Hell's Fire - By Brian Freemantle Page 0,14

then they would all be uncertain.

‘What’s happening?’ demanded Sumner, snatching glances behind and trying to keep the pistol upon Fryer at the same time. The seaman was nipping at the inside of his lips and moving from foot to foot, uncomfortably, like a child wanting a chamber pot.

Quintal glanced resentfully at Fryer. ‘I’ll go and see,’ he said.

Fryer stared after Quintal, observing Bligh for the first time. The captain’s nightcap hung lopsided like a mongrel’s ear and his nightshirt was caught up. He looked ridiculous, thought Fryer.

‘On deck,’ said Churchill, in the opposite cabin. ‘Let’s get the bugger topside, where everyone can see he’s done for.’

It might bind the mutineers to him, to see that Bligh was a captive, thought Christian. Or be the signal for a counter-attack by those loyal to the man.

He was conscious of Quintal crowding into the cabin and turned, alarmed.

‘Mr Fryer? Who guards the master?’ he demanded, looking into the facing cabin.

‘Securely held,’ reported Quintal, carelessly. ‘Sumner can watch him. I wanted to see what was happening here.’

They were rabble, thought Christian, worriedly, disorganised rabble following whatever whim took them.

‘Get aloft,’ he ordered, trying to convey his anger. ‘Gather the support.’

Later, he thought, he’d discipline the man. He and Sumner both. One command had to be replaced by another.

‘Let’s stop this, Mr Christian,’ said Bligh, sensing the disorder. ‘Before it goes any further.’

Christian laughed at him, without humour.

‘That time has long since passed, sir.’

‘Do you really know what you’re about?’

‘Freeing myself of you.’

Bligh frowned: ‘There won’t be a port you can put into … no civilised land where you can berth, not even for a day …’

‘The world is too big,’ refuted Christian.

He turned, at the movement by his elbow.

‘Almost the whole ship is with us,’ exaggerated Quintal, returning. ‘And those not in open support show no sign of backing the captain.’

The man had been too quick, reluctant to quit the centre of the action, thought Christian. So the assurance was worthless. He cocked his head, listening to the noise above him. Men were running everywhere, without purpose or direction.

‘Who’s under guard?’ demanded Christian.

‘Mr Fryer,’ listed Quintal. ‘The gunner, Mr Peckover, has rejected us. So has Purcell, the carpenter. And William Elphinstone, the other mate, won’t commit himself.’

‘Take heed,’ ordered Christian. ‘There are too many weapons about. Ensure those that hold them are truly with us.’

Quintal nodded, then indicated Bligh.

‘How many men are to go overboard with him?’

‘I don’t know yet,’ said Christian. What right had Quintal, a lower deck seaman, to question him? And in so disrespectful a manner?

‘The cutter’s no good,’ cautioned Quintal. ‘She’d go under within the hour.’

‘Mr Christian!’

The mutineer turned back to Bligh.

‘There’s still much for us to say,’ suggested the captain.

‘We’ve done our talking,’ rejected Christian. It was remarkable how calm Bligh was, he thought. Just one outburst: he had pictured the man screaming in constant rage. Nothing was unfolding as he had expected.

‘An hour will make no difference with what you’re about,’ pleaded Bligh.

Christian smiled, pleased at the tone in the man’s voice. Perhaps he was scared after all, he thought, hopefully. He always had been a devious man. Perhaps he was just better able to conceal his fear than most people.

‘There’s little for us to say to each other,’ prolonged Christian, enjoying the feeling of superiority.

Several minutes elapsed before Bligh spoke again.

‘Please,’ he said, at last.

It was a word he had never heard Bligh use before, realised Christian, in sudden surprise. It would be good to savour the man’s humility.

The mutineer turned to Quintal.

‘The captain and I will talk privately,’ he said. ‘I want everyone else up on deck, in control there.’

‘What do you want to speak alone for?’ demanded Quintal and Christian jerked back at the impudence, remembering his earlier doubts about authority.

‘Because I choose to do so,’ he replied.

‘That’s how it will always be, Mr Christian,’ judged Bligh, as he watched the doubtful men back away from the cabin. ‘They’ll do as they like now.’

Every eye had been upon him, Christian knew. Now up on deck every mind would be questioning, wondering at his resolve. He felt the sounding lead thump against his chest as he slammed the door. It might still be necessary, he thought.

‘Untie me, Mr Christian.’

‘No.’

‘At least release my shirt, sir, so I can cover myself.’

‘No.’

He couldn’t touch the man, Christian realised. Was it revulsion? he wondered. Or fear?

Bligh was half turned, offering as best he could his bound wrists. His legs were varicosed, Christian saw, the veins knotted and roped over his