The Fire Within

by Samuel T Clayton

  Cutcliffe was the last one to leave and gave a final glance across the field of battle, now a bloodstained ground, forever imprinted on their minds, a place where thirty-eight fly-ridden, bloating savages lay baking in the midday sun. It was only their second day in this land, and already he had lost seven men. Cutcliffe could not help but wonder if it was an omen of things to come. ‘What is done, is done,’ he said to himself and turned around to join the march home.

  Chapter 17

  Jabari had found their trails on the riverbank the night before and tracked them to a nearby savannah about three miles east of the camp.

  ‘Kill as many as you can.’ Those were their orders.

  Tristan, Jabari and Hanlon were nested up high in a juniper tree, right on the riverbank. The ample foliage provided good cover while they, the waylayers, waited patiently. A few yards behind the large tree, four soldiers were nestled deep into the bushes to mask their bright colours.

  Dawn was starting to break, and the sun gave the east a golden hue, lighting up the African jungle as it reached higher into the sky. Everyone was quiet, watching and listening – everyone, except Tristan. His ever-wandering mind had catapulted him into a forlorn place. He had realised earlier that they were not far from where the fight with the natives had taken place only three days ago. And this morning, the memories had come flooding back all at once.

  He could smell it – the sulphuric gunpowder and their reeking bodies. The images were vivid, almost like he was there. Black arms flailing, thick grey clouds from smoking guns, the bright red blood that flowed thick and fast. The sounds echoed in his ears. Terrifying war cries, exploding muskets and the clang of metal on metal, the unmistaken wails of the dying. His friend lying there, dead still, that ungodly weapon protruding from his chest.

  They buried Putt, Blackwell and five others the very same day they had died, not the next as the captain had originally said. Nearly all the men, except those on guard, gathered on the beach. The captain’s speech to the nearly two hundred and fifty men who attended was filled with praise for the fallen. He told of their brave fight and that those who had died should be celebrated, not mourned. Tristan remembered the warm tears which ran down his cheeks when, for once, the boatswain was lost for words as he described Putt, the kind man that many of them knew, and how that man had saved his life seven years ago.

  The bodies were loaded into a longboat, and six sailors, with the captain, the first mate, Lieutenant O’Brien, Woodford and the quartermaster rowed out to the middle of the bay. There the quartermaster said some words to the heavens above and when the Raven’s bell rung eight times, the first canvassed parcel was committed to the deep while bystanders on the beach looked on and cheered for their fallen comrade. They did not stop cheering until the last body had splashed and disappeared into the blue yonder.

  They feasted that night. Chicken and fish were grilled on a large open fire while rum and the last of the beer flowed more freely as usual. Fiddles and flutes played while the men sang and danced themselves into a frenzy. The music rose above the jungle and spread its merry tune across the treetops into Africa’s darkest corners. A fairly inebriated captain pushed the boat out the furthest and led the festivities well into the night, as one and all celebrated their victory and their fallen mates.

  It was late morning when the cook’s bell rang for breakfast at which time Tristan found himself in a tent where he had collapsed on the ground. His head had this throbbing pain, and the music from the previous night’s revelry still resounded in his ears, which did not make matters any easier. With the unknown pain in his head, he hurried outside, looking for the doctor, but stopped when he saw fellow sailors and soldiers emerge from tents and nearby bushes, many of them holding their heads as if they suffered from the same disease, driven near-mad by hunger and thirst, just like him.

  By early afternoon, work had commenced, and a sense of normality had settled over the camp as men got into their usual routines, but while his headache finally subsided he still had this empty yet painful void, and the fiery need to revenge Putt’s death still burned high. The inability to rid himself of the constant craving to kill someone or something frustrated him, and no matter what he did or occupied himself with, there was no respite.

  ‘They’re coming.’ Jabari whispered loud enough so that the soldiers below could hear him too. His voice plucked Tristan from his daydream.

