Fairchild saw Mungo’s broad figure and lunged towards him. One of the slavers – a white man in an extraordinary purple coat – tried to block Fairchild’s way, but Fairchild levelled the pistol and shot him in the face. The sound of the gun warned Mungo. He spun around, just in time to see Fairchild’s blade coming at him. He swayed out of the way, bringing up his own sword to parry. The blades rang together.
The two men faced each other.
‘I will kill you, St John!’ shouted Fairchild.
‘So you keep saying.’
Mungo put up his guard – but at that moment, one of Wisi’s men leaped back to avoid a cutlass thrust. He knocked hard into Mungo, pushing him aside. Fairchild saw and went for him with his knife. By the time Fairchild had beaten him back, Mungo had disappeared again in the confusion.
A dripping figure rose out of the reeds that fringed the water. With his hairless head and giant bare shoulders, he looked almost like a hippopotamus emerging from the river. But this was a man, with a heavy cutlass in each hand. He strode out of the water where he had been hiding and threw himself into the fray. Three of the Maeander’s sailors came at him with boarding pikes. He beat the points aside, decapitated one man with a swing of his massive arm, punched another in the face so hard it shattered his nose, and ran the last through left-handed. More men followed him out of the water. They were the men who had slipped downriver unseen and cut the Raven’s anchor cable. Only five of them, but they came at the British sailors from their flank where they were unprotected. They made a bloody impact, and when the sailors turned to meet the new threat they exposed themselves to a fresh onslaught from Wisi’s men.
Downriver, the Raven had stopped moving. She had drifted onto a sandbar and run aground. The men aboard looked to the boats, which had been tethered to her side, but their painters had been cut and the boats were no longer there. With no alternative, some of the crew leaped in the water and tried to swim across to help their shipmates from the Maeander. They paid for their bravery. The river looked placid, but its current was strong and its channel deep. Soon the water rang with the screams of men being carried away out to sea.
Their shipmates on the mudflats heard them. Veterans of the Royal Navy, they were no strangers to close combat. They had fought in boarding parties, against slavers and pirates, many times. But those were on cramped quarterdecks, where the fighting arena was tightly circumscribed. This was new and frightening, not knowing where the next attack might come from.
There was another difference, too. On a ship, you could not run away. Here they had that option. Mungo’s men pressed them hard, contesting every inch of the riverbank. The sailors had been told they had come to rescue the Africans, but now those same blacks were fighting and killing them with shocking efficiency. More and more, the British sailors decided that the battle was not worth it. They broke and ran, back across the mudflats towards the trees at the top of the embankment. Back towards the Maeander, moored on the other side of the peninsula.
Mungo was not stupid enough to think that the battle was won. If the sailors managed to load their muskets and form a line, they would have a clear shot at the men on the flats. He ran after them, swerving wide, scrambled up the embankment and into the copse where they had lain in wait.
The position was abandoned. All the sailors cared about was getting back to their ship. From the heights, Mungo could watch them running into the forest. He did not try to stop them. They were too few to do him any harm now.
Except one.
Fairchild was the last to give up the battle. He was no coward; he would gladly offer his life to his cause. But there was no point fighting on when his men had deserted him. Surrender was unthinkable. So he ran. Better to fight another day, than die for nothing on this godforsaken patch of mud.
No one followed, or offered any parting shots. The victors were exhausted, and though they had plenty of rifles, none could find the ammunition to load them. They let him go. Fairchild reached the shade of the embankment, grasping roots to pull himself up, and set out after his men. Once he was in the trees, he would be able to lose any pursuers.
A shadow moved in the forest. A man stepped out of the shade that had hidden him and planted himself on the path, directly in front of Fairchild.
Fairchild shook his head in disbelief.
‘Mungo St John. It seems the Lord is determined to put you in my way.’
Mungo levelled his sword. Fairchild laughed. He pulled back his coat and there, in his belt, sat a second pistol, untouched. He pulled it out and aimed it at Mungo.
‘This time, I have the advantage.’
