The Fire Within

by Samuel T Clayton

  ‘Your negro friend won’t always be there to watch over you,’ said Tayler as a parting remark and headed to where his gang was waiting for him.

  On the deck of the Raven, things were soon back to normal. When Jabari and Tristan arrived on the forecastle deck, a few men were playing cards, idling in the afternoon sun. When they saw the two approach, they all stopped and nodded their heads in approval. The black man and young boy took up their positions at the front of the deck, which overlooked the bay. The sea had become awash with small boats as fishermen started to return from their day’s outing. Around Tristan’s neck, the gold chain still hung triumphantly, the cross sparkling in the bright sun as it reflected off the water. Next to it, the skull ring hung dull in comparison but heavy with pride.

  ‘All hands on deck! All hands on deck!’ the stentorian voice of the boatswain followed by shrill whistles echoed through the afternoon stillness, and junior officers made sure the order cascaded to the innermost reaches ensuring every seaman made haste for the main deck.

  Tristan and Jabari had not moved and watched the flotilla’s approach. The Raven’s first mate was leading a swarm of longboats and dugouts, chock-full of fresh produce from the town. The quartermaster bellowed his orders, causing the whole ship of onlookers to spring into action. Main hatches were opened, and capstans were manned as crew and ship prepared to take on new cargo which would need to last them for the next two weeks of their journey. Large elephant grass baskets filled with ordinary and exotic vegetables and fruit were uplifted and downloaded into the hold. A few goats and extra chickens also found their way into the belly of the ship, all the while bleating and clucking disgruntledly about their sudden change in circumstance. The first of the longboats soon finished unloading and started the return journey to the port for a second run.

  Tristan and Jabari had rushed down to the main deck to help lower the baskets into the hold. Tristan looked over at his friend who momentarily stopped working to talk to one of the longboat crewmen. Then Jabari looked around suspiciously and pressed something into the man’s palm before carrying on with his work. He saw Tristan look at him and smiled. What is he up to? Tristan hoped that it was not something that the African would regret later on. He knew his friend had a deep longing to return home.

  Jabari had told him of a calling and tried to explain that it was beyond a common man’s grasp, sometimes a primal urge that burned in your belly and other times a tiny whisper in your ear when you least expected it. Tristan knew little of these callings, and to him, there were some days that Jabari sounded no different than the deranged greybeard who preached not far from the barber’s tavern. But he was certain that now, amidst the chaos, it would be an opportune time for Jabari to act on those whispers that he kept on hearing, so he made sure to keep a close eye on his friend.

  ‘Come on, lads, move those baskets! Put your backs into it!’ roared the quartermaster. His demeanour was as imposing as his voice and ripped Tristan from his silent yet deeply troubling dilemma.

  When the longboats were finishing their second run, it was close to supper time on the Raven. Tristan and three other men were asked to go down into the hold to help rearrange the cargo, put more dunnage between the crates with dry goods and to clear more space for the last loads of produce. During that time, he lost sight of the African, and when he emerged an hour later, the fierce activity above deck had ceased, and most seamen had gone back to their relaxing ways. He quickly made his way to the forecastle to see if his friend was waiting. He was not, and angst quickly grabbed hold of Tristan. ‘Have you seen Jabari?’ he asked a trio playing passage nearby.

  ‘No,’ came the reply, the men more focused on the throw of the dice.

  He was busy asking the group who had been playing cards earlier when one of the dice throwers signalled him to come back. The man seemed to remember seeing the African man talking to one of the oarsmen aft the mainmast. Tristan ran to the bulwark and watched the longboats disappear around the breakwater, he squinted his eyes, looking for a tall, dark figure.

  ‘Tresten!’

  The familiar voice made him jerk his head around. The big African was walking up the gangway and had a grin from ear to ear. Jabari hoisted two strange objects above his head while he made his way to Tristan, who felt an incredible sense of relief but kept it well-hidden.

  ‘My friend!’ Jabari yelled. ‘If you and I cannot taste Africa today, then mother Africa will send her taste to us!’

  Tristan looked at the two large green eggs Jabari was holding in his hands. ‘Where were you?’

