Call of the Raven

by Wilbur Smith

‘On what evidence?’ Sterling asked.

  Lanahan laid it out. ‘A fortnight ago, Seaman Keller informed me that Mr Sinclair had substituted himself for Mr Keller in the middle watch. I made inquiries among the crew and learned that other substitutions had been made, always to place the second mate with the master gunner in the middle watch. I suspected something untoward and investigated the matter, enlisting the help of the Viscount da Cruz. On four occasions, I observed the spar deck under the cover of darkness and witnessed Mr Tippoo alone at the helm, the second mate gone from his post. It was not until tonight, however, that I confirmed my suspicions. Mr Sinclair has been carrying on a clandestine affair with the Lady Isabel. The viscount heard the sounds of their congress with his own ears, and I was on deck when the second mate scaled the line he used to reach her stateroom.’

  Captain Sterling turned to Afonso. ‘Can you corroborate this?’

  The viscount nodded. ‘Sinclair is a snake. He preyed upon the frailties of my sister and brought dishonour upon my house.’

  Isabel pushed Afonso’s hand off her shoulder and stood up.

  ‘You may question my judgement, brother, but do not dare accuse me of frailty. Mr Sinclair did nothing to seduce me. He has proven himself a gentleman in all our engagements.’

  ‘Your mind was not your own. You allowed your feelings to overcome your judgement.’

  ‘I never let my feelings interfere with my judgement.’

  Sterling held up his hand. ‘As master of this ship, my concern is not the lady’s choice of companionship, only the discipline of my crew. Mr Sinclair, what have you to say for yourself?’

  Mungo considered it. Sterling was not a man to be swayed by protestations of innocence or pleas for mercy, and Mungo was not the man to give them.

  ‘I make no excuses.’

  Sterling nodded. ‘Then your punishment is decided. Forty lashes, and demotion to the rank of able seaman. For Tippoo, twenty lashes. To preserve the lady’s good name, the charge will be falling asleep on watch.’

  ‘Is that all?’ Afonso was livid. ‘My family’s honour has been mortally insulted. The sins these men have committed are unpardonable. The penalty should be death.’

  ‘This is my ship, and my authority is absolute,’ said Sterling coldly. He glanced at Isabel. ‘Since the lady has admitted she encouraged her affair with Mr Sinclair, the charge of assaulting a passenger is baseless. These men are being punished solely for putting my ship at risk.’

  That only made Afonso angrier. ‘My family are investors in this vessel. If you will not punish these men, I will take the matter up with my father. He will never do business with you again.’

  ‘And will you tell our father exactly what Mr Sinclair did that disgraced me?’ said Isabel. Her voice was quite calm, but again Mungo saw the gleam of mischief in her eye. ‘You were supposed to be protecting me. You will not go unpunished, if it becomes known that his daughter’s honour is not so intact as he thought.’

  For a moment, Afonso stared at her in disbelief. Then his jaw tightened.

  ‘I cannot accept this,’ he told Sinclair. ‘At sea I may be required to submit to your judgement, but on land you have no authority. I challenge Mr Sinclair to a duel.’

  His words hung in the cabin air. Sterling looked at Mungo.

  ‘What do you say, Mr Sinclair?’

  ‘I would like to know what the lady in question thinks of all these attempts to claim her honour,’ said Mungo.

  All eyes turned to Isabel. Faced with a battle between her brother and her lover, with her reputation at stake, she might have been expected to burst into tears or plead for peace. But whatever was in her heart, her almond eyes gave nothing away.

  ‘I do not need any man to protect my honour,’ she said. ‘But if you must prove your manhood with violence, do as you will.’

  Mungo looked at Afonso, the supercilious stare and smirking contempt.

  ‘Then I accept the challenge.’

  The capital of Prince’s Island was Santo António, a small town that supported a remarkable number of lavish mansions. Small boats crowded its harbour, just big enough – Mungo supposed – to make the short journey to the African mainland, and navigate the tangled river deltas beyond reach of the British slavery patrols.

  A discreet distance away from the town lay a secluded cove, a crescent of pale white sand fronting a teardrop-shaped inlet of water fringed by coffee plantations. It was here, two mornings after the Blackhawk’s arrival on the island, that the ship’s longboat rowed ashore carrying Mungo St John, Sterling, Tippoo, Lanahan and the ship’s surgeon.

