‘Why didn’t you let me know?’ asked Tristan dissentingly. ‘There were natives who travelled from here to our camp in that time.’
‘Darling, you had your own concerns to take care of. Besides, what could you have done, over sixty miles or God knows how far away? I knew you would return sooner or later. Now that you’re here, you can set about your business.’
‘And her uncle?’
‘In his case, blood is not thicker than water, lad. For years he has envied his brother’s good fortune, and without question, he knows who pays his wages.’
‘Morgan.’
Cuthbert nodded, then shook his head in dismay. ‘You would’ve thought in the hour of need family would be the people you can rely on,’ he mumbled to himself.
‘Why do you think they took the ship to Loanda?’
‘It’s the closest Portuguese town where they could hope to recruit a new crew in such little time. Many a rogue call that place home. They would probably make some modifications to the ship’s hold as well. Knowing Morgan, he has probably organised everything well in advance. I guess that they would sail it back here in time for the arrival of the slaves. With Silveira’s ship now his property, Morgan doesn’t need the help from any of the other shipowners. Hell, he could probably afford to sail the whole lot to the New World himself.’
Tristan stood up and stretched his legs and arms. He went for a walk through the warehouse and watched for a brief moment the porters carrying the tusks up the steep riverbank, slipping and sliding under the heavy weight. Then he slowly made his way back to Cuthbert and placed his hands on the table.
‘Who’ – Tristan could not get himself to say the word – ‘did it to Isabella?’
‘Well, we can safely guess who gave the order, but as for the actual perpetrators, I really don’t know.’
The man seemed reluctant to disclose information that could have possible implications for him and his business. Tristan could see it in the man’s eyes as they darted around, trying to avoid his own. He leaned in closer and hissed. ‘Mr Cuthbert, you might think that you know me, but perhaps this will make you think otherwise. I will tear this town, this little oasis of yours, apart before I burn it to the ground, to flush out and annihilate the filthy rats who did this.’ The merchant giggled nervously as he watched the threatening man loom over his table once more. ‘Now, Isabella must’ve said something about the bastards or you must’ve learned something through your connections. For a man who leads a fairly solitary life, you always seem to be very well informed, which means you have a very good informant, maybe even more than one.’ Tristan snapped his fingers to get the man’s full attention. ‘Somebody must’ve said something.’
‘Darling, as long as you leave my name out of whatever it is that you’re planning to do…’
‘I promise.’
Cuthbert’s sigh of resignation was barely audible. ‘Morgan has a right-hand man, his nephew, a mean-looking fella with a temper to match – Owain Morgan. You have probably seen him in the tavern at times. He carries out all his uncle’s dirty work, and from what I understand, he’s not to be messed with. Isabella tried giving descriptions of the men, but her recollection of the event was vague as if her mind was fighting the affliction by blocking her memory of it. She dearly wished to remember more but said it was very dark and fell unconscious midway through the ordeal. There was only one thing she was dead certain of because he was the one who gave her the message for her father.’ Cuthbert’s voice had almost withered to a whisper. ‘Owain Morgan was in that room.’
Tristan tried hard to stay calm. ‘Where does he live?’
‘Wait, there’s more. She also said that two of the men were Portuguese. She recognised their voices. Both of them were officers on Silveira’s ship and probably explains how Morgan managed to convince so many of them to switch alliance. He had some inside help.’
‘Where does Owain Morgan live?’
‘Ahhh yes, not far from Morgan’s tobacco factory and warehouse. He occupies the house right next to the drying racks, the best of the bunch.’ Cuthbert looked questioningly at the young man in front of him and could not help himself. ‘What are you going to do?’
Tristan ignored him. ‘Is he still here or did he head south with the ship?’
‘A few of his henchmen are overseeing the journey south and back, but as for Owain, no, he never leaves this place. Very close to his uncle is Owain. Perhaps he’s keeping an eye on his inheritance. What’s your plan?’
