by Wilbur Smith
‘We had an encounter with her off the African coast,’ he said stiffly.
‘What sort of encounter?’
Montgomery hesitated, seemingly at a loss for words. Eventually, he said, ‘She gave us a shot across the bows, and forced us to heave to so her captain could check our papers. He was an arrogant bastard, but we saw him off in short order. We sail under the Stars and Stripes. We know our sovereign rights.’
Mungo considered the information. There were only two reasons a British man-of-war would fire upon a merchant ship at sea. The Fantome’s captain must have believed that the Blackhawk was either a pirate, or a slaver.
As Mungo knew well from the debates at Cambridge, the British had adopted an unyielding stance towards the African slave trade. The government in London had negotiated treaties with the Netherlands, Portugal, Spain and France to permit the Royal Navy to search any vessel flying under those flags and to arrest any crew trading in human beings. Only the American government had not surrendered its rights to Britain. The Royal Navy was permitted to board a vessel to establish her identity, but if she proved to be American they could not venture below decks to explore her holds. Only an American naval vessel could do that – and though the slave trade had been illegal in America since 1808, her navy had little interest in enforcing the law so far from her own shores.
But what might the Fantome’s captain have found if he had been allowed into the Blackhawk’s holds?
Lanahan returned from his trip ashore with news.
‘Looks like I’ll be dining tomorrow night at the governor’s mansion,’ he bragged. ‘It’s the Mariners’ Ball. The officers from all the ships in port are invited.’ His mood soured as he caught sight of Mungo. ‘That includes you.’
Mungo was sitting on the hatch cover playing cribbage with Tippoo. If he had not been looking at the gunner, he would never have noticed the intense look of longing that flitted across the giant’s hairless face. He looked so morose Mungo almost laughed. Yet the gunner seemed genuinely sad.
‘What about Tippoo?’ Mungo asked.
‘Gunner’s not an officer. He’s not invited.’
Tippoo pegged out his score on the cribbage board and said nothing. But Mungo could see an unaccustomed tension in him.
‘He can have my place,’ said Mungo spontaneously. ‘The governor doesn’t need to know he’s not an officer.’
‘That is not your decision.’ Lanahan’s face twitched with temper. ‘I am your superior – I say you go, and he stays.’
Mungo put down his cards. ‘Then I will take up the matter with the captain.’
But when Mungo found Sterling in his cabin, and explained the situation, Sterling dismissed it as brusquely as Lanahan had.
‘Tippoo stays here.’
‘He saved my life when I was up the mast,’ Mungo reminded him. ‘I would like to discharge the debt.’
‘It’s impossible.’
‘Why?’
Sterling rounded on him. ‘Because the governor doesn’t allow slaves at his banquets.’
Mungo stared. For once, he was at a loss for words.
‘I did not know.’
‘Because it’s none of your goddamn business,’ said Sterling. ‘Anyhow, on board ship it makes no difference. When a dog’s so tame, there’s no call for a leash.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Mungo could see Sterling did not want to discuss it any more – but there was one question he was still curious about. ‘How did you come to acquire him?’
‘I won him in a card game,’ said Sterling. ‘In Zanzibar. Now, if you have nothing better to do, perhaps you could return to your duties.’
The following evening, the Blackhawk’s cutter took the officers ashore for the ball. Sterling, Mungo and Lanahan sat in the stern, dressed in stiff coats and pressed shirts. Sterling was, as usual, resplendent in a plum-coloured coat with gold embroidery, and a shirt that was almost invisible under clouds of lace. Lanahan, by contrast, was dressed all in black like a third-rate insurance clerk. Mungo, who had left all his fine clothes back in Baltimore, had had to borrow a coat from the surgeon.
The boat nudged against the wharf. Sterling and Lanahan got out. Mungo rose to follow, then suddenly swore.
‘I left my cravat aboard ship. I’ll go back and get it and join you at the ball.’
Sterling gave him a sharp look; Lanahan muttered something about poor breeding. But neither man wanted to wait.
‘We will see you there,’ said Sterling.
As soon as Mungo returned to the Blackhawk, he went to Tippoo’s cabin.
‘Get dressed,’ he told the gunner. ‘You are coming to the ball.’
