The Fire Within

by Samuel T Clayton

  The young girl rushed over and placed the freshly filled mug in front of the Portuguese man. Diogo smiled at her with his black gums and rotten teeth, and she forced a smile in return while he ran a hand under her dress, forcing his fingers into her cunt, while the other one groped at her breasts, twisting her nipples. The other maids had warned her, so she waited patiently until he had finished pawing her, knowing full well the perils that came with the territory.

  Diogo pulled his hand from under her dress, grabbed her rump and forced her to look on while he sniffed his fingers that reeked of her, slipping them into his mouth as he licked them clean. He guffawed at her uneasiness and washed down her aftertaste with a mouthful of jenever, talking to her in Portuguese, telling her what he would like to do to her.

  She slipped from his grasp, knowing that as the night wore on, the indecency would probably repeat itself over and over again, until the man had had enough and left, or he had unleashed his pent-up frustration onto or into one of the harlots upstairs. Adjusting her clothes and under the watchful gaze of patrons and peers, she walked with as much decency as she could muster back to the bar, continuing her servitude and all the while struggling to rekindle the inspiration that had convinced her to get on that ship, which had brought her here in the first place.

  Patience had never been Diogo’s strong suit. And right now, the anticipation nearly made him burst. Like a young stallion smelling a mare in heat for the first time, he was ready. And when he heard the steps coming down the footpath, and the moonlight caught her face and blond hair, he started shaking uncontrollably.

  The alley at the back of the tavern had ample space to hide, and a few false alarms had done nothing but contribute to his already bursting desire. But now he got what he had come for. As she walked past, he jumped out and hit her on the side of the head with a massive blow, momentarily stunning her. While she was in a dazed state, he bent her over a barrel and lifted her dress, tearing away her undergarments and exposing her creamy white buttocks.

  Opening his breeches, he spat on his raging cock and was about to take her when he heard footsteps behind him.

  ‘Diogo.’

  ‘Vai-te foder!’ In no uncertain terms, he told the interfering person to fuck off and mind his own business.

  ‘Jicho Moja!’ called an African voice.

  Diogo froze, while the irrational thought made its way through his befuddled mind. When he spun around, his cock flapping about, his dagger was in his hand, ready to face his adversary. But he was not expecting three of them. The jenever had slowed him down, and before he could act, two of the men had grabbed his arms and pushed him up against the back wall of the tavern. One of them twisted his wrist, and the dagger fell with a dull thud into the soft sand. Realising the danger he was in, he tried to scream, but a salty rag was forced into his mouth and what was supposed to be loud cries for help, became muffled sounds of panic and curses.

  He tried kicking at the man in front of him, but a punch to his stomach winded him, making him grimace with pain as his body tried to curl itself up. His feeble struggle was to no avail as the two men kept him pinned up hard against the wall. Another blow to the stomach sent the rag, jenever and partly digested food lurching from his mouth and nose, splattering onto the ground. The sodden rag was quickly stuffed back into his mouth, and he choked on his own vomit as he tried to force air back into his lungs through nostrils laden with mucus and food particles.

  His good eye darted from one man to the other, until his befuddled brain caught up and he finally recognised the three men from the market. He yelled at them, and through the muffled sounds they could hear the unmistakable sound of a dog barking followed by manic laughter before a coughing fit sent a long piece of snot dribbling from the Portuguese man’s nose.

  Jabari gripped Diogo’s hair, pushing the man’s head back against the wall and exposing his throat where the lifeblood throbbed, the white man’s eye defiantly proud. Suddenly the African found himself in his old village. He was twelve years old again. The white Portuguese man had been tied to the white baobab tree in the middle of the village. His people sat in a circle around the tree. They were clapping and singing. His mother and father stood up and nodded to him. They were smiling. He smiled back. Then, as suddenly as they had appeared, they collapsed in a heap of dust and what little remained of his village became overgrown with thick vegetation, reclaimed by Africa.

