The Fire Within

by Samuel T Clayton

  ‘I went to see him again after I had returned from the hunting ground and with Matondo’s help, prodded some more. Eventually, I gathered that, over the years, the chief had supplied other white men with natives to work in their factories and warehouses. He extended that same courtesy to Morgan when the man had first arrived. I learned that Morgan had bought the land for his plantations with a once-off payment. Morgan also acquired a few natives to work the land, with the understanding that an annual fee would be payable to the chief for their labour. However, Morgan got the then-very-naive chief to sign a piece of paper which completely contradicted their verbal agreement. It stated that the natives were part of the land sale and they were now the property of Edward Morgan or in other words, his slaves.

  ‘Morgan bought his slaves’ trust with various westerly goods and corrupted their minds with gifts and empty promises. Needless to say, they no longer wanted any part of the Kikongo life. A native who has never dealt with a white man before can be very gullible, chief Ngò informed me, as he had learned first-hand. However, the turning point came when Morgan placed some of these slaves, his people, under the command of his British mercenaries, put guns in their hands and ordered them to start raiding villages further upstream from Embomma, forcefully taking natives into slavery. It was at that same time that natives who worked for the other white men in town started to show similar tendencies by pursuing the European way of life, that the chief completely stopped the supply of people and banished the whole lot of them from the village. All exiles became completely reliant on their European employers, and every single one of them became a slave. By then they were a self-sustainable community living on the outskirts of the village with all their offspring born into slavery.

  ‘The chief said Morgan’s betrayal had been the turning point for all future negotiations with Europeans. He had learned never to trust a white man again. He was also well aware of Morgan’s relationship with the commander of the Portuguese garrison and said ‘twas the only reason why he hadn’t acted. “To avoid unnecessary bloodshed,” he had said. The past seven years had been relatively peaceful, but he hadn’t forgotten how Morgan abused his generosity and brought corruption to his village and his people.

  ‘I told the chief of my plan to get rid of Morgan, and why, and swore him to secrecy with a blood oath, much to the horror and objection of his advisers and ngangas – your African equivalent. Yet it was something he partook in eagerly after I had told him that it was much more binding than a piece of paper would ever be and that I would consider him family after the deed was done. I don’t think he has any other white family,’ said Tristan laughingly. ‘While our blood was still drying and we swigged on calabashes of pombé to consummate our brotherhood, I asked him if his people could work Morgan’s plantations and factories but deal with a new buyer, in the form of Mr Cuthbert.’

  ‘Cuthbert?’

  ‘He was the obvious candidate, and the chief had no quarrels dealing with him. Anyway, buying and selling is Cuthbert’s forte. He already has all the connections, and with him, there are usually no ulterior motives. Although I do expect the chief will ask him for a blood oath.’ Both men grinned, imagining the horror on the merchant’s face.

  ‘I told him that killing Morgan and his cousin would have widespread repercussions and that I planned to make sure that his people were protected from both the garrison and the returning slavers which included the British mercenaries. I said I would give them our ten muskets and purchase a further twenty from Cuthbert. I told him I would arrange for people who looked at Morgan and his allies as a mutual foe to train them how to load and shoot the guns.

  ‘Then, the chief did something extraordinary. He asked his advisers to leave, then reached behind his back and presented me with a small carved wooden chest. He said it was filled with something that we white folk chased after, more than ivory, shells or even slaves, and served as a token of his appreciation, not just for the copious amounts of meat that they had received but for helping him return his village to its former glory.

  ‘’Twas filled to the brink with gold dust and nuggets.’

  ‘Gold?’

  ‘Aye, gold. He said that they often traded with other tribes from the mountains to the north. That was where it had come from, but he had no use for it. Can you imagine that? Then I told him that he had just purchased himself two cannons in the form of German culverins. Remember the two cannons in Cuthbert’s warehouse?’ Purvis nodded. ‘I told the chief that I would send word when they were ready to be moved to the north of the village. Late one night, we placed them inside the newly constructed wooden shelters, well-hidden out of sight. This way, the soldiers from the fort would get a nasty surprise if they ever decided to move against the village in the wake of the events that had occurred.

