The Fire Within

by Samuel T Clayton

  By late afternoon, Tristan and Jabari were the last two people left on the hunting ground. The canvas bags around their shoulders were loaded with the remaining hides and four buffalo horns, compliments of a carpenter saw. Apart from the surgeon, who had requested a specimen, they planned on keeping the horns and perhaps turning them into powder horns. Before leaving, they pushed the severed heads and intestines down the embankment to where the crocodiles had been waiting patiently for a feed. The water quickly erupted into a foaming whirlpool as big and small reptiles fought over the scraps.

  Knowing that their work was finally done, they left behind the large area of flattened grass and blood-soaked sand, and ambled back to camp. They soon got to the place where they had discussed Tristan’s concerns about his manhood and watched as the sun ducked underneath the never-ending greenery. In the last light, a fish eagle swooped down into the reeds nearby and plucked a small baby crocodile out of the water before returning to its nest high up in a tree across the river where its eager young were waiting with open beaks.

  ‘In this place, everything kills everything.’ Tristan’s remark embodied his experience of Africa in the last five days.

  ‘Everyone and everything in life have a purpose, Nyegere. To live, you must kill, and it isn’t just Africa’s way. That crocodile and eagle up there, they are part of an existence much bigger than just you and me, perhaps even bigger than that which you and I could understand. See, a crocodile took one of our men. Now the eagle took one of them. In the end, it must all be connected somehow.’

  Perhaps it is another question I could put to God one day. He who had supposedly created all of this, thought Tristan, not quite sure what to make of the African’s reasoning.

  They had just started walking again when they heard it. It started softly at first but soon built into a rumbling sound that rolled over the treetops like far-off thunder – the low rumble of African war drums.

  ‘I see them!’ Hanlon’s announcement brought the restless men who had assembled at the river’s edge to a standstill. The call had first come from the guards atop the hill about fifteen minutes ago, and since then, from where he was perched up high in his tree, Hanlon had kept his eyes peeled on the river.

  Most men in camp had had a rather sleepless night. The guard had been doubled, but in the last few days word had spread about what nasty fate had befallen Blackwell and it had been in the forefront of every camp dweller’s mind as they had lain in a state of slumber last night, fully clothed, armed to the teeth and ready for anything.

  Soldiers had already gathered on the elevated part of the riverbank. Under Lieutenant O’Brien’s command, they had their muskets ready to fight. The captain had his heavy oak chair brought across from the Raven and donned his best attire for the occasion. He was seated on the sandy beach, not far from the river’s edge, awaiting his guests. In front of him, a red stoneware teapot and mugs, and a bowl with various sweet treats were neatly placed on an oak and walnut refectory table with beautifully crafted legs. On the other side of the table, another and slightly smaller oak chair was waiting for their guest. Behind Cutcliffe, a few of his senior officers were also smartly dressed in their uniforms. With their pistols loaded and cutlasses sharpened, they too were ready for anything. Further back, petty officers and sailors stood armed to the teeth. They all waited patiently for the first boats to appear around the bend, listening to the beautiful trancelike melody of African voices singing in perfect harmony.

  Tristan had taken up position next to Jabari on the sailors’ flank, close to the soldiers, where the beach sloped up onto the riverbank. From there, he was slightly elevated and had a better view of the approaching fleet. Like the hundreds of eyes around him, he too looked towards the riverbend, watching and waiting. The message from the hilltop had been that a flotilla of dugout boats was on its way. They had said the boats appeared to be carrying a person of importance and around eighty warriors. He could not wait and treaded impatiently on one spot.

  When the nose of the first boat appeared, it looked tiny and insignificant, but the full length of the hollowed tree trunk soon emerged much to the delight of the onlookers. Then more of the strange-looking boats came into view, one after the other until the river was teeming with dugouts and natives. Astonished faces watched on as the long sleek boats cut through the water, each propelled by two standing oarsmen, one in front and another in the back. Using long slender paddles, they carefully guided the canoes along the river and with great skill steered clear of each other.

  In the middle of the flotilla, on the largest of the boats, a thickset African sat on a raised seat. In front of him a young warrior crouched on his knees while rhythmically beating a wooden drum. Surrounded on either side by boats filled with well-armed, broad-shouldered warriors, it was clear that he was the most important person in the procession. From up in the tree, Hanlon eyed the man too. The captain had given him very clear instructions, and his musket rested silently yet deadly on the branch in front of him.

  The singing died out as the first of the boats arrived. Tristan counted at least twenty-five of them with around five natives in each boat. The soldiers got their numbers wrong, he thought after a quick calculation. As inconspicuously as he could, Tristan walked over to the captain and whispered it in the Old Man’s ear. In return, the captain asked him to give the information to Lieutenant O’Brien before he turned around to spread the word to his senior officers. There was not much he could do, even if the oncoming force nearly matched him in number, he still held the high ground and outmatched them with firepower.

  After Tristan had informed the lieutenant, he took up position just behind the Raven’s officers, not far from the captain. More boats arrived, and they started to form two lines, three boats wide, with a lane in the middle through which the larger dugout could pass. The warriors in the canoes closest to the lane stood up and formed a guard of honour as the large canoe passed them, all the way to the front. Tristan realised that they were not just honouring him. They were protecting their chief, their captain. The killer.

