Mungo frowned. “I thought you would be glad I saved his life.”

  “By risking yours,” the captain snapped. “And Tippoo’s as well. If you had not been so lucky, I might have lost three men.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “The fact that you succeeded does not justify what you did. You do not risk your life for anything, unless I give the order. On the high seas, chivalry is not a virtue and I did not take you on to be a hero. Do I make myself clear?”

  Mungo nodded, his face as blank as it had been at the poker table. “Aye, Captain.”

  “Then see to your duties.”

  Camilla stayed locked in the tobacco store for three days. She lived on a knife-edge of hope and despair: terrified every time she heard the lock turn in case it was Chester or Granville coming to rape her again; hoping against hope that it would be Mungo.

  They gave her a slop bucket, a cup of water and a plate. In the August sunshine, the storeroom became an oven. She was constantly parched; she couldn’t even clean herself after Chester’s assault. She had to live in the same tattered dress he had torn off her, his blood and fluids still crusted on her skin.

  Then, on the third morning, one of Granville’s men came for her. Without a word, he grabbed her by her hair and yanked her to her feet. He ripped her dress off her. She started to scream, then suddenly choked it off as a wave of water hit her body. She wiped her eyes. The man was standing by the doorway, a smirk on his face and a bucket in his hand.

  “Boss said to clean yourself up,” he said. “We’re going.”

  He tossed her a clean dress. He stood by the door, his hand on the revolver in his belt, watching her as she wiped herself down and pulled on the new clothes.

  She emerged, blinking, into the daylight and followed her captor to the big house. Carriages were drawn up on the driveway, half a dozen at least. At the front was one Camilla had never seen before, with gilded woodwork and a pair of fine black horses in harness. A jab from Granville pushed her toward it.

  “Inside, quick,” he ordered.

  She stepped up and through the door. The inside smelled of new paint and fresh leather. Pulled velvet curtains draped the windows and made it dark.

  “Don’t make a sound,” said Granville.

  She perched on the edge of the plush seat, too frightened to sit comfortably. The curtains screened the outside world, but there was a small crack where they did not quite meet in the middle. She leaned forward and put her eye to the gap.

  A group of men had come out of the house and were standing on the lawn in front of the portico. She saw Chester and Granville, and half a dozen others all very respectably dressed in top hats and dark suits, smoking cigars. None of them paid her any notice.

  Old Tate, the butler, stood by them with a silver tray of drinks. Chester took one and toasted his companions.

  “Congratulations,” he said. “To the new owners of Windemere plantation.”

  The man opposite smiled. With a shock, Camilla recognized him. It was Jeremiah Cartwright, the militia officer who had captured Mungo and taken him to jail. Now she looked closer, she recognized the others, too. They were all old friends and neighbors of the St. Johns, men she had seen often as guests at Windemere.

  Cartwright raised his glass to Chester in return.

  “You are a man of your word, Marion, I give you that. When you told me you could deliver up Windemere, I confess I had my doubts, but you proved me wrong. You are one tough son-of-a-bitch.”

  “For a bankrupt estate, you drive a hard bargain,” complained the man next to him—an older man with huge silver whiskers, named Horniman.

  “Worth every penny,” said Cartwright. “I know the Bible says thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s ass, but by God I have wanted this land for thirty years. I thank you for delivering it to me—even at the exorbitant price I have just paid you.”

  “This is the best land in the state,” Chester assured him. “A fine investment.”

  “Then why are you selling it?” said Horniman.

  “I have a fancy to move south. Tobacco is fine, but cotton land is cheap at the moment.”

  The other men made dubious faces. They were all old Virginia gentry; they did not trust cotton. Three years earlier, cotton had reached an all-time record high price and the plantations around the Mississippi River had changed hands for fortunes. Then the price had crashed, and all the speculators had been ruined. A lesson, the Virginia men all agreed, that farming was best left in the hands of gentlemen.

