by Wilbur Smith
‘I confess, I never expected to see the day I would have to bail a St John out of jail for stealing a slave,’ he said.
‘She was mine,’ said Mungo. ‘And free by the terms of my father’s will.’
It hardly mattered now. Camilla is dead. He said it to himself again – the thousandth time, and each repetition was another twist of the knife inside him. He wanted the pain; he savoured it. Let it be the fuel to forge his revenge.
None of it mattered to Rutherford.
‘What happened with Chester Marion?’
Quickly, Mungo related everything that had happened that day. Rutherford listened in silence, puffing on his pipe and frowning.
‘Chester Marion is a monster,’ Mungo concluded. ‘I am going to kill him, just as he killed my father.’ There was no emotion in his voice, merely an icy statement of fact.
‘But therein lies your difficulty.’ Rutherford fiddled with the bowl of his pipe. ‘Chester may be an upstart lawyer with no breeding, but he is now one of the biggest landowners in Virginia, and that carries its own weight. You do not go up against a man like that with only a half-dime in your pocket.’
‘All I need is a gun and a bullet.’
Rutherford shook his head. ‘I thought you had a cooler head on your shoulders. Putting a bullet in Marion’s heart might give you a moment’s satisfaction, but you would not live to enjoy it. You would be branded a murderer.’
‘Not if I challenge him to a duel.’
‘Duels are illegal.’
‘When was the last time the authorities enforced that law against a prominent man?’
Rutherford laid a hand on Mungo’s arm. ‘Chester would never accept your challenge. If what you say is true, he has spent the best part of three years at least getting his hands on Windemere. He will not risk his victory now.’
‘Then how do you suggest I proceed?’
Rutherford’s caution had only stoked Mungo’s temper. The old man’s next words were more incendiary still.
‘I suggest you do not proceed.’
‘I will not let Chester live!’ Mungo hurled the plate into the fireplace; it smashed into fragments. ‘I will destroy him, and every man who has helped him. I will not stop until Windemere is mine again, along with everything that pertains to it.’
Rutherford had lived the best part of seven decades, and in the course of his life he had encountered more than his share of dangerous men. Some he had done business with; others he had removed from his path. But he had never seen such lethal purpose in another man’s eyes as he saw in Mungo’s now. Experienced as he was, it made him shiver.
He gestured for Mungo to sit in a leather-upholstered chair, and rang a bell for the butler.
‘You look like a man who needs a drink. What’ll it be?’
‘Whatever you’re drinking,’ said Mungo.
‘Alas . . . the doctor doesn’t allow it. After my last seizure, he said if I drank again it’d kill me.’ Rutherford gave a resigned sigh. ‘But I have a very fine French cognac that I’ve been waiting for someone to finish.’
The butler poured the cognac from its decanter into a glass and withdrew. Rutherford took a seat opposite Mungo.
‘I know the blood runs hot in a young man’s veins,’ he said. ‘But take some advice from a man who has lived long enough to learn wisdom. At the moment, Chester holds all the cards. You, on the other hand, are a penniless outcast who will shortly go on trial for slave stealing. People know your daddy’s reputation as soft on negroes – they will make you out to be some crazy abolitionist. A white man who betrays his race? Chester wouldn’t even have to bribe the jury to make an example of you.’
Mungo sipped his liquor and did not argue the point.
‘I feel the anger you must have in you.’ Rutherford glanced at the painting of Mungo’s mother on the wall. ‘Abigail loved Windemere more than any place on earth, and she wanted you to have it when she and your father were gone. So let me help you get it back.’
Mungo sat stiff in his chair, his yellow eyes watching Rutherford carefully.
‘What do you propose?’
‘You will leave the country.’
‘I am already accused of slave stealing. Would you have me add bail jumping to the charge sheet?’ Mungo asked drily.
Rutherford tapped his pipe against the arm of his chair. ‘You will need money to go against Chester Marion, and your family is bankrupt.’
