The Fire Within

by Samuel T Clayton

  ‘Sorry lad, I should’ve known,’ the doctor called after him. ‘The bottle—’

  ‘’Twas her choice, doc, and you saved her life. There’s nothing to be sorry about.’

  For the rest of the day, Tristan stayed by her side. Twice he had to smack her cheeks, as mind and body fought an internal battle. They paced backwards and forwards, from one end of the cabin to the other, hundreds of times. He wiped down her face with a wet cloth, telling her story after story, sometimes repeating the same ones over and over again while feeding her sip after sip of the strong black coffee, laced with sugar. Occasionally, she would say something, mostly Portuguese and French gibberish, which Tristan understood nothing of. The doctor looked in on them several times. Together they tried to feed her boiled chicken with bread, but when the food and febrifuge that Purvis had given her earlier came spewing back out, the doctor ordered the cook to prepare a thin soup from chicken and beans, which Isabella managed to keep down.

  It was dark when she finally came out of her hebetudinous state and only then, after one last check-over, did Purvis give the say-so for her to sleep. Tristan lay beside her the whole night, watching over her like a hawk. ‘Hope,’ he whispered to her. ‘Someone has once told me, there’s always hope.’ Not once, but a hundred times over, he repeated those words, not just to her, but also to himself. In the dead of night, when the ship was silent apart from the howling wind, and his lantern was one of few still burning, he kept a vigilant watch. Sometimes she looked so peaceful that he would quickly rest his head on her chest to listen for that vital thump.

  It could have been tiredness, or perhaps he found himself in that trancelike place where wakefulness and sleep battled it out, but in the lonely hours of the morning, he heard a strange voice that told him to pray. Too exhausted to question or disobey, he started, first struggling, muttering what he thought God wanted to hear, not remembering how and what. Then he stopped and just talked. The sluice opened soon after, and it became a conversation between him, a sleeping girl, four walls and a God whom he had considered a stranger for most of his life. Tristan cursed, and he revered. He accused, and he repented. It carried on until he felt a mysterious calmness within. Sleep finally won the battle, and he slipped into the pleasant, peaceful darkness, next to his fickle mistress.

  Chapter 31

  Tristan found himself back in the Dutch merchant De Witt’s shop for the last time. The past ten days had flown by, and a great deal of work had been done to the newly named Deliverance, but most importantly, the trader had made good on his promise. Five days earlier, they had taken delivery of two Dutch bronze cannons, complete with carriages, and a day later, four more guns had followed.

  ‘When will I see you again, Mr Conway?’ enquired a clearly relieved De Witt not long after he had become the owner of a small, yet very valuable chest.

  ‘Not soon, I hope, Mr De Witt, if everything goes according to plan.’

  ‘And where will you head next?’

  ‘I’d rather not say, just in case someone asks you that very same question with a pistol to your head.’

  The lanky fella never knew when Tristan was serious or not. Forcing a chuckle, he wiped a bit of sweat from his brow and stole a look at Jabari, who was standing nearby. He never felt at ease with the big African around. Even now, with a friendly grin on his gigantic face, the black man seemed unnervingly ominous. De Witt was thankful the day had finally come. The young man had made him work for every penny, his hands and arms still aching from the morning’s physical exercise when he himself had helped to deliver the last of their provisions.

  ‘Before I leave, there’s a small favour that I need you to do for me, Mr De Witt. There is a tall Dutch fella, much like yourself, only sturdier. He works in a warehouse in Heerengracht Street – “Van Hoek Handelaars”. I need the man taken care of.’

  ‘You want…Mr Conway’ – De Witt pushed the chest aside, and even though it was only the three of them in the shop, he pulled Tristan to one side and whispered – ‘you want him dead, sir?’

  Tristan smiled at the gentleman who had suddenly turned a tad pale, disgusted with the grisly request that had been put to him so matter-of-factly. He decided to have a little bit more fun with the man, who was quite naive when it came to any matters other than merchantry.

  ‘No, Mr De Witt. What do you take me for, a ruthless vagabond?’