Tippoo’s ugly face screwed up in astonishment. ‘Captain changed his mind?’
Mungo grinned. ‘No. But once you are there, he cannot very well start a fight in front of the governor.’
Tippoo stared at him, a torrent of emotions going through his head. Then he tipped back his head and laughed.
‘He will throw you off the ship.’
Mungo shrugged. ‘Rum, dancing, whores, you said. At least I’ll have company.’
The governor’s mansion was constructed on a hilltop, in the style of a Portuguese villa. Its coral-coloured walls rose to a roof of terracotta tile, with wrought-iron terraces draped with bougainvillea. Its elegant archways and spacious passages were arranged to channel the wind blowing off the sea into a broad cobblestone courtyard at its centre. Here, the guests congregated, silver goblets of Cava in hand, listening to the strains of a fado guitar and awaiting the governor’s appearance. Although it was only two weeks before Christmas, the early evening was as warm and dry as September in Virginia, scented with jasmine and brine.
Mungo and Tippoo stood by the fountain at the centre of the courtyard. Tippoo looked as disconsolate as Mungo had ever seen him, squeezed into a frock coat that pinched his shoulders, and trousers that almost split across his thighs. The sailmaker had done what he could to run up a suit with a bolt of cloth he had brought from England to trade on his own account – but even his best efforts could barely accommodate Tippoo’s enormous frame.
‘I should not have come,’ said Tippoo.
‘Are you worried about Sterling?’
Mungo had not seen the captain yet, but it was only a matter of time. In such a refined gathering, Tippoo stood out like a whale in a school of fish.
‘Not the captain.’ Tippoo gestured to the Portuguese ladies making their entrances in swirls of taffeta and lace. ‘Them. How can I talk with them when they see only my size and the colour of my skin?’
‘Nonsense. Half of them are darker than you are.’
Unlike the milk-complexioned maidens of England and America, the guests at the ball had skin like polished gold, with dark eyes and long tresses that had the sheen of exotic wood. Like tropical birds, they were robed in pinks and yellows, oranges and reds, their gowns as striking as the feathers they wore in their hair. Their eyes roamed as they mingled with the men, and many of them paused a moment longer when they saw Mungo and Tippoo.
‘Besides,’ added Mungo, ‘I’ve seen Dahomey slaves as black as coal, and Virginia swells with skin like the driven snow. The colour never told me a damn thing about the man inside.’
His words had a curious effect on Tippoo – but Mungo didn’t notice. His attention was on a young woman who had just entered the courtyard. Even among the dazzling company, she stood out from the rest. She was as tall as many of the men, though she moved with a feline grace that made every other woman in the room seem clumsy by comparison. Her almond-shaped eyes were radiant, but the look they carried was neither innocent nor naive, despite her youth. Mungo guessed her to be nineteen or twenty. Every man present could feel the energy radiating from her.
Including Captain Sterling. He had just stepped out of a doorway holding a glass of wine, and though he was entranced by the young woman he was not so blinded that he missed Tippoo standing head and shoulders above the crowd. He pushed his way through the throng, his
face hot with rage.
‘Let me.’ Mungo left Tippoo by the fountain and went to meet his captain.
‘What the hell is he doing here?’ hissed Sterling. His eyes glimmered with rage. ‘I will throw you off my ship for insubordination. You will work your passage home gutting sardines on a Portuguese fishing smack.’
‘Aye, sir. But if I go, Tippoo comes with me. And I’ve a notion you don’t want to be without your strongest crewman approaching the coast of Africa.’
‘Are you threatening to steal my property?’ The scar on Sterling’s cheek throbbed with anger. ‘I told you, Tippoo belongs to me.’
‘I would keep your voice down,’ Mungo warned him.
‘Do not presume to tell me—’
‘There is no slavery on Madeira,’ Mungo went on, as if Sterling had not spoken. ‘The Portuguese outlawed it more than fifty years ago. The moment Tippoo stepped ashore he became a free man.’
Sterling went silent.
‘Shall I tell Tippoo his good fortune?’ said Mungo. ‘Or shall we keep this between ourselves and allow him an evening of pleasure? The moment he returns to the ship, he becomes your property again.’
