‘As soon as we’re in range, fire the chasers, Mr Sullivan.’
‘Aye, sir.’ Finn had already asked the men to load the two large brass lantakas and quickly passed on the new orders.
The Portuguese cannons were mounted as swivel guns on reinforced rails that encompassed the forecastle. Loaded with ball and extra-long chain, these cannons had one purpose only: to provide the crew with enough leeway to fire accurately placed shots into an enemy ship’s mizzen sails and rigging, and sometimes, if they were lucky, to take out a ship’s helmsmen or steering mechanism. From the forecastle, Tayler signalled that he was ready, licking his lips as he eagerly anticipated the imminent skirmish. It was his call to start proceedings, and he revelled in the opportunity every single time.
Finn turned to his captain. ‘I told you we could handle this one.’
Tristan smiled at the Irishman. He could always rely on Finn to see through the façade, and he would have handed Finn the captaincy too had the drums not asked, begged for him personally. By name, they had called him. Nyegere. No different to the poor souls on that ship off their bow. It was his duty to answer their call, or so he had convinced himself, but it did not mean that guilt had not had its way with him these last couple of days. He had left Isabella behind, entrusting her wellbeing to the doctor. At least he knew she would be in a pair of trusted hands.
‘Aye, an easy decision ‘twas not, so let’s not waste any more time.’
‘At this rate, we’ll capture her before noon,’ came the cocky reply from the Irishman.
Tristan looked at the sun, which was already sitting high in the sky. ‘Care to wage your share of the prize on that prediction?’
Finn grinned. ‘With the captain of the ship? No way, sir. He might decide to stop and pick up a few of the floaters along the way.’
‘Good to see you still have your wits about, Mr Sullivan.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Finn touched his hat as a sign of deference, as one would do for the bestest of friends, acknowledging the compliment.
‘However, I’ve had enough of these Diegos. ‘Tis time to go to work. Full sails, if you please, Mr Sullivan.’
Finn shot him an irritable glance, knowing that he had just lost a sure bet in emphatic fashion. The annoyance was reflected in his voice when he yelled out the order to the crew.
Tristan felt himself come alive with the ship. These were the moments every captain cherished and lived for – when sailors scurried across decks and along ratlines, pushing themselves and their ship to the limit. Through insult and praise, officers worked their teams into a frenzy so that by nightfall each man would have given his all, leaving only sweat and sometimes blood on the decks for the swabs to mop up.
‘Mr Saddler!’
‘Sir?’ The voice belonged to Tom Saddler. The cabin boy, messenger and occasional powder monkey quickly rushed to Tristan’s side.
‘Inform Mr Nkó that we’ll be engaging the enemy shortly.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ said young Saddler.
‘And fix up your shirt! You know that I don’t allow such shagginess on my ship!’ yelled Tristan with mock severity, trying desperately to stifle his grin. In his eagerness to please, the boy was already halfway down the ladder, but on the main deck, he quickly stopped to tug in his shirt. Looking up at Tristan, he received the nod of approval and quickly disappeared down the hatchway. Once a stowaway, discarded by a British merchant ship, Finn had discovered the boy during a routine stopover at the island of São Tomé and in no time, young Saddler had proven himself to be a useful hand addition to the Deliverance’s crew, throwing himself with eagerness at any new task and reminding Tristan of a younger self.
There was no doubt in Tristan’s mind that Nkó would be ready, his tools sharpened and his bandages laid out. The Khoikhoi had grown to be an adapt sawbones under Purvis’s guidance, and the crew had grown accustomed to the little, wiry brown fella looking after their wellbeing, but never had the surgeon’s mate been on his own. Tristan smiled to himself. For a little man, the Khoikhoi’s head surely contained a big sponge. Not only had he proven himself an exceptional medical student, but with Isabella’s help, the man had acquired a great understanding of the English tongue, although his mouth struggled endlessly to form some of the English words and they had to rely on the few words he knew well, supported by hand gestures.
