The Fire Within

by Samuel T Clayton

  Tristan surveyed the small native, who seemed surprisingly undaunted with his new surroundings. ‘I’m sure he has his gods to pray to, but right now, that would be with you.’ Tristan helped the Khoikhoi forward, presenting him to Purvis. ‘I am placing this man under your guardianship. Please take care of his wounds, then teach him our ways.’

  The doctor seemed confused, thinking that he had misheard his captain. ‘Wait. Our ways? But Tristan, with all due respect, he’s not my problem. Besides, I still have plenty of studying that I need to complete. I only just started a biopsy on a Congolese toad that I’ve kept alive in my bag ever since we left Embomma.’

  ‘Keeping a toad alive all this time, only so you can dismember it, limb by limb? My dear man, what a strangely perverted inclination, even for you.’ Tristan shook his head mockingly. ‘I’m afraid there’ll be no buts, Mr Purvis. Besides, out of all of us, you are just about the only one with the time and skill for such a feat. So, if Tayler doesn’t need him outside, then consider him the new surgeon’s mate.’ Tristan took pleasure in seeing the stunned face in front of him, the mouth searching for words, a sight not often seen. ‘You said your science includes the study of humans too. Well, they certainly do not come more interesting than this one. You can train and study him. Consider him a piece of clay in your competent hands, a clean slate on which to paint your masterpiece. You can even teach him some of your amphibian witchcraft, and perhaps he will even show you some of his own, fill up your brain some more.’

  The doctor did not argue for he knew he was outwitted on this one, but he did not mind. The young lad’s sagacity started to remind him of someone else he still held very dear. A wise old fox. ‘Well played, Captain Conway, truly well played,’ Purvis acknowledged.

  Jabari broke up the verbal joust and took the Khoikhoi off Tristan. ‘I will take him to the infirmary, sir, and will wait with him there.’

  While around them men hustled from starboard to larboard, bow to stern, Tristan posed the question he had been dreading to ask all morning. ‘How is Isabella faring?’ Purvis’s disquieted reaction did not put him at ease.

  ‘I visited her earlier. She’s still in a dark place, Tristan. I’m afraid that my knowledge of the human state of mind is limited to what little I’ve studied or observed myself. If she had a broken leg, I could fix it in a heartbeat because our bodies are all the same, but our minds are what makes us unique.’ Purvis felt a large drop of rain hit his cheek, which momentarily distracted him. ‘While I can talk to her and help her see the world through different eyes, she’s the one who needs to accept that what has happened has indeed happened, so that the melioration can start. But I fear that the strong will that has served her so well over the years is right now standing in the way of her healing, and no elixir in the world can overcome that.’

  ‘Waking up next to her every morning is torment enough, doc. Are you telling me now there’s nothing we can do for her?’

  ‘I’ve told you before. These things take time, lad. But I fear time itself can be a fickle mistress, so it seems you are stuck with two. Perhaps if she had slit Morgan’s throat herself, revenge would have quelled most of the suffering she’s enduring. Who knows?’

  ‘That chance has passed, doc. Right now, I’m asking you, not as the ship’s surgeon but as my friend: what can I do? I can’t bear to see her like this.’

  The doctor thought about it for a while, then said, ‘Perhaps she needs to get out of that room and be about the ship more often. If I were the captain, I’d even get her involved in the smallest of tasks to get her mind occupied elsewhere. Now, it might be easier said than done, but it’s certainly worth a try.’

  The man’s right, Tristan thought. Even if I have to drag her out, it’s the only way. He grabbed Purvis with both hands and shook him gently. ‘Like I said, doc, who needs miracles?’

  Tristan started making his way to the cabin and was dodging labourers when he turned around and with a wry smile said, ‘Wish me luck!’

  Rather you than me, lad, thought the doctor, yet he mustered up an encouraging smile for his friend.

  ‘My, my. How quickly things can change.’ He stroked the soft fur of the lion’s coat on the top of the heap.

  Cuthbert regarded the young British man with disdain. Stroking the pelt as if he knew how to kill such a splendid beast. He had never liked him, even as a young brat many years ago when a very young Percival Bradford had first set foot in Embomma. The air of arrogance around him had always been somewhat stifling.

