Call of the Raven

by Smith, Wilbur

  ‘What is the news from New Orleans?’ he asked, as if they were sitting in the saloon taking tea.

  Was this why he had summoned her? Camilla was so surprised she struggled to answer his question.

  ‘New mills are being built in Manchester, in England. They have bid up the price of cotton, and at the moment there is not the supply in New Orleans to meet the demand. The sooner you can get your crop to market, the better you will profit from it.’

  Chester nodded thoughtfully. ‘Good. Undress yourself.’

  Camilla unlaced her dress and stepped out of it. She shrugged off her petticoat, then lay back on the bed.

  Think of Isaac, she told herself.

  ‘There is something else,’ Chester said. ‘Mungo St John.’

  Camilla went still. She wanted to roll over and bury her face in the bedclothes so her emotions could not betray her, but she could not. Chester’s grey eyes were as hard as glass as they stared down at her. His whole body seemed to throb with a desire that had nothing to do with Camilla’s body.

  ‘Have you found him?’ Camilla asked.

  ‘No,’ said Chester. ‘Not yet,’ he added. ‘But there is a man recently arrived in New Orleans who calls himself Sinclair. Granville saw him on Rue Royale – he is convinced it was St John.’

  He took a step towards her. His body was damp with sweat, so that he looked like an enormous slithering snail. ‘Have you seen this man – Sinclair?’

  What could she say?

  ‘He was at the Toussaint Ball.’

  ‘And?’

  She tried to remember all the people who had been there. Would anyone have seen them together? François, of course. If Chester spoke to him, he would quickly find out how long Camilla had spent on the balcony with Mungo. Or perhaps he already knew, and was toying with her, testing her loyalties.

  She had to say something. She remembered the offer he had made her before: Your freedom and your son, in exchange for Mungo St John. If she admitted that she had seen him, would Chester honour that bargain?

  But staring up at him, she did not think he knew the truth. He had spent the last year and a half in terror of Mungo. If he was sure that Mungo had returned, he would not be able to hide it.

  ‘It could have been Mungo,’ she said doubtfully, as if struggling to remember.

  ‘Could have been?’

  ‘He wore a mask – I could not see his face – and it has been years since I saw him. But . . . he was the right height.’

  ‘Did you speak to him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did he see you?’

  ‘I do not think so. I spent most of the evening dancing with your friends. And I was masked as well.’

  Chester pulled the dressing gown closed around him. He sat down on the edge of the bed, deep in thought.

  ‘Tomorrow you must go back to New Orleans and find out everything you can about this Mr Sinclair. If he is Mungo St John, he will come to you.’

  ‘He probably does not even remember me,’ said Camilla.

  Chester laughed, a cold laugh that filled her heart with dread.

  ‘I am certain he does.’

  After he had finished with her, she dressed and waited until the clock in the hall struck half past eleven. She did not need to pack – there was nothing from this life she wanted to take. The fine clothes and jewellery Chester had bought her were nothing more than chains of taffeta and cotton and gold. She needed none of it.

  She lit a lamp, closing the shutter so that only a tiny bar of light escaped. She found the green shawl she had brought especially from New Orleans and wrapped it around her head as a turban. Then she stole out of the room.

  Isaac’s bedroom was next to Chester’s, separated by an adjoining door. By the dim light of the lamp, Camilla saw the door was open. She could hear Chester’s loud snoring coming through it. As quietly as she could, she crept to Isaac’s bed. She touched his face, stroking his cheek gently to wake him. His eyes fluttered open drowsily.

  ‘Milla?’ He still hadn’t mastered her name; part of her hoped he never would.

  ‘Shhh,’ she hushed him. ‘Come with me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To go somewhere.’

  ‘I want sleep.’

  His voice was too loud. Through the open door, she heard Chester stirring.

  ‘It’s a surprise,’ she whispered. Isaac liked surprises.

  ‘What s’prise?’

  ‘We’re going to see a boat.’

  That persuaded him. He got out of bed. There was no time to dress – she took him in his nightshirt, barefoot. The door squeaked as she closed it, but she did not dare wait to see if she had been heard. She was committed now.