  ‘Next, with chief Ngò on board, I met with Cuthbert and outright asked him if he wanted to take over the tobacco and maize exports in that region, and ownership of all of Morgan’s properties, including the factories and warehouses. I laid bare my agreement with the chief who had agreed to a new arrangement with the future owner. At first, Cuthbert was a little bit reluctant, perhaps slightly overwhelmed, but I had already come to know that that was his nature and sweetened the pot with a small chest of gold in return for the culverins. In the end, it was an easy decision for him to make because, in one single night, he would become the most powerful trader along the whole of the Zaire River, with only one exception.’

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘That Embomma ceases to serve as a holding pen for slaves and that no slavery will be conducted under Mr Cuthbert’s watch and chief Ngò’s rule.’

  ‘That’s a tall order, lad. That whole region is just getting started with the export of slaves. You’ve heard the talk in the tavern. And why this sudden interest in slavery and the fate of African people? You owe them nothing, and neither do they owe you.’

  ‘Let’s just say I have heard and seen enough of it to know ‘tis the devil’s work. Anyhow, both men agreed to those terms, and their first order of business will be the immediate release of the slaves who are currently underway to Embomma, as soon as they arrive.’

  ‘I’d give anything to see the looks on those men’s faces when they walk into a town that’s no longer theirs.’ The doctor scratched the four-day-old itchy stubble on his chin. ‘And after you were done talking to Cuthbert?’

  ‘The next night, I secretly met with the Portuguese quartermaster at Cuthbert’s house. Silva immediately recognised me from our voyage upriver. There, in Cuthbert’s study, I carefully laid out my plan, which included taking him and his remaining men with us to Loanda to retake the Santa Verdade. I told him about the fate Isabella had suffered, my plan for the Morgans and my agreement with the chief. Out of his own, he then shared with us the grave concerns he held for his captain’s wellbeing, and that he considered Mr Silveira to be murdered. Let’s say the man turned fairly pale when I confirmed the latter, and when I told him that Mrs Silveira had suffered a similar fate at the hands of the same perpetrators, shock soon turned to rage. I didn’t even have to ask, for he immediately offered the services of his remaining men.

  As you already know, most of those men are on these two ships, but five had stayed behind to train the natives in firing muskets and then, of course, assist with the two bigger guns. I made sure that they had no quarrels going up against their fellow countrymen at the garrison, should events pan out that way. The way they saw it, the garrison was the only law in town, and the soldiers there did nothing to protect Mr Silveira and his family, probably due to their liaison with Morgan. I believe the word cona was used freely in our discussion with the quartermaster.

  ‘On the morning we left Embomma, they apprehended the remaining men at the factory. They had probably suffered the same fate as their leader, given that they were all guilty of the heinous crime of rape and probably had a hand in Mr Silveira’s disappearance. Cuthbert immediately took ownership of all of Morgan’s buildings, w
hich included the mansion of which only a shell remained. In its ashes lay any claim to land Morgan had had, and of course the man himself. Permanently removed from existence, that pathetic man’s reign and influence over Embomma are done.

  ‘I believe everything worked out superbly for all involved and that life will soon return to normal, except for the garrison commander, who will be pissing in his pants right now. That is everything, doc. Chief Ngò and Cuthbert will take Embomma into a new era, working side by side until the next tyrant arrives, I guess.’

  Purvis whistled, struggling to hide his astonishment. ‘And you say this all came to you in a vision? Although there’s a similarity, it’s most certainly far removed from my drawings or a stroke of insight that is normally related to one particular animal, insect or item.’

  ‘Definitely not. God is in the details. I knew what needed to be done, but exactly when and how took careful planning. And I had nothing but time at my disposal waiting for you lot to arrive. Then, of course, there is luck. We all need a little bit of luck sometimes.’

