Hell's Fire

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘He is bruised, sir,’ offered Gore, hopefully. ‘All down the right side of his face. And his right leg appears very stiff.’

  ‘What’s the truth of the matter?’ demanded Bligh.

  Gore shifted, disconcerted at informing upon another officer.

  ‘I gather he was drunk last night and fell upon arriving home.’

  Bligh jerked his head, exasperated. He had no military backing, he accepted. Or civil support, either. His only following was among the settlers, straggled away in the outback. All alone, he thought. As always.

  ‘It’s very worrying, sir,’ offered Gore, guessing the other man’s thoughts.

  At that moment the study door thrust open and Atkins bustled in, wet-faced and breathless.

  ‘They ejected me from my own court,’ he complained, like a spoiled boy who’d lost his cricket bat because he’d insisted on first innings. ‘They laughed at me and let Macarthur read out a long prepared statement …’

  ‘Is Macarthur free?’ snatched Bligh, realising the significance.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Atkins, slumping uninvited into a chair. ‘But he will be, within the hour.’

  ‘Oh, my God,’ said Bligh, quietly.

  ‘You’ve already manipulated a court when you didn’t have to,’ criticised Edward Christian. ‘You don’t have to do anything more. Let the authorities in London decide the matter.’

  Macarthur shook his head, defiantly. It was very hot in the cell below the court-room and both men were sweating.

  ‘For God’s sake, man,’ Macarthur yelled to the jailer. ‘Hurry with that release order.’

  The man was as implacable as Bligh, determined the lawyer, looking at the merchant. Or as Edward himself had once been. But not any more. Please God, he thought, let not what was building up here end in bloodshed. He’d condoned every other illegality and he didn’t want that.

  ‘Bligh’s thrown out a challenge,’ repeated Macarthur. ‘One of us must be faced down.’

  ‘He is the Governor-General,’ reminded Edward Christian. ‘No matter how clumsily he’s carried out his instructions. You can’t openly oppose him.’

  Macarthur jerked his head to the hubbub outside.

  ‘There’ll be an insurrection before day-break,’ he said, confidently. ‘Everyone who has had his livelihood taken away by that damned man is just waiting for the signal to storm the Governor’s mansion.’

  ‘Don’t give it, then,’ instructed the lawyer, refusing to pander to the man’s charade. ‘You control what’s happening out there in the streets. We both know that. If you tell them to disperse and go, then they’ll do so.’

  Macarthur shook his head, smiling.

  ‘It would give Bligh time to recover,’ he said. ‘I can’t afford that.’

  ‘I was prepared to guide you on matters of law,’ began Edward, slowly. ‘But what you’re considering now is, in my opinion, openly criminal.’

  What right had he to make a judgment like that? thought Edward,

  ‘So our association ends?’ guessed Macarthur.

  ‘Yes,’ said Edward. He wondered if he were concealing his apprehension from the other man.

  ‘You’ve no need to be concerned,’ said Macarthur, smiling up at him from the table.

  ‘Concerned?’

  ‘Our contact has been a secret one. And will remain so.’

  He paused, as if expecting the lawyer to respond. When Edward said nothing, Macarthur continued: ‘… remain secret … and so will the fact that it was not only with Edward Christian, lawyer, but with Fletcher Christian, mutineer.’

  Edward started, as if he had been slapped.

  ‘I’m surprised you took the risk, even here in Botany Bay,’ criticised the merchant.

  ‘I regret it, now,’ confessed Edward. ‘It was very stupid … like so many things …’

  ‘You can be sure I’ll keep my word,’ guaranteed Macarthur. ‘And don’t think there’s anything altruistic about it. If I thought it would bring me some advantage, then I might use it. But to have openly consorted with a mutineer makes me an accessary. I’ve got more to lose than to gain by disclosing it.’

  Edward nodded, accepting the man’s honesty.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  ‘What will become of your brother?’ asked Macarthur, unexpectedly sympathetic.

  ‘I don’t know,’ confessed Edward. ‘I wish I did.’

  Fletcher’s inability to comprehend the meaning of the court hearing that afternoon had worried him, Edward realised. His brother had obviously not recovered as fully as he had believed.

