While the men continued unloading, Tristan, Jabari and two of the natives started carrying the crates and barrels away from the pier, across the wooden wharf onto the solid ground of the riverbank. The busy wharf was bestrewn with wares, which created a tricky path, and they needed to carefully negotiate the mazelike route with each item they hauled. Adding to their woes were the plentiful native freighters, who were carrying goods to and from the Dutch merchant ship, as well as the absence of a dockmaster to regulate the flow of traffic.
‘Careful, you louts! That’s priceless equipment!’ The doctor’s raised voice turned a few heads, including Tristan’s. Two of their newly acquired helpers had bumped a personal crate of the doctor into a wooden pier pole. Tristan watched on as one of the men, now clearly distressed, nearly tripped over a roll of cordage. Completely out of character, the doctor unleashed another mouthful of foul language, dropped the bundle of wicker cages he was carrying and marched over to where the two men were now cowering sheepishly. They did not understand the language, but there was no doubt that they knew they had done something to upset the white man. He grabbed the crate and turned it the right side up. ‘Careful.’ He mouthed the word slowly, then pointed to the crate. ‘Precious.’ Moments later, when he walked past Tristan, he said, ‘My God, do these imbeciles even know what I’m saying?’ He did not wait around for an answer but just continued, mumbling to himself.
Tristan was walking backwards, his back strained under the weight of a heavy crate and drops of sweat stinging his eyes. He looked up at Jabari to see if the man was suffering as much. The big African’s large bald head was covered with a scarf, an item he had been wearing for many years, and right now it absorbed the salty water that oozed from his forehead. I should do the same with my neckerchief, thought Tristan. Then it happened.
Behind him scurrying footsteps told of impending danger but Tristan reacted too late, and the hurried person knocked him square on the left shoulder. The heavily weighted crate slipped from his sweaty fingers. Its left corner crashed onto the deck, and the violent shock ripped the crate from Jabari’s grasp before it toppled over, the African trying desperately to grab hold of it in one last frantic attempt. With perplexed disbelief, the two men watched on as the crate plunged into the river below before it quickly disappeared beneath the deep black water that flowed around the pier’s wooden piles.
‘No!’ Tristan felt the anger rise. It quickly turned into blind fury when he realised what they had lost. Half their gunpowder and musket balls had just gone splashing into the river below. Hand on cutlass, he spun around to face the culprit. ‘What the hell did you do? Are you blind?’
A steadfast feminine voice, with a husky tone to it, replied, ‘Speak to me like that again, and I will cut out your tongue!’
When the offender lifted her head, Tristan’s fury quickly dissipated. From underneath a brown wide-brimmed hat, a beautiful girl with long black hair stared straight at him. She wore a plain short-sleeved dress with small black buttons that ran down the middle of two perfectly rounded mounds. Around her waist, a blood-red sash was tightly bound to hold a dagger with a gilded handle in place. The radiant olive skin which ran from her elbow to the hand that rested on the dagger’s hilt was flawless. And her eyes – above her dimpled cheeks, her brown eyes shot small arrows at him while the rest of her perfect face was slightly contorted in anger. A foggy cloud settled over his mind and dampened his usual wit. Her English was perfect, but he struggled to place her accent. There was a hint of Portuguese and then something else. Spanish?
‘Pardon me, miss, but—’ Tristan plucked his hat from his head and tried to sound more apologetic. ‘You did cause me to drop a very valuable crate, and it contained cargo that we desperately need.’ A shy smile followed, hoping to lessen any offence that he might have already caused, yet deep within he was still fuming.
‘The way I see it, sir, is that you bumped into me. And after all, you’re the one who needs to watch where he’s going. Surely you have no eyes in the back of your head or your buttocks for that matter?’ She struggled to get the words out through her pursed lips.
She was certainly not a typical British, Indian or Asian woman or like any other woman Tristan had met before for that matter. Then he made a connection which surely should have made him blush, for she reminded him of Madam’s girls who were never short of either personality or words. Without a sign of jejunity, placidity or submissiveness, the girl in front of him was vibrant, even feisty, and had caught him completely off-guard with both her beauty and her tongue. Using his fingers, Tristan combed the strands of sweaty hair from his face and with the loss of their cargo still in the back of his mind, he asked in a slightly agitated voice, ‘Well, exactly how do you propose two men should carry such a heavy item?’
