Hell's Fire

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘Please, Mr Bligh, don’t,’ she pleaded.

  ‘The man’s a fool,’ insisted Bligh, speaking not to the woman but to the boatman whose ability to manoeuvre his craft he had criticised constantly since they had embarked at Westminster. ‘A complete fool.’

  The boatman rowed on, stolidly, glowering at Bligh.

  ‘Ever thought of using the tide,’ goaded Bligh, leaning forward to the man. ‘We have been at Kew this hour past.’

  Around them the river was crowded with boats and barges all heading towards the reception different from that which the King usually gave. Normally he held levees, for men only, or drawing-room gatherings at St James’s, to which women were invited as well. Today’s gathering was a political move, Bligh knew, the determination of the King and his court to prove they weren’t frightened of being overthrown by the mob, like the French aristocracy.

  A few of the surrounding craft, identifying Bligh, had come closer, Elizabeth realised. Hardly any had given any sign of recognition, she thought, although she knew nearly all of them.

  His Betsy looked very beautiful, decided Bligh. She wore the dress of pink silk he had bought in the West Indies and although it had cost more money than he had been prepared to pay, he had had a jeweller make into a necklace the pink and red coral he had brought back from Tahiti.

  ‘There won’t be another woman with jewellery like that,’ promised the man, looking away from the boatman. ‘Unique, absolutely unique’

  ‘You’re very kind, Mr Bligh,’ thanked the woman.

  Her husband looked tired, she thought. But that was to be expected, working as he did by candle-light into the early hours of every morning, answering the smears being manufactured at Portsmouth. But it wasn’t just fatigue, she knew. It was costing a great deal of money to get the rebuttal printed; she suspected that the printer knew her husband’s desperation and had even increased the cost, assured the acceptance was guaranteed. Thank God her father was so understanding. Mr Bligh would be very hurt if he knew the help she was receiving. Elizabeth didn’t like keeping secrets from her husband, but felt it necessary in this instance.

  They had to wait fifteen minutes for room to land and Bligh’s exasperation with the boatman spilled over when the man missed two opportunities and was beaten to a mooring by other craft.

  ‘Buffoon,’ he shouted, ignoring the amused attention from the other boats milling about. ‘Stupid fool.’

  ‘Another mutiny, by God!’

  Bligh snatched around, trying to identify the speaker. A lot of people were staring at him, he realised. And many were laughing at the anonymous remark. Why had Betsy wrapped the shawl so tightly around her? he wondered. It was really quite a warm day.

  The boat moved away from the jetty the moment Bligh was stepping out, so that he stumbled forward and had to snatch out to a bollard for support to prevent himself falling completely. There was fresh laughter all around.

  ‘Purposely,’ accused Bligh, crouching on the quay so that he was almost level with the boatman. ‘You let away purposely.’

  The man stared back, saying nothing. Only his eyes moved, going to the people around, enjoying being the cause of their amusement.

  ‘There’s no point in arguing, Mr Bligh. Please,’ said Elizabeth, still in the boat.

  ‘Not a penny,’ said Bligh, determinedly. William Bligh wouldn’t be ridiculed by an illiterate man who couldn’t control a dory in an inland waterway. ‘For your insolence, you’ll not get a penny for this trip.’

  The man had taken the boat about a foot from the mooring. He shifted very slightly and Bligh followed the movement. The man had cupped the oar, he saw, in the separating water across which Betsy had to step. In the new, pale pink dress that she had never worn before. There was mud on the oar-blade.

  ‘Hurry up,’ shouted someone.

  ‘Make room,’ demanded another, enjoying being part of the theatre.

  ‘We fixed a price,’ reminded the boatman. He pressed very slightly on the threatening oar. If he completed the movement, Bligh realised, his wife would be soaked. And covered in filth.

  ‘Hurry up, I say.’

  Quickly, his face rigid with anger, Bligh threw the coins into the bottom of the boat, reaching out for Betsy’s hand. The boatman carefully brought the boat in and steadied it as she disembarked.

  ‘Four,’ ordered Bligh. ‘Be back here on the stroke of four.’

  The boatman pushed away and when there was a boat’s length between them shouted, over-loudly: ‘Get yourself back, like you did from the Bounty.’