  ‘No, no, no, sir!‘ protested De Witt.

  ‘Let’s say I need him roughed up a bit.’ Tristan grinned. ‘You know what, I actually need him roughed up a lot.’ De Witt gasped. Tristan was not sure if it was relief or nausea. ‘You have made a lot of money out of this transaction of ours, and of course, I would consider it a great favour.’ He saw the scepticism in the trader’s eyes. ‘See, Mr De Witt, a particular Dutchman getting beaten up by an Englishman, now that would be frowned upon, perhaps even severely punished in a place like this. Correct? But if said Dutchman got knocked around by some of his own kind, for some inventive reason, now that would be more acceptable, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘I guess so.’ De Witt did not seem completely convinced. ‘What did this man do?’

  ‘He beat up one of my crew.’

  ‘But that’s a matter for the magistrate, Mr Conway!’

  ‘I neither have the time nor the patience to deal with the law. Can I consider the matter dealt with, Mr De Witt?’ When there was no immediate reply, Tristan said, ‘You haven’t yet looked at the contents of the chest, Mr De Witt. Who knows, I might’ve taken out a few items of value and replaced them with say, rocks.’

  De Witt was astute enough to see the glint in the eye and hear the hint of horseplay in the young man’s voice, but he was not sure.

  ‘I will see to it.’

  ‘Good. Now open the chest.’

  ‘But I trust you, Mr Conway.’ De Witt did not, but it seemed the right thing to say.

  ‘This is not about trust. Open it!’

  De Witt was not an old man, but suddenly his hands felt detached from his body as his fingers struggled to put the small key in the lock. Over Tristan’s shoulder, Jabari leaned forwards to take a peek, quietly willing the shaking trader on as his curiosity got the better of him. At last the merchant slotted it in, and small metallic gears made a grinding noise before the padlock opened. De Witt took it off, almost afraid to unhinge the bronze latch like he was expecting the unexpected to jump out any minute or even worse, discover what he feared most.

  ‘Mr Conway!’ the merchant blurted in surprise.

  Behind Tristan, Jabari also gasped in wonderment so loudly in his ear that Tristan looked over his shoulder, giving the African an annoyed look. Unbeknownst to the merchant, Tristan had only put back a little of what he had taken out before he had first presented the chest to the man. However, it was what he placed at the top that had taken De Witt’s breath away. Courtesy of Morgan, a golden pendant encrusted in sparkling jewels lay on top of the small pile of gold and silver.

  ‘In about three months from now, you’ll start to hear stories about a ship and a man named Nyegere. Remember the name. Nye-ge-re.’ Tristan watched De Witt mouthing the word, while he ogled the chest’s contents. ‘You will hear how his ship sank others and killed their crews. You will hear how ruthless this captain and his crew are. Some might even compare them to pirates. Whenever you hear this, you will tell the person the exact opposite, that you’ve heard otherwise, that Nyegere had killed a few to save hundreds, if not thousands. That he’s a righteous person, who gives rather than takes. That he’s not a killer but a saviour, sent to deliver justice to those who prey on others.’ Tristan pointed at the chest. ‘The contents of that chest have changed since we’d last spoken. It buys me the right to ask this of you. And my request is a simple one. I ask you not to lie, but to tell the truth, as strange and preposterous as it may sound.’

  The wide-eyed merchant stared at the blond-haired man in front of him but could not get himself to ask the question which begged to be asked. He feared that t
he less he knew in this instance, the safer he would be. But somehow De Witt knew that what the young man had just told him tied in with his refusal to disclose his next destination.

  Suddenly, a feeling of insignificance, starting with a small shiver down the spine, took hold of him. He realised that he was standing in the presence of sanctity and that there were greater causes in the world, far beyond his mundane existence and wildest imagination, a world that he would never know or ever be a part of. He fiddled with the container’s sparkling contents, vaguely hearing the young man say farewell.

  By the time De Witt had come to, his shop was empty. ‘Godspeed, Mr Conway,’ he said to the closed door, still not sure what he had agreed to, but another look at the chest’s contents quickly removed any doubt he still harboured. Nyegere, he thought.

