Call of the Raven

by Wilbur Smith

  On the third afternoon, Granville came and took her outside. Chester met her in the garden, walking along the gravel path beside the ponds he had dug. She did not wait for him to speak.

  ‘I should go back to New Orleans,’ she said. ‘It’s crop time. You need your eyes and ears among the traders and the factors.’

  Chester eyed her as if she hadn’t spoken. He kept perfectly still – except for his head, which jerked back and forth like a cobra ready to strike.

  ‘Do you have any more to say about what happened the other night?’ he asked.

  ‘Isaac couldn’t sleep. I took him out to see the boat and the river.’

  ‘Isaac said you woke him.’

  ‘I heard him cry in his sleep.’

  ‘I was in the room next door and I heard nothing.’

  She shrugged. ‘Sometimes a mother’s ears are more sensitive.’

  Chester scowled. ‘Granville thinks there was a boat out on the water. He is convinced you were signalling to it.’

  ‘Granville sees dangers everywhere.’

  ‘Because that is what I pay him for!’ Chester kicked out in a sudden flash of fury. A spray of gravel flew off the path, over the wall and down into the pond. ‘I sent word to my agents in New Orleans. They say that the mysterious Mr Sinclair has not been seen there this past week.’

  ‘I would not know.’

  ‘Do not play the fool with me.’ His eyes drilled into her. ‘Has Mungo St John returned? Is he in New Orleans? Did you think you could bring him ashore to murder us all in our beds?’

  With each question his voice grew more hysterical. Specks of spittle flew out of his mouth. He was so frenzied, Camilla did not even dare to protest her innocence in case her denial provoked him more.

  ‘I will have the truth from you,’ he hissed.

  He grabbed her by the arms and shoved her onto the wall that lined the moat. On the elevated path the wall was only knee-high, but on its far side it dropped six feet or more straight down into the water. Chester held her down on the wall, forcing her head out over the edge. In the commotion, her bonnet came loose and dropped into the water.

  It barely made a ripple as it landed – but it did not go unnoticed. On the opposite side of the pond, three alligators moved off the shore where they had been sunning themselves and began swimming towards her.

  ‘You know what these creatures can do.’ Chester pushed her further out over the water. The alligators were almost halfway across. ‘I will let them have you. They will devour you, inch by inch, until I have the truth.’

  The monsters were coming closer, spiny backs surging through the water. Camilla wanted to scream, but that would do no good. What could she tell Chester? She could not admit that Mungo had been there. But nothing else would satisfy him.

  The alligators were nearly there. Chester rolled her over onto her stomach so she was face down, staring straight at them. One of the creatures, faster than the others, was upon her. It rose out of the water in a splash of spray, wide open jaws lunging for her. She saw black eyes, a gnarled face like tree roots, and more teeth than she had ever imagined.

  The jaws snapped shut – but they closed on thin air. At the last possible moment, Chester jerked Camilla back off the wall and threw her onto the path. The alligator, unable to scale the barrier, fell back in the water with an enormous splash while Camilla lay sobbing on the ground at Chester’s feet.

  ‘Maybe you are telling the truth,’ Chester conceded. He beckoned Granville over from where he had been loitering nearby. ‘Ready the coach. Camilla will be returning to New Orleans this evening.’

  Granville looked surprised, but he knew better than to question Chester in this mood.

  ‘Find out everything you can about this Thomas Sinclair.’ Chester was speaking to Camilla now, though he did not deign to look at her. ‘Let me know whatever you learn – and be sure I will hear of it if you lie to me.’

  He had finished with her. He walked on, his face calm again. Camilla fled gratefully, but Granville waited.

  ‘You trust that black bitch?’ said the overseer.

  Chester puffed on his cigar and smiled. ‘Of course not. But I can still use her to my advantage.’

  ‘Not if she betrays you.’

  ‘No,’ Chester agreed. ‘That is why you will accompany her to New Orleans again. Stick to her like her own shadow, see who she speaks to. Keep a particular watch for our friend Mr Sinclair.’