  ‘Down below. They needed help with the capstan because a rope had slipped the barrel. Why?’

  ‘I thought…it doesn’t matter anymore. I was just looking for you, that’s all. What are those?’

  ‘I don’t know your English word. My people call it maembe.’ Jabari’s movements became frantic with excitement, and he almost dropped one of the fruits as he handed it over. ‘My people believe food feeds not only your body but your soul too. Taste mother Africa, Tresten. Like this.’ With that, the big man bit into the fruit and pulled off the skin with his strong white teeth to reveal its golden flesh.

  Tristan bit into the skin, the bitter taste soon made way for a sugary juice. Jabari was already finished skinning the fruit, and with closed eyes, he sunk his teeth into the yellow flesh, stripping the meat from the fibres. The pulp clung to his lips and teeth, while the lukewarm juice ran down his smiling cheeks. Tristan finished peeling his and followed his friend’s example. The smell and taste were unlike anything he had ever smelled or tasted before. The sweet flesh filled his mouth and changed to a delicious pulp as he chewed on it. The juice ran down his chin and throat and turned everything in its path into a sticky mess. The fruit was so intoxicating that it overwhelmed all of his senses, and when he closed his eyes for only a brief moment, he could swear he heard the faintest of whispers, and it startled him.

  When Tristan’s eyes flew open, and Jabari saw the bewildered look on his face, the black man burst out laughing. ‘I tried to tell you, my friend.’ He placed his sticky hand on Tristan’s shoulder and added more intimately, ‘Now you know.’

  The setting sun cast a bright orange sword across the calm sea that gradually dissolved into the darkness. On the Raven, it was a calm evening after a hearty supper. The captain spared no expense, and the men dined on a dinner of roasted pork and vegetables, with fresh fruit for dessert. On the main deck, two seamen played the fiddle while a few fellow sailors joined in, trying their best to remember all the words to The Maid of Amsterdam.

  Tristan and Jabari made themselves comfortable on the forecastle, picking their teeth clean and enjoying their last night of leisure. They watched the Raven’s two longboats set course for the castle. On them were officers and a few soldiers who all donned their best attires. Tonight, the captain and a few chosen officers would be hosted by the governor for what was sure to be a lavish dinner. The two were quietly joined by the doctor who watched the entourage depart as he lit his pipe. Tristan watched him puff away. Big plumes of grey smoke rose up into the night sky.

  ‘One of life’s few little pleasures, lad,’ said Purvis. Then he held the pipe in the air as if he was inspecting it. ‘I’ve often wondered how the smoke can be either good or bad for you, but I have not found an answer yet.’ He took another puff and grinned. ‘At least it keeps the insects at bay.’

  ‘Why aren’t you joining the festivities, sir? Surely, you were invited?’ enquired Tristan.

  The doctor drew a lungful of smoke. ‘Lad, even with a pistol to my head, you will not convince me to set foot in that abomination of a place. No, I’m afraid you will have to pull the trigger, row me across and carry my dead body up those long stairs. That’ll be the only way.’ He chuckled at his own analogy.

  ‘I don’t understand, sir. What are they doing in there that is so evil?’

  ‘Have you heard about slavery?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Jabari here was one.’ The African ha
d not told him much, and Tristan knew that it was not something that the black man discussed freely.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said the doctor. ‘Although the route is similar, the destination is not, for a free slave leads a different life altogether.’ He puffed away. ‘Within those walls, lad, lays a dungeon where the devil himself won’t dwell because of the suffering endured by the unlucky ones who walk through its doors. It’s a dark abyss where man, woman and child would stand, sit and sleep in their own faeces for weeks and if they dare to complain, they’d get beaten to within an inch of their lives. So they wait…wait to be transported on a ship in very similar circumstances, chained and living in excrement, to a country they know nothing about, where the inhabitants speak a language that they don’t understand nor speak, and where an owner’s dogs have more rights than they do.’