  Bligh was shaking with fury, his mouth pumping for words. Elizabeth plucked at his arm, trying to pull him along the jetty.

  ‘Please, Mr Bligh. Please,’ she begged. ‘They’re all laughing at us.’

  Bligh stumped angrily towards the park, holding his wife’s hand in the crook of his arm. He was tense with rage, she could feel, the muscles strained beneath the cloth of his coat.

  The palace grounds were crowded. Brightly coloured pavilions, like medieval jousting tents, had been erected in several places and two bands played at separate ends of the walkway. Two stages had been erected for theatrical entertainments and between the tents the servants moved in constant procession, burdened with trays of drinks.

  The reception had been carefully planned. Every foreign ambassador was in attendance, in case another country imagined the King’s weak health meant any more colonies could go the way of the Americas. To make the point as diplomatically clear as possible, the Prince of Wales had been sent to Brighton, to indicate his dispensability.

  ‘It’s so exciting,’ Betsy glowed, hugging her husband’s arm.

  Bligh was staring around, looking for faces he recognised. He hadn’t been at all satisfied with the acceptance within the houses of influence in the capital of his rejection of the court martial innuendo. Only four letters, he recalled. And two of them unsigned and abusive. Which was why this afternoon was so important. He had to meet the King, he decided. Only the briefest encounter would be necessary before such an audience. It would make him acceptable. And his narrative, too. Then they’d change their stance, these popinjays and fops with little ability beyond the bottle and the boudoir and even that open to question.

  He felt his wife stiffen and followed her look. Lady Harpindcne was parading slowly along the walkway towards them, a swarthily handsome, sharp-faced youth of little more than nineteen, dressed completely in white silk, even to his shoes, in fawning attention. Mrs Wittingdon was dutifully in place a few yards behind, her purple-faced merchant husband uninterestedly at her arm.

  ‘Why, Mrs Bligh!’ greeted the baronet’s wife, in that familiar voice of constant surprise. ‘And the worthy captain, too, I do declare.’

  ‘Your servant, ma’am,’ bowed Bligh. He could never understand why such people were so important to Betsy.

  ‘I haven’t made a mistake, have I?’ giggled the woman. ‘It is still captain? I haven’t missed a promotion in the Gazette?’

  Elizabeth felt her husband’s arm go taut.

  ‘No, ma’am,’ she hurried. ‘The only thing you might have missed was my husband’s award from the Society.’

  ‘Cleverly done,’ praised Wittingdon, thickly, reaching the group. ‘Country indebted to you.’

  The man was drunk, Bligh realised. But the praise still warmed him.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Such a brave man,’ gushed Lady Harpindene. ‘Despite all those nasty stories. I want you to know, captain, that everyone at my husband’s club is laughing at them.’

  ‘I mind they are, ma’am,’ said Bligh, heavily. ‘There seems to be much laughter these days.’

  ‘Not at your expense, surely, captain,’ intruded Mrs Wittingdon.

  Both women were staring around them, Bligh realised, knowing themselves to be the point of attention and wanting to see who was observing them. Harpies, he decided. Both of them.

  ‘What an unusual necklace,’ said Lady Harpindene,
turning to her youthful companion, so that he stared at Elizabeth’s jewellery, eyes wide in mock amazement. Both women sniggered.

  ‘It must be something very cute and unusual from the country,’ patronised Mrs Wittingdon, whose décolletage was studded with rubies. ‘Something native to the Isle of Man, perhaps.’

  ‘I’m surprised at your mistake, ma’am,’ returned Elizabeth. ‘With the frequency with which you both go to the country, I’d have thought you would know that not to be the case.’

  ‘It’s called coral,’ identified Bligh, sensing the importance to his wife of the exchange. ‘Rarer than any gem. Only necklace of its kind in England. The King has some, of course. Personal present.’

  Both women shifted, deflated.

  ‘You must excuse us, ladies,’ apologised Bligh, knowing they were ahead in the exchange. ‘Someone I have to see.’

  He hurried his wife around them, trying to keep Sir Joseph Banks in sight.

  ‘I was very proud of you, then,’ said Elizabeth, softly. ‘And you didn’t lose your temper.’

  ‘Sluts,’ dismissed Bligh, cursorily. ‘Stupid to bother yourself with them.’

