Tristan cocked the pistol, pressed the muzzle into the man’s stomach and pulled the trigger. Click! He repeated the step. Click! A third time. Click!
‘This is what happens when you let others do all your dirty work for you, Mr Morgan. You lose touch with the basics, like what damp weather can do to gun powder, even in a safe like yours,’ – Tristan looked closer at the gun’s mechanism – ‘and the risk that a worn-out flint poses.’ He shook his head and tapped the ailing man on his knee to get his attention. ‘You don’t deserve this.’
In one last defiant moment, Morgan looked up and stared Tristan straight in the eyes. On the man’s face, contortions of pain mingled with hatred, but in between painful whimpers, he managed to ask the question, ‘Deserve what?’
‘This.’ Reaching to his right, Tristan retrieved Morgan’s dagger and with one fluid motion dragged the sharp blade across the old man’s throat.
Tristan stood up and left the man to die alone. A quick death. You don’t deserve a quick death. The animals on the hunting grounds surely did, but not you. For a brief moment, Tristan wished he could have been the barber and find perverse gratification in ending a man’s life slowly, perhaps even take two ears as souvenirs. But he was not made of the same material.
He walked over to the strongbox and cleared out everything, putting it on the table. As he went through the documents, he looked over to where Morgan lay. His body was still, and his eyes glazed over. Tristan stopped for a minute as a sense of relief overwhelmed him. It’s done, he sighed.
Rifling through the documents, he found the Santa Verdade’s deed. Morgan’s diary and the deed went into his jacket’s inner pocket. The other documents, including a contract for the tract of land that Morgan had purchased from chief Ngò, he scattered all over the desk and floor. Also, in the safe were a small treasure chest and a canvas bag. Tristan opened the chest with the second key that was on Morgan’s neck chain. Its contents left him in awe. Gold and silver coins, as well as the most magnificent jewellery, filled it to the brim. Tristan pocketed a few coins, quickly locked the chest and placed it into the large canvas bag that was half-filled with cowrie shells. It was an unexpectedly good haul to put his plan in full motion. He locked the number of coins he had taken earlier inside the strongbox and returned the chain to its rightful owner.
Tristan looked over the room and its ornate furnishings one last time. Morgan, or perchance his wife, certainly had great taste. It was a pity, yet it needed to be done. He walked to the nearby wall, retrieved the lamp from its hook and threw it onto the table. The glass shattered and the flammable oil quickly spread, lighting up the table and all of its contents.
Moments later, he escaped the same way he got in and watched from the safety of the trees as flames engulfed the study. It did not take long for the fire to reach the second storey and the intense heat to shatter the glass windows, the fresh air fuelling the inferno. By dawn, the once-magnificent mansion would be nothing but an empty shell. Darkness enveloped him and minutes later, as the last storm clouds cleared, he laid down his head, waiting for a new day to dawn. The fire inside him simmered gently once again.
While Tristan drifted off, in the room next door, the dark warrior took off his wet coat, laid his sword on the floor and found sleep with a peaceful smile on his face. It had been a good night.
Chapter 26
‘Damnit!’ The young man had missed another bite and quickly retrieved the line at the end of his fishing pole to inspect the hook. He needed at least two more for a decent breakfast. With a rock, he bashed another sea snail, embedded the viscid entrails on the homemade hook and flung the bait into the dark water. Fumbling around in his pocket he found a kola nut which he popped into his mouth, chewing it quickly to get rid of the bitter taste so that he could relish the sweetness that followed.
It was cold on Loanda’s northern pier. The season was turning. Even in the two weeks since his arrival, he could feel the change in the air. Especially on a morning like this, where there was a slight onshore breeze, one needed a jacket, and his was safe and sound back at his lodging. Out towards the west, the ever-present morning haze covered two islands in a light-grey tapestry. By mid-morning, it would lift to reveal their full extent, a rather long natural barrier which provided great shelter for the ships that were moored just off the coast. One of them, a Portuguese caravel, was his way out of here.
