The Fire Within

by Samuel T Clayton

  ‘That I do not doubt for a second.’ Tristan patted him on the side of the shoulder with his hand. ‘For God’s sake, man, you look like a ghost. If you feel unwell get Mr Tayler up here for he too can crack the whip loudly. No one on this ship will think any less of you.’

  ‘Aye, sir,’ nodded Silva. ‘Thank you, sir, but I wouldn’t miss this for the world, never mind a pain in the gut.’

  ‘Good man.’ Tristan left the ailing man and headed for the poop. Looking back, he added, ‘And sent for Mr Jabari, if you please, Mr Silva.’

  Behind him, Silva yelled, “Steady as she goes!” as he started to carry out the new captain’s orders. He repeated each one, first in Portuguese, then in English, exactly as his captain had told him to. Soon after, Delgado’s boatswain’s call sang its high-pitched song and those who were not already on top, rushed above deck upon hearing the call for all hands. Some men were ready to spring into action while others from the previous watch were still rubbing sleep from their eyes thanks to the rude awakening from a well-earned slumber in their hammocks below.

  Standing at the taffrail, Tristan waited, and while he listened to the officers distributing his orders to their respective crews, his eyes kept watch on the approaching vessels. No sooner had the crew started carrying out their duties or the breeze strengthened, causing the Mary to speed up, putting her on a certain collision course with the corvette. Silva, whose excited voice sounded like a man who had momentarily forgotten his ailments, barked more orders and caused a frantic scattering of men as they hurriedly prepared the ship by trimming and shifting her sails to compensate for the strengthening breeze. Delgado, the boatswain’s mate and Tayler did not hold back. With boisterous voices and threats with knotted ropes, they directed traffic and made sure that each task was carried out with speed and efficiency, even jumping in themselves to assist where help was needed.

  For a short while, organised chaos reigned on the Mary with men dashing from one job to the next, shifting sails to compensate for the strengthening breeze, loading cannons and in between, making sure their weapons were functioning properly. Amidships a crew member emerged from below deck, carrying extra cutlasses and boarding axes, once more courtesy of the ship’s previous owners. The self-appointed master-at-arms dropped the weapons into a nearby barrel. He repeated the process a few times while his fellow crew members helped themselves, making sure they had a weapon for each hand for what they lacked in numbers, they needed to compensate and improvise for somehow. Tristan took note of the man’s face, for he liked the initiative that he had witnessed.

  ‘He was the gun captain on the Santa Verdade, sir, but never officially. I guess it’s just in his nature.’

  Tristan peeked down at Silva. Damn, there’s not much that gets past this man. ‘Remind me to make that official once we’re done with the French,’ shouted Tristan, and based on Silva’s reaction, he immediately knew it was the right decision.

  As confirmation arrived from the crow’s nest that they were indeed dealing with a corvette and a slave ship, Tristan saw Jabari sprint across the busy deck dwarfing those around him. Up the ladder he came, panting heavily. The strain of hauling ropes, followed by the quick run, had taken its toll.

  ‘You’re looking for me, Tresten?’

  ‘When we engage the enemy, I need you to go to my quarters and stay with Isabella. Look after her until the fighting is over.’

  ‘I’ll protect her life like ‘tis your own,’ said Jabari with a certitude that most men could only dream of.

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Aye.’ Tristan nodded his gratitude and watched the broad back of his friend disappear, the man wasting no time getting back to the preparations.

  ‘They’re both running with the wind, sir, under full sail now! It looks like they’re trying to cross our bow,’ bellowed Silva from the quarterdeck.

  ‘We need to cut them off! Let her run freely, Mr Silva. Full sails!’

  Not long after Tristan had spoken the words, the men had finished scampering up and down the rigging, and all the Mary’s sails were singing a maddening song, melodious to a sailor’s ears, whining and banging as they propelled the caravel full speed ahead. Her bow cleaved through the water, throwing up big spurts of salty spray high into the air, while around them, the ocean started to boil as the wind whipped up foamy white crests.

  ‘Cleared for action, sir!’ reported Silva, relaying the message that had come from below as he looked aft to where his captain was keeping an eagle eye on the enemy.

