The Fire Within

by Samuel T Clayton

  He knows my name! ‘How do—‘

  ‘Tonight, every man in these streets speak your name, and by tomorrow, every man in London will know it. They will hunt you like a wild rabid animal on the loose. And when they find you, they will kill you.’

  ‘Their accusations are false! I did not murder Giles! They’ve set me up. I killed that man by defending myself,’ said Tristan, agitated while he stood up for himself and defended his actions. ‘I had no choice because I can’t prove any of it.’ Tristan cursed under his breath. To be accused of something that he had not done and the inability to attest his innocence did not sit well with him. The black man’s words dissipated the brief respite he had felt earlier and fear once more took hold of him in a firm grip.

  At first, the black man did not speak, the rhythmic breathing from his large chest the only sound in the confined space. ‘I cannot see your eyes,’ the man finally said, ‘but in your voice, I can hear the truth. Perhaps you were right about fate because tonight I stand here accused of thievery, yet I’ve never stolen a thing in my life. So, I shall share your burden, albeit pale in comparison.

  ‘Here is my plan. For five days now, I’ve been in hiding, waiting for a ship to take me home. Yesterday I finally received word from my friend that there’s a merchant ship anchored off Blackwall yard. Tomorrow it will leave for Africa and beyond…and come what may, I shall be on that ship. And since I’m indeed a believer in fate, you’re welcome to join me.’

  Finally, a bit of luck. Tristan could not believe what he was hearing. There was a welcome release in his insides which felt like a twang in his stomach. And as his shoulders started to lighten, he felt the need to relieve himself and did so in the corner of the china shop’s entrance. ‘Thank you,’ he said upon finishing his business, the sincerity in his voice was profound. ‘Since you are travelling at this hour I assume that you hold no paid passage for that ship.’

  The black man smiled. ‘Let’s say my choices are limited. What is a wanted man with no money supposed to do when he knows that he’s about to lose the very same freedom that he so treasures? I shall tell you what my plan is: to get on that ship one way or another, hide away and take my chances. What are you planning to do in Africa anyway? ‘Tis not a meek country fit for pale-skinned boys.’

  ‘Start a new life.’

  ‘Start a new life?’ The black man thought about it for a while and pondered his own journey, remembering the big-eyed eighteen-year-old who had arrived in this strange new land. ‘You are only a youngling, but given your current circumstance, that’s as good a reason as any, I suppose.’

  There was silence once more as the two considered their seemingly entwined destinies. In the dark space, the two strangers somehow found comfort – almost a cloistral repose – in each other’s company. Again, it was the black man who at long last broke the silence. ‘We best get going. ‘Tis still a long way and the roads will probably be crawling with watchmen.’

  They felt their way out of the dark passage back onto the deserted street. Tristan tried to get a better look at his companion. In what little light was available, he struggled to see the man, but in his place, an enormous seven-foot dark shadow stood tall and loomed over him. He was glad to have it on his side. ‘I have a small boat that can take us across.’

  ‘That is glad tidings.’ The black man sounded surprised and relieved at the same time. ‘The gatehouse on the bridge will be heavily guarded, even more so following the earlier incident. Most of the searching will also take place on this side of the river, so if we can get to the other side unseen, we should be able to get on that ship without any trouble. A small boat is perfect.’

  ‘Well, ‘tis only a couple more hours till daybreak. This way,’ said Tristan and started down the road, alert and ready, the man not far behind.

  A murderer and thief, thought Tristan. What chance do we have…?

  They made it safely to the Pepper Alley Stairs and just as Finn had promised, his father’s boat was waiting for them. Tristan quickly scrounged through the goods that Finn had left him, pocketing the coins and placing the food in the satchel – a memento from his failed delivery. The man cast off the rope and the two started on a slow drift towards the bridge. The tide had just turned and worked in their favour. The water was calm with no traffic at all and Tristan kept the use of the oars to a minimum as loud splashing noises could attract unwanted attention.

