The Fire Within

by Samuel T Clayton

  They continued their stroll down the main road with Cuthbert pointing out all the places and people of interest. The man knew everything about everybody and Tristan found him to be an eloquent and quite pleasant man. While they were walking, Tristan took a closer look at the man’s cane. The handle looked like a dragon, beautifully carved, with an ivory inlay. He made a mental note to ask the man about it. Europeans loved to buy items like that.

  In front of the Portuguese tavern, Touro Tesão Taberna, Cuthbert handed Tristan the key to the warehouse’s backroom. ‘The door to the side entrance faces the river. Make sure you keep it locked, especially when no one’s there. Inside there’s a tub if you wanted to wash and in your case, I highly recommend it. Water you can get from the river. ‘Tis a thousand times better than the brown sludge that you find in the Thames. That, I can promise you.’ The man chuckled at the mere thought. He told Tristan where to get hold of him in case they needed anything else. His house, only thirty yards further up the road, was a large cottage with a thatched roof and a neat garden. ‘Belonged to a Dutchman who had fallen on hard times,’ said Cuthbert before turning his attention back to the tavern. ‘The food there isn’t the greatest, but it’ll fill you up, and in this part of the world, Mr Conway,’ – he looked Tristan directly in the eyes – ‘beggars can’t be choosers.’

  They parted ways, the man and his companion soon disappearing from the public eye, back into obscurity, leaving Tristan to make his way back to his friends and share with them all he had learned.

  Chapter 20

  Touro Tesão Taberna was a ten-minute walk from the warehouse. While their four newly hired helpers had already disappeared into the surrounding bushes to arrange their food and accommodation, the five weary men exited the backroom and started slowly on a stroll as they made their way to the town centre. In the distant west, the sun was setting, and around them, the tallest buildings cast long lonesome shadows across the dusty road. Late afternoon in Embomma meant the streets were near-empty, unlike London or any other major city for that matter.

  They had all scrubbed up good. A bucket of water, soap and a fresh pair of clothes had done them wonders, and even though they were five strangers in a foreign land, each one of them felt like a shiny new sixpence and they sounded a rather rowdy bunch too, the promise of a good meal and a few pints momentarily numbing their tired bones.

  ‘Jack, if he calls you darling, please don’t kill him.’ Tristan warned them once more, just in case they ran into Cuthbert.

  Earlier, when they were moving their goods into the storage room, he had brought them up to speed. As expected, Tayler was the one who had most to say while the others poured oil on the fire every chance they got.

  ‘He’s a fucking buggerer?’ Tayler forgot everything else that Tristan had told them.

  ‘Aye. He may be a tad effeminate, but he’s also the man who has set us up with a place to stay tonight, never mind all the extra equipment and men that we shall need.’

  ‘A tad effeminate? I don’t know what it means, but it sounds like a disease. As long as the sodomite steers clear of me, keeps his hands to himself and his pego in his breeches, there will be no trouble.’ Tayler tapped the dagger on his hip. ‘But if he in any way tries to get into my windward passage, as God is my witness, I shall cut off his prick and shove it down his throat.’

  Hanlon was the first to start, only after he had made sure the big man was straining under the weight of a heavy crate. ‘You seem to know an awful lot about these mollies and their lecherous affairs.’

  ‘You shut up! I know nothing of the sort. I have only heard that once these sodomites get you under their spell, you can kiss your arse goodbye and I do not intend to be one of them unfortunate buggers.’

  ‘I’m just saying that if I didn’t know you that well, I would’ve considered you to be an expert on the subject.’

  The two were still arguing, Tayler balancing the heavy crate on one shoulder and pointing a finger at Hanlon when a whistling Purvis walked past with a small cask clutched under each arm. ‘Would you two minions stop bandying?’ The doctor calmly looked Tayler up and down, and commented, ‘And what makes you think he’ll show any interest in you?’ before he continued his merry tune, leaving behind one man lost for words and the other roaring with laughter.

  ‘I’m just saying.‘ Tayler felt his ears glow. Then he shouted after Purvis, ‘You know, doc, saving a man’s life once doesn’t give you the right to insult him for the rest of it! For all we know, he may want to give ole Hanlon here a good buggering.’

