Call of the Raven

by Smith, Wilbur

She had to find a way to bring Mungo to Bannerfield.

  The morning dawned gloomy and grey, with heavy clouds and a strong storm swell that hit the ship on the port quarter and sent it rolling hard on her sides. The cries of the slaves drifted up from the hold, as did the sound and smell of their retching. None of the seamen who delivered the boiled corn mash to the suffering masses made it out of the hold without adding their own vomit to the slick on the floorboards. The first mate, who was officer of the deck, tried to lessen the misery of the slaves by dousing them with buckets of cold seawater. But he only managed to incite them to greater anger and desperation. A few of the hardiest Africans lashed out with their teeth. One sailor lost a chunk of flesh from his forearm. Another emerged in a wail of agony, missing a finger.

  The once majestic Baltimore clipper was transformed into a dungeon. Mungo could find no place from the bowsprit to the stern where the noise and stench of human anguish were absent. He tried to block them out, but never did the time come when his stomach felt settled. This, he soon discovered, was the purpose of the casks of rum. The liquor was distributed liberally – consciences and finer feelings were anaesthetised.

  On the second morning out of Ambriz, before dawn, Mungo was on deck with Tippoo, observing the cook stir the ladles in the coppers as the maize boiled into a mash. The wind had picked up from the day before, cleansing some of the stink that hung around the ship like a cloud of toxic vapour.

  A cry rang out from the foremast top: ‘Sail off the starboard beam.’

  Mungo whipped out his spyglass and searched the distant whitecaps for the sail. It came into focus: a sloop, hull down over the horizon. Its masts were visible against the pale blue sky, as was the Union Jack fluttering at her stern.

  There were not many British men-of-war in these waters, and Mungo had reason to remember this one. Even at that distance, he recognised her from the harbour at Madeira. HMS Fantome. Fairchild’s ship.

  The news spread through the Blackhawk like a fire in the hold, prompting seamen below decks to appear from the hatches for a glimpse of the British ship. Captain Sterling emerged from his cabin and studied the British ship through his own glass.

  ‘There’s no way to outrun her, not with our load. If she hails, we’ll have to respond.’

  ‘She is downwind,’ said Tippoo. ‘She will smell what we are carrying.’

  ‘Indeed, Mr Tippoo,’ Sterling replied, ‘but we have the law on our side. All he has is the threat of arms, which he cannot use without harming the very slaves he hopes to save.’ His mouth tightened. ‘But ready the guns just in case.’

  Over the next thirty minutes, the two ships converged until they were so close that Mungo could make out the faces of the British officers lining the port-side rail through his glass. He looked for Fairchild and found him on the fo’c’s’le, a spyglass to his eye, staring back at him.

  When the sloop and the clipper had closed to within five hundred yards, the Fantome lit off one of its guns and shot a ball across the Blackhawk’s bow. At such close range, the boom of the cannon crashed over the Blackhawk like a breaking wave, rattling eardrums and silencing the cries of the slaves in the hold for a moment. When the echo had faded, the slaves raised their voices and shouted with inspired vigour, hoping that rescue was near.

  ‘Blackhawk, this is the HMS Fantome,’ said Captain Townsend through his speaking trumpet. ‘We are carrying a writ from Her Majesty’s government and its allies that entitles us to search and seize any vessel caught trafficking in slaves south of the Equator. Prepare your crew for boarding.’

  Captain Sterling replied, ‘Fantome, your confidence is misguided. Our papers are in order, and there is no treaty between America and the British Crown that gives you the right to examine our cargo. You may board, but you cannot search.’

  Through his glass, Mungo saw Townsend drop his megaphone and lower his cutter. A crew of stout-looking sailors manned the oars. At the back of the boat, he saw Fairchild’s telltale haystack of sandy-coloured hair poking out from under his uniform hat.

  As the boat approached, Sterling spoke to Lanahan and Tippoo, who passed the orders to their subordinates in muted voices. No one made any sudden moves, nor revealed weapons that might be visible from the Fantome’s deck. But by the time the naval cutter reached the Blackhawk’s ladder, Sterling’s crew were prepared for a confrontation.

  ‘Captain Townsend, welcome aboard,’ said Sterling, greeting the British master on the spar deck, as Mungo and the other officers fanned out behind him. ‘A pleasure to see you again.’

