The Fire Within

by Samuel T Clayton

  Tristan knew that to be associated by name would make him a target for many of those who would be dearly impacted by tonight’s incident. Right then, a brilliant idea sprang to mind. ‘You tell them Nyegere did this. All of this.’ Why not give the people an illusion, a phantom to chase?

  ‘Nyegere? Who or what on earth is that?’

  ‘The man who has orchestrated this merciless deed, bringing justice to miscreants such as these. Be certain to tell that to every living soul that you encounter.’

  ‘And where can they find him?’ The man called after Tristan, who was already halfway to the door.

  ‘Tell them he will find them. Nyegere will find them, as sure as you have borne witness to tonight’s event.’ With that, Tristan was gone, leaving the taverner still standing behind his counter.

  The man picked up a bottle and filled a mug to the brink. While he sipped his drink and looked at the carnage within, he wondered if this was a crazy nightmare from which he would soon awaken. Nyegere, he thought.

  Tristan caught up with the stragglers just north of the docks. Jabari and Finn made up the rear, making sure their captain’s orders were followed as they drove the men in front of them like a herd of cattle. The northern fort was still enshrined in darkness but further to the south, out on the point and high up on a hill, the walls of the main fort were well alit by signal fires. The gunshots would have drawn the nosiest of the townspeople by now, and Tristan knew it would only be a matter of time before the sentries of the northern fort would act and sound the alarm.

  ‘Come on, get a move on!’ He grabbed a hobbling sailor next to him by the arm, wrapped it around his neck and started dragging the man to where the two boats were waiting.

  The rest of the group picked up the pace, and when they got to the beach, Tristan was pleased to find that Hanlon, Tayler and a few sailors had already pushed one boat into the calm water and were busy working on the second one. He searched for Isabella, but she was nowhere to be seen. ‘Get all the wounded in that boat!’ Tristan pointed to the first boat, which bobbed gently on the small waves, enshrined in the bright moonlight. The quartermaster repeated his order with even more urgency.

  When Tristan turned around, Isabella was right on top of him, falling into his arms, nearly knocking him off his feet. He wrapped her up tightly and for a moment, time and space stood still. Gone was the ever-present, all-encompassing reality. It was only the two of them, alone, on a beach, dimly lit by moonlight, in the middle of nowhere, safe, out of reach, away from the turmoil. They cherished it, prolonged it, for as long as they could.

  Isabella was the one who eventually broke the silence. ‘I—‘

  ‘Shhh. Hush now.’ Tristan could sense she found comfort in his voice. ‘There will be enough time to talk later. Right now, just let me hold you, for we need to leave soon.’ Tristan felt the movement of her head against his chest as she nodded. Her hair blew into his face, and he drank in her essence.

  From nearby, Finn watched the couple with a twang of envy, wishing he could have the same. However, his envy was short-lived when he saw Tristan’s face, for even in what little light there was, the joy and affection were evident, and he silently relished in their happiness.

  Tristan led Isabella to the boat with the wounded and helped her on board. She gripped his hand, almost afraid to let go, but a reassuring smile put her at ease. Soon both boats were launched and headed straight for the caravel where, under cover of darkness, the men scaled the ladders and swarmed the Santa Verdade. They dispatched of the few remaining crew members in mere minutes, without firing a single shot.

  For the first time in his life, Tristan Conway took command of a ship, yet in his own mind, he was just another sailor, albeit one who gave the orders. Even though they were short-handed, the sailors needed little encouragement, and they quickly started going about their business, preparing to get the vessel underway.

  ‘Anchors aweigh, sir.’

  Tristan sighed upon hearing those words, and it felt like a knot had untied itself on his insides.

  It was still the same day, but late at night, when the Santa Verdade, under the power of oar and assisted by an outgoing tide, made her way out of Loanda bay. Slowly and stealthily, the crew manoeuvred the ship to open water, away from the other vessels moored inside the bay and the danger posed by the surrounding forts.