  Tristan was shocked, and at first, he did not quite know what to make of the doctor’s words, for it sounded like a horrible place. In the serenity that surrounded them, he watched the fort, struggling to imagine the fate that those within were suffering. The moon and stars were out in full, and they gave a strange greyish tint to the distant building, where torches had been lit, almost like small beacons of hope as they desperately tried to fight off the omnipresent darkness.

  ‘Then what about the captain? Surely it doesn’t sit well with him? And the people in charge? Certainly, ‘tis not a Christian thing to do?’ asked Tristan.

  The doctor shook his head at the child’s innocent perception, carefully knocking his pipe on the side of the boat to rid it of ash. ‘The captain does what is expected of him, lad. As for his motives, you can make up your own mind. But as for God, I fear that he left that execrable place a very long time ago.’

  ‘Tresten, the men who work in that place…their hearts have hardened’, said Jabari, ‘like the granite rock from which sparks fly when you hit it with steel.’

  The doctor finished cleaning his pipe and bid the two goodnight. Tristan stood silently and watched the castle, now clearly illuminated by the torches that lined the towers, walls and stairs. Unbeknownst to him, Jabari stared at the same picture and was gripping the weather rail in his big black hands so hard that his fingers hurt, his mood as dark as his skin and the night that surrounded him. Find him I will, Jabari thought and looked up at the starry sky. And keep my promise to you, father.

  Later that night, Tristan lay in his hammock. The sea was calm and the small waves lapped gently against the hull. Then on the light breeze, a song drifted in.

  ‘It’s the Ashanti people,’ said Jabari, who lay next to him. ‘Many voices. They come from the bush, not from the coast. Their song tells of the life they once knew. They long for mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters. They miss the milk-filled teat of the cow and the sweet honeycomb from the bush. The fleet bushbuck when it twitches its tail, and the roar of the contented lion after it has eaten its prey. The swollen river after the summer rain and the abundant crops waiting to be picked. The cry of the fish eagle over the Volta River. They wonder when they would see their families again.’

  Tristan thought it was a peaceful song but the disturbing vision of natives doing it while standing knee-deep in their excrement, caused sleep to elude him. It was only as the night wore on and the sound of the distant voices died down to mere whispers that a restless sleep found him.

  Chapter 14

  ‘Goddamnit, Tayler! Think about it! How many lashes is that ring worth? He’s just a boy!’ The third mate’s shouts from the forecastle above fell on deaf ears. Tayler was hell-bent on getting his ring back and teaching the boy a lesson.

  ‘Stay out of it. Nothing to see here,’ one of Jack Tayler’s henchmen snarled. ‘Get him, Jack!’

  Cheered on by his three mates, the big man approached Tristan slowly and deliberately, backing him into a corner. By nature, Tristan had already reached for his stiletto, only to realise that it was still in the captain’s possession. He could see in the big man’s eyes that he was beyond reasoning. The promise of a severe lashing did not dampen Tayler’s bloodlust in the slightest. In fact, now that he knew a beating was coming, it seemed to have enticed him even more.

  ‘Where’s your nigger friend now?’ Tayler hissed while his three helpers blocked the entrance to the forecastle.

  Tristan looked up to the forecastle for support. The officer had already run off to find help. Most of the crew that remained wanted no part of the argument and watched on while some of the braver ones shouted insults at Tayler for picking on a boy half his size.

  Putt had put Tristan in the beakhead with the sailmaker to help mend a large tear in the sprit topsail and to practise his sailing knots. Mr Burne, an ancient sailor with his weathered face and grey beard, was a wise old fox, and Tristan enjoyed every minute in the sailmaker’s company. For the past few days, he had twisted and tangled ropes to master the many difficult knots while he had listened to the old man’s entertaining tales of the sea as he reeled off one incredible story after the other — tales of adventure on the high seas that spoke hard to Tristan’s dreams and ambitions.

  It was when the old man headed down to the sail room to fetch more twining that the four ruffians had made their move. When they had rushed through the door, Tristan had immediately jumped up, ready to defend himself. Tayler had been the one who straightaway approached him, while the other three had stayed back to guard the door.