He rested the pole against the wooden pile and while rubbing his shoulders to get the blood and heat flowing, looked at the ship that would provide him passage. She was a beauty, alright – an older vessel but in excellent shape. Luck was purely on his side. Two days ago, if he had not decided to treat himself to a night out, he would not have met its crew or captain in the tavern, or secured his passage. And he would not have found what he had come here for.
Nothing was biting. Patience, he reminded himself and glanced towards the buildings closest to the water. Much of the town was still asleep, missing only the fishermen who had risen early to set their nets. Even the usually vociferous seagulls were still huddled together a few hundred yards further up the beach, too early or too cold to harass the few fishermen who were returning with their first catch for the day. His eyes caught a movement.
It was the girl.
Covered from head to toe, she was making her way to the fishing boats that had returned. She always walked at a brisk pace, but not in a rush so as not to draw unwanted attention. She had arrived three weeks ago, out of the blue. He still remembered it clearly.
It was just after dusk. He was catching supper when a rowboat approached the dock. Slowly it came into view, like a small ghost ship rolling in on the bluish fog, a single lantern lighting its way. Then suddenly it changed direction and headed further north towards a nearby sandy beach not far from a rocky outcrop where he sometimes gathered brown mussels. Dutchmen. He could recognise their distinct language anywhere. In the faint light, he witnessed the Dutch sailors unload the woman onto the beach, not far away from the pier. Then they and their boat disappeared back into the mist.
Standing halfway up the dune, the woman cut a lonely figure. She was young with long black hair, her shoulders slightly slumped, suggesting that she was of humble origin, perhaps a servant. The girl stared straight at him for a brief moment before she shrouded her face with a cloth.
He continued to observe her as she stood there on the sand, like a lost traveller in a foreign land, wondering what to do next. From her robe, she pulled out a piece of paper, and it did not take long before she set off, disappearing over the dune and heading towards the town.
The young man still did not know why – maybe his overly inquisitive nature got the better of him – but he grabbed his things and set off, chasing after her. Using the fishing boats on the beach for cover, he quickly reached the last house on the northern end of the town. Just as well he had hurried, because across the street, the girl disappeared between the mill and tannery, deliberately avoiding the main road. She zigzagged between various buildings but soon had no choice but to cut across one of the few side streets only to come to a standstill in front of the inn where he stayed. The girl looked at the piece of paper again and continued onwards. Three doors down from the inn, she came to a stop in front of a neat little cottage. The girl knocked and seconds later was encircled in light from beyond the open door. She handed the piece of paper to a gentleman, whom he had yet to lay eyes on, and not long after, she disappeared into the house, just as secretly as she had arrived. She had no idea that she had been followed and he scouted the surrounding area to make sure nobody else had done the same. He was good at moving in the shadows.
His fishing pole bounced up and down, bringing him back to the present and pulling his attention away from the woman.
With a single motion, he hauled the silver fish onto the pier where it flapped about. The fat fish was a good size. He had enough for a decent breakfast and looked forward to the warmth of the firepit at the back of the inn. By now the Portuguese innke
eper’s wife would have put her first batch of pão bread in the brick oven. With its hard crust and soft inside, it made a great condiment to the grilled fish. She was a lot of woman, a plump and easily excitable lady, who liked the company of virile young men, especially when her husband was away. But she was nothing that he could not handle, and if he played his cards right, he might even get a bit of cheese and some quince jam. Just the thought of it made his stomach grumble, and he hastily put his catch into the woven basket.
With pole and basket in hand, his eyes searched out the shrouded damsel again. She was talking to an African at one of the boats, handed the man something and received a string of fish in return. The persistent breeze blew his loose hair into his eyes. His fingers, covered in bait and fish slime, combed through the fiery red locks and helped to keep them in place as he watched her go through her morning routine. Next, she would head to the market and purchase more items from a select few, usually the early risers, before she would disappear back into the house where she would stay until the next morning, or the one after that. He wondered what had brought her to these shores, what she was waiting for. Each morning that he saw her, she looked back at him, like she too was searching for someone or something. He could sense her desperation from a mile away.
