The Fire Within

by Samuel T Clayton

  ‘Only if we get to that,’ replied the admiral confidently.

  Paisley had refereed a few duels and clapped his hands together to break up the joust that could easily turn into a proper brawl. ‘That settles it then. Gentlemen, I shall quickly remind you of the terms. At the closure of this duel, the dispute in question shall be deemed settled and neither party, including your families or those in attendance today, shall attempt further retribution. Understood?’ After everyone had nodded, he continued. ‘To ensure there’s no misunderstanding, there will be no yielding.’ Paisley struggled with the words. ‘The fight will continue to the death until either Captain Bradford or Mr Conway is pronounced dead. Is that so?’

  Both parties nodded.

  ‘Now, the duellers. Because Captain Bradford has challenged, Mr Conway has opted for pistols as the primary weapon, followed by swords. You will stand at your designated places, exactly twenty-five yards apart. On the command “take aim”, you will cock and aim your pistols. Only when I say “fire” will you discharge those pistols. Should either one or both of you be hit, you’ll continue the fight with swords which your seconds will present to you at the time. The fight will continue until one of you has expired. Should neither of you get hit by the first bullet, you will each discharge your second pistol in the same manner as the first, and from then onwards continue with swords, no matter the outcome of your second shot, unless, of course, you’re no longer with us.’ Paisley looked at the four men empathically for he had always wondered what kind of hatred drove civilised men to partake in such a vicious act, which most that partook considered noble and honourable. He was still to see either. ‘Questions, gentlemen?

  ‘None? Good. I will show Captain Bradford and Mr Conway to their respective position. The duel will take place in a northerly to southerly direction, gentlemen, so there shall be no excuses of a blinding sun.’ Paisley wavered a while, hoping his reticence might cause one of the four men to reconsider the terms and introduce some mercy for the mortally wounded, but his silence was met with one far greater. ‘I guess we shall proceed then. Seconds, please prepare the pistols for your men.’

  The two old men stood by the table and watched their boys being led away, like lambs to the slaughterhouse, and although their eyes had witnessed much bloodshed, this was almost more than either one of them could bear. But they were both experienced men, and before their minds could race away with fear and doubt, they busied themselves with the task at hand and started loading the guns.

  ‘A splendid pair of pistols you have there,’ said the admiral, watching the captain carefully pour the black powder into one, ‘but they’re not of the duelling kind.’ He took a British-made pistol from his case, their long barrels gleaming in the sunlight.

  The captain knew the admiral was trying to break his concentration. “A game of the mind”, the doctor called it, and he proceeded with getting the powder packed perfectly. Once he was happy with his handiwork, he said bluntly, ‘They may not be of the duelling kind, sir, but they shoot where the lad points them, and today that will be at your son. I’ve witnessed the lad shoot a piece of iron the size of a crown, off a tree stump about fifteen yards away,’ – he ran his hand over the polished wooden stock – ‘with this very same gun.’ He was not trying to fool the admiral but thought it was a good time to bring up such a great feat.

  ‘As could these,’ blurted Bradford, ‘but they are not shooting at coins today, are they?’ The admiral carefully inserted the freshly cast .50 calibre lead ball into the long barrel before packing it in. A feeling of uneasiness had started to course through the older man’s veins, and it all began with the odd-looking dagger that the Conway lad had placed on the table. ‘Surely all of this could have been avoided, Francis?’ he said, testing the waters.

  ‘Do you believe in fate, Admiral?’ Cutcliffe held the Swiss pistol in the air and looked down the barrel. It fitted so perfectly in his hand, he almost felt like shooting the damn thing himself.

  ‘Most of the time.’ The admiral nodded, forgetting what he was doing.

  ‘You might be familiar with the saying, “where there’s smoke there must be a fire”. For years, your son has gone around starting fires. Only, this time, he’s been caught red-handed. So, I put it to you this way, Admiral, if you believe that your boy didn’t murder Mr Conway’s men, and fate favours you, then your boy shall leave the same way he arrived here this morning. However, if it’s not the case and he is indeed a murderer, well, I guess then that’s fate, isn’t it?’