  ‘Let it be! We still have a stack of stuff to move.’ Tristan put an end to it. ‘Besides, the same man told me because this is an entrepot, there’s never a shortage of rum and beer. The sooner we finish, the sooner we can get food and drink.’ Tristan could almost hear Tayler grin. It was not long after that the jests dried up as the intense labour started taking its toll, and white and black men sweated under heavy loads for a second time that day.

  Now, on the way to the tavern, Tristan felt compelled to bring up the subject once more. It was inevitable that they would run into the merchant, and if it happened to be tonight, he wanted no trouble. He…they have too much riding on a steadfast relationship with the merchant, but he also knew that men like Jack had a narrow view of the world. Although a shock initially, he could not care less if the man was a molly. If there was one thing that the brothel had taught him, it was that nothing was inconceivable when it came to love and sex. Still, he could not take the chance. The smell of food and Tayler’s voice brought him back to the present and dusty roads of Embomma.

  ‘I shall behave,’ said Tayler, ‘but you know me after four drinks. Now that man I simply cannot vouch for.’ They all laughed. For a sailor, and the big man he was, Tayler did not handle his liquor well.

  The tavern was an old rickety double-storey building that stood by its lonesome self. From outside, it looked a little lopsided, but the precarious appearance did not seem to bother the few patrons, who entered the saloon doors without a care. Directly above the entrance, a weathered sign had two mighty horns mounted on it with Touro the only remaining word still visible. Across the street, the Dutch mart was desolated, except for a few stragglers who were putting away their wares. Mr Cuthbert had mentioned that good deals on food could be had at the market and Tristan was looking forward to bargaining with the various vendors for their required staples.

  Upon entering the tavern, the first thing that struck them was the similarities to any other English public house they had ever visited. Music from a blind violinist in the back filled the large chamber, in which tables and chairs were scattered among the wooden pillars that kept the second storey aloft. The bar was on the left of the room, and behind it, a portly Portuguese man with dark skin and a mean look on his face served customers who filled the counter from one end to the other. The five men immediately recognised the familiar faces belonging to some of the Portuguese crew who had brought them to Embomma, and friendly greetings and glances were exchanged. As the violinist added an astonishingly beautiful baritone voice to his music, the five men slowly made their way to an open table nearby, not far from the counter.

  Walking between the tables, a few African women served what were mostly European men. A few scantily dressed buttocks and twangs were spread out trying their best to swindle a few sailors and locals out of their hard-earned coins. Out of habit, Tristan cast his eyes across the room, looking for early signs of trouble. Most patrons were enjoying food and drink. At two of the tables, cards were being played while at another, members of the Dutch crew challenged each other in a game of knucklebones.

  Tristan was still eyeing the patrons when suddenly the whole room stood still and slowly faded away as she walked into view, carrying a tray loaded with tankards of beer. Boisterousness made way for quietude as she floated effortlessly between the tables, goggle-eyed men abruptly on their best behaviour, trying their utmost to impress her, and all of a sudden, the blind violin-play
ing singer found himself the most vocal person in the room. Wearing a light-blue cotton dress, Isabella was even more beautiful in the tavern’s dim light than what he could remember from their brief encounter earlier in the day.

  In the right back corner, she placed the tray with drinks on the table in front of her. One of the men said something to her, and his friends burst out laughing. When she turned around, her cheeks were flustered pink as she rushed back to the counter.

  Tristan could spot them a mile away. It was not their uniforms or even their distinct accents. It was their silent arrogance like they owned the place, and that everyone else in their presence was a mere guest. He hated the Royal Navy and everything they stood for. Perhaps it was the rebel in him or the common blood that flooded his veins. It might even be the Old Man’s grim view of the Navy that had rubbed off on him. Nevertheless, he had found the trouble he was looking for.

  ‘Bloody arseholes.’ Behind Tristan, Tayler’s curse quickly got lost in the cacophonic crowd.