  London Bridge was waiting patiently for them, and Tristan aimed for one of the arches close to the middle. The darkness made it difficult to judge distance, but many a trip to the east of the city had made sure that he was well equipped for the job, and the man was surprised at the ease with which the boy negotiated his way through the narrow arch, keeping the nose straight ahead. They shot through the middle of the two concrete starlings as the makeshift rapid sucked them in, propelled them through and angrily spat them out at the other end.

  On the other side of the bridge, Tristan steered them across the river, and they started a steady drift along the north bank towards Blackwall yard, which was still a long way downstream. Tristan turned around and heaved a sigh of relief as he watched London Bridge coalesce with the dark night. Something had been bothering him, and then, he remembered. ‘Since you already know my name, what do they call you?’

  ‘George.’

  George? Tristan could not help but laugh.

  ‘I know English is a strange language,’ said the man, ‘but the name George has never struck me as comical.’

  ‘No!’ Tristan did not know if the man was serious and stifled his laughter immediately, but not after he had given one last nervous chuckle. He had not forgotten the man’s strong grip and disturbingly sedate manner with which he had delivered the threat only moments ago. ‘You share the same name as the two-faced rogue who put me in this situation…the person who framed me for the murder!’

  ‘I see,’ said the black man. He thought for a while. ‘Then you can call me by my childhood name. Jabari.’

  ‘Ja-ba-ri,’ said Tristan slowly.

  ‘Yes.’ The black man sounded pleased. ‘It is Swahili, my mother tongue, and it means warrior.’

  ‘Ja-ba-ri.’ Tristan liked the way it rolled off his tongue. ‘I like it,’ he proclaimed. ‘Jabari. The warrior.’

  It had been many moons ago since Jabari had last heard his name how the young boy had said it. It stirred something primaeval deep inside of him. For the first time in many years, he became aware of his heart beating in his chest. It was beating with the ancient rhythm of African drums as they had done for thousands of years. It brought with it the voices of his ancestors. They were calling his name, calling for him to come home. I hear you, father.

  Tristan’s voice brought him out of his trancelike state. ‘Keep a lookout.’ The drums and the voices slowly faded away, but he knew he would hear them again. Soon.

  They drifted in silence. Now and then Tristan would adjust their course as he manoeuvred the boat around a number of bends and moored ships. Jabari sat in the bow and kept his eyes peeled on both the shore and water for any movement that might indicate a search party. Both of them were still considering their situation, the risk they were taking and the undeniable knowledge that there was no turning back. For Tristan, the boat ride was tranquil, but the emotional ride had taken its toll. As they drifted, fear came back to haunt him. All that was familiar had been left behind. Then he remembered Finn’s words about hope, and it settled him down somewhat.

  ‘Not far now.’ Tristan’s voice quavered with uncertainty as they rounded the last bend. The clouds had opened up to reveal a beautiful, starry night which illumined the world below.

  The ebb tide was flowing much faster now. With Jabari on lookout and Tristan fighting the current as he steered the small boat around various obstacles that the African called out, the tall, dark ship almost caught them off-guard. By far the largest they had seen all night, it started to take shape in front of them, its three masts rising high up into the night sk
y, while the lanterns along the dock gave the vessel an eerie halo.

  ‘Is that the one?’ asked Tristan.

  ‘That she is.’

  ‘She’s magnificent.’ Tristan was exhausted, yet he could still appreciate the imposing figure of the East Indiaman. The ship sat deep in the water, heavy-laden with trade goods destined for the East, and it was approaching fast. He steered the skiff in its direction and lined them up with the ship’s starboard which was facing south, towards the wider part of the river. When he was happy with the approach, he swung the satchel’s strap over his neck and let the current do its work. Both of them got ready to jump.

  ‘What about the boat?’ asked Jabari.

  ‘Better to let people think that we’ve headed for the coast.’

  The black man smiled. He believed his judgement of the youngling’s character had been fitting.

  ‘Get ready!’ said Tristan. ‘You go first.’