  But Chester Marion was new money—nothing but a jumped-up lawyer, they thought. Let him burn his fingers on cotton if he wanted. They would be glad to be rid of him. True, he had his uses: it was he who had approached them with the audacious plan to seize Windemere from the St. Johns, and he who had executed it so ruthlessly. But he knew too much. And there was something about him—a fervid intensity, a lethal coldness—that unsettled them. If they would dare admit it to themselves, even these powerful men, pillars of society, were afraid of him.

  They shook hands all round. Chester handed Cartwright a bunch of keys—the estate keys that had belonged to Mungo’s father.

  “Windemere is yours. All its fixtures, fittings, appurtenances and . . . ah . . . other property.”

  Horniman looked at the empty fields. “Where are the people?”

  “I moved them to Cox’s farm to keep them safe. You can retrieve them there, all safe and sound, at your leisure.”

  “What about the girl we caught with Mungo?” said Cartwright. “I heard you brought her back here to . . . ah . . . entertain you.”

  “I believe she comes with my portion of the estate,” said Horniman.

  “No, mine,” said another.

  “We’re business partners,” Cartwright reminded them. “No reason we can’t all share her around.”

  Camilla froze. The gap in the curtain framed the ugly lust in their faces. Was this what Chester had saved her for?

  But to her surprise, Chester shook his head.

  “She is not part of the transaction,” he said. “It seems I was a little rough in my use of her. She died.”

  Cartwright scowled. “Then you have overcharged me, you Jew. I paid you a thousand dollars for her.”

  “The contract excludes natural depreciation, wear and tear and suchlike,” Chester said, and there was no missing the menace in his voice. His gray eyes stared down the assembled gentlemen, daring them to contradict him.

  The men eyeballed each other. They were proud men, all jealous of their honor; in other circumstances, they might have settled matters with a duel. But they were also men of business—and there was no profit in a quarrel.

  Cartwright shrugged as if he didn’t care one way or the other.

  “Never try to argue with a lawyer. What’s a thousand dollars more or less between friends?”

  An uneasy silence hung over the group.

  “I think that concludes our business,” said Chester. “I wish you a prosperous future, and all success in your new property.”

  He tipped his hat. Without another word, he turned and strode to the carriage. Camilla shrank back behind the curtains, pressing herself against the carriage wall so that the other men wouldn’t see her. Chester ducked in, slammed the door and removed his hat. Granville leaped up on the driver’s box. With the lash of a whip, the carriage lurched into motion.

  Chester stroked Camilla’s hair. She tried not to shudder.

  “Why did you tell them I was dead?” she asked.

  “You heard that, did you?” A wolfish smile crossed his lips. “Because I did not care to haggle, and I wanted you for myself. A keepsake, so to speak, to remind me of an old friend.”

  Camilla did not understand anything that had happened, but she knew she was leaving Windemere forever. She turned and took a last look at the big house through the rear window. She did not romanticize it—she had been a slave there, and she lived with that fact every day. If Windemere had been good to her, it was only because the alternatives were so much worse. But even so, it was where she had been born, where she had grown up and where she had known Mungo.

  Now that was all gone. She wondered where they were going. She wanted to ask, but she knew better than to try. She was a chattel, and possessions should keep their mouths shut.

  A day after Mungo had rescued the rigger, the Welsh coast appeared in a shroud of rain that dogged the Blackhawk all the way to Liverpool. In spite of the dismal weather, the port was a hive of activity when they landed at Trafalgar Dock. Around them in the estuary of the River Mersey was a forest of masts belonging to at least forty tall ships. The wide wooden dock and cobbled lanes beyond swarmed with people. There were roughneck stevedores hauling lines and handling freight; costermongers hawking every kind of ware; street urchins running to and fro and leaving behind a trail of havoc; beggars praying for spare change from the shadows; and elegant gentlemen and ladies pretending to be above it all.