  ‘Take him away from this place, quickly,’ advised Macarthur. ‘Botany Bay corrupts people, turns them into animals. Take him away, somewhere safer.’

  Edward rose to leave.

  ‘I intend to,’ he said. ‘As quickly as possible.’

  ‘And try not to be too self-critical for whatever you’ve done.’

  Edward turned at the door.

  ‘Is it obvious?’ he asked.

  ‘Just go home,’ said Macarthur, avoiding the question. ‘Go home and try to make William Bligh a less important part of your life … yours and Fletcher Christian’s.’

  Major Johnston positioned himself at the centre of the table in the officers’ mess, nervously irritating the edge of his tunic with his fingers. He was doing the correct thing, he told himself. He’d be upheld when London learned what had happened: he knew he would.

  His face still hurt, where he had fallen the previous evening. He reached up, gently feeling the bruise.

  The officers who had formed the court that had decided the unsuitability of Atkins to sit in judgment upon Macarthur were grouped immediately to his right and left, and facing him on the far side was every leading businessman in Sydney. Macarthur was seated directly opposite, unable to control the triumphant smile that constantly hovered in the corners of his mouth.

  ‘It’s clear what’s got to be done,’ he prompted.

  Johnston scuffed his chair, uneasily. This was different from making Governors’ lives so uncomfortable that they sought voluntary retirement.

  ‘I don’t like it, sir,’ protested the soldier.

  ‘Listen,’ commanded Macarthur.

  There was noise from every direction outside the barracks, occasionally bursting out into bouts of jeering. Macarthur’s men were serving rum, free, guessed Johnston.

  Macarthur swept his hand around the table.

  ‘There’s every civic leader in the colony here behind you,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not convinced we’re faced with open insurrection,’ rejected Johnston. It would be his career and reputation on the line if this went wrong, thought Johnston, not Macarthur’s.

  ‘We are,’ insisted Macarthur. ‘That’s plain for everyone to see. If the settlers start moving in to support Bligh, it’ll be open battles in the streets. It’s known he’s dispatched Gore to muster help.’

  ‘There’s no sign of it arriving,’ protested Johnston.

  ‘Not quite true, sir,’ disputed Captain Kemp. He’d grown very sure of himself since the court hearing that morning. ‘From the soldiers I have on the outskirts of the town there are indications that some are coming into the city. It could be bad, by morning.’

  There was a fresh burst of shouting from outside and Macarthur moved his head towards it.

  ‘Order’s broken down,’ he insisted. ‘None of your soldiers would support Bligh. You wouldn’t yourself. And none of the traders will. And if Bligh is still free when the settlers gather, you’ll have two opposing armies. There’s only one course open to you.’

  ‘Martial law?’ queried Johnston, hopefully.

  ‘That,’ agreed Macarthur, the smile registering quickly. ‘And more. You’ll have to appoint yourself Governor-General. And arrest Bligh.’

  ‘I’ve already signed the warrant for your release,’ complained Johnston. ‘I’m not sure I’ve the power to do even that.’

  ‘It’s too late for those doubts,’ said Ma
carthur, briskly. He stared around the table, enlisting support. ‘Anybody who feels differently from the way I do?’

  The civic leaders shuffled among themselves. There were several mumbles of ‘we’re with you’ and a lot of head nodding. Johnston looked around him, apprehensively. Everyone of importance in the colony was there, he tried to reassure himself. John Blaxland, Macarthur’s partner … James Mileham … Gregory Blaxland … Nicholas Bayly … Thomas Jamison … it was all powerful support. But what they wanted him to do was frightening.

  ‘What if Bligh resists?’ he asked, worriedly.

  ‘Resists what?’ mocked Macarthur. ‘A troop, nearly 1,000 strong, against a Government House guard of about twenty men and they doubtful. Don’t be silly.’

  ‘I don’t want killing,’ said Johnston.

  Again there was the flicker of excitement from Macarthur as he realised Johnston was accepting the demands.

  ‘Our overthrow of Bligh must be lawful,’ demanded the soldier, suddenly. They all stared at him, bewildered by the contradiction.

  ‘I must have a written petition to usurp his office,’ announced Johnston, trying to clarify himself. He should have used the same excuse with Macarthur as he had with Bligh and insisted he was too ill to come into town, he decided. Only disaster could come from this.

