The Fire Within

by Samuel T Clayton

  ‘Sir, he says you should hand him the deed and that we should go back to our whoring mothers.’ The quartermaster could not help but smile. ‘He again asked if you can count and added that if the deed isn’t on the table in front of him by the time he finishes his drink that he would personally cut out your tongue and stick your head on a spike outside the city walls with a placard that reads “Guilty of tattling, executed for the murder of Francesco Silveira and attempted thievery of the Santa Verdade”.’

  Tristan’s sardonic laugh caused some consternation in the opposite corner of the tavern. ‘Cut out my tongue and put my head on a spike, you say? Surely that’s a tad barbaric for a civilised nation such as yours, Mr Silva? Tell him that.’ Tristan gestured at his opponent. ‘Then ask him, not if but when he gets buried before the sun goes down tomorrow, if he thinks his tongue would still be intact?’ Tristan leaned in closer. ‘Then you ask that fucker what they did with the Silveiras’ bodies. ‘Tis the least they can tell us before they all die.’

  The quartermaster gave him a wry smile, wondering how the young man managed to keep so calm when the tension was so thick, you could cut it with a blunt knife. He repeated the words and the accusation took hold with immediate effect as it wiped the grin from the enemy captain’s face.

  Tristan knew that the time for battle was drawing closer. He also knew what was going through his adversary’s mind. A battle where you outnumbered the enemy might always seem the easiest of fights to win, yet what you seek and what you find might not always be the same. It was another lesson Tristan had learned from the Old Man, who for once had not used a naval battle to illustrate his point but had given Tristan the example of a Japanese samurai battle that took place in the late 16th century. It was fought by a man called Oda Nobunaga. And the man in the black hat, filled with drunken bravado, was about to find out exactly what had happened on that fateful day.

  Tristan had been patient long enough and turned to the quartermaster. ‘Looks like he’s not going to extend us the courtesy. Bring ‘em in.’ Silva did an about-turn and left the building. Mere seconds later, he returned and was soon followed by the rest of the crew. Twenty-one men came sprawling through the tavern’s doors into the vast empty space the fled patrons had left. They continued to line the walls until they were spread out on both sides in a single file. This got the captain’s attention for he was sitting upright now but still with a smirk on his face, knowing that his men were up for a fight. And more importantly, he still outnumbered his foe.

  ‘Ready your men, Mr Silva. Our foe is about to finish his drink,’ mumbled Tristan.

  After Silva had given the signal in what the enemy captain had perceived was the retrieval of the deed, Tristan pulled out the first of his two pistols from the inside of his jacket and in one fluid motion aimed and squeezed the trigger. The projectile shattered the mug in the captain’s hand and sent its contents spilling across the table, soaking the man’s breeches and the bottom of his shirt. The man to his right was not so lucky, clutching his face and screaming in agony, as he tried to scratch the embedded shard from his bloodied left eye.

  The glowering captain flew up, putting his hand on his cutlass. At that same moment, the tavern doors flew open and from the darkness emerged a redheaded man who caused even the one-eyed man to stop his whining as he stared at the spectacle.

  Finn stood in the frame. His auburn hair, blown into all directions, created a halo around his freckled face. While all eyes were on him, he glanced across the room, chest heaving, still wondering how his circumstances had changed so quickly. One moment he was fishing peacefully, minding his own business, and the next, he had walked into God-knows-what. The axe that he had chopped wood with at the inn rested on his right shoulder and made him look more like a shantyman who had accidentally stumbled into the wrong place at the wrong time.

  ‘An axe? You brought an axe?’ asked Tristan facetiously.

  ‘What the fuck did you think I was gonna bring? ‘Twas the only weapon I could lay my hands on!’ Finn reached inside his jacket and retrieved his dagger – the same one Tristan had felt in his ribs only moments earlier – and twirled it around his thumb a couple of times. ‘And my lady, of course, sleeps close to my heart every single night. I can still handle her pretty well.’ He looked at Tristan rather smugly. ‘You’re welcome, by the way, for your lady friend is on her way to the boats as we speak.’