Mungo went still. ‘Even at the Union, you were a hard man to beat.’
Fairchild ignored the compliment. He had fought against a rabble of slavers, outnumbered them more than two to one, and still lost. The rage and the shame of it burned in his breast. But there was one thing that hurt most of all.
‘How did you do it?’ he asked. ‘How did you persuade those blacks to fight against us? Against their own interests? Against me?’
Mungo shrugged. ‘You are a good man,’ he said. ‘But you cannot see past the colour of a man’s skin.’
‘I will not take lessons in morality from a slaver,’ spluttered Fairchild.
‘You see a black face, and all you see is a saint or a victim. I see weakness and strength, greed and hope, value to be exploited and potential to be harnessed – just as I do when I see a white face. In short, I see a man I can do business with.’
Fairchild shook his head in incomprehension. ‘But what will it profit you, if the cost of that business is your own soul?’
‘The good Lord, in His wisdom, left me with no other capital to work with.’
Fairchild tightened his grip on the pistol. Mungo was a monster, an unrepentant sinner. To kill him now would be doing God’s work. A chance to salvage victory from this disastrous battle.
Yet his finger hesitated on the trigger.
‘The last time we met – aboard the Blackhawk – you could have killed me, and you did not.’
‘I threw you in the sea for the sharks,’ said Mungo evenly.
He took a stride forward. Fairchild stepped back, maintaining the distance between them.
‘You saved my life. Something in you rebelled at the path you have taken and offered you a glimpse of the light.’
He looked into Mungo’s eyes, the golden flecks so impenetrable. Was that a hint of doubt he saw? Mungo stepped forward, hand half raised as if offering it in friendship. Fairchild wanted to believe it was sincere, but he was not so gullible as to trust Mungo. Again, he took a step back so that Mungo would not get too close.
‘Come with me. Bear witness against the evil things you have seen and done. Redeem yourself.’
‘You think you could make an abolitionist of me?’ Mungo was still advancing, forcing Fairchild to retreat.
‘You proved at the Union you can be a fearsome advocate for any cause you choose.’
‘I am not cut out to play the hero.’
‘A man like you can play any role in life he chooses.’
‘It would be a life of poverty.’
‘A life of virtue,’ Fairchild countered.
Mungo sighed. ‘I cannot afford that.’
All the time they had been speaking, Mungo had kept edging Fairchild backwards. Now, Fairchild noticed how far he had gone. Was Mungo trying to take advantage of him somehow? It was time to remind his opponent who had the upper hand.
He stiffened his pistol arm, and planted his back foot firmly behind him to show he would not be moved any further.
And suddenly the world went askew. His boot did not land on the hard ground he was expecting. Instead, the earth gave way beneath him. His leg plummeted through a thin crust of dry soil and stabbed downwards, until with a sudden jolt it stopped dead. He felt a snap, and a stab of excruciating pain.
Quick as a snake, Mungo darted forward. Two strides brought him to Fairchild. He twisted the pistol out
of the Englishman’s grasp and took it for himself, stepping back before Fairchild could respond.
Fairchild hardly noticed. He lay on the ground, writhing and clutching his leg, which had been swallowed almost thigh-deep by a hole that had opened in the ground. Eyes watering, he gazed up at Mungo with a look of such fury it would have made a lesser man flee. Mungo only laughed.
‘What . . . ?’ Fairchild could hardly speak through the pain.
‘A termite nest,’ said Mungo. ‘You must be careful of them. They can be quite treacherous.’ Keeping out of range of Fairchild’s grasp, he peered over into the hole. Fairchild’s leg hung at a horribly unnatural angle. ‘I think you have broken it.’
Fairchild clenched his teeth. He tried to haul himself up, but the moment he put weight on his leg the pain was so great he bellowed in agony. He slumped back down. Mungo stood over him with the loaded pistol.
‘So this time you mean to kill me?’
Fairchild tried to put a manly face on it, to meet his death with dignity. But the pain was so intense he could not manage it.