  Jabari drew his heavy sword and looked into the man’s eye where fright had claimed defiance. He ran its curve blade across the exposed throat, stifling the man’s muffled screams and turning them into incomprehensible gurgles as his vocal cords and windpipe were sliced through. ‘Mulungu is the greatest,’ cried Jabari in Swahili, looking into the frightened eye as it started to glaze over, ‘for he has delivered you onto me and has given me the sweetest revenge!’

  The sharp blade of the heavy sword continued to slit through muscle and tendon, and severed the man’s head. Suddenly Tristan and Finn found themselves struggling to keep a headless body upright but gave up when they witnessed what had happened. The corpse collapsed to the ground, the thirsty white sand sucking up the blood faster than it could drain. Slowly they stepped away, both of them fascinated by what they were seeing. They did not understand a word, yet they understood everything.

  ‘Baba!’ Jabari held the head, oblivious to the blood and soft matter that streamed down his forearm. He lifted it high and showed the deceased’s face to the full moon and stars above. ‘Baba!‘ he called out. ‘Rest in peace now! My deed here is done. Rest in peace now, knowing that your son has also found his. The fire in my belly is silent now.’ The Swahili warrior unleashed an almighty roar that echoed through the settlement, at last expelling the pent-up anger and anguish that had been brewing in his gut for so long.

  When he slowly turned to face Tristan and Finn, both men still stood grounded to the spot, the whites in their wide eyes brightened by the moonlight. The African dropped the head and casually wiped the sword clean on the dead man’s clothes before sheathing it. ‘Thank you, Nyegere. I can die a happy man now.’

  Tristan, who had finally come to his senses, said, ‘And that would not be any time soon, my friend, for you and I still have some unfinished business.’

  The big African laughed. ‘Aye, that is so. Our paths are still strongly aligned. Besides, who else would rid the world of slavers?’

  ‘Ahhh, for fuck sake,’ Finn interjected. ‘And God must truly hate me for somehow entwining my life with you two lunatics. Besides, with all this talk about paths and destinies, you two fellas make it sound like we will all die together, like grandpa’s sheep after that one big thunderbolt.’ Suddenly he pointed to a nearby house where a lantern had been lit. ‘But I fear if we don’t leave right away, that day might come sooner rather than later. The stupid African just had to do his song and dance about cutting off the man’s head. Us Irish, when we do the same, we just carry on quaffing.’

  His mocked sarcasm drew smiles from both his friends before they left as quickly as they had appeared, leaving behind a headless corpse and traumatised Dutch girl, who slowly emerged from behind the stack of crates.

  Standing there by herself, next to Diogo’s beheaded remains, she mouthed the only words she had understood from her saviours’ conversation. ‘Thank you.’

  Perhaps there is justice in this cruel world, after all, she thought. All of a sudden, gone was the heavy burden that had plagued her since her arrival. Her circumstance suddenly did not appear that horrible anymore, but instead, an unequivocal exhilaration grabbed hold of her, and it was with a much lighter heart and a skip in her step that she started making her way to the house where she stayed – home.

  In Embomma, the Deliverance had delivered as promised. She was the only ship at anchor in the river, but the commotion on the docks would have suggested otherwise as goods were being unloaded at a brisk pace with porters moving back and forth between ship and warehouse like an army of ants collecting food for the
winter.

  ‘Darling, if I were a little bit more eccentric, I would ask Miguel to draw me a bath, filled with your spice and incense, and then dress me in that fine silk afterwards.’ Cuthbert was beyond ecstatic as he inspected crate after crate. He stopped at one that contained a deep red cloth with the most exquisite patterns. Carefully picking it up, he wrapped it around his shoulders, smelling the exotic perfumes and spices that had leaked into the fabric. ‘Allow an old man this guilty pleasure, lad. It’s like I’m being transported to the very place this comes from,’ said Cuthbert with his eyes closed.

  For a moment, Tristan turned a blind eye, letting the man lose himself in the colourful cloth. ‘We did well, Mr Cuthbert. All your old acquaintances helped to accomplish our goal and all bar one – the deceased Indian gentleman – send their utmost respects.’

