The Fire Within
Page 68
Sitting down at the table, the dam finally burst and they bombarded each other with questions and stories until lanterns had to be refilled and then they talked some more. Sissy oohed and aahed as Tristan spoke about his adventures, at times gasping and biting her tongue, remembering that he was no longer a child. When he finally came to Isabella and Francesco and explained the reason for their absence, Sissy cried silently, not just for the wife and grandchild that she would probably never see but also knowing full well that Tristan’s visit was undeniably a final farewell too.
They talked until there was not much more to say to each other than goodnight and she showed him to his room, where he slept like a rock until late morning. With fried eggs and smoked bacon in his belly, he wandered around the farm and lent a helping hand to Joseph, who was busy replacing the axle on a cart.
The farm was a busy, but tranquil place and he immediately latched onto the latter, from the smell of the pig pen and the ripple of the chestnut horse’s muscles under his palm to Sissy’s crouched figure in the vegetable patch. It made him understand why people would leave the hustle and bustle of the city behind. It was hard work but an unfettered and humble lifestyle, without the complexities that everyday London would bring. He tried to imagine leading such a life and was promptly filled with uncertainty. And in that very same dubiety, he had found his answer. He was a man of the sea, and such an ordinary, predictable life was not for him – not yet.
Later in the day, he met Albert and found the elderly man every bit as pleasant as Sissy had made him out to be. After dinner that evening, they retired to the study, and while enjoying a lovely port, Albert retrieved a leather binder from his writing desk and handed it to Tristan without a word.
Not sure what to expect, Tristan untied the strings rather hesitantly. The first page was the title to Sissy’s land and the second, a letter signing it over to him. When he looked at her questionably, she let him know that there would always be a home waiting for him in England. He thanked her for it. The third page had the Royal Exchange emblem, with his name and a long number next to it. Underneath there were various company names, with numbers allocated to each of them.
‘It was Albert’s idea,’ said Sissy and squeezed Albert’s hand, urging him to explain.
‘The money that was left after your mother had purchased the land, well, ‘twas doing nobody any good lying underneath a mattress, so she entrusted it to me, seeing that ‘tis my profession after all. I invested it for you, and that piece of paper shows the companies and the number of stocks that you own in each of them. Any profits that you’ve received over the years were also reinvested.’ Albert let go off Sissy’s hand and pushed himself closer to Tristan. ‘Compared to most Londoners, you’re a very wealthy man, son.’
Tristan took another look at the list, recognised a few trading companies, then shuddered when he recognised at least two companies that were heavily involved in the slave industry. He kept his mouth shut and silently vowed to get rid of them as soon as he returned to London.
‘Thank you, sir. I can’t even start to explain to you how much this means, not just to me, but also the crew I’ve brought with. We’ve lost everything except for a few items already bound for the New World.’
‘It’s my pleasure, son. From what your mother has told me, you might want to sell some of those,’ said Albert, pointing to the paper. ‘Perhaps you can stay a while, ride with me to London in two weeks and I can help you take care of those?’
‘That’s my plan, sir, to sell some of these,’ replied Tristan. ‘But as for your kind offer to ride along, unfortunately, I have to decline.’ He heard Sissy gasp. ‘My men are waiting in London. As their captain, I am accountable for their wellbeing, and I have vouched to procure passage for us all to Jamaica, a matter which needs to be concluded at the soonest. Then there are a few other trivial matters to take care of.’ He looked directly at Sissy. ‘But I shall be back here before I set foot on any ship. That I can promise you.’
Sissy calmly excused herself, resigned to the fact that her son’s visit was brief and that yet again she might not see him for many years to come, and as Tristan stood up to follow her, Albert grabbed him by the arm. ‘Sit down, son.’
Tristan obliged. The truth was not always easy to deal with, and he knew exactly the effect that his words were having on her. He also knew that she had been expecting those words, but it did nothing for the guilt he was feeling.
