Call of the Raven, page 21
“If you are so rich now, why can you not pay someone else to row?” Tippoo said. He was teasing—he had barely broken a sweat.
Mungo laughed. “Because I have better things to spend my money on.”
He had remained in Richmond for a week after Rutherford’s death, just long enough to cash in his inheritance. He did not go to the funeral. He knew it would cause a minor scandal in Richmond society, but he did not care. He was never going back.
He returned to Baltimore and found Tippoo passed out drunk in a brothel, with three whores wondering how to shift him so that the next client could have use of the room. Mungo had helped move the giant to more salubrious accommodation. When he came round, Mungo told him what had happened in Richmond, and the fortune he had inherited.
Tippoo, who had never had more than a few dollars to his name, had taken the news pragmatically.
“You can buy me a drink,” was all he had said.
Now Tippoo leaned back on the oars. “When will you tell me why are we here?”
“There is something I want to show you.” Mungo looked ahead. “Steer right a little, toward those slips.”
“Sometimes I think you only like to watch me row,” Tippoo complained. “Do we go all the way to New Orleans?”
The smile faded from Mungo’s face as quickly as a cloud covering the sun.
“Not yet.”
For the last week, there had only been one thought in his head. Rutherford had helped Chester seize Windemere, disgrace Mungo, murder Oliver and Camilla. Now Rutherford had given Mungo the means to get his revenge.
A small steam launch powered past, not far off their starboard side. Black smoke belched from her funnel, and the clatter of her engine drowned out every other sound. She was an ugly vessel, Mungo thought, a bulldog among the clippers and schooners whose white sails graced the harbor like swans.
The launch’s bow wave rocked the little rowing boat.
“I have underestimated Chester at every turn,” Mungo said. “I will not make that mistake again.”
“Next time, take more guns,” said Tippoo.
“I cannot defeat him with brute force alone.”
All across the Atlantic and back on the Blackhawk, Mungo had had plenty of time to contemplate his revenge. A powerful man like Chester would be well protected—it would not be easy for Mungo to get close enough to put a bullet in him. And even if he could, that would not be enough.
He would repay his debt to Chester in full. Humiliate him, bankrupt him, reveal him to the world for the monster he was. It would not restore Camilla or Oliver; probably he would not even get back Windemere. But it would be justice.
And then he would kill him.
“His wealth is the source of his power. I must wait to move against him until I am rich enough to match him.”
“You have fifty thousand dollars,” Tippoo reminded him.
Mungo nudged the dinghy a little to starboard. “To a man like Chester, fifty thousand dollars is pocket change. I need half a million at least. A million would be better. So I am going back to Africa.”
Tippoo crooked an eyebrow. He said nothing, but the expression on his face spoke eloquently: You are going slaving again?
Tippoo had never asked what had happened on the Blackhawk—how the slaves had managed to unlock their shackles and take the ship. But the giant was no fool. Mungo had no doubt he had worked out what had happened.
“I do not intend to follow in Sterling’s footsteps,” Mungo said. “The rewards of the slave trade do not outweigh the risks.”
He said it as if it were a simple business calculation, the balance of entries on opposite sides of the ledger. Whatever might be in his head—the stench of the slave decks; the hiss of metal charring branded flesh; the heartbreaking wail of the captives; the look of terror on a young girl’s face as she was brought out for Lanahan to debase—his yellow eyes gave no sign of it.
“But there is another cargo that fetches almost as high a profit, with none of the trouble.”
Tippoo’s face brightened with interest.
“Ivory. Demand is soaring in England—prices are rising. A man who could get his ship to Africa and fill her hold with ivory would make enough money that even Chester Marion would sit up and take notice.”
“Then you need a ship.”
“Indeed.” Mungo grinned. “Look over there.”
Tippoo shipped the oars and craned around. They had come out of the harbor basin and downriver a little way, where warehouses and wharves gave way to the shipyards. The slipways were full of ships in various stages of construction, from bare-ribbed skeletons to fully formed hulls that wanted only a gust of wind to slide into the water. And sitting at anchor in the channel beyond the yards was one ship so recently completed that the paint was still wet on her woodwork.
Even at rest, she seemed to be in motion. Her masts were raked so sharply back that she looked as if she was sailing into a gale. Her hull tapered to a sharp V at her bow that would cut the waves like a knife. Her yards stretched out like wings, wide enough to carry sails beyond all proportion to her size. Even in ballast, her hull sat low to the water.
“Not an ounce of fat on her,” said Mungo proudly.
There were no decorative carvings to soften her lines—no figurehead at her bow and no ornament on her stern. Even the rigging had been kept to the minimum needed to handle the ship. Everything had been stripped down to its leanest essentials.
The rowing boat drifted close and bumped against her hull. Mungo reached out and stroked the planking on her hull. His hand came away black with fresh tar.
“She is the one,” he murmured. His yellow eyes danced with delight. “She is the one to make our fortunes.”
“You will buy her?” said Tippoo.
“I already have. She was commissioned by a cotton merchant. I visited the owner this morning and persuaded him to part with her.”