  The cool southerly in Tristan’s back still had a bite to her. It was an early winter morning, but one could sense in the air and the morning sunlight that the season was turning. Behind them, Table Mountain was being swallowed up whole by the haze, which rose up continuously from the cold Atlantic Ocean. Soon the mountain and town would be a distant memory.

  The plan was to head northeast. “Six weeks” he had told the men. In six weeks, they had to have found their stride with rope, sail and cannon. Only then, if he was satisfied, would they return to Embomma.

  Standing on the Deliverance’s quarterdeck, Tristan felt the ship’s power as the wind propelled her along. ‘How is she handling, Mr Silva?’

  ‘Delgado reckons she’s running like a newborn foul, sir, one who has just found her legs. She will get into her rhythm soon. Once she’s hit her stride, perhaps we can let her loose?’ Silva was dying to see what his old ship could do.

  ‘Very well. Full sails. Give the order when you feel she’s ready.’ Tristan was amazed at the ease with which the caravel handled the extra weight. The cannons had done nothing except keeping her more stable, though he knew that only under fully deployed sails would they understand the full effect of their changes. ‘And the helm is now yours, Mr Silva. Just keep on pointing her nose northeast by north, steady as she goes. I’m going to walk about.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir! I have the helm.’

  He made his way down onto the main deck, which appeared busier than usual. Behind him, he heard Silva notifying the steersmen below. Not just relying on figures in Finn’s ledger, as hopeful aspirants had come and gone in droves, they had taken a full body count the night before and were three men short of the crew they had wanted. The new sailors had a baptism by fire under Tayler and Delgado. The two boatswains did not hold back one bit, and as Tristan listened to them barking orders at old hands and new, flustered faces, he reminded himself to commence with gun drills at the earliest time possible. Aloft, riggers clambered among the ship’s running rigging, briefly reminding him of the spiders Finn and he had tormented in the forests around London. They were moving into position, getting ready to release the furled mainsails upon the quartermaster’s command. Won’t be long now, he thought with eager anticipation.

  Then he saw Isabella. Fore the mainmast she was sitting with Purvis, tending to a sailor’s wound, listening and looking on intently as the learned man patiently explained his technique to her and his Khoikhoi assistant, who understood nothing of what the white man was saying but still happily expressed his thoughts on any matter, much to the annoyance of the doctor.

  Isabella was much better. Not completely healed. Just better. The doctor’s suggestion was working, and likewise, the fresh air was working its magic, bringing betterment with every new day. Tristan had also returned Isabella’s knife for he felt it was the right thing to do to help her in her journey to become her old self once more. Except for the flowing hair, she looked like any other sailor, dressed in the same clothes as the men. She had returned the two dresses he had bought for her as she refused to wear them. Tristan had accepted her choice and had accompanied her on her visit of the Dutch tailor to buy breeches, cotton shirts and a jacket. Tristan could recall the horror on the shop owner’s face as she appeared from behind the Chinese folding screen without the luscious silk dress, proudly donned in a manly and moreover ungodly way. The two of them had a good laugh at the tailor’s expense all the way back to the ship.

  Tristan had placed Isabella in the doctor’s care. He did not explain why and Purvis did not bother to ask. The Khoikhoi had immediately taken a liking to her, and he often found the two of them on the deck, the little man clicking and clacking as he pointed to the sea and sky, sometimes with great animation, much to Isabella’s delight. And whenever she laughed, the sinewy brown-coloured man would be quick to go quiet, and a delightful smile would spread across his wrinkled face like he was listening to angels singing.

  Through broken Dutch, and using the only few words that the Khoikhoi understood, Purvis had worked out that the man’s name was Nkó, a strange name to the ear for most of them. But that was what it sounded like, and that was how Finn had written it in the ledger. As much as the doctor had initially disliked his new mate, mostly due to the lack of comprehensible communication, he admired the little man for his strange anatomy and peculiar traits. The Khoikhoi’s never-ending positivity and friendly attitude, in what must have seemed like a very hostile environment, never ceased to amaze Purvis, and what little discontent there had been, had dissipated on the day when Nkó’s ability to sketch had come to light. An impromptu drawing of a strange buck on a piece of wood using only charcoal had pricked the doctor’s interest. The little man’s attention to detail was quickly put to good use, and while the doctor dissected and researched, the Khoi painstakingly captured the animal and its parts. It was in the macabre that the two men found their bond.

