The Fire Within

by Samuel T Clayton

  Again, Tristan saw a twinkle in the captain’s eye. The Old Man was up to something, but he could not put his finger on what it was.

  Chapter 36

  They raced through the near-empty streets, sometimes clinging on for dear life, as the hard seats smacked the dickens out of their backsides. The captain was a punctual man, and with the promise of an extra shilling to the driver of the hackney coach, the coachman was desperately trying to comply. Only when they drew closer to their destination and the road became narrow and busy did they slow down to a steady pace, allowing both men to let go of the wooden rails.

  Across from Tristan, the Old Man donned his old Navy attire, very smartly dressed indeed, compared to himself. Tristan looked down, a tad ill at ease. At least he wore his new shirt and breeches, and his coat and shoes had been buffed to a gleam by a young shoe wiper not far from where he had purchased the new clothes. He did not adhere to his own advice and betrayed Finn’s trust somewhat because on his head sat the smartest and most expensive hat that money could buy. For the sake of his own defence, he just had not found a beggar with a suitable replacement in such a short time. The sound of the horses’ hooves on cobblestone suddenly echoed differently – hollower – and brought Tristan back to the present.

  ‘We’re here, gentlemen.’ After the driver had brought the coach to an abrupt standstill, he jumped off and opened the carriage door for the two men.

  As they got out, Tristan immediately recognised the building with its high steeples. Guildhall and its splendour were synonymous with the aristocrats and elite of the city and hosted anything from formal banquets to the hearings of prominent criminals, the latter being more trials by the public than judgements delivered through a court of law. Nonetheless, it was not the building but the people exiting nearby coaches and walking across the vast courtyard of Guildhall who immediately drew his attention. ‘Captain, are you sure this is the right place?’ he asked, gazing at the smartly dressed folk. Most of them donned formal naval dress, their brass gleaming in the afternoon sun.

  The Old Man ignored his question and mumbled with discontent, ‘Look at these pompous bastards with their painted faces and powdered periwigs. It’s like they’re confused about their manhood. The whole lot of them are probably baldpates, rendered hairless by too many lecherous orgies if you ask me. We should lure them all to a ship, with a lewd promise of a voyage to the isle of Bacchanalia, and then blast the whole damn thing to kingdom come.’

  Tristan listened to the captain’s near-silent rant, as he watched the wealthy wig-wearing men walk past. Young men, who had just come out of adolescence, and boys as young as twelve, made their way to the main building’s entrance with some of them needing a prod or two by their fathers. Dressed as he was, and feeling completely at odds with his surroundings, Tristan could sympathise with them. One small boy, in particular, was struggling to make headway and looked around to see if anyone else shared his plight. Then he saw Tristan, who gestured at his own clothes, pulled a miserable face, then smiled and winked at the boy. It worked wonders for the young lad but brought little comfort to his own uneasiness.

  But as they walked across the courtyard and Tristan felt the wandering eyes burn into his back, the rebel in him awakened and somehow helped him to find comfort in the disparity. With his blond hair neatly tucked away under his hat, he lifted his head high, making sure people could see his face, still dark from years spent in the sun. How I stand out among these pale faces, he grinned, probably even catching some by surprise, as it would appear that a slave was walking among them, and that on equal footing with his master.

  When they reached the entrance to the great hall, a smartly dressed man held out his hand. ‘Good evening, gentlemen. May I see your invitation please?’ Tristan watched the young man take the letter the captain offered. At least this one’s not powdered and painted, he thought, but noticed the man glancing at him confusingly, as one would do if you were to see a fox frolic among a pack of thoroughbred hounds. The captain pulled the man aside and whispered something in his ear, after which Tristan could swear he saw a few coins exchange hands.

  ‘Grand,’ said the man. ‘It’s my honour to welcome you to the Admiral’s Gala, Captain Cutcliffe. Right, this way, sir.’ A steward led them inside and offered to take their hats. The captain obliged, while Tristan ignored the man’s request as he pondered on what the man outside had said.

  Admiral’s Gala? Tristan pulled the captain aside. ‘Sir, would you care to explain what we’re…what the hell am I doing here?’