  ‘And the girl?’

  Chester stared at the pond. ‘She is no use to me if I cannot trust her. Do nothing until I arrive.’

  Granville licked his lips. ‘And then?’

  ‘You can do what you want with her.’

  Mungo was dining with François at the house on Rue Bourbon, talking of the upcoming presidential election, when the doorbell rang. From the hallway, Mungo heard the door open, a hushed conversation, and then the click of the latch closing again. A moment later, François’s valet appeared.

  ‘A negro girl brought this for you,’ he said to Mungo.

  He was holding a single flower, four white petals tinged with pink around their edges. Each petal swelled out from the stem, then curved back to a small notch in its tip to give it the shape of a heart.

  ‘Is it a geranium?’ asked François, who had no interest in gardening.

  ‘A dogwood flower,’ said Mungo.

  He cupped it in his hands, as reverently as a priest holding the communion wafer, and breathed in the scent.

  ‘A lady brought this?’ François raised a coquettish eyebrow. ‘I think you have an admirer, sir.’

  He had not expected the reaction he provoked. Mungo looked up from the flower, and the look on his face was almost murderous. François recoiled; his stomach lurched.

  Then Mungo’s habitual smile returned. He handed the flower back to the valet.

  ‘Put it in water,’ he said. He picked up his knife and fork and, with a single sharp motion that made François wince, sliced open the fish on his plate. ‘Let us return to the topic of the election.’

  The next morning, Camilla rose early. Her maid brought her breakfast, but she didn’t touch it. Her stomach was a knot of emotions. Had Mungo received her flower? Had he understood what it meant? Would he come? And if he did, would it be safe – or would they be discovered?

  Granville was waiting for her at the front door, already dressed and with a knowing leer on his face. He looked her up and down, and Camilla tried to not imagine what he was thinking.

  ‘I am going to confession,’ she said.

  He gave a mock bow and opened the door for her. As soon as she stepped out, she heard his sharp footsteps fall in behind her. They followed her down Rue St Louis, around the corner onto Rue de Chartres and all the way to the cathedral – like the beat of a drum marching a woman to the gallows.

  The clock on the central tower already showed past six. She left Granville to take up his customary position outside the front door, and went straight in to the confessional.

  She didn’t notice Granville slip inside after her.

  The confessional was empty. They had repaired the grille Mungo had broken on their previous visit, replacing the wood with iron bars. But there was no one behind them. Even before her eyes adjusted to the dark, Camilla could feel Mungo’s absence.

  She waited. Five minutes, then ten. Her hope faltered; fear began to pile on fear. He had not understood the message. He could not come. Chester had found him and he was dead. Or he was angry with her for not showing the lantern on the dock at Bannerfield and had abandoned her.

  She was about to leave, when suddenly she heard the squeak of hinges on the confessional door and a man stepping inside. She sagged forward onto the kneeler and closed her eyes in relief.

  ‘Thank God you came,’ she breathed.

  ‘ “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned” would be a more customary way to start,’ said a voice. Not Mungo’s, but high, petulant and heavily accented with French. ‘And no doubt you have a g
reat many sins to confess.’

  Camilla’s eyes snapped open. Behind the iron bars, she saw the outline of a fat, bald-headed man whose face was covered in sweat.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Father Michel. I have this for you.’

  With his lips pursed in distaste, he pushed a small slip of paper through the bars to her. Normally, he would never have demeaned his holy orders and the sanctity of the confessional by passing a note – surely scandalous – from a man to a woman. But the man had been uncommonly persuasive, and he had donated a thousand dollars to the Church, and that surely was to the greater glory of God.

  Camilla read the note. I could not come. You are being watched.

  At that moment the door of the confessional was torn open. The priest squealed in alarm as a fist reached in, dragged him out and threw him onto the cathedral floor. Granville’s terrifying figure stood over him, pistol drawn.

  ‘What are you doing?’ the priest yelped.