‘Your mother’s happiness means the world to both of us, son. And we all knew that this visit was never going to have a favourable outcome for anyone involved. Nevertheless, we all have our own lives to live, and right now you’ve been ordained to seek yours elsewhere, but maybe one day you will return to us – only God knows – but at least give your mother that hope to cling onto. That’s all I’m asking of you.’
‘Sir, I cannot promise ma something that—‘
‘At least think about it, son.’ Albert stood up. ‘Hand me that paper, the one in your hand.’ With paper in hand, he walked to his orderly table, where everything had its place. Albert took the quill from the inkwell and scribbled something at the bottom. After blowing it dry, he handed the paper back to Tristan. ‘When you have decided what to do with your stocks, go to the Exchange and ask to speak with that man, none other. Understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘They’re a bunch of dirty scoundrels I’m afraid and will swindle you out of every penny. But not this one. At least not to me he won’t. You tell him that I’m your loving stepfather. That will put the fear of God into him.’
‘I will, sir. Definitely.’
‘Right. Do you fancy something stronger to drink?’
Tristan had thought the man had nothing stronger than wine in his house and grinned, for asking that particular question to a sailor was like asking a mouse if it would prefer cheese over hardtack. ‘I most certainly do, sir.’
Albert laughed out loud. ‘You sailors are all alike. Stomachs made for the hard liquor, while us country folk are content with a drink of a milder variety.’ He poured them some gin from a precarious-looking bottle shaped like an angel’s wing and handed a crystal glass to Tristan. ‘This stuff should suit you perfectly then. Bloody expensive, but worth every penny. I get it delivered to my London office, courtesy of a mysterious brewer south of the bridge. I often hear stories about him. Rumour has it that it’s brewed by a mad man using an ancient recipe from a small black leather book that also contains some other secret concoctions and that this book hangs in a pouch around the maniac’s neck and never leaves his sight. No one knows exactly how he came into it, and where or how this stuff is brewed.’ He held up the glass as he eyed the contents. ‘How much of this theatrical and nonsensical bullshit is true is anyone’s guess. You know how much Londoners love their fables. I’ve even heard some say a sliver of kelp and a pinch of saltpetre sourced from depths of hell itself give the drink that extra kick.’
‘Albert Pynsent! There shall be no such idle talk of the devil in this house,’ yelled Sissy from the kitchen.
‘I do apologise, my love!’ Albert fell back into his chair and winked at Tristan, saying softly this time, ‘I don’t know what he puts in here, son, but it certainly helps an old accountant like me become creative whenever there’s a need.’
Tristan was still smiling, for Sissy’s rebuke had rung familiar bells. He looked at the drink in his hand, the clearest gin he had ever seen, sniffed it, then savoured the first sip and for a brief moment, he heard something strange amidst the gentle swash of the ocean – the distant cackle of a mad man. It sounded vaguely familiar. ‘This is a good brew, sir. My compliments to your mystical brewer, and you, of course, for finding a man with such skill.’
Albert could see the appreciation on his stepson’s face. ‘Your old captain had uttered words of a similar nature when he first sat in that chair. To be frank, he carries on about it every time he visits. It makes me sometimes wonder if he comes for the drink or the company.’
‘Your mother hasn’t told you? If by “old man” you’re referring to Captain Cutcliffe, then yes, son. He comes by, once a month or so – less often in wintertime – usually to bethink the past. It brings great delight to your mother, hearing the same stories told over and over again, especially the bits involving you.’
‘He’s one of the people I intend to visit when I go back to London,’ said Tristan excitedly.
‘I thought as much. We sometimes dine together whenever I find myself down that way. I shall give you his new address before you leave. The man has moved house four times in the past six years. It must be the restlessness that comes with retirement. It can’t be easy for a man like him, settling down after travelling the world for so many years.’