  Jabari put one foot on the gunwale, and when the time came, he timed his jump perfectly and grabbed hold of the rope ladder that hung off the side of the ship. Tristan readied himself, but Jabari’s jump had pushed the skiff further away from the ship and the distance that he needed to clear had increased twofold. There was no other option so he took a step backwards, giving himself enough room to gain momentum. He took one big step onto the side of the boat and leaped with all his might. As the gunwale gave way under his foot, it caused him to travel horizontally through the air, and he crashed into the side of the ship, shoulder first. A searing pain shot through his upper arm as he bounced off the hull but still managed to grab hold of the ladder, the ropes chafing the skin on his hands. The bottom half of his legs were in the water, and he felt the drag of the swift current. He grimaced when the pain in his right shoulder spread as it started to bear the weight of his body and the pull of the water. The next moment, a strong arm came to his rescue. Jabari had climbed down and grabbed him by the left arm, pulling him upward so that his feet could get onto the rope.

  ‘Blasted boat!’ Tristan said as he looked for the skiff, but it had already vanished into the darkness. With any luck, there go my troubles, he thought.

  ‘Quiet!’ the black man whispered. ‘Listen carefully.’

  Tristan followed Jabari’s example, pushed his head through the ladder and pressed his ear against the hull.

  ‘Animals…sheep and pigs!’ The black man sounded very relieved. ‘This is the one.’

  ‘But you said—‘

  ‘I know what I said. And I was right, wasn’t I?’

  Tristan just glared at him through the faint light, but secretly, he shared his new friend’s appeasement.

  ‘Wait here,’ said Jabari as he climbed the ladder. Moments later, he disappeared over the side of the ship. Tristan stayed put until a face, then a waving arm appeared over the gunwale and gave the all-clear sign. He clambered up the rope ladder and onto the deck, not sure what to expect. It was deserted.

  ‘There’s no one here?’ Tristan could hardly believe their luck.

  ‘Not so loud,’ warned Jabari. ‘No guards on deck means they are probably below.’

  ‘Or they may be making the most of their last night before they set sail,’ suggested Tristan. He knew how busy La Boutique got before sailors shipped out. It had only been later in his life that he had started to pity the poor fools because they would be even poorer come the morrow.

  It turned out Tristan was right for when they found a hatchway and descended into the belly of the ship, they struggled to find a living soul. The only two men they encountered were drunk beyond comprehension and were left undisturbed where they had collapsed. Jabari kept on warning him that they might run into abled men, who “would see us right”, but strangely it was the safest Tristan had felt all night. Jabari instructed him to get familiar with his surroundings, find features, count steps, anything that he could rely on to help him find his way out, should the need ever arise.

  The black man certainly knew his way around the ship, and before long, they found themselves in the hold which was filled to the brim with all sorts of cargo. They wedged through and climbed over numerous stacked crates and barrels into a second room that was filled with spare sails. They slid over the sails to the back where extra sailcloth was stockpiled. ‘This is it,’ said Jabari and started giving Tristan quick instructions on how to hide away properly and lessen the likelihood of a perchance discovery.

  Jabari patiently explained to him what will happen and what to expect over the coming days. Tristan listened carefully to every word, not once interrupting the man. They had some of the food from the satchel, which included smoked fish and bread, and a small drink of water each before Jabari doused the lantern that he had taken off one of the bulkheads on their way down.

  Tristan made himself as comfortable as he could under the masses of sailcloth. The ship had a gentle sway, creaking ever so slightly with the smallest of movements brought on by a flood tide. He slipped his hand inside his coat and rested it on the stiletto. Rolling his injured shoulder, he still felt a dull pain, but it did not cause him too much discomfort. All of a sudden, he realised how tired he was, too tired to think of everything that had happened.

  We’ve made it, he thought and remembered Finn’s words. Hope. There is always hope. Sleep took him sweetly and swiftly.

  At Sea

  Chapter 11

  ‘I say, kill ‘em now and throw ‘em overboard,’ said the skinny man.

  ‘And I say, we take ‘em to the captain. Such a decision isn’t ours to make,’ argued the fat man.

  ‘What the Old Man doesn’t know, the Old Man doesn’t know.’ The skinny fellow waved his dirk in front of the two trespassers’ eyes and gave a devilish cackle as he ran the blade across the black man’s chest. He liked to watch people squirm, yet these two did not seem bothered at all, and it made him keener to carry out his plan. ‘Besides, do you want these two to share in our rations, especially our rum?’