A sudden change in direction by the Spanish ship jolted him back into action. Tristan was about to give the order to alter their course when the almost instantaneous explosions, which came from the two lantakas up front, cut him short. Finn briefly glanced at him in equal disbelief, shaking his head. Both men realised that the timing of the shots had been poor and rushed to the starboard gunwale, looking anxiously through their spyglasses at the Spanish ship for any sign of damage or distress. Undeterred, the large ship started a slow tack towards starboard. The left side of her mizzen showed a ragged tear with two small flaps waving loosely in the wind.
‘First one nicked her mizzen! Second shot missed her larboard!’ Up top, Hanlon’s watchful eyes missed nothing.
‘Fuck!’ exclaimed Tristan. ‘What the hell are they doing up front?’ His evident frustration silenced the sailors on the quarterdeck. ‘Mr Sullivan, send word to Mr Tayler and his crew that the next two shots had better strike home. Please remind him there’s a storm brewing, and the masthead will provide a prime spot for observing such an event.’ Then out of the blue, they both felt the wind change direction, the same wind that the slave ship was trying to use to her advantage. The southwesterly breeze quickly stiffened and tugged at the sails with fresh vigour. ‘Wait for Mr Tayler to fire the second volley, then set a course for northeast by north. We’ll try and cut the Spaniards off, or at least, shorten the gap.’
Finn heard the urgency. He had a quick look at compass inside the binnacle and relayed a message to the two steersmen handling the whipstaff, informing them of the impending order.
While the Irishman went about his business, Tristan watched Jabari patrol the main deck, working the crews hard as they brought the Deliverance to full sails. Contrary to Jabari’s initial lack of confidence in his role as midshipman, the men respected the African and responded to his leadership for he was not afraid to show them how to do their jobs right if for some reason they had failed to meet his high standards.
Amidst the hive of activity, a hatch opened and Saddler’s head popped out before the boy quickly raced back to his captain.
‘He’s ready, sir.’
‘Good lad. Fetch my sword and pistols. Make haste now.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
As if to reassure himself, Tristan’s hand strayed over the supple leather of the weathered buff coat, feeling for the old familiar bump. It never left his side.
A major commotion unfolding on the forecastle deck quickly drew his attention. A red-faced Tayler stormed from one swivel gun to the next, and back again. The wind blew his words into the sea before they could reach Tristan’s ears, but the boatswain’s hand gestures clearly signalled his dismay. Matondo and the other men around Tayler scurried to get out of his way and the knotted rope’s reach. Two men, who had borne the brunt of the assault, finished loading the cannons before Tayler bent over the first one, grabbing the nearest man by the collar and showing him where the gun had been sighted.
Tristan knew his displeasure with the forecastle crew’s first attempt would not have been well received. Both his boatswains were proud men, proud of their crews, proud of their work and from the outset they had set a high standard. But he was their captain and Tayler would expect nothing short of a lambasting from him at the usual officers’ review before dinner tonight. Just like the Old Man, they knew Tristan was no mealy-mouth because he said what he meant and meant what he said. Perhaps the buggers had become complacent, victims of their own success, all exposed by a sudden change of wind, which had suddenly pushed an enemy ship slightly off course, causing two chain shots to fly by harmlessly. A good thing this has happened
, thought Tristan. They would not be caught off-guard again any time soon.
The Deliverance’s creed was a simple one: make every shot count, for every life matters. It made no sense to those outside the unified bunch under his command, and therein lay part of its appeal. Purvis had proposed the matter of a creed the night after they had captured their first ship, almost three years and eight months ago to the day. He, Tayler, Silva and Finn all had stabs at it, but when Delgado uttered those words, it was anonymously seconded, certified by a standing toast and written into the ship’s journal. Every man on the ship, ordinary, abled and those few whose horns were still green, knew the words and strived to live up to them.
Up front, a lantaka barked once more, just as young Saddler came racing up the stairs with his weapons. A few seconds later, the second cannon erupted, hurtling its lethal cargo towards the slave ship.
Tristan forced himself not to look, but instead closed his eyes and waited patiently for the news to reach him. He was not the only one, as an expectant silence fell over the ship. Faraway he heard Hanlon’s excited cries but then from the main deck, Jabari’s booming voice unleashed the words that he wanted to hear.