  ‘You would do well to hold your tongue, sir.’ Townsend surveyed the deck, his eyes righteous with the full dignity and power of the Royal Navy. ‘Anything you say here will become part of the record at your trial.’

  Sterling laughed. ‘You know the limits of your writ. If you wish to inspect our registry, I would be glad to produce it, but it hasn’t changed since our last encounter. Beyond that, you have no authority to act.’

  The British captain replied, ‘The Congress of your United States has determined that the just penalty for such a loathsome commerce as slavery is death. I do not require a search to ascertain the truth of your crimes. The evidence is manifest to anyone with a tolerable sense of smell. On the authority of Her Britannic Majesty, I am hereby commandeering this ship for passage to New York. As soon as we escort you to safe harbour in your own country, we will deliver you up for prosecution.’

  The British sailors surrounding Townsend lifted their rifles and pointed them at Captain Sterling. He ignored them.

  ‘By taking up arms against us without lawful authority, you are committing an act of piracy and war against a vessel of a foreign nation.’ He waved his hands towards Townsend’s men. ‘Put down your weapons, or whatever guilt you ascribe to us will become your own.’

  Mungo watched Fairchild. He was the youngest of the officers in the boarding party. He was also the only British officer armed with a sword instead of a rifle. His hand stayed on the handle until the moment his compatriots took aim at Sterling. He drew the sword and pointed it at Mungo. Mungo held still. Sterling’s orders were clear. Any provocation the Blackhawk offered would give the British justification for reprisal. Negotiation was the better option, unless the Fantome compelled them to fight.

  Silence gripped the deck as Sterling and Townsend and their men stared each other down. Neither captain was willing to concede. Whoever spoke next would be making an irrevocable choice.

  Townsend broke the deadlock.

  ‘Lieutenant Fairchild!’ he said. ‘Take Captain Sterling and his officers into custody and lock them up in the brig. The rest of you, do not resist, or we will subdue you by force. From this moment onwards, I am in command.’

  It was so quick that Mungo barely saw it. One moment there was a glint of polished metal in Tippoo’s hands, and the next a knife was buried in Townsend’s throat.

  Sterling bellowed, ‘On me, Blackhawk!’ and rolled behind a heavy chest. The rest of the crew, Mungo included, flung themselves flat on the deck.

  A volley of musket fire exploded in their direction. But stunned by the murder of their captain, the British had fired a second too late. The bullets passed harmlessly over the Blackhawk’s crew – and now the British guns were empty. That gave the Blackhawk’s men time to produce the firearms they had hidden along the deck and take aim at the dense cluster of navy blue coats.

  Unlike their enemies, they did not aim too high. The first volley of bullets cut down half the British contingent, sending bodies sprawling across the deck and blood gushing from ragged wounds. The survivors scattered, seeking an enemy to engage. A young seaman beside the capstan took a bullet in the stomach and slumped to the deck. Another ball caught a sailor above the eyes, blowing off the top of his skull. At the same instant, Lieutenant Fairchild plunged his blade into the bosun’s side, yanked it loose and drove it through his heart.

  Mungo took shelter behind the capstan and drew his Bowie knife. From the corner of hi
s eye, he saw Tippoo pick up a British midshipman and hurl him over the side. The man screamed until the water choked him off. As bullets flew between them, Tippoo grabbed the long pistol the man had dropped and swung it like a mace, clubbing another officer to the deck.

  Mungo moved towards Fairchild, skirting the lines at the base of the mainmast. They locked eyes. Mungo launched an attack that the lieutenant parried a moment before a series of blasts rocked the ship.

  Somehow, even as battle raged on deck, Tippoo had managed to run out three of the guns and fire them. The sound left Mungo’s ears ringing, but he could still hear the carnage they wreaked as the heavy balls crushed the hardened ribs of the Fantome. They sheared away swaths of her hull and mangled the sailors that stood in their way. As he listened to the screams, the thought crossed Mungo’s mind that Sterling was insane, that the sloop would surely return fire and sink them in three hundred fathoms of water.

  As the echo of the cannons died away, his fears were realised. The Fantome ran out her guns. Fairchild and Mungo both paused their battle and turned to watch. Light flashed; thunder rolled. Instinctively, every man on deck crouched low, though the Blackhawk’s thin bulwarks would be no protection.

