The Fire Within

by Samuel T Clayton

  Tristan arrived at the warehouse and peeked through the entrance. The contrast of the bright light outside and the darkness inside made it impossible to see, so he entered. It took a while for his eyes to adjust. The front of the building was an empty space, but it gradually filled up the further back his eyes travelled. It was quiet, and for a moment he thought there was no one around, but then he saw the faintest of movements. Right at the back of the massive building, a man was sitting at a table, scribbling something.

  Slowly Tristan made his way towards the back of the warehouse, and his astonishment grew as the sheer volume and nature of the wares came into view. There were skins, tusks and horns of all size, shape and colour imaginable. Supplies for ships, including cordage, sails and even masts came into view. Bags and crates of dried food were almost stacked to the roof, with various metal trinkets scattered throughout. Next to barrels, marked as millet, stood two German culverins. The bronze cannons were in pristine condition, complete with linstocks, rammers, sponges and 18-pound shots. On the opposite side of the cannons, bales of tobacco and barrels of liquor were stacked up against the wall. Tristan was impressed by the variety of goods the man carried, but it did not strike him as just an ordinary warehouse. It looked like a place where goods were stockpiled, like a central delivery point before they were exported to England and the rest of Europe, or perhaps even anybody else who was prepared to pay the right sum.

  The podgy red-faced man behind the table still had not noticed his guest, so Tristan took the opportunity to study the man, a picture of intense concentration as a pink tongue peeked through his colourless lips. His placid white skin matched his cream-coloured shirt and breeches. It appeared as if all of the man’s hair had sprouted from the sides of his round head and forgot to do the same higher up. Long grey curls covered his ears, but up top, he was as bald as a baby’s bottom. Underneath the table, a tabby cat had curled itself up between his feet and lifted its head sleepily to study the intruder.

  ‘Mr Cuthbert?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’ The man sounded snappish and did not look up. Instead, he completed a few more swirls on the paper in front of him, studied his handiwork and carried on.

  ‘Tristan Conway, sir.’ Still nothing. ‘I was sent by Captain Francis Cutcliffe. He said that Mr Cuthbert was the fellow to see if I needed to procure items for a hunting expedition. And I was told by a Miss Silveira that I would find that same fellow at this address.’

  The man stopped abruptly and leaned closer, squinting his eyes that had been looking at papers all day. When they finally focused on the young man in front him, his boring day suddenly brightened up. He dropped the quill and got up to get a better look at his visitor. The tall and handsome man’s clothes were rather trite, his long blond hair in strands, but his features were well defined, like a rough diamond, but a diamond nonetheless. Cuthbert smiled. He had a talent for this kind of thing, and this one, yes, a nice-looking lad indeed, a true Adonis. ‘Well, good day, young man. I would be the one that you’re looking for. Alfred Cuthbert at your service,’ said the merchant, who grabbed a cane from behind him and walked around the desk with an outstretched hand.

  Tristan took the warm, clammy hand in his own and waited patiently for the elderly man to pull his hand away. He did not, so it was Tristan who broke off the handshake. Up close, Cuthbert looked even older than he had anticipated, but then again, he did not know what to expect. However, he had at some stage conjured up an image similar to that of the Old Man, but the sight in front of him was a contrary picture altogether.

  ‘Well, as I said, you have come to the right place, darling. You don’t mind if I call you darling, do you?’ Tristan did not get a chance to answer. ‘I call everyone darling. Such a peaceful and polite word – not used nearly enough, in my opinion.’

  ‘I—‘

  ‘So, Francis sent you. What a nice man. Did he tell you we used to do business together, many years ago when I was still based in São Tomé? Such a violent place, darling. Eventually got the better of me. And how is the man?’ He bent down to pick up the striped cat, which was rubbing itself against his legs and stroked the feline behind the ears while it gently purred with delight.

  ‘He—‘

  ‘I’m sure he’s doing great. Always has. Just like little Ascott here, nine lives too, and it doesn’t matter how high or hard he falls, he always seems to land on his feet. Exceptional man. Great knack for business too. You would struggle to find a more adapt merchant. I haven’t seen him in ages. Can I offer you some water, darling?’

