Call of the Raven, page 20
“I will give you one other thing. Here is a check for one hundred dollars.” He waved it at Mungo. “It is the last gift you will ever have from me. Use it to get yourself far away from here, because, by God, if I ever see you again I will have you thrown in jail.”
The check was an insult. Mungo had no intention of accepting it. He could make the money easily enough with cards. But as Rutherford waved the paper at him, something caught Mungo’s eye. He reached out and took the check, ignoring Rutherford’s contemptuous sneer.
“You are just like your father. All you want is easy money.”
Mungo did not hear him. He was staring at the check, his hands trembling.
“What is this?” he whispered.
“It is goodbye.” Belatedly, Rutherford noticed the change that had come over Mungo. “What? Did you think you deserved more?”
Mungo ran his finger over the letterhead at the top of the paper.
“This is drawn on the Fidelity Trust Bank of Charles City.”
“The check is fine, if that’s what you’re worried about. The bank is good for it.” Rutherford chuckled. “I should know—I’m one of the partners.”
Mungo gripped the check and slowly ripped it in two. The torn halves fluttered to the floor. Rutherford clicked his tongue impatiently.
“I suppose you think that was a very fine gesture. You will find in time you should have taken the money.”
Mungo spoke slowly, controlling the rage that throbbed in his throat.
“That was the bank that repossessed Windemere. It was the bank that Chester Marion used, first to tie my father in a rope of debt, and then to hang him with it. The bank that Chester owned. And now you tell me you are a partner in it?”
For the first time that evening, a crack appeared in Rutherford’s studied calm. He took a step back, thinking quickly.
“Perhaps you are not as dull-witted as I thought,” he said. “Yes, I am a partner in the bank.”
“You knew what Chester Marion was doing to Windemere? You let him do it?”
“I encouraged him.”
For the second time that evening, Mungo’s world had been turned upside down. He could hardly credit what he heard.
“Why?”
“Because after Abigail died, I had nothing to tie me to your father. All Oliver’s foolish talk of emancipation, his notion of blacks as equals—it was an embarrassment to me. I became a laughing stock among my associates.”
“You sold out your own family.”
Rutherford made a deprecating gesture with his hands.
“I made a tidy profit from the transaction. Chester drove a hard bargain when he sold Windemere to your neighbors. They were all in on it too, of course.”
Mungo’s head reeled with the shock of revelation. Every word that Rutherford spoke demanded a thousand more questions.
“Then why did you help me? Why send me on the Blackhawk?”
“To save you from yourself. I thought you might make a new life and put all this behind you. I confess, I did not think you would give me quite so much cause to regret my generosity. I never imagined how naïve you truly are.” He turned away dismissively. “Just like your father—unwilling to face the dirty reality of life. You—”
He broke off with a strangled cry. Mungo had closed on him and was gripping his neck with both hands, pressing his thumbs against Rutherford’s windpipe. Rutherford struggled and tried to pull Mungo’s hands away. But though he was strong and fit for his age, he was no match for his grandson.
“You have taken everything from me,” Mungo snarled. His yellow eyes burned with fury.
Rutherford managed to lift his leg and stamp on Mungo’s foot; for a second Mungo’s grip faltered. Rutherford twisted away. He lunged for the bell-pull to summon his servants, but Mungo grabbed the collar of his coat and dragged him back, hurling him down onto the sofa. Pinning him down with his knee, Mungo snatched a cushion and pressed it down on his grandfather’s face.
Rutherford struggled and fought; he jerked about, but he could not free himself. His movements grew weaker, the moans under the cushion fainter. Mungo did not relax his grip. His mind was absent, disassociated from his body. He did not notice when Rutherford stopped moving, or the damp patch that spread on the sofa. All he felt was rage.
The chime of the clock in the hall striking eleven brought Mungo back to himself. He lifted up the cushion. Rutherford lay there, eyes closed, showing no sign of the violent death he had suffered.