‘Not all my family.’ Mungo nodded at the sumptuous furniture in the room, the fine paintings by Turner and Constable that had been brought from England.
Rutherford stiffened. ‘This is not my fight. I gave Abigail the finest dowry a daughter ever had, and your father squandered it lavishing perquisites on his negroes. I have not forgotten that.’
His voice was harsh, a tone Mungo had never heard before. Until then, he had only ever seen Rutherford through a grandchild’s eyes – kind and doting. Now, he saw the face Rutherford showed to the world. He had not accumulated his fortune by kindness and happy chance. He was a businessman, an opponent you would not want opposite you at the negotiating table. An enemy you could not afford to make.
If Mungo had glanced at a looking glass, he might have seen that the hard light in Rutherford’s eyes mirrored itself on Mungo’s face. He might have recognised it for what it was. Utter ruthlessness.
‘There is a ship I have an interest in, the Blackhawk,’ said Rutherford. ‘She sails out of Baltimore in three days and when she does, you will be aboard as crew. Her master, Captain Sterling, is a friend of mine and entirely trustworthy. She stands to realise two hundred thousand dollars profit from the voyage and – in Abigail’s memory – I will grant you a one per cent share. If I receive a good report of your conduct from Sterling, I will raise that to five per cent on the next voyage. If that is profitable, I will make you a full partner in the venture.’
‘Where is the ship bound?’ Mungo asked.
‘Africa.’
‘We will be gone for months.’ Mungo tried to keep his temper, but all he could see in his head was Chester, the smirk on his face as he aimed his pistol at Camilla. ‘It will be months – years, even – before I am in a position to challenge Chester.’
Rutherford shrugged. ‘That is how it must be. My offer is not negotiable.’
Mungo went silent, his mind calculating possibilities like a chess player. Rutherford must have read his thoughts on his face.
‘If you are not on that ship when she sails – if you pursue your vendetta against Chester, or go back for your slave girl, or anything else – I will post the bounty for your capture myself,’ he warned. ‘You will go back to prison. If Chester Marion is half as ruthless as you have said, he will find you there and make sure you are dead before you even see the inside of the courthouse. Do I make myself clear?’
Again, Mungo glimpsed the steel inside his grandfather. Whatever ideas he might have had about defying Rutherford, he let them go at that moment. Camilla was dead; there was nothing to gain by haste. He would take his vengeance at his leisure.
Mungo drained the last of his cognac and stood. ‘I will sail aboard the Blackhawk.’
The air in Windemere’s storeroom was heavy with the musty sweetness of dried tobacco. In normal times, the room should be full of casks of packed tobacco ready to be shipped to England and beyond. Now it was empty – except for Camilla. She lay on the floor amid the sweepings, curled in a ball. She was surprised to be alive, though she did not yet know if she should be glad of it.
Her mind went back to the clearing, her last sight of Mungo as he was dragged away by Cartwright’s horse. On her knees in the mud next to her grandfather’s body, with Chester standing over her. He had raised his pistol and she had been certain she would die.
Then she had felt a movement beside her. Methuselah’s eyes flickered open and saw Chester. With his dying breath, he tried to rise up to shield Camilla. It was a feeble hope: he did not even have the strength to lift himself off the ground. Bu
t the motion distracted Chester. He turned the pistol on Methuselah and shot him point-blank through his skull. Camilla started to scream, but was abruptly choked off as Granville pressed his palm over her mouth. He put the blade of his knife against her throat.
‘Shall I do it?’ he asked Chester.
She had seen in Chester’s eyes that he was considering it. Then something changed.
‘Mungo was sweet on her,’ said Chester. ‘I remember three summers ago, he could barely keep his hands off of her. Maybe I should keep her around a little longer, a trophy of my victory.’
He nodded, the decision made. Granville’s hands relaxed the pressure on her skull.
‘Take her down.’
They left Methuselah unburied, lying in the clearing for animals and birds to devour. Chester’s men made bruises all over Camilla’s body as they dragged her from the observatory – not gently. Granville had been particularly rough, letting his hands roam all over her. She still remembered the look he gave her as he threw her into the room, his hungry eyes and his teeth stained yellow with tobacco.