  Tristan smiled, relieved to know that everything was slowly falling into place. ‘Aye, ‘tis great to see again, you Irish bastard. And the axe and the red hair do cut a frightening figure. Even if it only made for a dramatic entrance, it certainly helped to make those bastards feel a bit apprehensive. “Successfully intimidating your enemy is half the battle won”, a wise old man once told me. Look at their unnerved faces. They have no idea what to make of you.’ Tristan grinned at his adversaries. ‘Perhaps the measly fisherman could be of good use after all.’

  ‘Ah, sod off!’

  There was no time left for further repartee. The Portuguese captain, who had recognised Finn the moment he walked in, had enough of standing around and with rancorous shouting ordered his men to attack. Under loud cursing, they drew their cutlasses and pushed each other out of the way to get to the enemy first, thrashing tables and chairs.

  ‘Now!’ Tristan yelled above all the commotion.

  At one fell swoop, twenty-six men pulled pistols from the inside of their coats and unleashed an eardrum-bursting salvo into the approaching bundle. Blindness, in the form of acrid smoke, encompassed the gunmen, and although their ears rang, they could hear the agonising cries of pain and the dull thuds of enemy bodies falling to the plank floor. Those who followed tripped and fell over the bullet-ridden corpses of their fallen comrades, adding to the chaos.

  Tristan’s men immediately discarded their pistols and drew their cutlasses, waiting for the advancing enemy. When most of the smoke had cleared, blown out of the open windows, they could see that the odds were now firmly in their favour.

  ‘Atacar! Matar! Matar!’ It was the quartermaster next to Tristan who gave the order to attack and kill, and with their lust for blood at boiling point, his men lunged themselves at the approaching enemy, detestation written on their faces as the fate that had befallen their late commander still burned fresh in their memories.

  Tristan pulled out his stiletto, and with cutlass in the other hand, he waited. Either side of him, his British companions yelled at the top of their lungs as they too charged at their Portuguese opponents. The clank of metal, copious amounts of swearing, and cries of war and agony quickly filled the tavern as the groups of men engaged each other.

  It was the big bald man who burst through the ranks, heading straight for Tristan. The curved scimitar he wielded looked like a toy in his massive hands. The big brawler grimaced as he swung the heavy blade at Tristan’s head, a blow which would have decapitated him for sure had he still been there. Unfortunately for the big man, Tristan saw the blow coming, ducked and used the man’s momentum to move past him, opening the right side of his body. The stiletto entered through the ribs two inches below the armpit and punctured the man’s lungs before he even knew what had happened. As he turned around to search out the young man once more, he suddenly felt the pain in his side, followed by shortness of breath. Confused, he clutched his side and looked at his bloodied hand. Then he coughed, felt the weird taste in his mouth and saw the blood on the back of his hand after he had wiped his lips.

  Tristan knew what would follow – a desperate blow to end it all. He stood still, waiting for the man to regain his senses but then out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of his crew in trouble.

  One of his men’s opponents had disarmed him, and while the young man treaded backwards, he fell over one of the many bodies that riddled the floor. Tristan left the big man and jumped in front of the approaching enemy, just in time to block the man’s thrust that would have brought certain death. Behind him, the young Portuguese man scurried to his feet and re
armed himself with a cutlass from the floor. Tristan let his new opponent launch the first parry, blocking each blow with fast and precise strikes of his own. His opponent got angry and reckless, his blows more desperate and when one violent thrust went flying harmlessly past, Tristan stepped to the side and slashed the back of the man’s legs causing him to fall to his knees. The young man stepped up, spat in his opponent’s face and drove the blade through his heart. He thanked Tristan with a quick nod and a brief smile, and turned around to continue the fight. Then Tristan heard someone call his name. It sounded urgent. The big man!

  When Tristan swung around, the scimitar was already on its way, and with both gnarled hands on its grip, it was coming hard and fast. Tristan dropped to his left knee, crossed the stiletto and cutlass, and tilted his head to the side, looking up at the oncoming blade and hoping for the best.