Quickly, Mungo stretched Rutherford out on the sofa and laid a rug over him so that it would look as if he was asleep. He threw the pieces of the check on the fire. He folded Rutherford’s arms across his chest, and put the empty whiskey glass in the dead man’s hand.
He glanced at the bureau. What other secrets might he find in there? He was tempted to look, but at that moment a noise from the hallway reminded him of his danger. He had to get away.
He went out. Carter, the butler, was still standing in the hall, stiff in his frock coat. Mungo searched his face for any sign he had heard what happened. The old slave’s features gave nothing away, but then slaves were well used to hiding what they knew.
Carter was the only man who knew Mungo had been there that night.
“Mr. Rutherford is taking a nap,” Mungo told him. “He said he wasn’t to be disturbed.”
Carter nodded. Wordlessly, he opened the door to show Mungo out. As Mungo brushed past him, he thought how easy it would be to break the old man’s neck, to end his life just as he had Rutherford’s. Then there would be no witnesses to what Mungo had done.
“Goodnight,” Mungo said.
He stepped out of the door into the night air. He could not say why he had let Carter live. Perhaps it was mercy—or maybe something in the butler’s lined face and white hair had reminded him of Methuselah. After what he had done to his own grandfather, he could not believe it was conscience.
He hoped he would not regret it.
* * *
It was nearly midnight. There were no horses to be had at that hour, and Mungo did not dare linger in Richmond until morning. He set out on Baltimore Road, walking at a brisk pace that he could keep up for hours. The moon was high and the way was clear; if any robbers or cutpurses lurked at the roadside, they did not bother him that night. Perhaps they recognized in him the kindred spirit of a murderer. He was left alone with his thoughts.
He felt no guilt about what he had done. Rutherford had betrayed Windemere, he had let Oliver St. John be murdered, and he had bankrolled Chester Marion. Killing him had been the first blow struck for Mungo’s revenge. If anything, Mungo felt a strange elation. Everything that had tethered him to the world was gone. Even the memory of his family had been torn down. He felt himself floating free, apart from the world, unrestrained by the considerations that bound lesser men. He felt in his heart there was nothing he was not capable of. The knowledge was liberating, like jumping off a cliff and discovering that you could, after all, fly.
The sun had risen in a soft pink dawn. Mungo was just starting to think about where he might find some breakfast when he felt a shudder in the road under his feet. Horses were approaching at speed. He turned, and saw them already coming around the bend. Half a dozen men in militia uniforms, the brass on their coats gleaming in the morning light.
There was no time to get off the highway and hide. He moved to the verge and stood aside to let them pass. But they did not ride by. Instead, they reined up in front of him. The horses’ breath made clouds in the morning; their flanks steamed. They must have ridden hard.
The militia captain leaned forward in his saddle.
“Mungo St. John?”
Mungo nodded. They could not have found him by accident, and there was only one man who could have given the militia his name. He should have killed Carter when he had the chance. Now—against six armed men on horseback—he had no hope of escape.
“What is this?” Mungo asked, as casually as he could.
“We heard you might be on this road. Come with us.”
“Is there a reason?”
Did Mungo imagine it, or did the captain’s hand creep toward the butt of his pistol?
“It concerns Mr. Amos Rutherford.”
“My grandfather?” Mungo’s brow furrowed. “I left him a few hours ago. Has anything happened?”
“I cannot say any more at present. You will find out in Richmond.”
They had brought a spare horse, so at least Mungo’s legs were spared the return journey. He mounted up and rode in silence. What had taken all night to walk needed barely two hours to retrace. They rode into Richmond and back up the hill to the Rutherford house. It was now the middle of the morning, but all the shutters were closed and black crepe hung from the windows.
“What has happened?” said Mungo, acting as if he was surprised. “Who has died?”
“Come inside.”
The militia captain ushered Mungo up the steps he had mounted only a few hours earlier. Carter held open the door, giving Mungo a hard, penetrating stare. Mungo returned it with a nod. A slave’s testimony would not go far in a Virginia courthouse. But it might be enough to hang him.
