A rivetted Tristan shook his head in disbelief. He vaguely remembered the stories from fellow sailors, about the murders that had captivated much of London, but hearing an almost first-hand account, he was amazed by the precision in which the murders, or rather executions had taken place. Surely it had to be executions, and there is only one man who could pull off such a feat, he thought. ‘What do you think happened to the gold?’ he enquired.
‘I don’t know, but I reckon it must have found its way back to its original owner.’
Tristan picked up on Finn’s suggestion. ‘And the barber has never been seen again?’
‘Not by a single soul. None that we know of anyway.’ Finn loaded his pipe with fresh tobacco. ‘You know what all of this means, right?’
‘What?’ Tristan looked out over the sea, his mind still reeling with everything Finn had told him.
‘Tristan, you can head back to London and take back the life you left behind. God, do I need to spell it out!? There’s no one left to heave any blame on you for what happened to Giles. That case has been closed. And you weren’t around when any of the other disappearances or murders took place.’
Tristan thought about it. More than five years now. It felt like a lifetime ago. He shook his head. ‘No, not yet. My responsibility lies with this ship and its crew. Who knows, perhaps one day I might even sail it up the Thames. Just not any time soon.’ He remembered how he had watched those ships sail up the river. Large, majestic vessels that carried cargo and stories from faraway lands.
For another hour, the two boys, who had become young men, reminisced about the old days, sharing their respective journeys into adulthood. It carried on until their throats were parched and the conversation had tapered off to meandering dribble. Finally, Finn got up, rubbed his numb buttocks, said his goodbyes and started heading down to see the doctor.
‘Send the boatswain up here,’ Tristan called after him and walk to the front of the poop.
‘Aye, sir!’ the reply was instant, the smile evident in its owner’s voice.
Once more by himself, Tristan went through the ship’s inventory. The thieves had left the ship’s cannons in place. Perhaps the merchants in Loanda were not paying enough, and the thieves’ captain had decided that better coin could be had in the New World. Tristan had gone through the stowage himself, and they were in luck. The ship had already been stocked with vast amounts of dried provisions for her now-indefinitely delayed transatlantic journey. Although their taste buds would quickly grow tired of the monotonous palate, at least it would sustain them until they reached the Cape of Good Hope, otherwise known to sailors as The Tavern of the Seas. There was only one task that needed urgent attention: water would need to be rationed because he was not planning on casting anchor until the flat mountain was in sight.
His thoughts were interrupted when the old sailor made his way up the stairs. For Tristan, the old salt’s face had become a beacon that represented the welfare of the crew, and the contented sight put him at ease immediately. Tristan made no bones about the fact that he took a liking to the old sailor – a trustworthy soul, a simple man whose word was his bond, but above all, a tough old bastard who commanded the respect of every single seaman on the ship.
‘Sir, uh, looking for me?’
‘Mr Delgado! I have a chore for you and your mates. We need to change the name of the ship. I’m afraid with a name like Santa Verdade we will not receive a warm welcome in the place where we are heading.’ Tristan had thought about it earlier in the morning. A Portuguese ship might not be welcome in those waters, but if the Dutch saw an English vessel sail into their harbour, they might be considerate to her plight and her crew’s needs.
‘Aye, sir.’ The old man had turned his head slightly, making sure his good ear heard his captain’s orders. ‘What name?’
‘I don’t have anything particular in mind. Something British though.’
‘Mary, sir. Good English name.’
‘Mary. Nice subtle name and not imposing at all. Mary it will be then,’ approved Tristan, surprised by the quick thinking on the boatswain’s part. ‘Please get on with it. That will be all. Thank you, Mr Delgado.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’ The boatswain left him alone, although Tristan could still hear the old man’s shrill whistling for a while longer as it carried on the wind, taunting her as if to challenge her to a duel between mast, rope and sheet. Tristan realised why he liked the old sailor. No quarrels. Not even a question. He just did what needed to be done.
For the rest of the day, Tristan spent most of his time between the poop deck and his cabin, planning their journey. In between, he made various rounds on the ship, making his presence felt, and getting to know the ship and the men who sailed it. His own men were happy to take on subordinate roles, helping out, where help was needed the most.
Later that same evening, before dinner got served, as Tristan looked out over the sea through the cabin windows, he raised a glass of rum to the barber, the man who had sharpened his blade, and apart from the Old Man, the closest thing he had ever had to a father. Until we meet again, fare thee well, you crazy fool, whom I was lucky to have called my friend. Or if what they say of you is true, that you've indeed exchanged this life for the next, then I hope that God had mercy on your soul. If not, then I am sure the devil is treading lightly in hell’s haunted hallways for he would surely quake in his boots when he finds himself in your royal presence. Tristan smiled at the thought, and for a brief moment, the sun caught the window at just the right angle, and in the glass, a reflection of the pale man with matted black hair and drops of sweat running down his face appeared. Looking Tristan straight in the eyes, a delirious yet contented grin spread across the barber’s face, before it disappeared with the last rays of the setting sun.
