While the good tidings had lifted the group’s spirits, the void left by the missing could not be filled by burning liquid, no matter how hard they tried. Instead, it silently fuelled their hatred towards the perpetrators. Quiet contemplation combined with tired bones soon made way for torpor, and as the evening wore on, one by one, the remaining crew of the Deliverance retired for the night, until only two remained.
Jabari and Tristan sat in silence, each man reflecting on his circumstance. ‘Words, Tresten, bring comfort to those who hear them, but very seldom does it do the same for those who utter them. Now tell me, what is truly going on in that head and heart of yours?’ Jabari got no answer, and when he looked over to his friend, he saw a single tear glistening in the dancing flames as it rolled down Tristan’s cheek, yet the young man remained expressionless. The African stood up and took a seat beside him. Putting his heavy arm around his friend’s broad shoulders, he said, ‘Sixty-two souls cannot rest lightly on one’s shoulders. Perhaps we’re fortunate that that burden isn’t yours to bear.’
‘I was still the captain of that ship,’ said Tristan dismissively. He remembered standing over Tayler’s grave that morning, a vision of the big man clutching his blown-off arm, the peaceful look of a man acceptant of his fate still fresh in his memory. He wished to be alone, to find consolation in the quiet by himself, in his own time.
Jabari ignored his brooding demeanour. ‘But it wasn’t your fault, Nyegere. If you had been ignorant enough to let the men steer the ship onto rocks, aye, perhaps then, or if you had given the wrong order that had led to senseless death in battle, yes, perhaps then. But this might as well have been an act of your God. How that ship found us in that mist, ‘twas either fool’s luck or foretold.’ Jabari nodded like he had come to a decision. ‘In fact, it probably was an act of your God, and right now, the eyes of those sixty-two souls are almost certainly bearing down on you as we speak, wondering what to make of this self-pity at a time when your heart should be filled with rage, your head teeming with plans for revenge.’
A sudden gust of wind whipped up some ash from the fire and startled them both as it sent dying sparks flying into the night. Tristan tried to ignore Jabari’s words and stay calm, but the African kept on scratching at the raw wound.
‘Remember that day when Putt’s life was taken? You were only a child back then, but that day, you learned the difference between the events in life we have control over and those we don’t. But most importantly, you learned how to make peace with what transpires in your own special way, so that you can get on with living and escape the rut you find yourself in.’ Jabari sighed as he stood up, feeling every bit as old as he was. ‘Sometimes ‘tis in our darkest hours that we find out who we truly are. You have the chance to find those responsible for that massacre and avenge our fallen comrades. Think about your woman and child. Think about the man you want them to see when they lay eyes on you again.’ As Jabari headed for his hut, his soft voice was barely audible above the breeze that had slowly picked up through the night. ‘Now run and search for that fire, Nyegere, and when you find it, hurry back to us, for we need you.’
The cries of flying hadadas were announcing an approaching dawn when Tristan finally returned to the village. His clothes were dripping with saltwater and sweat, his blond hair twisted into wisps across his shoulders. Wild eyes loomed as he sucked in air through gritted teeth. But while he looked every part feral, his head was clear, his mind focused and his body rejuvenated. He had found his answers in the violent sea and the wild wind that drove it, and the flame that had flickered briefly was now scorching white, ready to consume everything in its path.
Two days later on a fresh autumn morning, five white men, a boy and a big African, flanked by a dozen Fang warriors, made their way north on horseback. That same evening, they stopped at another Fang village not far from the Sanaga river mouth. When the inhabitants found out who the white people were, hostile faces soon made way for welcoming smiles. Once again, the group was treated like royalty, feasting with the natives well into the night, watching the traditional dances, while they enjoyed listening to stories of their own making as seen through native eyes.
Early the next morning, after they had scouted the estuary and surrounding waters for any sign of a ship, they quickly substituted the original plan for another, and by mid-morning, the group boarded two primitive fishing boats. Under the watchful eyes of cheering children splashing about in the small waves, they set sail for the island of Fernando Pó.