Thankfully, they did not take him to the drawing room. Instead, a servant dressed all in black showed Mungo to Rutherford’s office. A man was waiting there, sitting at the desk in front of a pile of papers. Mungo did not recognize him. He was a short dumpling of a man, with thinning hair and a drooping mustache. The handshake he gave Mungo was as limp as a dead fish.
“My name is Shelton. I am your grandfather’s attorney. Do you know why I have summoned you?”
Mungo had a fair idea. But he had played—and won—enough bad hands in poker to keep bluffing to the end.
“Am I still wanted for bail jumping?”
Shelton’s mustache twitched in surprise. “No, sir. Mr. Rutherford had me take care of all that a year ago. The charges of slave stealing were dismissed—and since there were no charges, ipso facto, there could be no issue with the bail.”
“Then why did you bring me here? And why is the house decked in mourning? Where is my grandfather?”
Shelton looked at him sternly. “You were here last night?”
There was no point denying it. He had already admitted as much to the militia.
“I was.”
“Mr. St. John . . .” Shelton clasped his hands together. “I am profoundly sorry to have to tell you this, but sometime after you left, your grandfather passed away.”
Mungo bowed his head, as if the news was too much to bear.
“They found him on the couch. We presume he suffered a seizure or a stroke as he lay there.”
Mungo’s head jerked up so quickly he almost cricked his neck.
“A seizure?”
“He had been drinking whiskey. His doctor had warned him of the consequences if he drank liquor, but evidently, he did not heed their advice.”
“But . . .” The shock on Mungo’s face was entirely real. Inside, his mind raced. “He seemed perfectly well when I left him. He complained he felt a little tightness in his chest—he was going to lie down.” He bit his lip. “If only I had stayed longer with him.”
Shelton put on his most sympathetic face. “I am sure there was nothing you could have done. The end must have been instantaneous, and surely without pain. Were you close?”
“He was almost all the family I had.”
“Of course, of course. My condolences. The loss of a loved one . . .”
Shelton flapped a hand, as if the realm of emotions was entirely beyond his purview. Instead, he hoisted a large black paper-case onto the table.
“It seems callous to talk of business in the hour of your grief. However, there are certain legal formalities that must be observed.”
Mungo nodded. The attorney opened his case and pulled out a sheaf of papers.
“This is Amos Rutherford’s last will and testament. He wrote it some years ago, but it is all valid and in order.” He put the papers in front of Mungo. “As you can see, he names me as executor. The bulk of his fortune he leaves to his son in Charleston, but there is a significant bequest also to his daughter Abigail.”
“She died four years ago,” said Mungo.
“Indeed, indeed. But Mr. Rutherford had not updated the will since her tragic death. Therefore, as Abigail’s sole heir, the bequest goes to you.”
He snapped shut the paper-case.
“I am sorry I had to summon you back so abruptly. Since last August there has been a great deal of uncertainty about your whereabouts. So when the butler said that you had visited with Mr. Rutherford only last night, and that you might still be in the vicinity, I naturally felt I must seize the moment to get hold of you. I apologize if it seemed a little excessive, to send the militia after you, but I felt it was my only recourse.”
He fell silent as he noticed Mungo’s yellow eyes staring at him. The attorney shifted uneasily, discomfited by their gaze. He fiddled with the latch on his case.
“Is there something else?”
“You mentioned a bequest,” said Mungo.
“Indeed, indeed.” The lawyer’s face brightened again. “Forgive me—perhaps I did not make myself entirely clear.”
“What I meant to say is, you are now worth fifty thousand dollars.”
For a month, Camilla was treated like a queen. She and Isaac were moved into the second-largest bedroom at Bannerfield. Isaac was given a crib carved from teak by a French cabinet maker from New Orleans, while Camilla spent her nights in the biggest bed she had ever seen. She could stretch out her arms full width and still not touch the sides. At night, she no longer had to fear for the sound of Chester at her door.
