The Fire Within

by Samuel T Clayton

  In the middle of the camp, their church, a towering stack of two hundred and twelve elephant tusks were arranged in an oval with tarpaulins covering it all. In the middle of the oval, out of the rain and sitting dry on wooden frames, hundreds of salted hides were stacked up high, filling the void. He had made another count this morning and based on the last known rate per tusk there was enough ivory here to cover any expenses they would still incur and a good sum of money for each of the five men. It was enough for him, and as for the others, he would find out soon enough.

  It was late, and there was no need to delay it any longer. With a speedy hand, he finished cleaning his gun, Matondo mimicking his every move.

  After he had finished loading both muskets, he carefully placed them on top of a makeshift wooden rack and turned his attention to the African. ‘Fetch the bamindelé and Jabari. Tell them to come straightaway. Then I need you to come back and join us.’

  The Bakongo man had come to know his master well. It sounded like a man with a heavy heart who had given him the order. He did as he was told and five minutes later the men were all cramped into Tristan’s tent, sitting on whatever they could lay their arses on. Matondo was standing at the entrance like a guard, but a curious one nonetheless, for he knew something important was about to happen and he felt honoured to be part of the group.

  Tristan squinted his eyes. ‘Is that you, Tayler? The light in here isn’t the best, and as for the smell and lack of spruceness, well, I can’t tell the difference between you and some of the other big fellas out there.’ His attempt at light-heartedness was met with a few tired smiles and a nonchalant grunt from the victim.

  No time to mess around then, thought Tristan. ‘Gentlemen, with the rainy season moving into full swing, we have a decision to make, and…I’ve already made mine. But as I said at the start of this journey, any major decision will be put to a vote, and I intend to keep that promise.’ He put it to them straight, without any mollification, exactly as they would have expected it.’ Do we stay here and keep on doing what we’re doing until we’ve run out of bullets, or do we head back to Embomma now?’

  The African bush had instilled a bit of madness in all of them and had slowly chipped at their civility. For a moment, it genuinely seemed that they were contemplating the decision which in Tristan’s mind was already taken for the group. But then, like a fire lightly fanned by the wind, their eyes lit up, and an emphatic yes came, first from Tayler, closely followed by the rest. The doctor was the last to react. As usual, his silent contemplation was obscured by a plume of smoke. Two months of roaming in the bush had given him enough work for years to come, yet there were still many unspoilt and trackless areas which needed exploring, and the scientist in him found it hard to leave them untouched.

  With a flushed face and slightly torpid voice, Purvis said, ‘So many species, lad, yet to be discovered, but I guess they can wait for another day.’ He cleared his throat and raised his small metal flask. ‘So, aye, count me in. Let’s go home.’

  Tristan nodded to his good friend and proceeded. ‘There is more.’ He had not intended to but still shared it with the group. ‘I am done with all this killing and butchering. When we get to Embomma and sell our tusks, I will pay you your share of the profit as soon as we receive our money.’ His words hung in the air, held there by the anticipation on faces in front of him. ‘Then I’m catching the next boat to the coast. From there I’ll probably head south to São Paulo de Loanda, find a ship that is looking for a crew member or perhaps even look for my own to skipper, which means I will be looking for a crew myself.’ He wanted to give the men options and not just leave them in the wilderness.

  ‘How much do you think we will pocket, lad?’ asked an abandoned Tayler, presuming that it was the foremost question in everybody else’s mind.

  ‘If ivory still goes for the price that it did three months ago, you will earn seven times the amount that you would have received on the Raven for one year’s work, so enough to last the likes of you for the next seven years, and the rest of us at least twenty.’

  Tayler grinned. The money would be great, but he, for one, was looking forward to a more civilised existence and the arms of a loving woman. Not that the open seas did not sound like a promising prospect. He was not alone. In the tent, the mood had lightened, the heavy burden that they all had borne but none had spoken of had been lifted. They were sailors after all, and they needed the sea, just like fish needed water.