  From beyond the green curtain, the sound of bushes being crushed became audible to the untrained ear. Tristan felt relieved to get out of the camp and away from the mundane occupation of running orders for the captain every day. He yearned to be back out on the open water or here in the green jungle, where he felt an anonymous freedom. Perhaps it was the ongoing frustration that he was wrestling with that aggravated matters. He did not know.

  He looked down at the musket resting on his lap. He was ready. They each had three loaded muskets, two of which were secured to a nearby branch in a makeshift sling. The sounds of breaking branches and twigs were more prominent now in the heavy morning air. It sounded like there were many.

  ‘Wait for my call.’ Jabari looked at where Tristan was seated directly across from him and then at Hanlon, behind and slightly underneath him. They both nodded, with Hanlon nearly losing his balance as he swatted away a large horsefly that had zoned in on the dried faeces that covered his exposed skin. The man shot a churlish glance at Jabari who had insisted that the white men should rub dung and mud mixed with water onto their skins. ‘To mask your foreign smell and make you blend in with your new surroundings,’ he had said. Jabari gave him an auspicious grin that immediately made Hanlon wonder if they had indeed been taken for fools. Suddenly below them, the bushes quivered and then parted as a huge black body emerged.

  ‘Aim for the spine,’ whispered Hanlon. They already knew that, but he knew better than most that in the heat of battle, even the best of plans could quickly go awry. Over his lifetime he had watched the calmest of men lose their heads as soon as the first shot had been fired. Not that he doubted the ability of the two in the tree with him, but he had seen the boy with the faraway look in his eyes.

  The African buffalo was an animal, unlike anything they had ever witnessed. Up close, it looked larger than life compared to the puny firearms they held in their even punier hands. It was a glorious beast.

  Sniffing the air with his wet nose, the old bull tentatively strode onto the wide riverbank. He lowered his head and sniffed the ground before he lifted it again, confused by the strange scent. With flared nostrils and massive glistening black flanks shivering under laboured breathing, the need for water overrode his other senses as it did for the rest of the herd. They were thirsty from an early-morning feed of grass on the savannah, and soon, the rolling sound of trampling hooves, clashing horns and puffs of dust filled the air as the first of the herd moved down the embankment onto the open ground all along the river’s edge. Magnificent creatures pushed and shoved each other to get a drink of water and a taste of the sweet barnyard grass that grew along the water’s edge.

  A splash in the water spooked some of them when a young inexperienced crocodile leaped out of the water with jaws snapping wildly, only to disappear back into the black river water moments later. The void was soon filled with more buffalo as the herd continued to push forward.

  Suddenly Jabari cursed, loud enough for Tristan to hear. ‘The soldiers,’ the African whispered. He had just realised that they had made a mistake leaving the soldiers in the dense shrubs below. Although their armed escort was still safely cocooned, a stampeding herd would not choose the path of least resistance. The animals would trample and impale anything in their path.

  Jabari took aim with his musket at a massive bull that was feeding on the water grass. Tristan and Hanlon quickly followed suit, picking out an animal each and waiting for Jabari to give the call.

  ‘Now!’ shouted Jabari as the musket in his hands smoked, then exploded.

  Tristan squeezed his trigger and
shot a large cow through the spine. He saw her drop right in her tracks and quickly reached for another musket, but haste and jittery hands made him struggle with the sling. The tree started to quiver as the beasts retreated in panic, their thundering hooves drumming the earth. One, two, then three of the thousand-pound beasts crashed into the juniper tree’s bole, causing the branches and their inhabitants to shudder.

  When Tristan finally got the second gun out, there was little left to choose from, and he hastily aimed and fired at a youngish bull that had collided with the tree. The young buffalo reared onto its hind legs before it slumped to the ground on his side, kicking its legs out in a desperate attempt to get up. The last of the herd disappeared back into the thick bush, and the three hunters slowly climbed down the tree, their legs still trembling from the thrill of the hunt. Not far from them, four shaken soldiers emerged from their hideout, their pale faces proof of their ordeal.

