The Fire Within

by Samuel T Clayton

  ‘Oh, dear God. No.’ Cutcliffe expressed what everyone was thinking.

  Just beyond the last of the big grey tree trunks, Blackwell’s lifeless and naked body was sitting impaled on a young sapling. His stomach had been cut open, and his entrails had spilled out onto the ground like the seeds from an overripe fruit. In the empty stomach cavity, the green trunk of the tree was visible as the sharpened point had skewered the man all the way to the top. His thighs had been removed, and the fresh white bones glistened in the morning sunlight while in the place of his genitals, only a gaping hole remained. The bottom of the young tree was covered in a thick red-brown coating where blood and excrement had mingled to create a slippery grease. Spread out across the clearing were at least four more trees that had their tops removed to turn them into stakes. One of them had collapsed human remains around its base and a scull that capped its sharp top. The scattered bones were a stark white against the bark of the dead sapling that had been stained black by blood.

  ‘Who would do such a thing?’ Lieutenant O’Brien had never seen such a crucifixion. He was disgusted yet captivated by the horrific sight. They had all seen heads on spikes before but at least a beheading brought with it a quick death. Three of his men spewed, clutching their stomach inadvertently, almost afraid that they too will lose their innards.

  ‘Savages, Lieutenant. Savages, who get much joy out of killing their enemies slowly.’ The captain inspected the corpse up closely. The surgeon joined him and apart from the man’s missing thighs, immediately noticed something strange.

  ‘The liver, sir. Wait. The heart too. They’ve been taken.’

  ‘Cannibals,’ a revolted captain replied. ‘In this benighted land, they believe you gain your enemy’s strength by eating his body, especially his heart. Now we know where that smell of roasted meat is coming from.’

  Tristan elbowed Jabari in his side when he heard the captain say the words. ‘I don’t want to be eaten,’ he whispered.

  ‘Do not worry, Nyegere. Today is not your day to die.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Fate, my friend. Your destiny does not end here. Trust me.’

  An inexplicable calmness washed over Tristan when he heard the big man’s comforting words. The tightness in his shoulders released, he gripped the musket more loosely and steadied his breathing.

  While two of the sailors lifted Blackwell’s remains from the stake, the captain told the men to stay alert and keep on watching the treeline for any movement. Tristan squinted his eyes and did as the captain had asked. Moments ago, he was sure that he had seen the leaves rustle on the bush in front of him. He blinked his eyes and looked again. A wooden pole suddenly appeared above the bush, and he slowly stepped to his right and pulled at Putt’s sleeve.

  ‘Sir,’ he whispered and pointed at the backend of the spear that swayed slowly from side to side before it disappeared again.

  ‘Ambush!’ Putt muttered loud enough for the group to hear and turned around to see if everyone had heard him.

  Tristan kept on looking for more signs of life, but the trees and bushes in front of him had melted into one big green wall. Then he heard the unmistaken swishing sound of blades cleaving the air and a loud thud as the weapon connected with its target. A painful cry was followed by a musket shot, then two more, with cries of ‘Over there!’ He swung around just in time to see Putt falling to the ground. A heavy throwing knife had entered the man’s chest, the glistening red blade protruding from his back.

  ‘Mr Putt!’ He ran to where the second mate lay strewn out on the sandy ground.

  The perplexed silence that followed seemed to drag on forever as everyone watched the dying man writhing on the ground, the vicious knife stuck up high into the air, like a beacon of victory.

  The captain’s voice cut through the confusion. ‘Fire at will! Shoot anything that moves!’

  The soldiers instinctively formed a half-moon around Blackwell’s body and their fallen comrade, and the sailors followed their example.

  Behind the group, Putt was lying on his back clutching desperately at the knife trying to get rid of the heavy weight that was crushing his chest and forcing the air from his lungs. Purvis, who had been inspecting Blackwell’s body, came running and dropped to his knees beside the dying man. He immediately realised that there was nothing he could do and just tried to keep Putt still. The man’s gasps became shorter and shallower as more blood pumped from the wound in his chest. Then, as if he realised that his time had come, Putt stopped moving about and slowly looked over at Tristan.