It was an island they knew little of, except for the stories they had heard. Traders used various parts of the island to replenish food and water. Its sheltered beaches on the east and west coasts harboured small groups of pirates that tried and sometimes succeeded in robbing the larger merchant vessels that sailed past. However, the particular place they were looking for was situated on its northern coast. A settlement described by most seamen as a dire place, a place, some said, that even the foulest of sailors could smell a mile out from land. It was the place where most of Portugal’s slaves were gathered before being shipped off to the other side of the Atlantic, and it was also the place where the seven sailors hoped to gain passage north.
Through the day and most of the night, they sailed until they reached the west coast of the island. A mile out from the rocky coastline, they pointed the bows north, hugging the seaboard as they went. It was then that the dark clouds that had been looming all day suddenly closed in, almost turning day into night, and soon after, thunder and lightning were all around as heavy rain pelted them. Tirelessly they journeyed onwards, some of them baling water with broken pieces of clay, while others resorted to cupped hands. When the storm was nearing its peak, they tied the two boats together with Tristan screaming orders at the top of his lungs to ensure the tattered sails and primitive rudders worked in unison.
During one violent gust, one of the masts snapped with such force that it knocked Jabari overboard and into the boiling waters that surrounded them. The African’s instinct took over, and his reactions were quick, grabbing hold of the very same mast and sail that had dispatched him. Using the only rope that was still attached to the sail, the three men on the nearest boat started pulling him in. It felt like dragging an anchor, but under cursed breath, the men hauled him in bit by bit, looking with concern at the flimsy rope that was braided from palm fibres, hoping and silently praying that it would hold the heavy load. Minutes went by like hours, and it was with great relief that they finally dragged the African back on board, all the while leaving the other crew members to guide their lopsided catamaran with the only remaining sail.
They knew what was coming next and when the second mast broke in half and the sail went flying off into the distant grey, they started paddling with their hands, knowing that it was a lost cause, but at least it gave them something to do. By paddling water with one hand and scooping some up with the other, they quickly settled into a rhythm, and when Delgado’s toneless voice started a song, they all joined in, singing and whistling into the wind, cackling and crying like madmen as they challenged it to a final duel. She did not disappoint.
It was late afternoon and high tide when the current delivered the battered men to shore, the waves just big enough to turn them sideways before it violently lifted the one side of the catamaran, sending some men, who tightly clasped their few precious possessions, flying through the air before they were unceremoniously dumped onto the beach. Others found themselves in shallow saltwater, laden with sand, and scrambled from underneath the remains of their raft.
‘Is everyone here?’ asked Tristan. When he got no answer, he did a quick count. ‘Is everybody alright?’ When he still got no answer, he inspected them a little closer. Jabari looked like an African who wanted to be a white man, with white sand plastered all over him, but it was Finn who had come off the worst. The redhead was covered in sand from top to toe, like some dreaded sea monster spitting sand from its mouth. While the rest looked quite stunned, Finn quickly str
ipped naked before running into the water to wash himself clean.
Tristan recognised the dazed expressions on their faces, the silent stupor not dissimilar from someone who had his ear too close to the barking end of a cannon. Only this lot was also thoroughly drenched and covered in sand. He ran his fingers through his hair and felt the sandy grit chafe his skin.
‘Well, we’re all here and in one piece, which can’t be said of our lovely vessel. That’s a good start,’ said Purvis finally. While the doctor gently knocked saltwater and sand from his wooden pipe, the rest of them watched the sea claim the last remnants of their wrecked boat.
His voice startled the group into action. Soon clothes were discarded, and the men washed themselves in the cold water of the Atlantic, which quickly gave the pale skins a bluish hue. Tristan placed the satchel with cowrie shells on the sand and carefully removed the tightly sealed leather pouch from his jacket. After hanging his wet clothes on a nearby brush and hiding his armament, he joined his men as they washed the sand from places where they had never thought they would find sand.
