by Wilbur Smith
Mungo’s eyes blazed so hot she thought he might hit her back. Since the day she was born, she had imbibed the lesson that hurting a white man was the ultimate crime. She had not even thought she was capable of it. Now, she trembled with shock at what she had done, bracing herself for his retaliation. Mungo balled his fist. He leaned closer, so much bigger than her. But he did not touch her.
‘Are you any better? All these years that you have been Chester’s book-keeper – did you get nothing worse than ink on your hands? How many slaves are kept at Bannerfield? You may not have brought them from Africa, but you surely arranged for the tools in their hands and the food in their bellies that kept them alive in bondage.’
His words cut so deep, Camilla would almost rather he had punched her.
‘I did what I had to do to survive.’
‘I did what I had to do to rescue you.’
A long silence hung over the room. There were only two feet between them, but it felt like a chasm. Not for the first time, Camilla wondered how much they had changed in the time they had been apart. Whether love or anything else could bridge the gap between them.
She had to believe it was possible.
‘You did what you did. Maybe we both have done things . . .’ She shook herself, then looked up. Tears glistened on her eyelashes, but her gaze was clear and firm. ‘You must vow to me that you will never go back to the black ships. You must promise that you will never again trade in human lives. Swear it, by your love for me.’
Never before had she felt the difference between them so hard: his white skin, and her black. In that moment, she did not know what he would do. She could feel the energy in his body, every muscle tensed like a lion ready to spring. Perhaps he would walk out of the room, and she would never see him again. His yellow eyes were opaque, giving no clue.
Then, forgetting the Mother Superior beyond the door, Mungo took her hand and clasped it between his own.
‘I swear it.’
He stared into the depths of her eyes, and there was not a trace of guile or deceit. He meant what he said. Yet inside him, he was surprised to find he felt strangely unmoved by the oath he had taken. His cheek still hurt from the slap she had given him, but it had not stung his conscience. To apologise for what he had done would make him a hypocrite, and he would never be that. Why should he want forgiveness?
Somewhere between Pendleton’s compound and the slave market of Havana, a change had happened inside him. The heat of his anger had cooled to something adamant, so hard that the mere guilt could not scratch it. If he felt anything, it was only a pang of unease at how little he could feel: a vestigial memory that once there had been deep emotion in him.
That was easily brushed away. There is only one law on this earth – the law that gives the strong and wealthy power over the weak and poor.
He kissed Camilla’s forehead. In his mind, he had already moved on to more practical problems. Perhaps there was a way he could find the money.
‘If I had a million dollars – what then? I would just go to Mr Jackson and tell him I wished to purchase Chester’s loans? Would he even sell them to me, as a private individual?’
‘He would sell them to anyone if there was profit in it, but he makes a fortune off his loans to Chester. You would need to give him a reason to sell. Shake his faith in Chester.’
‘How would I do that?’
To Mungo’s surprise, Camilla actually laughed. Risking the Mother Superior’s disapproval, she reached out and put her hand on his cheek, feeling the rough-hewn lines of his face.
‘Something I think you would be very good at. You would have to start a panic.’
That afternoon, Mungo paid two calls in New Orleans.
The first was to the Bank of New Orleans, in an imposing building behind marble columns on Front Levee overlooking the river. Though he did not have an appointment, the clerks recognised him at once and ushered him into the private office of the bank’s president, Jonathan Jackson. The office smelled of cigars and money.
‘You know that I have two hundred thousand dollars deposited with you,’ said Mungo.
‘Indeed I do,’ said Jackson. ‘We are honoured to be your bankers.’
‘I came to you on the recommendation of my good friend François de Villiers, who conducts a great deal of business on behalf of Chester Marion.’
Jackson smiled at the name. ‘I venture to say that through our prudent management of his finances, we have helped Mr Marion become the greatest planter on the Mississippi.’
‘You advanced him the money for his projects?’
‘We did.’