  The others in the room stirred at the thought of probable involvement.

  ‘I won’t do it, without such a document,’ continued Johnston, seeing the reaction and hoping fervently it gave him an escape. They’d abandon him if things went wrong, he thought. A letter would prove at the enquiry that would inevitably follow that he’d acted to preserve order, according to his warrant, and upon the wishes of the colony leaders.

  Macarthur sensed the uncertainty of the men around him at the same time as Johnston. ‘A paper and quill,’ he called, quickly. It was Kemp who provided it, enjoying his new status.

  Macarthur scribbled hurriedly, careless of style or punctuation. Without this doubtful authority, he knew Johnston would back away. And given time to consider what they were doing, the merchants and the businessmen would avoid participation, too.

  Macarthur held up the paper, reciting the petition. ‘… the present alarming state of this colony, in which every man’s property, liberty and life is endangered, induces us most earnestly to implore you instantly to place Governor Bligh under arrest and to assume the command of the colony. We pledge ourselves, at a moment of less agitation, to come forward to support the measures with our fortunes and our lives.’

  Johnston nodded. ‘Upon that, I’ll move,’ he promised.

  Macarthur stared around the room again, seeking corrections. No one spoke. And very few looked directly at him, he realised.

  ‘And I’ll be the first to sign,’ he encouraged, adding his name with a flourish. He shoved the paper across the table, towards Blaxland. Another few minutes, he thought, and they’d start finding excuses not to endorse the petition.

  There was, thought Johnston, miserably, no way he could avoid it now. Damn Macarthur.

  It took Edward Christian nearly an hour to reach their rented house, buffeted and hindered by crowds making for the barracks. Macarthur would be there by now, the lawyer knew, surrounded by frightened, malleable men planning yet another mutiny in the life of William Bligh.

  So many insurrections against a man who used authority like a hammer, to batter, rather than a guide, to be followed, reflected the lawyer.

  Macarthur’s prescience had surprised him. And the man was right, he accepted. He had allowed Bligh to obsess him, turning him into a criminal like the men in the jails on the outskirts of town, breaking stones in retribution for their crimes. He deserved no better, thought Edward. For Fletcher, there was an excuse at least. But for him there was nothing.

  He had to get away, taking Fletcher with him. He’d been wrong about his brother’s recovery, he realised, thinking again about the oddness following the court hearing. The man was better, certainly. But there was still the tendency to withdraw inside himself and build disasters from the shadows in his own mind. That was certainly what had happened after the Macarthur court appearance. Fletcher had left the chamber where Bligh, by open inference, had been humiliated quite convinced that the Governor had, after all, succeeded. Edward had delayed by thirty minutes his appointment with Macarthur trying to persuade his brother how irrational the conviction was and although the man had professed to understand, the lawyer had left their house knowing he was still uncertain.

  ‘Fletcher,’ he called, from the doorway.

  There was no reply, but that was hardly surprising, decided Edward. The street noises overlaid everything. He walked expectantly into the sitting room. It overlooked the streets and Fletcher had been watching, fascinated by the build-up of the crowd, before Edward had left to meet Macarthur. The room was empty.

  He checked the dining room in seconds, his panic rising, then took the stairs two at a time, knowing even as he began his search of the bedrooms that they would be empty.

  He stood, panting, back in the drawing room, staring out. It had been an inviolable rule since their arrival in Sydney that Fletcher never left the house unless they were together. And it had been an easy edict to enforce, recalled Edward, because of Fletcher’s nervousness.

  It would have been a powerful emotion to have overcome that perpetual apprehension of arrest. And Fletcher only possessed one feeling any more. Hatred. Of William Bligh. He hadn’t succeeded in convincing his confused brother that Bligh had lost the day, realised Edward. Which meant there was only one place where Fletcher would have gone.

  It was almost impossible to move in O’Connell Street. Edward entered the mass of people like a man wading into a fast-flowing stream, trying to move against them towards Government House. Men and women were grouped around braziers and lantern poles wigwammed together to form patches of brighter light. At several places a few men attempted to make speeches against the Governor, but rarely finished because of the lack of interest of the people milling around. In the backwater of street corners, children played and giggled and ignored their mother’s restraints, believing it was the biggest party they’d ever attended.