‘A direct hit has pulverised the top of her mizzenmast and pierced her mainsail! ‘Tis rupturing under the strain of the wind!’ The African roared his jubilation. ‘Soon she’ll be sitting duck!’
Around Tristan cheers rang out, the excitement echoed by those on the main deck and beyond as the message quickly spread.
‘Haha! We have her.’ The broad smile on Finn’s face said it all, and he took it upon himself to issue the orders for their change in speed and course.
‘Very well, Mr Sullivan. Get Mr Hanlon to issue arms and prepare a boarding party. Mr Tayler can lead the way. He earned it.’
Tristan looked at young Saddler next to him. Still holding on to his captain’s weapons, the boy looked back at him in confusion. He roughly ran his fingers through the youngster’s curly brown hair. ‘I believe ‘tis called redemption, Mr Saddler. You can take those back to my quarters,’ said Tristan. He calmly retrieved his watch from the buff coat’s pocket and looked at the time. Finn was right, he thought smilingly before taking the stairs up to the poop. ‘And keep an eye out for Bradford,’ yelled Tristan over his shoulder.
‘Aye aye, sir,’ said Finn. He vividly remembered the close call they had with Percival only a few weeks ago. He knew that Percival, now captain of a British man o’ war, was still seeking Tristan’s blood having suffered such humiliation at his hands. They needed to be more careful, for they were well known to most of the Royal Navy ships that were patrolling the waters off Africa’s western and central coasts, and one never knew who was informing whom. Any threat to their captain was a threat to the Deliverance itself, so Finn sent word to the barrelmen aloft to be on the lookout. As they slowly hauled in the stricken slave ship, he grinned, knowing that Tristan’s mind was already somewhere else, somewhere much more important.
‘If ever there was a comelier sight, I’m yet to see it,’ said Purvis. The doctor had his arm around Tristan’s broad heaving shoulders, enjoying the moment with his long-time friend, who for once was lost for words.
Tristan stood in awe, frozen to the spot as he watched mother and child lying on the bed, both in a peaceful sleep. His heart was racing, his breathing deep and laborious as he tried to quench his lungs’ thirst for air. It had been a quick run up to the house, and his sea legs had quickly succumbed to physical exertion.
‘When?’
‘Last night, lad.’
Tristan looked at the bloodstained linen that still lay in the corner of the room, and when Purvis saw the question mark form on his friend’s face, he quickly said, ‘Everything went fine, lad. There’s nothing to be concerned about.’ The doctor started making his way to pick up the messy cloths. ‘I’ve even learned a few new Portuguese words. Unfortunately, none could be repeated in a civil conversation,’ he chuckled. ‘Go ahead.’ He motioned to a hesitant Tristan, still standing in the doorway, clearly not wanting to disturb mother or child.
Slowly, Tristan made his way to Isabella and the baby, then gently lowered himself, the bedstead creaking under his weight. It was the baby that moved first. With sleepy eyes struggling to open, it tilted its head to the side, before the smallest of hands punched its mother in her chest as if it was trying to warn her of impending danger. Tristan felt warm pride flood his veins, stirring up emotions of all that had been great in his life, only tenfold over.
‘It’s a boy, in case you wondered,’ whispered Purvis loudly. With bundled cloths in his arms, the doctor closed the door behind him, leaving the young family to discover for themselves the sacred bond that would interweave their lives for as long as they breathed.
The hammering against her chest and thud of the closing door startled Isabella awake, but alarm quickly made way for relief when she saw Tristan sitting on the bed, his facial expression unlike anything she had ever seen. In complete silence, he cupped her cheek in his hand and kissed her on the forehead.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Exhausted.’ She managed a tired smile.
‘I’m sorry—‘
‘Don’t.’ Her voice was firm. ‘Mr Purvis had it all under control. Not once had I felt imperilled.’ When she saw the imprinted guilt on his face not wavering at all, she said, ‘Look at what we made,’ directing her eyes downwards. ‘A boy, Tristan, as stubborn as his father. A boy who kept me occupied from the afternoon until the midnight hour.’
‘As headstrong as his mother, you mean,’ joked Tristan, relieved to find hints of the Isabella he knew, still sheltered behind those tired eyes. ‘I can’t believe we made this. A boy. You and I…’
‘Pick up your son, Tristan. Make it real.’
