Hell's Fire

by Brian Freemantle

  Christian stood directly in front of Churchill, the bayonet tight in his hand. He’d never killed anyone, he realised, suddenly. But he might have to kill Churchill, to bring the men back behind him. What would it be like? he wondered. Would the blade go in easily, without striking a bone? Would Churchill die immediately? Or linger, thrashing at his feet? Would the blood splash on him, still warm, staining his hands for a moment and his mind for ever?

  Mutineers and loyalists alike were watching, further along the deck, Christian realised. The revolt could end at this moment. He detected movement to his right. To look would mean taking his eyes from Churchill’s face. And if he did that, it would be taken as weakness. He stared ahead, unflinching, waiting to be attacked. The figure came into his vision and he saw it was Young, musket in hand. The midshipman positioned himself behind Christian, the backing implicit, and Christian felt the tension seep away. Confronted by two officers, Churchill capitulated, lowering his eyes and nodding respectfully.

  ‘Aye, sir,’ he accepted.

  It was ironic, thought Christian, that the discipline to which the man was instinctively, if belatedly, reacting had been beaten into him by Bligh.

  Christian turned to Young, gratefully.

  ‘Stay here,’ he ordered. ‘Keep close to the captain …’

  Still the respectful ‘captain’, thought Christian, going to the upper rail and gazing down into the boat. There were about fifteen people already there, he saw, knee-deep in hastily grabbed bundles. Littering the bottom were hammocks, twine, rope, sheets of canvas and sails and a jumble of boxes. But no food, he realised. The launch was almost too low in the water. With food to come and the remaining men, there would be dangerously little freeboard.

  ‘Victuals,’ he shouted to Sumner. ‘Get provisions in. No more belongings until the food is stored.’

  It was Jonathan Smith who again rose to the responsibility, summoning Tinkler and Simpson from the launch to help him. Christian stared down, mentally checking the supplies as they were loaded aboard. One hundred and fifty pounds of bread went in first, he saw. Smith was a sensible man, going immediately for the basic food. Meat was the next thing the man collected. Sixteen pieces of pork was hardly enough, Christian thought, counting it as it was handed down. But to increase it might lead to opposition from Churchill or Quintal. And he might not win another confrontation. They had lines in the launch, he could see. And the sea was full of fish. Better to say nothing, he decided. And safer. Six quarts of rum and six bottles of wine were stowed at the stern of the launch, presumably where Bligh would sit, and then Smith handed four empty butts into the boat, in addition to the twenty-eight gallons of water. They’d be well able to catch whatever rain fell, Christian tried to reassure himself. Immediately came the contradiction. There would be eighteen men in that launch. What if it didn’t rain? And there were no fish to catch? It was a torturer’s death, he told himself. They were being cast adrift to starve or thirst to death.

  Cole bustled up from the launch, heading immediately for the quarter-deck.

  ‘I want a compass,’ he said, imperiously, addressing Christian. It had the makings of another dangerous situation, realised Christian, startled by the man’s arrogance. Cole’s arrival put three unafraid men on the quarter-deck, with Hallett and Hayward still loitering nearby. And there were only Smith and Young, besides himself, to oppose them. He had to get rid of Cole immediately.

  ‘Take it,’ he agreed.

  ‘No.’

  The protest this time came from Quintal, as the bo’sun began opening the binnacle. The man who had first joined Christian had come back unseen from the launch, and was standing with his musket held loosely across his body, half threatening to level it. At least Quintal’s arrival balanced the numbers with Bligh’s men, thought Christian. And created another problem.

  ‘What’s he want a damned compass for?’ demanded Quintal. ‘There’s land not five miles away.’

  The man was drunk, Christian decided. A bayonet was hardly the weapon with which to challenge a drunken man with a musket at the ready. For the briefest moment he pressed his eyes closed again. How tired he was, he thought. Not just the fatigue that came from lack of sleep, but the lassitude and disgust arising from what he was doing. He’d made a mistake: a horrendous and terrifying mistake, ending one hell and immediately creating another for himself. He was damned, thought Christian. Damned forever. And all because of William Bligh.