  ‘Well done, Mr Silva!’

  The small crew that Silva had assigned to the essential task of loading the Mary’s sixteen cannons on the gun decks below had just finished their task and were busy joining their fellow sailors up top, eager to see what the enemy was doing. No water buckets or swabs were needed. The captain’s message was firmly understood. Fire twice, then board or run.

  ‘She’s coming about, sir!’ yelled Silva.

  Tristan had already seen the corvette altering its course and reacted immediately by ordering the ship to turn windward, giving the corvette a smaller target by presenting the ship’s bow. He ran down the gangway and took position next to the quarterdeck rail, not far from where Silva was relaying his message. The sailors worked hastily, their numbers now slightly boosted with the return of the cannon loaders, and slowly, the caravel turned towards starboard. The Mary fought the breeze every step of the way but won the battle as her ability to sail into the wind soon came into its own. All the while, Tristan kept the corvette in his sight and tried to read her next move as accurately as possible. Either she was going to engage them in battle, or she was trying to lure them away from the larger vessel. Nevertheless, he had to deal with her first, for she was the immediate threat.

  ‘They’re getting ready to fire!’ Hanlon called from up top.

  Tristan shouted. ‘Gunners to the larboard battery. Run out the guns! Tell your gun captain to compensate for the heel, Mr Silva.’ The strong wind caused the ship to lean over, and it elevated their larboard cannons. If left out unchanged, the elevation would send their deadly cargo flying high over the smaller enemy ship’s deck.

  Now only six hundred yards away, Tristan watched the corvette’s movements closely. The enemy held the weather gage. Being upwind and smaller, the corvette had a slight advantage with her manoeuvrability, but he knew she would also be tossed about in the choppy sea and would not have the stable platform that the Mary had to fire from. They only had four minutes, perhaps five at the most. With no gun barrels protruding from the side of the ship, he repeated the order with more urgency and a hint of agitation. Silva insulted his men for being slow monkeys and threatened to do the job himself if they were incapable. It must have worked because below deck the larboard gun ports fell open and with muscles straining, the short-handed crew heaved on gun tackles and ran out the cannons, letting the Mary show off her glistening steel. The crew soon got the job done, which allowed the gun captain to run from cannon to cannon, first inspecting, then sighting each one. After he had completed his task, each cannon was assigned a gunner, who stood patiently with smouldering linstock in hand, awaiting the captain’s orders.

  Tristan sighed with relief when the news that guns were ready finally reached his ears. For a merchant crew, it was not just their sailing that impressed. They had obviously been well-drilled as naval gunners. He very much relied on the Portuguese sailors’ intuition and was glad there was neither confusion nor apprehension, but as for actual warfare, he would soon find out.

  Puffs of smoke on the enemy ship put a quick stop to Tristan’s thinking. ‘Brace for impact!’ he yelled, and watched on as the few sailors who had remained on deck ducked behind the bulwark, while those on the ratlines made themselves thin and waited on the first incoming salvo.

  The corvette’s four small guns had fired almost instantaneously. Tristan remained standing at the rail and watched a large waft of smoke envelop the corvette’s starboard side. He waited for the impac
t, then watched on with slight amusement as all four shots plunged into the sea at least twenty yards short of starboard. The enemy captain hasn’t compensated for the wind! The old hands on deck soon realised the same, almost the exact time that confirmation came from above. ‘She’s short! Not a single shot has struck!’

  The Mary had almost completed her turn. ‘Let’s make it count, Mr Silva.’ Tristan waited a few seconds longer. Part of the corvette’s starboard and stern presented itself as the enemy ship struggled to get her nose into the wind. At the top of his voice, Tristan yelled, ‘Fire when ready! Rake her!’ and with that, he ran to the back of the poop to get a better view of the Mary’s retaliation.