  The crew went ashore with money in their pockets, and six weeks of pent-up appetites to fill in three days. The only one who stayed aboard was Tippoo. Mungo was not sure why. He could see on the giant’s face that he wanted to go. He cast many longing looks at the waterfront; his thick neck was bowed and his shoulders stooped. But Sterling would not allow it. When Mungo asked, all Tippoo said was, “Someone has to guard the ship.”

  “I’ll stay with you,” Mungo volunteered.

  “Truly?” Tippoo’s face lit up with pleasure. Mungo shrugged it off.

  “You’ll need someone strong with you to guard the ship, in case you are overpowered.”

  Tippoo bared his teeth in a broad grin and laughed. In truth, Mungo had had a mind to stay aboard anyway. Many of his friends from Eton and Cambridge were of Liverpool families, and he did not want to risk being recognized. There was too much he would have to explain.

  Also, the men would expect him to accompany them to the brothels, and Mungo was not ready for that. Whichever woman he lay with, he knew he would only see Camilla’s face.

  Instead, he spent his days with Tippoo, supervising the unloading of the cargo. The two men worked well together. They spoke few words, but there was an instinctive understanding between them as to what needed to be done. In the evening, they sat in the mess room, playing cribbage and drinking.

  Mungo was curious about his companion. He tried to find out how Tippoo had come to join the Blackhawk’s crew—“I do not think you were born in Baltimore”—but Tippoo would not be drawn.

  “Captain Sterling bring me aboard in Zanzibar,” was all he would say, and then he would close up.

  Though he was interested in Mungo.

  “Why are you here?” the giant asked one night. “You were not born to be a sailor.”

  Mungo sucked on his pipe. “I had a fancy to see the world.”

  “Hah. I think it was a woman.” Tippoo saw Mungo’s expression shift and clapped his hands in triumph. “Yes. A man like you, always in trouble with a woman. Was she beautiful?”

  “She was,” Mungo allowed.

  “I see in your eyes you mean to go back to her. You love her, yes?” Mungo said nothing. “Of course you do. And she loves you? Or perhaps she is with another man.”

  “She died,” said Mungo. “Murdered by a man I thought I could trust. When I get back, I will kill him.”

  Tippoo nodded sagely. “That is wise.”

  As the hold began to empty, Mungo realized something peculiar about the Blackhawk’s cargo. The bales of cotton, crates of cigars, and packets of mail were stamped by customs agents and claimed for delivery and trans-shipment, but the stacks of lumber they had brought from Baltimore remained untouched. Most of it was planking, each piece six inches wide and twelve feet long, with some sturdier pieces that looked like fence posts. Stashed behind the lumber Mungo found a dozen unmarked crates. He hadn’t seen them loaded in Baltimore, which meant they had been in the hold longer, perhaps since New Orleans. He asked Tippoo about them, but the gunner simply squared his shoulders and turned his back.

  Mungo remained curious. At one point, when Tippoo was up on deck, he took a crowbar to one of the crates and levered the lid just enough to see the dull gray sheen of iron nails—scores of them. He knew from his time aboard the packet ships that surplus planking, nails and pitch were kept to repair damage sustained by a ship in transit. But the supply of lumber aboard the Blackhawk was more extensive than Mungo had ever seen. And if the other crates had nails in them—indeed, if even two of the crates did—then they couldn’t be to mend anything. They were meant to build something. But what? And where?

  Mungo was not naïve. He had a fairly good idea what the planks and nails were for, and why Tippoo did not want to mention it. But it was easier not to think about it, so he kept his thoughts to himself.

  The Blackhawk took on a fresh cargo of trade goods for Africa. The raw cotton she had brought from Louisiana was replaced with cloth from the Manchester mills. Many stands of English muskets were brought aboard, as well as plentiful supplies of powder and shot. There were also many boxes of glass beads, and casks of tobacco. The smell wafting out of the barrels reminded Mungo of harvest time at Windemere.

  At last the Blackhawk was ready to sail. But there remained one item unaccounted for: the second mate. Lanahan scoured every tavern and brothel in Liverpool, but he was nowhere to be found.