It was close to dusk when the group had finally gathered itself, checking the contents of their pouches that had been thoroughly rubbed with fat and sealed with wax. They had learned a harsh lesson when the Deliverance had sunk. But now they reaped the benefits of that lesson, as they started a fire with dry flint to keep them warm, reloaded clean guns with dry powder, and passed around pipes filled with dry tobacco. A few pieces of cured meat were shared equally as was a crusty cassava bread that tasted like fatty leather more than anything else, but it filled their stomachs. A few coconuts from nearby palm trees provided the only drink for the night, and soon after dinner, the exhausted men settled in for the night. Above them, the sky was peaceful, the stars bright, and sleep came quickly.
The walk to the settlement took them less than a day. It was a village purposefully built for slaves, with slave pens dotted all around, and by the sheer numbers, it soon became evident that the Portuguese slavers were good at their trade. In fear of recognition, the group gave the pens a wide berth and headed straight for the nearest tavern, a sizeable establishment on a nearby hill overlooking the bay below. From there, they had an eagle’s eye of everything happening in the settlement as well as ships coming and going.
Luck was on their side because only two days later, a homebound Dutch merchant ship, struck by the very same storm they had been in, had fought off a band of pirates before it limped into the bay for repairs. After some haggling and a promise of cowrie shells, Tristan secured them passage to England. In the end, the Dutch captain was only too happy to take on board new yet very adept crew members to replace those who had been swept away by the squall and the ones killed by their seafaring foes.
On the 16th of June 1706, the last remaining crew of the Deliverance disembarked at Folkestone on the southwestern coast of England and wasted no time in heading for London, only eighty miles to the northeast.
Chapter 35
Since their arrival in London, the first order of business for Tristan was a trip north to see Sissy. At the main wharf, he quickly turned the last of the cowrie shells into coin and distributed it among the group to see them through for a couple of days. After Tristan had warned everyone to keep a low profile and to remember that they were essentially considered deceased, they set a date and place where they would all get back together again. While the rest of the crew went about their own affairs, he armed himself with two Cornish pasties and a dram of rum and while still in his shabby clothes, headed north. Walking at a brisk pace, he gobbled up the pies, and while he sipped his dram, he also drank in the city’s sights, old and new, astounded by how much it had grown. She had lost some of her soul and appeal. Warm wood had made way for cold concrete and stone, but the heart of the city, its people, had not changed. Soon, the familiar bustling sounds transported him to years yonder as he walked the street as a young merchant boy once more.
Just outside the city, a kind-hearted farmer offered him a ride to Hackney. After a word with a local yeoman, he travelled further into the countryside and without too much effort soon found Sissy’s place halfway up a nearby hill. The cottage itself was boarded up, and the croft seemed overgrown and in need of attention. The keeper at a nearby inn put his fears at ease and pointed him in the right direction to the adjacent farm on the other side of the hill. And there he found her, outside, hanging washing in the warm summer sun.
Even from a distance, he could easily recognise the woman who had raised him. Much slenderer than what he could remember, she was standing proud, with a vibrancy that shone as white as the bedding she held. No servants for this lady. He laughed to himself. As he got closer, he could hear her humming a tune that triggered childhood memories he had thought were long forgotten. It made him walk slowly, feeling elated, yet saddened at the same time, wondering about the years apart and how different things might have been.
When she looked up from the cane basket, she stood rooted to the spot, watching the tall, blond man with the thick beard and tattered clothing approach. His features and the way he carried himself looked familiar, and her mind was racing to ignore the doubt and identify the man who resembled her long-time gone but not forgotten son. Then Sissy recognised the buff coat, which removed the last remnants of scepticism.
‘Madame, I fear I may be lost. I’m looking for an elderly lady, about your height but a few years older than yourself,’ said Tristan. The lump in his throat hampered him from speaking further, and he struggled to contain the raw emotion that almost overwhelmed him, as the guilt that had plagued him for years collided heavily with the sheer jubilation of the moment.