Perhaps tomorrow morning he would work up the courage to ask her. Or then again, maybe not. She had her reasons, and who was he to disrupt her secretive existence anyway. He had his own preparations to make. After nearly a month in this town that thrived on slavery, he was looking forward to a change in scenery. Yet he could not help himself and started making his way to the market, secretly revelling in his role of guardian angel.
Throwing large amounts of spray up into the air and showering their crews, the bows of the two shallops ploughed arduously through the choppy water. The large gaff sails on the single masts bulged underneath the force of the north-westerly wind and tried their utmost to propel the heavy-laden flat-bottomed vessels even faster, but they failed miserably. Both boats sat low in the water, chock-full with their human cargo, almost sixteen men to a boat. The sailors constantly rotated between working the sails and acting as ballasts when the wind changed, while those manning the bilge pumps worked hard at getting the seawater out. They were not fast by any means, but irrespective of the heavy loads they were still making good headway. By nightfall tonight they should have reached the end of their journey.
Tristan stood at the helm of the leeward boat, which continued to hug the rugged seacoast just a few hundred yards off the larboard. The heavy rains that had fallen around Embomma had flooded the river and had made for a quick and interesting trip to the coast as they had to navigate not just rampant waters but also floating debris.
He would forever be indebted to Cuthbert and wondered how the old bugger had pulled this off with so little time on hand. Tristan had not asked about their origin when he saw the two boats moored at the docks. With their hulls tarnished with barnacles, algae and worms, the sails worn and even tattered in some places, and the cordage well weathered, he just needed them to sail another three days. However, he was still very much pleased to see Cuthbert had provided extra canvas and rope for the short voyage.
In return, Tristan had presented Cuthbert with a small chest as payment, a chest that surprised the old trader just as much as it had stunned Tristan when chief Ngò had bestowed it upon him two weeks prior. It was payment for everything that the old merchant had done for him. He was certain Cuthbert would enjoy its golden contents and put it to good use in a new and improved Embomma, where opportunities for new ventures would be plentiful from now on.
‘Hard right rudder!’
Windward, about fifty yards off their stern, Tristan heard Tayler bark orders at the other crew, with the Portuguese quartermaster relaying his commands. The big man’s boisterous voice carried on the wind, unwittingly informing Tristan of his next move. The objective was simple: the first boat to reach Loanda’s harbour would win, and her crew would receive the bragging rights and a small cask of rum. So far, his boat had been leading the race, but Tayler had just found a good spot of wind and was altering his direction and sails, gaining on them as his boat started hauling wind.
One thing Tristan liked about the Portuguese crews was that they took pride in their seamanship. Even though he had Matondo handy as translator, very few orders were needed and when they did come, the sailors’ reaction was swift and without quarrel. He looked down at the Kikongo man sitting next to him. So far, the open seas had treated him well. He followed Tristan like a shadow and took great delight in every lesson learned.
‘Captain! Ship off the starboard beam! Heading north!’
Jabari was calling him from the bow. It sounded urgent, but Tristan still found the bestowed title strange, almost a strain on the ears. Captain. Proper this time, no more masquerading. The big man pointed towards the western horizon.
‘Looks like an Indiaman,’ said Purvis.
Tristan regarded the man who had risen next to him. The doctor looked every part the sailor with every passing day, a far cry from the educated man who practised medicine. He pulled out his spyglass and quickly confirmed the doctor’s suggestion. ‘Aye, she’s a merchantman, alright. Under heavy load too and struggling against the wind.’ Tristan slipped the spyglass back inside his pocket. ‘Not ours!’ he shouted towards the bow.
‘Reckon she would still be there?’ asked the doctor.
