While callous barmaids ignored pawing hands and squeezed through the huddle to deliver food and drink to tables, African women with thick thighs appeared to be fulfilling appetites of a different kind, and they travelled up and down the stairs in an almost constant stream, each time a different man by their sides. Nearby, a young brute who could no longer wait merely bent a girl over a table, lifted her dress and proceeded with business, delighting the table’s patrons and nearby onlookers, who cheered the fella on.
There was a general incited chaos about the place, brought about by evildoers that roamed inside, breathing in and out their foul air, unified in their depravity. The people that Tristan saw reminded him of Cuthbert’s words. ‘If ever I’ve seen the pinnacle of turpitude, then that would be the place. You will not find many friends there,’ the merchant had warned. Good thing I’m not here to make friends, thought Tristan, as he scoured the room once more.
A large group of men were drinking in the back of the tavern and over the music and continuous murmuring, Tristan could only just make out a loud shout or two. Then he recognised some of the faces. Silveira’s crew. Crouching, he moved towards the rear of the building where another shutter, only slightly ajar, gave him a glimpse inside. He saw immediately what he was looking for. The description he had been given suited the man situated in the corner to a T. Dented cheeks, crooked nose, thin colourless lips and unkempt, black hair that protruded from the item that had attracted Tristan’s attention in the first place – a black hat with red ostrich plumes. The man was supposedly the leader of the deserters and, given he was seated right in the middle of the group as well as how those around him vied for his attention, it certainly appeared that way.
It looked like most of the renegades were here, which meant a skeleton crew would have remained on the Santa Verdade. They could take her easily and be halfway to the Cape come dawn, well before a sword could be drawn, but Tristan knew that the crew who had followed him here was hungry for revenge. Their bellies were burning, and he was not going to deny them the justice they so desperately sought.
Tristan had seen enough and went back the same way he had come. Slipping around the outside walls of the church, he only had one more road to cross before he would reach the mill and last of the warehouses. From there he could make a beeline for the deserted docks, then the beach, and head north to rejoin his men. His thoughts started drifting towards Isabella. He wondered what she was busying herself with at this hour, if she was in good health, if she was thinking of him as much as he did of her. Cuthbert had given him a rudimentary map, but he had already decided that there was no time tonight. Dangerous and unknown circumstances posed too great a risk. He would slip back into town one night after the dust had settled and whisk her away. It was a hard decision, but the right one. The only peace of mind came from Cuthbert’s letter – her letter – safely tucked away in his inside pocket.
Rounding the first warehouse, Tristan felt the point of a dagger in his ribs before he felt and smelled the fishy hand on his shoulder. Instinctively his hand reached inside his jacket, slowly searching out his stiletto so not to alert his attacker. It had to be quick and quiet. The hand on his shoulder suddenly dropped down, reached around and pressed his arm into his side, preventing him from getting to his blade.
‘Don’t try anything else.’
The man’s voice sounded vaguely familiar. His confused brain struggled to identify the owner while it was still running through various ways to neutralise his attacker.
‘You’ve never struck me as the slipshod kind. Perhaps Africa has made you a lazy clod, brother.’
Tristan’s mind cleared instantly. With no regard for his safety, he broke free of the grip and jumped around to stare at the man with the Irish brogue, but darkness robbed him of the opportunity. Together they stepped out from underneath the warehouse’s overhang into what little light was provided by the stars and a quarter moon.
‘Finn!?’
‘Aye, ya bugger, who else? Or were you expecting company of the womanish kind at this hour?’
‘What in God’s name…how did you find me?’ Tristan grabbed his friend by the shoulder and searched out his hand, shaking it with a firm grip.
‘Well, people reckon us Irish are born lucky bastards, but this time I must confess, I think ‘twas you who’s found me.’
Tristan’s mind was reeling with emotions and questions. Having an ale in the tavern and conversing with his long-lost friend suddenly seemed a much more fitting choice to spend the rest of his evening.
Finn sensed his dilemma. ‘Before we get carried away, I think you better head back to your friends and continue with whatever ‘tis you fellas came here to do in the first place.’