‘Tristan Conway, is that you?’ she cried, gasping for breath and unconcerned with the washing that had slipped from her hands.
‘Ma!’ He walked faster, uttering the one word she had last heard more than ten years ago.
‘Oh, my word. Surely, it can’t be.’ Sissy held her breath, too afraid that another spoken word might wake her from a dream.
He wrapped her up in his arms and held her tight but tenderly. Together they stood, like two statues, if it was not for the tears streaming down their faces. The million and one things he wanted to tell her, questions he wanted to ask, had all left him, while the wonderful surprise had rendered her speechless. Guilt, doubt and sorrow were thoroughly squashed as they lost themselves in the joyous occasion.
When he finally released her from his grip, she cupped his bearded face and said tearfully, ‘Every single day I prayed to see you, if only once more, and here you are. Finally.’
‘This man bothering you, madam?’ The fella, pitchfork in hand, had come from the nearby shed where they were preparing to house the winterfeed. Albeit a farmhand, he looked aggressive enough for Tristan to reach inside his coat.
‘No, Joseph.’ Sissy signalled for him to stand down. ‘This here’s my son. My long-lost son, I should say.’
‘Your son? Pardon me, madam, but with his appearance I had him figured for a troublemaker. Good day, sir.’ Joseph settled down somewhat when Tristan politely returned his greeting.
‘Nothing to be concerned about, thank you,’ said Sissy.
‘Alright. I’ll let you be then. You know where to find me, madam,’ grunted Joseph. He shot Tristan an I’m-the-one-with-the-pitchfork glance and walked back to the shed.
‘’Tis good to see you have protection out here in the country.’
‘He’s a good man and a churchgoer, too. Besides, he’s just following Albert’s orders. Albert is my husband, Tristan. Who would’ve thought? Me, finding love after so many years. He’s a real gentleman and kind of heart too. You’ll like him.’
‘Is he here?’ Tristan had heard the love in her excited voice. She had always been a good judge of character, a trait she had taught him well. And if that fails, she knows how to swing a pan, he laughed inwardly.
‘No, he’s not. He still looks after the accounting records of a few select clients, and it requires him to
travel to London every two weeks, only for a day or two. He’s due back tomorrow.’ She waved her hand dismissively, like none of this mattered. ‘Listen to me rattling on. I still cannot believe you’re here. How long has it been, child? Ten years? Look at you now – my son, a grown man!’
‘Yes, mam.’ He decided not to enquire about Albert. All will come out in good time.
Still shaking her head in disbelief, she led him to the quaint cottage with its thatch roof that stood close to the foot of the very same hill he had crossed earlier. From its porch, one looked out over a pasture where sheep grazed. At the bottom of the green meadow, next to a small stream, a hedge of alder trees formed a natural barrier, while wooden fences on all sides made sure the sheep did not stray. Next to the shed, in a large pig pen, three sows and a bunch of piglets grunted happily, while they fed on slops. Peeking through the double doors of a stable, the nearest building to the house, Tristan could see a few stalls and sitting on a small chair, another farmhand was putting horseshoes on a beautiful chestnut mare.
‘A passion of Albert,’ said Sissy.
All over the yard, chickens were scratching in the dirt, and the few who had dared wander into Sissy’s vegetable patch were quickly shooed away with a broom, clucking their disagreement as they ran.
‘I need to ask Joseph to put up a small fence,’ she reminded herself as they walked through the front door. Once inside, she fed him, and while he washed off weeks’ worth of dirt and grime, she threw most of his clothes into the fire and went to work on his coat and boots. She left the old satchel with his few personal belongings where he had placed it.
When Tristan eventually emerged, clean-shaven and all spruced up, his found his accoutrement neatly laid out on the table. Albert’s borrowed clothes were a tight fit, and as he put on his jacket that Sissy had so lovingly polished, the shirt underneath strained against his muscles, the seams threatening to part ways. He left his weapons and satchel on the table, but the gold chain went back around his neck, where it had been for most of his life.
The Fire Within Page 67