  But the balls did not strike the hull. The Fantome could not risk hitting her own men on the Blackhawk’s deck, and her commander would not endanger the slaves below. Instead he aimed high, at the clipper’s rigging and masts. A few of the balls caught lines and tackle, but most sailed harmlessly overhead.

  By then, Tippoo had driven his crews to reload their own cannon. The Blackhawk fired another salvo, and Tippoo had aimed miraculously true. The balls smashed into the sloop’s hull, right on the waterline.

  Mungo had no time to admire it. For Fairchild, the sight of his beloved ship being torn apart redoubled his anger. His blade swiped through the air, nicking Mungo’s forearm.

  ‘You’ll not survive this!’ cried Fairchild. He had lost his hat; his fair hair blew wild in the wind. ‘You will die on the gallows!’

  Mungo leaped to the side, lunged forward and stabbed with his knife, missing the lieutenant’s hip. He saw the wrath in Fairchild’s eyes and the power of his hatred in every thrust and swipe of his sword. The two of them traded blow for blow, their feet dancing and their bodies ducking to evade the other’s strikes. Although Mungo’s blade was shorter, his reflexes were faster than Fairchild’s, and his instincts levelled the field.

  Suddenly Mungo heard the crackle of canvas above them. Sterling had managed to get men aloft and unfurl the sails. He felt the ship heel over to port and gather speed as she caught the wind. The British sailors still alive on the Blackhawk roared their frustration, and Lieutenant Fairchild put all of his strength into a retaliatory slash that might have cut Mungo in two had he not anticipated the move. Instead, the sword took a deep bite out of the starboard railing as Mungo twisted aside.

  All Mungo had was his Bowie knife. The smaller blade was no match for the reach of Fairchild’s sword, but if he could find the right angle, its manoeuvrability might yet prove an advantage. Fairchild was determined not to give it to him. Mungo dodged a thrust that speared the air beside the ratlines, evaded a swipe that parted one of the braces securing the royals on the foremast. As the ship ploughed through a swell, throwing Fairchild off balance, Mungo took hold of a loose halyard and swung himself over the railing. The lieutenant pursued him furiously, stabbing at the ratlines, but by then Mungo was back on the deck on the far side, and Fairchild had to change direction again.

  Mungo realised Fairchild was the last British officer still present on the deck. All of the others had been cut down or chased overboard. Behind Fairchild, the Blackhawk’s crew had gathered around Tippoo, their rifles levelled at the lieutenant’s back.

  ‘Should we shoot him?’ asked Tippoo. ‘Or will you finish it?’

  Fairchild heard the threat. Keeping Mungo at bay with the cutlass, he edged around to see what was happening. When he saw that he was the only Englishman left alive on deck, with his ship foundering and receding in the background, he gave a strangled howl of rage.

  ‘We are not in the Cambridge Union any more,’ said Mungo softly. ‘I do not think you will carry the vote with these men.’

  In reply, Fairchild swung his sword at Mungo. It was a clumsy stroke, born of impotence and desperation. Mungo dodged it easily. That got him inside Fairchild’s guard and gave him the opening he needed. With his Bowie knife, he lashed out at Fairchild’s sword arm, cutting his biceps to the bone. He drove his fist into Fairchild’s solar plexus and heard the wind explode from his lungs.

  Fairchild dropped his blade and doubled over, clutching his bleeding arm. Mungo stood over him.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ Fairchild demanded. ‘Finish this now. Your soul is already condemned.’

  Mungo laughed softly. ‘No doubt you would die with the satisfaction of knowing that everything you think me is true. But we are not animals. We will put you ashore somewhere near the trade routes.’

  He saw the anguish on Fairchild’s bloodied face: a mix of gratitude for his life, and loathing at the thought of owing it to Mungo. But before Fairchild could decide which would win out, another voice spoke up.

  ‘No.’ Lanahan strode forward from the knot of sailors. ‘Do you really suggest we should leave a witness alive? What if he testifies against us?’

  ‘He’ll testify that his captain attempted to impound our ship illegally, and we resisted in accordance with our rights,’ Mungo answered.

