‘What is the best way to kill those elephants?’ Tristan asked.
‘By giving them as much lead as you possibly can,’ roared the inebriated British man in between fits of laughter, which was echoed by his mates.
Tristan looked at his friends, and on their faces he could see they were all thinking the same thing – I hope we have enough bullets.
Even as the midnight hour approached, he continued to bombard the leader with questions, sometimes irritating the man, who desperately wanted to get his head somewhere else, yet he could neither deny his admiration for the young man’s keenness to gain insight nor the consistent flow of grog.
It was the next morning that the doctor told Tristan, ‘I spoke with the surgeon who accompanied these men. Not the most learned of physicians, but a knowledgeable man nonetheless, said he was a cook in a previous life. They lost one man to the fever, and that fella was a newcomer to Africa and these parts. He said that the rest of the group had all been traders or slavers before they tried their hand at hunting and that they were well-accustomed to these lands. It supports my belief that we will be spared, but that we should still take all the precautions we can.’ Tristan agreed with him.
Two weeks later another hunting party made their way past Embomma. These Dutchmen were a tattered bunch and very glad to see fellow kinsmen. Exhausted and nearing starvation, they stumbled onto the wharf. The same morning, Hanlon had been down at the warehouse to check on their stored goods and saw the group arrive. He immediately recognised them as a hunting party and ran to the market to fetch Tristan and the others. Upon further enquiry, they found out that the group had hunted south of the river and got caught up between two warring tribes. One of the headmen deceived them by leading them into a trap because he wanted their guns. They lost half their men in a short-fought battle after which they had to flee for their lives, leaving behind almost all their equipment, tents and provisions.
‘A man on the run has no time to eat,’ said their Dutch leader. ‘We lost at least another fifteen men to starvation and infections over a two-week period. Some died a slow, painful death through dysentery after they had eaten raw, rotten meat from a water buffalo while others were poisoned by berries they had picked on the run.’ The man shook his head in dismay as the realisation dawned on him one more time. ‘If that wasn’t enough, any stragglers were picked off by the pursuing natives or predators.’ All five of them – Tristan, Jabari, Purvis, Hanlon and Tayler – were there and listened to the Dutchman’s story as a local British man from Mr Beeckman’s factory interpreted the man’s grim tale under the eagerly gazing eyes of both Europeans and Africans.
Among the listeners in the crowd was Mr Beeckman himself, who had backed the endeavour with fellow countrymen, and a fight nearly broke out as he ripped into the men for their failure. Tristan was glad his whole party was there, as they listened to the horrors experienced by the group – starvation, prowling man-eaters, disease. All of them quickly realised how easy the hunter could become the hunted. Later that evening, they were sitting around the kitchen table, eating a delicious pottage of their own making, and having witnessed and discussed the ugly scene at the wharf, Tayler said something which they had all thought about during the day.
‘That’s one thing I am glad about – we only answer to ourselves. If we fuck it up, we only have ourselves to blame. And if we succeed, well, I don’t have to spell it out to you.’
‘There will be no failure.’ Tristan made the statement but at the same time challenged all four of them to say otherwise. No one did. ‘That’s why we’re still here and not rushing headlong into the great unknown.’ The lads had forgotten that they did have a sponsor, and although it was not carved in stone, Tristan intended to keep his promise to the Old Man and pay back the loan in full, and some more. After all, it was the captain’s generosity that had afforded them the luxury of preparing for this expedition at a reasonable, yet cautious pace.
‘Not far now, sir.’ Matondo walked past Tristan and interrupted his train of thought.
Tristan smiled encouragingly. ‘Not far now, Matondo.’ The dense, damp jungle was taking its toll on the men.
Matondo was a likeable fella, and Tristan took some pride in the fact that Cuthbert had not found him this one. The interpreter, who also acted as guide, had arrived by boat with the same British hunting party that had sold him the gunpowder and provisions, and had come highly recommended by his previous employers. Originally he had been introduced as Carlos, but the man had not hesitated for a moment when Tristan had asked him about his native name.
‘Matondo, sir,’ the black man had said proudly.
‘Ma-ton-do,’ Tristan had repeated slowly, making sure he got it right the first time. ‘That’s easy enough. Or do you prefer Carlos?’ Tristan knew that the Portuguese had christened most of these men with Portuguese names, some of them from birth, and because of that, their African names had become a foreign concept that some of them no longer identified with, especially those who had been exiled from the village.
‘Matondo is fine, sir,’ the man had grinned.
Apart from English, the Bakongo man spoke Kikongo, Swahili and broken Portuguese and, having guided hunters for most of his grown life, he had copious amounts of knowledge to share about the different hunting grounds, the river and surviving in the jungle. Speaking the white man’s various tongues not only gave him the ability to translate but also status among his people, and they would listen to him as their leader. To Tristan, he was as invaluable as one could get in this godforsaken place, for it claimed its victims without prejudice.