  Tristan had his fists up as the barber had taught him, and he shuffled around to make it difficult for Tayler to get a jump on him. His eyes caught something sharp in the sailmaker’s tool crate, and he quickly moved to his left, drawing Tayler in that direction before he dove to the crate on his right, landing on his hands and knees. Tristan grabbed what he wanted and quickly jumped to his feet, backing away before the big man could get hold of him. In his right hand, he held up an awl that was used to puncture holes in canvas and rope.

  ‘Is that the way you want to play?’ said Tayler and pulled his dagger from his waist.

  ‘You will hang for that, Jack!’ One of the voices from above briefly caused the big man to stop and think things over.

  ‘Hand me my ring, boy,’ said Tayler and started moving forward again.

  ‘I won it, fair and square, just like Mr Putt said I did,’ said Tristan, keeping a watchful eye on Tayler’s every move. Then he added in a soft yet firm voice. ‘If you want it, then come and get it. Or are you a bugger boy?’

  Tayler lost whatever self-control he still had when Tristan uttered those last words, and without thinking, he lunged at the boy with his right arm, leading with his dagger. But Tristan was not there. He had stepped to his right, and the dagger sailed harmlessly past him. The power behind the stab made Tayler lose his balance, and he stumbled forwards. He knew he looked like a fool, and the taunts from above told him the same. He swung around with a wild look in his eyes and saw Tristan standing behind him. Waiting.

  Tristan saw Tayler’s manic eyes searching for him. Then he realised this was no longer just a fight. The man was going to kill him. Tayler grinned savagely and lunged again, aiming the dagger at the boy’s stomach. Tristan evaded him but did not realise that the man had caught onto his tactic and just when he thought that he had outmanoeuvred him once again, he saw Tayler’s swinging left fist, the size of a pineapple, heading straight for his chest. Tristan twisted sideways while trying to duck, and the blow landed on his shoulder blade. The force behind it caused him to stagger, and one of his feet clipped part of the sail’s canvas. Knowing that a fall would mean certain death, he desperately threw out an arm and managed to grab hold of a stay above his head. He clung on to the rope and could barely keep himself upright as numbness started to set into his shoulder. If he did not pick up the movement, the screams from atop would have certainly gotten his attention. Tayler was closing in for the kill.

  When Tristan turned around and saw the man coming, everything around him suddenly went quiet and slowed down. His breathing was deep, and the rhythmic beat of his heart was th
e only sound he could hear. His eyes narrowed with renewed focus as they saw Tayler’s arm move, the blade thrust forward, aimed straight at his heart. Tristan waited until the last minute and moved to his left. He watched the dagger sail past him and drove the awl with all his might straight through the back of the man’s hand. The blow caused the dagger to spill out of Tayler’s hand. The man let out a painful roar while he grabbed his injured hand from which blood spurted. When you’re fighting for your life, there is no fair play. The barber’s words resonated in Tristan’s head. He leaned forward and kicked Tayler in the groin with all his might, his boot sinking deep into the big man’s testicles. A loud groan escaped Tayler’s lips as he slumped forward onto his knees while clutching his injured testes.

  Tristan could have killed Tayler in seven different ways. Each method flashed through his mind as he spun around to build up momentum. With perfect accuracy, he drove the awl’s wooden handle into the right side of Tayler’s temple. The large man was unconscious before he hit the deck and just lay there, sprawled like a dead man.

  Tristan rolled his shoulder that bore the impact of the man’s punch. It felt painful but intact. Awl still in hand, he looked up at the three men who were still guarding the entrance to the forecastle and got ready to continue the fight. All of a sudden, the sailmaker walked through the door and startled the three men into action. They quickly slipped away behind him, leaving their friend right where he had fallen.

  ‘What in …what the hell happened here?’ asked Burne and dropped the twining on the deck. He scratched his head and shuffled forwards. Then he bent down and lifted Tayler’s injured hand where it left a big red stain on the sail. ‘Captain’s not gonna like that…not a bit. Likes his sails to be clean, he always says,’ muttered the old man, while he shook his head. When Burne turned around and walked back through the door mumbling something about “soap” and “brush”, Tristan looked at the back of his grey head in disbelieve but it quickly made way for relief as the onlookers from above started clapping and cheering.