  When the large canoe reached the shore, the drummer stopped, and two warriors jumped into the water and pulled the big canoe onto the white sandy beach. The rest of the oarsmen buried their oars into the riverbed and kept the lines perfectly still while at least twenty tall warriors, armed with swords and shields, disembarked to continue the guard of honour for their chief. Tristan saw at least thirty warriors on the boats who carried longbows and arrows, and hoped the lieutenant took note.

  The Raven’s crew waited patiently for the chief to emerge, and they were not disappointed when the tall and heavy African finally appeared. His troops quickly formed two rows behind their chief and stood tall and proud, not the least bit intimidated by their British counterparts.

  Tristan had never seen such a spectacle. The chief wore a crown made up of ostrich plume feathers that were held together by strings of beads. Draped over his shoulders was a leopard skin and around his chest he wore the skin of a crocodile that was tailored into a shirt, his thick arms emerging from the holes where the animal’s front legs had once been. Around his waist was the only item that looked out of place. While the chief’s warriors wore grass skirts around their waists, the chief wore a brown sarong. With his target now identified, Tristan relaxed and continued to watch on.

  ‘Kiambote kieno!’ The chief spoke out loud with a mighty voice, and with theatrical air extended his arm to the left and moved it all the way to the right.

  The captain, who had remained seated up until now, nearly fell off his chair when he recognised the words. From behind, the purser tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Sir!’

  ‘I know.’

  The captain rose and extended his right arm towards the chief and his people. He struggled to hide his pride when he returned the chief’s greeting in his own mother tongue. ‘Malembe mpolo. Wena matimpi?’ the captain greeted him and enquired about his wellbeing.

  It was the African chief’s turn to sta
nd dumbfounded while equally confused warriors, soldiers and sailors looked on. Only a few of the longest-serving officers and seamen knew that the captain could speak some of the native languages, something the Old Man prided himself on, not only because it had been a challenging goal he had set himself but also because it had been a key ingredient for his unrivalled success as merchantman along the African coast.

  ‘Nkumbu ame iFrancis Cutcliffe,’ he introduced himself and started walking down the beach with an outstretched hand to greet the chief.

  The big native was still in slight shock as he continued to hear his language spill forth from the lips of a pale-faced man but he finally gathered himself and shook the captain’s hand and was further amazed when Cutcliffe placed his left hand on his right forearm.

  ‘Inga. Nkumbu ame iNzau,’ replied the chief, finally at ease when he recognised the sign of respect shown to him by the captain, a man not only familiar with their language but also their customs.

  Cutcliffe pointed to where the chairs and table were set up and signalled for the chief to follow him. Closely behind the chief, two of his most senior commanders followed cautiously, both men still somewhat suspicious of the white-skinned man who spoke their language. Once seated, the captain offered the chief some tea and sweets, and took the first sip and bite to show that he meant him no harm. He then allowed some time for the man to get used to the exotic tastes while the two commanders and his warriors anxiously awaited their chief’s verdict. The black man preferred the sweets over the tea, and after he had expressed his opinion on the matter, the chief turned and spoke to his commanders. One of them signalled the drummer boy, who came running with a wooden bowl and calabash. He handed it to the commander, who placed it in front of the chief.

  ‘Mingolo.’ The black man took a mopane worm from the bowl and put the delicious snack into his mouth.

  The captain smiled. The language of food never ceased to amaze him. Luckily he had eaten these before and helped himself to a few, nodding his approval and gratefulness. The chief then took a sip from the calabash and spat a mouthful on the ground before he took a large swig and then offered some to the captain. The captain repeated what the chief did, his first mouthful ending up on the ground honouring the tribe’s ancestors before he took another sip of the sweet and sour palm wine.

  ‘Kitoko mingi.’ Cutcliffe told him that the food and drink were delicious.

  The conversation started in earnest. The captain quickly learned that Chief Nzau’s tribe spoke a northern dialect of the Kikongo language. It was very similar to the language he had learned through his trading with the neighbouring Bakongo kingdoms to the south. Cutcliffe let the chief talk first while he listened intently, trying to learn as much as he could about the headman and his people. The chief confirmed that his village was seven miles further up the river. He was family of the Bakongo king and acted as a provincial governor with the power to make independent decisions. The latter was important to Cutcliffe, for liaising with a king from a village far away could delay their plans with weeks, if not months. The captain had met the king some years ago and quickly mentioned his name, much to the delight of his guest.

  Chief Nzau disclosed that his warriors had been watching the camp from the other side of the river. He said that they had heard the sound of thunder a number of days ago when there had been no clouds in the sky. He had sent several warriors to inspect, and that was when they had discovered the thirty-eight bodies.

  Cutcliffe immediately enquired if they were his men and was surprised when the chief spat in disgust, stomping the spot where his spit had seeped into the sand. He told the captain that the men were a raiding party that belonged to a different tribe up north and that they had been terrorising his people for the past two months. They had been raiding some of the smaller villages along the river to the east and had captured many of their women and children. They travelled light and never made camp. Some of his own tribe’s women and children had disappeared into enemy stomachs with only bony remnants found every time.