  The mood on the ship mimicked the calmness of the ocean – a serenity that could only ever follow a violent storm. Some felt guilt, with the killing of long-time comrades weighing heavier on their minds than they had anticipated. Others were no longer dwelling on the past but wondered instead what the future might hold.

  On the edge of the bay from the quarterdeck above, the man who held that future in his hands gave his first order. ‘Set the sails!’ The instruction travelled down the rude chain of command which had established itself. The Portuguese crew had taken the lead, and the British men filled in where the crew was short-handed. ‘Set a course for northwest!’

  Silva repeated his order, yelling it down the hatch to the helmsmen below. No sooner had the big white canvasses been unfurled in the moonlight than the first cannon from the northern fort boomed. They had timed their run perfectly for they were already out of range and the twelve-pound iron ball splashed harmlessly into the dark ocean about three hundred yards off the starboard, perfectly in line with their ship. Six more cannons flashed, followed by loud roars that carried over the water but to the depths, their lethal projectiles sank.

  Outside the bay on the exposed water, where a cold and steady onshore sea breeze was blowing, Tristan changed course and headed due south. While he had the Cape of Good Hope and a contact of Cuthbert’s in mind, it was much less of a concern. Putting distance between themselves and any would-be pursuers was at the forefront of his mind.

  Next to Tristan, seemingly a bit out of place, stood Finn, keeping an eye on the men below who went about their tasks without a rush but with speedy fluency. Even in the faint light, the Irishman could see that this crew was vastly different from the ones he had travelled with down the coast. They reminded him of a watch where all the parts not just fitted perfectly but worked together effortlessly, all to turn that one hand.

  Tristan watched the admiration on his face. ‘No chaff on this boat, my friend, only wheat. I have seen them sail, a few times now, and you would struggle to find a better crew.’

  Finn nodded before turning his attention to his long-lost friend. ‘So you’re a captain now?’

  ‘Aye. Not a title I have bestowed on myself but rather one imparted by the circumstances.’

  ‘Nonetheless, a captain you are, and it falls well on the ear too. Captain Tristan Conway.’ Finn savoured it as one would do with a well-brewed ale. ‘Years of wondering what had happened to you and then, well, here you are. And down below you have a beautiful lass waiting for you. I am truly happy for you.’

  ‘Not a night goes by when I don’t count my blessings. ‘Tis just a pity, the circumstances that have brought me here. Nevertheless, ‘tis is great to see you again, and I wouldn’t swop this moment for anything in the world.’

  The quartermaster interrupted their cosy conversation. ‘She’s breezing up, sir. If she keeps on blowing like this, we’ll be seeing the flat mountain of the Cape in no time.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Silva. Set full sails and take over the helm. Continue on a course south-southeast.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’ Silva used a nearby lantern to get a bearing from the compass inside the binnacle before he utilised the cross-shaped stars of Crux to verify their bearing.

  While the quartermaster executed his orders, Tristan turned his attention back to Finn. ‘Between that man and I, we might just make you the finest seaman who has ever sailed these waters. So, would you be a bricklayer’s clerk or shall the fisherman find a life for himself at sea?’

  ‘If you mean finest in the sense of most handsome, then yes, I agree wholeheartedly.’

  ‘Haha!’ Tristan laughed heart
ily. ‘Mr Silva!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Would you mind taking on Mr Sullivan, who has sailed nothing else but freshwater, as a greenhand and train him in the art of sailing and navigation? I’m sure you and I could even teach the likes of him how to sail one of these.’ Tristan lightly drummed his fingers on the wooden rail in front of him.

  ‘Aye, sir. I shall make it a priority.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Silva. And please don’t go easy on the man, on account of him being a great friend. In fact, work him twice as hard as you would any recruit. We need to get him up to speed fast.’

  ‘It would be my pleasure, sir.’ In the faint light, the quartermaster grinned like a man who had done this many a time in his life.