  The night was warm. As they hurried down the road that led between the fields, she could smell the aroma of cotton oil from the seeds that had been broken during harvesting: earthy and faintly sour, like mildew. It took her back at once to those back-breaking days picking cotton while her pregnant belly swelled. She clutched Isaac’s hand tighter.

  ‘Where’s Daddy?’ he asked.

  ‘Your daddy’s coming later.’

  ‘Daddy likes s’prises,’ he said happily.

  He was going too slowly. Camilla swept him up off his feet and carried him in her arms. He was a heavy boy, and the comforts of life in New Orleans had sapped some of the strength she had had during her stint in the cotton fields. But she did not slow down. She was almost at the top of the rise, and beyond that, she would be at the river.

  On the far side of the Mississippi, the Raven’s cutter lurked in the shadow of the trees that lined the bank. Mungo sat in her stern, his telescope trained on the dock opposite. He had been watching for over an hour, utterly motionless, like a hunter in his hide waiting for the game to appear.

  They had come upriver that afternoon in the Nellie Mae, just one more steamboat on a busy waterway. As they swept past Bannerfield, Mungo had studied the docks and the warehouses built along it. A huge steamboat was tied up at the wharf, swarming with workers who were loading it with bales of cotton. Mungo tried to calculate how much the boat could hold, the value of the cargo she carried. It must be a fortune.

  They had carried on past Bannerfield without stopping. Tippoo and the crew had spent a day – and two bunkers’ worth of coal – shuttling around New Orleans harbour, learning how to stoke the boiler and throttle the engines, how to handle the ship and the big sternwheel. Wisi, who was used to navigating the treacherous rivers of his own country, made a natural pilot, scanning the waters ahead to warn them of sandbars and hazards to navigation. Tippoo supervised the boilers, stripped to the waist, while Virgil Henderson took the helm. In three days, they had become a more than competent crew.

  Near sunset, they turned around and lowered the Raven’s cutter, which they had brought with them. Mungo, Tippoo and a dozen of their men rowed the cutter downstream to a place opposite the Bannerfield landing, while the Nellie Mae moored up just downriver, around a bend from the plantation. The cutter hid in an inlet, where tree branches and the long beards of Spanish moss hung over them. Mungo took up position with his telescope, though it was only nine o’clock and he couldn’t expect Camilla for hours. Tippoo serviced the little swivel gun they had mounted on the bow and loaded it with a small quantity of powder and loose shot.

  Then they waited.

  Tippoo pointed to the steamboat moored at Bannerfield, a hulking monster that dwarfed the Nellie Mae.

  ‘What does it carry?’

  ‘Cotton,’ said Mungo.

  ‘Valuable?’

  Mungo made some calculations in his head.

  ‘There’s probably about quarter of a million dollars sitting on that boat. More in the warehouses.’

  Tippoo spat over the side. ‘That is why they can afford the slaves.’

  ‘Mmm . . .’

  Mungo stared out into the darkness. He hadn’t told Camilla how he had come by his new fortune. Maybe he never would. But he knew he would have to find ano
ther way to live now. Perhaps he could return to his original attempt, trading ivory with Africa and the Indies. He imagined living aboard the Raven with Camilla, letting the wind and the currents and the chance for profit guide them.

  Tippoo broke into his thoughts.

  ‘Many guards.’

  Mungo nodded. He had seen them, patrolling the decks of the barges and around the warehouses. He had counted over three dozen of them, but they did not seem particularly alert. They clearly did not expect any danger.

  He touched the Hall rifle that lay propped against the gunwale beside him. All his men had them. They had seen off Fairchild’s crew of Royal Navy sailors – Chester’s ragtag militia should pose no problem.

  ‘What’s that?’

  The river was almost half a mile wide. The light was little more than a pinprick in the darkness, like a distant star, but Mungo saw it. He studied it with his telescope. Even through the glass, the flame was a tiny flicker, but he could see two figures standing by it, silhouetted on the ridge against the starry sky.

  ‘On your oars,’ he called.