  Sir Joseph saw them approach and turned gratefully towards them. He had been scouring the park ever since the man he had positioned especially to alert him of the Blighs’ arrival had told him of the stupid scene with the boatman. Pitt had been furious at his promise to Bligh, Banks remembered, insisting he be personally responsible for the man during his attendance.

  ‘Sir Joseph,’ greeted Bligh.

  ‘Your servant, ma’am,’ said Banks, lifting Elizabeth’s hand to his lips. ‘You look quite lovely … quite lovely …’

  ‘You’re most kind, Sir Joseph,’ blushed Elizabeth.

  Slowly they began to move along the walkway towards the main building, from which the monarch would emerge.

  ‘How is the King?’ enquired Bligh, immediately. He felt very contented at having made contact with Sir Joseph before the sovereign came out to greet the guests. Now he was guaranteed an introduction.

  ‘Occupied with affairs of state. But well,’ reported Banks, discerning a point to Bligh’s question.

  Bligh frowned.

  ‘Were it not for the problems it might have caused,’ disclosed Banks, nodding towards where the foreign ambassadors were clustered, ‘the event would have been cancelled. As it is, the King’s appearance will be very brief.’

  ‘How brief?’

  ‘A walk along the main thoroughfare. Perhaps the briefest stop at the big pavilion, that’s all.’

  He’d rarely seen Pitt so agitated, reflected Banks. But for the man’s concern with some unforeseen disaster that might befall the King, his annoyance over the Bligh invitation would have been far greater. Banks felt the ministers were far too nervous about the King’s health: it had been several years since his last collapse.

  ‘I had hoped …’ trailed Bligh, still hopeful.

  ‘Impossible, I fear,’ refused Banks. ‘We’re anxious there should be no encounters whatsoever.’

  ‘How much longer do you anticipate the enquiry will continue in Portsmouth?’ asked Bligh. Banks would be receiving daily reports even more detailed than those being put into public circulation, Bligh guessed.

  ‘Almost over now,’ generalised Banks. ‘Unpleasant business.’

  ‘Have you read my replies?’

  ‘Aye,’ replied Banks. ‘But there was little need for me to have done so. I’ve never doubted you.’

  ‘For which I’m grateful,’ said Bligh.

  ‘Still wish you’d taken my advice and not involved yourself in a public argument,’ said Banks, regretfully.

  ‘It’s been an expensive business,’ embarked Bligh. It was an ideal opportunity to discuss his problem, he thought. But faced with admitting his penury to his patron, Bligh held back, embarrassed. It was not in his character to beg, for anything.

  ‘Expensive?’ helped Sir Joseph.

  Bligh nodded. ‘My only wish is to serve my King and my country,’ he said, choosing an easy path. ‘As well you must know. But I’ve made two trips to Tahiti now for less than a quarter of the salary I would be getting as a merchant captain.’

  It had been careless of him not to have realised the difficulty, decided Banks. One of the favourite stories from the court martial was how Bligh had manipulated the Bounty’s victualling to make a profit. Here, perhaps, was the reason.

  ‘The Admiralty still refuse to see me to discuss my next position. They plead embarrassment for the duration of the court martial,’ said Bligh. ‘So I’m considering accepting the offer from Mrs Bligh’s family to return to the merchant service.’

  Bligh’s critics would see it as running away, decided Banks. Which perhaps it would be. He felt very responsible for the man. Whatever his personality defects, he was a brilliant seaman and a competent administrator. And undeniably brave. He needed help, not the treatment being presently accorded him.

  Brave administrator. The phrase presented itself in the man’s mind, as if for examination. Would Bligh be the man to solve one of the country’s many problems? wondered Banks. At dinner only yesterday Pitt had been bemoaning the difficulty and the fact that there were more pressing problems nearer home which prevented him from giving it his full attention. The idea would arouse enormous opposition, he knew. Few would see Bligh as the ideal choice. But there was no argument that couldn’t be overcome, if he were sufficiently determined. And he was determined, decided Banks. Bligh undoubtedly possessed the qualities necessary for what he was considering.

  He stopped, so that Bligh halted alongside.

  ‘Delay a while,’ he advised. ‘Keep your commission a few more weeks, at least.’

  ‘Why, sir?’ demanded Bligh, curiously.

