‘Yes, sir.’
‘We’ll also need to get these two landsmen ready for what lies ahead. Train them well, Mr Putt.’
Tristan remained inquisitive as always. ‘What is lying ahead, sir?’
‘Expect the unexpected, lad. Always expect the unexpected. Africa can serve up some jolly good surprises if she wishes. Mr Putt is a good man. Listen to what he teaches you, and you’ll be alright.’
Putt took Tristan by the arm and together they walked out the door. Only one thought went through Tristan’s mind. Africa?
‘You have no idea how fortunate you are to have found your way onto this ship.’
‘Why? I mean, why, sir?’
‘On most other ships you would’ve been treading water by now while waiting for the inevitable, or on others, you could’ve been the unfortunate recipient of a tremendous amount of buggering.’
Tristan saw the silver flash just before the sword dropped. ‘Fire!’ The whole ship shuddered as one after the other, the twenty-two cannons on her larboard side unleashed hell upon an imaginary target out at sea. The ship canted towards starboard, causing him to hobble and grab hold of the quarterdeck railing. The incredibly loud noise from cannons immediately put the notion of drowning or a possible buggering out of his head.
‘You’ve never been on a ship before?’ asked Putt with a big smile on his face.
‘No, sir.’
‘Come!’ said the second mate and Tristan followed him up the gangway to the poop deck, his sore leg momentarily forgotten. From high up, they had a good view of the gun crews on the main deck as the gun captains bellowed their instructions, each one trying to outdo the other. But it was not the commotion on the deck that drew Tristan’s attention. The smoke from the cannon fire started to clear, and in front of him, the Raven revealed all of her beauty in full glory. Her polished woodwork, now freshly washed by the rain, glistened in the morning sun while her tan sails fluttered in the faint breeze, bulging every so often when a gust of wind whirled through them. Her endless and intricate rigging reminded him of the spider webs in the forest, the same forest where he and Finn had snared rabbits, where they had flicked pine needles into webs to watch spiders rush out, only to snare their unexpected wooden prey, much to the two boys’ delight.
Putt looked at the boy, whose open mouth conveyed his admiration. ‘She’s a beauty, isn’t she?’
‘She’s remarkable, sir.’
‘Tell you what. I need to see the quartermaster urgently. Can I let you be? I’ll come and fetch you at the next bell, which is in about thirty minutes.’
Tristan nodded before the man had finished. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good man.’
While Putt made his way back downstairs, Tristan made himself comfortable and got lost in the moment. The years of dreaming about visiting faraway lands, only enhanced by watching ships sail in and out of the Thames, had finally come to fruition. He did not hear the order to fire so when the starboard battery unleashed its ordinance, the mighty boom of the explosions caused him to jump and pain shot up his leg. But there was no grimace, only a content smile as the realisation that it was not all a hallucination made the moment all the sweeter. He gripped the poop deck rail and for the next twenty-six minutes became captain of the Raven.
Chapter 13
From the Raven, the Cape Coast Castle looked an intimidating sight. For the last week, they had sailed around West Africa without incident, past the usual ports of call, the islands of Santiago and Maio, and headed straight for the Gold Coast, which lay further to the south.
The Raven was anchored in a calm bay about a half-mile offshore. The castle, a newly renovated brick fort, was encircled by large black cannons that were all pointing out to sea, some in the direction of the ship and for those on board, it gave the castle an even greater menacing aura. Around the fort, the town and fishing port of Cape Coast appeared much more serene, but its tranquillity could not stand up against the imposing figure of the fortress.
‘Evil place that, Tresten.’
Tristan looked at the African. He could hardly compare the warrior-like figure standing next to him with the black British man whom he had met in the dark of night not so long ago. Jabari’s clothes, pistol and dirk made a difference, but the African spoke with a deeper, more confident voice, and it gave him a strange sense of invincibility. Not that he needed it. The black man had already won the captain’s favour when he singlehandedly broke up a fight between a seaman and one of the accompanying soldiers. Tristan was not there, but Putt told him that Jabari had held both men in a tight grip without much effort while he had waited for an officer to arrive. Despite getting jeered by the crew for not throwing a punch, the only hurt he had caused the two men was bruised egos. The master-at-arms had taken care of the rest.