  ‘It’s been a good life, hey, lad?’ Spit and blood frothed from his mouth as he tried to speak. ‘I wanna be buried at sea, not in this godforsaken place. Promise me.’

  ‘Shhh! I promise.’ Tristan barely got the words out and looked up at Purvis. ‘Do something. Help him!’ he pleaded with the doctor, the look in his eyes begging and the anguish in his voice demanding it.

  A dejected Purvis shook his head, for he was as helpless as the dying man himself, and on the ground in front of their eyes, Putt’s body shuddered one final time before his eyes glazed over.

  ‘I’m sorry, lad,’ said Purvis, with as much compassion as he could summon, knowing only too well the close bond that had developed between the boy and the second mate.

  Their shared moment of despair was disrupted when a man nearby cried out, an arrow piercing his shoulder. This was followed by two musket shots and a howl from behind the bush from where the projectile was fired. When the echo of the gunshots finally died out, a low hum broke out in bushes in front of them. The murmuring gradually got faster and louder, and soon it had built into a climax that was amplified by spears and clubs drumming onto shields, the dull thumps reverberating around the clearing.

  ‘They’re going to attack us, sir,’ said Jabari to the captain next to him, just as Tristan rejoined the rank, musket in hand, angry and ready to take revenge.

  ‘They’re gonna rush us soon, men! Hold your ground! Let’s show ‘em what we do to those who slaughter our fellow men. GIVE ‘EM HELL!’ The captain yelled at the top of his voice to make sure that his men heard him over the pealing noise that came from beyond the treeline.

  Jabari unleashed a bone-chilling war cry of his own, and a roar went up from the men. They were all lusting for blood after they had witnessed the mutilation inflicted on the builder, and they all liked the second mate. Their roar had only just died down when the bushes around the clearing exploded with shouting savages who rushed at them with spears, swords and clubs waving in the air.

  Their war cries were immediately drowned out by a volley of musket fire that dropped ten of them in their tracks, but two got their spears away in time, one hitting a sailor in the leg while a soldier got speared in the stomach. More savages rushed in from the sides, and the men resorted to their pistols, firing wildly into the approaching enemy as they loudly damned them to hell.

  Tristan had shot a native though the heart with his musket and pulled out his cutlass and one flintlock pistol simultaneously. Their half-moon defence was not holding, for a gap had opened up in the middle as the men started to split into two groups to fight the enemy on their flanks. The captain and lieutenant were in the middle of it all, directing the attack, and fired their pistols on both sides while the men started to engage the enemy with bayonet, cutlass and dirk. The loud clanking of sword on spear mingled with vociferous cries and curses as blades came in contact with skin.

  Tristan, who had inadvertently positioned himself in the gap that had opened, fired his pistol at a savage who rushed towards the opening and saw the man go down. Looking around him, he realised he was the only one defending the gap and started falling back, closer to where Cutcliffe and O’Brien were standing. As he retreated, two more savages spilled from the bushes and rushed towards the opening. Tristan pulled the second pistol from his belt and shot the leading man, a vicious-looking fella with his filed teeth bared, through the head. The man’s war cry got cut off midway and
he ploughed into the ground, silenced forever.

  The remaining man headed straight for the officers who were now fighting fiercely on both flanks, completely unaware of the impending danger that was coming for them. Tristan stepped in front of the second man and ducked underneath a fighting stick that was directed at his head. The running man’s momentum carried him straight into Tristan’s cutlass. A cry escaped from the savage’s mouth as the blade entered his midriff and exited through his back, buried to the hilt. He grabbed hold of Tristan’s hand and the sword’s knuckle bow, and desperately tried to wrestle the cutlass away from him.

  Tristan grappled with the savage, whose teeth were also filed into sharp points, his pungent breath nauseating as he tried to take bites out of Tristan’s face. Then, out of the corner of his eye, Tristan saw him. The first two men were a distraction. A tall native, clothed in what looked like human skin, had rushed through the brush and was heading straight towards the captain and the lieutenant. Realising that the man was going to run past him unhindered, Tristan had no choice but to let his cutlass go. The savage he had run through fell to the ground, kicking and screaming to his savage gods as he grabbed weakly at the sword’s hilt.