  ‘’Tis settled then. Tomorrow we’ll start making plans for our return journey. If you want to join me and rekindle your seadog days, the journey back to Embomma should give you enough time to make up your minds,’ said Tristan, bringing their meeting to a close.

  The men exited the tent, and suddenly, the wet weather did not seem all that bad. Cold it was not, and the drizzle showered down gently through the opening in the tree canopy above. They did not know exactly how it started, but it was Tayler who first appeared, stark naked. Armed only with a bar of soap, he started to wash off weeks of grime, while singing in a boisterous voice, his rendition of “The Country Lass”. It did not take long for all of them to join the mad man washing, singing and dancing.

  With arms flailing, mud flying and phalluses swinging they carried on until at long last they felt clean and reborn. It was as if someone had loosened their invisible shackles, their relief as instant as it was pure and without bounds. And while they felt a sense of normality return to their lives, from the safety of the nearby shelters, squinted eyes in black heads watched the spectacle in stupefied wonderment, believing now with certainty that the mundelé’s strange ways had proven, once and for all, that he was indeed very much kilawa.

  A New Journey Beckons

  Chapter 25

  Embomma looked no different than when they left three months ago. Strangely they had expected it to have changed, to have progressed, for what had only been three months and six days had felt like an eternity to them. Forgotten by time, the town was still the epiphany of rustic Africa, but a welcome sight nonetheless. Tristan, Jabari, Matondo, a quarter of the crew and all their tusks had travelled by canoe and had arrived two weeks before the main group was expected to trample into town if everything went according to plan.

  Tristan immediately set about getting the dugouts unloaded, and the ivory moved to Cuthbert’s warehouse, and while the men started unpacking the mounds of carefully strapped tusks, he wasted no time getting stuck into negotiations with the merchant.

  ‘With all due respect, sir, but the price couldn’t have fallen by that much in three months. That’s absurd! How old is this news of yours?’ Tristan annoyed voice echoed through the warehouse. Cuthbert could be deceiving him, or it might be true, but unfortunately for the grey-headed merchant, Tristan did not give a damn.

  ‘I know, Mr Conway, but that is how the market operates. Ultimately, the prices are set by the traders and shops in Europe, and with the influx of ivory from the East, well, you’re clever enough to know that when supply exceeds demand, the price usually drops.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad that you still recognise my acumen in the matters of trade, Mr Cuthbert, but at this moment ‘tis not so much that insight than ‘tis my instinct that’s telling me to take my business elsewhere. Maybe I should pay a visit to Mr Beeckman down the road. I’m sure the Dutchman still pays a fair price. Or perhaps I should head to the coast and fetch an even better price in Sonho. Or even better, maybe I should take the whole bunch to London myself.’

  The merchant giggled nervously. ‘Awww, darling, but I still have buyers waiting for…there’s no need for drastic measures.’

  Tristan went on the offensive. ‘Well, that’s your problem now, isn’t it? In case it had slipped your mind, Mr Cuthbert, I’ve already compensated you handsomely for the equipment. Don’t you think I know that if I’d shopped around there was a possibility that I could’ve acquired those goods for less? Yet I chose to conduct most of my business directly with you.’ Tristan gave the man time
to think it over. ‘Surely the price will increase soon. With the rainy season upon us, supply will dwindle. I’d say you couldn’t have received these at a better time, because in three months, Europe’s aristocrats will be begging for your ivory, including some of those nice items that the villagers craft for you.’ Tristan hinted at Cuthbert’s cane. ‘And ‘tis not that you lack the space to store the stuff until the time is right.’ He gestured to the large open space but made sure that the merchant’s eye caught some of the large tusks he had instructed his crew to unload first. Then he closed the deal. ‘Who knows, the price may increase even beyond its previous high. Also, I promise to be a bit more lenient when the hides arrive, and furthermore, I’ll still sell all of our equipment back to you at a reasonably discounted price, just as we’d agreed.’

  The merchant dropped his head, then shook it despondently. ‘You drive a hard bargain, Mr Conway.’