‘I assume most people in town know that the Morgans are behind the Silveiras’ disappearance?’
Cuthbert nodded. ‘Word spreads fast in a small town, darling.’
‘And no one has lifted a finger to hold him accountable?’
Cuthbert shook his head. ‘Not while he has the garrison’s backing. Mr Conway, what are you planning on doing?’
Tristan turned away and walked towards to where the menacing German culverins stood and ran his hand over one of the heavily greased barrels. It was smooth and cool to the touch, almost comforting. How he yearned to hold and comfort Isabella right now to tell her that everything would be alright. The mere thought of having her in his arms once again calmed the storm that was toiling with his innards and cleared his mind. He shut out the trampling feet, the groans of men bearing heavy burdens and the voices, both inside and outside the warehouse. Then, as he took a deep breath and churned through all that Cuthbert had told him, from nowhere, a complete plan unfolded in his head, surprising even himself. In a singular moment of clarity, he knew exactly what needed to be done, and he had three weeks to carefully arrange every single detail of his plan, in which Cuthbert would play a pivotal role. The man just doesn’t know it yet, he smiled bitterly.
As Tristan arrived back at the merchant’s desk, his loud and near-excited voice startled the old man once more. ‘For the moment there’s nothing to be done, Mr Cuthbert. Over the coming days, I will probably wander around town a bit, see some of the sights Embomma has to offer.’ He winked at Cuthbert, then suddenly slapped his left hand on the table and gave the man a devious smile. ‘But you, sir, you can lend me a helping hand, starting right now.’ He could see the reluctance immediately creeping back into the man’s demeanour. ‘Certainly not too big of a task and surely nothing that would implicate you in any wrongdoing. How many of Mr Silveira’s men are still in town?’
‘I’d say half his crew, so at least thirty men. Why?’
‘Do you reckon they are still all loyal to him?’
‘Of course, they are. Otherwise, they’d be on his ship right now, wouldn’t they? Why do you ask, darling?’
‘I need their help.’ Tristan thought for a while. ‘Are there any of his officers left?’
‘I know of one man who served as his quartermaster, as loyal as a dog. There may be others.’
‘Excellent. I know the man you speak of. Please arrange a meeting. I need to speak with him, urgently.’ Before Cuthbert died of curiosity, Tristan asked something else to set the merchant’s mind on a different course. ‘There’s more. I need you to arrange a small sailboat or two which can take around thirty people with their basic personal belongings to the town of Loanda exactly three weeks from now. If you can do that for me, I will make it worth your while.’
‘That sounds like something I could certainly arrange. And what will happen until then?’
‘Mr Cuthbert, our perception of love may differ on the surface, but I believe deeper down it isn’t too dissimilar. Ask yourself, if someone hurts the one you love, what would you do?’
‘Hurt him back?’
‘And that’s where the similarity ends, Mr Cuthbert, for I would kill that person.’ The matter-of-fact way in which Tristan had said the words sent a chill down the old man’s spine. ‘As for the rest of my plan, the less you know now, the better. ‘Tis for your own protection. All will be unveiled soon.’
Tristan left the frowning man sitting at his desk. On his way out, he turned around and yelled, �
��The boats, Mr Cuthbert, don’t forget about the boats! And trust me! Great things are about to happen in this town. Amazing things!’
When Tristan got outside, he went looking for Matondo and found him down by the dugouts. ‘I need to speak to chief Ngò straightaway. Arrange it.’
‘Yes, sir.’ No questions were asked.
The two men sat around the firepit. Jabari attempted to restart the dead fire using some tinder – straw from a mattress – and kindling from a broken-up crate. Around them, the air was damp and fresh after the heavy deluge, while from below, a distinctive earthy scent filled their nostrils. In the distance, rolling thunder could still be heard as the storm cut its way further south while above them, the sky had cleared to reveal a starry night. Now and then, a cool breeze shook the leaves of the big tree behind them, and large drops of water came splashing down on their heads and shoulders.