  The negotiation over terms had been brief. In a meeting in Sterling’s cabin, the seconds – Lanahan for Afonso and Tippoo for Mungo – had had no difficulty agreeing on the weapons.

  ‘Swords,’ Tippoo announced.

  As the man who had received the challenge, that was Mungo’s decision, but it was clearly not what Lanahan had expected. He had assumed Mungo would rather take his chances with a bullet than match blades with an accomplished swordsman like Afonso. He did not know that Mungo had practised fencing since his earliest days at Eton. He preferred the French-made foil, or fleuret, for its light weight and perfect balance, but he and his friends had experimented with everything from the heavier military sabres to the punchier ‘court swords’ that inspired the naval cutlass.

  The choice pleased Sterling too, who had not hidden his distaste for the match. Honour could be served with less injury than if pistols were involved.

  ‘The winner will be declared at the sight of first blood,’ he proposed.

  ‘The Viscount da Cruz has no interest in a symbolic victory,’ said Lanahan pompously. He had leaped at the opportunity to serve as Afonso’s second and ingratiate himself with the viscount further. ‘We will fight until one man pleads for mercy, or suffers a wound so serious he cannot continue.’ A sneer at Tippoo. ‘If Mr Sinclair is willing to risk that.’

  Tippoo had bared his teeth. ‘No problem for him.’

  Now Mungo stood on the beach on Prince’s Island. He was dressed as he would be for deck duty, the sleeves of his shirt unbuttoned at the cuff and folded back, the legs of his trousers rolled up to his calves, and his feet bare. He tested the balance of the blade Sterling had provided. It was made for duelling, with a long, thin blade sharpened on both sides, and a wide hand guard that protected fingers as well as wrists.

  Across the coffee fields, Mungo heard the distant chime of a church bell striking eight. At that exact moment, a small procession appeared down the track that led from the town. Afonso rode in the lead dressed in a scarlet frock coat, riding boots and a thin silk shirt, and riding on a black horse. Half a dozen soldiers accompanied him and, behind them, four glossy-skinned slaves carried a brocaded sedan chair. There, perfectly poised despite the swaying of the chair, sat Isabel.

  Mungo had not spoken to her since their affair had been discovered. Afonso had all but imprisoned her in her stateroom, and Mungo had been confined below decks. Now their eyes met across the beach.

  ‘You should not have come,’ said Mungo. ‘It may cause you distress.’

  Isabel looked at her brother. He had dismounted, and taken up his sword. The blade hummed as he made sharp, practised strokes through the air.

  ‘Your distress may be the greater,’ Isabel said.

  The slaves placed her chair in the shade of a palm tree. The seconds and the surgeon joined her, while the soldiers lined up a little distance away. Isabel lifted a gloved hand and touched the soft spot at the base of her neck, then allowed her fingers to fall between her breasts. Mungo smiled, then focused on his opponent, ten feet away across the sand. Afonso had removed his coat. His shirt flapped in the breeze off the ocean, his white trousers and polished black boots gleaming in the morning sunlight.

  Captain Sterling stood between them, his face hard. He checked that both participants were ready, then raised a handkerchief.

  ‘You may as well get on with it.’

  He ste
pped back, letting the handkerchief fall onto the sand. Mungo held out the shining blade, pointing the tip at the middle button on the viscount’s chest.

  ‘I have no wish to do you harm,’ he called. ‘But if you insist on pressing this matter between us, then be warned. I will give you no quarter.’

  Afonso’s eyes darkened. ‘I will soak the ground with your blood.’

  ‘So be it,’ Mungo replied. ‘En garde!’

  The viscount put his free hand behind his back and bent his knees in preparation. Mungo did the same. They began to circle each other, their blades aglow in the slanting light, sizing each other up. Mungo saw a glimmer of surprise in Afonso’s eyes as he registered Mungo’s precise, well-honed movements. He had expected a clumsy sailor waving his weapon like a belaying pin.

