‘That would be greatly appreciated Mr Conway, and I can almost guarantee that you will have all your merchandise then.’
‘Almost is not good enough, Mr De Witt. One week on top of the three days that you still have. Now shake my hand and get the deal done.’ Tristan grasped the nervous hand firmly. ‘Ten days, Mr De Witt. If I don’t hear from you then, my friend over there will pay you a visit.’
The negro at his shop’s entrance had not gone unnoticed. Standing at nearly seven feet tall, De Witt had never seen such a big caffre, and right now, the man’s friendly grin did not put him at ease either. From passing ships, he had heard some horrific stories of man-eating savages coming out of the African wilderness, and the black man’s teeth looked far too shiny for his liking.
‘Good day to you, sir.’ Tristan doffed his hat and walked out of the shop, not looking back to see if his courtesy had been returned.
Outside the merchant’s shop, the elevated patch of land that rose out of the Atlantic Ocean up to the foot of Table Mountain gave Tristan a good view of the bay. The usually deep-blue water had turned almost black because of the dark grey clouds that continuously blew in from the south. Those same clouds had brought with them a cold, arcticlike winter to this southern tip of Africa.
Close to the water‘s edge, the magnificent fort with its fluttering flags on all five bastions, aptly named the Castle of Good Hope, looked like a small town on its own. Behind them the dirt road passed through the rest of the town before it split into two – one small path leading straight up to the imposing mountain with its remarkable flat top, the other veering off to the right in the direction of Leeuwenkop, a very peculiar mountain in the shape of a lion’s head.
The buildings that lined both sides of the road channelled the cold southeasterly wind that spilled over the mountains, all the way down towards the harbour where violent gusts whipped the sea mercilessly. As it swirled past, it tucked at Tristan’s clothes and caused him to tighten the leather thongs on his buff coat to keep out the cold. The fat he had worked into the stiff weathered garment earlier in the week had done its job because even under his cold fingers, the leather felt supple.
‘De storm waaien, snel en draaien, Adamastor, hij is weer kwaaien.’
Tristan turned around at the sound of the familiar voice, yet the Dutch words made no sense to him. Jabari looked fairly complacent where he stood on the shop’s porch, watching the clouds blow past. ‘We’ve not been here for three weeks and suddenly you speak Dutch?’ enquired Tristan teasingly.
‘The storm blows, fast and swirling. A Dutch sailor on Captain Harris’ ship used to remind us of angry Adamastor every time we sailed these waters, especially this time of the year,’ said Jabari with a shivering voice. His jacket was too small and struggled to keep him warm, as did the short breeches. ‘I still remember it to this day.’
‘He’s certainly angry, alright,’ said Tristan, pulling his hat down tight. ‘We should get you some new clothes.’
‘Aye. Tayler will probably want his jacket back,’ replied Jabari, tugging at the sleeves that stretched tautly over bulging muscles.
Together they started walking down towards the harbour where the Mary had been docked for the past three weeks. Further out on the bay towards Robben Island, large Dutch East Indiamen, and smaller fluyts and yachts, bobbed like insignificant pieces of cork in the choppy water. Among the white crests, panicky crews were rowing smaller boats, taking out more anchors to further secure their vessels against the worsening weather.
‘That worked out well for us,’ said Jabari, hinting in the direction of the merchant’s shop. ‘We could do with the extra days.’
‘It did indeed.’ Tristan thought about all the modifications they had already made and the work that still lay ahead. They had recaulked the whole ship, including the deck. Sand and stone in the bilge had been replaced. One of the bilge pumps had sprung a leak, and while they had fixed it, they had also ordered a replacement. For a Portuguese ship, the bilge was surprisingly clean, which had confirmed to Tristan that Captain Silveira had run his ship with a firm hand.
They spent countless hours looking at how they could lighten the ship and spread loads evenly to achieve a perfect balance with the extra cannons on their way. The wooden platforms for slaves had been removed, and they had managed to reuse most of the wood. The same planks that would have kept the slaves in place were put to good use, refurbishing the ship’s insides. The irony of their new purpose was lost on no one.