Tristan watched on as Matondo walked along the procession to where a group of men were idling, having a drink of water. He quickly set them straight with a few harsh words and upon hearing him speak, the rest of the men close by lifted their legs and straightened their backs. Just then Tristan realised how deep the respect for the man was embedded within this group and he was curious about its origin, but soon his mind wandered off, back to the preparation that they had done.
Every morning, before the start of the expedition, barefooted and bare-chested, they set off on a jog with the doctor keeping time on his pocket watch. They raced down to the wharf, east to Cuthbert’s warehouse, up the road between the church and Edward Morgan’s mansion, turned right at the Silveira household and continued to the top of the narrow path, not far from the garrison where they turned around and headed back the same way. They were never short of curious supporters, and occasionally, young men and more often pickaninnies became fellow runners for some parts of their course.
The loser of the race had to do trivial tasks, which they had allocated before the start, to serve as a discouragement for finishing last. Those tasks ranged from cleaning and oiling muskets to fetching water from the river. It became a game among the men to see who could come up with the most foolish or cunning of errands and one day, Tayler, who found himself on the losing end once again, sat in the kitchen peeling potatoes for their housemaid. Swearing that he would never again do a woman’s work, it took six more outings before the man suffered another loss and his record remained unbroken.
The doctor kept track of their times on a piece of paper, which he had nailed next to their list of tasks, and by the second week, they started to see significant improvement. The competition was fierce but the morning outings built a comradery between the five men that stirred a deep-set emotion in Tristan’s insides, something vaguely familiar. Then one night, while they were walking home in a drunken state, it suddenly dawned on him. He had found his African equivalent to the Hungry Ones, his original band of brothers.
Slowly but surely they started losing their sea legs and adjusted to life in Embomma. Every day they breathed in the African air, taking in both the place and its people, and steadily they became accustomed to their new surroundings, new sounds and a new way of living. They eventually got used to the lack of routine, and instead of the usual force of habit that came with a sailor’s rather rep
etitious and mundane way of life, they had a sense of freedom which brought with it an independence that none of them had experienced for ages.
Cuthbert made good on all his promises and soon after he received the list, items started piling up in the corner of the warehouse that he had reserved for their goods. Tents, tenter-poles and hooks, nets, a variety of tools, including saws and hatchets, ropes, large bags of coarse salt piled up as the weeks progressed. Tristan still needed additional gunpowder and lead, which Cuthbert managed to haggle away from the garrison commander. Each night one of the men poured musket balls while another made up cartridges until they had finished the whole lot. The group also procured most of their food from the market and stores, and bags of dried food like corn and beans were soon added to their provisions.
Tristan worked through Matondo to get an audience with the chief of the village. When the afternoon finally arrived to meet the chief, he took the black man with him, as well as Jabari and Purvis, and between them, they carried various gifts for the important man. They were made to wait in the shade of a thatched shelter for an hour, sipping on pombé from calabashes that were offered to them. Tristan wondered if the chief was intentionally trying to get them liquored up and took small sips, heeding the others to do the same. When they were finally called, they were led through an enclosure and entered a large roomy hut with a conical thatched roof and mud walls.
Chief Ngò was not a large man by African standards. In fact, he looked lost in his leopard-skin robe, but what he lacked in stature, he made up for in wit. He greeted his guests and, after completing the customary formalities, ordered his servants to bring food, the women scampering at the sound of the man’s assertive voice. A repast of broiled beef and cassava was served, followed by more pombé, a very strong mead and pipes filled with fresh tobacco.
As tobacco smoke filled the room, a palaver of more than four hours took place with Matondo acting as mediator. Soon the chief brandished a new musket, powder and shot, and a gilded sword. The doctor parted with his colourful Indian pipe, a prized possession, but an object that had caught the chief’s interest and possibly sealed the deal for them. In return for their presents, which also included a bag of cowry shells and countless strings of beads, they received the chief’s blessing for their hunting trip as well as ten of his warriors to act as guards and to facilitate uninterrupted passage through the lands to the northeast. At the same time, the chief also reiterated what Cuthbert had told him earlier. There was a lot of turmoil to the south of the river, but they would be safe where they were heading.
Chief Ngò was very interested in the idea of utilising fresh or salted meat and suggested they could also smoke the meat. Tristan concurred for it was an art his men were well versed in. The chief commended him for being the first hunter to put forward such an ambitious and generous gesture. When the chief asked what he wanted in return, Tristan quickly suggested that it was merely a favour from one man to another. The wise old African made several counteroffers, which Tristan politely refused each time, all the while praising the man for his hospitality in letting them hunt on his lands. When the group finally left the village, it was late in the evening, but all they had set out to do had been accomplished, and in addition, the doctor had received three bars of fresh tobacco for his pipe and also secured a barrel of the medicinal paste which would be delivered to them before they left. It was a satisfied bunch that made its way back to the cottage.
In the week leading up to their departure, the men started to pack their personal belongings in canvas bags, then chests that sealed tightly to keep out water and damp. During that time, the donkeys arrived from a nearby village. They were splendid animals, in good condition, fat and healthy and according to their seller, who took great pride in his animals, they came from good Portuguese stock. Tristan made it clear to Cuthbert that he did not care if they had been hand-reared by the Portuguese king himself, as long as they got the job done.
