The Fire Within

by Samuel T Clayton

  Just then, the cook’s left leg buckled, and he crashed back down. Completely out of breath, the man took big gulps of air as he tried to ease the pain. Fearing the cook might suffer from a wandering mind with all the blood loss, Tristan quickly peeked inside the cannon barrel to check for a charge and grinned when he saw the cloth wad. Excellent! In the ammunition crate were various types of grapeshot bags, which the men had marked with size and quantity. He picked one that was loaded with musket balls and pushed it into the cannon barrel before ramming it home properly.

  Tristan desperately scoured the deck for a linstock and found one clutched in one of the dead men’s hands, the slow match still smouldering. Next, he grabbed one of the men’s hats, stuck it onto his pistol and slowly raised it above the gunwale. He left it there for a few moments, and when no shots rang out, he slowly raised his head to take a peek at the enemy ship. It looked clear. Most of the armed enemy sailors were standing amidships and towards the port bow of the Yarmouth firing haphazardly at anything that moved on the Deliverance.

  Only one British naval officer was directing the battle from the stern, and the man was completely engrossed in the fight that was happening in front of him. Captain Percival Bradford. Tristan could see Percival yelling at his helmsman, who was doing his utmost to keep the British ship steady next to the Deliverance, but more importantly, he found no redcoat in sight, and the enemy ship’s sailors who worked the quarterdeck rigs were completely focused on their tasks, not wanting to disappoint their captain. Tristan was aching to take a shot at his nemesis, but there was a more pressing need at hand as yet another shot rang out from one of the enemy’s swivel gun followed by agonising screams from his crew below. He swung the small cannon around towards the enemy ship. With haste, he primed it, then grabbed the wooden handle and started sighting the barrel on its intended target.

  Completely blinded by bloodlust with all the mayhem he was unleashing on the deck of the Deliverance, the enemy gun captain took no notice of the impending danger, and with the rest of the man’s crew jumping at his orders, they too were oblivious to Tristan’s actions at the stern. It gave Tristan the time he needed to line up the swivel gun, keeping his eyes trained on the target but also scouring for any enemies nearby. Small adjustments were made to counteract the movement of both ships. This shot is going to take all of my skill and a considerable amount of luck, he thought, but then smiled to himself, for luck was pertinent to his life, so why would it let him down today? The Deliverance rose up one more time, and as she started rolling downwards, he applied the linstock just as the swivel gun barrel crossed the bottom spar of the enemy ship’s mainsail. With his hand still on the handle and keeping it on target, the gun smoked, then ignited and with a loud bang that quivered up his arm, sent the deadly cargo on its way.

  The British gun captain heard the unusually loud explosion coming from the Deliverance and jerked his head in that direction with a bewildered look across his face. A musket ball caught him underneath the chin, tearing through his throat before it severed his spine, leaving a fine spray of pink mist in its wake. The man next to the captain took three shots high in the chest and collapsed in a heap, right on the spot. To his left, a third crew member got hit in the cheek, the bullet ripping an elongated hole along his face while a second musket ball deflected off the cannon claiming his right earlobe. Behind the three fallen men stood the only surviving member. The youngster with swab in hand had been splattered with blood, bone and tissue, and quickly dropped down behind the bulwark, promising himself to stay there until the battle was over. Another soldier and two more sailors, who had helped work the mainbrace, also had their lives claimed by Tristan’s well-placed shot.

  On the ship’s main deck, cheers rang out, and Tristan’s men started firing back at the enemy with renewed vigour while from the gun deck below, two cannons fired completely uncoordinated. Hearing those cannons fire boosted the crew’s morale even more as they started hurling loud abuse at the British sailors with every shot, making the thirty or so remaining men sound like at least double the number.

  From the Yarmouth’s quarterdeck, Percival had noticed him, and for a brief moment, the two men locked eyes, the British captain’s face contorted with anger. Still hearing his men’s jubilant reaction, Tristan gave Percival a triumphant fuck-you grin, but his satisfaction was short-lived for his antics had drawn the attention of the British musketeers and soon lead balls started thumping into the wood all around him forcing him to crouch down, right at the top of the stairs.