‘And you still hold these debts?’
‘We do.’
Mungo nodded, as if something he suspected had been proven. ‘You know there are rumours that your bank may be in some difficulties.’
A bead of sweat broke on Jackson’s brow. As a ship’s captain feared even the smallest flame, so a banker lived in terror of any spark of a rumour of insolvency. If it were not quickly put out, it could become an inferno that could devour the whole institution.
‘What rumours?’
‘I overheard two men talking at Maspero’s coffee house this morning. They were thinking of withdrawing their funds from here and transferring them to the Union Bank.’
A second bead of sweat joined the first. ‘Why should they do that?’
‘Chester Marion has not been seen in New Orleans for months.’
‘That is true.’
‘These men said it was because he could not pay his debts. They say he has holed up at Bannerfield, surrounded by armed guards, to hide the fact that his crop has failed. One of them even said – I do not credit it myself, but he certainly said it – that Chester had taken his own life, and his overseer was hiding the fact while he sought a buyer for the estate.’
Jackson thumped the desk. ‘That is the most infamous pack of lies. I do not know where these rumours began, but I can assure you that there is no risk. Chester Marion is a dependable customer. Rock solid.’
‘I am relieved to hear you say it,’ said Mungo. ‘You have seen him recently to confirm that all is well?’
‘Well, no,’ Jackson conceded. ‘But I have heard nothing amiss from Bannerfield. I am sure . . .’
He broke off. Mungo was giving him a stare so piercing he felt like a schoolboy with his breeches down.
‘As one businessman to another – as well as a client – permit me to give you some advice,’ said Mungo. ‘It would be well for your bank if Chester Marion showed his face in New Orleans, sooner rather than later.’
Jackson drew himself up to his full height. ‘Chester Marion comes and goes as he pleases. But when his cotton reaches New Orleans next week, all the world will see that he has more money than he knows what to do with. I will be at the wharf myself to ensure its safe arrival.’
Mungo gave a smile that, for some reason, sent a shiver down Jackson’s spine. He told himself it must be a draught. It was November, and an autumnal chill had crept into the city.
‘I am glad to hear it.’
Jackson showed Mungo out with a firm handshake and a sense of relief. He could not imagine where these rumours could have come from, but he felt he had done enough to quell his client’s doubts.
Nonetheless, as soon as Mungo had gone he took paper and pen from his desk and wrote a brief note.
There is some disquiet that you have been absent so long from New Orleans. I believe it would be advantageous to your affairs, and reassuring to the bank, if you were able to visit the city and dispel any ill-informed rumors concerning your good health and prosperity.
He sealed the letter and gave it to his secretary to despatch immediately by steamboat upriver. He was confident Chester would come – he owed the bank too much money to ignore Jackson’s request. And that would be an end of these disagreeable rumours.
Mungo’s second call was to the house on Rue Royale. He did not know if he would be welcome after their previous encoun
ter, but Solange received him in her salon, lounging on a chaise and sipping a glass of chilled wine. Bars of late afternoon light shone through the slats of the shutters.
‘I have an investment opportunity for you,’ Mungo told her.
She looked bored. ‘I am rich enough.’
‘I could make you mistress of the finest plantation on the Mississippi. Five thousand acres of land, a thousand slaves, and half a million dollars in cotton every year.’
Still she showed no interest. ‘Is the man who owns it a bachelor?’
‘He is.’
‘Then if I wanted it, I could achieve it through a simple act of matrimony – without whatever scheme you want to propose.’
‘If you married him, you would be a widow within a week.’
That piqued her interest. ‘Is he in poor health?’
‘He will be – when he has my bullet in his heart.’
She laughed with delight. ‘This is the man you told me about? The man you came to destroy?’
‘My web is closing around him. But to complete it, I need a million dollars.’
‘That is a lot of money.’ Solange beckoned him towards her. ‘Come and sit with me.’