Tristan walked towards the dining table and suddenly felt extremely tired. A skipped lunch, the events of the last couple of days and one too many rums had taken its toll, and as he took his seat at the head of the dining table that had already been set, one burning thought that he had been contemplating for most of the day, once again entered his mind. How things had changed, a few weeks ago, he was in the middle of the African wilderness and now he found himself captaining a ship, which he still struggled to call his own. Perhaps it was just a borrowed vessel, not his own, only his to use. But to do what, he thought. To trade? Where the hell do I go to from here? He was going to speak to the whole group at dinner that night but changed his mind during the course of the day. Instead, he decided to talk to the Portuguese officers and his own crew individually to find out what it was that they wanted.
Little did he know that in a few days’ time, a decision would be forced upon him, a decision that would forever change the course of his life and thrust him into a world where the wicked ruled and the innocent paid a hefty price.
Chapter 29
Finn found Tristan in a pensive mood, pacing the hold of the ship as if he wondered what to make of the large empty space that had only recently been reserved for Africa’s black gold. The timber around them creaked and groaned, echoing around the chamber. In the middle of the open space, the mainmast stood proud and strong but did its fair share of complaining about the pressure it was put under from up top. Light trickled in through the main hatch that had been opened to allow fresh air to circulate through the ship.
He watched on as Tristan inspected the newly built platforms that would have housed the slaves. By the end of the voyage, the spicy smell of the freshly cut mahogany wood, which now filled their nostrils, would have been replaced by the foulest of smells that could only be described as that putrid place where human excrement meets death.
Tristan knelt and ran his fingers over the iron rings that were attached to the floorboards. They were ready and waiting for the chains that would have held the human cargo. He pulled himself onto the platform and lay down, looking at the next row of shelves above his head, its beams just over two feet away from his face.
Thanks to a sad
istic sailing tutor, named Silva, Finn had not had much time to dwell on his own journey so far. Since last night, however, he had found himself in a fortunate situation where the quartermaster had been confined to the infirmary with a severe bout of stomachache and diarrhoea. Realising that Silva would at some stage emerge from there in a foul mood, he had decided to mix some leisure into his day.
With his mind overflowing with all things sailing, as he conducted drill after drill, his body was too bruised and his mind too tired to think clearly most of the time. While he might have tracked down his old friend in Loanda mostly through coincidence, since then, he had had little or no time to contemplate his future and neither had he spent any considerable amount of time with Tristan to find out his plans. Yet somehow he was not overly concerned because even the most adventurous part of his mind could neither have predicted nor planned for what had happened so far. A proper fight. Seizing control of a ship. Sailing to God-knows-where. He chuckled softly. Perhaps it was a blessing not having real plans of his own making. For now, he would simply follow his friend the same way he had done so many years ago.
‘And what troubles your mind so early in the morning?’ Finn’s loud voice startled Tristan.
‘Good morrow to you too,’ responded Tristan irritably, as he slid back down from the platform.
‘Aye, a fair morning ‘tis indeed. The sun’s out, and there’s a steady breeze. Perhaps you should head up and cast your troubles in the sea.’
‘Is it that obvious?’
‘Only to those who know you well.’
Tristan walked over to where the mainmast protruded from the deck below and felt the vibrations that ran down the thick wooden spar as the wind tugged at the sails above. ‘I had a dream last night. I was a boy once more, drifting on the Thames on a small wooden boat. The incoming tide was taking me upriver. I was lying stretched out, baking in the warm summer sun with my arm hanging over the side and my fingers dragging through the cool water. I remember feeling content. The world was at peace, and as for me, I just lay there without a care in the world. That was all. This morning I woke up with a smile on my face, the first time that I can remember.
‘Now I find myself in this place, and I try to imagine what it would be like to lie tightly packed like salted herrings, fettered to these irons for forty days and forty nights. To have your freedom stripped from you by men who consider themselves superior to you because of the colour of your skin or because you speak a language that is considered heathen. Your back, elbows and legs turn raw from the constant chafing yet you keep quiet and do not act because any complaint will be met by the cat, which will turn those chafes into open wounds, which will quickly fill with piss and shit, either yours or that of your neighbour. You finally get used to the constant stench but then the hot weather hits. The heat takes everything to another level altogether, and amidst the growing foulness, you struggle to conjure up dreams of better and happier times as you lie stewing in the ever-present excrement.
‘All the while, around you, people die from dysentery and infections, while others throw themselves overboard because they prefer death over the rotten life of a caged animal. These so-called uncivilised people who suffer with you, who in your old life might’ve been your friend or perhaps your enemy from a different tribe, yet the circumstances that you all face now are not fastidious when it comes to claiming lives. All you can do is watch the wooden planks above your head and try to block out the constant nausea. You hope that your dreams will keep you alive long enough so that perhaps one day you might see your family again. Still, you have no idea whether they’re dead, on another ship or alive back home, waiting by the fire, crying out their hearts for their lost child.’ Tristan angrily rubbed his forehead, removing a long sweaty curl with the back of his hand. ‘How can that not maim a sane man’s soul?’
