Hell's Fire

by Brian Freemantle

  His first function as Governor, realised Bligh, affixing his signature to the document. He remained hunched over the paper, reading his own name. ‘William Bligh – Governor.’ It looked good, he thought, proudly. And the seal was heavy and impressive. An important man now, he realised. It was he, William Bligh, who ruled this colony, not a shambling collection of convict-soldiers and a few men who had been allowed to get ideas above their station because of the lack of previous authority. Sir Joseph was going to be proud of him. And perhaps the King, as well.

  The reflection reminded him.

  ‘When you return to England,’ he said, firmly, ‘I want you to take with you, under arrest, Captain Short.’

  ‘Captain Short?’ queried the Governor.

  ‘The convoy captain,’ enlarged Bligh. ‘Damned man refused to accept my superior authority on the outward voyage … actually fired warning shots across my bows and stern when I countermanded a ridiculous course he had set and changed direction. I’ve prepared the accusation against him. He’s to be court-martialled.’

  How easy, wondered King, would it have been for Bligh to have diplomatically handled the irritating difference in rank? He’d remembered the name as Bligh had been speaking.

  ‘But doesn’t he have his family with him … an intention of settling here?’

  ‘Don’t give a damn about that,’ rejected Bligh. ‘I’ll not have my authority flouted. It’ll set an example to everyone here. I don’t have time to waste on niceties. I want everyone to know the sort of man William Bligh is to be, from the outset …’

  It was a confounded pity about that speech which he would never deliver, he decided, touching its bulk bulging his uniform. He’d seen it almost as an official proclamation, knowing how fully it would have been published in the Sydney Gazette. Couldn’t be helped, he decided, briskly. The Short affair could be utilised, though. He’d use his newly discovered influence to ensure his decision was fully reported. It was good, to have such power. He carried more sway now than a captain at sea and he’d always regarded his authority there as absolute.

  Why was King regarding him so dourly? he wondered.

  The man hadn’t understood a thing he’d attempted to convey, the outgoing Governor decided. Bligh still thought the situation in New South Wales could be stamped out with the ease of someone treading on a bothersome cockroach. Poor man.

  Five miles from the Governor’s residence, James Hoare, the habitual escapee, scraped his fingers around the food bowl, collecting the last scraps. Pigs on the meanest farms lived better than this, he decided, belching.

  He squinted towards the fading sun. Almost time for another try, he decided. He reached up, feeling the hard skin on his shoulders and then moving to the almost healed sore.

  But he’d plan it better this time, guaranteeing there was a ship lifting within the hour of his escaping.

  He wouldn’t be caught and strapped inside that collar again, he determined. This time he’d get away and they’d never catch him.

  Fletcher was recovering remarkably well, decided the lawyer. The voyage had helped, of course. All those weeks at sea en route from London and Fletcher a passenger for the first time in his life. He’d laughed about it, which was important. The English physicians under whom he’d placed the sick, bewildered man had said several times that laughter would indicate a decisive step in his recovery, even though the precise causes of his breakdown, like his name, had been kept from them. But there was still a long way to go, Edward recognised. He’d missed two guineas from his purse that morning and knew Fletcher had taken it, like all the other money that had disappeared. He’d observe the doctors’ advice, he determined, like he had on the other occasions, and make no reference to it. They were convinced it would cease when the man completely regained his confidence and stopped regarding the affluent environment in which he now lived as something that might be snatched away at any moment, sending him back to the gutters of London Wall or Greenwich.

  Edward moved with distaste through the crowded, smelling streets. Sydney was a filthy place, he thought. And he had made a mistake in coming. It was a constant recrimination, growing with every day they spent in Australia.

  The very lawlessness of Botany Bay gave them almost guaranteed protection, but his meetings with Macarthur were dangerous. Bligh’s strength was still unknown. If the man managed to create any sort of intelligence system, then the association would be quickly learned. And that would destroy what they were trying to achieve. And wreck, too, his promised promotion at the English Bar, so long hindered by the Bounty affair.