Mungo’s eyes were unreadable. Perhaps he was considering killing Fairchild; perhaps he was simply savouring his victory. Then he smiled.
‘I think, for the moment, I will keep you where you are.’
Leaving Fairchild cursing and groaning, he returned to the beach. He despatched two men to go and stand guard.
‘Do not harm him,’ he told them, ‘but see he does not go anywhere.’
The battle had been brutal. More than half of his men were dead or wounded, including Alcott Pendleton. Mungo did not mourn the old slave trader’s loss for a second – it would save him a thirty-five per cent commission – but it did mean he had lost his interpreter. And he needed to speak to Wisi.
‘I have a proposition for you,’ he said.
Fortunately, one of the Punu warriors had once served a French slaver at Bangalang, and spoke enough of that language that Mungo could communicate through him. He waited patiently while the interpreter translated.
‘I have a ship, and a cargo – but not enough crew. I want you and your men to come with me.’
The slaves they had captured were all safe in their coffle, behind the ridge where they had been left during the battle. But Mungo had too few men to keep them under control on the long voyage, let alone to handle the ship, even if they could float her off the sandbar.
Wisi looked doubtful. ‘Black man goes on white ship, not come back.’
‘I will see to it that you come back.’ Mungo saw doubt in the prince’s eyes. ‘I saved your life,’ he reminded him. ‘And you saved mine. Surely that is reason to trust each other.’
He could see the Punu prince was not convinced. He pointed to one of the captives, a broad-shouldered young man of about eighteen or nineteen.
‘See him? Where we are going, he is worth a thousand dollars. A thousand dollars will buy ten rifles.’
Now he had Wisi’s attention.
‘I will offer you one tenth of all the profits from the venture,’ said Mungo. ‘Enough to buy two hundred rifles. When you come back, you will be the most powerful king this country has ever seen.’
A slow grin spread across Wisi’s face. He nodded.
‘And the English ship?’ said Tippoo. He jerked his thumb towards the promontory. ‘She is still waiting.’
‘She will not attack us,’ said Mungo confidently.
As many men as he had lost from his crew, the Maeander had suffered worse. He guessed they barely had enough men to get underway, let alone to man the guns in a fight. And he had their captain.
‘Send a message to them under a flag of truce,’ he said. ‘Tell them we will release Captain Fairchild, as soon as we have loaded our cargo and put to sea.’
‘Will they accept those terms?’ asked de Villiers doubtfully.
They had freed him from the Raven’s hold, embarrassed but unhurt. When he saw the slaves they had brought, he had looked at Mungo as if he were a magician.
‘The Maeander must have been patrolling this coast for weeks,’ said Mungo. ‘I guess they do not have the stomach for another fight. They will take any excuse to go home.’
Wisi had not followed the conversation, but now he spoke up. A short question, punctuated with jabs of his finger at the Raven.
‘He says, “Where do we go?”,’ said the interpreter.
Mungo stood and pointed down the river, out beyond the estuary to the far western horizon. The sun sank into the sea behind a haze of clouds, a red orb that laid a bloody path across the waves.
‘That way.’
III
BANNERFIELD
Shafts of sunlight lanced through the glass dome that crowned the great rotunda of the St Louis Hotel in New Orleans. They shone down through the cigar smoke and sweat haze that filled the air, playing over the marble pilasters and carved garlands that adorned the walls. A traveller who had been to Rome might have recognised a resemblance to the Pantheon, or St Peter’s Basilica – but this was a temple to less exalted gods. Half a dozen wooden lecterns stood on the floor, and at each one an auctioneer was going about his business. Anything could be bought. The auctioneers spoke rapidly and at the tops of their voices, each trying to outdo the other, while the well-dressed crowds moved about so constantly that an unschooled observer could not be sure if a man was bidding on a piece of fine art, or furniture, or a consignment of tobacco or a brace of young slaves.
On that morning in October 1844, François de Villiers arrived at his customary time. He moved slowly through the crowd, greeting acquaintances, exchanging a few pleasantries and good mornings with familiar faces. Most of the men and women there knew that he had recently returned from Africa, and were keen to hear of his adventures.
