It was still going on down below. Mickoy was in the garden now, hands outstretched. But he wasn’t reaching for Isabella, Christian realised. The movement was towards Quintal, an effort to restrain him. And Quintal appeared less sure of himself now. Isabella was facing him quite fearlessly, the contempt obvious in her stance, Thursday wedged astride her hip.
Christian moved on, pain spurting through him as he used his left leg, his body feeling hollowed out by the ordeal on the ledge. Flies, attracted by the sweat, swarmed around him, settling on his neck and face and refusing to move despite the constant dog-like shaking to disturb them. He wanted to stop, until his breathing became easier. And to wipe the perspiration from his face, so that the insects would go away, if only for a few seconds. But his ankle would swell even quicker, if he ceased using it. And the men were still down with Isabella. As the cliff bottomed out, spreading into the jungle, he lost the elevation that had made it possible for him to look down upon his house. And it became worse, not knowing. Quintal had only been feet away when he’d last been able to see them. He could be upon her now, knocking the child to one side, scrabbling at her skirts, arm across her throat to prevent her crying out for help.
The path was widening, becoming the thoroughfare used by the women to collect their eggs. Christian stumbled forward in a clumsy, hopping gait, twice sprawling face down when his injured leg collapsed beneath him. It would have been easier had he reversed the musket, using it as a crutch. But that would have blocked the barrel and Christian wanted a weapon, primed and ready, when he confronted the men in his garden. Breath was grunting from him in choked, bitten-back sounds but the flies were gone now, finally driven off by the increased movement. The huge banyan trees began to thin, their roots spread out like the legs of a man on stilts, and then he reached the clearing.
He paused, momentarily, able to see his house again. The relief went from him in a groan, the sound of a man from whom a great pain is suddenly lifted. Quintal and Mickoy were still in the garden. And Isabella was still facing them, challengingly.
‘Isabella.’
His exhaustion strained the first shout to a croak and he snatched breath into his lungs and yelled again, with enough sound to reach them this time. Mickoy turned, frightened despite his drunkenness, and faltered back to the garden perimeter, where he stopped, uncertainly. Quintal, nervous too but less willing to appear so before a woman he was trying to impress, turned towards the village but remained where he was.
Christian hobbled on. musket across his body. The grunts were sobs now, prompted by relief and stoked by anger. Careful, he thought. Mustn’t cry. Mustn’t break down, like he had during the last argument with Bligh, immediately before the mutiny. Filth like Quintal and Mickoy would see it as weakness; maybe even try to take Isabella away by force. And he wouldn’t cry in front of her, either. She wanted a strong man, a protector.
At the entrance he swept the gun sideways, clumsily, catching Mickoy with the butt. It struck the man’s hip, hardly bruising him, but the force was sufficient to unbalance him and he staggered sideways, more surprised than hurt.
Quintal tensed, warily, as Christian brought the musket up. He pointed it at the man’s belly: it would take a long time for him to die if he put the ball there, he thought. And he wanted Quintal to suffer.
‘Careful, now,’ said Quintal, edging back.
He wasn’t really drunk, realised Christian. Not as drunk as Mickoy, anyway. The man had merely pretended to be, giving himself an excuse for what he had attempted to do.
‘Get away from my house,’ said Christian, his breath still uneven, so the words switchbacked from him, lessening the intensity of the threat. ‘Get away from my house … for ever. Or in God’s name, Matthew Quintal, I’ll kill you.’
Thursday detected the danger again and began to cry. The sound awakened the baby and it began to whimper, too.
Quintal smirked, still uncertain but slightly more confident.
‘What’s wrong?’ he attempted, humping his shoulders. ‘Man calls by to pass the time of day … gets met by a cocked musket …’
‘I saw you, Quintal,’ took away Christian. ‘From up there, on the cliff … I saw you.’
‘Saw what?’ challenged the other man.