‘Isabella has to be. God forbid ‘tis otherwise.’ Tristan looked dead ahead, towards where she was hopefully waiting.
‘And the Santa Verdade?’
Tristan smiled self-consciously realising the doctor had meant the ship, not the girl. ‘Aye, her too.’
‘I hope for your sake they both are.’
The freshening breeze that had gotten Tayler so excited earlier on had reached their boat. ‘Let’s put more wind in her sails! Prepare for fresh way,’ yelled Tristan as he started to adjust the tiller. Without looking up from where he was busy pumping out water, Matondo translated his captain’s orders in Portuguese, not that it was needed because the crew had already started to trim the sails even before they had heard the translated version. Tristan realised they were already recognising certain keywords from the foreign language and were acting accordingly. It was a sign of devotion to their craft. These were not men forced to betake themselves to a life at sea. No, like him and his crew, they lived for the open water, to feel the salty spray in their faces, to drink it in like life’s essence. As he admired their work ethic, some of the men moved across to the starboard side to compensate for the increased wind.
The doctor had given up trying to light his spare pipe. Even his science of making fire could not stand up to the wind and the spray, so instead, he watched the sailors operate the shallop, a well-oiled bunch indeed. He carefully banged his pipe on the gunwale before he scraped the charred and caked remnants out of the bowl using a dull penknife. It was his only pipe left and a more prized possession he did not own. ‘How did you know things would pan out so well…lad?’
Tristan smiled inwardly. He was not the only one grappling with the new title.
‘You know me, Mr Purvis – planning and more planning, but ultimately, it came down to offering everybody an opportunity that they simply couldn’t refuse.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, lad. Indulge me. I have no means of lighting my tobacco, and there’s still a long day ahead.’ Purvis was surprised at his own irritability.
Tristan handed the tiller over to the Portuguese boatswain, Delgado, the only other officer apart from the quartermaster Silva, who had not betrayed and abandoned his old captain. He slapped the man on the back and pointed at their competition. ‘Don’t let them win!’ A man of few words and even fewer in English, the elderly sailor smiled and nodded, revealing a mouth full of blackened teeth, courtesy of a lifetime at sea where smoking, drinking and lack of nutrition had done a splendid job.
It had been a while since the crew had their guts ro
lled this well. The deck of the shallop was unstable underfoot, so the two men shuffled forwards a bit and took up seats closer to the mainmast, adding more weight to the live ballast on the starboard. Tristan could see the anticipation on the doctor’s face.
‘As far as the Morgans go, well, that decision was taken for me as soon as Cuthbert told me what had happened. I was just the effecter, or the executioner, whichever way you want to look at it. As for the rest, it all came to me inside Cuthbert’s warehouse.’ Tristan frowned, thinking about how to explain the next bit. ‘You once told me that sometimes when you sketch or write about your insects, you like to do it away from any commotion. Then, if you are lucky, in that moment of quiet, the most amazing thought, idea or understanding can come to you. Well, my epiphany was no different.
‘I remember walking around in the warehouse, grappling with what Mr Cuthbert had told me, to clear my head and in that moment of clarity, it was as if someone had put a complete plan in my head, almost as clear as a map of a place that one had already visited hundreds of times. I hate to admit it, but it startled me at first. But the more I thought about it, the more I struggled to contain my excitement. I went back inside and told Mr Cuthbert what I needed from him for the time being, then went about putting the rest of the plan in motion.
‘Chief Ngò was the first port of call. Do you recall during our first meeting with the chief, I tried to get a gauge on his relationship with Edward Morgan and was met with a rather frigid response?’
Purvis nodded for he remembered it well. When he had seen the chief’s reluctance to talk, it had reminded him of the sailors who got sick on a ship but had nothing physically wrong with them, yet they refused to talk about their troubles out of stubbornness or pride, perhaps even out of fear of being ridiculed. In his studies, they had referred to it as melancholy, but he doubted that it was the right diagnosis in the chief’s case.
The Fire Within Page 46