‘No sir, I guess it can’t.’ Tristan reflected on what Albert had told him and decided to ask the Old Man that question. Directly. The captain would not have it any other way. Circumvention is mostly a fool’s way of avoiding the inevitable, the Old Man used to say.
‘Let’s have a look at that list,’ said Albert and while sipping their gins, they pored over the details, with Albert giving him the background on some of the companies, advice about which ones he should sell, as well as the stock prices to be expected based on the previous week’s trading. With business concluded, Tristan shared some of his own stories with Albert, including some he had left out in his conversations with Sissy and by night’s end, over gin brewed by a mysterious man, Albert had found the son he had always wanted and Tristan was very much at peace knowing his mother was loved and well taken care of.
Tristan stayed another two days before he headed back to London and on the morning he departed, he reiterated his promise to them that he would return as soon as he had arranged passage. Setting off for London, he rode on the chestnut horse he had bonded with over the last couple of days. Aptly named Chestnut, the mare relished the chance to stretch her legs, and she made light work of the narrow roads between Hackney and London, while he hung on for dear life.
It was midday when Tristan Conway walked into the Royal Exchange, a man no one present had ever laid eyes on, to claim what was rightfully his. In a matter of minutes, he instructed Albert’s contact to sell every single stock on the list, and an hour later walked out a wealthy man and with a good amount still owing to him. The shock set in as he walked to where Chestnut was tied up, just across from the building’s entrance. With his satchel heavily weighted with coin, he suddenly realised with how much ease his fortunes had turned, compared to all the other riches he had amassed through years of hard work.
He continued to ponder over this for most of the way to Westminster while he gently swayed back and forth on Chestnut. The mare was taking the London hubbub in her stride and, like the other city horses, happily neighed and snorted her way through the incessant traffic. The same could not be said for her rider, who had moved on from contemplating his sudden wealth. Tristan watched old familiar sights mix with the new but found the city cold and uninviting, its inhabitants suddenly seemed a pretentious bunch, nose-deep in their self-importance. He listened to passers-by, each man or woman only caring for themselves, and pursuing their own interests alone. There was no sense of community and sociability as he had experienced in most of the African villages, but it was only further down the road where he came to the shock conclusion. I’m a foreigner in the city where I was born.
His next stop was a colossal grey building that projected the might of the British Empire. Walking up the wide stairs and through a row of massive pillars, he wondered what Chief Ngò of Embomma would say if he were ever to set eyes on such a spectacle, and he chuckled at the mere thought of it. Close to the entrance he was confronted by two armed guards. They seemed suspicious and confused by the person who did not look one part like the men who entered and exited their building every day. Tristan stated his business to them and got nothing except dismissive stares and grunts, but he was prepared. He handed them a sealed letter, addressed to the Lord Chief Justice, Sir Christopher Whyte, the man who had been paramount in the sponsorship of his whole anti-slavery operation over the years. In it was a detailed account of the demise of the Deliverance and her crew, contrary to anything the man might have heard, as well as information about the three remaining ships that would continue the fight against slavery once the French had been dealt with, and last but not least, his resignation, thanking the man for his unwavering support. Then Tristan retrieved the original marque letter from the queen, safely enclosed in the leather pouch that had travelled with him all the way from Embomma, and showed them the carefully broken seal and made sure they understood that he was acting under direct orders of Her Majesty the Queen.
The older of the two men juggled Sir Whyte’s letter like a hot potato before he quickly handed it to his younger and ever-willing counterpart. ‘Please wait,’ he instructed Tristan. When he turned around to speak to his colleague, the eager young man was already halfway through the doorway. ‘Make sure you hand this to that pale chubby clerk who works in Sir Whyte’s office.’
‘But they’re all pale and chubby,’ complained the young man.