  The strike came with a speed that nearly caught Mungo off guard. He was saved by his instinct and parried the blow downwards, then lunged into the gap, stabbing towards the viscount’s shoulder. Afonso twisted away and lashed out with a backhanded slash that came so close to Mungo’s ear that he heard the song of the blade as it passed by. Mungo danced to the side and aimed another powerful thrust at the viscount’s shoulder. Afonso jumped backwards and the blow fell short, then he leaped forward with a thrust of his own, which Mungo parried.

  Since there was no time limit on the contest, the only constraints they faced were strength, stamina and courage. Mungo waited, conserving his energy. He backed off so that Afonso had to come at him, swaying out of the way of the attacks without reply. The strategy drove Afonso into a greater rage. He had expected a quick and easy victory, almost by right. Mungo’s ability to prolong the fight insulted his superiority.

  Afonso became careless. He slashed and cut and thrust and swung with such force that his face turned red. Mungo danced across the sand on the balls of his feet, waiting for the opening he knew was coming.

  Afonso dropped the tip of his sword slightly as his wrist tired, and Mungo pounced, lashing out with a straight thrust that caught his opponent on the cheek and left a trail of bright blood. Afonso cursed and felt the wound with his free hand, staring at his scarlet fingertips in disbelief.

  ‘You little cockroach,’ he said, rending the air where Mungo had just been with a vicious diagonal cut. ‘Stop prancing around and fight like a man.’

  ‘Like this?’

  Mungo skipped forward, thrusting towards Afonso’s face and drawing his opponent’s sword arm higher. Without warning, Mungo dropped to his knees and whipped his blade underneath the viscount’s, gouging the nobleman’s side. Afonso cried out, clutching at the wound, and Mungo struck again, stabbing the viscount’s shoulder.

  In any other sword fight, these would have been disabling injuries. But Afonso da Cruz reacted like a man possessed. As his sword arm went limp, he grabbed the weapon with his free hand and lunged towards Mungo. Mungo jumped back a split second before the blade would have sliced through his cheek. The viscount’s handsome face was a mask of pain, but he did not relent. He came at Mungo with renewed vigour, cutting and lunging with a power that seemed supernatural.

  He put all his weight into a sweeping horizontal cut, as if aiming to sever Mungo’s trunk from his legs. Mungo stepped back quickly, but his foot caught on a piece of driftwood buried just under the surface of the sand and he stumbled. As he threw out his arms for balance, he loosened his grip on the sword. Afonso caught the blade in the midst of its stroke and knocked it out of Mungo’s hand. It cartwheeled through the air and landed at the water’s edge.

  The loss of the weapon stunned Mungo. Years had passed since he’d let go of a sword in the midst of a bout. Afonso took full advantage. He planted his feet and turned his blade into a spear, driving the point towards Mungo’s heart.

  Mungo threw himself on the ground, knocking the wind from his lungs and eating a mouthful of sand. The lethal thrust whistled over his head, missing his scalp by less than an inch. As Afonso gathered himself for another strike, Mungo scrambled away and launched himself towards his fallen sword. He landed in a flail of limbs, but his fingers clutched the handle as the viscount brought his blade down in a stabbing slash. Mungo twisted his blade to deflect the blow, used the strength of his wrist to whip his sword towards Afonso’s face, hoping to drive his opponent back and give himself time to get to his feet. He was shocked when a geyser of blood exploded from Afonso’s nose. The tip of his sword had sliced through skin and cartilage and exposed a strip of white bone.

  Afonso howled and leaped backwards, nearly tripping over his own feet. Blood drenched his beard, dripping from his chin, and he struggled to staunch the flow with the lapel of his coat.

  ‘Halt!’ cried Sterling. ‘That is enough!’

  Afonso ignored him. Snarling and dripping blood, he shook off the pain and came at Mungo again.

  Had he been in his right mind, he would never have thrown such a wild backhanded cut at Mungo’s face. The momentum of the move left his upper body wide open to a counterstroke. Mungo took his chance without thinking, so fast that Afonso did not even see it happen. The first he knew of it was when he looked down at his stomach, and saw Mungo’s blade sticking through it almost to its hilt.

  Afonso’s fingers lost their grip on his sword. He watched as Mungo placed his hand on his chest and withdrew the blade. The world became a blur; he collapsed into the sand.