  From up on the quarterdeck, Tristan had a better view of his ship's deck and a clearer picture of the mayhem. The Deliverance’s crew was fighting valiantly, but their efforts did not make up for the chaos he was witnessing. Wounded men and corpses lay everywhere. These are my men. The remorseful thought crossed his mind as he looked up at the crow’s nest where Hanlon and D’Cruz were pinned down by a myriad of British gunfire.

  His ship was in no better shape either. The crew had cut through the ropes that had kept the loose foremast on board, and it had since fallen into the Atlantic. Word from below deck had reached him that many of his men had perished with the first flurry of cannon fire, just as he had thought. The Deliverance’s insides had been reduced to rubble with loose cannons and their carriages tossing about freely adding to the woes of the few men still below. The whipstaff had been struck during the first volley of cannon fire from Yarmouth and was flapping about loosely. The realisation dawned on him quickly. With a mast down, unable to steer the ship and with most of his remaining men engaged in a gun battle, the Deliverance was going nowhere.

  Beyond the immediate carnage, closer to the forecastle, British grenadiers had tossed several fire grenades at the onset of the battle. The fire had already started to spread towards the bow. Flames were leaping high into the air, fuelled by the tarred roped that sealed the deck. Tristan knew that once the fire burned through the main deck and reached the barrels of rope and sails that were greased with animal fat, smoke would billow from every scuttle and crevice and kill every single one of his crew below deck in minutes if they did not make it through a hatch in time. And then there was the powder room that could blow them all to kingdom come. He watched on as a few brave men leaned over the larboard gunwale, roping in buckets filled with seawater, but their feeble attempt to extinguish the fire was wasted on the blazing inferno and just made them easy targets for the enemy.

  These bastards have no intentions of boarding us. This is a massacre. How did it come to this so quickly? How did they know where we were? Tristan had a hard time figuring all of this out, but his biggest quandary was between fighting and fleeing – between fighting to the last man or giving the abandon-ship order. It felt like only seconds ago that they were drifting safely, cocooned in thick white fog. He was sitting at his desk, busy writing the journal for the day before when that first shot shattered the peaceful morning stillness, all of which had now been replaced by dismembered bodies and debris while the sulphuric smell of burnt gunpowder clogged up lungs.

  With his thoughts still in turmoil, he saw Jabari aft the mainmast. The warrior was firing profusely, each of his shots hitting its intended mark with a sickening thud followed by a victorious war cry from the seven-foot-tall African. His glistening black body made an excellent target for the British musketeers through the white mist and smoke, but his aura of invincibility was off-putting to even the best of marksmen, and their rounds hit everything but the big man himself. After every shot Jabari crouched down behind a stack of crates, handed his musket to a wounded sailor and grabbed the next one, his big frame barely protected by the stack of wooden boxes. Just then, as he got ready for his next shot, he looked up at Tristan, his white teeth gleaming through his tensed lips, his eyes dark, matching the crazed trancelike look on his face. Tristan marvelled at the warrior’s unrivalled bravery, glad that he was not the one facing the fearless spectacle.

  Tristan looked over to the cook, crouched closer and patted the man on his uni
njured leg. ‘We’ll come back for you. No one else on this ship can cook anyway.’

  ‘Aye. I’ll be o’right, sir,’ said the cook with a wry smile on his pale face, knowing perfectly well that he would not see through the day. ‘’Tis been a pleasure serving you and serving under you, sir.’

  Tristan nodded sympathetically but knew he could waste no more time and had to let the man make his peace in his own way. After the next volley of intense musket fire, Tristan scurried down the gangway onto the main deck. He immediately rushed over to Tayler and grabbed the man by the coat before he pulled him out of harm's way. The two men found themselves behind two water barrels, and Tristan quickly helped Tayler up into a seated position while the big man grimaced with pain.

  ‘I’m a goner, lad,’ said Tayler through gritted teeth.