‘It would probably take another week to get all the carpentry done inside,’ contemplated Tristan out loudly. ‘Finishing up the officers’ quarters, and the crew’s living quarters and berth will take every hand we can gather. The galley that was moved aft, closer to the mess, still needs its chimney installed. Lastly, we need to pierce the bulwark for the six new gun ports on the quarterdeck. Then there’s the name…’
The nodding African had been in the thick of it. His strength had been needed on many occasions, from the hoisting of beams to the lowering of ballasts. In between jobs he had also joined Tristan and Finn, selling off their stockpile of dried goods. He had accompanied them when they had to buy an extra skiff to replace the one that their Portuguese enemy had left behind on Loanda’s white sand. And as had just happened, following up on the procurement of the cannons and their other merchandise, sometimes only his presence was required. ‘Your company is the gentle persuasion I occasionally need to conclude a deal.’ Tristan had told him this after they had haggled a good price for the skiff, which they had bought from a miscreant bunch of local Dutch bootleggers.
‘What name did you have in mind for our ship?’
‘A name that will represent who we are. As you’ve remarked, what will captains think when they see the name? I think I have just the right one in mind.’
‘And that would be?’
‘’Tis something that my mother spoke of quite often when she read to me from the Bible, whenever God rescued his people from peril. Deliverance, she called it.’
‘It sounds good to me. And we will be delivering these people back to their lands.’ Jabari chuckled.
‘Aye. That is true, as well.’
The two men continued down the road in silence, each one contemplating the work they had done and still needed to do.
‘We should visit this place again tonight,’ said Tristan, when they walked past a tavern, well known for its fried fish and quality liquor, not the cheap sour local wine they had tasted at some of the other taverns along the Salt River, the same cheap sour wine their bootlegger friends swindled to every ship that entered the bay.
Only two of the Portuguese crew had left after they had heard Tristan’s speech. He had expected more. During those nights when the enormity of the task ahead played tricks on his mind, he wondered if he would have signed up had he been given the choice. Deep down, he knew that the men’s loyalty lay with Silva. But it was their right, and his, to earn.
To get the sailors they so desperately needed, Tristan, Finn and Jabari had been recruiting at all the taverns and had spread the word among the local merchants that they were looking for crew members, a task that proved quite difficult in a growing town where most labourers were already occupied. However, among the lot, there were true seamen at heart, sailors who had gathered by now that a life on land was not as frivolous as they had once believed. These men were neither too hard to spot nor too hard to convince, especially after liquor had been plied and done its job. Tristan made sure they were all reminded the next day exactly what it was they had signed up for.
Albeit a trickle, they had already come by a few extra hands, mostly men who wanted to escape the hard labour of hauling rocks for the many new buildings that were going up in the town and most of them did not care for the inclement nature of what they considered to be an inhospitable country. Unfortunately, half of the extra hands had already been lost because Silva, who oversaw the work on the Mary, had sent them straight back after they had failed
to impress the officers. They had still managed to find a few kernels among the chaff, and with two new ships that had arrived the day before, there was no doubt in Tristan’s mind that they would find a few willing recruits among the tipsy patrons.
Drastic measures had not been required as yet. At evening dinner the night before, Tayler had raised his concern about their dwindled number of workers. ‘Wicked spirits like Hanlon and I could always roam the local watering holes and look for a few strays. If you put up the coin, we could crimp a couple here and there. So far removed from civilisation, there’s little doubt in my mind that we’ll cross paths with a disgruntled few who have debts to settle.’
‘There’d be none of that!’ Tristan had exclaimed, not sure if Tayler was just looking to wet his whistle and pintle. ‘Men who come on this ship will do so out of free will and fully understand the consequences of their decision.’ That was the end of it.