‘I thought you Africans could start a fire anywhere?’ asked Tristan.
‘Ahhh, but of course we can. What we didn’t say was how long it would take us.’
Tristan laughed at the voice in the dark. If it were not for the steel striking the flint, he would have struggled to see the black man. They already had their supper, a delicious soup with sticky cassava bread, courtesy of the housemaid. He found it hard to believe that it was their last night in this place.
The three other men had gone ahead to celebrate their pending departure at the tavern down the road. The two of them were to join the others later, but for now, a fire under a clear African sky was a fitting farewell to this place, a quiet reflection on the past few months and the night ahead. They all knew that they had to make the most of it for tomorrow at dawn, they would sail for Loanda, leaving behind their home six months after they had arrived. Earlier in the evening, he had written the last entry of their African expedition in the logbook. Dated 11 April 1702, he had detailed the day’s events before locking it away in his chest.
Finally, the African managed to get a decent spark, gently blew on it and moved the smoking mass underneath the kindling. A small fire erupted out of the fumes and after adding some larger branches of drenched wood, he took up position next to Tristan on the thick tree stump, and together they watched the wood releasing steam and small bubbles of water before it burst into flames.
‘Are you set for tonight?’ asked the black man.
‘Everything’s in place.’
‘Do you want to go through it one last time?’
‘There’s no need. If anything goes wrong or I’m not at the dock tomorrow morning at daybreak, you lads get on those boats and point their noses west. You do not wait or look back. You head for Loanda and continue as planned.’
‘Let me go with you, Tresten,’ pleaded the African.
Tristan knew the big man never begged, and for a moment, his emotions almost got in the way of his common sense.
As soon as the men returned from the hunting grounds and heard of Isabella’s ordeal, it had been an ongoing battle to keep everyone’s perturbed thoughts in check, as their disquiet minds found ample time to conjure up revengeful plots. Tayler wanted to go on a killing spree, swords slashing and guns blazing. The doctor proposed a bout of illness in the form of poison to travel through certain parts of the town. They all had their reasons but none as great as Tristan’s, and while he could certainly use the big man’s help – after all, Jabari was the only one who knew the full extent of the plan – Tristan realised that this axe was his alone to grind.
‘No, my friend, you know as well as I do that there are some things we are destined to do on our own. Besides, isn’t this the part where you’re supposed to tell me that today is not my day to die, or some other wise words about my fate?’
‘Aye, ‘tis so. But I would be more at peace if my sword was watching over you, even if only at a distance. To die and to be unharmed are two different matters.’
‘Oh, ye of little faith! Your belief in my fate has not let either of us down so far, so let’s not start interfering now.’ A piece of sizzling wood exploded and sent small pieces of ember flying through the air. Tristan stomped out a larger piece that landed in front of his feet and took up his seat again. ‘Moreover, there is a lot to do tomorrow morning, and the lads could certainly use another pair of strong hands on the boat.’
‘Aye.’ The African nodded, but it did not mean that he agreed. It would be a long night ahead. He had already decided to stay awake until his young friend returned.
Tristan buttoned up his jacket and rose. Jabari followed suit, and together they set off down the road, heading towards the tavern where their friends had undoubtedly already started to wet their thirsty whistles.
‘’Tis a dark moon,’ the African observed as he looked up at the sky. ‘The predators will most certainly be on the prowl tonight.’
Under cover of a pitch-black night sky, Tristan made his way to Morgan’s factory. He had long left the tavern behind where his four friends were still merrily celebrating their last night in Embomma. His excuse of an ailing stomach had been met with both disappointment and jeers. Jabari had offered to walk him out, and their paths had split not soon after they had exited the tavern, with the African heading back to the festivities.
With his eyes now adapted to the dark, Tristan knew the exact route. His rapid strides were surefooted owing to the weeks of scouting he had done before. It was late, and at the foot of the hill, the village had quieted down. The houses in town were dark inside, the marketplace deserted, streets empty, not a soul in sight. In the far distance, he heard the excited cackle of hyenas who had probably stumbled across a stray meal. His despise and admiration for the animals had grown on the hunting grounds, but their hysterical laughter still made him feel uneasy whenever he heard it.