‘Come with,’ said Tristan. ‘Come with and listen to what I’m going to tell the men waiting behind those dunes. Then decide if you want to join us.’
‘I’m but a lowly fisherman nowadays, my friend. I’ve seen the weapons those men carry. If ‘tis another fighter you’re after, I fear it’s been a while since I’ve swung a weapon, in combat or practice.’
‘But I bet you’re still handy with that knife of yours?’
‘Aye. That I am.’
‘Then let’s go. Nothing like a good fight to sharpen you up.’
‘Alright then,’ laughed Finn, without a moment’s hesitance. After months of searching for his friend, he was never going to say no.
Even though the docks were deserted, they did not take any chances and continued to hug the shadows. Side by side they moved, darting in and out of dark corners, just as they had done so many times, so many years ago.
A few minutes later the two black specks crossed the white dunes, nearly landing themselves in a duel with the sentries just beyond the crest. The two Portuguese sailors were caught off-guard when the two men suddenly overran them. Tempers and unsettled nerves were quickly calmed before swords could be properly drawn. At the base of the dune, the men were quick to surround their captain and the newcomer to satisfy their curiosity but also to learn what the night had in store for them.
In the faint light of Loanda’s most northern beach, Tristan introduced Finn Sullivan to Silva and his Portuguese crew first, but when he got to his closest of friends, Jabari had the jump on him with the African’s hand engulfing Finn’s.
‘I, Jabari, am already indebted to you, Fenn Sulleven. Without your boat and food, Tresten and I would’ve been dead men for sure. Thank you! I…we both owe our lives to you.’
Finn only saw a towering blackness and two white eyes staring at him from above, but the African’s smiling white teeth put him at ease. ‘Thank you, Jabari.’ He tried to let go of the man’s hand but Jabari kept his imprisoned.
‘Fate has brought you to us at a good time. I shall say a prayer to the ancestors for you tonight.’
‘Thank you again.’ This time Finn managed to wriggle his hand out of the big man’s paw.
Next up was Hanlon, who kept it short. ‘Any friend of Tristan’s is a friend of ours. Welcome, lad!’ A firm handshake and a reassuring hand on the shoulder made Finn take an immediate liking to the man.
The doctor also shook the recruit’s hand, extending a hearty welcome, but as always, it was Tayler who had the most to say. ‘I’m not a big fan of the Irish, but in your case, I will make an exception, but only because you’re a mate of the captain and he couldn’t shut up about his friend for the past five years.’
Finn quickly identified him as the brawn-without-brain man of the pack and took the comment for what it was. ‘Thank you, I guess.’
‘Aye, I’m only yanking your chain, laddie. I’m a Scot, but me ma, God rest her soul, was of good Irish stock.’
‘You’re part Irish?’ Hanlon’s surprise was genuine. ‘Now isn’t that a secret conveniently forgotten over the years, and certainly one that explains a lot of your indignant behaviour! All of these years, I thought you were just born a stubborn ass. Now I have to hear that you are actually a stubborn cross-bred ass!’<
br />
The men around them, including those who were able to follow the British tongues, burst out with laughter. This was soon followed by loud hushes, and their laughter quickly made way for nervous chuckles as eyes scaled the dunes for any trouble afoot.
‘Aye. This ole fella’s gotten all sort of blood coursing through his veins.’ Nodding to himself, Tayler added gleefully, ‘A finer bastard you will not find.’
After a few more chuckles, silence quickly descended on the group once more, but Tristan did not mind. The men needed laughter. The Old Man always said it was a good antidote for the nerves when one found oneself on the verge of battle. ‘It eradicates the pensiveness that makes a brooding man contemplate the meaning of war too much and builds comradery as no magic potion could.’ Tristan could still hear his words, like the Old Man was standing next to him. Not wasting any more time, Tristan crouched down and explained his plan to those around him.
Finn listened intently, but his mind briefly jumped back in time, remembering those mornings they had all huddled around the wood fire at the back of his father’s shop, warming their hands and discussing the deliveries for the day. Tristan’s attention to detail had not wavered over the years. He was still reminiscing when the words Santa Verdade brought him back to the present.