Silva worked the men hard, and time for idle there was none. However, as per Tristan’s instruction, every afternoon between the hours of four and six o’clock, before dinner was served, the crew enjoyed light work, drills and sometimes even leisure. They made grapeshot by loading canvas bags with lead balls and marking them according to size and number. They filled paper casings with gun powder and carefully stored the cartridges away from the elements that could ruin them. Some days they held competitions to see who could load a musket the fastest or shot at targets that drifted out in the bay to determine who among them was the best shot. They made wooden wasters, and crew members battled it out almost daily, bearing their bruises with pride as they tried to prove to themselves and the others who the best swordfighters were. Their captain planned every activity carefully as he prepared the men for ensuing battles that would test their mettle in every way.
Skiff races happened twice a week with the defending team going up against the challengers. Challengers were never in short supply in the fiercely contested races, with the winners’ prize an extra ration of rum with their evening meal.
Tristan eyed the tavern one last time. ‘We’ll bring Tayler and Delgado along to help pick the right ones, and just in case.’ The last bit he added more for himself than his companion, for you never knew when a scuffle might break out. Propelled by the wind, the two continued their hurried walk back to the wharf, desperately trying to warm up their muscles.
Further down the street, a group of Khoikhoi crossed the street while carrying wares into a large brick building. It was Tristan’s first time to the Cape of Good Hope, and he stared in wonderment each time he saw the little light-brown natives with peppercorn hair, and their abnormally large bellies and buttocks. Their language, a combination of clicks and clacks, made no sense to him at all and only changed to Dutch when they addressed their white masters with servile obedience.
One of the little men at the back struggled under a heavy load and stumbled on one of the steps as he climbed up the stairs. As he stifled his fall, the crate went flying and cracked open onto the dirt road. Iron nails splattered in a wide arc. In the blink of an eye, a Dutch foreman came marching down the stairs, whip in hand and immediately started lashing the man, who had just gotten back on his feet. The poor man cowered, protecting his head with his hands, crying out loud, as the blows rained down on his hands, shoulders and back. ‘Nee baas! Nee baas!’ he pleaded. Passers-by looked briefly at the punishment, then continued with their business, passing off the incident as a daily occurrence.
Jabari immediately sensed Tristan tense up before he started walking in the direction of the commotion. But the black man was quick and grabbed Tristan’s arm, his friend’s hand already resting on the hilt of his sword.
‘Not our fight, Tresten, and moreover, not our town. We’ll swing before the night is over.’ Jabari applied a little bit more pressure on the arm to drive home his point and get Tristan out of his trance. Slowly he felt the muscles relax.
‘You’re right, but it still does not give that man the right to beat up the poor fella like that. For God sake, if you do that to a dog in the middle of a busy London street, at least someone would say something.’
‘Leave it now. Let’s be on our way.’ Jabari pulled on Tristan’s arm before the young man changed his mind.
Tristan watched on as the tall Dutchman walked back up the stairs, giving them a flippant look before he disappeared into the trading building. “Van Hoek Handelaars” the sign above the entrance read. He brushed off Jabari’s hand, walked to where the Khoikhoi was still cowering and helped him to his feet. The cuts on the man’s hands and shoulders bled profusely.
‘Come.’ He held the man by the upper arm. ‘Come with me.’
The Khoikhoi had never felt the touch of a white man, except through a whip and stood frozen to the spot, unsure what to make of the strange gesture.
‘Come.’ Tristan gestured towards the harbour, only two hundred yards away. His voice was calm, his face friendly and his grip on the man’s wiry upper arm firm and encouraging.
‘Tresten…’ Jabari knew what his friend was about to do. ‘Tresten, that man is another man’s property, not yours.’
‘He is now.’ The answer was defiant and definitive, as Tristan led the Khoikhoi down the street.
The African shook his head and resided to the fact that certain things would never change, yet deep inside, a part of him was celebrating. It was the second man Tristan had rescued from an uncertain fate, the other one being a man as black as himself. Severely beaten and athirst, the man had snuck onto their ship one night seemingly in fear of his life. No one had understood a word the man had spoken, yet the next morning, still in pain, but out of his own free will, the man had started to carry materials for the carpenters. No one knew his story and perhaps they never would, but the extra pair of strong hands had already proven themselves, and in the captain’s book that was more than enough.