  ‘Captain!’ Tristan shouted to get the captain’s attention, but his voice was drowned out by the clamour of a veracious battle. Recognising that his effort was in vain, Tristan started running towards the remaining savage and continued to shout, finally throwing the empty pistol at the savage, which managed to distract the man momentarily, giving himself time for a possible intercept.

  Cutcliffe suddenly realised that fighting had broken out to his left and turned to face the enemy. The tall savage, who had a shrivelled white penis and scrotum tied to a leather necklace already heavy with mementoes, wielded an executioner’s sword coated in thick red blood and was racing towards him. Out of the corner of his left eye, the captain saw Tristan closing the gap fast, and he dropped his last empty pistol to unsheathe his sword, fearing for his own life as much as he did for the boy’s.

  Still running, Tristan pulled out his stiletto and launched himself at the savage, who had pulled his arm back at full stretch to swing his vicious sword. The extended arm opened up the native’s chest and heart for a perfect strike, but instead, Tristan swung his arm upwards and with faultless timing and precision thrust the stiletto into the spot where the man’s jaw ended and his neck began. The blade travelled upwards through the native’s throat, penetrated his brain and killed him instantly. Tristan’s stiletto ripped from his hand as the man’s momentum carried him forward, and he could only watch what unfolded next.

  Cutcliffe had let go of his talwar’s grip and grabbed the man’s sword arm with both hands, the blade slicing harmlessly through the air without any force, but the large native still had enough propulsion to knock Cutcliffe over, crushing the captain under his dead weight.

  Tristan quickly rushed to the captain’s aid and pushed the heavy corpse off him before pulling the Old Man to his feet. Fighting was fierce, and time for exchanging pleasantries or felicitations there was none. He left the captain, plucked his stiletto from the dead man’s neck and ran back to retrieve his cutlass. Tristan immediately looked for Jabari and joined the group in which the big man was fighting. The African was covered in sweat and blood, swinging his cutlass and dirk with glee while he cursed the savages and their fathers in his native language. Tristan followed him, attacking with renewed vigour, and soon found himself actively seeking out enemies from the dwindling force. Like his crazed black friend, he seemed invincible, fending off any blow or thrust that came his way with ease, before unleashing his own flurried fury, taking his enemies apart with precise thrusts and cuts.

  The killing finally subsided, and when the last savage threw down his fighting stick and shield and ran for the nearest bushes, the lieutenant, who had just finished reloading his pistol, unceremoniously shot the man through his back. The cannibal collapsed in one heap with a severed spine and cried out in pain until one of the sailor’s stabbed him through the heart. The groaning man died soon after, and the battle came to an abrupt end almost as quickly as it had started. The enemy had been slain, and all wildlife had been dispersed from the nearby forest. It made for a deathly silence, except for the mortally wounded who were weeping softly.

  Still in their two groups, most of Cutcliffe’s men stood heavily on their tired legs, others squatted with their heads hanging, while some lay flat on their backs. They all panted heavily as they reflected on the mayhem that they had just unleashed upon the natives. The aftermath of the battle was a horde of black bodies that lay strewn all around the clearing in a mingled mass of limbs and weapons. Those natives still writhing about were being dispatched as an act of mercy, though very few of the men had the ounce of compassion to do so. Amidst the surreal lassitude, the doctor was the only one who scurried around, moving from one patient to another as he attended to the injured men.

  Cutcliffe leaned on his sword and still breathing heavily, he yelled, ‘Huzzah!’

  ‘Huzzah! Huzzah!’ The men cheered, triumphantly brandishing their weapons high above their heads, and slapped each other on the back in celebration, their emotions ignited by the captain’s exclamation. Tristan and Jabari joined in the revelry and pumped their fists into the air as they exchanged beaming smiles with the other men in the group. Like their fellow combatants, they were happy to be triumphant and even more so to be alive.

