Hell's Fire

by Brian Freemantle

  The episode on Anamoka had upset Mr Christian. And that stupid argument the previous night over the theft of the coconuts. He’d been correct, of course, Bligh knew; he always was. For six months they had known little discipline, so it was important to remind them they were at sea again, sailing under the King’s Regulations. Even something as insignificant as a missing coconut, especially one belonging to the captain, had to be challenged and the culprit seen to be punished. It had just been unfortunate that Mr Christian had taken it and had had to be publicly rebuked.

  Perhaps, thought Bligh, I should try to curb my impatience. Certainly with Mr Christian. Yes, definitely with Mr Christian. To bully and drive was the only way to get the crew ship-shape. But Mr Christian was different. It was stupid not to have realised it before, decided Bligh, in rare self-criticism. He closed his eyes again, turning towards the starboard bulkhead.

  Damn Tahiti, he thought, before drifting back to sleep.

  There were five of them, in single line, hugging the weapons against them to prevent any sound, feeling their way soft-footed down the companion-way into the after cockpit.

  Fletcher Christian led, stomach churned with doubt, his ever-wet hands slipping greasily along the stock of the musket. Bligh’s cabin was small, he remembered: two men in it were a crowd. So a cutlass would be easier than the cumbersome, long-barrelled gun lengthened even further by the fixed bayonet. He shifted the sword to his right hand, in readiness. He’d never seen Bligh frightened, he realised. Angry, certainly. Irrational, to the point of insanity, many times. Every emotion, in fact. But never fear. But he’d witness it now, Christian promised himself. He’d make the man grovel, he determined, remembering his thoughts over the arms chest. Christian shook his head, like a man trying to dislodge an irritating insect, annoyed by the persistent doubt The accusation kept repeating itself, like a litany, in his mind. Fletcher Christian, mutineer: Fletcher Christian, murderer. Not my fault, he tried to contradict. Not my fault at all. Mutineer, he thought again. Murderer.

  Quintal followed Christian, still excited. He had to fight against the strange desire to laugh, tongue clamped between his teeth, biting himself to force away the nervousness. Churchill and Smith were bunched together next in line, needing physical contact for reassurance, and Birkitt, at the rear, kept glancing behind him, as if fearing a surprise attack.

  They huddled together outside Bligh’s cabin, staring through the crack which the man had left for ventilation. It was almost light now and they could make out the figure of the sleeping captain. He was on his back, one arm hanging loosely over the side of the cot. It was a neat, fussily kept room, every article of uniform folded and neatly stowed in its appointed place in its locker.

  Christian felt the eyes of the other men upon him, expectantly. He tightened his grip upon the cutlass and shrugged the rifle further back upon his shoulder, tensing at the noise it made. The men were strained forward, like hunting dogs awaiting a command.

  He moved his head, identifying Quintal, then indicated the closed door of Fryer’s cabin immediately opposite that of the captain. If Fryer had his pistols to hand, he could be a danger, Christian knew. Quintal nodded in understanding, then twisted at the same time as the apprehensive Birkitt at the sound behind them. Jonathan Sumner appeared, pistol held before him in his right hand. The new mutineer smiled, hopefully. Damn the man, thought Christian. He’d given the strictest orders that no one else was to come below decks. If they started milling around so soon, it would be impossible to isolate the mutineers from those who might remain loyal to Bligh. It would only need one loose shot and there would be carnage.

  He’d punish the seaman later, he decided. He paused, stopped by the thought. How would he punish him? The captain of a ship punished by the right of his appointment, as the holder of the King’s commission. By what right did a mutineer punish? None, he realised. His only authority would be that which those who followed him would permit. And any order they disliked could be ignored. They were all just common mutineers, levelled by their complicity in crime. He was no longer an officer, Christian realised. He’d abandoned the right. Just a common mutineer now, like the rest.

  He prodded Quintal, then indicated Sumner. If the damned man wanted involvement, then he could have it. Let him be the second man to face Fryer and the uncertainty of his pistols.