‘Why’d you say that? It doesn’t look evil from here.’
‘When I was younger, the elders of my village talked about the “places of death”. That would be one of them.’
‘I don’t understand. Do they kill people there?’
‘Slaves, Tresten. They capture black people and bring them here to put on slave ships heading west – to the Americas, the New World as some people call it,’ the African said contemptuously.
Tristan was still confused. He had pleaded with the captain to take him with. He had even asked Putt to help make his case, seeing it would be the first time that he would set foot on African soil, but the captain had flatly refused. ‘Remember what I told you about Africa, Mr Conway…well, this is one of those dark corners,’ he had said. ‘You will get your chance soon, lad.’ Maybe that’s what the man didn’t want me to see. Slaves. Exactly why, Tristan did not know. The term slave was new to him. Besides, those people got to go somewhere new, just like him. Surely they should be excited, he pondered.
Tristan wanted to ask Jabari why but could sense the African did not want to discuss the matter any further. He had come to understand that in their short time together, the big man would talk when the time was right.
They stood in silence on the forecastle deck as they watched the ship’s longboats disappear around the corner of a rocky outcrop that stretched so far into the sea that it created a natural mole. Tristan decided to visit the doctor. The man always answered his questions. Just as he started to make his way to the infirmary, leaving Jabari behind to dwell on his own, Putt came up the stairs.
‘There you are!’
The two newcomers were both surprised that the man was looking for them.
‘Let’s continue your training, gentlemen. We’ll head to the main deck and start with the muskets. I asked the carpenter to build us a target to practise on. See it over there?’ Off the ship’s starboard drifted a tiny raft. On top of it was the target: a small cask that was attached to a yard-long stick. It was cast adrift but still attached to a piece of rope to control the distance from the ship. ‘We’re gonna have ourselves a little competition. Come on then!’ Putt did not tell them that it was the captain’s idea to entertain the ship’s men while he, the first mate and a chosen crew went in search of the produce that they needed for the next leg of their voyage.
On the main deck, a group of sailors and soldiers were already flocking together as they eagerly awaited the welcome distraction. Like any seaman, they were always on the lookout for excitement of any kind. The two competitors, led by Putt, pushed through the small crowd to the middle where eight muskets were neatly laid out on a table together with a crate of cartridges and lead balls. Two soldiers stood waiting next to the bulwark, ready to compete for their honour.
‘Right, gentlemen, the two landsmen will shoot against two men from Lieutenant O’Brien’s company. Whoever puts the most holes in that cask will be declared the winners for that round.’
‘Is this just for landlubbers and soldiers, sir? Surely, us sailors could partake as well?’ The voice belonged to Jack Tayler. Of Irish origin, he was a big brawler of a man and an occasional fomenter. When cheers of “hear, hear” rang out,
Tayler played to the crowd. ‘I mean, ‘tis only fair, sir.’
Most of the ship’s crew were now in attendance and packed out the main deck and forecastle to get a good view of the action below.
‘I was getting to that, Mr Tayler. The winners were going to shoot against our sailors, but since your eagerness has no bound I guess we’ll get everyone into the same round,’ said Putt. He knew Tayler well, and while the man’s heart was mostly in the right place, his mouth was nowhere near. ‘Who will be your nominated marksmen?’
‘I nominate myself and Mr Hanlon over there,’ said Tayler and pointed out his shooting mate and good friend. Cheers rang out again. Tayler was not a bad shot, but Hanlon was a highly skilled marksman.
‘Right, gentlemen, choose your guns, five cartridges and musket balls, then line up. Soldiers, sailors, then landsmen. Distance to target, Mr Boulton?’
‘’Bout thirty yards, sir.’ The master-at-arms oversaw the handling of the firearms and would be keeping the score as well.