Sterling’s eye twitched. His finger clawed at the fabric of his collar.
‘If you’re so sweet on Tippoo’s freedom, why don’t you tell him?’
Mungo shrugged. ‘I respect a man’s property. But I also respect a man’s right to his pleasures – and I owed Tippoo a debt.’
Sterling raised his glass and knocked it back in a mouthful. The red wine left a stain around his mouth, which he wiped away with his sleeve. He wanted to say something, but each time he opened his mouth the speech would not come.
At last, without another word, he spun on his heel and stalked away through the crowd. Mungo turned his attention back to the woman with almond eyes he had seen before. She captivated him, in a way that could not be explained by mere beauty.
A feeling began to rise in him that he had only felt once before, the summer he left for Cambridge – the summer he had spent with Camilla. The feeling struck him now so unexpectedly it left him dizzy.
He shook his head, annoyed with himself. At Cambridge, he had never felt himself bound to be faithful to Camilla – they would be apart for years, and he was a young man with more-than-average appetites. Clarissa Manners, the girl whose irate brother had confronted him at the Union, had only been the last of many encounters he had enjoyed. He had felt nothing unusual for her, or any of the others, except the thrill of the chase and then the pleasure of their coupling. None of them had come near the place in his heart where he kept Camilla’s memory.
So why should this woman prick his conscience now – with nothing more than a look?
You cannot be unfaithful to Camilla where she is, he chided himself. And a little harmless flirtation meant nothing.
‘Do not get ideas above your station.’ Lanahan’s voice broke in. ‘She is the Lady Isabel Cardoso da Cruz. Her father is the governor of Prince’s Island.’
‘You know her?’ said Mungo.
‘She will be our passenger aboard the Blackhawk.’
Mungo tried not to look unduly interested in the news.
‘Whatever you are thinking, put it out of your head,’ Lanahan warned. ‘We are also taking her brother, Afonso. He has already killed three men in defence of his sister’s honour.’
‘Where is he?’
Lanahan gestured towards a young man as tall as Mungo, with the broad shoulders of a wrestler and the upturned nose of an aristocrat. He caught Mungo looking at him; for a moment, their eyes locked. Afonso’s gaze was cruel and condescending, filled with pride and jealousy. He stared Mungo down, waiting for the American to look away. Mungo did not oblige. He held the gaze, returning Afonso’s contempt with an easy smile that made it clear he was in no rush to look away.
Afonso tossed his head. Then, very deliberately, he turned his back on Mungo.
‘Stay away from him,’ said Lanahan. ‘He is a better man than you.’
But Mungo was already in motion. He walked across the cobblestones to where the Lady Isabel stood gossiping with a group of female companions, gave her a smile and bowed.
‘My lady, I am Thomas Sinclair. It is a great pleasure to make your acquaintance.’
He held her gaze, ignoring the giggles of her friends and the look of jealousy from Lanahan a few feet away. Isabel glanced instinctively at Afonso. Mungo couldn’t see him, but he could feel the heat of the brother’s look on his back.
‘Mr Sinclair,’ Isabel said. ‘Do you speak any language other than English? I find it a most barbaric tongue.’
‘Je parle français un peu,’ Mungo replied.
He had learned the language at his father’s insistence, on summer trips to Paris and Provence. Isabel laughed, but she couldn’t hide the hint of blush that tinted the skin at the base of her neck.
‘You are much better than you think,’ she replied, speaking fluently. ‘There are times I prefer French even to Portuguese, but please don’t tell my brother.’
Mungo’s French accent was stilted, but he was good enough to make himself understood.
‘Your secret is mine, my lady.’
The music from the guitar had stopped. A servant was talking, summoning the guests, but Mungo hardly heard. All his attention was on Isabel. When she smiled, it was as if she had suddenly thrown open the shade of a lantern and revealed a bright burning fire inside. Her skin shone, her red lips glistened and the tops of her breasts swelled from the neck of her gown. Mungo drank in the sight.
Then his view was blocked as Afonso stepped in his path. Afonso held out his hand to Isabel. She looked at it coolly but did not take it.
‘What is it, brother?’
‘We are summoned for the first dance.’
He took her wrist and led her firmly away. Mungo considered stepping in, but thought better of it. If they were to be shipmates for the next few weeks, there would be other chances to continue their conversation.
