The King was furious, Sir Joseph Banks saw. His face was purple with emotion and he kept gasping to a halt, his exasperation robbing him of the words necessary to express himself. Everyone in the court was frightened of another mental collapse, Sir Joseph knew. And if it happened now, he would be blamed for it. He and Bligh.
‘Outrageous,’ the King managed at last. ‘Disgraceful. What? What?’
‘I will accept it was very unfortunate, sir,’ apologised Sir Joseph. Had it not been for the King’s anger, the habitual demand for a reply would have sounded amusing, thought Banks. No wonder the pamphleteers had seized upon the mannerism.
‘You told me you’d instructed the damned man as unequivocably as possible that he was to be a diplomat.’
‘I did so instruct him, sir,’ insisted Bligh’s patron. Both Lord Grenville and the Duke of Portland were moving apprehensively towards them, alarmed at the King’s outburst.
‘Then what, sir, is this?’ demanded the King, hurling the papers screwed up in his hand across the chamber at the other man.
‘… a trivial quarrel over who’s the superior officer,’ persisted the monarch. ‘And your protégé sees fit to incarcerate someone who dared question him upon a 12,000-mile voyage, with a destitute wife and six children, during the worst season of the year. It’s little wonder the poor woman and one of the children died. Now the court martial not only finds no case to answer, but honourably acquits the wretched man. Is that your idea of the diplomat needed to solve the problems in New South Wales? Is it? What? What?’
‘I agree, sir, it was a gross error of judgment,’ conceded Sir Joseph, miserably.
‘An error of judgment!’ echoed the King. ‘And what sort of judgment was shown, pray tell me, sir, when the man sat in the comfort of the Governor’s mansion while Short was on his way to ruin and apportioned himself something approaching 1,500 acres of land. I thought Mr Bligh had been sent to Australia to suppress corruption, not actively participate in it!’
‘It was not a corrupt action, sir,’ defended Sir Joseph, emptily. There was no other subject of discussion in London, Sir Joseph knew. Even the cabinet and the Privy Council had officially debated it, after the pamphlets had begun to circulate and then the details of the land deals had been confirmed, quite openly, in a dispatch from Bligh himself.
‘I know it’s not criminal!’ accepted the King, irritably. ‘But is it really the action you expected from a man specifically sent, by me upon your recommendation, to curtail the sharp practices in others?’
‘No, sir,’ accepted Sir Joseph.
The King gestured, calling the Admiralty Lords nearer.
‘I want the man Short well treated,’ he ordered. ‘I want lucrative employment found for him. And as the land grant was denied him by someone holding my warrant of appointment, then I’ll have him compensated. See to it …’
He waved them away, impatiently, coming back to Sir Joseph.
‘And you, sir,’ he threatened, ‘see to it, as well. Write to the man in whom you place such trust. Write to him and advise him that he’s coming dangerously close to incurring not only your wrath, but the displeasure of his sovereign. I’ll not tolerate any more stupidity, d’you understand?’
‘I’ll tell him, sir,’ undertook Sir Joseph, sincerely. ‘I’ll leave him in no doubt of our feelings.’
Damn Bligh, thought Sir Joseph, as his carriage moved away from St James’s Palace. Couldn’t the confounded man ever learn? He looked up, halted by a sudden thought. Had he been wrong about Bligh, for all these years? Had he misplaced his trust, when all the time he should have been listening to the critics, not dismissing the rumours as malicious gossip?
Edward Christian finished reading aloud the letters he had received that morning from the barrister who had defended Captain Short and then the longer, more detailed account of that and other developments from his clerk. The lawyer was hoarse from speaking and gratefully drank the tea that Fletcher poured for him.
The house into which they had moved was far more comfortable than their initial lodgings, decided the barrister, gazing upon the imposing view of the harbour. He sighed at a thought. Thank God his practice was so profitable now. And that he had been able to take such a leave of absence. His impetuous, emotional agreement to Fletcher’s wish to see Bligh’s downfall was proving damned expensive. Edward was still uncertain of Macarthur’s discretion. Just one word, thought Edward in familiar fear, and he would be ruined.