  The tight-packed group were shuffling, the feeling among them mounting. Within minutes, thought Christian, his support would start to erode. He breathed deeply, preparing himself, then pushed against the cabin door with the point of the sword. It was wrong, he thought, immediately. Too slow and unsure. He should have burst in, frightening his victim with the noise. As if trying to recover from a mistake, Christian slapped at the captain’s arm with the flat of his sword, but misjudged that gesture, too. It hardly snicked the sleeve of the nightshirt, echoing instead against the edge of the berth. The other men were jamming in behind him, urging him on, so that he was scarcely a foot from where Bligh lay.

  Christian swivelled the butt of the musket, bringing it up against Bligh’s legs, hitting him awake.

  ‘Awake, sir!’ he shouted. It sounded banal. Here I am, discarding my honour and perhaps my life and I rouse the man like a mother chiding her son for being late for school, he thought.

  ‘Up,’ he shouted again, unable to find better words.

  Bligh blinked awake. And did nothing. The man, whose nearly every communication with his crew was conducted at a roar and who became enraged at the slightest infringement of regulations or authority, was numbed in his bewilderment.

  ‘I’ve taken control of the ship,’ announced Christian, formally. ‘You’re no longer in command, sir.’

  Nothing he said seemed to be right. Weren’t men supposed to use momentous words on occasions like this?

  Bligh still appeared unable to comprehend what was happening, Christian saw. The man’s mouth was moving, fish-like, as he groped for understanding.

  Finally Bligh moved, wedging himself up on his elbow. Christian remembered the promise he had made himself. He brought the cutlass up, awkwardly, jabbing the point at the side of the captain’s throat.

  Even now, Bligh’s reaction was wrong, decided the mutineer, prepared for a screaming, disjointed harangue and hearing instead quietly uttered words.

  ‘Mad,’ said Bligh, simply, straining away, his voice rusted with sleep and disbelief. ‘You’re completely mad.’

  ‘Aye, sir,’ agreed Christian. ‘And I know well enough who made me so.’

  Bligh tried to shake his head, but it drove the sword-point into his throat and he stopped, head held unnaturally to one side. From the moment of awakening, he had not taken his eyes from those of Fletcher Christian. The unwavering, brittle-blue gaze had always unsettled him. Christian looked away, disconcerted, to where the sword pricked the man’s smooth neck.

  Bligh wasn’t scared, realised the mutineer, sadly. The confounded man would rob him even of that satisfaction, like he had robbed him of everything else.

  ‘Murder!’

  Bligh seemed conscious for the first time of the enormity of what was happening. He screamed the word, suddenly, jerking back further in his bed, so that the cutlass point was temporarily away from his throat. Everyone jumped and was immediately embarrassed by their reaction.

  ‘Murder! To arms!’

  Christian pinned him again, driving his head up, the doubts he’d had washed away by the momentum of the events.

  ‘Aye, sir,’ he said. ‘There may well be murder. And I’d be justified in doing it, well justified.’

  Bligh stared back, balefully. He still wasn’t frightened, Christian knew. Damn the man: damn him in hell. He pushed back against those crowding into him.

  ‘Give me room, I say,’ he demanded. ‘Don’t crowd upon me so.’

  Bligh appeared to be listening, expecting to hear the sound of his rescuers.

  ‘There’s no man on this vessel who will help you,’ predicted Christian.

  ‘Yo
u,’ said Bligh, softly. ‘You, Mr Christian. Of all people.’

  ‘Tie him up,’ demanded Churchill, from behind. ‘He’s a shifty bugger. Let’s not leave him loose.’

  The captain’s screams had echoed throughout the ship and there was noise everywhere now. Churchill moved away, making more room in the tiny quarters.

  ‘Hand down some rope,’ he yelled up the companion-way, unable to see who was above. ‘Something to secure the captain.’

  There was the sound of shuffling, but no reply.

  ‘A line,’ shouted Churchill. ‘Give me a line.’

  It was Mills, one of the first to follow Christian, who responded. He went to the mizzen and cut off a section of the cord matching that which Christian still wore around his neck, weighted by the suicide lead. He threw it down and Churchill bustled past Christian, grabbing at Bligh’s hands. Christian moved back, glad to be away from the unremitting stare. Churchill pulled the tiny, fat-bellied man out of his cot, then turned him, to face down over it. The balding master-at-arms screwed the cord tight into the captain’s wrists, as determined as Christian for him to cry out in pain. Bligh winced, but said nothing. The end of his nightshirt was caught up as he was tied, so that his thighs and buttocks were exposed to the grinning men. It would have taken the smallest tug to cover the man, but no one moved, enjoying his humiliation.