  The majority of the crowd had been swilling up and down the street for two hours, stoking through rumour and imagined anger the tension of mob hysteria. The rum that Bligh had impounded hadn’t been wasted, realised Edward, as men he casually passed stumbled at his touch, two even falling.

  There were shouts, but Edward ignored them, not believing they were directed at him. The inaction and the rum had fed, rather than reduced, the hysteria and an irritable man, actually hitting out at them, was a welcome excuse to release some of the pent-up feeling.

  Two men began jostling the lawyer between them and immediately a circle formed.

  ‘Let me through. For God’s sake, let me through,’ pleaded Edward. It was exactly the reaction they wanted and they began howling at his impotent frustration. Another man entered the circle, so that the lawyer was pushed between them in a triangular pattern.

  Fletcher would be almost there, at the gates, Edward thought, desperately. He strained up, as if expecting to catch sight of him. His only vision was a circle of sweat-smeared, mob-blanked faces, grotesque and distorted in the guttering torches that blazed from the poles above their heads.

  ‘I must get through. Please. Please let me through.’

  The crowd picked up the chant, hurling it back at him.

  Edward dropped to his knees, destroying their roundabout, panting his exasperation. Please God, he prayed, let the guards still be at their places, preventing anyone entering. Let them turn Fletcher away, believing him to be part of the mob.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Edward, still kneeling. He looked up at his tormentors. ‘I’m sorry I pushed you. I meant no harm. Please. Just let me through.’

  Robbed of movement, the crowd appeared embarrassed at their game. A child bustled in, jealous of the attention. The circle straggled open and one of th
e men who had done the pushing backed away into the darkness. Slowly, still apprehensive of moving too quickly and irritating them again, Edward stood.

  ‘Me,’ demanded the child. ‘Now me.’

  ‘So sorry,’ Edward kept repeating, protectively. ‘So very sorry.’

  They actually parted, eager to rid themselves of him. Shown a pathway, he jerked forward, breaking into a run when he cleared them. The lawyer kept running, realising from the pain as he moved that he had been bruised by the crowd. He turned the corner into Bridge Street, staring expectantly up towards Government House, hopeful for the lonely, upright figure.

  The road ahead, right up to Bligh’s mansion, was deserted.

  And the guards had fled, he saw.

  All alone, realised Bligh, staring down from his bedroom window towards the town. He’d strained for several minutes, trying to detect the guards at the gates, before reluctantly admitting that they’d deserted. Discipline the cowards, he decided. Provost Marshal would have a guard list. Look to it the moment he returned from organising the settlers. Damned man would have to hurry.

  He’d flog those who’d run away, he decided. That was the answer to desertion. Put them against the mast and strip their backs. No, careful. Not on a ship now. On land. They’re soldiers, not sailors. Have to be a court martial, first. Silly mistake, thinking of a ship. Wasn’t scared. Take more than a few arrogant men to scare William Bligh. Only one with rightful authority. They’d recognise it, in the end: once Gore got back. Need his uniform, to enforce it.

  Bligh turned away from the window, scrabbling hurriedly through his wardrobe and selecting every item of his Governor’s apparel. He dressed carefully, stopping to admire himself in the full-length mirror of the dressing room. The last article was his Governor’s sash. He ran it through his fingers and then looked down, as if seeing it for the first time, before slipping it over his shoulder.

  Governor William Bligh. Good sound. Important man, at last. Well off, too. Landowner. Betsy was very proud. Told him so in every letter … letters, that was important. Have to destroy the official letters. Couldn’t let those fall into the mutineers’ hands. Mr Christian would like to read the letters. Always was a nosy man, prying into everything, wanting to know every secret. He’d beat him yet. Mr Christian wasn’t going to succeed with this mutiny. He’d address the men, from the mizzen. Give them the chance of being forgiven. That was it, tell them there’d be no punishment. Not Mr Christian, though. He’d have to be punished. By God, how he’d have to be punished, for what he’d done. Bligh jerked back from the fireplace, as if one of the burning documents had flared in his face. Why was he thinking about the Bounty? Wasn’t the Bounty. That had happened years ago. He’d become famous, because of it. And Mr Christian was dead. Long ago. Had to be.