  Edward paused at the door of the lodging house in which he and Fletcher were living. Did he deserve the honour any more? Hardly, he thought. Harbouring a mutineer and a murderer: unjustified, either legally or morally, decided the lawyer. No matter how proper the campaign against Bligh.

  He sighed, rejecting the doubt. It was too late, he knew. He had committed himself to a course and had to maintain it now. He stared back into the teeming streets. Nowhere else but here would he stand a chance of success, he thought.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Fletcher, immediately Edward entered the room. The lawyer had decided Fletcher should not accompany him aboard the Porpoise in case Bligh had been there, supervising the departure of his prisoner. The man was making so much of the affair that personal involvement had been possible.

  ‘A good meeting,’ reported Edward. He sat on the bed and began carefully wiping the dirt from his boots.

  ‘In the event, Bligh wasn’t on board,’ he added. ‘And it cost me only a guinea to get to Short … people will do anything, for a price, here …’

  He looked up at his brother.

  ‘… Bligh’s ruined him,’ said Edward. ‘The man had sold everything in England, to make a new life here. Because of the publicity that Bligh has generated over the matter, there’s no one who doesn’t know of his predicament. So he’s been robbed at every turn, trying to sell his possessions to pay for the passage home of his wife and family.’

  ‘How did he receive your suggestion?’ probed the mutineer.

  ‘Like a blind man offered his sight again,’ recalled the lawyer. ‘I’ve given him letters to my clerk, with full briefing instructions. There’s another, containing my authority to draw, under my clerk’s control, upon my account whatever sum is necessary for the defence and I’ve written to the best court martial barrister in London, with the personal request he takes the instructions. We were at Cambridge together and I know John Harrison well. He’ll do it.’

  ‘You said there was more,’ reminded Fletcher. He’d return the money he’d taken from his brother, he decided. It had been an instinctive action, but now he felt ashamed. There wasn’t any danger, he tried to reassure himself. Edward wouldn’t abandon him.

  ‘I went to the conveyancing office,’ explained Edward. ‘Harrison will need to introduce into the court martial documentary evidence of the land holding that Short has here …’

  Fletcher frowned, unable to understand his brother’s enthusiasm.

  ‘… it is not a particularly big register,’ continued the lawyer. ‘But it contains some interesting information about the transactions of the last few weeks. Within four days of arriving to take up his position as Governor, Bligh became a substantial land-holder.’

  Fletcher jerked up, the carefully repaired control going. He twitched in his excitement, the familiar perspiration bubbling on his face.

  ‘I knew the man was a thief,’ he snatched, eagerly. ‘He always was, manipulating the Bounty’s, victualling for his own profit …’

  He tailed away at the rejection on his brother’s face.

  ‘There’s nothing illegal in what Bligh has done,’ cautioned Edward. ‘Not according to the strictest interpretation of the law.’

  Fletcher slumped back into his chair, immediately crushed.

  ‘Then why do you regard it as so important?’

  The old Fletcher Christian would have recognised the significance, realised
Edward, sadly. His brother was still far from well.

  ‘We don’t need criminality,’ he lectured, softly. ‘The innuendo will be sufficient. Imagine how it will look, when it reaches London at the same time as the court martial that the first action of the man appointed to do away with corruption and favouritism was to invoke his position to such advantage.’

  Fletcher nodded, uncertainly.

  ‘It’s more than we could have hoped,’ insisted Edward. ‘Far more.’

  ‘So you’re happy?’ queried Fletcher, like a child seeking reassurance from a parent.

  No, thought Edward, in immediate reply. I’m a disgrace to the profession of a lawyer, attempting to extract an illegal revenge far out of proportion to the harm caused to me and my family. So I’ll never be happy.

  ‘So far,’ he lied. If Fletcher ever learned of his misgivings, Edward thought, he would collapse back into the gutter and never get out again.

  ‘What next?’ asked Fletcher.

  ‘The decisive meeting with Macarthur,’ said the lawyer.