  The chief informed Cutcliffe that he had sent warriors after them on many occasions, but each time the group just escaped and fled north only until the chase had been called off, and then they would return once more. He said that they had been a pest, like grasshoppers that would come for their crops – you always knew they would come, but you never knew exactly where they were or when they were going to feed. The chief thanked the captain for killing the group of men.

  It was Cutcliffe’s turn to tell him what had happened to Blackwell and the battle that had ensued. The captain humbly said that they were lucky and that the raiding party had perhaps underestimated their firepower and therefore decided to attack and not flee as they had done before. The chief shook his head in disbelief and clapped his hands in delight as the captain used some colourful terms to describe the battle. When the captain had finished, he ordered the cook to prepare another pot of tea, offered the bowl with sweets to the chief and asked him to pass it to his guard. When the empty bowl was finally returned, he looked over the chief’s shoulder and saw a line of smiling guards with bulging cheeks.

  Cutcliffe decided to steer the conversation in a different direction. He asked about the sarong. The chief said that many ships had anchored in the bay through the years, but his village had only ever made contact with the sailors from one other ship. The captain learned that two years ago, a Portuguese ship had spent three weeks in the bay after they had run into trouble. While the ship had been careened on the beach to be repaired, the Portuguese crew had traded clothes and a few wares, mostly for fresh produce. When their ship had finally been fixed, they had sailed northwards again.

  The captain thought it was a good time to tell the chief why they were there. He told the man about the port they were planning to build and that he was here as a British chief to negotiate any terms on behalf of the East India Company that operated under the protection of England’s King William III. They wanted to trade, and he would like to build a market where the chief’s people could bring their goods. Cutcliffe knew that slavery was rife down south with the Spanish, the Dutch and also the British, all vying for the lucrative commodity and that many chiefs, including the chief’s king, sold their own people into slavery. There was no doubt in Cutcliffe’s mind that the chief would have known all of this. He distanced himself from the slave trade and out of his own, promised the chief that as long as the East India Company held the port that none of his people would be taken as slaves.

  The chief listened closely. He had seen a few items among the visitors, including the chair that he was sitting on, that he would not mind owning. They had also done him a big favour by taking care of the pressing raider problem, which had caused great distress among his people. He told the captain that he too only wanted to trade goods and like some of his neighbours up north, he had no interest in trading his people. He said he would talk to the village elders and return with his terms at the soonest.

  With business temporarily concluded, they continued to talk and laugh like old friends. Chief Nzau pointed to the buffalo hides that had been stretched taut over wooden frames as well as the clean white bones that had come from the soup pots and asked the captain a few questions, the most important one how they had managed to kill so many of the large beasts. The captain pointed to muskets that his men held in their hands and called them the sticks that had brought the thunder for there was no Kikongo word for gun. The chief was intrigued and said that he had heard stories about the white man’s weapons, then asked if he could see it in action.

  ‘Mr Conway!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Show Chief Nzau here what you can do with that musket.’

  Tristan walked towards the captain and the chief. Unbeknownst to them, behind his friendly blues lay a mind filled with hatred. He kept his gaze fixed on the big native with the leopard skin around his shoulders, knowing that he would soon be standing over the man’s lifeless body.

  ‘Mwana yakala!’ The
chief turned around and laughed, as did his commanders and warriors, who thought that the captain had sent a boy to do a man’s work.

  A troop of monkeys had taken up residence in a nearby tree once they had realised how easy food was to come by in the camp. Tristan pointed to a lone male that was sitting high up on a branch busy inspecting his bluish scrotum, completely oblivious to his surroundings and imminent death. The chief laughed at the sight, and so did his men when Tristan pointed out the target. Tristan picked up the musket, aimed and fired, all in one fluid motion. The loud crack of the fired weapon nearly threw the chief off his chair, his mouth gaped open wide with surprise, and he clasped his ears to get rid of the noise that still rang in them. Some of his men had crouched down on their knees looking frantically around them, while others had their weapons raised, ready to storm to their chief’s aid. Chief Nzau quickly signalled for them to stand down as he watched the monkey. It had been blown off the branch and dropped on top of a tent before it slowly slid down onto the green grass below.

  The white men cheered while most of the native warriors’ anxious faces slowly made way for smiles as they started to chatter, amazed by the magical weapon that had plucked the monkey from the sky.

  One of the king’s guard ran to where the animal had fallen, picked up the limp body and looked for an arrow or projectile of some sort. He ran over to the chief and showed him the dead animal as well as the wounds from where blood was leaking. The chief looked amazed and questioned the captain about the weapon. The captain explained patiently before turning to Tristan once more.

  ‘He wants to try it, lad. Try not to miss.’

  Tristan quickly reloaded the weapon and thought he would indulge the man one last time before his impending death. He handed the musket to the chief and through hand motions explained to the man what he needed to do. Tristan stood next to him and aimed the weapon at four scared monkeys that were clumped together, hoping that he would hit at least one.