The Fire Within

by Samuel T Clayton

  ‘I apologise upfront for being the bearer of bad news, especially on a day like this, Tristan.’ Cuthbert poured them another drink from a bottle of spiced rum, courtesy of the same man who had also brought with him the damned tidings that were sure to turn their worlds upside down. Feeling his age, the merchant sighed heavily as he sat down, the French-made sofa creaking under his bulk.

  ‘The French are planning an attack on every ship that has robbed them of slaves, from the Slave Coast all the way down here, including a possible blockade at the port of Sonho. They could even send smaller ships up the river to put an end to our little enterprise, quite possibly raze Embomma to the ground, together with everyone in it.’ Cuthbert waited patiently as he watched Tristan’s face intently, desperately trying to get an idea of what was churning behind the icy blue eyes.

  ‘When?’

  ‘It’s hard to tell exactly how old news is whenever it reaches a secluded place such as this, lad. Four months, three, perhaps even two.’

  ‘But we have the queen’s support in this, do we not? Surely ‘tis not just a matter of the French marching, or rather, sailing in here and taking what isn’t theirs to take.’ Tristan mulled over the circumstance they were bound to find themselves in. Another sip of the strong amber liquid steadied his mind and continued to untie the knot that had started to form on his insides.

  ‘Of course, they will intervene, but how, when or where, that I don’t know, lad. We have no idea how large this French armada would be, but given how dry you’ve bled them over the past years, I’d say it’ll be sizeable.’ Cuthbert grabbed his cane that was always within reach. He cradled it in his palms, rubbing the smooth dragon’s head like he was searching for something secure and comforting to hold onto. ‘’Twas inevitable, lad. We’ve talked about it and always said it would be either the French or the Spanish who would act first.’ Cuthbert set the cane aside and picked up Charles, who had been vying for his attention. A gentle scratch behind the ear soon had the feline purring in his lap. ‘I fear this will bring an end to our time in this little haven.’

  ‘We could always make a stand here, fight back, bloody them some more,’ said Tristan with a wry smile as the magnitude of such an invasion once more twisted his gut. His mind conjured up an image of a burning village, the flames reaching high into the sky, scores of natives in chains, their heads hanging in despair and people running everywhere, only to be cut down by musket and sword. He swirled the drink in his glass before sending the burning liquid down his throat, letting it work its magic.

  ‘This is war we’re talking about, darling. Not two ships duelling it out. Best leave it to Her Majesty’s Navy and besides, you have a family to care for now.’

  ‘Mr Cuthbert, as much as I want to take my family away from this place, ‘tis not who I am, and you of all people should know that. Everything we’ve worked and fought for could be undone in a day.’

  ‘You’re right, lad, and while I know your heart’s in the right place, this is neither the hour for stubbornness nor the time to seek crucifixion. Look after your interests first, and then we can make a plan to help the people of Embomma.’

  Tristan considered Cuthbert’s point and looked at the picture hanging above the fireplace, portraying a much younger, sturdier Cuthbert, far removed from the white-haired, red-nosed, paunchy man who sat across him now. However, there were signs of recuperation, for the merchant was sitting up straighter than usual, and his skin was not as pasty as it used to be. ‘And you, Mr Cuthbert? What are you to do?’

  ‘Oh darling, my days of craving gold and silver are over. An old fool like me can only wonder where time has gone and how much of his existence has been squandered chasing after the wickedness life has to offer. Where I search my soul doesn’t matter, so who knows?’ Cuthbert chuckled softly with unbelievable tranquillity, like a man who had already made his peace. ‘One thing’s for sure, this old body of mine couldn’t possibly stand up to the harsh British winters, so perhaps a one-way passage to the New World to live out my remaining days in clover and under a balmy sun, while I fill my cup from rivers of rum, is the means to my end.’

  ‘That sounds like a splendid way to spend one’s days. Maybe my family and I should board that same ship and make a new life for ourselves,’ said Tristan jokingly.

  ‘Darling, as always, you would be welcomed with the warmest of embraces, no matter where I find myself.’