  The admiral’s face dropped, and he suddenly struggled to rip open the cartridge with gunpowder for the second pistol, his ageing hands shaking visibly.

  In the meantime, Cutcliffe had finished loading Tristan’s guns and watched the admiral struggle. Good, you pathetic bastard, he thought. ‘You and I know what really happened…that your son did murder those men, which goes completely against the very same naval code you and I have tried to uphold for so many years. But your boy thought he could get away with it and now the whole debacle has blown up in his face like a rusted cannon.’

  Bradford’s taut lips had lost their colour. ‘Now, you just wait a—‘

  ‘No, you listen, you ignorant fuck! Your son followed in your footsteps! You had every chance to instil in your boy the righteousness that you never had the guts for. A responsibility you had as a father! Yet you chose the wicked path for his natural life.’ Cuthbert shook his head in disgust as he spat out the words. ‘And thus, you shall see him off to the next, you pathetic excuse for a man.’

  Paisley’s shrill voice interrupted their heated exchange. ‘Seconds, please prepare to hand your primaries their first pistol!’

  ‘One moment, Mr Paisley,’ yelled Bradford, as he rushed to get the second gun loaded, his hands now shaking with anger and doubt. With haste, he finished the job and rushed over to where his son was waiting.

  ‘Mr Conway and Captain Bradford, please approach and shake hands the way it befits gentlemen.’

  They met in the middle, where Percival grabbed Tristan’s outstretched hand. Neither man said anything. They just gripped each other’s hand until the white in their knuckles started showing.

  ‘I’ve never told this to a single soul. My men knew that I would dispatch the first one who opened his goddamn mouth, but’ – Percival leaned in closer – ‘they squealed, Conway, they squealed like drowning pigs.’ Percival snickered like a disturbed man. ‘And then they squealed no more.’

  If Tristan Conway had his gun or stiletto in his hand, he would have ended it all right there and then, but unfortunately for him, Percy’s words had the desired effect as he felt the anger starting to build inside and course through his body like a raging river. He yanked his hand away and stormed back to where an X marked his spot and where the captain was waiting.

  ‘He admitted it, Captain. The fuckin’ bastard admitted it. “Squealed like pigs,” he said.’ Tristan’s body was shaking as his muscles trembled under the strain of hatred, and he felt a tightness in his chest.

  The captain handed him the pistol and grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking him with surprising strength. ‘None of that matters now, lad. Get it out of your head and mow the bastard down. He’s not worthy of standing on this holy ground, where honourable men have met their fate. Now you listen, you send that fucker to hell’s deepest depths. Look at me! He’ll get a proper burial, a privilege your friends were denied, so you think about how those sharks stripped off their flesh, how the foxes gnawed at their white bones scattered across Africa’s beaches. Do you feel their anguish, lad? Do you feel their pain, and does it anger you?’

  Tristan mouthed a silent yes.

  ‘Good! Now put it to good use, son. Obliterate that man and get this over with, so that you can travel to that New World and see your wife and son once more.’

  Paisley had taken a look at his pocket watch, noting the exact time. ‘Gentlemen, it’s time.’

  Tristan suddenly found himself alone. Gone were the expectan
t friends and loathing enemies. He took deep breaths and felt his shaking hand relax. The thumping in his ears from a heart that hammered the inside of his chest went silent, and the worms under his skin stopped crawling as the small muscle tremors subsided. He blinked slowly and deliberately to focus his eyes on his target. It was instinctive, for he had done it more times than he could remember on many of God’s creatures, including the most sacred of all – man.

  Then it came to him, that moment when time slowed to a snail’s pace. Quiet descended over the forest around him, almost like man and nature were holding their breaths, for they knew something fatal was about to happen. And it was in the silence that he found it, just like the Old Man had told him – peace.

  ‘Aim!’

  Tristan looked down the barrel, the small bead perfectly trained on Percival’s sweaty forehead, his hand steady. His conscience was clear. He could see the bullet fly, creating a small red circle between Percival’s eyes before a faint pink mist exploded out the back of his head. Make it back here. Get it over with. Hell’s deepest depths. They squealed like pigs, Conway. Like pigs. No. Fuck it. He lowered his pistol.

