Hell's Fire Read online

  ‘Is that what they think?’

  ‘It’s what they know. There’s hardly a man who hasn’t been driven to the point of going overboard because of your treatment.’

  ‘And is that what you think?’ demanded Bligh.

  ‘You know well enough what I think,’ said Christian.

  Bligh was twisting his hands behind him and Christian brought the sword up, threateningly.

  ‘Only the shirt,’ said Bligh, coolly. ‘I’m only trying to dislodge the shirt.’

  ‘Leave it,’ ordered Christian, unsure. ‘I’ll not suffer you to move about.’

  ‘You’re very frightened, aren’t you, Mr Christian?’ jabbed Bligh.

  ‘Oh no,’ refuted Christian, shaking his head to enforce the hollow denial. ‘Not fear, Captain Bligh. I’ll own to only one feeling towards you, I despise you, sir. Despise you.’

  ‘It wasn’t always so,’ said Bligh.

  No, thought Christian, sadly. How anxious he’d been to work under Bligh, he remembered, after the stories that had spread of the man’s expertise as a navigator, cajoling and begging anyone he thought might help him to become a member of the man’s crew. Christian had used every influence he could muster among his powerful, well-connected cousins and uncles to pressure Bligh, particularly when he’d discovered the Christians were acquainted with the family of Bligh’s wife. Even Bligh’s rejection that his officer list for the Britannia was full hadn’t deterred him, he recalled.

  ‘Wages are no object,’ he had written back. ‘I only wish to learn my profession and if you would permit me to mess with the gentlemen, I will readily enter your ship as a foremaster, until there is a vacancy among the officers. We midshipmen are gentlemen, we never pull at a rope: but I should even be glad to go on one voyage in that situation, for there may be occasions when officers may be called upon to do the duties of a common man …’

  Bligh still had the letter, Christian knew, carefully preserved in the document case somewhere in the cabin. How many times, wondered Christian, as they had sat at that cramped dinner table had he heard how that letter had appealed to the man.

  ‘… officers may be called upon to do the duties of a common man …’ The phrase recurred in Christian’s mind. Or the duties of a common mutineer …

  ‘No, sir, not always so,’ he conceded.

  ‘Let’s turn back,’ urged Bligh, anxiously. ‘It’s not too late, not yet.’

  Christian shook his head.

  ‘I’ll muster the entire crew,’ promised Bligh. ‘Assure them the whole matter was a mistake, an error between us that we’ve resolved …’

  ‘Stop, sir!’ rejected Christian. ‘The whole ship’s in arms … they’ll be at the rum, before long. Do you imagine any one of them would willingly put themselves back under your command, after what’s passed in the last few hours? They’d rather kill you outright. Or themselves.’

  ‘You have my word I’ll victimise no one.’

  ‘Your word!’ accused Christian, contemptuously. ‘Your word, sir, is the most valueless thing about this vessel.’

  ‘How so?’ demanded Bligh, nostrils flaring in the familiar prelude to an irrational tirade.

  Rarely, thought Christian again, suddenly alert, had he known a man less able to control his temper. Yet apart from that momentary slip, now subdued, the two of them could have been discussing an everyday problem of the voyage, rather than an event that was going to alter both their lives from that day on.

  Bligh’s behaviour, with his promises, was a ploy, accepted Christian warily, a super-human exercise of will by a man on the lip of insanity to secure his release. Once Bligh were set free, he would go berserk. Maniacs were often very cunning, thought Christian.

  He brought the cutlass up again, jabbing it towards the other man. Was it to frighten Bligh? Christian wondered. Or to reassure himself?

  ‘You are not a simpleton, Captain Bligh,’ lectured Christian. ‘One of the worst captains ever to sail under the English flag, perhaps. And a thief and a cheat, to boot. But not a fool. So don’t appear surprised at the worth your men set upon your promises.’

  Bligh’s face was tight, Christian saw. He was trying hard to control the outburst, the feeling shaking at his body.

  ‘Take care, sir,’ grated Bligh, through clamped lips. ‘Were my hands not tied, then upon my honour …’

  ‘I know well enough what you’d do,’ broke off Christian. ‘There’s been hardly a day when we haven’t suffered the ways of your demented mind.’