He smiled across the room at his brother. What did the money count, or his career, for that matter, compared to the almost complete recovery he could now see in the other man?
Every trace of the hardship Fletcher had suffered had gone, he saw. Fletcher’s face had filled again and he no longer held himself in the cramped, protective way of a man expecting to be kicked at any moment. And the other indications had vanished, too. Fletcher had actually returned the last amount of money he’d stolen, Edward recalled. For weeks now he’d left his purse lying carelessly around the rooms, testing the man. Always the carefully counted coins had remained intact.
‘That was wise advice of yours,’ praised Fletcher, reading again the message from Edward’s clerk.
The lawyer nodded agreement.
‘Every one of Macarthur’s captains has spread discredit on Bligh’s name in London,’ he said.
‘It was hardly necessary, was it?’ demanded Fletcher.
‘Necessary?’
‘Our coming here,’ expanded Fletcher. ‘We’ve exacerbated and utilised every error that Bligh has made. But it’s the man himself who’s making the mistakes.’
‘We’ve properly brought them to public attention,’ reminded Edward. ‘That wouldn’t have happened if we had stayed in England.’
‘I couldn’t have killed him, you know,’ confessed Fletcher, disjointedly.
‘What?’ queried Edward, confused.
‘In your chambers, that first night,’ recalled Fletcher. ‘When I produced the knife and said I was going to kill Bligh. I had intended to … wanted to, desperately. I’d actually gone to his house, before coming to you. It would have been so easy. At one point he was no more than ten feet away, quite alone and unguarded. But I couldn’t do it.’
Yet the man had murdered, balanced Edward. He stood unmoving by the window, waiting.
When Fletcher looked up at him, his eyes were wet, the barrister saw.
‘I’m frightened of him, Edward,’ moaned the younger man, despairingly. ‘After all these years and all the misery for which he’s been responsible, I’m still terrified of him.’
An atmosphere crowded into the room, embarrassing both of them.
‘I would have so much liked you to meet Isabella,’ said Fletcher, suddenly. He was staring at the ground between his feet, lost in memories, Edward saw.
‘She was so very beautiful,’ he said, softly. ‘So very good and so very lovely …’
His shoulders began to shake. He would cry soon, Edward knew. Usually he managed to prevent the tears until the privacy of his own bedroom.
Bligh had listened with mounting excitement to the Provost Marshal and sat waiting now for the arrival of Atkins. It would provide an example, decided the Governor. He’d bring Macarthur down and show those doubters in London, who found it so easy to criticise from a safe distance of 12,000 miles. The King might be displeased, thought Bligh, recalling Sir Joseph’s letter. But he wouldn’t remain so once the corruption in the colony was smashed.
And it would be destroyed, by the move he could now make against Macarthur. It was exactly what he needed, an incident in which he would triumph. And he would triumph, he determined.
He picked up Sir Joseph’s letter from his desk, idly rubbing his finger along the edge. Even Sir Joseph was turning against him, he decided, worriedly. That was very obvious from the tone of the letter. And the whispers had started against him again in London, he knew, turning to Betsy’s correspondence that had arrived in the same vessel from England. But he’d show them. William Bligh wasn’t beaten yet. Far from beaten.
Atkins flurried in, nervously jerking his head between the two men. The strength of the traders’ opposition was worrying the Advocate-General, Bligh knew. Now the man regretted the endorsement he had so readily shown to Bligh’s reforms, placing him on what he now thought to be the weaker side.
‘We’ve got him,’ declared Bligh, eagerly. ‘We’ve got Macarthur.’
Atkins frowned, suspiciously. Bligh was too keen on an open clash, he felt.
‘Remember the disappearance from the penal colony of Hoare, the murderer?’ demanded Bligh.
Atkins nodded.