  ‘In accordance with our rights?’ Lanahan echoed. ‘This Johnny would say anything he could to send us to the gallows.’ He turned to Sterling. ‘Surely you won’t tolerate this nonsense?’

  Fairchild struggled to his feet. He had managed to tug up his shirtsleeve one-handed and bunch it over the wound, but the fabric was already so soaked through that blood oozed out of it. His face was white. Astern, the Fantome was already nearly a quarter of a mile away and listing badly to port, the water around her surrounded with debris and all of her boats deployed.

  Fairchild spat on the deck and looked around at Sterling and Mungo and the rest of the Blackhawk’s crew.

  ‘This is the Devil’s ship,’ he said, ‘and all of you are cursed men. As God is my witness, I will make you pay for what you have done. Or you can slay me where I stand and perfect your crime.’

  ‘That sounds like a fine idea,’ said Lanahan.

  ‘It would make a martyr of him,’ Mungo countered.

  Lanahan’s eyes narrowed. ‘What made you so soft on him? Man might almost get to thinking you had something in common. Man might wonder about Mr Thomas Sinclair, who comes aboard this ship, no one knows where from, and so partial to niggers and Navy men.’

  ‘I work for the owners of this ship,’ said Mungo.

  All eyes turned to Sterling. The captain said nothing. He took the pistol from his belt and rammed home a small bullet from his ammunition pouch. Very precisely, he fitted a new percussion cap and thumbed back the hammer. When that was done to his satisfaction, he held it out to Mungo.

  ‘Mr Lanahan has made certain allegations about your loyalties.’ He spoke in his usual drawl, but there was a black light in his eyes. ‘I would be obliged if you would prove him wrong.’

  Mungo stared at the pistol. It seemed to hang in the space between him and Sterling like the sword of Damocles. He had lost count of the laws he had broken since he walked out of the prison in Richmond: jumping bail, duelling, slaving, resisting arrest. None of it troubled him overly much. He had done what he had to do.

  But to kill a British officer in cold blood was something different. A line would be crossed; he would be marked forever. Nor was this some anonymous victim he could easily forget. For three years at Cambridge, he and Fairchild had argued and sparred and studied together. They had never been friends, but they had enjoyed a certain familiarity. Now Fairchild was the last vestige of that more innocent world.

  Mungo took the pistol from Sterling, turned and levell
ed it at Fairchild’s breast. Fairchild nodded grimly, as if it was no more than he had expected.

  ‘If I lose my life, so be it. It is for a higher cause. But you will forfeit something far more precious.’

  His blue eyes fixed on Mungo’s face, no hint of fear but only defiant resolve.

  ‘You are better than this,’ Fairchild said softly. ‘I know there is good in your heart, if you would only uncage it.’

  Mungo pulled the trigger.

  The ship shuddered. The crew, unprepared for the impact, were thrown to the deck. Mungo himself barely kept his footing. He stumbled through the cloud of white smoke that the pistol had left behind and came up hard against the ship’s gunwale. He looked out.

  The echo of gunfire rumbled across the water. As the air cleared, Mungo saw what had happened. The Blackhawk’s helmsman had let her bow drift around a little, giving the Fantome a view of her side. The Fantome’s captain had accepted the invitation and got off one last desperate broadside to try and keep the Blackhawk from escaping. He would have aimed for the rigging, but the Blackhawk was too far away. The balls arced down through the air and hit the clipper low in the water, punching holes deep in her hull. Not enough to stop her, Mungo thought, but enough to cause chaos. Sterling stood on deck bellowing orders, sending men below to work the pumps and patch the holes. Others raced aloft to trim the sails, in case the pressure on the hull ruptured the ship more grievously.

  In all the confusion, Fairchild stood exactly where he had before – still bleeding from the cut on his arm, but otherwise unhurt. Mungo’s shot had gone wide.

  Mungo was not the only one who had noticed Fairchild. Lanahan had seen him too. With a snarl of anger, the first mate charged across the deck to finish Fairchild with his cutlass.

  Before Lanahan could reach them, Mungo wrapped his arms around Fairchild’s chest and hoisted him off the planking. Holding the lieutenant like a disobedient child, Mungo carried him bodily across the deck to the side of the ship.

  ‘Put him down!’ Lanahan shouted behind him. ‘Put him down or I will run you both through!’