  Isabella spotted him standing in the middle of the room and gave him a captivating smile, like a delightful ray of sun in the dimly lit room. It was a selfish smile meant for him alone. Her cheeks were still flushed from the irksome encounter with the Royal Navy men, and it gave prominence to her high dimples. For a brief moment in time, the people and noise melted away, leaving only the two of them. They could have been anywhere.

  ‘Are you going to buy us a drink ole chap, or shall we die of thirst?’ Purvis tugged on his sleeve a second time, realising that the lad was momentarily lost to them.

  Tristan did not like the interruption to his fantasy but knew that he might have a mutiny on his hands if he did not act soon. ‘Of course! Beers all around, and I shall tell the barmaid to keep it coming until they run out, or we’ve all run aground.’

  ‘Hear! Hear!’

  Tristan made his way to the bar and met Isabella midway. No coincidence. He timed it to perfection.

  ‘Good evening, Miss Silveira. I didn’t expect to find you here. ‘Tis a pleasant surprise for certain.’

  ‘Such a fine establishment, Mr Conway. What else would a lady of my stature do in a town like this?’

  Damn her! His adoration increased every time she opened her pretty mouth, even if the sarcasm did flow thick from it at times. ‘I don’t know, Miss Silveira. I honestly thought you would prefer the companionship of the patricians at the Morgan residence, given of course that your father’s a respected merchant and upstanding townsman.’ Tristan looked around the place a second time. ‘Where is he? Your father.’

  ‘My father prefers to dine at home with my mother.’ That unmistaken glint in her eye almost made Tristan feel as if his tongue had been tied. ‘It goes to show how well you think you know me, doesn’t it, Mr Conway? But it also intrigues me, just how exactly would you know what or whose company it is that I seek?’ She walked over the bar counter while he followed her.

  Tristan knew she was entertaining herself at his expense, and he let her. ‘I just assumed, Miss Silveira, and usually, my assumptions aren’t far from the truth.’ Playing the stalked horse was part of his game. Her game. She had started it, and he loved every minute.

  ‘I see.’ Isabella turned around, placed the tray on the bar and spoke to the mean-looking barman. The man stopped wiping out glasses and listened intently.

  Tristan tried to follow the animated conversation but his three-day Portuguese lesson on board the Santa Verdade allowed him to understand only so much. Isabella hinted at the group in the back, and when the barman shrugged his shoulders, she became agitated and strongly voiced her opinion. Another calm reply from the man infuriated her more and Tristan could hear her miff when she turned back to him and said, ‘What is it with you men?’

  ‘Pardon me, miss, but I got utterly lost in your conversation.’

  ‘See the man behind the bar?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The taverner is my uncle, but this place itself is owned by Mr Morgan, the gentleman you’ve mentioned earlier. In fact, the man owns most of Embomma.’ Tristan looked more closely at the Portuguese keeper and could see the similarities, very vaguely though, for it was like comparing a luscious rosebush with a withered bramble. ‘I told him what Mr Bradford had said, but my uncle said they’re spending good money and since they’re friends of Mr Morgan’s, he can’t throw them out.’ She sighed audibly. ‘And he said that I should know what comes with the territory, which is probably true. I should know better than to take those men serious. They're just their usual pretentious selves.’

  ‘What did the man say that offended you so much?’ Tristan had another peek at the leader of the British seamen. The man looked exactly as Cuthbert had described and for a young man, he oozed ounces of imperiousness.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. He’s a fool, and so are his friends. They usually have their fill at Mr Morgan’s place, and then the bastards come here for the cheap drink and whores.’

  ‘Please, tell me,’ Tristan insisted, slightly flustered by her use of words but then quickly remembered that she did not befit a lady.

  ‘He asked what I would charge for an encounter…of the sexual kind. I said that it wasn’t my job to satisfy their urges and even if it was, that they couldn’t afford me anyway. Then he said that his coin purse was near bursting and that I should show him the goods first before he spends all its contents on me.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I don’t think he was talking about money, and that’s when I lost my temper.’

  Tristan felt an old familiar feeling stir in his gut. ‘Do you want me to speak to the man?’

  ‘Mighty valiant of you, Mr Conway, but tell me, what would you say to him?’