  He might not be able to inculcate fear into the other man, realised Christian. But he could reduce him to an impotent anger and for Bligh to be unable to vent that annoyance in some punishment or beating would probably hurt him as much. It was very important to make Bligh suffer, decided Christian.

  ‘There could be another course open to us, rather than setting you adrift,’ he began, gently.

  Bligh stared at him, head cocked to one side.

  ‘We could return you to England in irons, for a court martial. King’s Regulations permit a trial for tyranny on the accusation of a junior officer,’ said Christian.

  Why was he playing with the man? wondered Christian. He had no intention of taking him prisoner.

  ‘And pray, sir, how would you work the ship for a voyage of 12,000 miles, with every other officer under guard?’ challenged Bligh. ‘I haven’t forgotten what Quintal said. Your only support is the scum of the lower deck.’

  He was a clever man, admitted Christian. He wouldn’t be deflected, he decided. He’d ridicule Bligh, one way or another.

  ‘A court martial would be a good way to discover what happened to the ship’s rations,’ he continued. ‘And of learning how much money was really spent in victualling.’

  Bligh’s face was puce and a vein throbbed in his forehead. He’d touched the nerve, Christian knew. As a merchant captain, commanding the Britannia for Duncan Campbell, Bligh had earned £500 a year. Coming back into the King’s service, yet not promoted to full post captain, had meant his salary had dropped to £70 a year.

  There wasn’t a man aboard who didn’t know how Bligh had made up that deficiency. Or who hadn’t suffered because of the man’s determination to line his own pocket.

  ‘I made not a penny piece at the expense of the crew,’ hissed Bligh.

  ‘Balderdash, sir,’ said Christian. ‘What you supplied as beef on the outward voyage and no doubt listed full charge for was donkey, without a doubt. No one could nor would eat it. The whole lot went overboard.’

  Bligh straightened, listening intently to the disclosure. He was sure the men had taken it.

  ‘And there was no reason, apart from not wanting to resupply, for cutting down the bread ration either,’ insisted Christian. ‘Replacing the loss with extra rum would, I’d wager, be seen by a court martial for the device it was, a sop to avert any protest from the men.’

  ‘It was necessary to preserve our supplies,’ seized Bligh, defensively. ‘We were beaten back from Cape Horn. The voyage took months longer than expected.’

  ‘There was bread enough, even with the rerouting. It was obvious we would refit in Capetown, if we failed to round the Horn. So there was never any danger to supplies,’ countered Christian.’

  It was his own private trial, decided Christian, enjoying himself. Bligh was an arrogant bugger, always convinced he could succeed in everything. It was good to show him nobody had been deceived by his cheating.

  ‘And John Williams would be a good witness at any enquiry into your honesty,’ said Christian.

  ‘Do you think the Admiralty would take the word of an illiterate, common seaman against a commissioned captain?’ sneered Bligh.

  It was working, thought Christian, triumphantly. Bligh was confused and uncertain. That he remembered immediately the incident involving Williams indicated his guilt.

  ‘Supported by the word of the cooper, who would swear that the cheese barrel had already been broached when he examined it, I imagine they’d accept the
word of Williams that upon your specific instructions he took the cheeses to your lodgings at Portsmouth, for the use of you and your family.’

  ‘Lies,’ declared Bligh, desperately.

  ‘As you insisted during the outward voyage,’ recalled Christian. ‘Not a man believed you then and neither do they now.’

  Bligh shifted and Christian saw his hands were whitening, so tight had Churchill secured them. He must be in great pain, thought the mutineer.

  ‘Satisfied?’ demanded Bligh, suddenly.

  Christian did not reply.

  ‘You’re like a child,’ accused the captain. ‘Bottled up with imagined grievances, breaking toys in its bed chamber.’

  ‘My grievances aren’t imagined,’ said Christian.

  For several moments they stared at each other, eyes held. Neither wished to be the first to look away.

  ‘This is all the fault of Tahiti,’ said Bligh, suddenly.

  Christian frowned.

  ‘Tahiti infected you,’ insisted Bligh. ‘Spoiled everyone.’

  ‘Rot, sir.’