The baby was her joy. He had a button nose, and fat legs, and a little bow mouth that was always puckering up in search of the nipple. His skin was the color of almonds. Camilla worried he would be too dark for his father, but Chester proclaimed himself delighted.
“He can pass for a white man,” he said. He was less enthralled with Isaac’s frizzy black hair: “But we can iron that out when he is older.”
Dressmakers came from as far away as Charleston and Savannah with bright bolts of silk and muslin. They sewed these into gowns for the baby, trimmed with lace and gold.
“It is a waste to put such finery on a baby,” Camilla fretted. “He will sick up his milk on them and they will be ruined.”
“Then we will make more,” said Chester. “And you should not complain. You are doing very well out of this yourself.”
The seamstresses did not just clothe the baby. They also dressed Camilla, running up beautiful dresses from the same fine cloths, artfully sewn so they could be taken in as her body returned to its natural shape after childbirth.
“What will I do with all these clothes?” Camilla wondered, eyeing herself in the long bedroom mirror. “I cannot wear them to pick cotton.”
“You will not be going back to the fields,” said Chester. He lay on the bed, eyes half closed, enjoying the sight of her in her finery. The neck was cut very low, accentuating her breasts, which had swelled plump from nursing. “You are destined for greater things. Undress.”
Camilla turned away, letting the maid unbutton the gown. She stepped out of it and stood wearing nothing but her shift. She studied her figure in the mirror. She had already shed most of the weight she had put on during her pregnancy, almost back to the slender body she was used to.
“Pack that into a trunk along with the other clothes,” Chester ordered the maid.
Camilla looked around. “Are we going somewhere?”
“I am taking you to New Orleans. There are some important men I want you to meet, and you must look your best.”
“I did not know.”
She tried to smile—she could see he wanted her to be pleased—but inside she was afraid. Amid all the joys of motherhood, she never forgot who she really was. And now that the baby was born, she had lost the only hold she’d had over Chester. If anything, the situation was worse. With Isaac in his power, he could hurt her in ways that whips and hot irons never could.
“Is it wise to go to New Orleans?” she asked. “For the baby, I mean. The air in the city is very foul. There are fevers and fluxes he might catch there.”
“Isaac will stay here.”
“But who will look after him?”
Chester reached out and pulled the bell-cord. A few moments later, a woman Camilla had never seen before walked in. She had red hair, full hips and a gap-toothed smile when she opened her mouth.
“This is Hattie. She will look after Isaac while we are gone.”
Camilla looked at the woman with her crooked teeth and white skin, and wanted to claw her eyes out.
“So soon?”
Isaac started to cry, as if he could sense his mother’s distress. Camilla went to the cradle to comfort him, but Chester stopped her.
“Let Hattie take him. He will have to get used to his new nurse.”
Camilla had to watch as the strange woman lifted her baby out of the cradle and pressed him to her large bosom. Isaac’s nose twitched at the unfamiliar smell of the nurse’s skin. He tipped back his head and began to bawl. The sound almost tore Camilla in two.
“Take him away,” said Chester.
Hattie curtsied and waddled out. Camilla bit her lip and forced herself not to cry.
“Good milk,” said Chester, watching her go. “He will grow into a strong boy suckling on her.”
Camilla said nothing. Staring out the window at the cotton fields, she thought of all the times she had dreamed of flying far away to a place where Chester could not touch her. Now even that gave her no comfort. Isaac had made a bond of flesh and blood between her and Chester, an umbilical link that would keep her tethered to Bannerfield even when she screamed to be free of it.
There was only one man who could free her from this ordeal. But where was he?
Tippoo arched his back and pulled on the oars. With his strength to power her, the little dinghy leaped through the placid water of Baltimore harbor like a mayfly. In the stern, Mungo watched the port glide by: the red brick warehouses that lined the wharves; the chandlers and dry docks and shipyards. Schooners and sloops flitted across the bay, while a squat paddle steamer chugged her way south. Beyond, the spires and civic monuments of the city rose above the skyline.