Still, she forced herself not to weep. At least she was alive.
Through the small, high window she could see night had fallen. She hugged her arms around herself, and wondered where Mungo was. She did not believe the militia could keep him captive for long. He was rich and important; his family were the greatest in the county. And she had never seen him in a situation he could not manoeuvre his way out of.
She wished she had explained more in her note. He would have come better prepared, but she had been so fearful of the letter being intercepted she had not dared say more. And she did not fully understand what had happened herself. How had Chester Marion gained such power so quickly? How could Mungo not be the master of Windemere, after his father had died? Why was she not free?
Footsteps sounded outside. Under the door-sill, she saw the glow of a lamp approaching. Could it be Mungo come to rescue her? She knew in her head it was unlikely, but her heart still sprang with hope. She could not believe he would abandon her.
The door swung on its hinges, and the light grew into a wedge. The lamp appeared, but the face beside it was not Mungo. It was the man who had stolen everything from her – Chester Marion, with his wispy hair and pale skin and those unsettling eyes. They were looking at her now, shining with a fervour that made her shiver.
‘Where is Mungo?’ she asked.
She knew she shouldn’t have asked it, but the question was so hot in her mind she couldn’t help herself. The moment she said Mungo’s name, Chester’s face lit up with fury. He kneeled down and slapped her face with a stunning blow.
‘Never say his name,’ he hissed. ‘Mungo has no right to Windemere. He will never set foot here, and you will never see him again.’
He reached up and hung the lamp on a hook in the ceiling. Then he kneeled beside her again. Camilla cowered back, but there was nowhere to go in the tiny storeroom. All she had on was the dress she had been wearing that morning, torn and filthy from her rough passage back to the estate.
Chester reached for the hem of the fabric, his breathing ragged, and slid his hands under her dress. She felt his fingers crawling over her skin: up her thighs, over her waist and her young belly, lifting the dress higher and higher until she was completely exposed. He grabbed her breasts, wrenching and squeezing them.
She did not think about what she did next. Instinctively her hands curled into claws. She raked her fingernails across his back, sank her teeth into the curve of his neck. He roared in pain, the lust in his eyes turning to rage. He took hold of her hair and yanked her head back so hard he almost snapped her neck. He tore off her dress and tossed it aside.
‘I will have you,’ he growled, ‘and I will make you pay.’
He tugged down his trousers. Camilla fought him like a wildcat, poking his eyes with her fingers, scoring his flesh with her nails, kicking his groin with her feet, and resisting all his attempts to pin her arms and legs. Small and supple though she was, she fought with desperate strength. Her arms were strong from working; Chester rarely wielded anything heavier than a pen. Even though he was bigger, he could not get the advantage.
But he was not alone. Granville had been waiting outside, and he rushed in when he heard his master’s distress. He grabbed Camilla’s arms, pulled her off Chester and threw her to the floor. She tried to get up, but he was too strong. He rolled her over onto her stomach and put his knee on the back of her neck to pin her, while his hands gripped her wrists like manacles.
Chester wiped blood from the bite she had left in his neck. He forced her thighs apart and lifted her towards him.
‘I will teach you obedience.’
She didn’t know how long Chester raped her, but eventually – with a grunt of satisfaction – it was done. He lifted himself off her, wiping himself with her dress. Granville Slaughter, who had held her down the entire time, let go. Camilla had almost lost consciousness, but through the haze she heard Chester say to the overseer, ‘I have softened her up for you. Your turn, now.’
She’d thought she was immune to pain. But the thought of it happening again was more than she could bear; she would not survive it. Her body convulsed. Chester saw it, and laughed.
‘This will teach Mungo St John to mess with my property.’
She did not have the strength to resist. Granville dropped his trousers and squatted over her. She bit her lip, and prayed it would be over quickly.