‘Did you say the Santa Verdade?’
‘Aye.’
‘Well, there go my travel plans. I arranged passage to Embomma with the ship’s captain a few nights ago. Fortunately, I don’t need them anymore.’ Finn pointed towards the open water. ‘The ship is moored about seven hundred yards southeast of the docks.’
‘Aye, we saw it on our way in. Better thank your lucky stars then. They probably would’ve slit your throat at the earliest opportunity and let the crocodiles feed on your corpse. I’ll explain everything later.’
When Tristan was done and everybody was aware of what they needed to do, the group was silent. They all contemplated the challenge that awaited them for they now found themselves at that place where the burning fuse nearly touched the black powder. It was the doctor who finally spoke up, having decided to bring up a more personal matter. ‘What about Isabella, lad? Are you still leaving her behind?’
‘I’ll come back for her, doc. ‘Tis not my first choice with everything else going on—‘
‘Isabella?’ Finn interjected. ‘Ha! I knew there was a lass involved somewhere.’
‘As I said, I’ll explain everything later. She’s the daughter of the man whose life we’re about to avenge and whose ship we’re about to reclaim.’ Then it suddenly occurred to Tristan. ‘How long have you been here?’
‘In Loanda? A few weeks. Perhaps little over a month.’
‘And have you seen a woman arrive during that time, possibly in a somewhat obscure circumstance, in such a way that she didn’t want to be seen?’ asked Tristan excitedly, for he remembered Finn’s keen eyes.
‘Aye. I did see just that. A few days after I had arrived. One evening, under cover of darkness, a couple of Dutchmen dropped off a lass. A young woman. ‘Twas close to where you’ve beached tonight. She definitely didn’t want anybody else to know that she’d arrived. Covered herself up and everything.’
‘Good God, that must be her!’ cried Hanlon, unable to contain himself.
‘I know where she’s staying too. I lodge at an inn not too far from here, and she lives just down the road from where I am.’ Finn pointed in the direction of the house. ‘To get there is probably about a fifteen-minute brisk walk from here.’
The news that Isabella was still here, that she was not only out of harm’s way but that she had been watched over by his childhood friend made Tristan feel like the most fortunate man in the world, but there was no time to relish the moment. ‘Slight change in plans. Matondo!’
The African scurried to where his captain was waiting. ‘Sir?’
Tristan signalled for him to wait while he had a quick word with Silva, the Portuguese quartermaster, repeating the specific words that he had obtained from the man, a few times, as to commit them to memory. Escravo soltos.
‘Finn, you take this man with you. Find the girl, mention my name and tell her we’re leaving tonight. Matondo here speaks fluent Portuguese. Use him if you run into any trouble. And if anyone asks, he is an escravo soltos – free slave. He can take Isabella to the boats, but I need you back at the tavern.’ Not waiting for an answer, Tristan turned his attention to the African. ‘Matondo, you bring the woman back here and guard her with your life, understood?’
‘Yes, sir!’
When Tristan was done, the group immediately started walking towards the docks while two men remained behind to guard the boats. At the docks, they turned left and head straight into town. Tristan set a fast pace, for stealth was not an option for a group this large. Quickly, yet as quietly as possible, the men followed with a vengeful purpose evident in their strides. Bringing up the rear, Hanlon and Tayler were still bickering about Tayler’s Irish heritage until Hanlon finally conceded that with a surname like Hanlon, he too must have some Irish blood coursing through his veins.
Walking next to Tristan, the doctor was still coming to grips with his captain’s plan. ‘Are you sure this is the best way to go about it?’
‘’Tis the only way.’
‘A harebrained plan it certainly seems like, or perhaps therewithin lies its genius,’ puffed Purvis.