  Quintal had brought the musket up further, he saw. A musket ball would be a quicker way to die than being dragged down through the water by an uncertain weight, he thought, suddenly. How easy would it be, he wondered, to goad the man into using the gun? Quintal was a violent man. And very drunk. He’d used a knife, in lower-deck brawls, Christian knew. A man who would use a knife would use a gun. Quintal swayed, cockily, happy that Cole was standing before the compass box waiting permission to take the equipment out. Badly drunk, Christian thought again, seeing the movement. And so he might miss, wounding instead of killing him. Wounded, he would be captured by Bligh. No, it would have to be by drowning, if at all.

  Christian walked over to the box, putting himself between Cole and Quintal, took the compass out and handed it to the bo’sun.

  ‘I said he wasn’t to have it,’ shouted Quintal.

  ‘Go back to the launch,’ Christian said to Cole, ignoring the man behind him.

  He turned back to Quintal, looking beyond him to Bligh and Fryer. Get rid of them, he thought, wearily. Just get rid of the immediate danger of Bligh and his men and perhaps he could get below, to rest.

  Quintal was still pointing the gun but there was no determination in his attitude. There never had been, accepted the mutineer. It had been a challenge without substance.

  He waved the man towards their captives.

  ‘Into the boat,’ he said, embracing Alexander Smith in the order. ‘Get Mr Fryer and Mr Bligh into the boat.’

  They moved at last from the mizzen, shuffling forward in a ragged half-circle.

  Churchill had a bottle of rum open in his hand, Christian saw as they approached the ladder, and he was almost as drunk as Quintal. The master-at-arms was barring the final descent into the launch of Jonathan Smith, loaded with Bligh’s chart cases, logs and personal papers. The captain’s servant was a determined man, thought Christian, remembering his earlier attempt to take them aboard.

  ‘No,’ refused Christian, as they came up to the scene. The only way to avoid trouble with Churchill and Quintal now was to agree with whatever they said, he decided. ‘You can only have the charts and the log tables that are already inboard. You’ll have nothing more.’

  ‘Afraid I might use them to dangerous purpose?’ said Bligh, from his left. ‘I’m a good enough navigator to survive, you know.’

  ‘Let’s kill the dog and be done with it,’ belched Churchill, blinking to clear his rum-blurred vision.

  ‘All right,’ said Christian, moving away. ‘Go ahead and kill him.’

  Let him, decided Christian, positively. Let the drunken fool put a ball into Bligh and end the whole business. He didn’t care any more. It didn’t matter whether Bligh lived or died or he lived or died or anyone lived or died. He swayed, like the drunks clustered around him. So weak, he thought. He felt so weak and tired.

  ‘No killing.’

  It was Edward Young who spoke, from behind, the edge of command still in his voice.

  ‘Out of the way, Mr Churchill,’ the midshipman continued, thrusting his way into the group. ‘Give them pathway to the launch.’

  He seized the barrel of Churchill’s musket and pushed it across the man’s chest, forcing him back from the ladder opening. Churchill stumbled away, clutching his bottle and giggling.

  Young shoved roughly at Jonathan Smith’s shoulder, hurrying him towards the ladder.

  ‘What about the captain’s things?’ tried the man, once more.

  ‘They stay,’ said Young, crisply. ‘You next, Mr Fryer.’

  The m
aster paused at the deck edge, staring down into the wallowing launch.

  ‘My God, she’s low in the water,’ he said, almost to himself.

  ‘And will be lower,’ said Young, still brisk. ‘Come now, Mr Fryer, don’t delay.’

  ‘Let me stay,’ pleaded Fryer, turning to Christian.

  At last his courage has gone, thought Christian. He never thought it would get this far and now it has he’s scared.

  ‘No, Mr Fryer,’ refused Christian. He jerked his head back towards the rear mast. ‘You threw in your lot with the captain back there and did your damnedest to get me put down. You made your choice. Now you can stay with it.’

  ‘Scum,’ cried Fryer, in desperate defiance.

  ‘Get aboard, sir,’ said Christian, dismissively.

  The man scrambled away and Bligh came forward, still unafraid.

  ‘I never thought you’d actually do it, Mr Christian,’ he said.

