Call of the raven, p.35
Call of the Raven, page 35
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 toward 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.
On the third afternoon, Granville came and took her outside. Chester met her in the garden, walking along the gravel path beside the ponds he had dug. She did not wait for him to speak.
“I should go back to New Orleans,” she said. “It’s crop time. You need your eyes and ears among the traders and the factors.”
Chester eyed her as if she hadn’t spoken. He kept perfectly still—except for his head, which jerked back and forth like a cobra ready to strike.
“Do you have anymore to say about what happened the other night?” he asked.
“Isaac couldn’t sleep. I took him out to see the boat and the river.”
“Isaac said you woke him.”
“I heard him cry in his sleep.”
“I was in the room next door and I heard nothing.”
She shrugged. “Sometimes a mother’s ears are more sensitive.”
Chester scowled. “Granville thinks there was a boat out on the water. He is convinced you were signaling to it.”
“Granville sees dangers everywhere.”
“Because that is what I pay him for!” Chester kicked out in a sudden flash of fury. A spray of gravel flew off the path, over the wall and down into the pond. “I sent word to my agents in New Orleans. They say that the mysterious Mr. Sinclair has not been seen there this past week.”
“I would not know.”
“Do not play the fool with me.” His eyes drilled into her. “Has Mungo St. John returned? Is he in New Orleans? Did you think you could bring him ashore to murder us all in our beds?”
With each question his voice grew more hysterical. Specks of spittle flew out of his mouth. He was so frenzied, Camilla did not even dare to protest her innocence in case her denial provoked him more.
“I will have the truth from you,” he hissed.
He grabbed her by the arms and shoved her onto the wall that lined the moat. On the elevated path the wall was only knee-high, but on its far side it dropped six feet or more straight down into the water. Chester held her down on the wall, forcing her head out over the edge. In the commotion, her bonnet came loose and dropped into the water.
It barely made a ripple as it landed—but it did not go unnoticed. On the opposite side of the pond, three alligators moved off the shore where they had been sunning themselves and began swimming toward her.
“You know what these creatures can do.” Chester pushed her further out over the water. The alligators were almost halfway across. “I will let them have you. They will devour you, inch by inch, until I have the truth.”
The monsters were coming closer, spiny backs surging through the water. Camilla wanted to scream, but that would do no good. What could she tell Chester? She could not admit that Mungo had been there. But nothing else would satisfy him.
The alligators were nearly there. Chester rolled her over onto her stomach so she was face down, staring straight at them. One of the creatures, faster than the others, was upon her. It rose out of the water in a splash of spray, wide open jaws lunging for her. She saw black eyes, a gnarled face like tree roots, and more teeth than she had ever imagined.
The jaws snapped shut—but they closed on thin air. At the last possible moment, Chester jerked Camilla back off the wall and threw her onto the path. The alligator, unable to scale the barrier, fell back in the water with an enormous splash while Camilla lay sobbing on the ground at Chester’s feet.
“Maybe you are telling the truth,” Chester conceded. He beckoned Granville over from where he had been loitering nearby.
“Ready the coach. Camilla will be returning to New Orleans this evening.”
Granville looked surprised, but he knew better than to question Chester in this mood.
“Find out everything you can about this Thomas Sinclair.” Chester was speaking to Camilla now, though he did not deign to look at her. “Let me know whatever you learn—and be sure I will hear of it if you lie to me.”
He had finished with her. He walked on, his face calm again. Camilla fled gratefully, but Granville waited.
“You trust that black bitch?” said the overseer.
Chester puffed on his cigar and smiled. “Of course not. But I can still use her to my advantage.”
“Not if she betrays you.”
“No,” Chester agreed. “That is why you will accompany her to New Orleans again. Stick to her like her own shadow, see who she speaks to. Keep a particular watch for our friend Mr. Sinclair.”
“And the girl?”
Chester stared at the pond. “She is no use to me if I cannot trust her. Do nothing until I arrive.”
Granville licked his lips. “And then?”
“You can do what you want with her.”
Mungo was dining with François at the house on Rue Bourbon, talking of the upcoming presidential election, when the doorbell rang. From the hallway, Mungo heard the door open, a hushed conversation, and then the click of the latch closing again. A moment later, François’s valet appeared.
“A negro girl brought this for you,” he said to Mungo.
He was holding a single flower, four white petals tinged with pink around their edges. Each petal swelled out from the stem, then curved back to a small notch in its tip to give it the shape of a heart.
“Is it a geranium?” asked François, who had no interest in gardening.
“A dogwood flower,” said Mungo.
He cupped it in his hands, as reverently as a priest holding the communion wafer, and breathed in the scent.
“A lady brought this?” François raised a coquettish eyebrow. “I think you have an admirer, sir.”
He had not expected the reaction he provoked. Mungo looked up from the flower, and the look on his face was almost murderous. François recoiled; his stomach lurched.
Then Mungo’s habitual smile returned. He handed the flower back to the valet.
“Put it in water,” he said. He picked up his knife and fork and, with a single sharp motion that made François wince, sliced open the fish on his plate.
“Let us return to the topic of the election.”
The next morning, Camilla rose early. Her maid brought her breakfast, but she didn’t touch it. Her stomach was a knot of emotions. Had Mungo received her flower? Had he understood what it meant? Would he come? And if he did, would it be safe—or would they be discovered?
Granville was waiting for her at the front door, already dressed and with a knowing leer on his face. He looked her up and down, and Camilla tried to not imagine what he was thinking.
“I am going to confession,” she said.