  In the cabin opposite, the startled Fryer was staring at the wavering pistol held by Sumner. It had been a frightening awakening, the sound of Bligh’s screams coming at the very moment his door opened, splitting back upon its hinges. He crouched up, still unsure, trying to see into Bligh’s quarters. Men were milling about in the captain’s cabin, colliding and getting in each other’s way. There was no order among them, he saw.

  Quintal stood between him and the cupboard in which the pistols were kept, Fryer realised, coming back to his own surroundings. He’d be blown apart before he could get his legs off the sea-chest. It was the time for talking, not fighting. Perhaps that would come later. There was much to learn first.

  ‘What’s afoot?’ he demanded.

  ‘Mr Christian has seized the ship,’ reported Quintal, eagerly. ‘The captain has been overthrown.’

  ‘What’s to become of him?’

  ‘Cast adrift,’ said Sumner. ‘With the pig’s rations he’s expected us to eat.’

  ‘In what?’ asked Fryer, thinking clearly now. He wasn’t frightened, he realised, in sudden self-admiration. Fryer was a sharp-featured, querulous man whose annoyance throughout the voyage at Bligh’s over-bearing, nagging attitude to his officers and men had finally led to his refusal to sit at the captain’s meal-table. But the man’s overthrow was wrong. Without Bligh in command, he thought, it would be difficult to get the Bounty to a place of safety. Certainly Fletcher Christian would have difficulty in doing it: Fryer didn’t share Bligh’s confidence in the younger man’s seamanship.

  ‘The cutter, sir,’ said Sumner.

  ‘Then he’ll die,’ said Fryer, immediately. ‘The bottom has rotted out and well you know it. You might as easy throw him overboard to the sharks and be done with it.’

  ‘It’s a matter for Mr Christian,’ avoided Quintal, hurriedly. He kept looking over his shoulder, more interested in what was happening in Bligh’s cabin.

  ‘You’ll hang, you know,’ warned Fryer. They weren’t completely committed, he guessed. If he worked cleverly, he could sabotage the uprising. He decided to experiment.

  ‘Go to the captain’s cabin, if you so desire,’ he allowed.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Quintal, instinctively, moving back. He snapped around at Fryer, knowing he’d been tricked.

  ‘Take care, Mr Fryer,’ he warned, uneasily.

  Quintal was definitely unsure, decided the master. If Quintal were, then they would all be uncertain.

  ‘What’s happening?’ demanded Sumner, snatching glances behind and trying to keep the pistol upon Fryer at the same time. The seaman was nipping at the inside of his lips and moving from foot to foot, uncomfortably, like a child wanting a chamber pot.

  Quintal glanced resentfully at Fryer. ‘I’ll go and see,’ he said.

  Fryer stared after Quintal, observing Bligh for the first time. The captain’s nightcap hung lopsided like a mongrel’s ear and his nightshirt was caught up. He looked ridiculous, thought Fryer.

  ‘On deck,’ said Churchill, in the opposite cabin. ‘Let’s get the bugger topside, where everyone can see he’s done for.’

  It might bind the mutineers to him, to see that Bligh was a captive, thought Christian. Or be the signal for a counter-attack by those loyal to the man.

  He was conscious of Quintal crowding into the cabin and turned, alarmed.

  ‘Mr Fryer? Who guards the master?’ he demanded, looking into the facing cabin.

  ‘Securely held,’ reported Quintal, carelessly. ‘Sumner can watch him. I wanted to see what was happening here.’

  They were rabble, thought Christian, worriedly, disorganised rabble following whatever whim took them.

  ‘Get aloft,’ he ordered, trying to convey his anger. ‘Gather the support.’

  Later, he thought, he’d discipline the man. He and Sumner both. One command had to be replaced by another.

  ‘Let’s stop this, Mr Christian,’ said Bligh, sensing the disorder. ‘Before it goes any further.’

  Christian laughed at him, without humour.

  ‘That time has long since passed, sir.’

