’

  ‘Would you go back?’ demanded the sailor.

  ‘If I could,’ conceded Christian.

  ‘It could mean arrest. And a hanging.’

  Christian looked slowly up at the man who had been the first to follow him, holding his eyes. Quintal was bloated with alcohol, he saw, his nose purpled with aimless veins and his eyes wet and rheumy.

  ‘Aye,’ nodded Quintal, at last. ‘It would be good to go back.’

  Bligh stood easily at the conn, his body shifting automatically with the gentle movement of the ship, gazing through the evening haze towards the shoreline of Plymouth. The early lights glittered at him, far away, and he smiled, sighing.

  It was always a satisfying moment, coming home. And he had so much to come home to, he reflected, handing the eyeglass to the officer of the watch and leaving the poop for the seclusion of his cabin.

  He wanted to be alone, to savour the anticipation of the arrival in London. It would be wonderful, he knew, surpassing everything that had happened before. Deservedly so.

  He had succeeded. Again. So it would happen once more. The adulation of a London society still enraptured by his survival from the Bounty. The admiration of a King who properly recognised him as the most brilliant navigator of the day. And now the additional gratitude of all those landowners whose fortunes he had guaranteed on this second expedition by successfully transplanting the breadfruit.

  Nelson was more famous, he conceded. As much for the scandalous affair with the Hamilton woman as for his seafaring ability. But he was the only one. No one else could match his achievements. Bligh decided. Nor were likely to. So he had earned the fame. And the respect.

  Betsy would be so proud, he knew, remembering her nervousness and the tears and the fainting spells at the excitement of being received at St James’s Palace by King George and Queen Charlotte after the survival from the Bounty. But this time the children were older and would be better able to appreciate how important their father was to his country. And he was important, Bligh knew. His name would feature in the history books.

  They’d berth at Plymouth at first light, he recalled. But it would be another week before he could get up the Channel to Portsmouth and then to Greenwich. So he’d send his wife a letter by horse courier, warning her of his impending arrival. She would be as surprised as Sir Joseph Banks, to whom another letter should go, so the Royal Society could inform the King of the details and prepare for the necessary reception.

  According to everyone’s calculations, he should still be a fortnight away. But that was because the estimates were made for ordinary sailors. And William Bligh was not an ordinary sailor. Which Britain now knew.

  Normally an abstemious man, Bligh poured himself a glass of Madeira and stood, making a solitary toast.

  ‘Success,’ he mouthed, very softly, feeling slightly embarrassed. ‘Sweet success.’

  And it would be sweet, he knew. Sir Joseph had repeated the promise, just before he had departed for his second voyage to Tahiti, of a gold medal from the Society if he got the breadfruit to the West Indies. And the only person who could possibly make the presentation would be the King. So it would be the court again, with all its pomp and ceremony. He hoped Betsy wouldn’t faint this time.

  Would there be more? wondered the man, hopefully. He had guaranteed the fortune of already rich men by this voyage. A gold medal would be the public recognition of his efforts. But there should be another reward. How pleasant it would be, he thought, if the plantation owners could be made to realise he existed on the meagre salary of a ship’s captain, without any outs
ide income. And that to sustain the position in London to which the fame of his exploits was thrusting him cost a great deal of money. Perhaps, thought Bligh, he could find an acceptable way to broach the problem with Sir Joseph. The man knew everyone of influence in London. And could organise a privy purse within weeks if he were acquainted with the need. And there was a very definite need. Betsy never complained, but Bligh knew she found life very different in London from what she had known as the daughter of a rich land- and shipowner on the Isle of Man. There was as much cruelty as kindness in the society into which they were being admitted. Gossip and tittle-tattle was the communication of the women and Bligh was aware his wife would have enjoyed a larger wardrobe and a greater selection of jewellery in order to compete at the functions to which she was daily invited.

  Yes, he decided, taking a second Madeira, he’d tell Sir Joseph of his difficulties. It would be an easy subject to introduce. He would approach the man for advice, as if expecting nothing but counsel. Sir Joseph was a kind man: perhaps the best friend he had. He would take the nod and act swiftly, Bligh was sure. He paused, considered, then dismissed a new idea: he would not tell Betsy his plans in the letter he was to write. It might create too much hope and he hated disappointing her. In any case, in the holds were bolts of silk he had purchased to make several new dresses. So whatever happened, she would not be embarrassed this season.