  ‘Fire!’

  Both men squeezed their triggers.

  Tristan watched the smoke envelope Percival’s face. Then he felt it, like a proper blow from a strong person that nearly knocked out his wind. There was no pain, only a throbbing sensation in his left side. When he looked down, he saw a perfectly round hole in his old coat. Slowly he pulled it aside and watched his blood stain the cotton shirt, a glistening bright red in the morning sun. It was mortifyingly beautiful.

  ‘Swords!’

  He realised he was still standing when someone took his pistol and placed the stiletto in his hand. ‘Finish it,’ he heard that someone say. In a daze, he stumbled forwards and looked up to find his enemy. Then he saw him.

  It had been the perfect shot. Five yards in front of him, Percival had fallen to his knees. The man’s arms supported his body, trying to keep it upright while he coughed up mouthfuls of blood.

  When Tristan’s pistol had crossed the middle of Percival’s chest, he had pulled the trigger. The lead ball had caught the man directly in the sternum, shattering it, before the lead ball had torn through life carrying vessels and propelled fine shards of bone through lungs that had already started to collapse under the bone-crushing impact.

  The admiral had run to his son’s aid and was kneeling by his side. When he saw Tristan approach, he willed Percival on, urging him to get up and trying in vain to wrap his son’s hand around the sword’s hilt.

  ‘Place the sword by his side and step away, Admiral,’ intervened Paisley, making sure in no uncertain terms that the admiral knew who was in charge. To his relief, the admiral obliged, and Paisley somehow pitied the old man, who was forced to watch on helplessly as his only son struggled for air.

  ‘Get up and fight!’ shouted the admiral, but he knew it was to no avail for he had seen the blood frothing from Percival’s mouth. Still, he had to encourage him. It was his duty as a father and fellow marine. ‘Stand up, goddammit! Fight that man!’

  For reasons he could not explain, Tristan stopped and waited in a benevolent hope that his fellow dueller would pick up the sword, but when he saw the hand clutching at sand and dried grass instead, he knew he needed to finish what had started as a drunken brawl so many years ago.

  When Tristan dropped to his knees in front of Percival, he felt tired, like something was sapping his strength. Through a blood-filled mouth, he could hear the faint wheeze of a whisper and watched as Percival’s lips struggled to form the word.

  ‘Mercy.’

  Tristan leaned forwards and hugged Percival, letting the man’s head rest on his shoulder and with his lips close to Percival’s ear, whispered, ‘You want mercy? Where was your mercy when my men needed it? Only God can have mercy on your soul now, for today, you’ll find me wanting. Your only mercy lies in a quick death.' With that he grabbed Percival by the back of the head, yanking it backwards so that he could look him straight in the eyes, but all he saw was the desperate look of a dying man, a man afraid of meeting his fate.

  Tristan became aware of the commotion on his right. ‘Take your hand off that gun!’ When he looked over his shoulder, the Old Man had his other pistol trained on the admiral. ‘This is not your fight, sir.’

  Uncontrollable fury suddenly erupted within Tristan and overwhelmed what little compassion he had. He yelled at Percival. ‘Do you see this face? Do you see it? This is what death looks like, you fucking coward!’

  He heard the pleas from the admiral, but even the old man’s trembling and trepid voice caused no inkling of hesitation on his part as he thrust the stiletto with one swift and precise movement, straight into Percival’s heart. ‘This is for Tayler, for Hanlon, and every other man on my ship who you’ve slaughtered. Men who were far more honourable. Men who deserved a much better death than you.’ Revenge had never been as sweet, as Tristan felt the rhythm of the man’s heart muscle on the cold steel in his hand. It weakened with each contraction. ‘There will be a man waiting for you in hell, who you should fear more than the devil himself. Send him my regards.’

  Percy tried to answer him but could only produce another froth of blood spilling from his lips, and with that, his heart stopped and his eyes glazed over.