  ‘I’ve always been a good adviser to you,’ avoided Banks. ‘And I hope to remain so. Let’s just get this damned court martial out of the way.’

  ‘Another position?’ anticipated Bligh, eagerly.

  The King’s arrival spared Banks from replying. The portly figure was surrounded by court intimates and there was an outer protection of politicians, both in and out of the government. Queen Charlotte was on the King’s right arm. Bligh identified the Duke of Clarence and smiled in recognition. The King’s son saw him and nodded. Lord Hawkesbury was in attendance, Bligh saw, with Henry Addington. And Lord Grenville, always the eager politician. The shy King was smiling, emptily, unhappy at so many people. His difficulty with a large crowd was legendary, remembered Bligh; he must be hating it. The promenade had been cleverly staged, with rehearsed people positioned at various spots where the King could appear to pause and engage in small talk. Even the bursts of polite amusement seemed spontaneous.

  When the royal party drew level, the Duke of Clarence detached himself and moved towards Bligh. Elizabeth curtsied and Bligh bowed, slightly ahead of Sir Joseph.

  ‘A pleasure to see you back among us, Captain Bligh,’ greeted the Duke.

  ‘It’s been my pleasure, sir, to be of service to my country.’

  ‘A service of which I know my father is well aware,’ assured the Duke.

  Bligh glanced aside, briefly, anxious to gauge how many people were witnessing the exchange. They were the complete focal point, he saw. Let them mock now, Bligh thought, confidently.

  ‘I await only fresh orders,’ said Bligh. He thought he detected the attention of the younger Pitt. Let that remark get back to him and the Admiralty, thought Bligh, hopefully. A feeling of great satisfaction suffused him.

  ‘You must be very proud, ma’am,’ praised the Duke, addressing Elizabeth. She was blushing, Bligh realised, glancing sideways. Darling Betsy. The harridans of society wouldn’t ignore her after today. The royal group had passed Lady Harpindene without a glance.

  ‘I am, sir,’ replied the woman, shyly. ‘Very proud.’

  ‘You must call at my house,’ invited the Duke. ‘Certainly before you embark upon another enterprise. I share the interest of my father in navigatio
n.’

  ‘It would be the greatest honour,’ accepted Bligh.

  ‘Settled then. Excellent,’ smiled the Duke, moving back to join the King.

  Imperceptibly, Elizabeth squeezed her husband’s arm. She felt very hot. Excitement, judged Bligh.

  ‘Well, Captain Bligh,’ said Sir Joseph. ‘Do you need any further indication of how the establishment of this country feels about one of its most famous sailors?’

  ‘Very comforting,’ said Bligh, finding awkwardness with the words. Court etiquette and diplomacy was a damned nuisance, he thought, with impressions and attitudes decided upon with the exchange of a word. He felt far more at home on a quarter-deck, man to man, without this foppishness.

  ‘They saw,’ whispered Elizabeth, by his side, ‘They all saw, Mr Bligh.’

  She was very excited, he realised. He hoped she wasn’t disappointed.

  The royal promenade was almost over, Bligh saw, the King impatiently moving back towards the palace.

  ‘Why not return to London in my carriage?’ offered Sir Joseph, recalling his informant’s account of the jetty argument. Nothing should be allowed to mar Bligh’s triumph.

  Bligh permitted his wife her exaggerated entry into Sir Joseph’s ornate, crested carriage, as aware as she of the attention of a large group of people. Those who only an hour before had looked without recognition were now smiling and nodding, he saw. It was pleasant to ignore them.

  Sir Joseph’s importance was no secret, thought Bligh, happily. First conversation with the King’s son. Now being escorted home by one of the most influential men in the land. That should halt a lot of tongues, he decided, seating himself comfortably on the rich-smelling leather.

  He confided his hopes to Betsy that night, after all the children had been put to bed and they were alone, in the dining room.

  ‘What sort of position?’ she wondered.

  ‘He wouldn’t say,’ admitted Bligh. ‘But I’m sure that’s what he meant.’

  Elizabeth frowned, doubtfully.

  ‘I pray he won’t turn against you, Mr Bligh. like all the rest.’

  Despite what had happened that day at court, she was still suffering very badly, realised Bligh, sadly.