  ‘Yes, Embomma is a fast-growing town now, Mr Bradford, with a true sense of community and economic growth. Why, in the last month, our harvest and export of tobacco alone have nearly doubled, and five new plantations are seeing the light of day as we speak. Next to the church, construction on a larger school has already begun. It’s amazing what the removal of a few…obstacles can achieve in such a short time, not to mention the upliftment of the human spirit when one is free to work and not forced or threatened throughout.’ The cat in Cuthbert’s arms purred as he gently scratched it behind the ears. ‘I haven’t seen you around here for a while, Mr Bradford. The last time you left was in the middle of the night, as I understood it. “Didn’t get on with the locals,” they told me.’

  The contempt was mutual. Percival hated everything there was to hate about the podgy merchant, including his epicene ways, which made him sick to his stomach. He decided not to waste any more time and marched to the table, where the merchant had remained seated throughout their short conversation. ‘Since you always seem to know everything about everybody, perhaps you could inform me where our mutual acquaintance, Mr Conway, is finding himself these days.’

  ‘Last I heard he was sailing up north to look for a young Brit, a subject in His Majesty’s service.’

  Percival sneered at the man’s spiteful remark. ‘We both know that that’s a lie because if it were indeed true, I would’ve stumbled across him in my travels by now.’

  ‘The ocean is a big place, Mr Bradford. Perchance you weren’t looking hard enough. What’s your business with him anyway? Didn’t you get enough of a thrashing the first time around?’

  Percival felt his ears getting flustered as his blood started boiling. ‘Don’t play clever with me, Mr Cuthbert. You’ll find me anything but a courteous gentleman if you were to continue down that path. My sword here has the ability to make people tell the truth, or perhaps I shall send for some of my men to redecorate your warehouse. How about the same colour as Mr Morgan’s mansion?’ Percival spoke deliberately slow, making sure that the older man understood his intent. ‘Now, I will not ask again! Where is Tristan Conway?’

  First Ascott came flying across the table with legs flailing, caterwauling his protest. Next Cuthbert flew up with glowering fury. ‘You will not condescend or threaten me, sir! It appears that you’re forgetting your place. Outside those doors, you will find a thousand savages, thirsty for British blood, and I will not waiver to let them have their way. Are you prepared to suffer their wrath?’ Wiping the white spit from his lips with a neatly folded handkerchief, he held Percival’s gaze, not budging.

  The younger man was hesitant, not sure what to make of the red-faced spectacle and whether the older man was trying to hoodwink him or not. Their paths had not crossed many times, but he had interacted enough with the merchant to know that the man was acting completely out of his usually temperate character. Becoming aware of the growing silence behind him, he looked around and saw that the Africans inside the warehouse had stopped whatever they had been busy with and were looking at him in a threatening manner. The old fart is telling the truth! ‘You know, Mr Cuthbert, I’m sensing a hint of savage in your demeanour. Perchance you’ve spent too much time away from civilisation. And then you go and threaten what you call a subject in His Majesty’s service? The natives and the bush, or your newfound vainglory must’ve befuddled your mind. I’ll excuse your intolerant behaviour this time. But your lack of co-operation with and support for the Royal
Navy will be duly noted. So, remember, next time, it may not be just one ship and eighty men that make the voyage upstream.’

  ‘I fear you’re trying to take me for a fool once again, sir. I’m certain that the whereabouts of Tristan Conway aren’t a matter for the Royal Navy and neither do I believe that you’re acting on its behalf or that you’re even here on official business. No, I think you wish to settle a personal score and that you’re placing your own needs before that of your king. So please, Mr Bradford, spare me the lecture on matters of the Crown and take your empty threats of retribution elsewhere.’ Cuthbert pulled his chair closer and sat down with a loud groan. A cautious Ascott had once again returned, rubbing himself against his master’s legs. His persistence paid off because a hand soon picked him up, and he was back in the comfort of his owner’s lap. ‘Now that the golden-egg-laying goose has been disposed of, it’s time for you to leave, Mr Bradford, and not to return, ever again. You would find the town Embomma to be a cold and unwelcoming place if you choose to do so.’

