Hell's Fire

by Brian Freemantle

  He watched the flames brown the edges of the papers, spluttering at the official wax seals. King George’s own seal. Being burned now because of a bunch of crooked buggers who wouldn’t accept his word as law. Always a mistake when people ignored William Bligh. They’d learn, like everyone else. Court-martial them, that’s what he’d do. Macarthur … Johnston … the whole lot. Ship them to England in chains and have them arraigned before a court martial and see to it they were punished. So many court martials. More than he could remember, almost. Tyrant. Bigot. Foul-mouthed. Bully. Always the same slanders. Rubbish. Wasn’t a tyrant. Regulations, that’s what was important. Follow regulations, through to the end. Other people couldn’t do that. Too busy being diplomats and interpreting the rules to fit the circumstances, like the soft wax melting there before him. So he’d run a tight ship and flogged a few. Not many, though. And he’d brought them to Tahiti without the scurvy, no matter what that drunken sot of a surgeon had said. Tahiti was the trouble. Too much sex. Big-breasted women, flaunting themselves. Men, too, painted like birds and gaudy in their dyed clothes. Filth. That’s what it was, filth. No one spared. Mr Christian worst of all. Bewildered by it. So easily led. Always had been. Poor Mr Christian. Didn’t have to do this, though. Not just captain and second-in-command. Friends, after all. Too late now, though. Deserted. No, not deserted, mutinied. That was it, mutiny. Have to punish him, for leading the mutiny. No allowances possible. Regulations. That’s what mattered. Regulations.

  The fire was dead, he realised. He stood, shaking his head. Not the Bounty. Got to stop thinking about the Bounty. Australia. That’s where he was. Australia. Governor-General of New South Wales. King’s appointment. Specially selected, a rigid disciplinarian for a difficult job. Should have given him troops. He could have done it, with troops to back him. Company of marines would have kept him in command. Needed marines on the Bounty.

  He gripped his hands against his thighs, forcing his nails into the palms of his hands. Not the Bounty. Definitely not the Bounty. Had to stop thinking of that damned ship.

  There appeared to be some cohesion forming far away, where he could just detect the lights of the lanterns and flares. The barracks were lighted as bright as day, he thought, braziers everywhere. The soldiers were still inside, he could just discern. But they appeared to be gathering for something.

  A movement brought him back to the mansion perimeter. A man was hurrying through the open, unprotected gates. Sent ahead to establish the resistance and report back, guessed Bligh. He stood quite still, staring down into the courtyard. He knew him, decided Bligh, watching the shadowy figure cross the lawn. He recognised the gait and the way the man held himself. Irritably the Governor shook himself again. Damned stupid. Of course he didn’t know him. How could he? He turned back to the bedroom. He’d hide, he determined. If the spy reported that he’d fled, perhaps they wouldn’t search the house for him. The Provost Marshal would return with the outlying settlers to support him. Sure of it. And if he still occupied Government House, then he was still Governor.

  Bligh hesitated on the landing, listening. The intruder’s footsteps sounded very loud down below, he thought. The man was walking with measured, almost leisurely steps, apparently unafraid of being suddenly confronted by a defender’s musket.

  Arrogant bugger, thought Bligh, creeping further along the corridor.

  Fletcher Christian had actually turned to leave the abandoned house, convinced Bligh had fled to the settlers for protection, when he heard the door close above.

  He stopped, motionless in the hallway, head held to one side, unsure whether he had imagined the sound.

  There were no footsteps. And there would have been footsteps, surely, if there were somebody up there? So it could have been imagination. Or the wind, blowing the door shut. There were a lot of windows open, the curtains billowing in. And the front door gaped wide where the occupants had run away.

  Far better to get back to their house, before Edward returned. Shouldn’t worry Edward. Been a good friend. Loyal brother.

  He had to be sure, Christian knew, turning towards the stairs. He couldn’t leave the house, without knowing for certain. Wouldn’t take long. Quite a small house, really, for a Governor’s mansion.

