The Fire Within

by Samuel T Clayton

  Next to him, Isabella let out an audible sigh of relief while a broad smile appeared on Cuthbert’s face for the merchant in him had been stirred.

  ‘I’d drink to that,’ said Purvis and they joined him in the toast.

  ‘Mr Conway, perhaps it’s best if you come by the warehouse in the morning to work through the details of that letter. One written at this hour and in this state might neither reflect its true purpose nor our intended sentiment. Perhaps then we could also look through my wares and see what takes your fancy.’

  ‘I shall do just that,’ said Tristan. ‘Thank you for a splendid evening, Mr Cuthbert. Your boundless hospitality would leave many of London’s patricians wanting, and of that I’m most certain.’

  ‘You are most welcome, darling. It is not often I have the chance to share the spoils of my labour.’

  Tristan took Isabella by the hand and hinted at Purvis to join them, but the doctor stayed put in his seat like an invisible force was pushing him down.

  ‘I still need to examine the patient, lad. Duty calls, no matter what time of day or night, or anywhere in between,’ said Purvis, giggling at his own silly attempt at a joke.

  ‘Alright, then. Well, you gentlemen have a splendid night.’

  ‘Miss Silveira,’ – Cuthbert bowed and kissed Isabella’s hand – ‘it’s a pity it has taken such a long time and some dire incidents for us to share a meal and a splendid conversation. I look forward to the next time, darling.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Cuthbert. My parents would’ve loved this too. I feel honoured.’ A lonely tear ran out of the corner of her left eye, but she quickly discarded it with the back of her hand.

  Outside the night had warmed up and it was a pleasant walk back to the Deliverance.

  The cry of a lonesome jackal looking for some company announced the break of dawn. On the deck of the Deliverance, the few who stood watch were half asleep, their senses numbed by the lack of activity and the non-existent possibility of foul play. If it was not for their captain who had appeared on deck in the early hours, they could have dozed off somewhere, but instead, they were seated, heads slumped, while others leaned against the raised wooden constructions.

  Tristan stood on the main deck, listening to the jackal whose lonely call had been answered, the two scavengers in deep conversation about the sharing of a meal or even love. Their cries had a primal beauty to them and awakened that small part within him that missed the wilderness, its sounds and the uncertainty of what surprises the day would bring.

  Sleep fell afoul of him during the night. Not even a slumber. And right now, he felt every single hour of his restlessness. A good brew of coffee is what I need, he thought as he shook his head, trying to get out of the lethargic state. Perhaps even add the hair of the dog that bit me last night.

  As he prepared to make his way down to the galley, he noticed a dark figure approach. Trying damn hard to remain inconspicuous had given the person away and when the figure’s face finally came to light, Tristan was surprised at first but then, with the African sunrise, the realisation dawned.

  ‘Doctor.’

  ‘Captain.’

  ‘Great morning for a walk.’

  ‘’Tis indeed,’ said Purvis as he walked unsteadily up the gangway. At first, it looked like he was heading for the safety of his cabin, but then he gripped the rail atop the bulwark and came to a standstill.

  ‘I fear my drunken stupor put me in somewhat of a predicament last night. I might’ve said or done things that my normal self would ordinarily refrain from.’

  ‘No harm done, doc. We’ve all been there,’ assured Tristan, trying to brush off any concern his friend might have harboured. ‘And how is the man?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Cuthbert. You were going to examine him.’

  ‘Oh. Yes. ‘Twas not his back. After a thorough examination, it appears his kidneys are failing him or perhaps an unpassed stone might be the cause of his discomfort.’

  ‘It sounds like a wealthy person’s problems then.’

  ‘To be honest, I don’t know. I’ve seen it in young and old, rich and poor. I explained to him in detail how we medical professionals perform a lithotomy.’ Purvis described the method in detail, as well as the character required to endure such pain. ‘Let’s say, he flinched more than once and at the end begged me to stop as his bravado languished. Then I told him to apply some sobriety to his life and stop his gluttonous ways altogether for at least a month. Fruit, water instead of wine, and a good amount of time might clear up his symptoms.’