  Tristan sighed with relief and let the lifeless body slip from his grasp just as the wailing of a mournful father broke the stillness. He got up slowly, only for his legs to fail him, but just before he crashed to the ground, strong arms caught him, and he recognised the familiar voices that had rushed to his aid. In their presence, serenity came to him like water to a burning flame.

  ‘’Tis done, fellas,’ he smiled contently and looked up at the clear blue sky one last time. His eyes closed and he welcomed the all-familiar blackness and those who were waiting for him. As they drew nearer, he could feel it. It was a gentle simmer now. Peace.

  ***

  Epilogue

  On a misty morning, a lonesome rider rode his horse like a man possessed by the devil himself, touching ground only here and there. While trampling hooves sent twigs and dead leaves scattering everywhere, the horse’s heavy breathing left puffs of steam in the cool morning air which was immediately dispersed by the rapid waft that followed it. They wound their way through the forest at breakneck speed, until at last they reached the bottom of the hill and started making their way up to a cottage that overlooked the valley and grass fields below.

  ‘Whoa!’ said the rider. The horse had barely come to a standstill, when the man jumped off, grabbed two letters from a saddlebag and rushed up the wooden stairs. He banged on the door with his fist, and a voice from inside shouted for him to come in.

  He wasted no time opening the door, only to find himself staring down the barrel of a cocked flintlock pistol, pointed at him by a tall man sitting behind a wooden table in the corner of the room. The man held a steaming cup of tea in the other hand and in front of him, spread out across the table, lay maps and various navigational instruments.

  The bluish steel of the gun glimmered in the candlelight, but when the man behind the table recognised his visitor, he lowered and uncocked the pistol before carefully placing it back on the table within arm’s reach. He grunted a greeting to the intruder, slurped some tea and picked up the quill from the inkwell to finish the document in front of him.

  ‘I have an important letter here for you,’ said the guest excitedly, after he had returned the man’s greeting.

  The tall man put down the quill and leaned forwards so that the candlelight caught his tanned face and deep-blue eyes. ‘Well, Finn, did you come this far to yap all day or are you going tell me what it is?’ Tristan looked up at his best friend with a big grin on his face.

  ‘Well, first of all, you did try to blow my head off just now, so let me catch my breath. But it is good to see you’ve taken the Old Man’s advice by not trusting that admiral fella.’ Finn breathed heavily as he opened
the first letter. ‘’Tis from Sir McArthur and is addressed to the Old Man. A trading company is looking for a privateer to take four merchant ships to Port Royal to set up a new office and warehouse for the booming sugarcane business and protect them from” – where is it…here – “any possible disturbance.” The expedition is funded by the company, and he asked for you by name, although I reckon the Old Man has had a hand in this.’ Finn walked over to the kitchen and helped himself to a slice of bread, and a mug of tea poured from a fresh brew. At the same time, he kept an eye on Tristan, seeking a reaction. ‘Good bread this. I see your mother is still looking after her son.’

  ‘And you don’t think I can bake a bread?’

  ‘Something flat and black, heavy as a brick perhaps, but not one that looks and tastes this good!’

  ‘Port Royal. That’s pirate country,’ said Tristan thoughtfully.

  ‘Aye, and also very close to where Isabella, your son and everybody else are.’

  ‘No, you’ve got it wrong. I’m not contemplating as to whether we’re going. I am wondering what type of ship we’ll need to see us through safely.’

  ‘Haha. I knew it! You got me worried there for a moment.’

  Tristan jumped up from his chair and flinched when he felt the sharp pain in his side, reminding him that it was still there. ‘Then there’s the small matter of finding a crew. Fuck, this hurts. At least we have a handful of able fellas, but for a trip that long, we’ll need some good sailors, old hands, proper salty dogs.’ Tristan slowly stretched out his muscular frame, careful not to open the entry wound where Purvis had dug out the piece of cloth. The round hole in the weathered buff coat had been patched with the very same piece that the bullet had taken from it. It was not the best fit, but pride had played a big role.

  ‘Perhaps I can have a word with the Hungry Ones and see if any of them want to sign up,’ said Finn and wiped the butter from his cheeks before swallowing down the last piece of bread with a big gulp of tea.