The Fire Within

by Samuel T Clayton

  He then moved behind the man, the leopard skin smooth and fetid against his face, and carefully adjusted the barrel until he was satisfied. He slowly moved his hand down and pressed the man’s finger on the trigger. A loud boom echoed through the camp for a second time. Tristan quickly grabbed the gun from the man’s shaking hands and together they watched on as a monkey dropped from the tree, straight down onto the grass below. Moments later it was followed by another one, who had been the unlucky recipient of a bullet that had passed straight through his mate. The monkey slowly dropped, its little hands trying but failing to grab hold of branches and leaves on its way down. It was the natives’ turn to wildly cheer while the white men looked on in awe before they too started applauding.

  The same warrior ran, grabbed both animals, inspected them up close and shook his head in disbelief before he returned them to his chief. An animated discussion erupted as the captain explained to the chief what had happened. Tristan returned to the group of sailors and frantically started to load the musket for the third time. A proud Jabari slapped his friend on the back, not sure what his rush was, but then he realised – the look on Tristan’s face was not one of joy or even satisfaction. It was the face of a boy filled with abhorrence, one who was focused on seeking revenge.

  The captain knew that the display of the powerful weapon would swing any terms in his favour whenever the time for bargaining would come. He pressed the point home with the chief, emphasising the capability of the firearm and its ability to kill over long distances when in the hands of a good warrior.

  At the same time, Tristan had finished loading his musket and felt the two pistols in his belt and stroked the stiletto through his cotton shirt. Today they will pay. He was prepared to take as many with him as he could. He rehearsed it one final time. Walk to the table, shoot the two commanders through the backs of their heads with the musket and one pistol, quickly dispatch the chief in the same manner, pull my sword and stiletto and turn around to face whatever may come my way. It was a simple plan, and according to his old tutor, Putt, simple plans usually worked.

  Tristan had just given his first step when he felt the heavy hand.

  ‘Wait, Nyegere.’

  He tried to shake off the hand, but instead, it tightened its grip on his shoulder.

  ‘Let me go!’ whispered Tristan and tried to wriggle out of Jabari’s grip without startling anyone around him.

  ‘I can’t let you do it. I can’t let you walk to certain death.’

  Tristan was surprised that Jabari knew of his plan. ‘My life is not yours to command,’ he said defiantly.

  ‘No, it isn’t. But have you forgotten how by virtue of one fateful night our lives will be entwined forever? That means my life will end here as well, and while it may be a glorious death, I still have matters to settle.’ The African looked deep into the boy’s blue eyes. ‘Tell me, Tresten, how many other lives will you take with you today, of theirs and ours? And will your brief respite be worth it?’

  Tristan did not have an answer for him but continued to struggle with the African’s grip. His efforts were interrupted when the chief and his two commanders burst out laughing. The captain translated to his officers, who soon followed suit as they all broke out in laughter.

  ‘It wasn’t them, Tresten. Come. Walk with me.’ Jabari grabbed him around the shoulder and pulled him away from the crowd.

  They walked in silence, nowhere in particular, but soon found themselves on the beach where they had first landed. They took a seat on an old tree trunk that was almost as white as the beach it rested on.

  ‘Killing their chief will not return Mr Putt from the afterlife.’

  ‘But it would have been worth it, knowing that the devils responsible for his murder have been dispatched,’ countered Tristan.

  ‘I know you need something to fill the void that Mr Putt has left but killing their chief, and perhaps a few more, is not the answer. They are not to blame, Nyegere. ‘Twas a different tribe, a different people altogether.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘They look different, and they sound different too. We may look all the same to you white men, but we are not, you should know that by now. Besides, I’m sure the captain would’ve asked the chief that question, and so far no argument has occurred and no shot has been fired.’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘Even if you survived today, the captain would have hung you for sure. You would have imperilled his whole mission, all because you wanted revenge. Think about it, Tresten,’ Jabari paused for a moment thinking of a suitable example, ‘if a Scotsman killed an Englishman then we don’t kill an Irishman in his place, correct? We hunt down the killer no matter who he is and revenge ourselves. And we did just that! We killed them all! The deaths of a thousand more lives will not make a difference to the emptiness burning inside of you.’ The African let his words sink in. ‘Next time tell me about your plans, Nyegere. We live together, we fight together and maybe one day, if fate has it in store for us, we will die together. But today is not that day.’