  ‘Fruit and water? So, will he live?’ Tristan was surprised by the lengthy explanation. It was like Purvis had an unrestrainable need to talk, which would find any normal person desperately short of time and patience at this hour of the day.

  ‘Let us stay hopeful he will heed my dire prediction. If I did my scaremongering well and he listened to what I’ve said, then yes.’

  The two men watched the first rays of sun light up the majestic Zaire River. Beyond the docks, the noise coming from the village rose above the tapestry of green, slowly drowning out the last tranquil gasps from the African bush. From the nearby houses, all the way to the foot of the hill, the sharp crack of metal on wood echoed through the thick morning air, and soon tendrils of smoke started drifting lazily into the heavy sky, with the previous night’s fires being reignited.

  On the shore nearby, fishermen readied their dugouts for the day’s fishing, their native chatter filled with raillery, an argument or two and laughter, no different to their British counterparts on the other side of the world who were setting out on the Thames to bring food to their own tables and that of others. In the distance, excited cattle mooed and hooved their intentions loudly as their herders made ready for the daily excursion to the nearby grasslands.

  ‘Lad, I—‘

  ‘There’s nothing to say, doc.’ Tristan had heard the uncertainty straightaway. ‘What happens in the dark and behind closed doors, stays in the dark and behind closed doors. Besides, your friendship is without boundaries, and who am I to judge anyway?’

  The gratitude that spread across Purvis’s face was a reflection of that very same friendship, a rapport that ran much deeper than a rivulet of sweat expended by a sinner in the middle of the night. With a nod, the doctor was off to catch up on some much-needed sleep, while Tristan remained behind, watching the dugouts glide out onto the calm water, briefly envying the simple men with their simple lives. When he turned to go search for that cup of coffee, by now a necessity to heed the day, the sky was truly lit. He had one week and so much to accomplish.

  Jabari wiped the bead of sweat that trickled down his neck. The sun over the Indian Ocean beamed down on them relentlessly.

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Tristan, stealing another glance.

  ‘Nyegere, would you not recognise a man if he’d slain your father in front of your very own eyes?’ said Jabari, slightly offended by his friend’s scepticism. Jabari had spotted the man the day before, sitting at a table outside the only tavern in town. An old man now, the white devil still had the same smug grin. ‘Besides, he’s still wearing the eyepatch.’

  ‘So many years have passed, Jabari, I’m just making sure that we don’t dispatch an innocent man.’ This time Tristan openly squinted his eyes to get a better look at the man whose path they had unwittingly crossed.

  ‘I never forget a face and have dreamed about this day for so many years.’

  ‘Neither do I. Forget a face that is, not the dreaming part,’ said Finn. The redhead, who looked the most inconspicuous among the threesome, had chewed on a dried date and was sucking loudly on the stone, not just to get the last remaining morsels but to keep his mouth wet, a strange comfort in the sweltering heat.

  Tristan swatted a fly away from his lips and regarded the scene in front of him once more. They were in Mahébourg, a small coastal town on the island of Mauritius, on the homebound leg of their journey. The heavy-laden Deliverance was anchored in a large, clear
light-blue lagoon settled among treacherous coral reefs, not far from where a large freshwater stream entered the azure ocean. Like the town, the market where they found themselves was equally small, but what it lacked in stature, it made up doubly with the variety of goods on offer.

  As usual, it was the three of them who concluded any business there was to be done. Tristan, the captain. Jabari, the enforcer. And Finn, the purser. But this was rather personal business which had nothing to do with the rest of the crew, and therefore no one else knew what the three men were up to. The other officers had been told that the captain wanted to spend another day on the island. No one had complained. Sailors too were human beings, who had bodies and clothes that needed washing from time to time, and the nearby river mouth had proven to be the perfect setting in which to do both.