  The poor man sounded like he looked, slightly dazed and confused, but it came as no surprise to Tristan. He had seen the pool of blood and knew what shock could do to a man’s body and mind. ‘Bullshit! Not on my watch.’ It got a grin from Tayler, the irony not lost on the big man as he watched Tristan rip the cloth around the wound. ‘I’ll get you off this fucking ship, alive. You hear that! I promise.’

  ‘The bastards took my ring,’ said Tayler.

  Tristan was one of few who knew how much it meant to Jack and had a quick look around. Of all the visible body parts, none had a ring. He always found it disturbing how even the hardest of men, in their final moments, reached out to people or things close to them, trying their utmost to find the slightest bit of comfort, like they needed reassurance for the unknown journey that lay ahead. He had seen it one too many times in his short life and would never get used to it.

  ‘I have it here!’ Purvis was nearby, working away feverishly on a wounded sailor. He held up the shiny object.

  ‘Thank you, doc. You’ve always been good to me.’ Tayler’s voice was weak like a man already resigned to his fate.

  Tristan wasted no more time and took his stiletto out of its sheath to make a small hole in the top front of his cotton shirt. Pushing his finger through the gap, he started tearing off a long strip of material. He quickly wrapped it around Tayler’s upper arm using the handle of his stiletto to twist the makeshift tourniquet tightly around the stump. A crude knot tied it off to stop further blood loss. With Tayler taken care of, Tristan started planning his next move.

  The two barrels provided little protection for the two men, and they felt even more exposed when bullets started chipping away at the wooden deck on both ends. Tristan looked through the small gap between the barrels and saw Saddler sitting with his back against the bulwark clutching his right shoulder, musket lying by his side. Blood had started seeping through his shirt, and the look on the young lad’s face was that of utter anguish. We have to abandon ship. There is no other choice. Another bullet came whizzing over the top of their heads and thinking that now was as good a time as ever, Tristan took a deep breath, jumped to his feet and cupped his hands to shout the abandon-ship order.

  Boom!

  Just as he started to propel the air from his lungs, the British man o’ war delivered a deafening salvo from her thirty-six broadside cannons. The barrage of cannonballs, some the size of coconuts, hit all sections of the Deliverance, ripping what was left of the caravel to shreds. One round shot hit the mainmast a few feet behind Tristan, sending a chunk of wood the size of a grown man’s calf hurling towards him. Before he could react, it hit him square on the back of the head and dropped him like a bag of stones, the fall knocking out his wind.

  Lying sprawled out on his back and struggling to breathe, with blood seeping through his hair onto the deck and his ears ringing, he started losing track of all the commotion around him. He felt no pain and the world around him slowly started spinning out of order. Is this it? Someone hovered over him, picked him up like a ragdoll and then threw him over his shoulders. He heard a voice in the distance. ‘I have you, Nyegere.’

  Then Tristan saw her, first a speck on a distant white beach. She walked closer and waved him over, her flawless olive skin radiant in the white cotton dress. She came closer, and he remembered those deep-blue eyes like the deepest, bluest ocean, a peaceful place where a man can rest his soul. She was running now as she held out her inviting arms, her hands waved him over. Come to me. The smile on her face spoke of tranquillity, the pearly white teeth exemplifying her beauty. Closer now. He stretched out his hand, longing to feel her touch. Then he saw them. Behind her, they rose out of the white sand, those devilish hounds whom he had not seen for so many years. With fangs exposed and frothing at their mouths, they started to give chase. His feet stopped moving, and he looked down. He was no longer touching the ground. He started to float away. No! Isabella! He called her name. She screamed his. Faster now. Desperately he clawed at the thin air.

  Then, as he plunged into the icy cold waters of the Atlantic Ocean, his whole world turned black.

  The Return to London

  Chapter 34

  Isabella’s touch was gentle on his face. She leaned forwards, her firm mounds pressing into his chest. He smelled her, drank in her essence. Roses. Her lips were cool on his cheek. She whispered his name like only she could.

  Don’t leave me, not again. He begged.

  I can’t stay. She ran her fingers through his hair. No! Her hand was stained crimson. Her lips formed words that he could not hear.

  What are you saying?

  Wake up.

  Stay here with me.