  ‘You’re not St John.’

  Granville looked as if he might shoot the priest in frustration. Fortunately for the priest, he mastered his anger – though he did not holster his pistol. He swung around, scanning the cathedral. Apart from a pair of Ursuline nuns, it was empty.

  The priest got to his feet and drew himself up.

  ‘Monsieur,’ he said in a voice of holy outrage. ‘What is the meaning of this?’

  ‘What were you doing?’

  ‘He was hearing my confession,’ said Camilla. Inside she was trembling, but she channelled her fright into angry indignation. While Granville had been distracted with the priest, she had had the presence of mind to hide Mungo’s note. ‘Am I not allowed to confess my sins?’

  ‘Depends what you’ve done.’

  Granville stared at her with naked suspicion. Camilla met his gaze with – she hoped – righteous innocence.

  ‘If you have finished frightening this lady, perhaps you would be so kind as to leave the house of God,’ said Father Michel.

  With a final, withering look at the priest, Granville stalked away. But not far. He took up position at the cathedral door, watching Camilla with unblinking eyes.

  The priest dusted himself off.

  ‘Mademoiselle,’ he said stiffly, ‘I do not know what sins you may have committed, but I think it is more than is in my power to absolve.’

  A thousand dollars was starting to seem like a poor bargain for nearly being killed.

  ‘God forgives everything,’ Camilla reminded him.

  ‘Then you may take it up with Him directly.’

  With a sniff, the priest left for the safety of the vestry. Camilla moved reluctantly towards the door. Even with Granville there, the cathedral was the one place in the city she had ever felt safe. Where could she find Mungo now?

  She walked down the central aisle. One of the nuns had risen from her prayers and fell into step beside her.

  ‘If you wish to pray in peace, you could always visit our convent,’ she said, with a pointed glance at Granville. ‘Men are not allowed there.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Camilla absently.

  ‘I find when I am troubled, it helps to pray to the saints,’ the nun continued. ‘St Louis, of course. Or sometimes St John.’

  Camilla stared at her, wondering if she had heard right. Before she could ask, the nun turned towards the altar, crossed herself and scurried away. Perhaps she had been frightened off by Granville, who was closing in as if the diminutive nun might somehow be Mungo in disguise.

  ‘I wish to go and pray at the Convent of the Ursulines,’ Camilla told him.

  It cost more to bribe a nun than a priest, Mungo discovered. Also, a dash of melodrama. He needed all his charm to persuade the Mother Superior of the Ursulines that Camilla was his half-sister, a freedwoman who had been kidnapped from their home in Maryland and sold into slavery in New Orleans; that he had come to take her back from her evil and rapacious master.

  ‘If I could only have half an hour with her,’ he pleaded. ‘I could assure myself of her well-being, and make arrangements to bring her back.’

  Although she had lived most of her life behind the convent walls, the Mother Superior was neither innocent nor a fool. She could see Mungo’s story was most likely a preposterous fabrication. Still, if it were true, it would be uncharitable to deny his request. And (she admitted to herself) she wanted to help him. Although she had pledged herself to God, she was still a woman, and the tall, shapely gentleman with the smoky yellow eyes and long dark hair aroused in her feelings for which she would surely have to do penance later.

  Also, there was the matter of the five thousand dollars he wished to donate to the convent school.

  Which was why, when Camilla arrived a short while later, she was welcomed into the convent, while Granville was made to wait outside the gates. The Mother Superior brought Camilla up to an empty cell.

  ‘You will leave the door open,’ she said. ‘I will wait outside.’

  Camilla went in. The room was plain and bare: whitewashed walls, a desk and stool, a bed, and a crucifix on the door. And there, sitting on the bed leafing through a Bible, was Mungo.

  She ran to him and threw her arms around him, almost crying with relief.

  ‘Sister,’ said Mungo, with a significant nod towards the door. Camilla understood at once.

  ‘Brother.’ She sat down beside him, keeping a demure distance in case the Mother Superior looked in. ‘I did not think I would see you again after what happened on the dock.’