  In the Governor’s residence, four miles away, William Bligh shook sand upon the third letter he had written that morning and sat watching the ink congeal. He looked towards the harbour at the sound of the departure gun and strained to see the Porpoise edging out into the bay. The Short episode had gone remarkably well, he reflected. No one in Sydney could misinterpret the determination that indicated.

  He came back to the letters he had just written, considering their tone. It was right to command their attendance, rather than invite, he decided. John Macarthur was unquestionably the man who had to be brought most sharply to heel. Defeat Macarthur and the whole colony would abide by the law again. Which was why it was important that George Johnston had to be present to be shown the sort of authority he would have to uphold from now on.

  And Richard Atkins would be allowed no doubt about what was expected from him as Advocate-General, responsible for the administration of justice.

  The outgoing Governor had warned him about Atkins, like so much else, remembered Bligh. Atkins was a weak man, the Governor had said. Almost certainly tainted with corruption. And in debt to Macarthur, like so many were. It couldn’t be helped, dismissed Bligh. The man held the appointment and would have to do as he was told, like they all would.

  It was interesting, remembered Bligh, that there was said to be ill-feeling between Macarthur and Atkins. About a debt, Governor King had told him, unsure of the details. It was something to capitalise upon, decided Bligh. If there were bad feeling, then it would mean the Advocate-General was likely to become his first ally.

  The three most important people in the colony, mused Bligh, summoning a convict-servant to deliver the letters.

  It was time for them to realise that the old ways had come to an end.

  William Bligh was commander now. As always.

  They were resentful, judged Bligh, examining the men grouped before him in the study. But they’d presented themselves, as instructed. Which meant they were uncertain. It was an apprehension upon which he would have to exert pressure. Diplomacy, Sir Joseph had advised. He smiled, waiting for them all to be served not rum but the best claret he’d brought with him from England.

  What he intended to do was brilliant, he decided. It would be impossible to criticise.

  ‘To a successful governorship,’ toasted Johnston, the military leader, dutifully.

  ‘I’ll drink to that, sir,’ agreed Bligh. ‘Determined as I am that it shall be one.’

  He noticed the stir that went through them. Keep them nervous, that was the way.

  ‘And it’s because of that determination that I have invited you three gentlemen here today,’ picked up Bligh. He moved from man to man.

  ‘You, Mr Macarthur, because you are undoubtedly the biggest landowner and businessman in the colony …’

  And villain, Bligh concluded, mentally. Macarthur was smiling back, happy at the description.

  ‘You, Major Johnston, because you command the New South Wales regiment …’

  The soldier began to smile, but the expression died as Bligh went on: ‘A body of men hardly fit to be described as the King’s soldiers, more interested as they are in running the grog-shops and bawdy-houses of this place …’

  Bligh intercepted the looks that passed between Johnston and Macarthur: it was an expression of men agreeing a mutual opinion, he decided. They’d guessed him a bastard and they were right in their assessment. He had every intention of being the biggest bastard they’d ever encountered.

  ‘And you, Mr Atkins,’ he completed, ‘because as Advocate-General, it will be your job to impose the law that I intend enforcing in this province.’

  Atkins nodded, like an obedient pupil being addressed by his headmaster. Even without the ex-Governor’s guidance, he would still have judged Atkins the weakest of the three, he decided, a man always ready to give way to the strongest wind.

  Johnston was the enigma, decided Bligh. Undoubtedly at the moment prepared to involve himself as deeply in corruption as anyone and to ignore the involvement of his men, but Bligh wondered how he would respond to strong leadership.

  About Macarthur he had no doubt. The landowner would fight him, he knew, watching as the other man played with his glass, head sunk as if in contemplation of the wine. He was uncommonly like Fletcher Christian. The impression came to Bligh suddenly and he jerked back to the man, re-examining him. The same upturned, aristocratic nose and bearing. That same slightly patronising attitude of a man born into the ruling class who recognises subservience from other people as a matter of right. The same good looks of which he was boastfully aware, with his immaculate silk coat and burnished hat.

  ‘You each must recognise the degeneration into which this colony has sunk,’ continued Bligh. ‘In some ways, there are good reasons, composed as it is largely of convicted felons who have earned their freedom …’

  Each man was watching him warily, Bligh saw, like animals unsure whether they were being welcomed into a new home or lured in to be put down.