  Tristan started heading towards the cabin, his new home for the foreseeable future. ‘There you go, Mr Sullivan, let’s put back some calluses on those soft girlish hands of yours so that those Dutch whores can feel they’re being bedded by a man and not a lily-livered landlubber.’

  ‘Aye, captain.’ Finn gave a nervous laugh. Having travelled on these ships over the last few months gave him a clear idea of what lay ahead. ‘However, just to be clear, ‘tis not these Irish hands they crave.’

  Chapter 28

  Tristan stood at the taffrail, warming up in the late-morning sun that had finally broken through the cold mist. Underneath his hand, the wood was still damp from the previous night’s shower, which had been followed by a light drizzle in the early-morning hours, and finally the thick grey fog. Autumn had arrived in all its glory, and with it, the wet weather would continue and only worsen the further south they travelled.

  Now, from high up on the poop, looking down at the ship’s wake, he could see she was fast, very fast. It would take a special ship a great deal of manoeuvring to outrun her. Still, ever so often he would peer towards the northern horizon for any sign of pursuing ships. An eruption of laughter from the main deck brought a smile to his lips and stole his attention as he pocketed the spyglass.

  The seamen aboard the Santa Verdade were in a jovial mood and a fair deal relaxed as they went about their business. The strain from the previous night’s activities had dissipated with the break of the new day, and the light-heartedness they shared was firmly forged with a swig of rum with their breakfast. Although Tristan’s shallop had won the race to Loanda by a disputable mile and a half, he had an extra cask of rum brought up, courtesy of the now-deceased Portuguese slavers, and Silva had made sure that it was shared equally among the lot. This had included the wounded up on deck and those down in the infirmary, where Purvis was still doing the rounds armed with the vat of his favourite new concoction. Adding to the sailors’ joviality was that one of their four dead friends had come back to life during the night. The old fella had taken an almighty blow to the head, but by breakfast time, he had recovered enough to sit on the main deck with the other wounded, quietly sipping his rum. Even Purvis had been sheepishly surprised for he was certain that he had felt no pulse underneath the elderly sailor’s leathery skin.

  Tristan shared his men’s good spirits and even more so now that he tasted the salt on his lips. After the fog had lifted and the sun had finally shown its face, the open sea had been revealed in all its glory, and he marvelled at the welcome sight. He took a small sip from his mug, closed his eyes and for a minute, enjoyed the breeze through his hair and the sun on his skin as he was transported to the very first day he had stood on the Raven’s poop as a thirteen-year-old. So much had happened since then, yet not much had changed. He could spend every day and night out here as the wind drove them south towards their destination, feeling the same exhilaration and allure as he had done on that first day. But while all seemed perfect above deck, it was directly underneath his feet, in the captain’s cabin, where his only pressing concern lay. The love of his life, who had spent the night in his arms, was still resting. She needed it after what she had told him.

  Last night, when at last they were alone in the captain’s cabin, he laid her down on the bed. Gently he kissed her lips, her face, reassuring her that his intentions were virtuous. But when his young passion ignited and got the better of him, he immediately felt her body go stiff as she pushed him away. No words were exchanged. Somehow he understood for foolish would be a man to make advances on a woman in such a state, as frustrating as it might feel or seem. He cursed his stupidity and instead lay down beside her, holding her tight in his arms until her rigidness subsided and her body went soft once more.

  ‘I love you,’ he said. Such words were foreign to his ears and had never been exchanged between them, but he hoped they would comfort her. ‘I will wait, however long it takes.’ More words to ease the pain. Desperate words. He thought them to be useless, but moments later, Isabella finally broke her silence – the trembling voice, unbefitting the strong independent woman he had come to know.

  She told him about that cursed night, how she felt that she was going to die. How they grabbed her from behind and stripped her of her knife, then her clothes. Floodgates opened, and details poured out that would have made an obdurate man cringe. She showed no mercy to him or herself as she recounted every single detail. It started with the begging, the struggling, the cheering, the screaming, the grunting, the bleeding, the desolation, then the pain and the constant shame that followed in the days and nights after, almost worse than the despicable act itself. ‘A part of me died that night’, she said rather dispassionately. ‘A sacred part that neither time nor any amount of medicine could ever hope to bring back’.