The two and their Khoikhoi recruit reached the Mary shortly after. Up on the poop deck, rope in hand, Tayler was supervising the replacement of the small mizzenmast. With the new mast in place, the men were rerigging the lateen-rigged sail. He barked instructions when one of the ropes was not tight enough to his liking and next to him, Matondo quickly relayed the message to the Portuguese men.
‘What have you brought me now, Captain?’ shouted Tayler from the top.
Tristan could just make out the words before they got carried away on the wind. ‘A small man, Mr Tayler! A local specimen that can squeeze into the tightest of spots. I’m sure you would be able to put him to good use!’
‘If the wind doesn’t blow him away first!’ Tayler did not sound impressed.
Tristan still had the small sinewy Khoikhoi by the arm and guided him up the gangway. Work stopped momentarily as curious eyes surveyed the little brown native with the strange figure.
‘Take a good look,’ said Tristan. ‘He’s one of us now, so treat him with the same respect that you want to be treated with.’
On the main deck, Silva, an onlooker himself, immediately instructed his crew to get on with their work and nodded affirmation to Tristan, indicating that there would be no trouble from his men.
Tristan was about to tell Jabari to take their latest crew member down to the infirmary when he spotted Purvis next to a group of men who were busy sawing planks for the refurbished living quarters. The doctor was working on a man’s shoulder. Seated on a tool crate with his back against the mainmast, the Portuguese man groaned, and his face told of excruciating pain.
Purvis became aware of the presence behind him. After taking a glance at the Khoikhoi, he focused his attention on his patient once more. ‘Another stray, sir? Another local who jumped at the opportunity to join our cause and our brotherhood of bastards?’ he questioned wittingly.
‘A motley crew, Mr Purvis, a babelic ship. Just as long as they share our common purpose, you can call it what you want. I need you to take care of this one, please. And no, free will had nothing to do with him joining us.’ Tristan turned the Khoikhoi man
around.
‘I will never understand the barbaric nature of the human race,’ said the doctor, expressing his disgust, while softly touching the Khoikhoi’s mangled neck and upper back, sighing as he traced the wounds. He turned his attention back to his wailing patient. ‘Calar!’ he ordered the Portuguese man to stop his whingeing. ‘You see that?’ pointing to the Khoi’s back. ‘That’s real pain! Calar!’
‘You speak Portuguese now? Jabari’s speaking Dutch, and you’re speaking Portuguese. What the hell is going on here?’ enquired Tristan smilingly.
‘If we expect these people to learn the English language, I thought the least I could do is learn a few of their words.’
‘When will that brain of yours get full?’ laughed Tristan.
As if he seriously considered the question, Purvis paused, rubbed his chin and then answered, ‘I never thought of it that way. Perhaps I need to be more careful about who I lend my ears to. Anyway, I have work to do. This clumsy fool fell from the ratlines, and while grabbing a rope on his way down, the shoulder joint popped out of the socket. Mr Jabari, grab him around the waist and hold tight.’
Before the Portuguese man could realise what was happening, Jabari had grabbed him and pinned him against the mast while the doctor took the dislocated arm, bent it and started lifting it upwards. The man’s cries sounded like a woman in labour and caused some consternation among his friends close by. Then, suddenly, his whingeing stopped, and with a surprised look on his face, he freed himself from the African’s grip, jumped up and rubbed his shoulder which moments earlier had felt like a thousand needles entering his skin. Pain made way for laughter, and through a barrage of obrigados, he grabbed the doctor’s face and kissed him on both cheeks.
‘Who needs miracles when I have someone like you, Mr Purvis?’ remarked Tristan, as they watched the man rejoin his friends trying to explain to them what had just happened.
‘I do believe there’s still a place for both in this world, sir. Medicine and miracles. I mean, look at the state of the man next to you. Where does he find salvage?’
The Fire Within Page 56