  ‘I did tell you that I was in the Navy when I was younger?’

  ‘Several times over the years, sir, including last night and the one before it.’

  ‘A sign of old age, lad.’ He tapped his head. ‘I fear that a few spider webs are appearing in the attic.’

  As they walked through the huge double doors, the spectacular sight of Guildhall unfolded in front of them. From its high ceilings and walls covered in statues, each one carved in meticulous detail, to its colourful flags lining both sides of the hall, the place looked and reeked of wealth and power – the two addictions most men hungered for, some would kill for, and others would die for.

  Through the large windows, the last of the day’s sun cast its light on a large U-shaped banquet table. From up above, chandeliers were beginning to take over where daylight started to fail, and along the elegantly set tables, lit candles shone on the silver cutlery, giving the impeccable decorations and furnishings, dotted throughout the hall, a golden hue that would bring a tear to any pirate’s eye.

  Idly talking naval officers and their guests had already lined the walls, while waiters wandered around with silver trays from which they served an array of wines to both the old and the young. Although the hall had already filled substantially, no one had dared to take their seats. To Tristan, it was clear that they were waiting for the guest of honour to arrive.

  ‘You still haven’t answered my question, sir. I thought this was a gathering of your merchant friends.’

  ‘Do you trust me, lad?

  ‘When have I not?’

  ‘Then I beg that you do so once more, if only until the evening is at its end.’ The captain pulled him aside. ‘The Admiral’s Gala is an annual gathering of the Royal Navy’s most senior officers, mostly captains and admirals, current and retired from service. You won’t find a larger gathering of bigwigs in any other place or time of the year because the event is hosted by none other than the Lord High Admiral of England, and it’s the one chance where these people can mingle, kiss arse and introduce their young to the right mentor and sponsor.’ As a waiter walked past, the captain grabbed two glasses off his tray and without looking at its contents, handed one to Tristan. ‘Or perhaps they’re just here for the food and drink.’

  ‘That means there’s a good chance we’ll run into—’

  ‘Exactly. And if not him, then his father. That arrogant prick would not miss this gala, come what may.’ The captain sipped his red wine, keeping one eye on the entrance. ‘We let this play out in public. Just trust me, lad. Do you see them?’

  Tristan was upset with the Old Man, but none of that mattered now. He was here and had a chance to finish what he had come for. As for how, he did not know yet. He too sipped his wine while scouring the room. To the right of the banquet table, a group of men suddenly burst out laughing and as one of the men, who had his back to them, nearly doubled over with laughter, the man opposite from him came into view. Tristan recognised the face instantly.

  Percival Bradford was sipping wine and laughing with fellow officers without a care in the world, just like the cold-blooded killer he was. The wig-wearing, potbellied man next to him had his hand on Percy’s shoulder, slapping it while roaring with laughter, and although he was a far cry removed from the dapper and younger captain, the older man’s dress was impeccable, a fop in all aspects. Tristan could see the similarities between the two men and even from across the hallway, he could sense the air of self-
importance exuded by the admiral, an astute yet bombastic man it seemed.

  They’re here,’ said Tristan, nodding in their direction.

  ‘Good,’ replied the captain, ‘and the man I’ve been waiting for has also arrived.’

  That’s what I just told you, thought Tristan, starting to worry about the Old Man, wondering if he had all his pigs in the pen. Trust me, he said. It’s not like I have a choice anymore.

  ‘Shall we?’ The captain grinned and without waiting for an answer, started walking.

  As they wandered across the vast floor, rubbing shoulders with the Royal Navy’s elite, Tristan could feel his insides starting to boil while his muscles slowly tightened. Inside his jacket, the familiar bulge brought some comfort. It would be an easy kill, so quick that the man would not even see it coming. There was a side entrance not far behind the group. He could be out of the door and at the mouth of the Thames before midnight. It would be like ten years ago, only this time he would have committed a real murder in front of hundreds of witnesses. Trust me, the Old Man said.

  ‘Pardon the intrusion, gentlemen.’ The Old Man managed to silence the whole group with a single booming sentence. ‘Andrew. Phillip. Good to see you lot are still currying favour, even after so many years. Good evening, Admiral.’