  ‘Aye, but remember, Mr Cuthbert, you were the one who started it. My morning was going perfectly well until you started tampering with the price.’ Tristan made sure the disappointment was evident in his voice. ‘I’m just here to get a decent fee for my tusks, the price we had agreed on before my departure. So what will it be, Mr Cuthbert? Do we load those beautiful tusks back into the boats? Are the dugouts heading back home or further downstream?’

  ‘We have a deal, darling.’ They shook hands, both men relieved that the deal was done. ‘Perhaps you should come work for me since you seem to have a knack for trade.’ And if you were less attractive, maybe I would not have given in so easily, thought the elderly man. He knew he had allowed himself to be outwitted, yet he also knew that Tristan made a good point, for timing was an integral part of their business.

  ‘Thank you, sir. You pay me a kind compliment, but fortunately, Africa has taught me a few things about myself in these last three months, most importantly that I’m a sailor at heart. My plan is—’

  ‘Wait a moment!’ All of a sudden, Cuthbert turned around and walked back to his table, picking up Ascott along the way before taking a seat. ‘Darling, forgive me, I was so caught up in the moment that I completely forgot to tell you something of utmost importance.’

  ‘Aye?’ Tristan did not like the sudden change of tone in the man’s voice.

  With one hand the man fidgeted with some papers on his table while stroking the cat on his lap with the other, not looking in Tristan’s direction. ‘Word is that you were quite smitten with Mr Silveira’s daughter before you left and perchance you still are. I hate to be the one to tell you this, but during your absence, some terrible events occurred.’

  Tristan felt a nauseated numbness engulf him. He had seen the dread on the older man’s face and immediately knew that he was about to hear devastating news and steeled himself for what would follow.

  ‘Miss Silveira is no longer with us.’

  ‘She’s dead?!’ A deathly silence descended on the warehouse as wide-eyed porters heard the anguish in the voice of the man they had just spent three months with.

  ‘No, darling, but still, the Silveiras have suffered a horrific fate.’

  Tristan sensed the old man’s reluctance to convey the news. Anger swooped down swiftly and took control. ‘Don’t just sit there. Out with it!’ In front of him, Cuthbert cowered like he wanted to disappear underneath the table. Tristan’s outburst brought the flow of tusks to a temporarily halt, as the previously wide-eyed porters surveyed the situation inside the warehouse to determine whether they should run or stay. From out of the back, Miguel came racing towards his master, nearly tripping over the cat which was running the opposite way. Cuthbert immediately held out his hand, gesturing to the young negro to stop. ‘Please,’ insisted Tristan, using every bit of constraint he could gather but still found himself in short supply.

  Cuthbert was genuinely afraid. In front of him, the pleasant young fella was suddenly gone. In his place stood a fierce-looking man with a long beard and wild blond hair. The piercing blue eyes in the man’s tanned face made Cuthbert’s blood run cold, and as the man leaned forwards with his two fists pressing into the table, he seemed to have grown in stature as he towered over him. ‘Mr Silveira…Miss Silveira…I…I think you better sit down, Mr Conway.’ Cuthbert signalled for Miguel to bring a chair, who did so promptly. With his mouth dry and his heart racing uncontrollably, Cuthbert poured two mugs of rum from a bottle which he had retrieved out of the cabinet behind him. ‘Please, have a drink first, darling,’ urged Cuthbert, emptying the contents of his mug in one large gulp.

  Tristan wanted to smash the mug into bits on the table in front of him but instead took a sip to appease the man. He felt the warm liquid run down his throat into his stomach where it was consumed by flames that were already burning high.

  ‘Do you remember the man from the mansion?’ asked Cuthbert and Tristan nodded immediately. ‘See, darling, while Edward Morgan no longer sources slaves from this village, he still gets plenty of them from villages further inland and to get those slaves to São Paulo de Loanda, he needs ships. All the other warehouse and factory owners have bought into his enterprise through bribery or by force, except Silveira. Yes, our incorruptible Mr Silveira is the only shipowner in town who refuses to transport slaves for Mr Morgan.

