What had Mungo done? Why on earth had he sent the boy to him? In truth, Fairchild was not at all sure how he could discharge the duty. He had no wife who would know what to do. And then there was the question of the boy’s race. How could he raise a black child as his own?

  But for the moment, all those considerations were forgotten in the righteous joy of being proved right. There had been good in Mungo. He had seen the error of his ways and repented. He, Fairchild, had redeemed him.

  “God bless you, Mungo St. John,” he whispered to the departing ship.

  A squall was approaching. Fairchild turned to go back into the warmth of the office, and almost bumped into the clerk, who had emerged carrying a large ledger.

  “I have the ship’s manifest, if you would like to see it.”

  “Thank you.”

  Fairchild spread the ledger on the balcony rail and read the entry the clerk showed him.

  “What . . . ?”

  Fairchild’s joy turned suddenly cold as he ran his eye down the cargo manifest. Iron ingots. Glass beads. Trade cloth. All the goods that England’s factories turned out in such abundance to satisfy the market in West Africa, where they could be readily exchanged for human lives.

  Fairchild stared at the receding ship, silhouetted against the horizon. Black clouds bruised the sky; the wind blew stinging spats of rain against his cheek.

  “Damn you, Mungo St. John!” he shouted into the storm. “Damn you to Hell!”

 

 

  Wilbur Smith, Call of the Raven

 

 

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