Mungo hesitated. Her intentions were as clear as they had been the night he entered her cabin aboard the Blackhawk. The fact that he had spurned her on his last visit seemed to have deterred her not at all.
But he needed a million dollars from her.
He went across to the chaise and sat on the end of it. Solange put her feet up on his lap.
‘What if I do not give you the money?’
‘I am not asking for a gift – only a loan. As I said, you will gain a fine estate in return.’
She kicked off her slipper and nestled her stockinged foot between his legs.
‘If it is such an irresistible proposition, why are you offering it to me?’
‘Because I do not have a million dollars.’
‘And if I say no?’
‘I will find another way.’
‘I do not doubt you will. You are the most determined man I have ever met.’ She leaned forward, giving him an ample view down the front of her dress. Her foot began to move slowly, rubbing against his groin. She smiled as she felt him go hard under her touch. ‘Perhaps if you come upstairs, we can discuss this further.’
Mungo did not move. He could tell by the gleam in her eyes that she was toying with him, testing his resolve. But what did she want? Would she give him the money if he succumbed? Or would she just mock him as a hypocrite and spurn him?
‘I have an appointment elsewhere.’
Solange pouted. ‘You come to ask for a million dollars, and then tell me you must go so quickly. Even if your request was for something less excessive, I would think that showed a certain lack of delicacy.’
‘I apologise if I seem rude.’
‘Then come upstairs.’
Mungo still did not move. ‘I told you last time I came here, Camilla is alive.’
Solange’s eyes narrowed. ‘You want my million dollars to buy back your sweetheart?’
‘The money is to ruin Chester Marion.’
‘I wonder.’ Solange stared at him, as if trying to see behind his golden eyes. ‘If you had only one choice – to save the woman you love, or destroy your enemy – what would you do?’
‘I do not intend to have to choose.’
Solange stood. She went to the ice bucket where the wine bottle stood, and refilled her glass. The cold wine made beads of condensation bloom on the rim. She stared at her reflection in the mirror over the mantelpiece, tucking back a loose strand of hair.
‘If you had not killed my brother, I would have had nothing.’ She said it quietly, almost to herself. ‘All the inheritance would have gone to Afonso when our father died. I would have been at his mercy.’
Mungo had risen as well. He faced her across the room.
‘I was only protecting your honour.’
‘Honour?’ A scathing expression came into her voice. ‘Do you really believe in honour? Is that why you did everything you have done – for honour?’
‘No,’ Mungo admitted. ‘Honour is merely a dressed-up word for pride.’
‘And a pretty excuse for revenge.’
Why deny it? ‘Yes.’
‘Then why not come to my bed to get the money you need? Any other man would have done that and thought himself doubly lucky. Would you not sleep with me in exchange for what you want?’
‘If you insisted,’ said Mungo. ‘It would not be the worst thing I have done for money.’
‘That is not very gallant.’ She said it with mock indignation, but Mungo did not think he had offended her. She looked into her glass, swirling the wine. ‘Your sweetheart must be a precious woman indeed to be worth so much. Beautiful, accomplished, witty, doting. A Messalina in the bedroom.’
‘She is the one I want.’
‘Then I shall give her to you.’ She drained the last dregs of her wine, stepped forward and put her hands on his hips. She looked up into his eyes as if getting ready for a dance. ‘I will loan you the million dollars, in consideration of the debt I owe you for killing my brother. But remember it is only a loan. I will expect repayment – one way or another.’
Mungo realised he had hardly drawn breath for the last ten minutes. He felt dizzy; his head swam with Solange’s perfume and the wine on her breath. He looked down into her face, and all he felt was desire. He should have felt ashamed of it, but – for the second time that day – he found that he could not feel guilt.
‘You do not have to give it to me,’ he told her. ‘All I need you to do is sign a piece of paper.’