  Cuthbert opened his eyes and painstakingly placed the silk fabric back into the crate. ‘Splendid. With so many enemies fighting each other in the world today, isn’t it amazing what a few good friends can achieve, Mr Conway?’

  ‘Indeed, sir. But then some would say the same riches could be taken by force. At least you know which one I’m partial to.’

  ‘Oh, to hell with those belligerent bastards,’ said Cuthbert, waving his hand in disgust before, true to his nature, he quickly moved onto business. ‘I have a shipment of tobacco ready, so we’ll waste no time in getting some of these items on their way to England and beyond.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear that. Perhaps—’

  ‘Tristan!’

  He had waited months to hear that voice, but when Tristan finally saw her, he stood in stunned silence. The transformation was complete and in front of him stood the proud, feisty girl that he had first laid eyes on. Her glossy black hair was loose and draped wildly over her shoulders. Thanks to Embomma’s warm sun, her pale skin had gotten its dark lustre back and with sparkling eyes and a vivacious smile, her face exuberated her trademark juvenility and mischief.

  Before he could say anything, she had planted a long passionate kiss on his lips and hugged him close. He wrapped her up in his strong arms and spun her around, holding her tight while she begged to be put down, but he continued until they were both unsteady on their feet.

  Lucky lass, Cuthbert smiled as the two lovers got momentarily lost to their surroundings and their candid courtship played out in front of him.

  ‘How I’ve missed you!’ Tristan finally recovered from the dizziness and cupped her face in the palms of his hardened hands, gently caressing her cheeks.

  ‘Shall we conclude our business for the day, Mr Conway?’ asked Cuthbert. ‘Perhaps give you two sweethearts a chance to get your greetings out of the way first?’

  ‘Pardon us, Mr Cuthbert.’ Tristan could feel his face turn red, yet he managed a grateful smile. ‘’Tis been a long six months, sir!’

  ‘Go on, darling. I’ll see to it that every crate is accounted for,’ said Cuthbert and watched on as an eager Isabella tugged on Tristan’s hand. ‘But please come by my house later tonight!’ he yelled after them, just before the giggling lovers scampered through the warehouse’s backdoor.

  Cuthbert grinned as he kept a watchful eye on proceedings. Finn was standing in front, marking the inventory as the crates entered the warehouse and while Cuthbert walked over to the Irishman, he remembered clearly those days when he too had been young and full of spunk. A sailor who had assumingly been celibate for six months was like a small barrel bursting with gunpowder, all the while surrounded by a ring of fire. Sometimes the fire burned higher, sometimes it came close to igniting the whole lot, but in the lad’s case the lid had just come off, and the barrel was about to tip over scattering powder everywhere.

  The old merchant chuckled at his own analogy, but at the same time, he knew it was better to free up the mind first before burdening it once more with important business – business that was so important that it was under key, safely locked away in a strongbox in a secret storage space behind a cupboard. It contained a letter tied with a golden string and sealed with red wax that had been imprinted with a very particular coat of arms, a symbol that he would recognise anywhere in the world, day or night.

  In the year 1703, just two months after his nineteenth birthday, Captain Tristan Conway became the youngest privateer in the employment of Her Majesty, Queen Anne of England, Scotland and Ireland. A secret letter of marque, signed by Her Majesty, directed the young captain to engage and destroy all non-British slave ships to disrupt the trade and economic prowess of those countries deemed enemies of the British Empire. By disrupting the flow of slaves to the New World, the queen hoped to cause economic instability and hardship for those foreign settlements that relied heavily on a steady flow of African slaves. For as long as the Spanish and French destruction of British merchant ships along the American and West Indian coastlines continued, Captain Conway and the crew of the Deliverance were to take retaliatory action and annihilate enemy slave ships along the Central and Western African coasts through any means necessary.