  Tristan frowned. Calling a man darling could get you jailed in most places, even killed in some. No one had ever called him that, except his mother of course. And he named his cat? Who in their right mind names a cat? Ascott of all things. Tristan struggled to figure out the man, something that came as a second nature to him, a trade picked up at the market with Sissy and refined over many years of travelling. Cuthbert appeared overly friendly, slightly skittish and had a constipated manner about him as he strode back to his desk, legs close together, almost like he was waddling. Yet Tristan found the energetic fellow strangely delightful, and in the end, he did not care what the merchant called him, just as long as the man came through with the goods.

  Cuthbert filled two glasses from a stone flask and offered one to Tristan while he dabbed his forehead with a silk handkerchief. ‘My apologies. How rude of me. I can be a bit of a flibbertigibbet sometimes. What brings you to Embomma, darling? And how on earth did you get here? With Silveira?’

  ‘Well, sir, Captain Cutcliffe spoke highly of you. Said you could help a man in need of supplies for a hunting expedition.’ Tristan tried his utmost to make Cuthbert sound like the means to all his ends. He had gathered quickly that the man was slightly preoccupied with himself, perhaps a symptom of a secluded existence. ‘And yes, Miss Silveira’s father was kind enough to bring us this far.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. No doubt you paid through your nose for that courtesy?’ Tristan gave nothing away, so Cuthbert quickly moved on to the next order of business. ‘A hunting trip, you say. And what sort of beasts were you intended on hunting, darling? The two-legged kind or the ones with four legs?’

  It took a while, then suddenly the realisation hit Tristan like a bullet between the eyes. ‘No. God, no! We’re not slavers, sir!’ He felt slightly offended by the nonchalant way in which the question had been put to him but then remembered the Old Man’s words – ‘Take care. Although a dear friend, Mr Cuthbert is first and foremost a money-grubber, no matter the type of business or customer.’ Tristan continued. ‘Skins and horns. That’s what we’re after. And of course, elephant tusks, if we can find them.’

  ‘Good, good,’ replied Cuthbert. ‘There are many of those to be had in the surrounding jungle. But please do not be too offended by the slavery business, Mr Conway. Although not as prevalent as in some of the coastal cities, slavery is alive and well in this part of the world. Most of the dockers out there on the wharf are considered slaves. Don’t let the lack of chains or whips fool you, darling. Some of them no longer belong to the tribal village and its chief. No, those out there have owners all over this town. You will find their hovels scattered across town and outside the walls of the village as they are no longer considered part of the tribe and its affairs. But listen to me. Here I go again.’ The old man chuckled, then rubbed his pale white hands together with glee before he sat down at the table, pulling close a piece of paper and wetting his quill. ‘Tell me, darling, what exactly are you after?’

  Tristan pulled out his list that had been carefully put together with the Old Man. ‘Two to three guides, sir, preferably natives that know the wilderness in this area like the back of their hands. Also, most importantly, porters. I have already acquired four and need at least another twenty-one of them. It will help if some of them can work as butchers and skinners too. Two interpreters, in case one falls ill or perishes. Mr Cuthbert, I intend to look for some men myself, those that are capable a
nd willing, and shall let you know if I’ve found any.’ He looked over at Cuthbert to see if there was any objection and noticed none. ‘Then I also require twenty pack animals to carry the heavy loads, bullocks or donkeys, whatever is available but more importantly suited for the purpose. Depending on how much Africa favours us, perhaps I shall send for more.’ For the next twenty minutes, Tristan ran through his complete list, advising details and numbers. The further he went, the larger the smile grew on Cuthbert’s face. Then he came to the last and newly added item. ‘We have lost some of our gunpowder and musket balls. I need approximately sixty pounds of lead and at least two kegs of powder. We have a mould to make projectiles. Extra paper and flint would also be welcomed but are not as important.’