‘I might hurt him,’ said Tristan, looking at the tiny face that stared back at him, now wholly alert and completely at peace, and unafraid of the stranger with the long and tangled blond hair and bright blue eyes hovering above him.
‘Please, take him,’ she urged him on.
Tristan leaned over and slid his forearms underneath the small bundle, gently lifted the baby and pressed it to his chest as he stood up. The baby boy felt as light as a cushion stuffed with feathers and Tristan squeezed him carefully as if he needed to make sure there was a body attached to the tiny face. Much to his delight, the baby wriggled before letting out a yelp, no different than a lion cub searching for its mother.
For a brief moment, Tristan could swear the baby was smiling at him, and it drummed up instant memories. He remembered being told how his mother had given him life, and in this serene moment of wonderment, he vowed to the omnipresent, to protect the helpless and innocent bundle in his arms, even if it meant laying down his life, just as his mother had done for him.
Another yelp burst forth from tiny lips, and when the infant’s lips started trembling, he quickly delivered the baby back into his waiting mother’s arms.
‘He needs that which you cannot give,’ laughed Isabella, unlacing her bodice from which an engorged breast soon spilled, milk trickling from the tip. Tristan sat back down in wonderment as the tiny infant latched on like a besotted calf, gorging himself on the elixir of life and all the while keeping one watchful eye on his father.
A sense of pride found a deep seat within his belly and together the couple watched on in silence as the newborn nursed contently, his eye now moving sleepily back and forth between mother and father.
‘He won’t be a bastard,’ said Tristan, after he had been deeply immersed in thought.
‘Excuse me?’
‘You heard me. He will not be a bastard,’ he repeated, almost defiantly.
‘Then he shall not. But even if he is, it will be of his own choosing, for look what a fine bastard you have turned out to be.’
Her compliment was lost on him, for his mind was milling through various ideas. ‘I was raised in a bawdyhouse without a father. ‘Twas not my choosing. Our boy has a legitimate mother
and a father, right here, right now, and to make it official would be an easy river to cross.’
‘Tristan Conway! Is this your way, never mind the time and place, of propositioning me?’
‘Aye.’ Tristan could not sense if her surprise were genuine or whether she was mocking him lightly, but for a moment, he almost regretted his clumsy attempt at asking for her hand. ‘Aye. That is so,’ he said more firmly this time and picked up his son, who had briefly stopped suckling as if he had sensed the momentous occasion. Tristan held the infant up in the air. ‘Francesco James Conway.’ He cradled the tiny head in his left palm. ‘Although my blood is coursing through your veins, you shall be named after your grandfathers, both men of the sea. Two men you will never know, but without whom you and I would not be here, and while they shall never define our lives, we still owe it to them.’
Isabella proudly watched on, letting him have the moment with his son, and even more so because she had no objection.
‘What a splendid day of festivities, lad!’ Cuthbert raised his glass. ‘And two ceremonies on the same day. Why, that’s worth a celebration on its own.’
Tristan joined him, savouring the splendid libation provided by his host. A wedding and a baptism on the same day had emotionally and physically drained him, and the quietude of Cuthbert’s study was a merciful respite.
The church had been packed with uncomfortable bums, many unacquainted with the inside of a religious establishment, squeezed into makeshift seating. Inside, the pastor had preached with vigour, his words calmly and eloquently translated by the doctor, now well versed in the Portuguese tongue. Outside, Matondo had preached to his audience – a magnificent gathering of Africans who had filled the streets from near and far – with just as much vivacity.
With the help of the natives, his crew had turned the market into a gigantic marquee, with canvas sails providing shelter to the droves of celebrators. Throughout the day, large cuts of meat had been roasted, and casks had been tapped, allowing beer and pombé to flow like the mighty Zaire herself. By nightfall, the village had been ominously quiet, with only the usual stragglers doing their best to rid the spits of their meaty morsels and milk the barrels for the last few drops. It was during this time that Cuthbert had pulled Tristan away, his merry men sending him on his way with witty remarks about protecting his rear and not losing his virginity a second time.
The Fire Within Page 63