The door banged open. Camilla could not lift her head to look, but she felt Granville pause.
‘I told you we were not to be disturbed,’ said Chester peevishly.
‘Yes, sir.’ A new voice – one of his men. ‘But word just came from Richmond. Mungo St John walked out of jail three hours ago and ain’t been seen since.’
Chester swore. He lashed out with his boot, kicking Camilla so hard she felt one of her ribs crack.
‘Granville – get your men. I want them guarding the house day and night. That man is a wild dog and there’s no telling what he may try to do.’
‘What about the girl?’ complained Granville. ‘I ain’t had my turn yet.’
‘Leave her,’ said Chester. ‘There’ll be time later.’
Angrily, Granville let Camilla go. The men went out. When Camilla heard the lock click shut, she curled into a ball on the floor, her eyes half-open but seeing nothing. Her chest heaved with sobs, but no tears came. All she had to cling to was hatred. She imagined Chester’s end, his blood running red upon the ground, his flesh mutilated, rotting from within until only the bones remained. She imagined Mungo standing over his corpse. The news that he had escaped gave her new hope.
Surely he would come back for her now.
The taverns and public houses of Fells Point were lit up with revellers when Mungo handed Rutherford’s horse to the stable boy at the Admiral Fell Inn. He retrieved the luggage he had left in store after his voyage from England, and took out the clothes he would need for his new life. There were not many. To these he added a few prized possessions: a long-stemmed pipe he had acquired from James J. Fox in London, along with a supply of the finest smoking tobacco; a compass and spyglass his father had given him before his first voyage to England; a spear-point Bowie knife with a gilded handle and intricate scrollwork on the edges of the blade; and a silver locket.
He packed it all into a new sea bag – everything except the Bowie knife. Then he tucked the knife in his waistband where the coat hid it, and went to get drunk.
The Waterfront Hotel was jammed with sailors downing pints of ale and shots of whiskey and shouting to be heard over the tunes of an Irish banjo band. Mungo sank three drinks in quick succession, letting the liquor numb him. He had been in Baltimore only a week ago, but it felt like a different life. Then, he had stepped off the boat as the new master of Windemere. Now, thanks to Chester Marion, he had nothing.
He raised his fourth glass of whiskey and drank a silent toast to Nemesis, the goddess of revenge. He tried to
picture her as he had seen her in an engraving in the museum at Cambridge – a fearsome woman, wings outstretched to speed her revenge, a whip raised in her right hand. But when he imagined her face, all he saw was Camilla.
In the booth at the back of the tavern, a group of sailors were deep into a poker game. They must have been paid recently, for they were playing for high stakes. Coins jingled and flashed on the tabletop.
Rutherford’s advice echoed back to Mungo: you do not go up against a man like Chester Marion with only a half-dime in your pocket.
Mungo did not know yet how he would bring Chester down – the pain was too raw to think – but he understood the truth of what his grandfather had said. He needed money.
The glittering coins on the poker table seemed to wink at Mungo. He felt a sudden, overwhelming pull towards them, almost as great as his thirst for liquor. He pushed his way through the crowd to the poker table.
Six men sat squeezed into the booth, cards in hand. Mungo’s eyes took them in at a glance and settled on the man opposite. It was clear from the mound of chips in front of him that he was an accomplished card player, which was lucky, for he would never trade on his looks. His beard was so full it looked like an extension of his close-cropped hair. His eyes were green but bunched too close together, and his nose was elongated and hooked at the tip. Mungo disliked him on sight.
The man looked up from his cards and saw Mungo staring at him.
‘Something I can help you with?’ he asked. There was a dangerous note in his voice.
‘Is there room for one more?’
‘No.’
‘Not so fast, Lanahan,’ one of his friends protested. ‘Let’s see the colour of his money.’
The man called Lanahan scowled. It made him look even uglier.
‘There’s a twenty-dollar buy-in with a one-dollar minimum bet. No paper, only silver. Are you game, or is that too rich for your blood?’
‘I can afford it.’