  Percival saw the inimical glare before the merchant got busy with his paperwork. ‘This will not be the last you see of me!’ he uttered, still seething inside. When Cuthbert ignored him, he made a sharp turn and marched out of the warehouse under the contemptuous gazes of the warehouse workers.

  Back on the ship, he immediately gave the order to lift anchors and soon they were sailing downriver towards the Atlantic. Cuthbert might not have helped him, but on his ship, Percival had just the man that could. Isabella’s uncle had started to feel the ire of a town that had turned on him and had wanted to flee Embomma. Percival smirked. Blood did not always run thicker than water, especially not when the right amount of coin was on offer. The taverner still felt a lot of contempt towards his successful brother, a deep hatred that even now stretched beyond the realms of the living. He had told Percival to head further south, with Loanda the last known destination, and that was exactly Percival’s intention. The man could be of further use too, for he knew most of Silveira’s crew and he had given Percival a good account of Embomma’s recent changes. But Percival cared for none of that because Cuthbert was right. He had a score to settle with a man named Tristan Conway. It was all that mattered. Everything else was inconsequential.

  The great cabin’s dark brownish-red curtains were still drawn. If it were not for the gentle sway of the ship which allowed daylight to filter through the smallest of gaps, the room would have been pitch-black. Tristan walked around the cabin bed and could make out the rolled-up ball that was Isabella, still lying in the same position as when he had left earlier in the day, in the same place where her now-deceased father had spent so much of his life.

  His footsteps did not stir her. Apart from her peaceful breathing, her body lay motionless, while her mind seemed unperturbed by the dull thuds of hammer on wood coming from above and below, persistent sounds that would drive any person mad over a prolonged period. He slowly drew the curtains and let what little light the day had provided penetrate the windows and fill the room.

  Tristan took a seat next to her. Her eyes were open, slightly sunken with dark circles around the edges. Like deep dark pools, they looked. Her dark olive skin had turned a pale yellow, while her tousled hair appeared dull, a far cry from the shiny radiance it had once emitted. She must have been hot for her forehead oozed pearls of sweat, and she had kicked off the bedsheets and blanket that he had so carefully placed over her.

  ‘Isabella?’ whispered Tristan.

  The eyes looked past him as if nothing registered, like he was nothing more than a chair in the room or a plank in the bulkhead.

  ‘Isabella?’

  His eyes drifted to the laudanum bottle on the small bedside table. The opiate tincture from the Far East had been provided by the doctor, to help her sleep and to lessen the anger. Empty! He could swear the glass bottle was half full when he had last checked. Then it hit him like a musket ball right between the eyes.

  ‘Oh, dear God, no!’ Tristan grabbed the bottle and shook it violently as if to summon back its contents. ‘Doctor!’ He grasped Isabella by the shoulder and shook her body, which caused her to roll onto her back. Her empty eyes looked at the ceiling, oblivious to her surroundings. He slapped her lightly on both cheeks to try and wake her up, then harder when he had no response. In between slaps and screaming her name, he yelled for the doctor. Her pale cheeks slowly started turning red, but still, she looked and acted like a corpse. ‘Doctor!’

  Tristan ran to the cabin door, plucked it open and grabbed the nearest sailor. ‘Get the fucking doctor! Now!’ The Portuguese man, quite shaken with the verbal and physical onslaught, stood dumbfounded, not sure what his captain wanted of him. Tristan left the speechless man and raced out onto the deck. ‘Can someone please get the bloody surgeon?!’

  Silva could read his captain’s face and quickly realising that it was a matter of life and death, he left his post and climbed down the hatch himself to convey the urgent message. Tristan did not wait for a reply but rushed back inside to be by Isabella’s side. He pulled her limp body upright and supported her head on his shoulder. Her skin was hot under his touch.

  ‘Please, God!’ He slapped her gently on the face. ‘Wake up! Wake up!’ Visions of whorehouses from the East, filled with thick grey opium smoke and aimless wanderers flashed through his mind. The “walking dead”, some men called them, but now and then, a walking dead would collapse in a heap never to get up again.