Finn looked around the vast space. ‘I already gave you a first-hand account of my own experience. And don’t forget that my own kind is also enslaved at will. Even though the Irish aren’t transported in a similar fashion or may not suffer the same fate, in some people’s eyes, we’re also considered subhuman. I’m afraid you’re putting that question to the wrong person, my friend, for you will not find an impartial answer.’ He continued to stare at the empty hull, hiding his disgust. ‘So, what are we going to do next? What’s your plan?’
‘Frankly speaking, I—‘
‘Sail on the starboard bow!’ The call was passed from the crow’s nest down to the main deck, and as it was communicated around the ship, it also travelled down the hatch.
Tristan looked at Finn. Concern was written all over the redhead’s face.
‘They’ve caught up with us!’
‘It cannot be,’ said Tristan. ‘Another ship perhaps. There’s absolutely no way in hell they could’ve sailed all the way around us.’
‘They appear to be French, sir.’ The quartermaster did not sound ill but standing slightly slumped over, his pale face told a different story. Somehow he had not only circumvented the doctor but had beaten Tristan to the quarterdeck. ‘Hard to tell without their flags but the leading boat is definitely a French corvette.’
‘Fucking frog eaters! Don’t they know they’re not welcome here? They must be lost,’ shouted Tayler from the forecastle, confirming what they had seen but more so making known his dislike. Most sailors on the upper decks of the Mary had moved to starboard to get a glimpse of the small fleet that had appeared on the horizon, now fast approaching with the wind in their favour.
‘You should be down in the sickbay, Mr Silva,’ suggested Tristan as he watched the whitecaps, which had increased in size and number since he had last been above deck. He pulled a spyglass from his jacket and strained his right eye to get a good look at the vessels.
‘I’d be of better use up here, sir.’
‘Very well.’ Tristan agreed wholeheartedly and commended the man for putting his illness aside for the time being. ‘Keep her steady. Let’s see what they do.’
Together they watched the two vessels approach. Like the Mary, they were not altering their course one bit. Tristan knew he was flirting with danger, possibly even acting against his own better judgement. With only half a crew, they should avoid conflict and head for Table Bay at all cost, but the fact that the second ship looked like a slave ship had made him reconsider.
The corvette that led the way was a small warship. Fast and usually armed with eight cannons and in the right hands, she could easily do damage, but she could just as easily be outgunned. Close behind her, the French interloper, which was a large converted cargo ship, carried the same number of cannons. There was a makeshift palisade that ran across the main deck aft the mainmast which cordoned off the quarterdeck and stern from the rest of the ship. For those in the know, it was a typical mark of a slave ship, an identifiable yet unedifying characteristic.
As the fleet drew closer, Tristan also noticed two swivel guns on the larger ship and the placement of these two cannons was the final confirmation he needed. Instead of them being mounted on the bulwark, they were sitting high up on the quarterdeck rail, and inwards, closer to the whipstaff, allowing them to be used on either enemy ships or a bunch of mutineers, like rebellious slaves. Tristan struggled to make sense of the picture in front of him and wondered if there was a larger French fleet waiting to join up. His thoughts were soon interrupted by Silva’s take on the situation.
‘I suspect they have broken away from the main fleet, sir. Perhaps they ran into trouble of some sort and are heading for land.’
Tristan took up his spyglass once more. ‘I agree. They know very well that the British, Dutch and Portuguese vigorously patrol these waters. Why take the risk? Something sinister is afoot, I reckon.’ He squinted his eyes to get a better look at the interloper, looking for any visible signs of distress mainly because no flags had been sighted. ‘Let’s take a closer look, Mr Silva. After all, France is an enemy to both our nations. In the meantime, let’s not be complacent. Tell the men in
the crow’s nests to keep their vigil. I don’t want any surprises.’
‘Aye, sir.’
‘And you’re clear for action, Mr Silva. Let the men prepare both the larboard and starboard cannons with round shot, but keep the ports closed on both sides. Inform the men to be ready to run them out at a moment’s notice. I don’t have to tell you this, but some crews will need to do this twice, and fire the cannons on both sides if we come to that. And leave the swivel guns for now. We certainly don’t want to make them aware of our intentions. Let’s make them think that we’re just another merchant ship travelling along the coast, minding our own business,’ said Tristan, then adding thoughtfully, ‘but if ‘tis a fight they want, we shall engage them at once. We’ll have two broadsides, that’s it. But we’ll give them all we have to give, Mr Silva, so you make sure every cannon is ready to unleash its fury. After that, we either board or cut our losses and run like the wind. Make sure that every sailor is made aware of this. Did you get all of that?’
‘Aye, sir. I will see to it.’ Silva groaned softly as another pain shot through his gut, then asked hesitantly. ‘Are you planning on taking them both on, sir?’
Tristan ignored Silva’s doubtfulness, blaming it on the man’s poor condition. ‘We shall first test their resolve, Mr Silva. Only then we shall see. For now, stay on this course. At this rate and without them altering course, we’ll intercept them within the hour. If we haven’t reached a conclusive decision by then, then I‘m sure one will be forced upon us. Just make sure the men are prepared for what could very well be a fluid situation.’
‘Aye, sir. My…your men would be up to the task, sir.’
The Fire Within Page 52