Mungo grabbed the clipper’s side ladder and climbed nimbly aboard. Tippoo made the boat fast and followed. Up top, she had a single deck that ran flush from her bowsprit to her stern rail, with as little as possible to clutter her working area.
“Was it hard to make him sell?”
“For what I paid, he will be able to replace her twice over. But she is worth it.”
Mungo had brought up a bag from the boat. He pulled a bottle of whiskey from it and two glasses, which he filled to the brim. Tippoo wandered the deck, examining the ship approvingly. There was just one feature that displeased him.
“Only four guns,” he observed.
“We do not need more. We will not be fighting off the Royal Navy, or putting down rebellions. Without cannon, we will sail faster and have more capacity for cargo.”
Tippoo’s face sagged miserably. “If you have no guns, you do not need a gunner.”
“No. But I will need a first mate I can trust.” Mungo handed him one of the glasses of whiskey. “Will you sign on?”
“Truly?”
At Mungo’s offer, Tippoo lit up like a candle. He took the drink from Mungo’s hand, knocked it back in one gulp, then hurled the empty glass against the cathead that stuck out from the ship’s side. It smashed and fell into the water.
“I accept.”
Mungo clasped his hand. “Then your first job is to scour the taverns and whorehouses of Baltimore and find me the finest crew you can muster.”
Tippoo grinned. “And if they ask what ship they will join? What name do I say?”
Below the stern rail and the cabin windows, the ship’s transom was blank. There was no name painted there yet. But Mungo already knew what it would be. With her dark hull and swooping lines, she put him in mind of a great black bird in flight. A bird that throughout history had been the messenger of the gods, foreboding doom and retribution.
“She is called the Raven.”
Camilla and Chester set out for New Orleans—not by road, but down the Mississippi River, which flowed like an artery through the heart of Bannerfield. Chester had his own landing where the boats could tie up, and two huge warehouses fronting the river. After the harvest, the buildings had been filled to the rooftops with bales of cotton. Now, they were empty.
Camilla cast one last glance back at the big house on the hill, the monstrous palace that Chester had built. Somewhere inside it, her child was lying in another woman’s arms. She felt an ache in her belly, as if the baby had been ripped out of her. Chester had not even let her say goodbye. She had not seen Isaac since the wet nurse carried him out of the bedroom the previous afternoon.
They boarded the steamboat that was to take them to New Orleans. Camilla had been on one of these boats once before, when she arrived at Bannerfield, but it still amazed her. It had no sails, but belched smoke and steam from a pair of chimneys; boilers on her bottom deck roared with the effort of turning the large stern wheel that paddled her through the water. It looked nothing like the boats she had seen on the James River at Windemere. Instead, it appeared more like a giant floating mansion: a flat bottom, a snub bow, and a white superstructure rising three stories from the waterline. It was painted brilliant white, like a plantation house, and decorated with ornate curlicues and columns.
“Do you own this?” she asked.
“There is no money in steamboats,” sniffed Chester. “This is the packet line.”
The inside was almost more spectacular than the outside. Their stateroom walls were covered in gilt mirrors, with a rich Brussels carpet on the floor and mahogany furniture upholstered in plush red fabric. The bed was wider than a carriage.
Chester sat down on the bed with an expectant leer that instantly made all the splendor of the cabin seem like nothing more than a tawdry brothel.
“It is a day and a half from here to New Orleans. I suppose we will find some way to pass the time.”
* * *
They broke the voyage overnight, moored up at a landing, and reached New Orleans the following morning. A carriage greeted them at the bustling wharf by the levee and took them past a grand square, surrounded by majestic buildings and dominated by a towering cathedral. The bells rang in the air as they passed. The houses crowded in, their balconies decorated with ironwork and flowering vines. The only exception to the splendor was the smell. It hung around the city’s neck like a wreath, blending the fetid stench of horse manure and urine with the sweet scents of tobacco and flowers, hanging moss and loamy earth.
“Welcome to the Crescent City,” Chester said. “It’s like no place on earth.”
His town house was a marvel of imposing Georgian style. Standing three stories tall and fashioned out of red bricks, it cast a colossal shadow across the street, exceeding in height and width all the structures around it. Its gray-blue shutters, ornamental railings etched with fleur-de-lis, and entryway framed by accent windows carried an elegance that softened the sternness of the place.
A butler was waiting for them at the foot of the steps, dressed in a silk waistcoat. He welcomed them with a bow and escorted them from the carriage into a courtyard. Apart from the sand-laid bricks of the carriageway, the enclosure was laid out like a garden, with cast iron benches shaded by fruit trees in blossom, rainbow-colored peonies in window boxes, daffodils in patches of brown earth, and a circular fountain with water trickling from the mouth of a nymph-like creature.
The butler handed Chester a snifter filled with golden liquid.
“Brandy and bitters,” Chester said, sipping it. He waved his hand at Camilla’s curiosity. “Look around, look around. You will know it well soon enough.”