  Tristan, still grinning at the merchant’s suggestion, was looking down as he swiped the fringe of the Persian carpet back and forth with the tip of his boot when it hit him. As he looked over to Cuthbert, the man was sitting upright, slightly wide-eyed, as if he too had been hit by an epiphany.

  ‘That’s it!’ cried Tristan.

  ‘What’s it? Are we think—‘

  ‘Definitely. There’s no other way.’ Tristan took a deep breath, getting his thoughts in order. ‘Mr Cuthbert, if what you’re saying has even the slightest chance of eventuating, and the French are indeed heading this way, then I think it would be best for my family to join you on that voyage. Think about it. There’s no way a wild soul like Isabella would make it in the civilised world as you and I know it. It would surely be the death of her. And my son can grow up as free-spirited as his mother with—‘

  ‘And his father.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Tristan, now cheerful as a plan unfolded in his head. ‘My son would have the opportunity to become whatever he wants and what father wouldn’t want to offer his son that chance? I know they’ll both be safe and cared for until I get there.’

  ‘Whoa, lad! What do you mean until I get there?’

  ‘Mr Cuthbert, as you’ve rightly said, we don’t know how old this news is. For all we know, the French could be here in two weeks. I suggest that you start packing up this lovely home of yours and start organising that passage. We both know that not many ships travel from this coast to the New World, unless they’re stocked with black gold. God forbid you get on one of those.’ Tristan shuffled forwards, sitting on the edge of the couch as he got ready to leave. ‘That being said, someone needs to help set up the defences of this town and warn the other privateers and villages up north. That person will be me, and my crew, of course. After that, the Deliverance will sail for England, for I have some business in London to attend to before I can join you.’

  Cuthbert looked bewildered, like any man who suddenly realised that he needed to up his roots that had laid undisturbed for almost half a lifetime, the very same roots that had nourished both body and soul for so many years. His life flashed before his eyes. So many memories, he thought, but strangely, he felt appeased with what was transpiring, and when he spoke, his voice did not truly match his expression. ‘To be honest, lad, I’d never thought in my wildest dreams it would last this long. We had a good run, freeing slaves and trading without care. We’ve built this once sleepy town into a small city.’ While he reminisced, Cuthbert was amazed by the words coming out of his mouth, accompanied by a nervous, yet excited giggle. ‘But all good things tend to come to an end. Then so it shall be, Mr Conway. To New World it is, making a fresh start.’ His hand felt small in Tristan’s firm grip.

  When they stepped outside, it was quiet, with only a gentle wind rustling the leaves of the guava tree in front of the house.

  ‘The seasons are changing, darling. We’ll need to hurry to get all our arrangements in place,’ remarked Cuthbert.

  ‘I’ll be down at the warehouse tomorrow to go over the details. There’s also the matter of warning the other merchants and of course, I would need to seek the approval from my beloved. In the morning, if you see me with a bruised eye, know for sure that our plans have taken a turn. Good night, Mr Cuthbert.’

  ‘’Tis a night for making memories, lad, and in all likelihood, come morning, it will not be your eye that’s bruised,’ said Cuthbert. With a wink he bid the young man farewell and headed back to the comfort of his sofa and the half-full bottle of rum, his mind still reeling. But in his gut, a warm glow
had started, something he had not felt for years.

  ‘Watch out, Nyegere!’ Jabari’s thunderous voice could be heard over cannon and musket fire, battle cries and anguished screams, and reached him just in time. They know where I am! Tristan looked up from reloading his flintlock pistol and raised his head above the gunwale to get a glimpse of the enemy ship. Towering over his vessel, the Yarmouth, a 70-gun British man o’ war, was truly a colossal beast, and her flank, a magnificent wall of brown oak from which her smoking cannons proudly protruded.

  He glanced upwards and immediately saw the unusually large swivel gun, pointing straight at him from high up on the enemy ship's stern. Through the haze of gunpowder smoke and morning fog, he could see the British gun captain, the man’s curly moustache contorted by a malicious grin, as he brought down the smouldering linstock to fire the cannon.