‘Isabella is mine … only mine …’ said Christian. He was better controlled now, his breath recovered. ‘I don’t want scum like you anywhere near her … or my children …’
Christian heard Mickoy but didn’t turn to see the man limping back to the entrance. He’d placed himself badly, decided the mutineer. It was impossible to watch both men at the same time. But Isabella could see Mickoy, to warn him, he realised. And he was the lesser danger of the two, anyway.
‘… I should kill you,’ said Christian. ‘And mark me well, Quintal, I will, by God I will, if I know you’ve been within fifteen yards of my house ever again. Or even looked at Isabella … lusting after her …’
‘Would you, Mr Christian?’ demanded Quintal, cockily.
The man wasn’t frightened any more, decided Christian.
‘Would you kill me, like a real man should? Or is it another empty threat, the sort we’ve come to recognise? You’re not a brave man, are you, Mr Christian? You shout a bit and look good, but you rarely finish anything off, do you? If you’d had any courage, real courage, you’d have killed Bligh. But you couldn’t, could you?’
Christian hit him. He hopped forward, awkwardly, reversing the musket and sweeping it up, aiming for the man’s groin. But Quintal began to move when he saw Christian coming, doubling his body, so that instead of the stock landing where Christian had intended, it struck the man’s shoulder, knocking him sideways. The blow unblocked the impotent anger and Christian struck out again, bringing the weapon down two-handed against the side of Quintal’s head, wincing with satisfaction as the skin split, and then again, twice more, against the man’s shoulders as he fell away.
‘Wouldn’t I?’ he screamed, his voice out of control. ‘Wouldn’t I, Quintal?’
He jabbed again with the butt at each question, experiencing an almost sensual feeling at the sight of the man curled up at his feet, head shielded by his arms and legs drawn up to protect his crotch.
He could see Mickoy now. The man was still standing outside the garden, his mind too fogged to do anything but stare.
Christian looked back to Quintal. He wanted to kick him. But if he did, he’d fall over. He almost laughed at the thought, only just managing to stop it. Hysteria again, he recognised. He held the musket correctly now, jabbing Quintal with the barrel. The man had unwound, very slightly, and was squinting up, his face contorted in hate.
Quintal had been humiliated in front of Isabella, realised Christian, happily. And he’d appeared the protector he had always promised the woman he would be. And others were watching, he realised. Both Young and Adams had come to the square and he could detect movement in Isaac Martin’s hut, where the native women usually gathered in the afternoon.
‘Out,’ commanded Christian, savouring the attention. ‘Get out. On your hands and knees, like the pig you are.’
He was goading Quintal with the gun, driving it past the protecting arms to the man’s ribs, rasping the breath from him.
Quintal rolled into a crawling position and scrabbled forward, the blood from his head dripping before him.
Christian stood, unable to follow, but with the gun held ready. Quintal wouldn’t doubt him after that, he decided. No one would doubt him after today.
No heart to finish anything. So that’s what they thought, did they? Well, they’d see. They’d see just how far he’d go if anyone came near Isabella again.
‘Just once more,’ he shouted. Mickoy was helping Quintal up now, both staggering in the dirt.
‘So much as look at her or come near this house and I’ll put a ball into you,’ Christian yelled. There was no need to go on shouting, he thought. He’d proved himself.
Quintal turned, looking at him. The man’s face was smeared
with blood and the side of his head was ballooning up, the bruise already marked out purple against the whiteness of his neck. He made as if to speak, but then appeared to change his mind. He just shook his head, stopping almost immediately because of the pain, then moved off slowly through the tiny settlement.
That night Christian made love violently to Isabella, driving into her so that she gasped with each thrust and she clung to him, more frightened than excited. He climaxed before her, shuddering with each spasm, and she feigned the sensation as well, feeling his need. Immediately he rolled away on to his back and she frowned, curiously. He was normally a considerate lover, always waiting for her. Tonight he’d been like an animal. The ugly man would have been like that, she knew, the drunken one who had come to the house that afternoon.
‘Kept you safe,’ he said, suddenly.
‘Yes.’