  At the behest of the lieutenant, to counter any complacency that might have fallen over the victorious group, a few soldiers started to patrol the perimeter and scout for any further activity. Putt, five other deceased men and Blackwell’s disembowelled remains were laid out on makeshift stretchers that they put together using young trees and branches from the surrounding woods. When they were done, some of the men had a drink of water and a quick rest while others ransacked the savages for anything of value, weapons being the main treasure. Tristan had no appetite for looting the dead and walked to where the captain and Lieutenant O’Brien were standing next to one of the old dead trees. His presence interrupted their conversation.

  ‘Mr Putt wanted to be buried at sea, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Conway. His wish shall be carried out.’ The captain had more to say to the boy but quickly realised that now was neither the time nor place. Every man had given it his all, but as Tristan turned around, Cutcliffe could not help himself, ‘Mr Conway, for your first battle you have fought bravely and have proven yourself a worthy adversary to our enemy. I’m glad you were on our side.’

  Tristan could barely break a smile. He was suddenly overwhelmed by tiredness as the thrill of battle started to wane and plodded to where the surgeon was treating the wounded, where he slumped to the ground. He watched the man treat the soldier who had been shot in the shoulder with an arrow. The barb had been removed, and the doctor was bleeding him, letting the blood flow freely.

  ‘Poison,’ he said and showed Tristan the shoulder and neck that had started to turn violet where the poison had spread under the man’s skin. ‘There isn’t much I can do for him.’

  The soldier looked asleep, dead even, if not for the slight tremors in his body and shallow breathing. Somehow he looked peaceful. There was no grimace or agonising cries of pain. I hope, one day, death takes me quickly, or like this, thought Tristan.

  ‘You fought well, lad,’ said the doctor while he wiped the man’s forehead with a wet cloth, trying his best to make him as comfortable as possible.

  ‘We all did, sir.’

  ‘We certainly did,’ he echoed, ‘but you did exceptionally well. Don’t think the men don’t know that you’ve probably saved the captain’s life. I’ve already heard one or two talking about it. ‘Twas truly a remarkable feat, lad.’

  Tristan did not have the energy to answer, and besides, he only did what needed to be done and did not think much of it. He rested his head on his knees and closed his eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry about Putt. I know the two of you were c
lose.’

  ‘’Tis fine, sir.’ Tristan tried his best to sound convincing, but deep down, his insides felt raw. The loss of his dear friend, one of the very few people Tristan deemed trustworthy enough to have shared with the circumstances that had brought him on board the Raven, had ripped a piece of his soul to shreds and his need for revenge was far from being quelled.

  Tristan was in no mood for talking and jumped up to find Jabari. As he walked past the captain and Lieutenant O’Brien, he overheard their conversation.

  ‘We’ll leave the bodies outside the camp and fetch them later.’ The captain was clear with his instructions. ‘I do not want the rest of the men to see the state they’re in.’

  ‘I will send one of the men to get canvas from the storage room, sir. We can wrap the bodies in that and carry them into the camp. I think they’d all prefer a burial at sea.’

  ‘Thank you, Lieutenant. You do that. The burials will happen on the morrow on board the Raven. I will arrange with the cook to put on a festive dinner tonight, and let the men celebrate the lives of the fallen and our victory here today.’

  Tristan headed over to where Jabari sat underneath a small tree, on the outer edge of the clearing. The tree split into four boughs, then forked up and out into various smaller branches, giving it an umbrella-like shape that provided great shade. The African had laid claim to the heavy executioner’s sword, a fearsome weapon, with sharp protruding points all along the one side and a bladed sickle for a tip. He had rubbed the blade clean on the soft sand and was busy inspecting it up close when he saw Tristan taking a seat behind him.

  ‘You fought like a man today, but mostly like a nyegere,’ said Jabari. He could see on the empty smile that the compliment was lost on the boy, so he reached out and placed his massive hand on Tristan’s shoulder, just letting it rest there as they sat quietly, each caught up in his own thoughts.

  Moments later, the lieutenant’s voice spurred them into action. ‘Fall in!’ Everyone got up and readied themselves for the march back to camp. The bearers of stretchers lifted the dead and wounded. Tristan carried Jabari’s sword while the African helped the man who had been speared in the leg. Slowly the procession got underway, their light banter an indication of the relief felt by most.