  Behind him, the door burst open. Purvis was closely followed by Silva and behind them, Jabari closed the door. Tristan showed Purvis the empty bottle, and the doctor quickly rushed to the side of the bed and sat down behind Isabella, who was still slumped over on Tristan’s shoulder.

  ‘I reckon that bottle was about half to two-thirds full when I last saw her this morning, would you agree?’

  Tristan nodded.

  The doctor reached for his overflowing bag, which Jabari had placed on the floor next to them. ‘I brought everything!’ He tried to make light of the situation.

  ‘Is she dying, doc?’ asked a distressed Tristan.

  The doctor held up his finger and silence fell over the room. He took a hollowed-out piece of wood and placed one end on her back and the other side to his ear. For a few painstaking minutes, he listened. Everybody else looked on, anxiously holding their breaths to learn the doctor’s findings, none more so than the man holding her.

  ‘Bring me a bucket of cold water. Ask the cook to brew the strongest coffee he possibly could and fill the largest mug he has,’ ordered the doctor, putting down his listening device and pocketing his watch.

  ‘Will she live?’ Tristan tried again. Behind them, the cabin door was shut with a startlingly loud bang as Jabari rushed outside to carry out Purvis’s requests.

  ‘Her heart beats normally, but she’s unconscious, and we need to wake her up soon, before the medicine takes full effect. Help me.’ Together they picked up the frail body and carried her towards the door.

  ‘Doc!’ Tristan hinted at the white dressing gown wet with perspiration. Tan nipples showed clearly under the almost see-through fabric, as did the dark patch at the juncture of her thighs.

  ‘Mr Silva, a blanket if you please!’

  Once they had her wrapped up, they all exited onto the main deck where curious men watched on, trying to figure out the situation. Even the officers stopped and observed the trio.

  Heavy drops of rain had started to fall across Table Bay, and the doctor lifted Isabella’s head so that the cool wind and rain battered her face. Tristan anxiously watched her for any sign of movement.

  ‘Rest the side of her head against your chest!’ yelled the doctor and Tristan immediately did as he was told.

  The doctor stepped back. ‘Forgive me, lad.’ He raised his hand and struck Isabella with a massive backhand blow across the side of the cheek.

  ‘What the fuck are you—‘ Tristan stopped when he felt the muscles in her arms twitch under his fingers. Another blow foll
owed. This time her eyelids fluttered and Tristan felt more movement in her body as she started to regain her senses. ‘Enough!’ He held up his hand, but there was no need because the doctor had already seen the signs he was looking for.

  Jabari arrived with the bucket of water.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Purvis, grabbing hold of the bucket, then turned to Tristan. ‘Hold her in front of you, unless you want to get wet.’

  ‘Are you sure this is necessary?’

  ‘Trust me, lad, we’ve only just started!’ replied the doctor and unceremoniously dumped the bucket of ice-cold Atlantic seawater over the half-conscious girl.

  A loud gasp followed, as Isabella snapped out of her dreamlike state and looked around, bewildered by the many faces staring back at her. Some of the men had come to grips with the situation and loudly cheered when they realised a tragedy had been averted. She felt the strong grip around her waist and turned around only to see the worried face of a man who looked vaguely familiar. Nothing made sense. Her mind was hazy and warm, yet her body felt wet and cold, and it shivered uncontrollably.

  Tristan hugged the confused girl tightly. ‘You’re safe now…you’re safe now,’ he whispered.

  ‘Now take her inside. Dry her but keep her standing. If you need to, slap her again, splash water in her face, do whatever you need to do to keep her awake.’ Looking over his shoulder, Purvis yelled indiscriminately, ‘Where is the damn coffee?’

  ‘Shouldn’t you come with me, doc, in case she needs further attention?’

  ‘I have another patient waiting, remember? But for you, the real work starts now. Don’t let her fall asleep until I tell you otherwise. Let her drink the coffee slowly – all of it – then lots of water. I’ll send up some spirits of hartshorn. Rub some on her nose and lips, but only as a last resort. That’s all we can do for her right now, lad.’

  Tristan nodded and led Isabella back to the cabin, half-dragging her soaked body along. From the quarterdeck, he heard men wishing them well. Others murmured prayers, but it all was lost on him, his only concern, the limp body in his arms.