Each man picked a musket, checked the barrels, locks and triggers and then helped themselves to cartridges and balls. What none of them knew was that Tristan had learned how to shoot using Mr Sullivan’s musket. On some occasions, the two boys had taken the old gun up the river to try for deer, and he still remembered all that Finn had taught him. ‘As long as the barrel is straight, the gun doesn’t matter,’ Finn had said. ‘It will shoot where you point it.’ He had taught Tristan how to measure the right amount of gun powder every time and how to look for a perfectly round musket ball. Only then had Finn taught him the most important lesson: how to breathe deeply and then exhale, slowing everything down. It was the key to a perfect shot every single time.
Over the last two weeks, Putt had seen him shoot and commended him on his technique. Tristan’s biggest problem was getting used to the ship’s movement, something with which he still struggled. He picked five cartridges of the same size, five perfectly round balls and smiled to himself. Finn would have been proud.
‘We’ll start on the far right, one shot per man. I will count you down. You have ten seconds to make the shot. Then I will call the next man, who shall have ten seconds, and so forth. Does everyone understand?’
‘Come on! Get on with it!’ cried one excited spectator.
‘Gentlemen, understood?’ Putt repeated himself.
‘Yes, sir!’
‘Then ready your weapons!’
The group loaded their guns and took their places next to the bulwark. Putt started to count down the first soldier.
One by one, they fired. The first soldier’s shot went over the top of the cask, the second soldier hit the water in front of the raft, Hanlon’s shot ricocheted off the side of the cask taking with it a small chunk of wood, and Tayler’s shot sailed over the top as well. Next up was Tristan.
‘Mr Conway! Ten!’
Tristan put the gun to his shoulder. He was already getting used to the heavier musket. He steadied himself and took aim.
‘Eight!’
He pointed the gun at the cask and blocked out all the noise around him. The ship swayed gently from side to side. Tristan compensated for the movement and settled into a rhythm, in motion with the bobbing target, his breathing steady.
‘Four!’
He exhaled. Satisfied with his aim, he squeezed the trigger. Through the vanishing smoke, he saw the lead ball fly over the top right-hand side of the cask sending a spray of seawater flying into the air at the back of the raft. Good, I’ve got my marker, he thought. Jabari was up next, and his shot struck the raft, well below the target.
‘Second round! Mr Hanlon is leading by one!’ yelled Boulton as he put the spyglass down.
The group of shooters shot the second, third and fourth rounds in quick succession. At the start of the last round, Hanlon was leading with four hits. Tristan and the first soldier were on three. Jabari and Tayler had one each. The second soldier could not find the target, hitting everything but.
They were standing around the table, loading their muskets for the final round when Tayler spoke. ‘I thought you were a crack shot, lad, but it looks like everyone has told me nonsense. “How can a boy shoot a gun almost as tall as himself,” I asked them.’
Tristan said nothing, just concentrated on loading his gun, firmly ramming the wadding, bullet and powder down to the breach of the barrel.
‘How about a wager then? Or is the captain’s little bugger boy too scared?’
‘Ignore him, lad,’ said Hanlon of his friend, ‘he's just a blockhead trying to pester you.’ Looking at Tayler, he added, ‘Let it be, Jack. And you’d better take care throwing around the captain’s name so willy-nilly.’
Never in his life had Tristan stepped away from a challenge, and he was not going to start now. ‘Up until today, I knew nothing of a bugger boy. Then you said the words. ‘Tis clear to everyone here that you’re a man who knows first-hand those things which he speaks so fondly of.’ Tristan finished loading and looked up at the broad-shouldered man whose face was suddenly riddled with resentment and a threatening gleam in his hard eyes. He felt Jabari pull on his shirtsleeve, but he ignored his friend’s silent plea to let the man be. ‘I am no one’s bugger boy,’ said Tristan slowly, making sure Tayler and those around him heard every word. ‘What did you have in mind?’
‘Knock over the cask.’ Tayler held up his hand and showed him a golden ring with a skull on top. It had two small red stones for eyes, and dirt from many years of wearing got stuck in the grooves which gave it a lifelike appearance. ‘And I shall give you this ring. But if I get to knock it over, I’ll have that gold chain around your neck.’