‘The fellow with a face and hair of a baby!’ snapped the older one. ‘Tell him it’s urgent and that we have the gentleman waiting outside. Tell him the man wishes to see his lordship.’ Realising that he probably needed a name, he turned around and asked apologetically, ‘Sir, who can I—‘ He only caught a glimpse of the man on top of the chestnut horse before the two disappeared around the building. ‘Just give it to the clerk,’ he sighed and dismissed his colleague, knowing full well that there would probably be consequences. He could not help but wonder who the stranger in the plain clothes was, a man who had left with the same obscurity in which he had arrived.
Seeing that he had the funds and that Albert’s shirt and pants had already burst at some of the seams, Tristan headed for the nearest tailor where he ordered two fine linen shirts and a pair of loosely fitting breeches. He insisted on picking up the items the very next day and for the privilege, offered the clothier a good sum of money that quickly persuaded the dissentient man. At the hatter next door, he bought himself a fine cavalier hat made from beaver felt. The man also sold a range of other leather goods and Tristan purchased two pouches, and had a long hard look at some well-made boots but decided against ordering a pair. Upon exiting the shop, he pulled the wide brim of his new hat low over his face and went about the rest of his business.
On the next street was a stable and he left Chestnut in the hands of a young stable boy who, for a few pence, promised to look after the horse as if it was his own. While Chestnut filled up on water and hay, Tristan headed further up the road where he found the shop of the very same gunsmith to whom he had delivered bread as a child. Countless hours had been spent peering at the gleaming muskets and pistols, and watching the old man fiddle with parts and tools. He had left his pistols on the farm, for their barrels were worn out and their stocks cracked, and he felt a little naked without them. He had learned from his own experience that when you find yourself in a foreign city, it was a good habit to always carry your weapons and wits about in equal amounts. With his newfound riches, he had no choice and inadvertently clutched the bulging satchel under his arm even tighter. Underneath his coat, the stiletto’s hard steel dug hard into his ribs but provided more comfort than pain.
Tristan entered the shop and, keeping his anonymity, he sighted gun after gun, feeling them in his hand, checking the balance and testing the action. At the same time, he admired the patience of the elderly gunsmith, who probably saw that he was dealing with a fellow connoisseur. When Tristan finally settled on two beautifully engraved and very expensive Swiss pistols, cradled in a walnut box lined with blue velvet, the old man looked at him questioningly. Even stranger to the man was that Tristan paid him upfront with a promise to pick it up the next day, but years of not asking why, where and what had
served his business well and the gunsmith was not going to break that tradition today.
For the second time in a week, only on horseback now, Tristan crossed the narrow road on the busy London Bridge, fighting the constant stream of coaches, carts and people coming from Southwark. On either side, traders had their goods on display, and everywhere, potential buyers stopped to inspect the wares on offer which added to the traffic woes as movement almost ground to a halt in some places. When he exited South Gate, he stopped briefly and looked out across the river as it stirred up memories of their night-time escape. His eyes tracked the route they had taken up until where the muddy river disappeared around a bend.
He watched the hordes of boats going up and down the massive river, no different than ten years ago and wondered how many of these people knew that a world, other than this, even existed and that some of the seemingly tall tales they read in the daily newspapers were in fact true. Large ships, similar to the ones he had watched as a child from the nearby docks, were anchored in the middle of the river. He imagined sailing a ship up here one day, perhaps inspiring a boy to dream and then to seek what lay beyond the horizon. A loud scolding voice from behind startled him, and when he saw the thickset woman with broom in hand pointing to where Chestnut’s clumps of dung had fallen close to her fruit stand, Tristan nudged the horse to get underway once more.
When he reached Southwark, he headed straight for the Sullivans’ shop where he found Finn working side by side with his father, the two Irishmen now of equal height and both covered in prominent red fuzz. Mr Sullivan hugged him like a father would a son, and after exchanging greetings and a few words, Tristan brought up the matter of the missing boat. He tried to settle what he felt was a debt owed, but Finn’s father flatly refused to accept any payment, telling him with a roaring laugh to shove his money where the sun did not shine.