‘Said I’d keep you safe. And I did.’
‘Yes,’ she said again. Why was he talking like this? she wondered.
‘No one will bother you again, you see.’
Unable to reply, she reached out, feeling for his hand. He was shaking, she detected.
‘You were very brave,’ she said, sensing he wanted praise. It was stupid, she felt, to have created such hatred in a community as unusual as theirs. Quintal had never been a threat to her, she had decided.
‘I love you,’ he said.
‘Me too,’ she replied, as always.
Why, she wondered, staring towards him through the darkness, was he crying?
‘Oh damn,’ said Christian, softly.
At least the children would not be disappointed, resolved Elizabeth Bligh, bustling around her sewing room. An outing to the Vauxhall Gardens wouldn’t be as exciting as being able to see, from the discretion of the upstairs landing, all the important people arriving at the house, but they would still be able to wear the dresses she had made for the occasion. Parade them off, even. And she’d buy them some sweetmeats, she decided: they wouldn’t have had that treat had the soiree been held. She must remember to make a joke about that. That was the best way to treat it, as a joke.
It was Harriet and Mary for whom she felt most upset. And not just because the eldest girls had been denied the opportunity to attend, for an hour at least. Both were sensitive girls. And old enough to realise that there was something peculiar about the unusual number of refusals that had been returned to their mother’s invitation.
And it was peculiar, determined the woman. Five acceptances. And twenty refusals, all pleading prior engagements.
She’d been very careful about that, remembered Elizabeth, making discreet enquiries among her new, exciting friends several weeks before the planned date. Certainly her understanding had been that Saturday was completely free.
She lifted the remodelled dress, holding it in front of her. She’d done it very well, she reassured herself. No one would know she had transferred the bodice from another gown, cleverly weaving a snippet from the hem of the skirt into the revers facing.
And if there were so many other functions being held, she thought, returning to her musing, why hadn’t she been invited to one of them? Not a year before it had been a weekly problem to decide which affair to attend. And before Mr Bligh had embarked upon the second expedition to the island where that awful mutiny had occurred, they were being invited to as many as three parties a day, sometimes every single day of the week. Such an exciting time, she thought, wistfully.
She strained behind, buttoning the dress, then pirouetted before the glass. Perfect, she decided, happy her figure was still firm after six children. Mr Bligh was still very proud of her, she knew. Darling Mr Bligh.
Elizabeth looked away quickly at the noise, embarrassed at being discovered admiring herself by Mary. The girl stood in the doorway, smiling.
‘You look lovely, mama.’
‘And so do you,’ replied the woman, honestly.
The pale blue brought out perfectly her daughter’s dark colouring and white skin, so much like her father’s.
‘The twins want to say goodnight,’ reported the girl.
The two youngest girls, Frances and Jane, came in solemn-faced, miserable at missing an outing. Elizabeth allowed them to stay while they put on their bonnets and arranged the folds of their parasols, then kissed them off to bed with the housekeeper, Mrs Bolton.
The coach arrived on time and Elizabeth sat next to the girl named after her, with Harriet and Mary facing them.
‘Will there be boys there?’ pressed the young Elizabeth, eagerly.
‘Hush!’ rebuked her mother. ‘I’ll not have talk like that.’
It was hard bringing up the children with Mr Bligh constantly away, thought the woman as the carriage crossed the bridge and turned along the Vauxhall road. They definitely missed their father’s control. She was very lucky, she decided, that Harriet and Mary were such sensible girls.
The vehicle was slowed by the crush of people going to the entertainments and the youngest girl gazed out, fascinated.
‘The trial has begun in Portsmouth of those dreadful men,’ said Mary, softly, so that little Elizabeth would not hear.
The woman frowned.
‘Mrs Bolton told me,’ added the girl.
The housekeeper was a busy-body, decided Elizabeth Bligh. If she weren’t so necessary in the running of the household, she would have dismissed her long ago.
‘I know,’ said the woman.