  ‘How—‘

  ‘Don’t ask, sir.’ It was not a request.

  ‘Alright, darling, but as for your last item, now that’s indeed a scarce commodity in these parts.’ Cuthbert sounded somewhat concerned when he said it. ‘But leave it to me. I will get you your powder. As for the rest of your items, it will take around three weeks to get them all together. Unfortunately, this is Africa, darling, and things take time. Lucky for you, most of the equipment I do have in stock. You’re not the first ones to venture out there, and you too can have peace of mind that I will repurchase most of your unwanted items when you get back.’

  Tristan looked at the man and found himself hearing but not listening. Suddenly he realised how tired he was and cursed his own foolishness for he had undoubtedly placed himself in a precarious position, not being able to think clearly during a time of negotiation. The day had most certainly taken its toll, and they still had lots of other work and planning to do. He decided to leave the quibbling until later. ‘I also require storage for our goods until we depart. And accommodation nearby for five men, at least for the next three months.’

  Cuthbert’s reply came quicker than he had expected. ‘Of course, darling.’ There was a door at the back, behind Cuthbert’s desk. ‘There’s a smaller storage room through there where you can store your goods for now and spend the night. You’ll find a separate side entrance at the back of the building. It’s under lock, and I’ll hand you the key before you go about the rest of your day. Tomorrow we shall find you a suitable place to stay. Unfortunately, the tavern in town is only good for a meal. I wouldn’t recommend the rooms. Besides getting bitten by the many lice that roam those sheets, you just might…errr…forfeit some of your personal belongings.’ Cuthbert scratched his side as his mind conjured up an itch at the mere thought of the bugs doing the rounds in that decrepit dump, yet many travellers and locals found it to be a convenient place for food, drink and a place to rest their heads. I’d rather choose death than to spend a night there. He shuddered at the mere thought.

  Tristan slowly got up. ‘Your goodwill is much appreciated, sir. I hope this is the beginning of a partnership that will be beneficial, but especially lucrative to both of us.’

  ‘I’m sure it will be, darling. Francis would not have sent you to me if he didn’t hold you in high regard, and until proven otherwise, I shall recognise his wish and do the same.’ The man started clearing his desk. ‘Perhaps you could join me for a walk so that I can show you around?’

  ‘’Tis no trouble, sir. We can find our way around. ‘Tis not the largest of towns.’

  ‘Nonsense. A man still needs to know where he can get a meal’ – Cuthbert looked Tristan up and down – ‘and a fine fella like yourself, perhaps a bath and change of clothes.’ He finished up and led the way towards the main entrance. ‘Miguel! Darling, where are you?’

  Out of nowhere, a young African male, wearing nothing but a loincloth, appeared, parasol clutched under his right arm. Cuthbert laid his hand on the young black man’s shoulder.

  ‘Mr Conway, my assistant Miguel, whose help I cannot do without and without whom Africa would be just another place on a map. He will help us find those porters and interpreters that you so desperately need.’

  Tristan nodded. ‘That’s good to know, sir.’ He watched on as Cuthbert’s hand lingered on Miguel’s shoulder, stroking it tenderly, almost…caringly. Then, even though somewhat conjecturably, the thought struck him. The man’s a molly! That was what Isabella had tried to tell him but could not get herself to do. Tristan briefly wondered if the Old Man had known. Though he himself had avoided such men and their actions in all his travels, he strangely felt no ill will towards the elderly man in front of him. He was aware of their vilification and prosecution. As a youngster growing up in London, he remembered how these culpable people and their sodomitic offences had been garishly plastered in detail across the papers whenever such an occurrence had been found out. However, right now, his decision was a simple one because they needed the man, and in the end, judgement was not his to pass.

  They exited the warehouse, and after Cuthbert had locked the doors, they set off down the road, in the direction that Tristan had come from. Behind them, Cuthbert was closely followed by his trusted companion who wielded the parasol to shield his master from the hot sun.