  Tristan jumped up, suddenly realising what a fatal mistake he had nearly made. He thought about the numerous lives that would have been lost if he had followed through with his plans. What made him even more nauseous was that he had contemplated shooting his friend when the man did not want to let him go.

  ‘I just…I wanted…’

  Tristan suddenly struggled to breathe, like his shirt and breeches were tightening, slowly suffocating him. He drew his pistols and flung them on the sand, followed by the stiletto. His ripped at his clothes and that soon ended up on the ground too. Jabari let him be. The African knew that it was the evil that you could not see that you should fear the most, and right now, the demons were wreaking havoc with his friend.

  Like a rabid dog, Tristan ran down the beach, naked as the day he was born, and into the surf where his screams were drowned out by thunderous breakers that rode in on a brisk southwester before they crashed onto the shore. He released his pent-up anger, hate and sadness into the ocean by yelling into the wind and letting out heartrending cries while he hit the white water with his fists.

  The cold water burned his skin and knocked the air from his lungs. It refreshed him, washed away his wickedness and cleared his conscience of guilt. He stormed out of the water, his eyes wild, and started running down the beach, his lungs, legs and insides burning. Faster and faster he ran, until the scorching heat had ceased raging and his spirit was free once more, the wind carrying him north until he was but a speck on the horizon and that too finally disappeared in the pervasive haze.

  The sun was a deep pink in the west, and an early moon had already shown its face when Tristan finally returned. Jabari was waiting for him, still sitting on the tree trunk, a bundle of clothes next to him. No words were exchanged. Instead, the naked boy walked up to him and straight into his big black arms. Jabari enveloped him and hugged him tight while he felt the warm tears stream down his chest. Whether they were tears of joy or sadness, it did not matter. His friend had found peace again.

  ‘Karibu. Karibu nyumbani. Welcome. Welcome home, Nyegere,’ he said while the white sand from his hand rained down softly on the boy’s head.

  An African Excursion

  Chapter 18

  The young man was riding her. Hard. She bucked and twisted like a wild mare, throwing him around as if he did not even exist. His contumacious nature asked for nothing less as the wind combed through his long blond hair. Underneath his tanned skin, toned muscles bulged as he fought her. The white cotton shirt he was wearing ballooned in the wind, then pulled free and flapped uncontrollably, while the gold cross bounced off his broad chest and stung him on the cheek.

  ‘Ayeeeeaahhhh!’ Tristan yelled when the Raven’s bow ploughed through another big swell, throwing up a shower of saltwater that drenched him. The Atlantic was hurling her best at them, and the howling wind and creaking timber were music to his ears.

  The captain had the boat on a starbo
ard tack, and her bulging sails suggested that they would soon harness the wind to its full effect. The Old Man had spotted the change in weather well.

  ‘Trim the sails!’ The captain’s order was relayed by the third mate up on the forecastle.

  ‘Aye aye, sir!’ The boisterous seas had quickly awakened the crew from their becalmed state, and they worked the ship with vigour. The sails had been hoisted as soon as the captain had sensed the change or perhaps he too had heard the sailmaker, old Burne, hum his rendition of “Blow Ye Wind Westerly”. Everybody on board knew that it could mean only one thing: wind, glorious wind.

  ‘Mr Conway! Get yer arse off that bowsprit and lend a hand with the foresails! You’re still part of this crew, so don’t make the captain keelhaul yer sorry arse for lack of effort,’ the boatswain yelled at him, trying to keep a straight face. The young man still clowned around every time he had the chance, but his boundless spirit and amiability made him a favourite among the crew, and they would always forgive his antics because of that. He was going to miss the fella. As would the rest of them.