  Sterling summoned Mungo to his cabin in a cold fury.

  “Every day we sit in port costs me money,” he said, staring out through the stern window. “I cannot wait for that drunkard to reappear.”

  He turned suddenly.

  “When attaching a drogue, what kind of knot would you use? A clove hitch or a rolling hitch?”

  The question was so sudden and unexpected Mungo almost missed the trap in it. But his hours of study, learning and observing had taught him well.

  “Neither,” he said. “The stresses on a sea anchor are immense. I’d use a bowline because it strengthens under tension.”

  Sterling grunted. “And if I asked you to establish a position by dead reckoning, from what point on the chart would you plot your new course line?”

  “From the point of the last fix. Not from the last estimated position.”

  The questions continued for over an hour, a quick-fire interrogation that covered everything from points of sail to reckoning by the stars. Mungo answered fluently, drawing on his long hours of reading and learning. At last, Sterling seemed satisfied. He studied Mungo, his blue eyes as fathomless as the ocean. Then:

  “I am appointing you as second mate.”

  Mungo stared, his thoughts racing. It was the last thing he had expected. He lacked experience, and almost every man in the ship had seniority to him. Some would not take kindly to being passed over.

  But as mate, he would be due a greater share of the profits.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Sterling had evidently been hoping for a stronger reaction.

  “You are not surprised?”

  “A wise man once told me that the captain’s word is second only to God’s. I would not presume to question it.”

  “Ha.” Sterling gave him a searching look. “You have a keen wit, Mr. Sinclair. Be sure you do not cut yourself with it. But you can read and write, which is more than most of these ninnies, and I have seen your navigation work.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sterling went silent again. Mungo wondered if he was reconsidering his decision.

  Suddenly he said, “It will be a hard voyage to Africa and back. You may have to do things . . .” He broke off. “At all times, I expect you to carry out my orders without hesitation. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Camilla’s first impression of her new home was white—everything white. White sunlight from a clear September sky; a shining white house gleaming atop a round hill like a castle; fields of white cotton spread out around it, rolling with the contours of the land like snowdrifts. It dazzled her eyes and made her head ache.

  “Bannerfield,” said Chester. He half rose from his seat in their open-topped carriage, like a Roman general mounted in his chariot. His body swayed; his eyes reflected the sun and burned with triumph. “Five thousand acres of the best cotton land in Louisiana. Is it not magnificent?”

  Camilla nodded. She had learned to keep silent in their five weeks traveling together: in the coach to Norfolk; aboard the ship that had brought them south and through the storms that had nearly wrecked them off Cape Canaveral; in the crowded streets of New Orleans; and now in the fields of Louisiana. The less she said, the less she gave him reason to hurt her.

  And not just her. Camilla placed her hand on her belly and felt the taut skin through her dress. There was nothing to see yet, barely a bump to feel, but she knew it was there, growing inside her. Touching it was like sticking her hand in a fire, but she did it anyway. The child was a seed of rape, a living reminder of what Chester had inflicted on her. But it was also hers, and though she might hate it she had to protect it. She had not told Chester yet.

  Then there was Mungo to think about. What would he do, if he returned and found out she was carrying Chester Marion’s baby?

  The carriage rattled up the long driveway. It seemed to take forever. As they passed, Camilla saw that the bright vision she had seen from a distance was not quite so pure as it had seemed. There were specks of black in those brilliant white fields. Slaves stood stooped in the rows of cotton, picking balls of fluff from the plants and gathering them in baskets. Camilla tried to count the people, but soon gave up. There were hundreds of them, far more than there had ever been at Windemere.

  Was that to be her fate? It looked like back-breaking work, but at least it would take her out of the house, away from Chester. Anything was better than that.

  The carriage stopped at the head of the drive. The house was huge but not beautiful, Camilla thought. It had been built out of proportion, too tall for its breadth, like a weed that had grown too fast. It loomed over them, blocking out the sun and making the air suddenly cool.