The crowd sorted itself into pairs with bows and curtsies. The captains each took the hand of a Portuguese lady, guiding them through the entrance to the ballroom, while the officers competed for those ladies still unattached. Mungo picked out one, an auburn-haired girl in a gown of bright yellow silk who had somehow been left without a partner. For an instant, her gaze travelled to Mungo and she smiled at him.
Before he could approach, however, Lanahan bumped into him. He lowered his voice.
‘Don’t think for a moment that your interest in the Lady Isabel has gone unnoticed. I have spies everywhere on the ship. If you attempt anything improper, I will be the first to have you under the cat.’
‘What makes you think . . . ?’
But Lanahan was already stepping away and introducing himself to the girl Mungo had intended to partner. Her eyes fluttered between them, lingering on Mungo. He declined to intervene, offering her no path of courteous retreat from the first mate’s invitation. She wrinkled her nose and accepted Lanahan’s hand, proceeding with him to the dance floor in a sweep of yellow silk.
Mungo found Tippoo, who was standing on the fringes of the courtyard, aloof from the swirling crowd.
‘What did the captain say?’ the gunner asked.
‘He sends his compliments and hopes you enjoy the evening,’ said Mungo. ‘Are you going to dance?’
Tippoo shook his head. ‘Who would dance with me?’
Mungo laughed. ‘I guarantee you, every woman in this room would jump at the chance. They are all looking at you from behind their fans, wondering if what you have in your trousers is as big as the rest of you. Also, they are not exactly spoiled for choice. Even Lanahan has found himself a partner.’ Mungo took a breath. ‘Assuming you can dance?’
The giant’s head bobbed above his trunk-like neck. ‘I can dance.’
Mungo understood. It was not the dancing that had unmanned Tippoo; it was the prospect of asking a well-bred woman to partner him.
‘Come
with me,’ Mungo said.
They moved through the dancers in the ballroom. Mungo saw Lanahan dancing with the girl in the yellow dress. Mungo walked over and stood to the side, trading looks with the girl, who smiled at him in relief. Lanahan tried to lead her away, but suddenly the music stopped.
As the band prepared a new piece, Mungo stepped forward and held out his hand, pretending not to notice Lanahan.
‘May I?’
‘Yes, of course,’ the girl replied. She curtsied to the first mate and sidled up to Mungo as the music resumed. ‘I am Catarina,’ she said, as they began to glide across the floor, their feet tracing out the dance.
‘I am delighted to make your acquaintance.’ Mungo leaned closer. ‘But I am not the one you want. I have a friend whose company will quicken the blood in your veins.’
The girl blinked in surprise, and she scanned the room.
‘You mean the yellow-skinned giant?’ she asked. ‘He looks as ungainly as an ox. I fear my toes would not survive an encounter with his boots.’
‘When the music is over, I am going to leave you,’ Mungo said, ‘and then you will be confronted with a choice – to submit to the attentions of Patrick Lanahan, or to give my friend a chance. I promise he will care for your toes, along with every other part of your body.’
Catarina’s shock nearly caused her to lose her footing, but she said, ‘What is your friend’s name?’
‘He is called Tippoo.’
Lanahan, who had been lurking nearby, tried to interrupt the discussion with an irritable ‘Excuse me!’ but Mungo shouldered him aside.
‘I was just introducing the Lady Catarina to Tippoo.’
By then Catarina’s hand was in Tippoo’s grasp, her fingers dwarfed by his own. Outmanoeuvred, Lanahan’s cheeks flamed as red as his hair.
‘What is he doing here?’
‘Sterling changed his mind,’ said Mungo. ‘Enjoy yourselves,’ he added to Tippoo and Catarina, appreciating the look of wonder in his friend’s eyes. ‘My lady, you could not be in better hands.’
He crossed the dance floor to where Isabel was dancing. She had shaken off her brother, and was now partnered with a grey-haired officer, the captain of the Fantome. Mungo kept to the edge of the room, striking up a conversation with the mate of one of the merchant ships while keeping his eyes on Isabel. When the song drew to a close, Mungo waited as the officer bowed and Isabel curtsied, then broke in.