Hell's Fire - By Brian Freemantle Page 0,70

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

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