  On the riverbank, four large buffalo lay on their sides. Closer to the juniper tree, the young bull was still attempting to get up, his flailing legs kicking up sand and small plants while he uttered low moaning grunts. Jabari walked over to the distressed bull, kneeled behind it and patted it on the shoulder. ‘Shhh, nyati, shhh. Your life has not been taken in vain. It will serve many others.’ He pulled out his newly acquired sword and ran the sharp blade of its sickle across the young bull’s throat. A soft gurgling sound replaced the fading grunts. He stayed crouched over the animal until he could no longer feel its powerful heartbeat underneath his hand while the rest of the men watched as its lifeblood trickled along the trampled ground down towards the river.

  ‘I got two. How many did you shoot?’ asked Jabari while they rested, still caught up in the thrill of the hunt.

  ‘Two as well,’ said Tristan.

  ‘Three,’ replied Hanlon. ‘The third bullet didn’t hit its mark but ‘twas still a good shot.’ He smiled sheepishly. ‘I nearly fell out of the tree.’

  Jabari and Tristan realised his admission was a difficult one, and both could not help but laugh at the embarrassed man.

  They all helped to pull the five heavy buffalo away from the water’s edge and onto the embankment, where the young bull was laying. There, each animal’s throat was slit while their heads lay hanging over the side of the levee to let the blood flow unhindered. When the rivulet of blood reached the river, it did not take long for crocodiles to latch onto the smell and the river below soon teemed with reptiles fighting for position along the bank.

  ‘We need to find your missing one,’ said Jabari, after they had finished. ‘That one is a dangerous animal on the loose and can cause very bad injuries, even death.’

  After a quick search of the area, Jabari spotted the blood trail on top of the crushed brush, and he and Tristan set off to find the animal. It was a good shot as Hanlon had said and they found the dead buffalo sixty yards from where it had been shot, lying in the thick undergrowth. Jabari slit the animal’s throat and quickly realised that they would need more manpower to pull it from the dense bush, so they left it and headed back to the river.

  After a quick word with the men, the two headed back to camp to fetch the help that had been arranged beforehand. They settled into a brisk trot and were close to camp when Tristan felt the need to urinate. The morning sun was already hot, and he had nearly finished the water in his costrel.

  They arrived at a spot where the track veered sharply to the left and onto the steep riverbank. He stopped, undid his breeches and while enjoying the stillness, piddled into the black water below. Jabari joined him on the edge and shortly after unleashed a waterfall of piss that threatened to turn the river yellow. It was not the first time Tristan had seen the African urinate, but he was always struck with awe whenever he saw the dark black penis emerge like a snake through the man’s fingers. It was as thick as his wrist and as long as the barrel of a flintlock pistol. Tristan looked down. His penis, a little bit bigger than his thumb, was pale in his brown hand, which had been seasoned by sea and sun. He glanced at the African again.

  Jabari had witnessed his curiosity and concern. ‘Haha!’ The big man’s boisterous laughter came straight out of his belly, and each laugh sent an even larger stream of piss flying through the air. ‘Don’t worry, Nyegere, be sure that even the tiniest sprout will one day grow into a mighty tree.’

  Tristan looked down again and imagined a big tree down there. ‘I’m not so sure,’ he replied.

  ‘You’re still young, Nyegere, not even a man yet. Soon more hair will grow up there and down there. Your voice will sound more like that of a man too. And as certain as I stand here today, your pintle will one day grow into a mighty chatu.’

  Tristan had learned three days earlier what a chatu was when they caught one wrapped around a chicken in the coop. It took a bullet and two strong men to unwrap its coils from the unfortunate fowl. He knew changes would happen to his body eventually, but it was doing so at a frustratingly slow pace. A ship full of men had not been a very compassionate place for someone who had not yet fully developed. Although he had not been teased that much, the feeling of inadequacy was certainly not that different from La Boutique where he had been confronted several times by visions of naked men, and when it did happen, one could not help but compare. He finished and pulled up his breeches. ‘Are you sure?’

  The African shook off the last drops and with a smile said, ‘As sure as your shadow, Nyegere.’