  What would have happened to the arrested mutineers? he wondered, suddenly, his mind moving on. He had heard from an incoming man-o’-war in Antigua that they had been seized at Tahiti. He’d always known they’d return there, to the sex. Had he not written as much, in the log supported unsteadily on his knee in the stern of the launch, not three hours after they had been set adrift?

  The log would be available as evidence, together with the affidavit he had sworn before embarking on the current voyage. Would the court martial have begun? It hardly mattered. Because Fletcher Christian wouldn’t be there. Only his punishment was important. Bligh had harried the officers on the warship, after hearing their news, demanding to know the names of those arrested, even reciting from memory the identities of the scum who had overturned him. They hadn’t known the names, not all of them anyway. But they had been sure of one thing. Fletcher Christian, whose part in the infamy everybody in England knew because of the account Bligh had published, was not among them.

  So what had happened to him? That was the only thing of interest, not the fate of those who had stupidly followed. Let him be dead, prayed Bligh, fervently. Let him have died as painfully as he had expected me to die. Bastard.

  He said the word, aloud, his voice high, then jerked around, alert for any sound in the alley outside that would have indicated he could have been overheard.

  Only the creaking of the slumbering ship came back to him and he relaxed.

  ‘Bastard,’ he said again, quieter this time.

  He sat at his desk, pulling quill and paper towards him. He’d write first to Sir Joseph, he decided. And ask about the court martial, so that the man could be prepared for the questions upon his arrival at Greenwich. If it had not been already convened, then perhaps he could give evidence in person, thought Bligh.

  It was important that he should, if possible. And find out what had happened to the man he hated.

  It was going well, decided James Fryer, feeling the apprehension seep from him. Very well indeed. He had been nervous, imagining the angular-faced President would turn his evidence into an inquisition, but for the past two hours Lord Hood and the rest of the court martial officers had sat in attentive silence, only occasionally making notes.

  Now the Bounty master waited, his account finished, alert for the questions.

  Lord Hood straightened in his chair, leaning forward on the long table that had been positioned across the main cabin. Thank God the thunderstorms had cleared the air, he thought. It was much more comfortable today. He’d sit during the afternoon, he decided.

  The President had made few notes, relying on his memory for the points he wanted clarified.

  ‘So until the moment when Quintal and Sumner burst into your cabin, at the same time as you heard the captain’s shouts, you had no indication whatsoever that the crew were in a mutinous state?’ he queried.

  ‘No, sir. None whatsoever.’

  ‘Yet Fletcher Christian, who led it, was a fellow officer … and Stewart and Young both midshipmen … you’d have been in daily contact?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘No, sir,’ rejected Hood, sharply. Fryer jumped, startled.

  ‘I cannot accept,’ challenged the admiral, ‘that there had been no hint of this matter before.’

  ‘I knew nothing of it,’ insisted Fryer, eyes fixed just above Lord Hood’s head.

  ‘Was the Bounty a happy ship?’

  The question came from Captain Sir Andrew Snape Hammond, who sat on Hood’s right. As they had risen the previous day, Hood had decreed other members of the court could put questions directly, instead of going through the President. The stupid formality added hours to any enquiry, the admiral had insisted.

  Fryer shifted, uncomfortably. It was going to be an inquisition, he thought.

  ‘Well, was it?’ pressed Hood, curious at the master’s hesitation.

  ‘I have known happier vessels,’ tried Fryer.

  ‘Sir,’ warned Lord Hood, softly. ‘We are enquiring here into one of the worst cases of mutiny so far to be examined by a naval court … a case in which, if the evidence we have so far heard is true, a captain and seventeen of his men were cast adrift to what should have been their certain death …’

  He paused, staring at Fryer until the man met his gaze.

  ‘I will not accept, Mr Fryer, the sort of answer you have just given. I will repeat the question. Was the Bounty a happy ship?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Fryer, shortly.