Tristan looked over the gunwale to the target and back at the ring on the man’s finger. ‘Alright. You have a deal.’ They shook hands, the big man deliberately trying to crush the bones in Tristan’s hand.
Putt had been standing close by and knowing full well that neither of them would knock the small barrel off its sturdy post, he called it, ‘Gentlemen, looks like we have an extra-special last round.’ He informed the crowd of the wager which drew many cheers. ‘Take up your positions,’ he ordered the six.
The thought of knocking the cask over by accident and upsetting the big man scared off the first three competitors, their shots ending up in the deep blue. Tayler concentrated hard and waited until the last moment to fire, but his shot also sailed over the target splashing harmlessly into the water. ‘Up to you, lad,’ he smirked.
‘Looks like everyone has the jitters,’ Putt remarked. ‘Mr Conway. Get ready! Ten!’
Tristan went through the same motions as before. Another bullseye was needed to draw level with Hanlon and for the wager to be called off. He knew exactly where the gun was shooting, so he took his time to settle into a relaxed rhythm. He had the target lined up.
‘Four!’
Tristan closed his eyes.
‘Three!’
He opened them. The sight was still perfectly trained on the target.
‘One!’
When Tristan squeezed the trigger, his eyes were closed. In the quiet moment, he could sense it. The ball thudded into the middle of the pole and sent splinters flying everywhere. The cask wobbled at first but then what little remained of the pole suddenly cracked under the barrel’s weight allowing it to topple slowly and bounce off the raft into the water.
The crew on Raven’s deck was dead quiet as they contemplated what had just happened. Everyone who knew Jack Tayler also knew how fond he was of that ring. Whether the story behind it was truth or fiction, they did not know.
One more shot broke the silence. Jabari’s final bullet slammed into the side of the cask as it drifted away on the ocean current. He turned around to face everyone, a big satisfied smile on the black man’s face.
Tayler was the first to speak up, ‘What sort of trickery is this?’ He walked up to the boy.
‘None.’ Tristan held his ground.
‘Mr Tayler, though it appears that you might have been duped
, the cask has fallen over nonetheless. Those were the terms, and therefore, you have lost the wager,’ said Putt.
‘And the fool deserves it too,’ said Hanlon, still angry at his friend for not heeding his advice.
‘He didn’t hit the target,’ the big man insisted, taking another threatening step towards Tristan but stopped when he saw the African move in behind the boy.
‘You said “knock over”, Mr Tayler. I believe that’s exactly what Mr Conway did. You owe the young man a ring,’ Putt intervened.
‘That’s not fair, sir! He tricked me. I owe him nothing!’ seethed Tayler.
Putt knew he had to defuse the dispute soon for if the situation were to boil over, the captain would most certainly have his head as officer in charge. ‘No trickery, Mr Tayler, he won that wager fair and square. Now hand it over!’
‘This is rubbish!’ Tayler looked for help from the gallery. A few voices of support rang out from the crowd, while others urged him to give the boy the ring.
A single gunshot rang out over the Raven’s deck, and those who did not duck for cover had their eyes trained on Boulton. The master-at-arms had stood up from his seat, his pistol held high in the air, smoke still drifting out of the barrel. ‘Hand it over!’ his steely gaze and a loaded musket in his left hand erased any doubt of his intent. ‘Perhaps that shall teach you, Mr Tayler, not to wager those things you hold dear. Go on then!’ While keeping Tayler in his sight, he bellowed, ‘Every man, get back to your stations now! Captain will be back soon, and last time I checked he didn’t look kindly on laggards nor a slovenly ship!’
The crowd slowly dispersed while Tayler took the ring off, a white line speckled with grime was visible on his finger. He held out his hand, and when Tristan reached for the ring, he grabbed him by the arm. ‘We’re not done, lad,’ he whispered with murdering intent in his eyes. ‘Watch your back.’
Jabari, who stood next to Tristan, grabbed Tayler’s arm and bent it sideways so that he lost his grip. Then Jabari pushed him away, all the while smiling at the big white man, who was at least a head shorter than him.
The Fire Within Page 19