  Seconds later, the deck vibrated under his feet as the Mary’s cannons returned fire one by one, starting with the gun closest to the bow. Eight almighty explosions in quick succession sent iron balls in the direction of the corvette, covering the distance between the two ships in an instant. Thick smoke cloaked the Mary’s deck and crew, but before it reached the top of the poop, Tristan saw at least two shots splashing into the water, just off the corvette’s stern. The gunner’s overcompensated, he thought. Then one hit its target catching the ship right on the waterline. Tristan thought he saw another hit, but he was blinded, and like the rest of the crew had to wait for the smoke to clear. Again, the call from the top came first. ‘By God, she’s been hulled.’

  The strong breeze that blew across the Mary’s deck cleared the smoke quickly.

  ‘Huzzah! Affirming that we’ve breached her hull!’ Hanlon’s excited voice was a shrill one.

  Cheers rang out from amidst the thinning smoke. Keen to see the damage for himself Tristan moved to the aftermost part of the stern and clung onto to the taffrail as he leaned over the side to get a better look, but the corvette had finished her turn and presented her rear to the Mary. It was quickly evident that she was not coming around for another broadside. Instead, she headed northeast into the mouth of the wind, beating ferociously as she left behind the Mary and forewent her escorting duties.

  ‘She’s runnin’! She’s done for it!’ Again, cheers rang out, louder this time as sailors-turned-gunners re-emerged from the decks below and joined in the celebrations.

  As Tristan made his way back down to the quarterdeck, more information came to light from the crew above. Three cannonballs had hit home with at least two striking at, or slightly above the enemy ship’s waterline. The two barrelmen had also fired their muskets continuously at the French officers and had seen enemy sailors tend to someone who they believed was the French captain. Although Tristan trusted Hanlon’s report and assumed that the corvette had had enough for one day, he still wondered why the enemy ship had given up so quickly. He hoped to get some answers soon.

  ‘Commend your gun captain for me, Mr Silva, and an extra ration of rum for all the men with their evening meal. They handled the ship and its armament superbly.’

  ‘He just did what you’d asked him to do, sir. And as for the crew, it’s their job. Besides, they know this ship inside out.’ Silva struggled to hide his pride.

  ‘Nonsense. Accuracy that good? Not only did he judge that upward roll to perfection, he also timed each of the shots perfectly. That’s skill, if I’ve ever seen it.’

  Silva’s grin nearly reached his ears, his ailment momentarily forgotten. ‘Shall we give chase, sir? She’s listing badly, and with the water she’s taking on, we should catch up to her quickly.’

  An emphatic no surprised the quartermaster. Caught up in the heat of the moment, perhaps he had overstepped the invisible boundary.

  ‘As much pleasure as I would get in hunting her down, Mr Silva, it would be a complete waste of time. We still have a long journey ahead, and I doubt she has anything of value.’ Tristan pointed in the direction of the slave ship that had changed her heading, bearing directly south now. Bringing his glass to his eye once more, he said, ‘Now that ship I want to inspect a little more closely.’

  Silva did not understand, but orders were to be followed, not questioned, and soon the Mary made full use of the wind in her back and sped towards the fleeing slave ship.

  They hauled in the Cueilleurs d'Espoir two hours later, bearing down hard on her starboard stern. With swivel guns primed and cannons reloaded, the gunners were ready, as was Tristan, who expected the large ship to put up at least the slightest of resistance. With moods still jovial from the trashing they had given the corvette and hungry for more, they were bitterly disappointed. Not one of the slave ship’s cannons fired, not even her swivel guns, which hung limp and useless. She adjusted her course once throughout the chase and headed southwest to try and make full use of the onshore breeze, but she was no match for the caravel’s speed.

  As the Mary got closer, a few wayward musket shots flew over their heads, nipped at sails and masts, and solicited a few loud curses from Tayler up front. The enemy gunmen were quickly silenced by Hanlon and the Portuguese fellow, D’Cruz, whose life Tristan had saved in the tavern fight at Loanda. D’Cruz had been nominated by the quartermaster when Tristan had requested another crew member to go up to the crow’s nest. “He’s more at home on the ratlines than an ape in a tree, sir. Has a keen eye on him too and can outshoot most men on this ship,” the quartermaster had said. “He’d be in good company then,” had been Tristan’s reply.

  Tristan laughed within. Despite the language barrier, he would not be surprised if there was some wager going on between the two men or even a bit of squabbling as to who had wounded the corvette’s captain.