  ‘Not the first time you’ve been wrong about me,’ replied Christian, heavily.

  ‘I meant what I said, back there in the cabin,’ threatened Bligh. ‘I’ll damn your name and you with it in every part of the civilised world.’

  In the cabin, it had seemed a serious threat, remembered Christian. Now it didn’t matter at all. Nothing mattered any more. He was sickened by the whole affair.

  He turned to Alexander Smith.

  ‘In my locker,’ he said. ‘My sextant. Get it for me.’

  He turned back to Bligh.

  ‘I’m already damned, sir,’ he said. ‘There’s little worse you can do.’

  ‘Weapons,’ demanded Purcell, from the launch. ‘You must give us weapons. We can’t go ashore on these unknown islands without muskets.’

  The request was met with derision by Quintal and Churchill.

  ‘A shooting match, is that the game?’ mocked Quintal, waving the musket. ‘Ship to ship, man to man?’

  There was a real risk of one of the mutineers letting off a musket very soon, thought Christian. And no one aboard any longer to treat a wound, he added, looking down at the two physicians in the boat.

  Alexander Smith hurried up, the instrument in his hand.

  Christian held it as if testing its balance, then moved around Bligh, bringing the bayonet up to sever the rope. The man’s hands were whitened almost bloodless and where the cord had been were purple grooves. Bligh must have been in agony for hours, realised Christian. Yet he’d refused to give them the satisfaction of showing it.

  He thrust the instrument towards Bligh.

  ‘It’s a good sextant,’ he said. ‘You know that, well enough.’

  Bligh frowned, confused at the gesture. Quintal and Churchill were watching, a few yards away.

  ‘No tow,’ insisted Birkitt, reminded of the half promise that had driven him enraged from the mizzen and afraid Christian would offer more concessions. ‘We can’t allow a tow.’

  ‘Try it and we’ll use their boat for target practice,’ reinforced Churchill.

  They probably would, thought Christian.

  ‘All right,’ he accepted. ‘No tow.’

  And there would be no discipline against those who had ignored his commands, he knew.

  Bligh’s hands were too numb for him to hold the sextant. Instead he clutched it against his body. Still he lingered at the top of the ladder. The anger began to pump at the vein in his forehead and Christian knew there was to be a burst of temper.

  ‘There’ll not be a day when I don’t think of you,’ said Bligh. He tried to control the rising emotion and his voice jumped, unevenly, so that the watching men giggled, misinterpreting the tone as fear.

  Only Christian didn’t smile. There was nothing about Bligh he found amusing, he thought.

  ‘I’ll think of you, Mr Christian,’ continued Bligh, sneering. ‘I’ll know the torment you’ve created for yourself. And I’ll laugh at it.’

  ‘Be gone, sir,’ said Christian, contemptuously. He waved his hands before him, like a man trying to drive away a summer insect. ‘Get into the boat before it’s too late.’

  ‘Too late for whom? You? Or me?’

  Christian turned away, tired of the protracted scene. He’d Stood on deck for almost four hours, he thought. The sun pressed down on him, burning through his shirt. His own odour, sour and stale, offended him.

  Behind him he heard Quintal and Churchill driving the unsteady Bligh down the steps.

  Morrison ran along the deck, cutlasses across his forearm. He slowed when he saw Christian.

  ‘Only swords,’ he apologised. ‘They’ll be no danger in the boat with swords. It’ll be some protection, on the islands.’

  ‘Aye,’ nodded Christian, ready now to permit almost anything. ‘Let them have swords.’

  The drunken group of mutineers didn’t see the weapons until they landed in the boat. Churchill turned angrily upon Morrison, standing at the rail from which he had thrown them. The master-at-arms lashed out with his hand to hit the mate. He missed, wildly, almost throwing himself off balance.

  ‘Fight,’ slurred Quintal, fumbling with the musket. ‘They’re going to fight.’

  ‘Stop it,’ said Christian, his voice strained. ‘For God’s sake, stop it.’

  He looked to Alexander Smith. He wasn’t as intoxicated as the others, he decided.

  ‘Cast them adrift,’ he ordered. ‘Get that launch away from the Bounty.’