‘See those stretchers?’ The girl pointed to an alley between two of the warehouses where a number of them were stacked on top of each other. ‘I would have used those.’ She swivelled her arm around and pointed to the second pier. ‘Furthermore, I would’ve asked those workers to unload the cargo. It’s obvious that they know what they’re doing.’ Her raised voice was just as beautiful. ‘Good day to you, sir!’ Before he could answer, she squeezed past him, lightly brushing his shoulder. Jabari had overheard the conversation and, when she sped by, just shook his head as he watched his usually sapient friend completely lost for words for once, dejection written all over his young face. The African’s delightful chuckles were met with a steely gaze.
Behind them, his friends made way for the hot-headed maiden and Tristan quickly became aware of their lingering stares. He felt his ears turn red. ‘What the hell are you all looking at?’ They laughed, revelling in his misfortune and apparent discomfort.
The men were still laughing when the girl stopped and turned to see what the commotion behind her was about. From where Tristan stood, he was almost certain that he saw a fleeting smile play across her face, and the thought of it dulled the pain but did nothing for the injury.
Jabari could see that his friend was smitten. ‘Be careful of that one, Nyegere,’ he warned. ‘She looks like a malaika – an angel, but inside her beats the heart of a simba – a lioness. Like mother Africa, she is wild and free.’
Tristan watched on as she jumped like a seasoned sailor on board the Santa Verdade. He heard her shrieking with delight, yelling “Pai! Pai!” The captain, who was a foot shorter than his daughter, hugged her tight before the two started a heated discussion with her doing most of the pointing and talking while he tried his best to calm her down.
Hanlon walked past with rolls of rope over his shoulders and nudged Tristan in the ribs. ‘Nice lass, Tristan,’ he grinned, and his smile widened when his remark was met with a grunt.
Purvis and Tayler joined Tristan and Jabari, and between the four of them, they contemplated what to do about their lost goods. ‘’Tis too deep and too dangerous,’ said Purvis. The doctor was the strongest swimmer among the lot. ‘Besides, you can’t see anything in that black water. Who knows what lurks in those depths? And one will have to be weighted down of course. No, a certain death it would be, and not worth the risk for a few bullets, never mind the gunpowder that is already long gone.’ They agreed with him, quickly squashing the idea of diving for the crate.
For another hour, the men carried their items from the ship onto the pier and then up to the first warehouse where one of the natives stood guard, mainly warding off a group of pickaninnies who showed a lot of interest in both the foreigners and their belongings.
By midday, the group was almost finished, and when Tristan and Jabari got ready to load the last crate on a stretcher, he saw the Portuguese captain and his daughter make their way up the pier to where they were standing. The captain was the first to speak.
‘Apo…apo—‘
‘My father’s trying to apologise on my behalf,’ his daughter said flatly.
Tristan was sure that she did not share her father’s sentiment. ‘I’m the one that needs to apolo
gise, miss. There was no need for the outburst back there, but again, that crate contained valuable contents and to be honest, if you were a man I would’ve given you…let’s just say, the outcome would’ve been different.’
‘And what was so valuable, sir? Was it filled with gold?’ She was firing up again, which made her look gorgeous and his heart race.
‘No! No! We’re hunters, and it contained black powder for our guns.’
‘So you’re a bunch of hunters, killers in fact, who want to slaughter innocent animals for your own gain?’ The red tint had spread all across her face.
‘No…errr, I guess so.’ I can’t win with this bloody woman. Tristan decided to change his tact. ‘Miss, we started off on the wrong foot. Your father was very kind to us, and I don’t want to taint his goodwill by getting into a quarrel with his daughter. Yes, we’re hunters, but we’re not slaughterers. We will not kill what we cannot use, and as for the meat, that will go to the natives. Now, please allow me to introduce myself.’ He held out his hand. ‘My name is Tristan Conway, and I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, albeit that we already have some history between us.’