  They could not risk approaching Bannerfield in the Nellie Mae. The fires in her boiler and the noise of her engines would alert the guards before they were even underway. Instead, they would take the rowing boat in silently, then meet up with the steamboat afterwards.

  The current was strong, pushing them two feet downstream for every foot they moved across it. The men pulled hard, while Mungo sat at the tiller trying to hold their course. He gazed ahead. Camilla had said she would show a green light if it was safe to land. Squint as he might, the light he could see was definitely only a yellow flame. But it would take so long to cross the river, he had to be in position when she showed it.

  He stared at the light until his eyes hurt, willing it to turn green.

  Camilla stood at the top of the embankment that looked down on the river. There was no moon. Below, she could hear the water eddying and rushing as the river flowed by, as vast and unstoppable as fate.

  She held Isaac’s hand tighter. She knew the power of the river. She had seen it take whole trees and spin them around like blades of grass. Once, in flood, she had watched a wooden cabin float by, its inhabitants sitting on its roof as if they could not believe what had happened to them. If Isaac slipped here, he would be carried away and drowned.

  But would he be any safer if he got in Mungo’s boat? She had lied to Mungo about Chester, but Isaac knew who his father was. He would surely reveal it sooner or later. What would Mungo say then? Would his love for Camilla save her son?

  It was too late for doubts. She had made her decision. She let go of Isaac’s hand and unwound the green shawl from her head. The lantern had a little snout, like a teapot, so that its light would only be visible from a narrow angle. All she had to do was let the shawl hang in front, and the light would show green.

  She checked around her one more time. There were guards at the landing and on the boats, but she was two hundred yards upriver from them. They could not see her in the darkness.

  ‘When’s the s’prise?’ said Isaac. He yawned. ‘I want my bed.’

  ‘In a moment,’ Camilla promised.

  Something jabbed her in the small of her back, so hard she nearly lost her balance. She might have tumbled down the riverbank, but at the same time a hand grabbed her hair and pulled her back. She felt the press of steel against the base of her spine.

  ‘Strange time to be out with my son,’ rasped Chester.

  ‘Mighty strange,’ added Granville’s voice. ‘Especially for a slave.’

  ‘Daddy!’ Isaac threw his arms around his father’s legs. Then he looked up. ‘Why are you holding a gun?’

  ‘It’s dangerous to be out at night.’ Chester kneeled down. ‘Why did you come here?’

  ‘Milla said it was a s’prise.’

  ‘Did she?’ Chester looked up at Camilla, keeping the pistol trained on her. ‘This evening I told you Mungo St John may be in Louisiana, and now this very same night I find you on the riverbank with a signal lantern and my son. What am I supposed to think?’ He looked out at the river, sniffing the air. ‘Is he here?’

  Camilla did not trust herself to answer. Her hesitation only fed Chester’s suspicion. She felt him tense; for a second she thought he might shoot her that instant. Instead, he mastered himself and stepped back thoughtfully.

  ‘Think carefully,’ he said. ‘You asked what I would do if you brought me Mungo St John. I am willing to honour my promise. Freedom.’ He let the word hang in the darkness. ‘The chance to be with Isaac every day.’ He ruffled the boy’s hair. ‘Would you like that?’

  ‘I like Milla,’ said Isaac.

  ‘What is it to be?’

  Camilla did not know what to say. Her heart was stretched to breaking, pulled between Mungo and Isaac. The river flowed at her feet, and she had the sense that whatever choice she made would have terrible consequences.

  If she had only been choosing for herself, it would have been easy. But she was choosing for Isaac, too. For all the terrible things Chester had done to her, she could not deny he was a loving father. Would Mungo be as kind to the boy? The question that had gnawed in her breast since the day Isaac was born now threatened to consume her. How far would Mungo go for his revenge on Chester?

  He loved her, she reminded herself, and she had to believe that the love in his heart was greater than his hatred for Chester. At the ball, he had been willing to sail away that night and abandon his revenge on Chester so he could be with her. Surely he could not hate the boy.

  She had to believe that.