  ‘This small town might surprise you yet, Mr Conway. Apart from what you’ve already seen, there’s even a fortnightly banquet where the so-called expatriated patricians can indulge in gluttony and of course blabber away merrily. The event is hosted by a Welshman, Mr Edward Morgan, a self-appointed baron and governor in these parts. As sole heir, he inherited a fortune from his father but then got in trouble with the law and fled London about eight years ago. Nobody knows exactly what or why, but he has made a new life for himself here in Embomma, exporting tobacco, slaves and a tiny amount of sugarcane to the very same people who want to prosecute him. Yes, made a new life for himself over here, as have many of us.’ Cuthbert dwelled on the last point before he carried on. ‘You would’ve seen his mansion when you walked this way earlier.’

  ‘Yes, sir, I have indeed, and I wanted to ask you about that. Any chance you can introduce me to the man?’ One thing Tristan had learned from the captain was to get an audience with the most influential man in any city and state your business, for you never know when such a man’s help would come in handy.

  ‘Oh, no, not me, darling. I don’t fraternise with those lot.’ Cuthbert protested heavily, his voice sounding very peculiar.

  At last, all of Isabella’s comments confirmed what Tristan had already been thinking – the town’s people had taken issue with Cuthbert’s way of life.

  Unaware of the young man’s thoughts, Cuthbert carried on. ‘Mr Morgan has probably already been informed of your arrival. See, darling, the man is well-connected, and the natives have accepted him as head of the settlers in this town. Nothing happens in our little town without him knowing all about it. Done well for himself, has Morgan,’ said Cuthbert, with a tinge of envy and a noticeable amount of enmity. ‘Upon his arrival in Embomma he purchased a large parcel of land from the chief, and he’s been using many of the natives to work his plantations ever since. But lately, there’s been some strain in that relationship and the chief has banished from the village all those who work for the man.’

  ‘Do you know why?’ enquired Tristan.

  ‘I think the chief has realised that Morgan is corrupting his people’s customary ways by introducing them to our occidental values and then, of course, those workers also receive part payment for their labour in the form of strong liquor. Now that has certainly stirred up a heap of trouble in our otherwise sleepy town and has probably stirred the chief into action by excommunicating his people. Rather have trouble outside my walls than inside, was what he was probably thinking.’

  Tristan was surprised by Cuthbert’s intimate knowledge of affairs in Embomma. Perhaps Morgan was not the only one well-connected. ‘And this, Mr Morgan, the slaves that he exports, does he take them from the village?’

  Cuthbert shook his head. ‘The chief won’t allow it. Those of free will cannot be stopped, but Morgan wouldn’t dare otherwise, even if he does have the support of the Portuguese soldiers up in
the garrison. They adore the man for he furnishes them with tobacco and liquor from time to time, and what does a Portuguese man like more than his smoke and his drink, apart from a sweaty woman with a moustache?’ The merchant was delighted by Tristan’s chuckle. ‘The Portuguese captain’s a personal friend and a benefactor of Morgan’s thriving enterprise. See, darling, Morgan gets his slaves through raiding parties further to the east, and of course, the garrison is the perfect place to keep those serfs until they can be put on a ship heading for the coast.’

  ‘The Portuguese garrison is indirectly protecting the man?’

  ‘Why else do you think no one has been able to lay a finger on him? For God’s sake, there’s a British sloop anchored right there. He should be in shackles right now and thrown on the next ship heading for Britain to stand trial for whatever he has committed!’

  Tristan sensed the disdain as he looked through the gap between the two buildings. ‘Whose sloop is that?’

  ‘A young British lieutenant, Percival Bradford. His father’s a Royal Navy admiral who is apparently heavily invested in the slave trade too. From what I have heard, a very impetuous man, and it so happens that the son has a hot head on him too. No stranger to these parts, but I suspect it’s pleasure rather than business that brings him here. Nevertheless, sometimes we do conduct business since I’m the only ship chandler in town. If you don’t find him in the tavern, he’s probably in Morgan’s house,’ said Cuthbert, and carried on briefly describing both men to Tristan.