  He was creeping now, he realised, as he began to mount the circular stairway. He was moving on the balls of his feet, testing each step. That’s how he’d walked on the Bounty, all those years ago, edging towards Bligh’s cabin with Quintal and Churchill jostling behind. Was he still frightened of Bligh? Would it be there, that apprehension that bunched in his stomach, like a physical pain? Christian stopped again, hand gripping the balustrade. He could still go back: wasn’t too late. Nobody would ever know. He wouldn’t be frightened, he decided, his lips moving with the determination, hands white against the rail. He wouldn’t let Bligh win, not this time, if he were up there. He’d face him as an equal. And destroy him. He knew how to do it, Christian convinced himself. And he could do it now, not like on the Bounty. Destroyed Quintal, after all. And against Bligh he possessed a more effective weapon than he had had in his fight with the other mutineer.

  Just had to control the emotion, that’s all. And he could do it, with just the two of them.

  He prodded open the dressing-room door, immediately impatient with his hesitation. Like the cabin door on the Bounty. He shoved it again, hard, so that it bounced against its hinges and upset the small wine table behind. That was the way. Defiant. Nothing to be afraid of.

  Disordered, Christian saw, clothes dropped where Bligh had stepped from them, the wardrobe door wide open. And a heap of ash in the grate. Christian turned away, then came back to the room, halted by a thought. Quickly he went to the fireplace and ran his hand through the blackened paper. Hot: not more than fifteen minutes ago, he guessed.

  So Bligh was here, somewhere.

  He shuddered at the acceptance, like a man exposed to a cold wind. He faltered at the door. He could still walk away, he told himself again. He could go unhindered down the stairs and back to the house and watch from the protection of his darkened room as the mob overran the building and flushed Bligh out.

  But that would be running away, he countered. And he wasn’t going to run away. Not any more. That was the point of confronting the man, to prove he wasn’t a coward. Bligh had to know that: be shown it, in fact.

  Christian put his back to the stairway, moving positively, going further along the corridor.

  A bedroom, he realised, coming to the second door. But not used, obviously. All the furniture was covered in dust sheets and the mattress was the only bed covering. Mrs Bligh’s, he decided, had she accompanied her husband.

  The mutineer walked through the connecting door and smiled at Bligh’s bedroom. Not as disordered as the dressing room, but still showing evidence of a man leaving in haste. The dressing-table drawers were jerked out, he saw. And coins littered the floor, where Bligh had fumbled to fill his purse and dropped them in his anxiety.

  Always thought of money, remembered Christian. He went slowly around the room, fingering objects. Bligh’s belongings, he thought, the possessions of the man he hated. He put them down, hurriedly, like a man fearing infection. There was a miniature of Bligh’s wife, mounted before a mirror, and two others, of children. The daughters, Christian knew. Had they been the ones he had nursed, in Lambeth? Or were these the children who had come later? Bedding was pulled almost on to the floor, as if Bligh had started up suddenly, catching the covering against his clothes, and a quill lay across the writing desk, staining the top with its ink.

  Bligh would have hated the room disarranged, Christian knew. A fastidiously neat man, recalled the mutineer, everything folded and stowed into its appointed place and locker. So the man must be distressed, very distressed indeed. That was good.

  Christian had begun walking towards the door leading back on to the corridor when he saw the entrance to the second room, to his right. It was a narrow, small-framed opening. Not a room, decided Christia
n. A cupboard, perhaps. He moved on, then stopped again. Wouldn’t it be more likely that the man had concealed himself in a cupboard than an open room?

  Christian heard the sound as he reached out for the latch. It was the scuffing of someone pulling away, trying to hide.

  Christian didn’t pause this time. He pushed forward almost angrily, thrusting his shoulder against the door. It wasn’t locked and so he stumbled on, stopping with his hand still against the edge, for support.