‘He escaped on the Parramatta, a Macarthur boat,’ revealed Bligh, triumphantly.
‘You sure?’ said Atkins, apprehensively.
‘The master and the crew openly depose it,’ said Gore, offering the documents. ‘He’s free, in Tahiti.’
‘And Macarthur himself provided the declaration under the terras of the penal code, asserting his ship had been searched before sailing. So he’s responsible for aiding the escape of a wanted man.’
‘Technically,’ admitted Atkins, uncomfortably. ‘Nothing more than a technicality.’
‘He’s refused to provision the impounded vessel, forcing the crew to break the law by disembarking,’ added Bligh. ‘That’s an offence that carries a jail sentence. Legally we can remove the man from any position of influence in the colony. We’ve won!’
Atkins nodded, uneasily. Bligh was definitely manoeuvring the confrontation, decided the Advocate-General. Manoeuvring it, without properly considering the implications. Bligh needed something to demonstrate his authority, Atkins agreed. But this wasn’t it. The merchants hated him. And the regiment were as near rebellion as he had ever known because their rum and women trade had been taken from them. Bligh couldn’t possibly win, even if Macarthur were removed.
‘It’s not sufficient,’ he cautioned.
‘Of course it is,’ rejected Bligh. ‘The law has been broken, by Macarthur. So he’ll be brought to trial.’
‘But he won’t accept my jurisdiction,’ warned Atkins. ‘There’s a civil dispute between us, over a trifling debt. It would give him grounds for refusing to accept me as his judge.’
‘Rubbish,’ swept aside Bligh, swollen with the conviction of his success.
Atkins was a coward, decided Bligh. A miserable coward, trying to evade his responsibilities. Governor King had mentioned some money transaction between the two men, he remembered, but his recollection was that it had been settled. Atkins was trying to resurrect an old score as an excuse to avoid involvement and ingratiate himself with the other faction. But it wouldn’t work. He wasn’t going to be denied the opportunity of deposing Macarthur and gaining unchallenged control of the colony.
‘Arrest Macarthur,’ Bligh ordered, addressing Gore. ‘In the next few days, we’ll see who’s in command of this damned colony.’
We will, thought Atkins, worriedly. Why the hell was Bligh so pigheaded?
‘It’s a small amount,’ offered Edward Christian, guardedly.
‘But it’s a debt,’ insisted Macarthur. ‘And I’ve got a letter against Richard Atkins’s name, attesting that he owes the money.’
The lawyer stood up in the wealthy man’s second-floor office, gazing out of the window overlooking the brawling dockside. Fletcher had been right, he thought. Bligh would have destroyed himself without any prompting from them. At best, they’d precipitated what was to happen. But it would have certainly occurred. For the remainder of his life, Edward knew, he would be ashamed of what he had done. And deserved to be.
‘It’s grounds for refusing to accept him as a judge,’ agreed the lawyer.
‘Will you defend me?’ demanded Macarthur, unexpectedly. The Englishman would be a good advocate, he knew.
Edward shook his head, definitely.
‘The brother of the man who mutinied against Bligh!’ said Edward, needlessly. ‘We want to defeat the man, not provide ammunition for him.’
‘I know every other member of the court who will sit in judgment upon me,’ said Macarthur, pointedly.
The lawyer turned, recognising the reason for the remark.
‘That would be stupid,’ he warned. ‘Why bother, when you can’t possibly face trial before Atkins anyway.’
‘Because I always like to be sure,’ smiled the merchant.
‘You can be sure,’ insisted Edward. ‘At the moment, you can’t be tried, not before Atkins. Continue the way you’re thinking and you’ll give Bligh the proper excuse to arraign you, not one he’s had to go out of his way to manufacture out of technicalities.’
Macarthur shook his head, refusing the advice.
‘You can counsel me about the law, Mr Christian,’ he said. ‘But you can’t tell me about the ways of Botany Bay.’