  ‘Aye, sir!’ Able seaman Tristan Conway reacted quickly. He was not going to use the ladder. The rope he had held onto while sitting astride the bowsprit became his means to get back on deck, and like a monkey from a tree, he ran forwards then swung from the mast in a wide arch before he dismounted and landed with both feet firmly planted on the beakhead. The men cheered briefly, cut short by a derogatory mouthful from the boatswain. After a quick bow and broad smile, Tristan ran and joined his fellow sailors on the forecastle just as they started hauling on the braces to trim the yards and sails. Soon the Raven would run free before the wind.

  With his deep singing voice, Jack Tayler, the self-appointed shantyman, got the sheet anchor men underway.

  Haul on the bowline, the bully ship's a-rollin'

  Haul on the bowline, the bowline Haul!

  Haul on the bowline, Kitty is my darlin'

  Haul on the bowline, the bowline Haul!

  Haul on the bowline, Kitty lives in Liverpool,

  Haul on the bowline, the bowline Haul!

  Haul on the bowline, the old man is a-growlin,

  Haul on the bowline, the bow-

  Tristan was about to scamper up the ratlines where, as topman, he worked the topgallant and royal yards, when the third mate called out to him, ‘Mr Conway! The captain wants to see you! On the quarterdeck! Make haste!’

  Tristan yelled ‘Aye, sir!’ and nodded emphatically, in case the man did not hear him over the wind. He looked up the mast longingly. Up there he felt free, especially on days like today when the wind was about to unleash its fury. Better not keep the Old Man waiting, he thought.

  Only the first mate, a fellow officer and the crews working the mizzenmast rig were present on the quarterdeck. There was no sign of the captain.

  ‘Up on the poop,’ said the first mate when he saw Tristan’s searching eyes.

  ‘She’s running well, isn’t she, sir?’

  ‘Like she’s being chased by a thousand devils, Mr Conway.’ The satisfied grin on the first mate’s face spoke louder than his words. ‘You will surely miss her howl as much as her squeak.’

  Tristan smiled. The new first mate had only been sailing with them for the last five months. The man came out of the same mould as the captain – a strict and clever sailor who had sailed for the Royal Navy and then the East India Company for most of his life, but above all, he was a gentleman through and through.

  ‘How long before we reach Sonho, sir?’ Tristan had a small wager with some of the sailors, and he hated losing.

  ‘At this splendid rate, between noon and sunset tomorrow. Depends on what those clouds want to do.’ The first mate pointed to the clouds that were building up on the eastern horizon. ‘The captain might want to head further south to try and circumvent that brewing storm.’

  Tristan was pleased, for he was still in with a chance to get his money back, plus a few pennies more. ‘Thank you, sir!’ He started up the stairs just as a gust of wind swirled past, swiftly followed by another, and heard the first mate yell another order to the helmsman below. Gripping the railing of the stairs, he quickly turned and looked back at the deck below. The chaotic yet orderly fashion with which the crew of the Raven worked the ship was a sight he was going to miss dearly, there was no doubt in his mind, the latter needing no invitation to wander back over the last four years.

  The first mate was right. They were making good headway. Two days ago, they had taken on supplies at Ravenport, aptly named after the ship that had helped to establish it. The port and settlement had grown into a sizeable town with many ships seeking shelter in its anchorage and taking on supplies for both south- and northbound journeys. A good number of British settlers, as well as some Dutch and Portuguese traders, whose countries had set up factories along the river to trade with the natives and export their goods via the busy port, called Ravenport home now. The hill that overlooked the settlement had been turned into a small fort and provided ample protection for the folk down below.

  Not a single slave had been taken since the establishment of the port. For those who tried, the punishment was swift and severe. The governor, who was also a shareholder in the EIC and close friend of the captain, had carried on with the Old Man’s legacy and had enforced the captain’s promises to Chief Nzau without fail.