  From afar, a lopsided axe spun slowly through the air. It was thrown by a strong, but more importantly, an accurate arm. Finn was hoping to hit the man, to distract him at the least. His surprise, though, was far greater than Tristan’s when the top corner of steel butt buried itself in the side of the bald man’s head, cracking his skull and causing instantaneous death. Tristan easily captured the weakened blow in his makeshift cross and, while breathing a sigh of relief, he watched as the huge body hastily tumbled to the ground like a lump of lead.

  Finn came rushing over, jumping over bodies and chairs before he retrieved his axe. His hair a tangled red mess, axe and dagger dripping with blood, he looked every part the fishmonger or ruthless killer. ‘What were you saying about my weapon of choice?’ he grinned from ear to ear.

  ‘Well, it looks like you’re struggling to find the sharp end. And I did have it under control,’ countered Tristan, but not without a simper.

  ‘Sure, you had. Let’s call it even – me not getting fed to the crocodiles, and you not getting your head split open.’

  ‘Agreed. Perhaps you’d better put it to further use and get this done. We need to get going before reinforcements arrive or God forbid, troops from the garrisons.’

  Tristan watched on as the smiling Irishman threw himself straight into the thickest part of the skirmish, centred right in the middle of the tavern. Most of the enemy crew was surrounded by Tristan’s men, who were slowly tightening the noose. Removed from the main battle, the deserters’ captain and two of his companions were backed up in the corner where they were originally seated. Fighting them with their backs to Tristan were three men from his Portuguese crew and the doctor. With the enemy keeping the group at bay, it was a stalemate, a term that the barber had often used during their training session – “’Tis a circumstance which usually calls for something special.”

  Tristan rushed to their aid. While he ran, he took in the scene in front of him, and a plan unfolded in his head. Everything around him went silent as his focus shifted to execution. A chair at the nearby table lined up with a slight gap between two of his men. Travelling at full speed, Tristan hit the chair with his right foot and launched himself high up into the air. His momentum carried him flying through the gap, catching all seven combatants by surprise. The enemy captain lifted his cutlass in an attempted thrust at the flying man, but it was easily dealt with a forceful block. At the same time, with downward force and gravity’s assistance, Tristan buried his stiletto in the side of the man’s neck before he crashed into him with his full body weight.

  The two men next to their fallen captain stood dumbstruck and with their guards down, they too were soon run through by cutlasses. Tristan picked himself up and quickly thrust his stiletto through the captain’s throat, severing his spine and sparing the man a slow, agonising death. As he got up and turned around, he faced his comrades, their faces riddled with disbelief.

  ‘Gadzooks! Do you have no self-preservation?’ asked Purvis, shaking his head while the wide-eyed Portuguese combatants at his side affirmed his astonishment.

  ‘You know me better than that, doc. Besides, you lot had them well and truly cornered and distracted. Otherwise, my idea would not have worked.’

  ‘But still,’ – the learned man scratched his head – ‘rather you than me.’

  Tristan knew this was not the time to stand idle, least of all for foolish prattle. ‘Let’s finish this. We need to get going.’ The three men headed towards the middle of the tavern where the fighting had started to dwindle. Before Tristan joined them, he glanced at the fallen captain once more and spotted a golden object protruding from underneath the man’s jacket. With the tip of his boot, he pushed the cloth to the side and felt his heart skip a beat. Isabella’s dagger. He stooped and quickly grabbed the knife, still in its gilded sheath, and pushed it into his waistband. Now was not the time to ponder, but he still wondered if the man at his feet had been there on the night.

  Behind him, the fighting had ground to a halt. The last enemy standing had been dispatched by Jabari’s ceremonial sword. The men cheered and slapped each other on the back amidst a scene which could only be described as a massacre. Bodies lay strewn across the floor, in some places in small heaps. Blood flowed freely, covering and seeping through the plank floor. A few sailors walked around, finishing off the mortally wounded. Against the nearest wall, Purvis had already begun treating the wounded, binding gashes and making slings from dead men’s clothing.