  If Admiral Bradford did not look surprised, his voice said otherwise. ‘Captain Cutcliffe! What a-a-a-an interesting surprise. I didn’t know they invited recreants to these events.’ The disparaging tone in his voice was unmistaken.

  ‘Me, unfaithful to duty? You must be mistaken, sir. You know as well as I that I would gladly give my life serving this country. I believe the Lord High Admiral himself described my record as an impeccable one. And that very same record states that I left on my terms, but perhaps those terms didn’t find favour with others.’

  ‘You left us short-handed! Or do I need to remind you?’ enquired the admiral indignantly.

  The men around them slowly stepped backwards for most of them knew there was no love lost between the two. Only Percival stayed true to his father’s side. And behind Cutcliffe, the mysterious man still shrouded by his hat, stood quietly, staring at the ground.

  ‘No, Admiral, I did no such thing! You, sir, had enough ships and men to take on the whole fucking French fleet! Yet you still managed to send hundreds of our best sailors to a watery grave! Perhaps, it is I who should refresh your memory!’ Cutcliffe looked around to the curious faces, especially the eager eyes of the young men and children. ‘Or maybe not. I shall spare these folks the sorry tale, for I fear, by the time I am finished, you would need to pressgang these younger ones. I will say this, however. At that time, and for reasons you know better than most, I made it perfectly clear that I would no longer serve under your command.’

  The admiral too became conscious of the attention they were drawing to themselves and tried to smoothen things over, but not without firing one last shot. ‘Ahhh, Francis, look at us. Like two old fools, quarrelling about days long gone. I am just glad that you have for once left that sorry existence of yours to join us at this marvellous occasion.’

  Tristan had his back to the whole lot but could hear the gnashing of teeth behind him. The Old Man needed every ounce of self-control not to snap the admiral’s neck, and it made Tristan smile to himself, for this had been the Old Man’s plan in the first instance. Perhaps a bit of suffering is justified, he grinned.

  ‘Sir, I wouldn’t have missed this particular occasion for all the riches in the world,’ said the captain.

  The admiral, puzzled by the captain’s reply, suddenly noticed that the man behind Cutcliffe had not moved. ‘And who do you have with you? Looks like someone didn’t advise him of the proper dress code or maybe he’s another native from one of those godforsaken countries that you always visited. A debauched stowaway, hidden under the floorboards all this time perhaps?’ Bradford’s posse snickered with nervous laughter, knowing it was better to be in favour with the admiral, for he still held much sway in the naval circles. But they also knew Francis Cutcliffe as a man not to be messed with.

  Cutcliffe nudged Tristan in the back. ‘Actually, this time ‘tis not another native whom I’ve rescued from certain death. Please allow me to introduce a man who’s like a son to me. A privateer, employed by Her Majesty the Queen until recently, to patrol the waters off the Central African coast. A man, who has done the British Crown a great service by disrupting the slave trade of our enemies. A captain, who had his ship and crew blown to pieces by the very same Royal Navy that you and I once sailed for.’ Tristan walked around the captain to face his adversaries. ‘Captain Tristan Conway,’ said Cutcliffe.

  ‘How do you do, Admiral?’ said Tristan as he looked up, revealing the face under the hat, and as he shook the admiral’s hand, he added, ‘Good to see you once again, Percy.’

  Across from him, a shocked Percival had turned a sickly white. Any paler and he could be mistaken for a corpse, grinned Tristan. Next to Percival, his father seemed rather confused, not sure what to make of the young man, who had his hand in a firm grip.

  ‘Looks like you’ve seen a ghost, son. Are you alright?’ asked the Old Man, thoroughly enjoying the moment as he watched the blood drain from Percival’s face.

  ‘Well, hang on just a goddamn minute here!’ exclaimed the admiral, rubbing his nearly crushed hand. ‘I understand that this is your guest, Cutcliffe, but this is sure as hell no way to address a gentleman and captain in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy.’ He glared at Tristan. ‘You need to learn some manners, son.’

  ‘In this regard, I agree with you wholeheartedly, sir. Any gentleman should be greeted with the utmost respect and courtesy,’ said Tristan, adding to the older man’s confusion when said courtesy was still not extended to his son.