  It was a room after all, a tiny storage cell. At one end, neatly stacked, were Bligh’s trunks. A narrow bed fitted against the far wall. And by its head, immaculate in his official uniform and with his hand on his sword hilt, as if posing for an official portrait, stood William Bligh.

  He stared unblinkingly at Fletcher Christian, his face without any expression.

  ‘No,’ he said, very softly. ‘Please, no.’

  Edward Christian ran into the house and stopped before the stairs, uncertain.

  ‘Fletcher!’ he shouted.

  His own voice echoed back.

  ‘Fletcher! For God’s sake, where are you?’

  The lawyer stared back to the entrance, listening. Were the sounds of the crowd getting nearer? It sounded like it. Perhaps fifteen minutes, he thought. No more. If he didn’t get his brother away by then, they’d be trapped by the mob. Or the soldiers. It hardly mattered which.

  ‘Fletcher!’

  Instinctively Edward hurried up the stairs, following the same route as his brother, but more impatiently, flurrying from room to room.

  But he didn’t enter Bligh’s bedchamber through the connecting door, but through the main opening, from the landing, and almost missed the small room. He was pulling back when he heard the sound, difficult at first to establish as a human voice.

  ‘Dead,’ it wailed. ‘You’re dead.’

  It was all right, decided the mutineer. He wasn’t frightened. The hatred was there, all right. And the loathing, too. Particularly the loathing. But there was no fear. So he would be able to do it.

  ‘No, Willie,’ he said. ‘Not dead.’

  It was perfect, decided Christian. Exactly the right tone. Bligh had always been very insistent about the softness of the voice.

  ‘Know you’re dead,’ mouthed Bligh, doggedly.

  ‘I survived. Just like you, I survived.’

  ‘Go away.’

  ‘You don’t mean that, Willie. You don’t want me to go away … you never did …’

  ‘… laughed at me … sneered …’

  ‘You wouldn’t accept it though, would you? Thought it was going to be the same on the homeward voyage …’

  ‘… shouldn’t have laughed … won’t be laughed at … important … in command … shouldn’t laugh …’

  ‘But you looked so stupid, in just your shirt, pleading … important people shouldn’t plead …’

  ‘Tahitian whore … all she was … Tahitian whore …’

  ‘Told you not to call her that, Willie. I loved her … really loved her …’

  ‘… not … not possible …’

  ‘Yes, it was. I loved her properly. Not like you.’

  ‘Don’t say that.’

  ‘It’s true. Just her. Not you. Never wanted you … always laughed at you …’

  ‘Not true.’

  ‘But it is true. Does it hurt, to know that someone you loved was laughing at you, all the time?’

  ‘Did love me.’

  ‘No, I didn’t, Willie. I did it because I was terrified of you … because I believed you would make public what I had become …’

  Christian moved into the room, reaching out to the other man.

  ‘… but that was our private joke,’ said Christian. ‘Now you’ll become a public laughing stock, a man unable to control his own colony. Think what that’ll mean, back in London, Willie.’

  ‘Not true … restore order … in command soon …’

  ‘No, Willie. You’re disgraced.’

  The mutineer moved abruptly, as if afraid the other man would jerk away. He seized him first by the shoulders, holding him hard.

  ‘Feel it, Willie? I’m not a ghost. It’s really me. It’s Fletcher.’

  Bligh was straining back, twitching at the contact.

  ‘Don’t pull away, Willie. You never pulled away before.’

  He made another sharp movement, cupping his hand behind Bligh’s head. And then he pulled the man towards him and kissed him, open-mouthed, holding their faces together, driving his lips open.

  Bligh was resisting so hard that when Christian released him he toppled backwards, across the bed. For a moment he stared up, eyes protruding from his face. Then they clouded, like a curtain being pulled down. And he screamed, a desperate, empty sound. There were no words, just the moan of a man retreating into a private, safe world, where no one could reach him.