  ‘She’s not heaving to, sir.’ Silva brought his attention back to the pursuit.

  Tristan had already given the order to reef the topsails so that they could match the French ship’s speed.

  ‘Send word to Mr Tayler on the forecastle that we will bring the Mary alongside her. He is to fire a round of grapeshot directly at the helmsmen and anyone else on that quarterdeck. That’ll get their attention. The French are running a skeleton crew, Mr Silva. This battle is more likely to be fought with cutlass than cannon.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  Tristan could not see much from the quarterdeck but what little activity he did notice on the enemy ship had fuelled his suspicion at first. An ambush, he had thought initially, but ever since he had scoured the ship very carefully, he had put that idea to rest. Up top, the shooting had died down as well which meant that the barrelmen in the crow’s nest were running out of armed targets and had succeeded in suppressing any immediate threat. Hanlon had kept on feeding information down to him, consistent with his instinct which told him that the Cueilleurs d'Espoir was a ship in genuine distress. And yet they still showed no sign of slowing down.

  ‘After that swivel gun fires, we shall board her, Mr Silva. Stand down the gun crews. We’ll need every able hand up top to get us close enough to board. The helm’s yours, Mr Silva. Get us as close as you can.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I’ll be leading the boarding party.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ replied Silva, somewhat perplexed when he suddenly realised the tremendous amount of responsibility and faith his captain had put in him. With a starboard tack and an approach of the French ship from a windward position, getting the Mary close and keeping her there would require all of his skill.

  ‘Mr Delgado!’

  ‘Aye, sir?’ The old sailor came closer to give Tristan his good ear.

  ‘Prepare a boarding party of twelve men, including yourself. We still don’t know what to expect, so make sure every man is armed to the teeth.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  Tristan made his way down to the main deck, ignoring the men who jumped to attention and the surprised calls of capitão no convés – captain on deck – as he rushed to the forecastle.

  Less than twenty yards aft the windward stern of the slave ship, the swivel gun boomed, just as Tristan ran up the steps onto the high forecastle to see the situation unfold for himself. Tayler had made the shot count. On the slave ship’s quarterdeck,
two bodies lay writhing, while closer to the bulwark, two more Frenchmen were crouched down with hands raised. One of them clutched his shoulder while the other waved a white handkerchief in his right hand. Tristan immediately confirmed what he wanted to know. Her gun ports remained closed with no visible signs of activity beyond the crevices. At the same time, he noticed the frantic movement as a French skeleton crew, pieces of white cloth in hand, scampered around on the main deck and up and down ratlines, desperately furling sails which eventually caused the Cueilleurs d'Espoir to heave to slowly before it almost came to a standstill.

  From aft, the order came to reef the Mary’s sails. Silva had noticed the slave ship slowing down and was trying to match her speed. Up front, Tayler quickly overcame the surprise at seeing his captain on the quarterdeck and yelled at his delegated men to get the task done. His new mate in the form of Matondo translated it just as quickly, the success of the newly forged partnership evident as the sailors started reefing the foresail. It pleased Tristan mightily, for there was little time lost between the command received and the sailors carrying it out.

  ‘Boarders ready, sir!’

  Tristan looked aft. The group of men that had formed behind him reminded him of the pirates they had staved off numerous times while on board the Old Man’s ship. Not surprisingly, Delgado had made sure that the rest of the party got the message loud and clear, for each man had borrowed an extra pistol and most of them carried boarding axes in addition to their cutlasses.

  ‘Mr Tayler, when the last man in this group disappears over that gunnel, you are to lead a second group of three men across. Find me the captain!’

  ‘Aye aye, sir. Gladly!’

  ‘Be ready for anything!’ were Tristan’s only words of advice to the men behind him. Delgado dutifully relayed his message, the boatswain looking as calm and steadfast as usual, not like he was about to board an enemy ship.

  When Tristan gave the order to board, another shot rang out from up top, immediately followed by a sharp cry from a foolish man beyond the enemy bulwark. At least we’re being watched over from above. Tristan grinned as he shot a glance skywards.