  The surgeon rushed to Afonso’s side. He tried to staunch the wounds, but the blood flowed like a flood tide. He felt for the pulse, then shook his head grimly.

  ‘He will not survive.’

  Mungo stepped back and put up his sword, breathing hard. His shirt was drenched with sweat and spattered with Afonso’s blood. He glanced at Isabel. She had not moved through the entire fight; even now, with her brother bleeding out his life into the sand, she did not go to him. Her almond eyes were impassive and unreadable.

  Mungo turned to Lanahan. ‘I assume, as the viscount is unable to speak for himself, that he yields?’

  A low growl escaped Lanahan’s throat. He looked as if he would have liked to carry on the fight himself, if the rules had allowed it. He could not make himself say the words.

  ‘Enough!’ snapped Sterling. ‘This is finished. It is time for us to depart.’

  The soldiers who had been watching the spectacle were racing across the sand, weapons drawn. Mungo planted his feet and raised his blade, but Sterling grabbed his arm and tugged him away.

  ‘We are on the sovereign territory of Portugal, and the governor – if you have forgotten it – is the father of the man you have just killed.’

  He pulled Mungo down the beach to where the longboat bobbed in the surf. The crew, alert to trouble, were already on their oars and pulling away. Mungo had to wade deep into the water to catch them up. Exhausted from the fight, he might not have managed to haul himself in, but a mighty heave from Tippoo behind lifted him over the gunwale and into the boat. Tippoo followed. As soon as all the Blackhawk’s men were in, the boat leaped away.

  Mungo looked back. The soldiers had lined up on the water’s edge, but they only carried pistols. The few shots they attempted fell well short of the longboat. Further up the beach, the slaves were wrapping Afonso’s body in a sheet.

  Beyond them all stood Isabel. She had risen from her chair and was staring out after the longboat. Her loose hair blew freely in the breeze; the palm fronds sent rippling shadows over her face. It was impossible to tell what she was thinking.

  Mungo turned away and tried to put her out of his thoughts. So much had passed between them – she had aroused feelings inside him that he hardly dared to admit. Now, in all likelihood, he would never see her again.

  That was for the best, he told himself. He could not let anything dull his thirst for revenge.

  The burning felt like hot ash on Camilla’s skin, yet its heat came from inside her body as if someone had set fire to the air in her lungs. She heard herself panting, desperate to slake her thirst, but water was nowhere to be found. Around her was grey ligh
t and dark shadow. She heard what sounded like human voices, an old woman and then a young man. They seemed familiar, but she couldn’t place them. Her mouth opened and she tried to speak, but the words were trapped within her. Over and over, she tried to say them, but they were stuck. At last, the resistance gave way and the words tumbled out. She heard them but could not fathom their meaning.

  She awoke with a cry, in her bed at Bannerfield. All was dark. A dull pain still throbbed deep between her thighs from Chester’s visit before bedtime. She glanced out of the window at the night and tried to recollect the words from the dream.

  Beware the black heart, and the thirst that never quenches.

  They were the words Methuselah had spoken to Mungo in the observatory. She wondered again what they meant. She had known since childhood that Methuselah had the power of second sight – all the slaves knew it. Perhaps she had inherited some of his gift.

  The dream made her think of Mungo. Not a day had passed since she left Windemere that he hadn’t been in her thoughts. He had been in her life since the day she was born – two years older and always ahead of her. As a baby, she had crawled after him while he toddled around the house. As a little girl, she had watched him climb trees and swim in the river, and thought she would never be so tall or so strong. In those days, she was so young she did not even realise what it meant to be a slave. She thought of him like a brother. They roamed all over the estate together, as inseparable as twins. Often, they stripped naked and swam across the creek to the island where Mungo’s grandfather had built his observatory. Benjamin St John was in ill health by then and seldom went there. They turned it into their secret castle, gathering nuts and berries for supplies, and fending off imaginary invaders with sticks.

  Later, she would marvel that she had been allowed to be so close with Mungo. When she was older, she would wonder if Oliver St John had permitted it simply because it flattered his illusions of himself, proof that he meant what he said when he claimed to treat his slaves like family. Maybe even a way of flaunting his liberal credentials to his scandalised neighbours.