  Fletcher Christian felt a movement against his shoulder and turned to his brother. Edward wanted to touch him, he realised, his hand outstretched. But the man had stopped, inches away, revolted by the idea of contact.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ said the lawyer, face twisting in disgust as he dropped his hand. ‘Let’s get away from here … and from him …’

  The Prince Regent was very controlled, realised Sir Joseph Banks, gratefully. He had expected a tirade, but so far the conversation had gone remarkably well.

  ‘We’re glad the whole matter has ended,’ said the Regent, formally.

  It was important to get lodged in his mind that Bligh had acted according to regulations, decided the man’s patron.

  ‘The court was unanimous in its verdict that Johnston was guilty of mutiny,’ he reminded. ‘That he’s been cashiered will show the public that Governor Bligh was at all times acting properly.’

  The Regent shrugged, impatiently. He was bored with the Bligh business, realised Sir Joseph.

  ‘Not important,’ he said.

  ‘And from the evidence called, the man Macarthur was shown to be a blackguard, as well,’ persisted Banks. ‘Bligh’s been completely vindicated.’

  ‘Could still have been handled differently. And to more credit to the Crown,’ insisted the Regent, as if his sick father needed defending. ‘Don’t forget he was held for nearly a year in that damned mansion. Imagine it, the Governor of a British colony, almost a common prisoner. Too bad, altogether too bad.’

  The man would not be half the King his father had been, when he finally acceded to the throne, decided Banks.

  ‘How is Bligh, by the by?’ asked the Regent.

  ‘Much improved,’ reported Sir Joseph. ‘The promotion to admiral did much to restore his health. Now that his wife is dead, he’s moved to a country house quite near mine, in Kent.’

  The Regent nodded. The boredom was increasing, Banks realised.

  ‘No question of him ever being appointed to any responsible position again, of course,’ said the Regent. Tor appearances’ sake, there’ll be no rebuke. But we’re much displeased.’

  It was almost as if he were seeking reassurance, thought Banks. And that was hardly necessary. He’d made his wishes very clearly known.

  ‘No, sir,’ agreed Banks. ‘Admiral Bligh has been very definitely retired.’

  ‘Damned glad,’ said the Regent, closing the subject. ‘Never want to hear the man’s name, ever again.’

  The Cumberland sunset was spectacular, the whole hillside bathed in red and colouring the milky clouds that would bring rain during the night. Edward stood at the window, staring down over the well-tended small-holding. So very peaceful, he thought. Hardly the house of a man so much involved in violence and conflict.

  The lamp flared behind him and he turned, to look at his brother.

  ‘I’m sorry I’m not able to visit you more often,’ he said. The emptiness of the apology was obvious.

  Fletcher shrugged.

  ‘I’m happy enough, by myself. I live a lot in my mind, back on Pitcairn.’

  Edward came further into the room. He c
ould have made more frequent visits, he knew. But he found it increasingly difficult to speak to his brother. With Fletcher he was reminded of his own mistakes. And embarrassed by them.

  ‘The land looks very good,’ he said, trying to find a subject between them.

  ‘I was well taught,’ reminded the mutineer. ‘Don’t forget I lived alongside the botanist Nelson for six months in Tahiti. And his assistant Brown came to Pitcairn.’

  There was little way of avoiding the past, thought the lawyer, miserably.

  ‘Have you had any difficulties?’ pressed Edward.

  ‘No,’ reassured Fletcher, immediately. ‘No one knows me. Or wants to. I occasionally go into the village, but the world has forgotten the mutiny on the Bounty and a man named Fletcher Christian. There’s no danger. And I know Cumberland too well to make any mistakes. I’ve been four times to our parents’ grave and know nobody suspects me.’

  Edward hesitated, wondering whether to make the announcement. Finally he said: ‘Bligh has been retired.’

  The other man seemed completely uninterested, thought the lawyer. Even hatred was erased now.

  ‘He’s utterly despised,’ added Edward.

  Fletcher began laying the meal for them. Suddenly he stopped, looking down at the older man.

  ‘It seemed so important, didn’t it?’ he said. ‘All that money and all that effort, to prove him the villain and me the victim.’