She decided that she had had enough amusement at his expense and rested her hand in his callused palm. Tristan cradled it softly and touched his lips to her knuckles, under the watchful eyes of her father.
‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Conway. And I am Isabella Francesca Silveira.’
The captain mumbled something that Tristan did not understand.
‘Pardon me, Mr Conway, but my father thinks that I may cause offence by not bowing to every gentleman that I meet. He reckons that Africa has corrupted his once-tame daughter.’ She ran an endearing hand across her father’s cheek. ‘But then again, pai seems to forget that I’ve spent most of my life in this bewildering place, so perhaps he’s speaking the truth,’ Isabella said thoughtfully.
Tristan was quick to erase any guilt she could possibly harbour. ‘No offence taken, Miss Silveira. Anyhow, I don’t think anyone has ever called me a gentleman.’ He gave her a charming smile and briefly saw a glint in her eyes and then the same mischievous smile as the one from earlier on played briefly over her face. I was right! His heart jumped.
‘So, Mr Conway, what really brings you to this part of the world? Are you really here to hunt our beloved wild animals? You and your group of men don’t strike me as the typical hunting party that we get up this way.’
Tristan became aware that Isabella was observing him closely. Her direct line of questioning was refreshing, and he liked the fact that he did not know if she was joking with him or being serious. Perhaps she was searching for a chink in his armour, or perhaps she had already found one only moments earlier. The men on the Raven had always said a beautiful woman could intoxicate your mind more than the strongest of liquors, so much so that it could make you do the strangest of things, things that could border the lines of insanity.
‘Though we may not look the part, Miss Silveira, I can assure you that we are here to hunt, albeit that half our powder and shot have ended up in the river.’ Two could play this game, thought Tristan gleefully as he saw her face flushing red once more.
Behind him, someone was clearing his throat, and when he looked around he saw his men standing by their cargo. Everything was baking in the hot sun, and the fellas wiped sweat from their faces as they too bore the brunt of the African heat. They needed to get their goods stored and find a place to rest their heads, as well as food and drink. Cuthbert, Tristan suddenly remembered. ‘Pardon me, Miss Silveira. Do you know where I can find a Mr Cuthbert? Alfred Cuthbert. I believe he is or was a merchant of some sort in these parts.’
Mr Silveira snorted, then frowned like he wanted to say or ask something but kept quiet. It did not escape Tristan’s keen eyes or ears, nor Isabella’s.
‘I think my father’s wondering what sort of business you have with Mr Cuthbert.’
Tristan noticed a hint of discomfort in her voice. It was the same type of uneasiness he had witnessed in the demeanour of her father, but he quickly decided not to enquire about its origin. While his business with Cuthbert had absolutely nothing to do with them, he also realised that he needed to be mindful of what he said, for to inadvertently say something untoward someone in a town such as this, where a small European community resided, could easily bring about their downfall. They would be dependent on these people for months to come, and if Cuthbert could not deliver, he might well be finding himself dealing with the very same man who had sailed them upriver. ‘He’s an acquaintance of a mutual friend, Miss Silveira. I was told that he could help set us up with accommodation before we head out on our expedition. That is if he’s still around of course.’
‘Oh,’ she replied.
Tristan could see she wanted to tell him more, so he kept quiet and waited to see if she would. It did not take long.
‘A word of advice, Mr Conway. Take care with whom you mingle. Some people lead a lifestyle that’s frowned upon by others in this town, and you could quickly find yourself guilty by association, even treated like an outcast.’
‘Miss Silveira, I was born a bastard. Believe me, nothing would please me more, and if such a fate indeed befalls me then I will brandish that label with pride.’ Isabella’s surprise resulted in a sharp intake of breath. Tristan smiled. It was her turn to be caught off-guard, and for the first time since they had met, Tristan felt that he was gaining the upper hand, or parity at the least.