  Purvis shook his head. ‘Luck had nothing to do with it. You did well, lad. The Old Man would be proud, as are all of us.’ He remembered on several occasions the captain had spoken proudly of the young lad, sometimes in favour of his own blood. ‘I knew the Old Man said there was something special about you, but I reckon this time even his own belief in you would’ve been found wanting.’

  They sat in silence and pondered on the last six months, how unpredictable life could be, finding themselves back on the water once again.

  ‘And what’s our plan once we get to Loanda?’ asked Purvis.

  ‘I do have an idea but—‘

  ‘I have you in my sights, Conway!’ Tayler’s roar interrupted them. The initial gain his boat had made with the favourable wind had brought them to within thirty yards. But since then, Tristan’s boat had held its own.

  Tristan stood up and gave Tayler and Hanlon a flippant gesture. ‘And that’s where you will stay! Smelling the farts we leave in our wake!’ His flippant gesture was duly returned.

  Turning around, he yelled, ‘No more dragging our arses, lads. Every man needs to pull his weight! Let’s show these fuckers what real sailing looks like!’ Matondo gave his captain a bewildered look, uncertain how to translate what he had just heard. ‘Just use your own words, Matondo!’ Tristan shuffled back, traded places with the boatswain and took back control of the tiller. Purvis had taken up a seat close by, still looking for an answer.

  Matondo did not want to let his captain down, and he knew how much the Portuguese loved their rum. The wiry African jumped to his feet, grabbed onto the mainmast to steady himself and on an animated yet serious note, rambled off something in Portuguese, pointing to the sails, his genitals and buttocks on several occasions. Silence fell over the boat before the boatswain Delgado, followed by the rest of the men, burst into hysterical laughter, some of them doubling over, nearly causing the boat to tip over on its larboard side.

  Laughter is good. I can work with laughter, thought Tristan, dying to know what the negro had told them.

  ‘If my broken Portuguese serves me right,’ said Purvis, struggling to control himself, ‘your black friend just told the men that if they don’t sail this boat faster, you’re going to come around and bugger every single one of them!’

  Tristan could not help but join in the laughter. That ought to do the trick.

  ‘Coming back to your question, doc, the answer is yes, I have a plan. ‘Tis called the element of surprise. They have no idea we’re coming.’ Tristan steered the boat towards starboard, sailing closer to the wind, but at the same time forced Tayler to take slight evasive action and from the verbal barrage that followed, it was a tactic that did not sit well with the opposing helmsman.

  ‘I know that and so does every man on these boats. I meant once we get there,’ persevered Purvis.

  ‘In due course, doc. I don’t want to lose that element by unknowingly disclosing too much to overeager ears,’ he glanced in the direction of the rest of the crew, and the doctor immediately caught his drift. A spy in their midst was not unlikely.

  ‘We’re a man short up front, Mr Purvis.’ Tristan pointed to where Jabari and two Portuguese sailors were preparing a new staysail. A strong gust of wind had finally laid the old worn-out one to rest by ripping out its heart, a big hole right in the middle of the canvas.

  ‘Aye aye, sir!’ The doctor smiled and gave a mock salute. Pulling his jacket tight and his hat down, he made his way to the bow where he was quickly put to good use.

  Tristan adjusted the tiller once more and inadvertently tapped the bundle of canvas at his feet. Underneath the sail next to the doctor’s bag, a tiny keg filled with the Kikongo’s magical salve moved slightly, but next to it an even smaller wooden chest failed to budge. It held its ground firmly, laden with gold and jewels, but more importantly, heavy with hope.

  Chapter 27

  On the western horizon, a blood-red sky encompassed a bright orange sun that was setting fast, like it was trying its hardest to shed any remnants left from the day. The last of its rays painted the ocean purplish pink until that too became lost in the ever-present haze. Above the young man, the clear heavens predicted a fine, yet cool autumn evening while behind him, the threatening dark clouds had mercifully drifted further to the east. Only two nights ago, similar clouds, heavy with rain and hail, had battered Loanda and its inhabitants, flooding numerous buildings including the inn where he was staying.