  Ravenport had been hailed a huge success, and the newspapers had told the British public of the captain’s great achievement, but no one had ever really known at what expense. Their losses had been huge. First Putt, Blackwell and five others. A month later, the first heavy rains had arrived and had brought with them relentless heat and swarms of mosquitoes. Then the fever hit, and in quick succession, they had lost over twenty men. Fortunately for the rest of them, the doctor had made the connection between the flying pests and the severe onset of a disease that had turned all his patients yellow. Burnt cedar bark in the tents every night had stemmed the flood of the buzzing plague and sick sailors, but not after they had laid thirty-two poor souls to rest. And as if that was not enough, a further fourteen men had succumbed to other illnesses or accidents.

  The three months Tristan had spent at Ravenport seemed distant now, almost lost among the events of the past four years. After Putt’s death, the captain had taken Tristan under his wing. The Old Man’s own blood had turned out to be a bitter disappointment with his son expressing interest in subjects like law and politics instead of fulfilling the wishes of his father to join him for a life at sea. So the captain invested a lot of time in Tristan, teaching him everything he still needed to learn, from the intricacies of sailing and navigation at sea to firing a cannon or swivel gun. They had spent months on end at sea, which had given Tristan ample time to learn and sharpen his skills.

  The captain had been good to him, and in return, he had served the Old Man well and was soon promoted to able seaman. Not long after that, the captain had appointed him as ship’s clerk, not only due to his ability to read and write but also because of his perpetual interest in trade. Tristan’s new role meant that he had become part of the ship’s trade delegation and he played an active role in most of the business that the Raven conducted. When it came to trading, the captain was no slouch, and Tristan had learned a lot from the shrewd businessman, whether he negotiated new terms with the traders from afar, or outwitted his competitors through clever plots.

  Their ventures had taken them to various ports along the African coastline and Asia, sometimes as far as China, and it had not taken long for the captain to notice the young lad’s keen eye for quality goods. However, what astonished the Old Man most was Tristan’s ability to barter while doing swift calculations in his head and to quickly bundle items together to get a better price, a process that caught sellers off-guard, often leaving them with meagre profits.

  Trading, however, brought its perils. War and personal vendettas from disgruntled competitors always formed an intricate part of their sailing lives. The captain
always tried to use his knowledge of land and sea to avoid conflict, and most of the time, they managed to outfox pirates and other warships, but sometimes running was not an option. Tristan could recall every single battle, every man that he had killed and the last one was no exception. They had formed part of a larger English naval fleet which had come to the aid of a British settlement under siege by the Spanish. They had seen the burning British factories and warehouse from afar as the torched buildings had sent plumes of smoke high up in the air. They had quickly overpowered the Spanish fleet, capturing three ships and sinking two more. A sixth ship had escaped and had last been seen fleeing east. Only God knew where it had ended up. The battle was still vivid in Tristan’s memory for it had claimed their first mate, one of the longest-serving men on the Raven, in emphatic style after he had taken a wayward cannonball to the chest which had obliterated the man.

  Just thinking about it now, Tristan once more counted himself lucky. Spared from major injury and sickness, he had seen so many fabulous cities and sights in so many different countries that he had nearly lost count. Many of his childhood stories and dreams had come to fruition. His travels had exceeded even his wildest expectations and imaginations, for they had been filled with the most wondrous of sights, his eyes bearing witness to exciting, exotic and sometimes dangerous marvels.

  Not once had he felt the urge to go back to London, and on every return voyage, Jabari, himself and a few other characters, who were no longer welcome in London, had disembarked at St. Jago, an island in Cape Verde. It was an existing agreement some of the men had with the captain and, given their circumstances, it suited Tristan and Jabari perfectly. What little news he received from his mother and Finn had come via the captain. Other news about La Boutique, including bizarre stories about Madam and a spate of strange murders, had come from the crew who usually seemed misinformed, adding their unique flavours to tales that had already sounded far-fetched. And while Sissy, Finn and some of the others were in his thoughts from time to time, there was no burning desire to see them. Strangely, he did not miss London, not one bit, for up until now the Raven had been the place where he had made a new life for himself, and he was happy.