Ezekiel McMurran liked to say that if he knew the Mississippi any better, he’d be a catfish. His earliest memories were splashing in its creeks and bywaters. At ten, he had run away from home to crew flatboats, the rough-hewn river barges that had brought goods and settlers down the Mississippi in those early frontier days. It was one-way traffic, powered only by the current. He would help navigate the boats down to New Orleans, avoiding shallows and fending off obstacles with poles. There, the vessels would be broken up for lumber, and McMurran would trudge the two hundred miles back upriver and wait for another boat to pass.
Then one day, near New Orleans, he had seen a preposterous ship without oars or sails, spouting smoke from her funnel and churning the water behind her as she made her way upstream – upstream! – at a stately three knots. From that moment, he had known his calling in life. He had talked his way aboard: first as a ship’s boy, then a rouster, a fireman, an engineer, and finally as captain of his own vessel. He had taken ships from Louisiana as far as Memphis; he had carried soldiers, opera singers and even a president.
But he had never carried a cargo as valuable as the one he did now. Half a million dollars’ worth of cotton – so much, he had not even been certain the boat could carry it all. It was packed solid on the Windemere’s lower deck, a wall of raw cotton more than twenty feet high extending right around the perimeter of the boat. Heavily loaded, she sat so low in the water that every ripple in the river splashed over her guards and wetted the cotton that bulged out from her sides.
And as if that was not enough, he also had the cotton’s owner to contend with. The day before the Windemere left Bannerfield, a letter had arrived from the Bank of New Orleans that threw Chester Marion into a black mood. Shortly afterwards, he had announced that he would be accompanying the cotton downriver – and bringing his son with him. That had necessitated a rushed job emptying the stateroom of the cotton that had been stored within, and somehow finding somewhere else to stow it.
Now, from the pilot house above the Windemere’s hurricane deck, McMurran could console himself that his journey was nearly finished. On the left, the wharfs and spires of New Orleans moved past, while off the starboard side the city’s river traffic made its way up the main channel. The Windemere, her owner and her cargo were almost at their destination.
It had not been wi
thout difficulty. The previous day, when they tied up for the night, his engineer had gone ashore to find extra wood for the boilers. It was unclear exactly what had happened next. Some said he had been drinking, others that he had got in a fight with a negro, others again that he had been accidentally knocked out by a piece of firewood. In any event, the man had been carried back to the boat insensible, with his head stove in and no prospect of him resuming his duties.
Fortunately, luck had smiled on McMurran. There had been another steamboat tied up at the landing, the Nellie Mae. Her captain had heard of McMurran’s difficulty and offered him the loan of his own engineer. McMurran had blanched when he saw the man – a giant, probably mulatto, with an entirely hairless head. McMurran had been minded to refuse. But when he put the man in front of the boilers it had quickly become clear he possessed extraordinary skill. McMurran had gratefully accepted his help. Better, the rapid resolution meant there was no need to inform Chester of the incident. McMurran did not dare give his employer any reason to doubt him.
And now they were nearly there. Only a quarter of a mile, and he would have discharged his duty. McMurran could see the wharf ahead, and the brick warehouse behind it. The arrival of the Bannerfield steamer was always an event in New Orleans, and this year – for some reason – more people than usual had gathered to witness it.
McMurran gripped the wheel. He was almost there. He would not let anything happen to Chester Marion’s cargo.
The day was cloudy, and a brisk wind whipped the wharf. Among the crowd who had gathered were some of the most eminent businessmen in the city: François de Villiers, as was to be expected; but also Jonathan Jackson, the president of the Bank of New Orleans. Some men whispered that the banker had come because there were doubts whether Chester’s credit was still good. Those who did not have money in the Bank of New Orleans laughed at the gossip and laid bets; those who were the bank’s customers glanced anxiously over their shoulders. There were no secrets in New Orleans. Everyone knew how much the bank’s fortunes were tied to the Windemere’s cargo. Though if they had doubts, the two dozen guards in the uniforms of the Bannerfield Militia should have allayed them.