  The smoking gun sparked Tristan into action. Instinctively he dove to his right, took shelter behind the bulwark and lowered his head between his knees, bracing himself for the impact. Above the cracks of musket fire, a loud bang sent two iron balls bound together by a chain crashing into the side of the ship, in the exact spot where he stood only moments earlier. Thousands of metal and wooden shards exploded in all directions before the remaining ball and chain ricocheted into the air, ripped through the bottom of the mainsail and got entangled in the web of ropes that made up the running rigging.

  Covered in wooden splinters and dust, Tristan cursed while he frantically searched for a lead ball from his front pocket. He finally managed to grab one and rammed it down the barrel of the pistol, careful enough not to press it too tightly against the paper that kept the black powder in place. Next, he poured some finely ground gunpowder into the flash pan, closed the lid and put his pistol at full cock, ready to fire. He took two deep breaths to settle himself and stood up, searching out his target.

  The gun captain and his crew were working with urgency to get the swivel gun ready for another shot, this time loading it with grapeshot. The captain finished priming the cannon and was looking for his next victims when his eye caught Tristan staring at him. Realising that he had missed his earlier target, the man began swinging the cannon barrel back in that direction. Tristan took another deep breath and steadied himself. He extended his arm above his head and slowly lowered the pistol at a steady pace. Above him, the gun captain had just finished sighting the cannon and looked down at Tristan, pistol in hand, and with a dismissive smirk on his face got ready to fire once more. As the barrel of Tristan’s pistol crossed the top of the captain’s head, he squeezed the trigger, and by the sound of the discharge and amount of recoil in his hand, he knew that a true shot was on its way.

  The lead ball struck the gun captain just above the left eye and the force that accompanied it knocked off his naval cap and sent the man reeling backwards, before he toppled over and out of sight. The two remaining men, knowing that they were up against a skilled marksman and not wanting to suffer the same fate as their superior, disappeared behind the bulwark, abandoning their posts without concern for any possible consequences. Cowards, both of them. Not even one of the bastards has the guts to fire the cannon, thought Tristan, shaking his head in disgust.

  Casting a quick eye across the main deck of his beloved caravel, a vision of death and destruction greeted Tristan. The first barrage of cannon fire from the Yarmouth had annihilated many of the Deliverance’s starboard cannons on the main deck, as well as the crews who operated them. Much of the bulwark and rails had been blown to smithereens, and instinct told him that the men and cannons on the gun deck below had suffered a similar fate. The foremast had been snapped like a twig by a direct hit. Its top had gotten entangled in the rigging, and the bottom of the mast was now swinging dangerously backwards and forwards across the deck like a possessed marionette.

  The remainder of his men were in no better shape. Most of them had taken shelter behind makeshift defences of crates, bags filled with millet and beans, barrels and what little remained of the bulwark. During the last three days, they had jettisoned most of their cargo to lighten the ship’s load. This had made the Deliverance sit higher in the water and Tristan had hoped that it would increase her speed, but with the lack of wind, it had made little difference. It was when they had dumped the cargo that he had decided to keep a few items topside to create some very basic defences and while it protected his men against musket fire, it was no match for the British cannons which had already turned a large part of the main deck into rubble. Among the debris from his ship and its defences, mutilated bodies still writhing, torn limbs and corpses lay scattered and stained the deck red with slick blood.

  Amidst the carnage, Tristan saw Tayler sitting slumped over on an overturned crate, clutching what appeared to be the remaining half of his left arm. The brawny man suddenly looked frail with his suntanned face almost ghostlike in appearance while he seemed unperturbed with the calamity unfolding around him. Tristan knew he had to rush to the injured man’s aid, and fast, or they would most certainly send him to the depths today.

  Mounted amidships of the enemy vessel, another swivel gun, the same one which had claimed Tayler’s arm earlier, was firing grapeshot with devastating effect. It rained down death directly onto the Deliverance’s deck, tearing everyone and everything to bits. We have to get rid of it, thought Tristan. But how? Troubled by the damage to the ship and his slain men, his thoughts churned chaotically as he tried to conjure up a retaliatory plan, and all the while enemy bullets pounded their defences, thumped into the wood around them and whizzed over their heads.