‘But it’s so stupid!’ repeated the lawyer, trying to retain something of his integrity.
‘That’s for me to decide,’ rejected the merchant leader.
He needed Johnston’s support, decided Bligh, pacing his study. His declared support. If the reports he was receiving were to be believed, the town was in a dangerous state following the arrest of Macarthur. And he had to believe them, he knew. The details agreed from too many different sources for it to be idle gossip. Macarthur would have inflamed it, of course. No doubt about that. The merchants would not have formed such a cohesive force without the man’s leadership. And the regiment, aware the penalty for rebellion was death, wouldn’t have been so openly defiant if there had not been someone co-ordinating and feeding their anger. He wouldn’t have thought Macarthur clever enough to have orchestrated the opposition so well. It was almost as successful as that in London.
Bligh stopped at the window, staring out towards the town. They’d come along the main highway, he thought. Wide enough for ten men moving abreast. They’d be difficult to stop, a crowd that big. One or two men, perhaps. It was always easy to dissuade one man. But a crowd was more difficult. He paused at the thought. Fletcher Christian had been one man, he recalled. And they’d talked alone, in his cabin. He hadn’t dissuaded Mr Christian. He shrugged aside the memory. Didn’t apply, he rejected. The circumstances were completely different. How many supporters did he have? Gore was with him, he knew. And perhaps twenty soldiers, immediately assigned to the Governor’s residence. But they wouldn’t fight, he guessed. If they saw the regiment or even the townspeople approaching in force, they’d abandon their posts.
So Johnston was the key. As he’d always been. The man had supported him once, when he’d announced his reforms, remembered Bligh. But unwillingly, tempered the Governor. Now he saw the tilt of opinion, Johnston might be more difficult to persuade.
Atkins was still with him, he thought, suddenly. With increasing doubts, perhaps. But still loyal for the moment. If the man performed his function as Advocate-General properly today, then any crisis could be averted. If they could get Macarthur to jail, then the defiance would crumble. Just as the opposition to his reforms would collapse. He looked at his watch: too late to sec Atkins now. He was due in court within the hour.
Bligh shivered, frightened for the first time. It was bad, he accepted. Very bad. Not his fault, though. Just like the Bounty, all over again. Sent away without any soldiers to enforce his orders. And they were proper orders, quite legal and justifiable. That’s not how it would be seen in London, though. It was clear from what Sir Joseph had written that his enemies were working hard, turning opinion against him again. He looked at his watch for the second time. No way he could speak privately to Atkins before the hearing, he decided, definitely. Damn.
He rang the bell, urgently, and when the servant came summoned Gore. The Provost Marshal arrived in minutes, flushed and slightly dishevelled. Scared, judged Bligh, regarding the man. Everyone was scared except William Bligh. Not him. Never scared. Beat them yet.
‘What do you hear?’ demanded the Governor.
‘It’s not good, sir,’ warned the soldier. ‘The people are gathering at all the main places, holding protest meetings. The court building is almost surrounded.’
‘And the regiment?’
‘In their barracks.’
‘Quiet?’
‘For the moment,’ reported Gore. ‘But the townsfolk are there, too. There’s much discussion among them.’
‘I need Johnston,’ announced Bligh. ‘Send a trooper for him. Tell him I want him here immediately.’
Gore remained standing in the room.
‘Sir?’ he said, apprehensively.
‘What is it?’ queried Bligh, irritably. Why the hell was the man wasting time? Didn’t he realise the urgency?
‘There’s no way we could oppose an uprising,’ warned Gore. ‘I’ve no more than a handful of men and their loyalty is in the gravest doubt.’
‘I know that,’ snapped Bligh, impatiently.
‘Isn’t there another way this matter could be resolved?’ asked the Provost Marshal, knowing he was exceeding his position.
Bligh’s face burst red and his eyes flared. Would no one accept his authority any more? Cowards. Why was he always surrounded by cowards and blackguards?