Although Tristan could have asked for the chief’s assistance, he mostly left the recruitment of porters and other skilled workers to Cuthbert for he believed that the man had done it many times before and already knew the best men for each of the particular tasks. By the last week, most of the men, which consisted of porters and butchers, as well as another interpreter, had been obtained from the local and surrounding villages. These workers were bolstered by the ones that had joined them from the other hunting parties that had come through Embomma, all accomplished through Tristan’s shrewd persuasion and Matondo’s expert interpretation. So through no fault of his own, Tristan ended up with eleven more men than he had requested, but after seeing the size of the returning hunting parties, he quickly realised that he had indeed underestimated the number of men required for their feat.
Matondo proved himself invaluable as he eagerly tutored his new master about the jungle and the river in particular. With his interpreter’s guidance, Tristan developed a good understanding of the surrounding hills and the river further upstream, including the other settlements, their Kikongo names and known footpaths that connected villages or led to rivers and grasslands. It was during the two men’s conversations that Purvis, a very adept sketch artist who had spent most of his adulthood drawing insects and the like, started drawing rudimentary maps of the land they were about to enter.
During a hot afternoon a couple of days before their departure, Purvis found Tristan all frowned up at the kitchen bench going through all their paperwork for the umpteenth time and making sure that everything and everyone was accounted for. In his hand was a map with a big X – the Promised Land, as they all referred to it.
‘We’re heading over to the tavern, lad. The last time I felt heat like this was when that wave of hot air hit us off the coast of Zanzibar. Do you remember?’
‘Aye, how can I forget? Spoilt most of the fresh food that we’d just taken on. Except for a good meal here and there, we got fed peas with hardtack or sometimes hardtack with peas, almost all the way to the Cape.’ Tristan grinned at the memory. ‘At least the extra rations of arrack made the trip bearable.’
‘Aye. Remember, our trip was already overextended due to the delay in Bombay and the captain thought it best to lay over. Up until then, he had worked the men hard to make up for lost time, but he also knew the exhausted men needed some free time, and he wanted to stock up on produce. Not two days after we had left, the wind died, and the sun turned the Raven into a scorching hellhole. Some said if the men hadn’t had those few days of leisure on the island, the captain might’ve had a mutiny on his hands, so it was a good thing he could ply them with liquor. Nevertheless, it goes to show that even the best-laid plans go awry at times. You’ve done what you can for this expedition. Have a drink with the lads and me, and ease off the work for now.’
‘There’s no room for mistakes, doc.’
‘That I know. I also know that you’re always erring on the side of caution, lad, and while it’s a useful quality to have, it can sometimes get in the way. Take a risk now and then.’ The doctor winked at him. ‘Just remember you don’t have to tell everyone about it all the time.’
Pushing the papers and inkwell aside, Tristan reflected on Purvis’s suggestion and the wink of the eye, wondering if there was a personal disclosure behind the gesture. He had been burning the midnight oil for the last two weeks as he meticulously planned every aspect of their trip. It was taking its toll and perhaps an afternoon of recreation was just what he needed. Then out of nowhere, he conjured up an image of Finn standing over the ripped fishing net and with a smile on his face said, ‘Aye, ‘tis good to say, “fuck it” sometimes.’
Tristan’s comment caught the doctor by surprise. ‘Errr, I wouldn’t go that far, but perhaps just for the rest of this sweltering day, yes, fuck it. You’ve done all you possibly could.’
Tristan concurred. It was an afternoon and evening well spent, giving himself and the lads some much-needed time off to clear their heads as they muddled their minds with the best Embomma had t
o give. As for the rest of the night, he retired into the loving arms of his mistress, and it was not the only time. He found himself in Isabella’s presence every minute not spent on getting their equipment and crew organised. It was only a week and a half into their journey, and already he missed her dearly.
Someone yelled at the front of the group where the men were hacking away at the undergrowth. ‘Nioka!’ Another cry reached Tristan’s ears, jolting him back to reality as it cruelly plucked the faint smell of roses from his nostrils. He heard the same word repeated down the line. Not again, he thought.
Out of nowhere, Jabari appeared and quickly stormed past, heading towards the front of the line with the fighting stick bouncing on his shoulder, ready to deliver death from above or below.
Tristan started following him, and thanks to the doctor’s stringent fitness routine, caught up with the big African halfway there. Together they quickly made their way almost two-thirds up the hill, where a group of men was standing in a circle. To the side, Purvis was already attending to the unlucky man with one of the man’s friends lending a hand.
‘Not poisonous’, said the doctor, ‘but it latched onto the poor fella’s face. He lifted the cloth that covered the man’s face to show Tristan the deep lacerations. ‘Matondo said that it fell out of the sky and coiled around the man before it bit him. They cut off the head while it was still biting into his cheeks, the convulsions sliced him up even more. But he’ll live. I’ll clean the wound and use some of that wonder paste of ours.’
The Fire Within Page 40