  ‘But I’m going to lift it out again. I am going to make it a fit place for these men who’ve earned their freedom and for the honest settlers who are being starved into a serf-like existence by the practices that have arisen here.’

  ‘Brave words, sir,’ said Macarthur. What would Bligh’s reaction have been, he wondered, knowing that he was to sup that night with Edward Christian?

  A well-modulated voice. That was like Fletcher, too, thought Bligh. The man seemed very sure of himself.

  ‘And honest ones,’ said the Governor, discerning the sarcasm with which the landowner had spoken.

  ‘I am a sailor,’ continued Bligh. ‘I’m used to a rough way of life and well equipped to conduct myself in it.’

  ‘So we’ve heard,’ persisted Macarthur.

  Bligh’s head came up, but he bit at the words. The man was trying to goad him, he recognised. But he wouldn’t let it happen. This encounter was going to conclude like every one in the future, with him the piper who called every tune.

  ‘From this day,’ announced Bligh, ‘the settlers in this colony need not shop with the traders who have imposed a barter system, with rum the currency, and deflated the price of wheat and maize and mutton to starvation level. I am going to settle this season a price for next year’s crops. It’ll be a fair price and against that they can purchase every supply they’re likely to need from the King’s warehouses here …’

  ‘… that’s an order that won’t be liked among the traders,’ warned Macarthur.

  And you the biggest, with a fleet of ships to bring in supplies and maintain your monopoly, thought Bligh. Macarthur’s arrogance had slipped, he decided, at his announcement.

  ‘I don’t give a damn for the feelings of men who’ve shown themselves unfit to be traders,’ snapped Bligh, pulling up from his chair and thrusting around in front of his desk. ‘It is also my intention to close down these stinking brothels and sweep the whores from th
e streets. Botany Bay is to become a proper place to live in again.’

  He wedged against the desk, the threat completed, looking down at the three men. About the traders he was not particularly worried, he decided. Civilians could register their protest. He was far more concerned with the rum dealers and whore-keepers in the New South Wales regiment.

  Only Atkins was nodding doubtful approval but then his attitude was predictable, the constant obeisance to the man in command.

  Macarthur stood, carefully placing his glass on a side table. Now he’s going to show me he’s not impressed or frightened, recognised Bligh.

  ‘Excellency,’ began the man, politely. ‘You’ve been here for such a short time … hardly long enough to learn the geography of the town, let alone its customs …’

  ‘Long enough,’ interrupted Bligh.

  Macarthur talked on as if nothing had been said.

  ‘… I can well understand your keenness, your resolve to make your governorship an outstanding one …’

  He paused here, smiling directly at Bligh.

  The most cutting thrust yet, accepted Bligh, determinedly holding his temper. No one would ever be able to accuse Macarthur of making reference to the disasters that had befallen him in his earlier career, but that was unquestionably the direction of the remark. Johnston was even smiling, in appreciation.

  ‘… I’ve been here years. I know the people … their feelings,’ picked up Macarthur. ‘I am the leading merchant in this city and my reaction will be that of them all. They’ll resist you, at every turn.’

  ‘Are you defying me, sir?’ demanded Bligh. His temper slid, just slightly, so that the challenge was louder than he had intended. It didn’t matter, Bligh decided. The impudence dictated such a reaction.

  ‘Defying you! Of course not, Your Excellency,’ responded Macarthur, hands lifted in apparent horror. ‘I’m just trying to express the view that you’re going to encounter.’

  He was sure enough of himself to mock openly, even at their first meeting, thought Bligh. The man was placed to foment the protests. All the merchants and traders who would be outraged by the edict were concentrated within the town and easily able to organise themselves. The settlers whom he was lifting from serfdom by his decision and who would therefore be his supporters were dispersed over hundreds of miles in the hinterland. He was glad he had arranged the horseback tour to begin the following day. Everywhere he stopped he would guarantee the exploited, cowed people their freedom.