But equally interesting to them was his companion: a tall man with long, flowing raven-dark hair, who said little but watched everything with his smouldering yellow eyes. His coat was expensive, the watch chain dangling from his waistcoat was gold, and the bulge in his pocket seemed to speak of a very full purse.
‘Allow me to present Mr Thomas Sinclair,’ said François. He was speaking to a cotton broker, though a dozen other people were listening to his every word. ‘He is the master of the Raven.’
Everyone nodded. The ship’s arrival the previous afternoon had piqued their curiosity, for she had never called in at New Orleans before. She seemed to be crewed mostly by negroes, with a giant bald golden-skinned man as her first mate. She had made no move to unload any cargo since she arrived, nor take any aboard. The only thing anyone had seen come off her was a large iron-bound chest, so heavy it had taken four men to lift. With a great deal of effort, they had carried it up the levee to the Bank of New Orleans.
‘A pleasure to make your acquaintance,’ said the broker. ‘Do you intend to stay long in New Orleans?’
Mungo flashed a smile that for some reason made the merchant shrink back a little.
‘Only until I have completed my business.’
He spoke absently, only half paying attention. His eyes were scanning the crowd, searching for Camilla’s face. His heart raced at the thought she might be in the room. Would he recognise her?
On the auction block, an African girl no older than fifteen was being presented. She was entirely naked. Her hands moved to cover her breasts and pudenda, but the auctioneer batted them away to expose her bare flesh.
Casually, Mungo asked, ‘Chester’s mistress – the black woman you spoke about – is she here?’
De Villiers gave Mungo a look of surprise. ‘Camilla would never come here. You cannot send a slave to buy a slave.’
‘Fine breeding stock,’ the auctioneer called, squeezing the girl’s young breast. ‘Her mother bore a dozen sons, and every one of them strong as a horse. Do I hear seven hundred dollars?’
A man in a wide-brimmed grey hat raised his hand to bid. Immediately, another woman countered with a wave of her fan.
De Villiers nudged Mungo. ‘You are not tempted t
o bid? I guess there’s no need, when you can get them wholesale.’
Mungo didn’t answer. He was staring across the room at the woman who was bidding. She wore a long dress of shimmering blue silk, and moved with feline grace. Her dark hair was pulled back under a hat that shaded almond eyes and a flawless complexion.
François followed Mungo’s gaze. ‘She is a beauty, is she not?’
‘You know her?’ Mungo’s voice was faint with disbelief.
‘She is the Marquise Solange de Noailles,’ said François, delighted to show off his knowledge yet again. ‘She arrived in New Orleans some months ago and has caused quite a stir. She is a cousin to Louis Napoleon of France, and to Prince Achille Murat, who once lived in this city.’
Mungo neither knew nor cared that members of the French royal family had ever resided in New Orleans. He very much doubted that the woman in the carriage was related to them. Certainly, she had never mentioned it in those long nights when Mungo had lain naked with her in her cabin. But then she had been Isabel Cardoso da Cruz, not Solange de Noailles – and certainly not a marquise. Perhaps many things had changed.
On the auction block, the girl’s price was now up to over nine hundred dollars.
‘Is the marquise married?’
‘She is the most eligible lady in New Orleans,’ said François. ‘Of course there are rumours . . . but I think they say more about the hopes of her suitors than their expectations. She keeps her favours to herself.’
‘Is she one of your clients too?’
‘Alas, no.’
From the tone of de Villiers’s reply, Mungo guessed he had had his hopes disappointed in more than matters of business.
‘Sold!’
The auctioneer’s hammer came down. The bidding had finished; Mungo saw the slave girl being led across to Isabel.
‘She always gets what she wants,’ said François, with a trace of envy.
‘I’m sure she does.’
Mungo’s eyes never left Isabel, though if she had noticed him at all she gave no sign of it. He shook François’s hand.
Call of the Raven Page 31