  ‘Why not?’ demanded Snape Hammond. He was a crumpled, mottled-faced man who sat slumped in his chair in an attitude of inattention which was invariably misconstrued as boredom.

  ‘There were several reasons,’ said Fryer.

  Then let’s have them,’ said Lord Hood, briskly. The man’s reluctance to answer was annoying the President. There was more to the mutiny than they had so far learned from the evidence, he decided.

  ‘… it had been a long voyage,’ suggested Fryer. ‘We had had a bad time trying to get around the Horn, fighting gales for most of a month before turning back …’

  ‘Conditions encountered by His Majesty’s vessels every week of the year,’ rejected Snape Hammond, positively. ‘And such conditions were long past, anyway …’

  Fryer swallowed. Lord Hood ruled his life by discipline, the Bounty’s master knew. To indicate criticism of Bligh’s treatment of the crew would meet with no sympathy.

  ‘There were times,’ groped Fryer, uncertainly, ‘when the men complained about their food. When they felt they were being badly treated …’

  Was the man a fool? wondered Hood. There wasn’t a ship in the King’s navy upon which men weren’t disgruntled with their victuals.

  ‘This enquiry would be greatly speeded, Mr Fryer, if you were able to respond directly to what we ask,’ threatened the President, tightly. ‘Why, sir, was the Bounty an unhappy ship?’

  ‘It was often difficult,’ responded Fryer, ‘to adjust to the ways of the captain.’

  It was a bad reply and when he saw their reaction, the nervousness lumped in his stomach. The court martial officers sat unmoving, every eye upon him. Each man was a captain, a demander of unquestioned obedience from the rabble, often snatched from the streets of Portsmouth or Greenwich or Liverpool and pressed into service under the King’s Regulations. To imply that a captain’s conduct was wrong, as he just had, would need a lot of justification.

  ‘We want to know more of that, sir,’ said Captain Sir Roger Curtis, from the centre of the officers’ bench.

  ‘Captain Bligh had strong ideas about the diet of the men,’ Fryer tried to recove
r. ‘He insisted they eat and drink certain things.’

  Hood sighed, irritably. The man was trying to twist away, he decided.

  ‘To what purpose?’ he demanded.

  ‘To keep away the scurvy.’

  ‘And did it?’ asked Snape Hammond.

  Fryer nodded. ‘There was some illness, just before we arrived in Tahiti. The ship’s surgeon said it was scurvy, but Captain Bligh disagreed.

  Hood frowned. ‘Had Captain Bligh any medical qualifications?’

  ‘Not that I know of, sir.’

  ‘One outbreak of something that might have been scurvy, on an outward voyage of ten months,’ elaborated Snape Hammond. ‘That would indicate the captain’s victualling was right and proper?’

  ‘Aye, sir,’ agreed Fryer, hopefully.

  Among the prisoners, Morrison was scribbling hurried reminders for his cross-examination.

  ‘Why, then, the discontent?’ pressed Hood.

  ‘The men didn’t like it, sir.’

  ‘Seamen don’t like many things, Mr Fryer. That’s not sufficient to make an unhappy ship,’ insisted the President.

  ‘No, sir,’ accepted Fryer, dutifully.

  ‘Then perhaps you’d explain properly what you meant by saying it was difficult to adjust to the captain’s way,’ said Snape Hammond.

  He had no choice, decided Fryer. But it would hurt him, he knew. There were twelve officers on the court martial panel, with influence throughout every fleet. He would be condemned within weeks as the man who had described the Bounty’s commander as a poor captain. That Bligh deserved that criticism, instead of the hero-worship he’d received, was immaterial. Fryer’s only concern was that his own career would not be harmed by what was said at the enquiry.

  ‘Captain Bligh,’ he began slowly, still seeking a safe course, ‘was a very violent man … of unpredictable temper …’

  They didn’t understand, thought Fryer, seeing the expression of doubt and suspicion settling on their faces. It was difficult for anyone to understand what Bligh had really been like, he accepted.

  ‘You mean he occasionally shouted and cursed?’ smiled Snape Hammond, attempting sarcasm and looking among his fellow officers for smirks of appreciation.