He gave a mock bow and opened the door for her. As soon as she stepped out, she heard his sharp footsteps fall in behind her. They followed her down Rue St. Louis, around the corner onto Rue de Chartres and all the way to the cathedral—like the beat of a drum marching a woman to the gallows.
The clock on the central tower already showed past six. She left Granville to take up his customary position outside the front door, and went straight in to the confessional.
She didn’t notice Granville slip inside after her.
The confessional was empty. They had repaired the grille Mungo had broken on their previous visit, replacing the wood with iron bars. But there was no one behind them. Even before her eyes adjusted to the dark, Camilla could feel Mungo’s absence.
She waited. Five minutes, then ten. Her hope faltered; fear began to pile on fear. He had not understood the message. He could not come. Chester had found him and he was dead. Or he was angry with her for not showing the lantern on the dock at Bannerfield and had abandoned her.
She was about to leave, when suddenly she heard the squeak of hinges on the confessional door and a man stepping inside. She sagged forward onto the kneeler and closed her eyes in relief.
“Thank God you came,” she breathed.
“‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned’ would be a more customary way to start,” said a voice. Not Mungo’s, but high, petulant and heavily accented with French. “And no doubt you have a great many sins to confess.”
Camilla’s eyes snapped open. Behind the iron bars, she saw the outline of a fat, bald-headed man whose face was covered in sweat.
“Who are you?”
“Father Michel. I have this for you.”
With his lips pursed in distaste, he pushed a small slip of paper through the bars to her. Normally, he would never have demeaned his holy orders and the sanctity of the confessional by passing a note—surely scandalous—from a man to a woman. But the man had been uncommonly persuasive, and he had donated a thousand dollars to the Church, and that surely was to the greater glory of God.
Camilla read the note. I could not come. You are being watched.
At that moment the door of the confessional was torn open. The priest squealed in alarm as a fist reached in, dragged him out and threw him onto the cathedral floor. Granville’s terrifying figure stood over him, pistol drawn.
“What are you doing?” the priest yelped.
“You’re not St. John.”
Granville looked as if he might shoot the priest in frustration. Fortunately for the priest, he mastered his anger—though he did not holster his pistol. He swung around, scanning the cathedral. Apart from a pair of Ursuline nuns, it was empty.
The priest got to his feet and drew himself up.
“Monsieur,” he said in a voice of holy outrage. “What is the meaning of this?”
“What were you doing?”
“He was hearing my confession,” said Camilla. Inside she was trembling, but she channeled her fright into angry indignation. While Granville had been distracted with the priest, she had had the presence of mind to hide Mungo’s note. “Am I not allowed to confess my sins?”
“Depends what you’ve done.”
Granville stared at her with naked suspicion. Camilla met his gaze with—she hoped—righteous innocence.
“If you have finished frightening this lady, perhaps you would be so kind as to leave the house of God,” said Father Michel.
With a final, withering look at the priest, Granville stalked away. But not far. He took up position at the cathedral door, watching Camilla with unblinking eyes.
The priest dusted himself off.
“Mademoiselle,” he said stiffly, “I do not know what sins you may have committed, but I think it is more than is in my power to absolve.”
A thousand dollars was starting to seem like a poor bargain for nearly being killed.
“God forgives everything,” Camilla reminded him.
“Then you may take it up with Him directly.”
With a sniff, the priest left for the safety of the vestry. Camilla moved reluctantly toward the door. Even with Granville there, the cathedral was the one place in the city she had ever felt safe. Where could she find Mungo now?
She walked down the central aisle. One of the nuns had risen from her prayers and fell into step beside her.
“If you wish to pray in peace, you could always visit our convent,” she said, with a pointed glance at Granville. “Men are not allowed there.”
“Thank you,” said Camilla absently.
“I find when I am troubled, it helps to pray to the saints,” the nun continued. “St. Louis, of course. Or sometimes St. John.”
Camilla stared at her, wondering if she had heard right. Before she could ask, the nun turned toward the altar, crossed herself and scurried away. Perhaps she had been frightened off by Granville, who was closing in as if the diminutive nun might somehow be Mungo in disguise.
“I wish to go and pray at the Convent of the Ursulines,” Camilla told him.
* * *
It cost more to bribe a nun than a priest, Mungo discovered. Also, a dash of melodrama. He needed all his charm to persuade the Mother Superior of the Ursulines that Camilla was his half-sister, a freedwoman who had been kidnapped from their home in Maryland and sold into slavery in New Orleans; that he had come to take her back from her evil and rapacious master.
“If I could only have half an hour with her,” he pleaded. “I could assure myself of her well-being, and make arrangements to bring her back.”
Although she had lived most of her life behind the convent walls, the Mother Superior was neither innocent nor a fool. She could see Mungo’s story was most likely a preposterous fabrication. Still, if it were true, it would be uncharitable to deny his request. And (she admitted to herself) she wanted to help him. Although she had pledged herself to God, she was still a woman, and the tall, shapely gentleman with the smoky yellow eyes and long dark hair aroused in her feelings for which she would surely have to do penance later.
Also, there was the matter of the five thousand dollars he wished to donate to the convent school.
Which was why, when Camilla arrived a short while later, she was welcomed into the convent, while Granville was made to wait outside the gates. The Mother Superior brought Camilla up to an empty cell.
“You will leave the door open,” she said. “I will wait outside.”
Camilla went in. The room was plain and bare: whitewashed walls, a desk and stool, a bed, and a crucifix on the door. And there, sitting on the bed leafing through a Bible, was Mungo.