‘Are you saying I should retreat, sir! Are you saying that William Bligh should turn away from a rightful, legal course, just because the weight of opinion is against him?’
‘I was suggesting …’ tried Gore, but Bligh talked him down.
‘About your business, sir,’ he hissed, twitching in fury. ‘I’ll hear no more of this turn-the-other-cheek nonsense. Macarthur has broken the law and shall be punished for it. I’ve instructed so and my word is law, as soon everyone here shall learn.’
Bligh stalked about the room after Gore had gone, forced into movement by his irritation.
Careful, he told himself. Lost control there. Stupid to have done that, to the only man remaining loyal. Apologise later. Mustn’t lose control. Needed calm, wise thinking to resolve this. His last chance, he remembered. Sir Joseph had let him know that, during his appointment meeting in London. Mustn’t fail them. Keep his temper and play a clever game. That was the way. Where the hell was Johnston?
It was a rigged court, thought the Advocate-General. The realisation came immediately Atkins entered the chamber, flustered and annoyed at having to force his way through the mêlée of people outside. It was jammed inside as well, the public seats abandoned, with people standing on and around them to witness the proceedings.
A soldier recognised him at last and made a desultory attempt to clear a way and it was then that the impression settled in his mind. He was to sit with six other officers. They were already there, he saw, grouped in a circle on the raised area at the far end of the room, laughing and gesturing among themselves, all the time slightly facing the dock in which Macarthur had already been arraigned.
Atkins bustled up, nervousness pulling at him.
‘Who put the prisoner up before I arrived?’ demanded the Advocate-General, pompously.
There was a snigger. Atkins was sure somebody had laughed. He looked around the officers, trying to detect it. Every face looked back at him, set and rigid.
‘I did,’ said the deputy chairman, Captain Anthony Fenn Kemp. ‘It was far too hot below. And besides, he’s not convicted yet. So why should he be treated as a felon?’
It was an open challenge to his authority, Atkins recognised immediately. And should be put down.
‘You don’t object, do you?’ said Captain Kemp, looking to the other soldiers for approval.
‘No,’ said Atkins, wearily. ‘No point in reversing it now. But don’t take such decisions in the future. Always wait upon me.’
‘I’ll remember that,’ promised the captain, smiling.
There had been a laugh, that time. Atkins was sure of it. He jerked along the bench, brow furrowed in distress. Blank-faced, all of them.
He turned back into the room. There were a lot of officers and soldiers from the regiment as well as civilians, he saw. He identified almost every merchant and trader in Sydney and there were others whom he didn’t know.
In the line of people nearest the dock, Edward Christian leaned across to his brother.
‘It’s a farce,’ anticipated the lawyer. ‘Bligh’s lost.’
‘Sure?’ demanded the mutineer.
‘Watch. And listen,’ advised the lawyer.
So Macarthur had ignored his advice and tampered with the court, thought Edward, staring up at the man positioned above him. And he’d known it was to happen. Nowadays shame was an almost constant feeling, thought the lawyer.
It was several moments before Atkins could bring order into the room and even when he began the proceedings it was over a groundswell of noise. It was a regularised procedure, the oath being administered to the officers by the Advocate-General who then, finally, took it himself.
Atkins had the Bible in his right hand when Macarthur shouted.
‘I object to the Presidency of Richard Atkins,’ he announced, standing. ‘There is personal animosity between us and we are engaged in civil proceedings. Therefore a fair hearing is impossible.’
It was as if everyone had known in advance of the outburst. From the back of the room, where it was impossible to detect the culprits, cheering broke out.
‘Continue with the oath,’ Atkins instructed Kemp.
‘I will not accept the jurisdiction of this court,’ insisted Macarthur, loudly. ‘I have a deposition to make before the commencement of this hearing with Richard Atkins as my judge.’
‘You will sit down, sir!’ ruled Atkins, turning back to the man.
‘I will not,’ rejected Macarthur, to fresh laughter from the well of the court. ‘I will not be tried on what amounts to a technicality by a man who could benefit from my conviction.’