  Tristan had not told anyone about the sense of relief he had felt when the unlikely threesome found solace and friendship in each other’s company. And as he watched them patch up the injured seaman, he looked beyond mast and sail to the clear blue heavens above and muttered a silent thank you.

  ‘Captain’s thinking hard, can hear your head. You talking to man in sky?’

  Delgado’s voice startled him. The old greybeard’s weathered face was always a welcome sight. And this morning it had a special glow, even a twinkle in the eye, for Delgado was home on the water, the one place he knew better than any other. Tristan did not know what to say and replied rather flatly, ‘Aye, sometimes.’

  Together they stared aloft. They saw nothing except that which had always been there.

  ‘Some time I talk to him. Português only.’

  ‘Do you think he listens and understands both of us? Or if he answers back?’

  ‘Don’t matter. I feel better,’ said Delgado, shrugging his shoulder.

  ‘Me too.’ Tristan admired the man’s simplistic view of the world.

  Delgado gestured towards Isabella. ‘I ask man in sky to look her.’

  ‘To look after her? Thank you, Mr Delgado. It appears he has listened.’

  ‘Don’t matter. She better now.’

  ‘That she is indeed…that she is indeed.’

  For a few moments, they just stood there, like two old friends just enjoying each other’s company, knowing that no further words were required. Tristan reflected on how such an act could easily span nations but not always gender and laughed silently to himself as he wondered what Purvis would have to say on such a matter. No doubt that conversation and reasoning about philosophical matters such as these were best reserved for a late night when ample rum and tobacco were available for consumption.

  ‘Full sails!’

  Tristan heard the order, but it was the shrill highs and lows from Delgado’s pipe that brought him back to earth. With the captain on deck, the boatswains and their mates worked their men hard, and the crew’s reactions were sharp. From poop to bowsprit, deck to halyards, sailors worked in unison as the Deliverance ploughed through swell after swell, like a hot knife through butter. She was gliding more than she was sailing, and they kept up the fast pace for much of t
he day, shifting only to allow for the changing winds, and gave the coast a wide berth, just as their captain had instructed.

  Dinner on the Deliverance that night was an elaborate affair. With the cook making full use of the fresh produce, the officers and crew enjoyed a meal fit for a king. In the officers’ mess, great amounts of Cape red and white wine were heartily consumed, which resulted in loud banter and laughter that threatened to put a crack or two in the surrounding woodwork. Finn, ever the clown, had the other officers in stitches with his lively performances and tales of yesteryear, the men especially attentive when he started sharing stories of their captain in his younger years.

  Tottering on unsteady legs, wine glass in hand, wildly gesturing but still careful not to spill a drop, Finn said, ‘I kid you not. Here we are standing in front of this mansion with its neatly trimmed gardens, not a thing out of place and this rotund, haughty woman, dressed like a royal, her nose nearly touching the sky, is giving us a verbal thrashing for being late with her delivery of fish and bread. “My cook has little time to prepare the dishes I’ve promised my guests,” she says, and flatly refuses to pay us for the delivery! I try to explain to her about the day we’ve had, covering almost all of London’s roads, from the fancy cobblestoned paths up north to the dark back alleys of the south and all the while, next to me, I can see on Tristan’s face that he’s had enough of this peacock’s trouncing and is about to explode.

  ‘Then she pulls out this pearl. ”You ruffians have it all too easy. You think you’re delivering a service, yet I find you more of a nuisance than a convenience.” I couldn’t believe my ears, that this old hen has the audacity to question our hard work and dedication. Then, just as the setter in me awakens and I prepare to snarl at this bitch, my dear friend here replies in the calmest of voices.