‘Aye. ‘Tis what a clever man once taught me. Besides, the element of surprise, doc, you’ve forgotten about the element of surprise. By now, our opponents are well and truly mellowed by the pombé or whatever the hell ‘tis they drink in these parts. But I’m afraid the chance of this fight coming to fruition without a proper shedding of blood is very slim indeed. This is a Portuguese town after all, and they’d most probably protect their own, even the low-life scum that we’re seeking out. Cuthbert has told me that the Portuguese governor here does not take kindly to strangers mingling in his town’s affairs, so quickly in and quickly out. That’s our only chance before the alarm is raised and troops from both forts descend on us.’
Purvis caressed the hilt of his cutlass. The cool steel had a menacing feel to it. It had been a while, and he wondered if he would still remember how. Just then Tristan picked up the pace some more, and he quickly forgot about his potential quandary, lengthening his strides to keep up. A few minutes later, not far from the tavern, Finn and Matondo peeled away from the group and headed southeast towards the inn. Slowly their plan was set in motion.
The six men that burst through the tavern’s door drew very little attention, apart from a few peasants who were seated close to the exit, such was the riotousness of the place. That was until Tayler lifted his arm and discharged a pistol into the ceiling. A few anxious screams followed the loud bang before patrons stopped mid-drink and mid-sentence, slowly putting down their mugs. After the songstress, who had been lost in her own song about a distant lover, had quieted down, every eye in the packed tavern regarded the six intruders in stunned silence, riddled with confusion and anticipation.
Tristan took a step forwards, closer to the centre of the room which was amply lit by lanterns fixed against the wooden pillars. ‘Gentlemen. Ladies. We shan’t take up much of your time. We’re here to deliver justice to the men who killed Captain Francesco Silveira, the very same men who then stole his ship, the Santa Verdade, which is now anchored in the bay outside. Here in my right hand is the deed to the ship. It was taken from the man who orchestrated this heinous crime.’
The quartermaster translated, spitting out every word with venom, as he eyed the betrayers, his fellow shipmen, on the far side of the room.
‘If you have not taken part in this despicable act, then now’s the time to take your leave, or suffer the fate we’ve brought with us tonight.’
Again, the quartermaster repeated Tristan’s words. People remained seated while others stood frozen on the spot. ‘Agora! Agora!’ he boomed. With the man’s voice still echoing in the British men’s ears, there wa
s no doubt in their minds why Silveira had made him his quartermaster. His voice could shake the trees.
Trays, chairs and crockery went flying as barmaids, whores, sailors and peasants fled the tavern, most of them heading for the main exit. Those who could not wait their turn jumped through opened shutters, which allowed the fresh sea breeze to whirl through the warm noisome interior.
All the time while the tavern was clearing, Tristan kept his eyes trained on the man with the black hat. The traitor remained seated, his face stuck between a grin and a grimace, a portrait of pure menace. He, in turn, held Tristan’s gaze, assessing his adversary. Then he turned to the large bald man to his right and said something which caused the big man and those around his table to snicker, lapping up their captain’s words like the loyal dogs they were.
‘What did he say?’ Tristan asked Silva.
‘The pig said that the British man can’t count. It may be that his mother had dropped him on his head when he was a baby.’
Tristan looked around, taking in his surroundings. The tavern suddenly seemed like an empty warehouse, albeit one with goods strewn all over its floor. The bartender had remained behind his counter and was watching proceedings closely, unsure what to make of the situation. Quite possibly the man had already sent for help, and if not, surely those who had fled would attract attention, or even run straight to the garrison.
At least forty men had remained behind. The British men recognised some of the faces from the first time they had sailed the Santa Verdade up the Zaire River. Tristan kept his emotions in check. It was exactly as he had feared. The culprits had recruited new members, and he could sense that they knew they had the upper hand. Some of the more intoxicated sailors were getting ready to pounce and tear apart those who had dared to challenge them.
The man with the black hat stood up casually and removed his hat. A freshly healed pink scar, about the width of a fingernail, ran parallel with his hairline. He addressed the British, sending dribbles of spit and ale flying through the air as he spat out the words. Upon finishing, he took up his seat once more, and his men jeered, telling the strangers in no uncertain terms that they did not belong.
The Fire Within Page 48