Close to the factory, a derelict wooden paling surrounded the six houses on the northern side and continued southwards, almost to the river’s edge. The larger buildings adjacent to the water consisted of a warehouse and various huts with tables and dry racks where tobacco leaves were processed through their various stages. Tristan slipped through a hole in the fence he had come to know well. The dark alleys of London had taught him a great deal, but the last three months, hunting every sort of prey had rehoned his skills. Treading lightly, he walked towards the largest of the houses, his feet quiet on the wet sand, and soon he found himself at the room where the light had gone out like all the nights before.
From beyond the window shutters, he could hear a man snoring. He had watched the men walk home from Morgan’s residence. They were all half-seas over, singing, cursing, staggering and pissing in the streets. They knew that the slaves would arrive soon and then gone would be their days of leisure. It played right into his hands.
Tonight, he was travelling light as he did in the old days during his delivery runs – just his clothes, his stiletto and a dagger. Only, tonight, instead of fish, bread or gold, his parcel contained revenge and death, and the spark to create a new beginning for many others.
Tristan briefly thought about trying the front door but then went with his gut and retrieved the dagger. He slid the sharp point easily into the crevice between the two shutters and ran it upwards. The blade caught the latch, and he applied more pressure, slowly lifting the small wooden bar without making a sound. Next, he opened the shutter and stared into the darkness. The snoring echoed through the bedroom as he lifted his leg over the windowsill. From this moment on, he did everything on instinct and luck.
The other leg followed, and he quietly slid across the sill, feeling with his feet for any foreign objects. He gave a silent sigh of relief when his feet touched the plank floor unhindered. So far, so good. Quickly he exchanged the dagger for his trusted stiletto and carefully walked in the direction of the snoring man – the rapist and the soon-to-be-dead man.
Tristan had thought about the best way to kill him. Killing the man in his sleep was almost cowardly, but then the act he had committed was no different, and he deserved to die in the same way. He
ran his hands lightly across the body and ascertained that the fella was lying on his back. If he had lain on his stomach, the stiletto would have severed his spine, but now a different method was needed. He vividly recalled the barber holding up the human skull, showing him the hole where the spine entered the brain. Looking through the empty eye sockets, he could still remember seeing the silver blade travelling upwards.
In the dark, he leaned forwards and with force, clamped his left hand over the man’s mouth. The man woke from his drunken slumber and immediately started to struggle as he wildly groped at the smothering hand.
‘This is for Isabella Francesca Silveira, you vile fuck,’ whispered Tristan, close to the man’s ear.
The stiletto pierced the side of the man’s throat, and with all of his power behind the thrust, Tristan shoved the blade upwards, piercing the man’s spinal cord, medulla and brain, until the newly honed point finally came to rest against the inside of his skull. Under his hand, the man shuddered as his body started going through the final throes of death, his arms now hanging loosely and helplessly at his sides, his mind absorbed in the darkness that surrounded him. It was over in seconds.
As Tristan wiped the blade on the bedding, he wished that he could have seen the man’s face, looked into those beady eyes as they stared frantically and bewildered into those of his killer. His friends will discover him tomorrow morning but by then, a new day would have dawned over Embomma. One down, he thought as he climbed through the window and headed for the mansion.
His heart was beating furiously, and his breathing became fast as the thrill of the kill set in and started playing tricks on his body. The last time he had killed for revenge was when Putt had been murdered. Since then, he had taken many lives, in battles on the open seas, bar brawls that had gotten out of hand, a few times in self-defence in the dark alleys of godforsaken cities, but never again for revenge. The thrill of the kill stirred something inside him for it was nothing like killing an animal. There was an inexplicable gratification, knowing that he was putting to death those who had wronged the love of his life.
The Fire Within Page 44