  ‘You were discovered?’

  ‘Chester found me. His men would have slaughtered you if you’d come ashore,’ she said in a low voice. She reached out as if to take his hand, then remembered the Mother Superior.

  ‘He let you come back?’

  ‘He suspects you have returned. He thinks he can use me as bait to trap you. That is why Granville was watching so closely at the cathedral.’

  ‘But he stayed at Bannerfield? And your son too?’

  Camilla nodded, her head bowed as if in prayer. Silence fell on the little cell.

  They were alone; they had escaped Granville. Mungo could not help thinking how easy it would be to get her aboard the Raven that moment. In half an hour they could be sailing away to a new life. If not for the boy.

  ‘Chester will never let my son go,’ said Camilla. ‘Not while he lives.’

  She looked up at Mungo. A moment of understanding passed between them.

  ‘All those years I thought you were dead,’ said Mungo, ‘I had only one thought in my heart. To destroy Chester. To strip him of everything he holds dear – his fortune, his reputation, his honour – and confront him with the wreckage of his ambition. And then to kill him.’

  His voice was hard as diamonds. Camilla did not flinch.

  ‘How did you plan to do that?’

  ‘The same way he ruined my father. Acquire his debts, then call them in.’

  Once, Camilla would have needed nothing more than the cold certainty in his voice to convince her that he would do as he said. Now, she was not so easily carried away.

  ‘It is not straightforward,’ she warned. ‘What Chester did to Windemere took years – and he was in just the right place to manipulate and deceive your father.’

  ‘But Chester has debts?’

  ‘They are enormous.’ Camilla spread her arms as wide as she could. ‘Chester’s appetite for land and slaves is insatiable. To buy more, he has mortgaged everything he has. But it is hard to turn them against him. In any year, only a small part of his debts are due for repayment.’

  Mungo considered that. ‘So I would have to create a situation where all his debts were called in at once.’

  ‘That is possible,’ Camilla agreed. ‘If he defaults on one loan, all his other creditors are entitled to demand immediate repayment of theirs. One loose thread, and everything unravels. But even if the bank was willing to sell, Chester’s debts are so vast you’d need a fortune to buy them.’

  Mungo gav
e her an admiring look. He could not believe how sure she had become, the shy serving girl he had known at Windemere. She had gained an understanding of business and finance that would rival many an East Coast banker.

  For now, there was a more pressing question on his mind.

  ‘How much would it take?’

  Camilla stared at the crucifix over the door. ‘A million dollars.’

  Mungo sucked in a breath. He had realised three hundred thousand dollars on the Raven’s cargo – but costs, and the money he had spent already in New Orleans, had taken a bite out of the profits.

  ‘I do not have that.’

  He thought hard, his mind reluctant to go where he bid it. Before he had known Camilla was alive, he thought he had all the time in the world for his revenge. Now everything was urgent, already too late. He could think of ways to get the money quickly. But at what cost?

  He didn’t speak, but Camilla seemed to read his thoughts in his face. He met her gaze, offering a reassuring smile. All he saw in her eyes was trouble.

  ‘How did you get rich?’ she asked suddenly.

  ‘It does not matter.’

  ‘It does.’ A pause, twisting her hands in her lap. ‘I know why François went to Africa. I know he came back with you.’

  She stared at him, willing him to deny it. Mungo found he could not speak.

  ‘I have seen the invoices from Havana,’ she said softly. ‘How many was it? Two hundred? Three hundred? How many women? How many children?’

  ‘I tried . . .’ Mungo trailed off. For almost the only time in his life, he could not speak. ‘I had no choice. I did it for you.’

  She moved so fast that even Mungo did not see it coming. A slap with her open hand, stronger than he would ever have guessed, that left a red welt stinging on his cheek.

  ‘Never say that!’ she cried. ‘If I thought that I had made you do such a thing – that I had been the cause of those people being locked in chains . . .’