  ‘I believe he has been trying for years on end to persuade Silveira who, coincidentally, not only owns the largest ship in this town but also sails it to the coast more frequently than any other trader.

  ‘Now, I also understand there’s a large number of slaves on their way here, led by Morgan’s mercenaries, a bunch of crooked British army deserters. They will need all the ships they can lay their hands on to take the captives to a holding pen in Loanda from where they will head to God-knows-where. I think that’s what triggered it all.

  ‘About four weeks ago, late one night, someone knocked on my door. I could hear by the sound of the knock that trouble was afoot. It was Mrs Silveira. The poor woman was in tears, and next to her stood Miss Silveira. Someone had…‘ – Cuthbert wiped the sweat from his brow – ‘I’m sorry to tell you this, darling, but some people had violated Miss Silveira on her way home from the tavern. The poor girl’s bruised face and bloodied dress told of her ordeal. A group of five men jumped on her and took her somewhere secluded.’ The merchant shuffled uncomfortably in his chair.

  'She put up a good fight. Cut one of them pretty badly. They had to tie her up, after which – I don’t know how else to say this – they ravished her.’ The face across the table remained expressionless, so Cuthbert carried on. ‘Through the struggling, they also beat her up and afterwards set her loose, with a message for her father. Like any father worth his salt, Silveira didn’t even consider their message. He just grabbed his sword and gun and went looking for the perpetrators. He hasn’t been seen ever since, and his wife too has vanished. Poor woman. I begged her not to go look for her husband, but I guess love and hard-headedness ignored my pleas. The next morning the Santa Verdade was gone, and lo and behold, so was half of Silveira’s crew. Morgan must’ve promised them a good sum of money.

  ‘I don’t know why they knocked on my door. Maybe it was because of my dealings with you. I sheltered Miss Silveira for the night. I’ve never been so scared in my life, Mr Conway. There’s no law enforcement in this town, and as for the Portuguese garrison, well, we all know who they support, which makes it even more despicable since Silveira is one of their own!’ Cuthbert took a large swig of the newly poured rum as he relived the fear from that night, while across from him, Tristan sat disturbingly still as he kept on listening, taking in every little detail.

  ‘I sat in the living room all night with my cane and pistol as protection. The next morning, I left Miguel to care for the girl and secretly arranged passage for her with the captain of a Dutch fluyt, which had arrived three days prior. The man was employed by the VOC and was taking on cargo from Mr Beeckman and provisions for the remainder of their trip. He was heading for the Cape of Good Hope next, but for a good sum I swore him to secrecy, a
nd he agreed to drop her off at Loanda.

  ‘It was Miss Silveira’s request to go there, in case her parents had made it that far, but she had also lost a lot of blood and appeared quite ill. As you know, there’s no doctor in this town, so the best option was to get her to Loanda as quickly as possible. I have a trusted friend there who could hide her away and arrange for a doctor to visit. So early the next morning under cover of darkness, with no belongings, apart from some money and a letter to my good friend I had given her, she left.

  ‘Later that day, while I was down at the warehouse, news reached me that the Silveira’s house had been completely ransacked. Their housemaid stumbled across the chaotic scene. I immediately walked up to their residence to see with my own eyes and indeed, almost everything had been wrecked. The culprits had also broken into the strongbox and taken all their valuables, including any documents and perhaps even the deed to the Santa Verdade.’

  The merchant let the words settle in, sipping his rum as he cautiously watched the young man’s reaction to the news. He might as well have been an artist, staring at a blank canvas.

  ‘But I have some good news too!’ Cuthbert turned around and opened a hidden drawer in the cabinet. ‘I received this a week ago.’ He rummaged through the contents and produced a small piece of paper. ‘I am safe and well looked after. Nothing further, but signed, I F S – the initials of your beloved if I’m not mistaken. See?’ He handed Tristan the paper. ‘You can keep it, of course.’ The merchant scratched his bald head and then said sincerely, ‘I’m sorry to be the bearer of this news, darling. Francesco Silveira was competition, but that didn’t make him lesser of a good man. The same can be said of his family. They were well liked by most of the people in this town.’