Concealing her discomfort, Camilla went inside. She wandered through the rooms and halls, casting her eyes across the artwork—mostly martial scenes on land and sea—running her hands over the lines and weaves of the furniture, taking in the view of the carriageway and courtyard, and reading the spines of books in the library. Every surface was spotless, every piece carefully arranged. Yet for all its refinement, the place was empty and joyless. It felt as if someone had died there. When she felt Chester’s touch on her shoulder, she almost jumped with fright.
“This is your new home,” he said.
She blinked. “I don’t understand. When are we returning to Bannerfield?”
Chester wrapped his arm around her and kissed her.
“You have given me a healthy son and this is your reward. No more labor in the fields. You will live like a duchess in this city, with liberties you could not dream of at Bannerfield. I will give you servants, and money to spend, and the freedom to come and go as you please.”
She noticed he kept saying you. “Are you not staying?”
“I will visit often enough. My business regularly brings me to New Orleans. You will not have the chance to miss me too much.” He smiled; a shiver of pain throbbed between Camilla’s legs. “But Bannerfield demands the greater part of my time.”
She hardly heard him. “What about Isaac?”
“He will stay at Bannerfield, of course.” Chester looked surprised by the question. “The air in New Orleans is not wholesome for a child. He needs air and space to run around, and a father’s firm hand to guide his growth. Also, I would not want this city corrupting his young mind with harmful ideas.”
Camilla understood exactly what he meant. In New Orleans, blacks and whites mixed like nowhere else in the country. The color line was—if not exactly erased—at least blurred. Chester did not want Isaac growing up in a place where he might think that blacks and whites could be equal.
He is a colored boy, she wanted to scream. He has as much of me in him as of you.
But she knew if she said it, Chester would beat her. He might even kill her. He had decided that Isaac would be raised as a white child, and he would not allow anything that threatened that lie. No doubt that was why he had exiled her to New Orleans.
She wanted to curl into a ball and cry. But Chester had not finished with her yet.
“While you are here, you will play the part of a femme de couleur libre—a free woman of color. Also, I will expect you to . . . ah . . . entertain certain business associates of mine. Granville will stay to keep an eye on you. If you please me, I may allow you to return to Bannerfield on occasion to visit Isaac.”
What “entertaining” meant became clear their second night in New Orleans, when Chester held a dinner. The table gleamed with silver and crystal; every servant in the house was enlisted to bring in an endless parade of wines and dishes. The unfamiliar food, rich and spicy, turned Camilla’s stomach. It felt wrong to sit at the table being waited on like a white woman. She felt like one of the fish on the table in front of her, pulled out of the water to be gutted, richly dressed and served up for other men to enjoy.
But she was not the only woman of color at the table. All Chester’s friends had brought women with them, ranging in hue from delicate ivory to dark coffee. These were not slaves—the men called them “placées.” It seemed to mean something more than a concubine, but rather less than a wife.
Whatever they were, the women appeared well at ease with their situation. They ate and drank with gusto, laughed freely and teased each other constantly. They spoke confidently: about the latest fashions and dances; about the news from Paris and London; about the political situation in Washington and relations with Mexico. In their company, Camilla felt dull and wooden. Her skin was too dark, her manners untutored and she had nothing to say. She stared at her plate and ate too quickly.
Not all of the guests had brought partners. The man seated next to Camilla had come alone. He had a high forehead, and long sideburns that he had shaved to rakish points near the corners of his mouth. His eyes never stayed still, she noticed, but darted all over the table as if constantly looking for an opportunity.
“Are you recently arrived in New Orleans?” he asked Camilla.
She nodded, concentrating on not spilling soup down the front of her silk dress.
“My name is François,” he introduced himself.
“Do you work for Chester?” she asked.
François smiled. “I think every man in this room works for Chester Marion, after a fashion,” he said. “Chester’s wealth is a great river, and we tend the fields that line it. When the river is so full it breaks its banks, we are ready to receive the overflow—and when the flood waters recede, we trust it will leave some residual deposits to make our own fortunes grow.”
“I do not think I understand,” said Camilla.
François leaned closer. His hand dropped from the table and rested on her thigh.
“Let me explain. That man over there, with the magnificent beard? His name is Jackson, and he is the president of the Bank of New Orleans. You would say he is one of the most powerful and influential men in the city. Yet he has extended Chester Marion over two million dollars in credit. If Chester were ever to default, his bank would be finished. So he must give Chester whatever he wants, to ensure that Chester’s fortune increases and the bank’s loans are repaid.”
His hand slid further up Camilla’s thigh. Camilla pretended not to notice.
“Or that man there, with the pointed chin and the long face like a basset hound. His name is Shaw—he is the commission agent for a Liverpool shipping firm. If anything happens to Chester’s estate—if his fields catch fire, or his crop fails, or the ship carrying his cotton to market sinks—there will be nothing for Shaw to buy, no commission for him to earn and he will be ruined.”
Camilla’s head was swimming with all this information. Perhaps it was the wine. She had drunk far too much of it, trying to feel less awkward.
“You seem very well informed about Chester’s affairs,” she said. “What is your own business?”
“I own a factorage house.”
“What is that?”
“I buy and sell things on behalf of my clients. The greater part of my business is with Chester Marion.”