‘Mrs Bolton says there is little other discussion in high circles … daily accounts are being received, all the way from Portsmouth,’ enlarged Harriet.
‘Mrs Bolton is a gossip,’ said Elizabeth Bligh, sternly. She would have to talk to the woman, she resolved. It was quite wrong to tittle-tattle to the children about matters like this.
How much she wished Mr Bligh were home. He’d know what to do about the pamphlets. Not that they’d cause any harm to his reputation. That was already established, she thought, confidently. But it was distressing that such shameful things were being allowed to circulate.
It was a pleasant evening, despite being so late in the year. Elizabeth walked slightly ahead of her children, happily aware of the occasional glance of recognition. It thrilled her to be the wife of such a famous, respected man. Only to herself would she admit the conceit. And that’s what it was, she recognised. She actually felt superior to most of the women to whose houses she was invited, even the titled, aristocratic ladies. Because the majority had inherited their distinctions, King George being far too wily to allow the custom of patronage to pass from his hands into those of Mr Pitt or Mr Fox. Mr Bligh had earned his honour. And was often envied because of it, she knew. That’s why the accounts from Portsmouth were being read so avidly. It was only to be expected, she supposed, that someone of Mr Bligh’s achievements should attract such jealousy. It was still disturbing, though.
Elizabeth was just off the main concourse, buying the girls the sweetmeats she had promised, when she saw them.
Lady Harpindene. with her constant friend, Mrs Wittingdon, were promenading towards her, exaggerating the use of their parasols and smiling from side to side, conscious of the attention they were receiving as the leaders of that season’s society. Elizabeth suspected that neither were as friendly with the Prince of Wales as they tried to convince everyone they were.
The country, remembered Elizabeth. Both had written in their letters of apology that they were going with the Prince to his beloved Brighton, and that the visit would occupy most of the week. A long-arranged engagement, both had insisted.
Determinedly, Elizabeth moved away from the stall, directly into the women’s path. They stopped, momentarily disconcerted. As always, Mrs Wittingdon, a pale, blonde-haired woman of quick, nervous gestures, who constantly deferred to her titled cousin, looked to Lady Harpindene for guidance.
The baronet’s wife recovered quickly. She was an overweight, painted woman who enjoyed the notoriety of cuckolding her husband with youngsters hardly out of their teens.
>
She smiled, reaching forward.
‘Mrs Bligh!’ she gushed. ‘Upon my life, an unexpected delight!’
Behind her, Elizabeth heard the rustle as the girls bobbed their curtsies and felt the flush of pride.
‘Indeed, Lady Harpindene, a surprise,’ greeted Elizabeth, pointedly. She nodded to the woman’s companion. ‘Mrs Wittingdon,’ she greeted.
‘Mrs Bligh,’ responded the merchant’s wife. If Mr Bligh were successful on the second expedition, it was families like the Wittingdons who would double their fortunes, reflected Elizabeth, enjoying the woman’s consternation.
‘Your soirée,’ said Lady Harpindene, holding her hands in the manner of someone reminded of an overlooked event. ‘Why, ‘whatever happened to your soirée?’
‘Cancelled, madam,’ reported Elizabeth. ‘It appeared to conflict with so many other things.’
‘Such a shame!’ contributed Mrs Wittingdon, looking to her companion for reaction. Lady Harpindene dabbed her nose with a silk handkerchief, momentarily hiding her face.
‘Yes,’ agreed Elizabeth, tightly. ‘Such a shame. As unfortunate, perhaps, as your country outing … Brighton, wasn’t it, with the Prince?’
Lady Harpindene frowned, forgetting the excuse.
‘The country,’ she echoed, recovering. ‘Yes, such a nuisance. Postponed, don’t you know. The Prince is becoming more involved with the King in the affairs of state … so little time for himself.’
It was common knowledge, thought Elizabeth, that the Prince and the King were engaged in one of their periodic disputes over the Prince’s debts and that their only communication was through intermediaries and ministers.
Hell's Fire Page 14