‘I’m not sure if you’re facetious or serious, Mr Conway. But to answer your question in full, yes, Mr Cuthbert does still reside in Embomma. You should find him in his warehouse at the end of the main road, the last one on your right. Some may consider him…what is the word I am looking for…eccentric perhaps?’
Her father said something to her and Tristan could see that the man was ready to leave. At the same time, he wondered what she meant by eccentric, for the Old Man had mentioned nothing of this sort.
‘My father says that he still needs to do inventory of their unloaded cargo and start preparing for his next journey. I’m afraid he never stops for even a moment, Mr Conway, but he did say you’ll always be welcome on his ship and that he’ll invite you for dinner at our house when he’s back in two weeks’ time.’
‘Thank you, miss. And please thank your father for his hospitality, and if we’re still here when he returns, I would gladly take up his offer.’ It was time for him to get going as well for a coughing fit had broken out behind him as his men vied for his attention. ‘I also hope to enjoy more of your company during my stay in Embomma.’ It was direct, but he knew sometimes there was no better way.
Isabella had a slight tint of red in her face. ‘We shall see, Mr Conway.’ She hesitated slightly. ‘For what it is worth, I’m sorry for the chest you have lost to the river. The natives here believe that for the river to give up its bounty, it has to take something of value. It has taken something valuable of yours, so perhaps she’ll be kind to you in return. Good day to you.’
Tristan bid them both farewell, and after he and Jabari, who had dutifully stayed by his side throughout the whole conversation, had moved the last crate to shore, he had a quick word with his crew, before he set off to find Mr Cuthbert. While father and daughter weaved their way through cargo and warehouses, he did see her look back over her shoulder at least once. This one’s different. Malaika with the heart of a simba.
Embomma’s dirt streets were sandy and soft under the foot. Tristan headed down what appeared to be the main road. Wider than the other roads, it ran parallel with the river. It was midday, hot and humid, with only a few souls wandering about. On the left side of the main road and opposite to the warehouses and factories, the local natives took time out from their daily duties and the sweltering heat. Under trees and makeshift shelters, some were having lunch, helping themselves to large chunks of meat from pots boiling on open fires while others sat hunched over or lay stretched out on the soft sand. A few stray livestock were spread out among the
buildings and like their owners, sought shelter as they bunched together under anything that provided just a hint of shade. Animal and human eyes followed the seemingly aimless wanderer as the man strode up the main road, his own eyes searching.
Tristan did not pay much attention to the scrutiny. There was much to be organised, and the men were waiting on him to lead and decide their next steps, and with that, perhaps their fate as well. The four days on the ship had given him plenty of time to think. He was not sure if he was ready for such a big excursion, but he needed to be. They had entrusted their lives and livelihood to him. The last time he had been laden with such a burden was with the Hungry Ones, and that responsibility had been shared equally between himself and Finn. They had been very successful with their enterprise, and the timely remembrance squashed the negative thoughts.
As Tristan made his way down the street, some of the houses and stores that he had seen from the water came into view, and just as Isabella had said, he saw Cuthbert’s warehouse right at the end of the dusty road. With its round thatched roof, the largest of all the warehouses looked more like a barn than a storage building. Any moment now, he expected livestock to stick their heads through the opening between the two main doors.
He passed the church on his left. From the waterside, it had looked imposing, but now up close, it seemed even larger than all other buildings in its vicinity. It always struck him as odd. Everywhere in the world he had been, from the largest of cities to the smallest of villages, places were always defined by an overly impressive religious building, like it was trying to be the main focus point. This one was no different. It was a magnificent building that rose high up into the air, topped by a big iron cross.
Past the church, a large double-storey mansion, settled among a sprawling garden of green brushes and various fruit trees, came into view. Behind it, further to the east and up north, plantations of tobacco and maize intermingled with each other and stretched for hundreds of yards before a natural fence line of thick jungle abruptly stopped them. It was the first sign of wealth in what so far could be called a fairly ordinary African town, and while the European-styled mansion looked impressive, it could almost be considered an eyesore, so much did it look out of place. It exuberated wealth and power. I’d be sure to ask Mr Cuthbert about the owner.
The Fire Within Page 30