  ‘They don't want to board us, aye Captain?’ Not far from him, young Sadler was also crouching behind the bulwark. With eyes wide open, the lad sounded excited and petrified, his knuckles showing white as he gripped his cutlass.

  ‘Perhaps the bastards didn't get the invitation. Come on, you fuckers!’ Finn had taken shelter behind stacked bags of grain nearby. He hated this shot-for-shot exchange and could not wait for the enemy to board so that he could get tucked into them with his blades.

  ‘You think so, Mr Sullivan?’ asked Sadler, bringing smiles to both Finn and Tristan’s faces with his naivety.

  ‘Aye, lad. Maybe we should board them instead and put the question to them. What do you say?’ said Finn, having further fun at the boy’s expense.

  ‘That’s enough now, Mr Sullivan,’ commanded Tristan, stopping the Irishman before he reduced the young lad to a bonebag of shivers. Young Saddler had been blooded at last and what a baptism it had been so far.

  He needed every hand capable and ready, for a plan had come to him. ‘I’m going to take out that swivel gun, or at least try, so provide me with cover fire. On my order only. Everyone understood?’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’ Confirmation came from a few more voices than just the two closest to him.

  When Tristan grabbed the musket by his side and prepared to throw the loaded gun over to Finn, he saw the concerned question mark on the Irishman’s face. ‘The next one can be yours,’ he smiled, before slinging the heavy firearm across to his friend.

  ‘Aye. You make sure of that.’ Finn knew he was not going to deter Tristan from following through with his plan, and made certain his three guns were loaded and ready to do what his captain had asked of him.

  Tristan ignored the tinge of doubt in Finn’s voice. ‘Load ‘em up, lads! And remember, make every shot count!’ Tristan reminded them of the creed that formed an integral part of the Deliverance’s purpose, and therefore their daily existence. ‘And if they board, you’ll give no quarter, for they will find every inch of this ship an expensive one to take!’ From hiding spots all over the ship and even below deck, cheers rang out amidst the rampant chaos and gave him some hope.

  Tristan looked up at the gangway that led to the quarterdeck. One of his four swivel guns was mounted there and had been quiet for a while. It was closest and, if still in working order, he could use it to take out the enemy cannon. He had no other choice, and it appeared that the
Yarmouth had no intention of boarding them any time soon. They had to fight, for his ship carried no white flag.

  ‘Cover me!’ Without waiting to see if anyone obeyed his command, Tristan started racing up the stairs.

  A flurry of gunshots erupted behind him and provided enough cover to reach the top of the stairs unscathed. Immediately he squatted down and started shuffling over to where the swivel gun was mounted on the side of the boat. The muzzle was pointing downwards in his direction. Around crates filled with gunpowder cartridges and ammunition lay three of his men. All of them had been felled by musket fire. Whoever had killed them was an exceptional shot, for two of them had gunshots to the chest, and the third had taken a bullet to the head. A fourth man, the ship’s cook, was lying close by, propped up on one elbow and clutching his leg. A large splinter from the wooden rail had embedded itself in the top of his thigh.

  ‘’Tis loaded, captain. Just needs a shot.’ The cook barely got the words out, gritting on his teeth. ‘Watch out for those British musketeers. There were redcoats on their quarterdeck. The bloody bastards got all three of them.’ He pointed to his dead mates and with that grabbed hold of the rail as he tried to pull himself up to help his captain.

  ‘Lie still, for God’s sake, man!’ Tristan almost pushed him back down. ‘I can take it from here.’ They have redcoats? Why in God’s name would Percy have redcoats on his ship? Are they protecting someone or something important? He and Percy, now captain of the Yarmouth, have had their fair share of scuffles over the years, mostly trivial, but no encounters of this magnitude. Tristan shook his head as he realised that now was not the best time to try and figure out all of this, and he focused his attention back on the injured man and the swivel gun.