  ‘Everyone,’ repeated Bligh. He was staring down now, talking almost to himself. ‘Infected with sex and debauchery, like a disease.’

  ‘And you the only one to stay aloof and free from taint,’ mocked Christian.

  Bligh laughed, an attempt at a contemptuous sound.

  ‘That’s the difference, perhaps, Mr Christian. I’m not an animal … I didn’t have to rut and fornicate …’

  There was a vicarious thrill in being a torturer, thought Christian.

  ‘Because you couldn’t,’ said the mutineer. ‘You were the captain, a man who always had to have respect. You couldn’t touch it because it would have been public knowledge, on board and ashore. And you feared they’d laugh at you, didn’t you? You couldn’t risk being laughed at, could you, sir!’

  Bligh stared back, meeting the challenge.

  ‘Have you forgotten Mrs Bligh, who offered you her friendship, Mr Christian? And my babies, whom you held upon your knee?’

  ‘No,’ replied Christian, immediately. ‘Convince me that you hadn’t forgotten them either, sir.’

  Bligh looked away, silenced. His face was pinched with the pain the ties were causing upon his wrists, Christian saw. He heard the scrape of feet outside the door and half turned, apprehensively. The door opened, without a knock, and Quintal appeared.

  ‘What’s about?’ he demanded.

  ‘Is all quiet on deck?’ asked Christian, ignoring the question.

  ‘Right enough. But the men are growing restless. They don’t know what’s happening.’

  ‘They’ll know, soon enough,’ promised Christian.

  ‘We’ve looked at the cutter. It’s useless,’ said Quintal.

  ‘The launch then. Give them the launch,’ ordered Christian. ‘Start unshipping it.’

  ‘What will that leave us with?’ said the seaman.

  ‘The Bounty. We’ll need no more,’ said the mutineer.

  ‘That doesn’t rest well with me,’ argued Quintal. He remained standing in the doorway.

  ‘I don’t give a damn what you like,’ yelled Christian. ‘Go aloft and do as I say.’

  Still Quintal hesitated and Christian swept the butt of the musket against the door edge, slamming it in the man’s face.

  ‘You’ve no authority, Mr Christian,’ said Bligh, again. ‘They were already a scurvy lot. You knew that, right enough. You’ll not be able to lead them.’

  ‘Quiet, sir!’ ordered Christian.

  ‘Don’t do it,’ tried Bligh, sensing the other man’s lack of conviction.

  ‘It’s done,’ insisted Christian. ‘Done and nothing can alter it.’

  The nose flared again and into Bligh’s eyes came the glazed, staring look that always showed at moments when his control was almost gone. But his voice remained level, little more than a whisper, the words spaced and evenly spoken.

  ‘I’ll see you destroyed for this, Mr Christian. I shall survive and do everything in my power to bring you down. I’ll not rest until you’re twisting at the rope’s end and the name Fletcher Christian is damned throughout the length and breadth of England. You’re a lost man, Mr Christian. A lost man.’

  ‘I was a lost man the very moment I stepped aboard a ship commanded by you,’ said the mutineer. ‘One of us will be destroyed by this day. And if there is a God, sir, then that person will be you.’

  He jerked open the door he had so recently closed, gesturing towards it with the cutlass.

  ‘On deck,’ he commanded.

  Bligh didn’t move.

  ‘My shirt,’ he pleaded. ‘Please let me cover myself.’

  He would not touch the ropes, decided Christian. Or the man.

  ‘Let them see what sort of man there is beneath that starched and proper uniform,’ rejected Christian, perversely.

  ‘Damn you,’ said Bligh, his temper gone now and the words coming in a roar. ‘Damn you in every hell.’

  He shook his head, like a dog throwing off water, and the nightcap fell to the floor. Without it, he looked slightly less stupid, thought Christian. But only slightly. He was still a ludicrous sight.

  Bligh groped with difficulty along the still darkened alleyway, ignoring the call that came from Fryer’s cabin as they passed before it. At the foot of the companion-way, Bligh stopped, gazing up at the quilt of faces looking down expectantly. They would laugh at him, he knew, when they saw him. He turned back to the following man.