  Tristan quickly searched out his darker self on the sand below and gladly laid eyes on the omnipresent shady figure, cut short by the midday sun. He felt reassured by Jabari’s words. After all, the African was a grown man and would know what he was talking about. If Jabari said he would have a chatu one day, he was not going to argue with the African, for the man was certainly an expert in that field.

  The two quickly settled back into their previous rhythm and reached the camp not long after. All the while, they heard the odd shot ring out which they presumed was Hanlon and the soldiers keeping any scavengers at bay. After they had shared the story of their successful hunt and refilled their costrels, they departed camp once more, this time followed by a crew, consisting mostly of sailors armed with knives, ropes, barrels and bags filled with salt. The boatswain was put in charge of retrieving the meat and led the group of thirty men, who were all glad to get out of camp and away from their humdrum tasks.

  When they arrived at the hunting site, a crocodile had joined the six dead buffalo. Hanlon insisted that it was a lucky shot when he pointed to the bullet hole at the back of the reptile’s eyes. He had shot at four others and only managed to scare them off.

  ‘Their skins are as tuff as ol’ Burne’s,’ said Hanlon. Most of the crew genuinely believed that the old sailmaker could break a fid on his forearm.

  The men were divided into groups, five per animal, and the butchering started straightaway. Slabs of still-warm meat were rubbed with handfuls of salt and tightly packed into empty barrels. The heavy barrels were sealed by the cooper for the trip back to camp where the cook, his mate and several nominated men, were waiting to process the meat further.

  Tristan enjoyed gutting and skinning the animal for it took him back to his hunting days with Finn out in the forests. He did it efficiently, opening the buffalo’s stomach, careful not to rupture any of the organs. Together with Jabari and the three other sailors they carefully lifted out all the intestines, keeping the liver and kidneys to one side. Around them complaints and gasps for air broke out as some of the inexperienced men cut into stomachs and intestines, only to let partially digested food and excrement spill out over hands and feet.

  With the skinning, Tristan worked just as methodically. His helpers soon caught on, and they wasted almost no meat compared to the maniacal slaughtering that some of the others accomplished. Next, they started to butcher the animal, cutting the red meat from the carcass while leaving some larger pieces intact just as the cook had requested. The other teams were still busy skinning their carcasses when the five
of them moved on to the crocodile. This time Jabari had the honour of butchering the animal and in no time, the rich fatty meat had made its way into a barrel. Jabari salted and rolled up the skin before tying it up with a piece of rope. When Tristan enquired, the African told him he wanted to make a proper sheath for his new sword. Jabari then pushed a branch into the crocodile’s mouth to keep the jaw open and proceeded to hammer its teeth with a rock from the river. When he had finished, he started pulling the loose ones which had not shattered from the crocodile’s upper and lower jaws.

  ‘Good for money, or to trade, Nyegere,’ said the wise man, holding up a rather large white tooth.

  Tristan looked at the skins, horns and teeth around him, and realised that there was money to be made from all of it. Unbeknownst to the African, the man had planted an idea in Tristan’s head that would slowly culminate over the years to come.

  Groaning men soon started carrying the barrels with pickled meat back to camp, mostly on homemade stretchers that creaked under the burden of heavy loads. They hauled barrels for most of the morning even after the boatswain had demanded more hands from the captain. By early afternoon, the last of the barrels made their way to camp, which was now clearly visible from afar by a trail of constant smoke that rose high up in the air from a hastily constructed smokehouse. With the last of the meat barrels gone, the first carcasses were strapped to carrying poles and taken to camp too.

  In camp, it looked like a massacre. The cook and his helpers had unpacked the barrels of salted meat onto racks to dry off the excess blood first. Some cuts were immediately roasted while others were cured in a mixture of salt, vinegar and sugar, and packed back into the barrels. Smaller strips of meat were salted and hung in the cook’s smokehouse. Carcasses were broken down and the bones, with little bits of meat and filled with delicious marrow, were cooked in large pots to provide a nourishing broth to go with the roasted meat that night.