  ‘Do you really know what you’re about?’

  ‘Freeing myself of you.’

  Bligh frowned: ‘There won’t be a port you can put into … no civilised land where you can berth, not even for a day …’

  ‘The world is too big,’ refuted Christian.

  He turned, at the movement by his elbow.

  ‘Almost the whole ship is with us,’ exaggerated Quintal, returning. ‘And those not in open support show no sign of backing the captain.’

  The man had been too quick, reluctant to quit the centre of the action, thought Christian. So the assurance was worthless. He cocked his head, listening to the noise above him. Men were running everywhere, without purpose or direction.

  ‘Who’s under guard?’ demanded Christian.

  ‘Mr Fryer,’ listed Quintal. ‘The gunner, Mr Peckover, has rejected us. So has Purcell, the carpenter. And William Elphinstone, the other mate, won’t commit himself.’

  ‘Take heed,’ ordered Christian. ‘There are too many weapons about. Ensure those that hold them are truly with us.’

  Quintal nodded, then indicated Bligh.

  ‘How many men are to go overboard with him?’

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ said Christian. What right had Quintal, a lower deck seaman, to question him? And in so disrespectful a manner?

  ‘The cutter’s no good,’ cautioned Quintal. ‘She’d go under within the hour.’

  ‘Mr Christian!’

  The mutineer turned back to Bligh.

  ‘There’s still much for us to say,’ suggested the captain.

  ‘We’ve done our talking,’ rejected Christian. It was remarkable how calm Bligh was, he thought. Just one outburst: he had pictured the man screaming in constant rage. Nothing was unfolding as he had expected.

  ‘An hour will make no difference with what you’re about,’ pleaded Bligh.

  Christian smiled, pleased at the tone in the man’s voice. Perhaps he was scared after all, he thought, hopefully. He always had been a devious man. Perhaps he was just better able to conceal his fear than most people.

  ‘There’s little for us to say to each other,’ prolonged Christian, enjoying the feeling of superiority.

  Several minutes elapsed before Bligh spoke again.

  ‘Please,’ he said, at last.

  It was a word he had never heard Bligh use before, realised Christian, in sudden surprise. It would be good to savour the man’s humility.

  The mutineer turned to Quintal.

  ‘The captain and I will talk pri
vately,’ he said. ‘I want everyone else up on deck, in control there.’

  ‘What do you want to speak alone for?’ demanded Quintal and Christian jerked back at the impudence, remembering his earlier doubts about authority.

  ‘Because I choose to do so,’ he replied.

  ‘That’s how it will always be, Mr Christian,’ judged Bligh, as he watched the doubtful men back away from the cabin. ‘They’ll do as they like now.’

  Every eye had been upon him, Christian knew. Now up on deck every mind would be questioning, wondering at his resolve. He felt the sounding lead thump against his chest as he slammed the door. It might still be necessary, he thought.

  ‘Untie me, Mr Christian.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘At least release my shirt, sir, so I can cover myself.’

  ‘No.’

  He couldn’t touch the man, Christian realised. Was it revulsion? he wondered. Or fear?

  Bligh was half turned, offering as best he could his bound wrists. His legs were varicosed, Christian saw, the veins knotted and roped over his calves. Unclothed, he was an ugly little man.

  ‘Please, Mr Christian.’

  ‘I said no, sir.’

  Bligh straightened, looking at the younger officer sadly.

  ‘You’ll not succeed in this enterprise.’

  ‘I will,’ insisted Christian, desperately.

  ‘The people will rise up to free me. Be sure of it.’

  ‘Where are they then?’ demanded Christian. ‘There’s no one on this ship now who doesn’t know what’s happening. You’ve no support, sir. No support at all. You never have had.’

  ‘There’s no more serious crime,’ tried Bligh.

  He wouldn’t get his wish, Christian realised, unhappily. Bligh wouldn’t beg. Damn him.

  ‘I know that well enough, sir,’ said the mutineer.

  ‘I’ve been a fair captain, Mr Christian.’

  The second-in-command spat, unable to put into words his amazement and disgust at the assertion.

  ‘Fair!’ he echoed. ‘You’re a tyrant, sir, a bullying, insecure swine who takes a strange delight in driving men until they can stand no more.’