  It had been a busy three months, and a day of leisure was hard to come by. On their northbound journey, they had freed close to a hundred slaves from dhows that were bound for the Arab lands. The small vessels, most of them unarmed, had been no match for the Deliverance and had been easily overpowered. They deemed themselves untouchable and acted accordingly, bringing swift justice to the few who had dared to engage them in battle. It had not just been the Deliverance, but also her crew that had passed the test with their colours flying proudly in the breeze, finding rectitude and reprieve for any violent acts towards the slavers in the smiles and gratitude on the faces of the ones they had freed.

  Past Africa’s horn, on the rich trading grounds of the Ottoman Empire they had traded most of their goods with the very same Arabs for whom the freed slaves had been destined. From there they had headed across the Arabian Sea to continue their trade along the west coast of India, visiting contacts in settlements provided by Cuthbert, as well as merchants whom Tristan had acquainted while on board the Raven. These men had remembered Captain Cutcliffe’s young clerk well. Transactions had concluded without a hitch and days on end they continued to rummage the Deliverance’s hold, which was already bursting with exotic spices, medicines and textiles, including the finest of silk. When they had reached Goa, all their trading had been completed, and three days after Tristan’s nineteenth birthday, their homeward journey had commenced.

  On the return voyage, Tristan decided to stop at Mauritius to take on fresh food and water, steering well clear of the treacherous pirate-infested waters surrounding the Madagascan coast.

  ‘He’s heading this way,’ whispered Finn, hinting at the man they had been watching.

  ‘I tell you now. The food isn’t enough. We need at least twelve more barrels of salted meat! Pork or beef. Heart, liver, lungs, for heaven’s sake, anything will do,’ exclaimed Tristan.

  Finn caught on fast. ‘But the dried beans and peas will last us for the whole voyage. Besides, the captain doesn’t give a fuck. “Bastards can survive on tooth dullers and seawater for all I care,” he said. Nothing but a malicious bastard he is, if you ask me.’

  Tristan frowned, then returned fire with a grin. ‘I’ve heard the men say that the purser is an unwise Irish clodpole, who has spent all the captain’s money foolishly and now there’s nothing left but the chest it had once filled. Murmurings in the passageways suggest that the captain should keelhaul his arse.’

  The man walked past the squabbling group, listening to their conversation, and voiced his agreement with a loud grunt like a man who knew what they were talking about. Then he stopped and regarded the tall, muscular negro whose eyes had been following him.

  Tristan jabbed Jabari in the ribs with his elbow. ‘I’m thirsty. Fetch us some coconuts.’ Jabari did not register. Tristan hit him hard, nearly winding his friend. ‘Coconuts! Now!’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied the African, as he sped off to a wooden stall with a neatly thatched roof, not far from where they were standing.

  The tall, angular Portuguese man sneered at the African striding past him, a sneer that was quickly replaced by an agreeable grin as he addressed Tristan and Finn, approving of their handling of the negro. ‘Niggers são piores do que os cães. Arf arf…dog,’ said the man pointing to Jabari as he slavered.

  ‘Aye, just like a dog,’ said Tristan, biting his tongue, but at the same time sensing an underlying hatred in the man’s tone. He saw more evil in the man’s one good eye than he had seen in many of the scoundrels who had crossed his path.

  They stood around in awkward silence, watching Jabari deal with the owner of the stall. Mumbling something to himself about niggers, the Portuguese man left them behind.

  ‘Obviously not a man who shares your views on negroes,’ remarked Finn, just as Jabari arrived back, cradling three green coconuts in his massive arms. The three of them enjoyed the lukewarm, sweet water.

  ‘Calling my friend a dog is a killable offence in my book.’ Tristan wiped the sticky residue from his lips. ‘But unfortunately, his life is not mine to take.’

  Next to him, Jabari had finished his drink. Tristan knew the African was boiling inside, his lower lip still twitching with anger, and that he needed every bit of resolve that he could muster not to run down the skinny man and snap his neck. He slapped his friend on the shoulder. ‘By tomorrow this will all be over, and you’ll be free of that burden that’s been scolding your insides for so long.’

  Jabari did not reply. Many thoughts ran through his mind, mostly questions that he knew would remain unanswered, for they went far beyond man’s intellect and comprehension.