  Tristan sought out the quartermaster and found the man sitting down at a table. Using his teeth and left hand, Silva was trying to tie a piece of cloth around his right upper arm to staunch the blood flow from a deep cut. ‘We need to get going. Order your men to retreat to the boats.’ Tristan quickly stepped in and finished tying the knot for the man. ‘Now.’

  Everywhere around them, exhausted men were leaning on swords, tables and chairs, but amidst the tiredness, a sense of justification that was brought on by sweet victory had expelled the once-evil presence, and for the moment, it roamed freely around the room. It put smiles on faces for it was just as intoxicating as a good night’s guzzling as it was invigorating as a good night’s sleep, and within the confinement of the tavern’s walls, the fatigue from two days’ relentless sailing that had culminated in a fierce battle slowly melted away as their vindictive journey reached its conclusion.

  Time for celebration there was not, and as soon as Silva gave the order, gratification and relief quickly made way for common sense as the men started to realise that any further delay might cause them to fight another battle. In high spirits, they started exiting the building with the injured relying on the help of their friends. The bodies of their four fallen comrades were taken with, deserving of a better burial then what they would receive in this wretched place.

  Finn and Jabari joined Tristan and the doctor. The Irishman and African were still short of breath.

  ‘Hanlon and Tayler?’ enquired Tristan.

  ‘They left with the others.’

  ‘Good. You men make sure that everyone gets on those boats. No one gets left behind. Doc, you continue treating the wounded. And get those boats in the water so long. Don’t wait for me. I have a small matter to take care of, but I’ll be there on time.’ With that, Tristan walked towards the counter where he found the taverner. Crouched down and hands over his ears, the man had terror written all over his face.

  When he saw Tristan leaning over the counter, the man cowered further into his corner.

  ‘Do you understand English, sir?’

  An instantaneous nod accompanied the frightened man’s reply. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Please get up.’ The man got up quickly and watched the exodus taking place behind Tristan’s back and the carnage that they had left behind. Tristan snapped his fingers to get the man’s attention and reached into his pocket. The frightened man immediately took a step backwards, bumped into bottles of liquor and wine behind him and caused a few to fall to the floor, sending glass and liquid flying all over the place. ‘No! No!’ Tristan held up his hand to calm the man down. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’ He pulled out a purse with coin
s and put it on the counter. ‘This is for the damage to your place, sir. Understand?’ With an uncertain nod, the man confirmed his understanding, but it was quickly followed by a puzzled look. Tristan opened the purse and shook out its jingling contents on the counter. He saw the instant surprise. Moments earlier, the man had been happy to walk away with his life intact, yet right now, he was getting a far better deal than he could ever have hoped for.

  ‘Now you need to listen carefully. The dead men lying here killed an innocent man, a merchant by the name of Francesco Silveira – a good man who had frequented your town quite regularly. Maybe you’ve even seen him in here. These bastards killed his wife too. Then the same scum stole his ship while other associates of theirs raped his daughter and ransacked their home, causing the daughter to flee for her life.

  ‘Irrespective of what you may hear or what you have been told, that is the truth, and ‘tis imperative to me that you comprehend that. This money here is for you, not only to fix up your place but also to make sure that every traveller who walks through those doors gets to know the truth about what happened here tonight.’ Tristan leaned in closer. ‘And that any man who speaks otherwise will suffer the same fate as those lying on the floor behind me.’

  Hearing the calmness in his voice, the taverner knew that the young man meant every word he had uttered and for a moment contemplated leaving the purse where it stood, for the request seemed damn nigh impossible. But what the young man did not know was that he had already learned about the fate that had befallen the Silveiras. It was part of a taverner’s trade to know these things, be it through reason or rumour. As luck would have it, he had known Francesco Silveira very well and had always held both the trader and his liquor in high regard, so out of principle, he took the money and made a silent promise to himself and to God, who had saved his life tonight, to uphold the young man’s request. ‘Who shall I say was responsible for all of this?’