  At the northern pier, he was at his usual post. The tide was coming in, a full moon was rising, and with it, his luck had changed as he hauled in one fish after the other. The round, silver fish reminded him of mackerel, and despite their many small bones, they tasted delicious. He could already smell the sweet aroma of their bubbling yellow fat dripping on the red-hot coals, and it did not take long for his stomach to voice its grumbling opinion.

  He glanced towards the two boats that were still moored about a mile off the coast. What on earth are they doing? He had a keen sense for things that were beyond usual. Small boats like shallops were better off seeking shelter closer to shore before the sky turned dark. Even on a pleasant night like this, the cold would come quickly out on the water, and on an open boat, its occupants would feel every bit of it in their bones. The mere thought made him shiver. Unless, of course, something sinister was afoot. The lookouts at both forts would have noticed the two small sailing boats approach and had probably ruled out any further investigation, for he had not seen any movement of troops. In Loanda, it was the large Dutch ships they feared the most for the Dutchmen had already taken their town once.

  Right at that moment, he saw men from both boats leaning over the bows as they started to retrieve the anchors. He packed up, turned up his cape and pulled down his hat but kept his fishing pole pointed at the water, painting a picture of a lonely fisherman busy minding his own business. However, he kept watching as the two boats got away under oars, setting a course for the beach just north of the pier and very close to where he was sitting. Crews expertly handled the shallow-drafted boats through the surf and before long, they drifted onto the sand. Both vessels were quickly turned around and dragged to higher ground, their anchors buried to allow for the incoming tide.

  The man who led the party onto the beach wore a brown buff coat and on his head, a wide-brimmed leather hat from under which a blond ponytail emerged, barely visible in the fading light. The African next to him was at least two heads taller and built like an outhouse, truly a freak of nature, if he had ever seen one. The rest of the men who followed looked like they were ready for a fight. He could only just make out the cutlass hilts and leather scabbards in the last light of the day. The group huddled together behind the sand dunes until darkness had almost set in.

  Not long after, through the faintest of light, he saw the blond-haired man leave. The young man grabbed his gear, left the fishing pole and with deft stealth, melted into obscurity and started following
the man, struggling to keep up. Somehow the blond stranger looked vaguely familiar. His movements were very particular as he dashed from one hiding spot to another, keeping in the shadows, almost impossible to track, silent and quick. Then it dawned on him. Can it be?

  Tristan made his way to the tavern closest to the docks. The Portuguese quartermaster, Silva, had told him where it was and the sound of merriment reached his ears long before he laid eyes on the place. Loanda was a place the Santa Verdade had frequently visited en route to the Cape and beyond. ‘To take on cargo or supplies only,’ Silva had insisted. ‘Sometimes the captain sold liquor to the taverns and inns. That was the extent of our business.’ He had said Silveira thought the town to be a corruptible place and no man had ever been allowed off the boat without the captain’s explicit permission.

  Sneaking around the side, Tristan found an open shutter which allowed him a glimpse inside. Luck was on his side for a heap of chopped firewood gave him a slightly elevated view and allowed him to see beyond the heads of those seated closest to the window.

  It was a rowdy bunch indeed. The tavern was filled with mostly Portuguese frequenters and surprisingly very few travellers. It was crammed – for every man seated, at least two were standing, with most of them leaning against the inside walls. The tables nearest to the window were filled with drink and food, and while most patrons ate, drank and rumoured merrily, a few drunken swine with slurry voices sang along with the music, which came courtesy of a loud-mouthed buxom lady on the opposite side of the room. Not far from her, bousy punters were trying their luck with the various games on offer, and by the looks on their faces, only a few of them had had good fortune.