  At that point, Tristan had run out of words of comfort and thought the worst was over, but then Isabella said, ‘Three weeks ago, I found myself hopelessly lost in despair. The most torment came from trying to lead a normal life in a place where you don’t belong, where day in and day out, all that you have are the same horrible thoughts roaming around in your head. Father gone. Mother gone. A terrible thought entered my head one night, fanned by the fear that an equally terrible fate had befallen you too, and that no one would come to rescue me.’ Tristan could see she was struggling to continue and stroked her hair, urging her to get it all out. ‘I’ve heard of people who walk into the sea and never look back, ever. So, early the next morning, I went down to the beach, close to the docks, intending to end it all, when I saw the lonesome man sitting by himself, fishing as usual. For a second, I wondered if he too was a lost soul in that degenerate place, searching for answers to his problems, also abandoned by life. The mere thought that I was not alone created a spark of hope inside of me. Right there, on the beach with the water lapping at my feet, I came to my senses that killing myself would mean that those who’d done this to me…that they would win. So for some strange reason, I made the solitary man my beacon of hope and made a promise to myself that for as long as he was out there, I too would continue for I was not alone. Only that man and newfound hope that you might still come for me helped me persevere.

  ‘So last night, when the very same man I’d come to rely on appeared at the front door and told me why he was there, no further explanation was needed. It felt like I was meant to leave with him, and then when I saw you, I knew I was safe once more.’

  ‘You are. You’re safe now. No one will ever harm you again. I will not let it happen.’ Sensing that she had said her piece, Tristan told her what he had done to avenge both her and her parents, but her interest strangely waned and utterly exhausted, she fell asleep in his arms. While he listened to her deep rhythmic breathing, he contemplated her calamity and tried to understand it better by comparing it to a common-day assault like a fight in a tavern or any other pain inflicted by one person on another, yet he was unable to comprehend it fully. In all the places he had travelled to, rape had not been an uncommon sight. He had witnessed it before, and in some of the more barbaric destinations, if you paid a whore enough coin, she would let you do anything to her. He had walked among men who had indulged in such perverse pleasures, but even thinking about them did little to make him understand h
er inherent pain any better.

  With Isabella, he believed the scarring ran much deeper than the physical and since it was a topic he knew very little about, it was definitely something he needed the doctor’s advice on if they were going to help Isabella to overcome her bitterness and the dark demons that dwelled within. Those brutes had stolen, brutally taken, something hallowed from her, and even though he had explained to her how he had brought the ringleader to justice and what fate would befall the other perpetrators, it did little to comfort her. He saw it in her listless eyes and realised that his words might have found a good place in the doctor’s arsenal of favourite sayings. Amidst the throes of battle when the Old Man enquired as to the state of the wounded, Purvis would usually reply, ‘Just putting on bandages, sir, to keep their brains and innards from falling out.’ That was how helpless he had felt.

  Thinking back to their conversation now, Tristan remembered the chill that ran down his spine when he had heard those words come out of her mouth – killing myself. It had shocked him to the core for he knew her as a headstrong and passionate lass, and he struggled with the mere thought of her even considering taking her own life. What concerned him most was the apathy with which she had uttered those words. It gave him an inkling that the dreadful thought had not completely left her head.

  ‘There you are!’ Finn made his way up to the poop, his interruption a welcome relief. Walking along the starboard side and looking at the ship’s wake, he gave a loud whistle. ‘She’s a good ship this one and handles well too, both by and large.’

  ‘That’s how they were designed to sail,’ jested Tristan flatly. He could not help himself getting in the first punch for the day, reigniting the friendly battle of wits that had ensued since childhood. ‘Well, well, aren’t you the sprog turned seadog overnight? We just need to get you tarred, and you’ll be good to go.’