  Afonso Diogo was a misanthrope. Yet, for someone who distanced himself from others, he had led a remarkably full life that had made him a rich man compared to the Dutch tripe that also called Mauritius home. Every so often, he allowed himself the pleasure of reminiscing about his old life.

  Most of his riches came from Arab countries to the north. For years, the sheikhs, including the Imam of Oman himself, paid top coin for the best slaves. And he, Afonso Diogo, was the best at finding the best. Up and down the Swahili coast he travelled, ruthlessly plundering villages as far inland as the Great Lakes, harvesting the black gold like a man possessed, leaving only ashes in his wake.

  Africa had raised him, and she was ruthless in his upbringing. By the age of sixteen, she had taught him all he needed to know to survive in her harsh surroundings. When natives, led by a once-trusted family acquaintance, attacked their settlement and took both the lives of his pleading parents and the sight from his left eye, she taught him the cruellest, yet most valuable of all lessons: no one could be trusted, and only the most ruthless shall prosper on her soil.

  And that was exactly what he did. Fleeing and finding his way on board a Portuguese slave ship anchored off the coast, he quickly proved his ruthlessness by reaping black lives with the ship’s crew without a hint of mercy, starting with the very same people who had instilled that insatiable hunger in him. He helped ransack their village, taking great pleasure in inflicting much pain on their ringleader, stretching the man’s suffering out for two long days before he finally ran him through. But instead of finding redemption by killing and capturing those responsible for the death of his parents, it fuelled his quest, his thirst to do more.

  It was not long before his violent persistence paid off, and he led a revolt to become captain of the very same ship that he had boarded as a young man. At first, like the captain before him, he dealt with the Arab slavers who travelled up and down the coast looking for slaves to satisfy the needs of their masters. Later, when his riches started piling up, his flotilla grew drastically, and so did his power and influence. Cleverly cutting out the middlemen, he started delivering negro slaves and stinking Nubians directly to the sheikhs, making a small fortune in Arab gold and jewels.

  Ruthless in acquiring slaves and fearless in squashing any competition he operated his ships like a pirate captain would. It did not take long for his own country to make him a wanted man as he harassed Portuguese settlements and ships along the Swahili coast, demanding that they hand over any negroes and sometimes even enslaving his own kind if they did not comply. T
he Arabs did not care. They needed slaves of all kinds, and One Eye or Jicho Moja, as the locals called him, brought them plenty. Afonso Diogo’s name became synonymous with slavery as he and his band of villains raided the lands.

  After years of rape and pillage, his luck finally ran out when his ship got caught in foul weather and sank off the coast of Kenya. Adrift in the warm shark-infested waters for three days and clinging onto a makeshift raft of broken wood, torn sail and rope, the mighty Indian Ocean claimed the last of his men and gave him a farewell beating before she spat him out a few miles north of Mombasa. Avoiding the Portuguese settlement at all cost, Diogo stole a bunch of bananas, a calabash with sour milk and a small sailing boat from a nearby fishing village and headed for a small island northwest of Madagascar to gather his riches before setting sail for the main island. From there he procured passage to the island of Mauritius, buying his anonymity as he travelled, and finally settled down in Mahébourg, an insignificant little hellhole, where no one cared about him. In fact, the Dutch despised him, and he thrived on their hatred.

  But even a solitary man has his needs, and there were two particular cravings Diogo had lusted after for most of his life – liquor and women – and when he had the one, he strongly desired the other.

  Sitting in his usual seat in the corner of the Dutch tavern, Diogo had been eyeing the fresh meat all night – a youthful filly who had just come off the boat. The jenever had been fuelling his infatuation, and he emptied the last drops before slamming his mug on the wooden table, an unmistaken sign that he wanted another drink. Quickly filling a fresh mug, the taverner signalled his new maid to take it over to the dark-skinned man with the contrasting white hair. Like all other Dutch dwellers, he detested Diogo, but in this part of the world, business was business and taverners like him, could not afford to be captious. Even though the man looked sickly thin, his weathered face with the dark eyepatch still cut out a menacing figure with a temper to match, as many an unlucky patron had found out the hard way.