‘This court will not begin until I am sworn,’ announced Atkins, from the bench. ‘Anything you have to say in your defence will be considered at the proper time, according to law.’
‘No, sir.’
The challenge came from his right and Atkins turned to Captain Kemp, apprehensively.
‘We are sworn,’ said the soldier, indicating the other officers. ‘We will hear the accused’s protests to your Presidency to decide whether they are valid.’
‘That is illegal,’ protested Atkins.
‘We will decide the legality or otherwise.’
Atkins remained where he was, standing awkwardly like a child that has wet itself at a birthday party and knows movement will disclose the secret.
Kemp gazed at him for a moment, considering the impasse, then signalled the other members of the court and they all sat down, leaving Atkins upright and foolish. Hesitantly, looking back as if he expected them to change their minds and recall him, he moved to the end of the dais and perched on a chair. Everyone was laughing openly now, he saw. He’d supported Bligh and been humiliated because of it.
Macarthur was an excellent performer, thought Edward Christian, looking up again as the man spoke. He could have acquitted himself well in an English court of law. The man gestured with a sheaf of papers, like a flag-carrier showing a banner to be followed. He outlined the debt dispute between himself and Atkins, repeated a fair hearing was impossible and listed in detail the arguments and rancour that existed between them. A justified legal objection, thought Edward Christian, gazing around the court. Why, he wondered despairingly, had the man had to interfere with the other officers? It had been so unnecessary. Atkins had recovered his composure, the lawyer saw. The man had prepared an answer and was moving impatiently to deliver it.
Captain Kemp moved to speak when Macarthur had finished, but Atkins anticipated him, scurrying back to the centre of the dais.
‘Contempt,’ he spluttered, to Macarthur. ‘I am the duly appointed Advocate-General of this colony and what you have just done is contempt. Therefore, with the power invested in me by King George III of England, I commit you, John Macarthur, to jail for contempt of court.’
Fool, decided Edward Christian, watching the poor man’s attempt to regain control. To the lawyer’s left, Macarthur lounged against the dock-rail, grinning broadly.
‘Jail, sir!’ said Captain Kemp to Atkins. ‘It is I who will decide the outcome of this matter.’
‘This is not a proper court,’ shouted Atkins, his command slipping away as he turned to the room for support. ‘I order the court to be cleared.’
‘Stay,’ countermanded Kemp.
It was becoming a farce, thought Edward Christian. As a lawyer, it offended him. But the real sufferer was William Bligh, he tried to convince himself.
Edward shook his head, rejecting his attempted reassurance. It wasn’t sufficient any more, he knew. There was no justification for what he had done.
‘I will withdraw,’ threatened Atkins, desperately, his face flushed and his voice edged with hysteria. ‘I shall withdraw, taking with me any legal authority for this hearing.’
‘Yes, sir,’ agreed the captain, bullyingly defiant now. ‘Why don’t you leave?’
Atkins hurried head down from the room, through a line of laughing, jeering people, lips quivering with emotion.
‘Were you right?’ questioned Fletcher Christian, to his brother.
Edward stared after the Advocate-General.
‘There,’ he said, his voice soft, ‘go the hopes of William Bligh.’
And the last of my self-respect, he added.
‘I can’t believe that Bligh has been bested,’ refused Fletcher, shaking his head.
‘Won’t come!’ echoed Bligh, outraged.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ apologised Gore, uncomfortably. ‘He says he had an accident disembarking from his carriage last night and is too unwell to leave his bed.’
Another coward, thought Bligh. Johnston was so scared he was prepared to hide in a nightshirt rather than obey his sworn duty to uphold the law. He’d have him court-martialled. He’d have the man shipped back to England and dismissed his commission. Enemies everywhere. All against him. A conspiracy, nothing less. Obeying the law, that’s all. Why didn’t he get any support in enforcing the law?
‘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 Macarthur, 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 the 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.
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.