  ‘Mark my oath, Mr Christian,’ he warned, his voice even again. ‘Mark it and mark this day. There will never be a moment, for the rest of your life, when you will be able to forget what passed between us.’

  He had never thought it possible for so much hatred to exist between two people, thought Christian, staring back at the man. He jabbed out at Bligh’s exposed buttocks with the point of the sword, snickering when the man skipped aside to avoid being pricked.

  ‘Get aloft,’ said the mutineer. ‘I want them to laugh at you.’

  Christian’s arrival on deck, driving Bligh before him, was like that of an orchestra conductor mounting the rostrum, bringing gradual silence from the players he was about to lead. The hush fell over everyone. They were shadowed and grey in the peculiar twilight preceding the immediate dawn and everyone stopped moving, apprehensively.

  There was no laughter at the captain’s appearance, Christian realised, disappointed.

  ‘There’s the bugger!’

  It was a bravado shout, like a small boy trying to create an echo in a dark tunnel to prove he wasn’t afraid of anything hiding there. It came from Churchill, who appeared immediately embarrassed by what he had done, snatching around, grinning, eager for smiles of response.

  Ellison smirked and nodded. So did Birkitt. But the sight of Bligh, humiliated and bound, appeared to unsettle the men rather than bind them to him, as Christian had anticipated.

  Passing doubt, Christian reassured himself, prodding the captain forward. They’d rally round, soon enough. They’d all be with him in the end. He knew they would.

  ‘Here. Bring him here.’ said Quintal by the mizzen mast.

  Christian hesitated at the command. The stern area was obviously the most secure place to parade the captain and ensure that he couldn’t escape. But who the hell did Quintal imagine he was, giving orders? Didn’t he realise who the new commander was?

  ‘Aye,’ encouraged Ellison, sensing the uncertainty among those grouped on deck. ‘Bring him here. I’ll stand guard over him. One move and I’ll skewer the dog.’

  Bligh’s head was held forward, but he was looking intently around, identifying everyone who spoke. Creating mental lists, decided Christian.

  The mizzen was the only place, accepted Christian, moving the captain on. Churchill came alongside, pistol cocked and ready, and Smith and Birkitt positioned themselves behind Bligh, so that the captain stood in a circle of men, with the mast forming a barrier to one side. It would take a concerted attack to free t
he man, Christian realised, gratefully.

  ‘Just the slightest cause,’ Birkitt said, pushing Bligh more to sustain his own courage than to instil fear into the captain. ‘And I’ll blow your damned brains out.’

  ‘Hasn’t got any,’ insisted Churchill and they all sniggered.

  Children, worried Christian. Frightened, nervous children, even in the way they were speaking. Bligh would recognise it, he knew. And attempt to capitalise upon it.

  He was too encumbered, realised the mutineer. At the moment the crew were bemused by Bligh’s appearance, but it would not take long for them to sneer at the weapons with which he had armed himself. He handed his cutlass to Alexander Smith, who was standing nearby, then unclipped the bayonet from the musket. Just that would be sufficient, he thought. He detected Bligh straining against his bonds and reached out, managing to grab the trailing cord without physically touching him.

  Now he’s my dog, thought Christian, happy at the reversal of roles. My dog, at the end of my leash, and he’ll have to perform the tricks that I command. He jerked the rope, to remind Bligh who was the master. Just as childish as Churchill, he recriminated almost immediately, loosening his hand on the rope. Careful. Mustn’t become hysterical. He was in charge now, in positive command. Couldn’t relax, not for a moment.

  Heightening the theatricality of what was happening, dawn broke, the sun pulling up on the horizon and washing over the ship, like the lights coming up immediately after the curtains had been raised on a stage. Better able to see the state to which the captain had been reduced, a murmur flickered through the assembled crew, but Christian was unable to discern immediately whether it was sympathy for the man or approval for what had happened to him.

  ‘Here he is,’ announced Christian, loudly. He was still being the bully, he knew. And enjoying it. ‘Here’s the man who’s cheated and lashed and kept us short of our victuals.’

  The murmuring was increasing. It was approval, recognised Christian. The men were with him. The majority anyway. And that’s all he needed, the majority. And weapons.