  The last bit got the fat man’s attention for he loved his food and drink. ‘You have a point.’ He was torn between the two possibilities, but the killing of two innocent people…if someone found out, it might be them taking the plunge.

  ‘What’s all this commotion about?’ The authoritative voice made the two sailors jump to attention. The skinny man quickly hid his blade while the fat one gave a sigh of relief but kept his pistol trained on the two intruders.

  ‘We found these two stowaways, sir,’ the fat man replied.

  ‘Caught ‘em hiding behind the longboat, sir. This one has the squitters, a foul and noisy affair ‘twas that gave ‘em away,’ crowed the skinny one while he pointed to the boy.

  ‘Is that so?’ The officer was surprised by the risk the two intruders had taken to relieve themselves out in the open. Usually, they just defecated wherever their hiding spot was. He took a closer look at the man and the boy. The negro seemed calm and in good shape, but the boy was in a bad way. His sweaty skin was a pale yellow in the lantern light, and he appeared to be in a delirious state as he swayed backwards and forwards. It looked like he would keel over any minute now if not for the black man’s strong grip on his arm.

  ‘What are you doing on the ship?’ asked the officer. Neither man nor boy replied.

  ‘You’ll answer when Mr Putt speaks to you!’ hissed the skinny man.

  ‘Thank you, that’ll do,’ said Putt, silencing the scrawny sailor.

  ‘We’re just looking for work, sir,’ the black man finally answered with as much genuineness as he could muster.

  ‘Sure you are.’ Putt looked at the boy. ‘And what kind of illness does he have?’ he asked, pointing at the boy.

  ‘None, sir. He’s just utterly parched and in desperate need of water…and some rest,’ pleaded Jabari. ‘I’m afraid he hasn’t found his sea legs yet, sir.’

  ‘Ahhh, a true landsman, you say. We haven’t had one of those in ages.’ Putt had a long think about the situation. It did not seem necessary to bother the captain at t
his hour of the night. ‘You two,’ he looked at the two sailors, ‘take these two landlubbing trespassers to the brig and on your way down there make sure the boy gets a proper drink of water. Wake Mr Boulton and tell him that I’ve sent you. He is to secure the prisoners until further notice. Tell him to put the blackamoor in irons. The captain will decide their fate in the morning.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Any reward for the capture of these fellas, sir?’ enquired the skinny man.

  ‘I’ll have a word with the captain. An extra ration of rum may find its way to you, but it’s for the captain to decide.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’

  Putt looked up at the big African. ‘And no trouble from you or these men will put a bullet in your back, understood?’

  ‘Understood, sir.’

  The skinny man led the way and was followed by Jabari, who held Tristan tightly by his side. The fat one held the rear and poked Jabari in the ribs now and then with the pistol letting him know his fate should he try to escape. Neither of the two seamen looked forward to waking up Boulton, the ship’s master-at-arms, at this hour for he was an ill-tempered fella at the best of times.

  Jabari helped Tristan down the hatchway while he contemplated the fate that had befallen them. He had known all along that they could not hide forever, and he had prepared Tristan for the inevitable. ‘Keep quiet and let me do the talking,’ he had instructed the boy, but little had he known what would ensue in the days that were to follow.

  They had managed to go unnoticed for four days, longer than he had ever imagined. For the first two days, they had had it easy. The crew had been preoccupied with tasks on the upper decks. They had enough food in Tristan’s satchel, and the sea had been relatively calm. They had answered nature’s call using a bucket and each night, Jabari had waited well after the ship’s bell had been struck before sneaking topside to get rid of the foul-smelling waste, all the while taking care not to alert the watch.

  The fiery excitement that accompanied an adventure to the unknown burned brightly in both of them, and they had kept themselves occupied by telling each other stories. Tristan had told him about his mother, his best friend, the Hungry Ones and the delivery business. And he had told the boy what little he could remember about Africa, but London had made his mind foggy and the drums that he longed to hear, the ones that he knew would rekindle those memories, were still far away. But whatever snippets he could recall, Tristan had lapped up like a hungry puppy.