  Goodbye, my love.

  Don’t go!

  Wake up! Now!

  ‘He’s coming around. Hand me the water!’

  Someone lifted his head.

  ‘Drink, Nyegere.’ A familiar voice.

  He sipped from the clay pot pressed to his lips. The water was sweet. It tasted like honey. Some of it got in his lungs, and he coughed, jerking his body upwards only for it to be pulled back down by the tremendous pain that erupted in the back of his head.

  ‘Easy now, Tresten.’

  The hand on his chest kept him down during the coughing fit, and when the last droplets were expelled, he took another sip, more carefully this time.

  ‘Get the doctor!’ Jabari left his heavy hand lying on his friend’s chest. ‘Welcome back, Nyegere.’

  Tristan heard someone scurrying around. The fogginess in his head started clearing up. The sound of the footsteps was hollow. I’m in a room.

  ‘The doctor isn’t far. He will be here soon,’ said Jabari, excited that his friend had woken. ‘I spoke with the ancestors two nights ago. They said, “not long now” and look, here you are.’ He carried on talking, trying his utmost to prevent Tristan from drifting off once more.

  Tristan heard him but did not listen. His eyelids were heavy, and he had great difficulty opening them. It almost felt as if they were waxed shut. When he finally succeeded, his vision was blurred. Like a painting left out in the rain, everything blended into each other, into a very bright mess.

  ‘No! No! Keep them closed, Tresten.’ He felt the African’s huge hand covering his face. ‘The doctor said so.’

  Tristan closed his eyes and eased his head back down. Lying stretched out on the floor, he slowly regained his senses. The dull throbbing pain in the back of his head made him flinch involuntarily, but he cast it aside and started making small, deliberate movements with his legs and arms, feet and hands, toes and fingers. Everything moved well. That’s good. He smelled his surroundings and could hear hurried footsteps approaching, while in the distance, he could make out the excited cries of children playing. That’s great. With his tongue still sticking to the roof of his mouth, he signalled for another drink.

  ‘Lad! You’ve woken. Fortune smiles on us once more!’ The doctor’s voice brought with it hope and an attempted smile to Tristan’s lips. ‘Let’s look you over but please keep your eyes shut.’

  They slowly lifted him by the arms and sat him upright against a wall, which was pleasantly cool on his back. Purvis started g
oing about his business, from limb to limb, asking Tristan questions to which he nodded or shook his head. When he reached Tristan’s head, they eased him forwards so that Purvis could inspect the large cut at the back. ‘That’s healing up nicely,’ he said. He pressed the sides of the closing wound gently, checking for any signs of puss. After he had finished plucking bits of dirt and dried grass from the crusted wound, he applied a foul-smelling, sticky mixture to it. He finished his examination and ordered someone to unhinge the animal hide at the doorway so that they could darken the room.

  ‘I’m going to ask you to open your eyes, lad. Stay calm and do as I say. Got that?’ He got a nod. ‘Right, open them and give it some time. Then tell me what you see.’

  It was much darker now, and kinder to Tristan’s eyes. Slowly things came into focus, both the inside of the room and the figures around him. When the haziness cleared up, he found himself inside a hut. To his left was Purvis and to his right Jabari, whose smile gleamed in the darkness. At his feet’s end, a pickaninny, whose eyes shone like two sparkly diamonds in his head, sat like a little black statue and stared at him. The hut itself was empty, except for the grass-woven mat that he was lying on.

  ‘Inside a room.’ Tristan’s throat was parched, and he signalled for the bowl. The taste of honey was very distinct now. ‘I see you, doc, Jabari, and a black child whom I’ve never laid eyes on before.’

  ‘That’s great,’ said Purvis. ‘Now, how many hands am I holding up and how many fingers can you see?’

  ‘Two. Five fingers on your left and three on your right.’

  ‘Splendid!’ He laid a reassuring hand on Tristan’s knee. ‘You know that I’m not the religious type, Tristan, but I believe this to be that moment where one would thank God, for what I hoped and what I feared would have led us down two very different paths, and without a doubt, we can say that hope has been triumphant.’