  Chapter 33

  ‘Nyegere! Nyegere!’ The wind had turned, and with it, their chants arrived. Tristan stood spyglass in hand, blocking out their voices as best he could. His uneasiness with hearing the sound of his byname delighted those close to him, mainly those who knew him well. Within spitting distance, Finn, with a broad smile on his face courtesy of his friend’s discomfort, got ready for a starboard tack.

  Heading in a westerly direction they had been tracking the Spanish slave ship for less than a day and word must have spread because since early this morning the captive natives had continuously sung Tristan’s African name. The slaves knew what was coming. They had heard the stories of the white devil who killed his own kind to set their brothers and sisters free.

  Sailing upwind, the slave ship was no match for the Deliverance. Perhaps if they knew that, they would stop trying to outrun the inevitable. Tristan smirked. They all tend to be stubborn until the last minute. The ship had not bothered to lower the false British flag she was flying, not even after her crew had realised that the Deliverance was onto them. Some of the other ships they had captured had tried to hide their distinguishing features, including names, in an attempt to fool their pursuers. But the Deliverance was relentless, her crew a bunch of salty dogs, and once they got a sniff, their insatiable hunger for the righteousness was enraging, and they rarely lost the chase.

  Nye-ge-re, he is coming for us.

  Nye-ge-re, who will save you now?

  Nye-ge-re, the hearts of our families cry,

  Nye-ge-re, protect us from these wicked men.

  Their voices were stronger now, and while he listened to the slaves’ impromptu song, Tristan watched his crew go about their business as they faultlessly executed another tack. For most of the day, they had zigzagged across the oncoming wind, allowing the Deliverance to come into her own as she sped towards her quarry.

  Few sailors had come and gone, and over the past four years, they had become masters in the art of giving chase, learning equal amounts from their many successes and their few failures. The leftovers of Silveira’s merchant seamen, supplemented by a few converted ramblers, had transformed into a mean bunch of privateers whose sailing and attacking skills could match the best the Royal Navy had to offer. The Deliverance herself had made a full transition, and what used to be a ship in the constant pursuit of riches, had become a vessel of liberty, respected and feared by those who laid eyes on her flags.

  The Deliverance worked the coast north and south of the Congo, disrupting the slave trade with great success, always returning to the settlement of Embomma to take on provisions and for the crew to get their affairs in order. They had waged war on slavery and for their efforts had taken many lives to save countless more. But even though Tristan had enlisted the help of three more ships, all of them slave ships that had been converted into fighting vessels, he still felt that they were not doing enough. Even with the extra ships patrolling up north, the tide was too big
for the few of them.

  ‘They know their fate, yet they still run,’ remarked Finn. The Deliverance’s newly appointed quartermaster stood at the helm, on the same spot where the rogue bullet had claimed Silva’s life, a memory still freshly imprinted in all of their minds.

  ‘Aye.’ Delgado’s scratchy voice assented.

  ‘Another one coming up starboard!’ The call came from up top.

  ‘Deploy buoy!’ ordered Tristan and watched as the crew threw one of the specialised logs over the side of the ship. The log had wooden inserts that a castaway could hold onto but provided little help in case the poor person could not reach it in time. ‘I swear I’ll kill a Spaniard for every single slave they throw overboard. How many is that now, Mr Delgado?’

  ‘Six, sir. But two go under.’

  Tristan cursed under his breath. The slave ships employed every evasive tactic available to them. This one was no different. Last night the sea had been riddled with jetsam to lighten the ship’s load, and as of this morning, they had started throwing an African over the side every thousand yards or so. But they all made the same mistake to misconceive the Deliverance’s role, for she was not interested in their cargo. No, her prize comprised of wood and sail.

  ‘Isn’t that just the nature of a beast resigned to his fate, to run until certainty has hauled him in? When will these fuckers learn?’ Tristan’s remark was not directed at anyone in particular, yet they had all heard his frustration. Like the others, he admired an enemy who persistently tried to outwit him. However, he was in a hurry to get home to Embomma and wanted the pursuit to end soon. He had made Isabella a promise and like the Old Man used to say, ‘If a man cannot stay true to his word, what else can he be true to?’