  ‘I’d ask him to apologise,’ said Tristan, looking at her questioningly.

  ‘And a wasted apology it would be, Mr Conway. Men like that know nothing of remorse.’

  Tristan tried his best to suppress the burning sensation within, and keeping a straight face, he asked if she could bring five beers to their table. ‘And please keep it coming, Miss Silveira. The fellas deserve it. We’ll also take some of that delicious smelling pottage and bread.’ It looked like she did not agree with his last request, and he wondered if perhaps the taste did not match the smell. Nevertheless, they were ravenous, and as Cuthbert had rightly said, “Beggars can’t be choosers”.

  ‘Yes, sire.’ She fired a parting remark and bit her lip playfully when all he could muster was a diffident smile.

  When Tristan arrived back at the table, the conversation had turned to women.

  ‘My dear fellas, I have no interest in lying down with a buttered bun. I like my laced mutton fresh and unbuttered, thank you.’ Tayler pulled up his nose like an aristocrat, grabbed the doctor’s pipe and puffed away like only a gentleman could. He had all of them in stitches when he sipped a make-pretend beer with a pinkie in the air. ‘And look, now I’m sipping an imaginary beer because it appears that is all that we shall indulge in tonight.’

  ‘Yes, yes, keep your breeches on! Beers are on their way.’ Tristan suddenly seemed a bit broody, and the men let him be, continuing their discussion about the few harlots prowling the tavern. Jabari was the only one akin to his mate’s unexpected change in mood. His perceptive qualities were evident only to the few who had come to know him well. Like Tristan, he too had scoured the tavern’s guests, noting the regular patrons and new arrivals. His black eyes had not missed a thing since they had arrived, including Tristan and Isabella’s gazes to the corner where some British brats’ brash demeanour was slowly starting to irritate folks at the surrounding tables.

  ‘I see you’ve found your lass again.’ The doctor, who had enough bawdy talk for the night, had turned to face Tristan. Purvis was happy for the young man and could see that the lad was utterly smitten with the merchant’s daughter.

  ‘Yes. What a coincidence ‘twas…’

  ‘You’re quite taken with this one, aren’t you, lad?’

  Tristan cupped his face in his hands and then
quickly rubbed it like he was washing it, wiping his eyes and cheeks. When he looked over to the doctor, there was still a slight hint of desperation mingled with a bit of frustration. As sailors, they all knew better not to get too closely attached to a lady for they never knew where the next voyage would take them or if they would ever return. They loved, and they left, and this hunting excursion in front of them was no different.

  ‘I’ve never met a woman with her charming wit.’ Tristan shook his head. The others had gone quiet and listened to the conversation. ‘I have met my equal, doc, perhaps my match even. She is truly the first girl I’ve come across who drives me insane with anticipation each time she opens her mouth.’

  ‘Aye?’ Tayler sounded confused but then seemed to have come to a conclusion. ‘I have once known a lass like that. Good ole Molly McGee, a great little wench was she, not a single tooth in her mouth, not one, two or even three. Cheerless men lined the street with glee, as far as the eye could see, to get their hearts filled with joy, at the mouth of good ole Molly McGee.’ They all burst out laughing, and even Tristan managed a smile. Tayler shared some more insight. ‘As long as wit has a pair of bouncy teats and an amiable arse, ‘tis is good enough for most men, lad. And a mouth that cannot bite, now that speaks for itself.’

  After another round of laughter, Purvis was the only one not entirely amused. ‘Damn, you’re a fool, Tayler,’ he said with a raised voice and gave the man a glare. ‘Do you know nothing about love?’ He turned his attention back to Tristan. ‘Don’t mind him, lad. If this table had a hole in it, it’d be good enough for him to shove his prick into it. What he forgot to mention was that for most men, love exists only of what lies beneath breeches and petticoats, and cannot comprehend that its force can even push intellectual and emotional boundaries.’

  Tayler grunted, not knowing what the fuss was about or what the hell the doctor was talking about and rekindled his discussion with Hanlon about the heavily bummed African wenches in this place, and if there was anyone in particular whose fancy he wanted to tickle.