‘Goodbye, Isabella,’ he said softly, in the darkness. ‘Goodbye, my darling.’
William Bligh hurried impatiently across Soho Square, eager for his meeting with Sir Joseph. It had to be a position, he decided. Had to be. If it weren’t, then he would have to tell the man who had befriended him that he had no choice but to quit the naval service. All right, so they’d laugh at him. But they were doing that anyway, despite what had happened at Kew. So it could hardly cause any more pain.
It was confounded unfair, Bligh told himself, gripping his hands in frustration. Even the court martial verdict, justification of his honour if ever justification had been needed, had not had the effect he had expected. ‘Breadfruit Bligh’, everyone was calling him. Or, worse, ‘Bounty Bligh’. There’d even been cartoons lampooning him, whip in hand. He deserved honours and got sneers. Confounded unfair. Didn’t matter for himself, of course. He could have withstood it. Strong enough. And he’d been right, after all. Nothing to be ashamed of. Never had been. It was Betsy. She was suffering far more than he was. Several times he’d discovered her crying. She always made other excuses, of course. But he knew the real reason. Damn him, he thought. Damn Fletcher Christian in whatever hell he was in. And his family, too.
Sir Joseph Banks was waiting for him in the study, smiling his satisfaction. He was right in putting his confidence in the man, decided Banks. Bligh had the faults they all knew about. But he had the qualities, too. And they outweighed the disadvantages. Bligh wouldn’t let him down, he knew.
‘I trust you’re well, sir,’ he greeted the sailor.
‘No, sir,’ rejected Bligh, immediately. There was no point in avoiding the problem, he determined. That was not the way of William Bligh. The propensity of politicians to wrap everything they said in a mess of pleasantries was damned stupid. Couldn’t stand stupidity.
‘I’m being sorely treated,’ complained Bligh. ‘Sorely treated, sir.’
Banks nodded, accepting the protest. It was impossible to prove, but he felt a great many powerful people had been influenced by the campaign against Bligh. He’d been so hopeful after Kew, he remembered. It was sad, very sad.
‘The court martial was badly conducted, as far as your name was concerned,’ apologised Sir Joseph. ‘Much was said that could not be refuted …’
‘… because I was denied attendance,’ protested Bligh. ‘It was a nonsense, as well you must know.’
The Admiralty should have delayed the hearing, Banks felt. Justice had unquestionably been done and the verdict had reinforced throughout the fleet the need for proper discipline. But Bligh should have been called, no matter if it would have entailed reconvening the court. Banks paused. What sort of witness would the man have made, he wondered, looking at Bligh. A clever lawyer would have inflated that temper within minutes, Banks decided, sighing. And done the man much harm. But not as much as had been done by relying solely upon his written deposition.
‘It was unfortunate,’ agreed Banks. He shrugged, discarding the past.
‘I trust you’ve not taken any further your intention to leave the service,’ he said, smiling at the news he had for the man. It would be compensation, Banks thought, happily.
So it was a position, guessed Bligh.
‘I’ve spoken to my wife’s relations,’ Bligh warned. ‘A place in the merchant fleet awaits me, should I so choose.’
If they wanted him, they’d have to pay, Bligh decided. There was no excuse for what had been allowed to happen.
Banks stood, pouring Madeira for them both. The man had a right to his attitude, he allowed. It had been very difficult to get the agreement about Bligh, reflected Banks. Even now the doubts remained among many in the government and he knew his critics were waiting for Bligh to create an incident that could be utilised as political capital. The appointment of one of the men who had been cleared by the court martial to an immediate post in the President’s ship was worrying. Pitt was playing a dark game, determined Banks. Bligh would have to be closely advised. And warned.
‘As you must know, there was a purpose to the advice I offered you,’ commenced Sir Joseph, gently. He paused, sipping his wine.
‘There was much made at the Portsmouth enquiry about your attitude to discipline,’ reminded Banks, his speech prepared.
‘I’m a direct man, sir,’ interrupted Bligh. ‘A man who believes in the value of discipline. Any who slack under me feel