  He had not intended to look at Bligh again. But it was impossible to remain staring inboard until the boat was out of sight, Christian accepted.

  Bligh drew him like fire attracting a child who knew it would be burned if it reached out towards the flames but tried to grasp them anyway. The man was in the stern, already in command, the sextant and the compass on the seat beside him. He would try hard to survive, thought Christian. Very hard.

  The castaways had heard Quintal’s threat, he guessed, gazing down from the poop. Bligh had his men at the oars, putting distance between them and the Bounty. Purcell was rummaging in the bottom of the vessel, trying to raise a mast to tack against any wind, and Bligh’s curses at the man’s slowness echoed back to the ship.

  When they were twenty yards away and out of immediate danger from the muskets, Bligh let his men rest their oars.

  ‘Not a day,’ he called, his bruised hands cupped to his mouth so that Christian would hear him. ‘Not a day without torment. Remember that, Mr Christian.’

  ‘Oh God,’ said Christian, quietly. ‘Oh dear God, what have I done?’

  ‘… one of the hardest cases which can befall any man is to be reduced to the necessity of defending his character by his own assertions only …’

  Captain William Bligh, 1792, in

  a written rebuttal to Edward

  Christian’s attack upon him

  Although September and unseasonably cold, even for autumn, the main cabin of the Duke would become hot by the middle of the afternoon, decided the court martial President, Lord Hood.

  And the enquiry would doubtless last more than a week. Confounded nuisance. Damned stupid to stick to tradition and have them aboard a warship at all, determined the sharp-faced, autocratic admiral. Much better facilities ashore, in Portsmouth barracks. Safer, too. Not that the men arraigned before them looked much danger. Hardly surprising really. After the ordeal they’d been through it was a miracle any had survived at all. Just ten out of the fourteen who had been seized in Tahiti by the search ship Pandora in March 1791. More would have survived the Pandora shipwreck, thought Hood, if they hadn’t been incarcerated in cages on deck and left in chains until minutes before the vessel had been abandoned. The Pandora’s commander, Captain Edward Edwards, had been exonerated for losing his ship and those who had died. Too sweeping a verdict, decided Hood. Wouldn’t have happened here, not in his court. Still, they had been suspected criminals. Couldn’t have expected better.

  He glared around the room, glad the open ports in the fantail behind would bring him air. The others further into the cabin, particularly on th
e witness bench, would suffer. Too bad.

  Unfortunate business, the Bounty, determined the President, shifting his sword to make himself comfortable. Admiralty had handled it quite wrongly, in his view. Important not to be tainted by their mistakes, though. Have to examine the whole thing properly; get right to the root of the matter. Discipline was the thing to remember. Discipline and the King’s Regulations. Couldn’t have damned ruffians seizing ships; example had to be made, to see it didn’t happen again. Pity they’d suffered so much already. And that Bligh wasn’t to give evidence personally. Another mistake. The Admiralty would regret not waiting, decided Hood. It would not have amounted to more than a few weeks. According to reports they were getting from the fast packets, Bligh was already homeward bound. Only eighteen months since their arrest, after all. Few more weeks wouldn’t have mattered. It would have enabled justice better to be done. That was the important thing. Still, not his decision. Have to accept orders, that’s all.

  Lord Hood looked at the men sitting before him, wondering who would be the spy for the Christian family. There would definitely be one, he knew. Ever since the mutiny and Bligh’s well-publicised account of what had happened, the relatives of Fletcher Christian had worked unceasingly to sway public opinion. Hadn’t done very well so far, despite the advantage that the man’s brother, Edward Christian, was one of the best lawyers in the country: rumour had it he was to become a judge very shortly. Another story said he was here, in Portsmouth, for the enquiry.

  The President concentrated upon those defending the accused men. That was where the informant would be, he guessed. Among the lawyers. Their sort always stuck together. Wouldn’t allow any legal trickery, decided the admiral. Not that there was anything to worry about. He was going to conduct a very thorough and completely fair investigation, keeping strictly to naval law but bringing out all the facts. There would be nothing permitted which could give rise to criticism of a court of which Lord Hood was President. He coughed, indicating his readiness to start, and dutifully the blur of conversation subsided.