  Next to the admiral, Percy had finally come to his senses, and with it, colour had returned to his face. He looked at the officers around him, many of them familiar faces and he quickly found safety in the numbers. With that in mind, he needed just a minute to compose himself before he was back to his cocky self. When he saw his father looking at him for help or some explanation, he took a small yet deliberately threatening step in Tristan’s direction. ‘It’s Captain Percival Bradford to you, swab. You should know that by now.’

  ‘Who is this man, Percival?’ demanded his father.

  Percival leaned backwards and whispered in his father’s ear, ‘This is the man I told you about, the one who murdered Mr Morgan and his nephew.’

  The admiral had no idea what to make of it all, but he immediately remembered the misfortune his slavery operation had suffered with Morgan’s disappearance. ‘Mr Conway, my son tells me that you were responsible for the death of Mr Morgan and the rest of his men. So, Mr Conway, wouldn’t you say the loss of your ship and her crew was a just act inflicted on a murderer and his gang of marauders?’

  Tristan reached inside his coat and ran his hand over the cold steel. His fleeting plan from before suddenly seemed not so far-fetched, but he kept his composure. ‘Mr Morgan had a hand in the murdering of two of the most kind-hearted people you will never get to meet, and many others who stood in the way of his vile operation. For that, Africa has delivered its own justice onto him and his men.’

  ‘Isn’t that for a court of law to decide? Or does Britain’s law not apply to all her citizens, even those outside her borders?’ challenged the admiral.

  Cutcliffe raised his hand dismissively, before cutting in. ‘It would be a waste of the court’s time as there were no witnesses. Morgan died, assumingly, due to an act of God, burnt to death in his own home while he was sleeping. His henchmen disappeared, as people sometimes do in Africa. Again, no witnesses.’ The captain decided that the time for tomfoolery was over. After all, they were here for a reason. ‘You seemed to have conveniently forgotten something that I have mentioned, Admiral! So, let me be a bit more specific. Captain Conway’s ship was sunk, and his men killed, by the Yarmouth, captained by none other than your son. Except for seven
very lucky men, every single one of the Deliverance’s crew was needlessly slaughtered, and from accounts that I’ve heard, ‘twas like shooting fish in a barrel. And all of this happened while Captain Conway was in the employ of Her Majesty the Queen.’

  A few loud gaps filled the silent hall. Admiral Bradford looked questioningly at Percival, to which his son replied, ‘Simply not true, father. These men are trying to shift the blame for their heinous crimes. It must’ve been pirates or the French perhaps.’

  ‘I feared that you might say that,’ said Cutcliffe.

  ‘Mr Watkins?’

  On their right, a stout man approached, pushing his way through the tight circle of onlookers. He stumbled his way into the makeshift arena but managed to keep his glass upright and quickly took a few big gulps as if he needed to summon all the courage in his little portly body.

  ‘This is an event for naval officers, sir,’ blasted the admiral, who recognised the small-statured man through shared association. Glaring at the casually dressed man, then at the curious faces all around, he demanded, ‘Who the hell has let this blundering buffoon in? What the hell is going on here?’

  ‘Charles Watkins, at your service,’ said the slightly intoxicated buffoon to almost everyone in the room and as their attention shifted to the diminutive obtruder, who had dared to interrupt the feisty proceedings, he declared in a low but decisive voice, ‘Everything that Captain Cutcliffe has said is true.’

  Tristan kept his eyes on Percy and his hand on his blade.

  ‘And how on earth would you know?’ demanded the admiral.

  ‘I was travelling back to London, having concluded business as special envoy to Porte and sailing under the protection of soldiers from Her Majesty’s Royal Regiment. Terrible weather inflicted damage to the merchant ship I was journeying on, and your son here was kind enough to provide passage back to England for myself and seven of the guards. I believe Captain Bradford was returning to London for this very occasion.’ With his glass now empty, Watkins licked his lips when his mouth suddenly became dry. ‘I corroborate the captain’s recount because I was on the Yarmouth when the ghastly event took place. A slaughter indeed, perpetrated by your son.’