  She still had the shawl in her hand. If she threw it over the lamp, Chester would have no time to stop her. Mungo would see it. She could feel his presence, just like those nights at Windemere going to the observatory, knowing he would be there.

  If he saw the signal, he would come. He had not told her his plan, but she knew he would not come alone. He would come with men; they would have guns. However many of Chester’s men opposed him, he would fight his way through. Nothing would stop him.

  Could she keep Isaac safe if it came to a battle? She looked down at him, rubbing his eyes. She imagined a bullet flying out of the darkness and putting a hole the size of a dime through his forehead – blood dribbling down his face. She could not risk that. Not even for Mungo.

  She let the cloth fall to the earth and turned the lantern away from the river.

  ‘He is not here. I only brought Isaac to look at the steamboat.’ She shivered. ‘I am cold. I would like to go to bed.’

  She could tell Chester was not satisfied. She could hear the scrape of Granville’s fingernail scratching the haft of his knife; the creak of the pistol spring as Chester thumbed the hammer. There was no telling what he might have done to her, if at that moment Isaac had not sat down on the grass, given an enormous yawn and begun to cry.

  ‘Please, Daddy,’ he said. ‘Can we go home?’

  Camilla kneeled down and swept him up in her arms, cradling him close. The touch of his small body against hers dissolved any doubts she had about what she had done.

  It broke the spell. Chester grunted and turned away.

  ‘Double the guards and tell them to be vigilant,’ he told Granville. ‘Light lamps on the boat. I do not want anyone coming within five hundred yards of the landing.’

  He glared at Camilla. ‘As for you . . . we will speak more of this later.’

  Out on the water, Mungo saw the light vanish. He held his course, waiting for it to reappear. It must be a shadow blocking the light, or maybe Camilla had turned to look at something.

  It didn’t come back. Instead, new lights flared up on the decks of the steamboat. Mungo saw men raising lanterns all around the upper decks. More of the militia came out from the warehouses, roused from sleep. They spread out along the boat’s rails, staring out over the water with rifles raised.

  ‘Back oars,’ Mungo hissed.

  The cutter was almost on the edge of the orb of
light that the lanterns cast. If they were seen, they would make an easy target. Tippoo let go of his oar and picked up one of the Hall rifles. He aimed it at the barge, then turned and gave Mungo a quizzical look.

  ‘Yes?’

  Mungo hesitated. He looked back to where he had seen the light on shore. The glare of the lanterns on the boats ruined his night vision and made it hard to see, but so far as he could tell the figures who had been there before had vanished.

  ‘She is not coming.’

  Tippoo lowered the rifle. He nodded slowly, acknowledging the anguish on Mungo’s face.

  ‘What now?’

  Mungo put the tiller over and pointed the cutter’s bow downstream, back towards the Nellie Mae and away from Bannerfield. Away from Camilla. The rowers shipped their oars and let the current take them.

  Mungo looked back, trying to master the frustration that threatened to boil over inside him. Camilla had been there, he was sure of it. He had felt her presence. Why had she not shown the green light? Had she been discovered? If so, what would happen to her? A hundred possibilities raced through his mind, each worse than the last. If the current had not already carried them so far downstream, he would have ordered them to turn back and attack, the odds be damned.

  He sat back against the transom and waited for his anger to cool. There was nothing to gain by being rash. There was only one way he could help Camilla now.

  On the bench in front of him, Tippoo was still waiting for an answer to his question. What now?

  ‘We will bring Chester Marion to New Orleans. Then we will destroy him.’

  Camilla spent three days in her room. Twice a day, a servant brought her food and emptied her chamber pot; otherwise, she was left alone. It almost drove her mad. Sometimes, she looked at the hook on the roof beam where the lantern hung, and at the bedsheets, and terrible thoughts came into her mind. She told herself to stay strong – for Isaac, for Mungo – but knowing that they were out there only made it harder to bear her captivity. Occasionally, she heard Isaac’s little voice drifting in from outside, and then she would press herself against the barred window until her head hurt, trying to get a glimpse of him. He sounded so happy. That was what hurt most.