A Falcon Flies

Huron was a shambles. Through the glass Clinton could see her beginning to tear herself to pieces, sails ripping, yards tumbling, her foremast sagging out of true, and he still could not believe it was happening.

She's taken full aback. " He heard Denham's triyell, and of ier voices took up the cry. She fast in irons! "We've got her, by God, we've got her now! " Though his vision blurred and the wetness running down his cheeks was not all splattered spray, Clinton went on staring incredulously through the telescope. There is smoke, she's on fire! Denham again, and Clinton picked up the fine pale mist of smoke spreading away from her; and at that moment a fresh burst of spray over the bows drenched the lens of his telescope, and he lowered it.

He took a silk bandanna from his hip pocket, and wiped his face and eyes of spray and the other wetness, then he blew his nose noisily, stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket, jumped on to his deck and strode back to his quarterdeck. Mr. Ferris, he said crisply, "please send up a flag hoist under Huron's nAme and make the following "I am sending a boarding party to you. "" The pale sapphire eyes shone with a zealot's intensity. "'If you resist I shall fight you."

It was a long message, and while Ferris called for the pennants from the flag locker, Clinton turned to Denham. His voice shook with passion. Please clear the ship for action, Mr. Denham, and we'll run out our guns now."

Above the gale Clinton heard the clatter of the opening gunports, the rumble of the gun carriages, but all his attention was concentrated ahead upon the crippled slave ship.

He saw and understood the desperate attempts that her Captain was making to get her before the wind. He knew what a feat it had been to take down that tangled mast of canvas and rope in such a short time, yet he felt no admiration, only cold fighting fury.

Huron was showing only a storm jib.

St. John was clearly trying to break the grip of the gale upon her for she was fast "in irons', her bows to the wind, and he was attempting to bring her round, but the tall ship that was usually so compliant and obedient was baulking, resisting him, and every minute Black Joke was swarming down upon her, closer and still closer. She's got serious structural damage, Denham gloated aloud. "I'd hazard a guess that she's lost her rudder."

Clinton did not answer him, he strained ahead, half exultant, half fearful that St. John's efforts would succeed and he would watch helplessly as Huron turned her stern to him once more, and went plunging away at the speed which Black Joke could never hope to match.

Then, as he watched, it happened. Huron swung her long, low length nearly broadside to him, beam on to the wind once again, and hung there for infinite seconds, then she shuddered and shook herself free of the gale's grip and went through the eye of the wind. Instantly the scraps of sail on her foremast snapped open, she came around presenting her stern to Black fake and was sailing again.

Even in his bitter chagrin, Clinton could at last feel admiration for that barely credible feat of seamanship, but beside him his officers were struck dumb, paralysed with disappointment to see their prey slipping away from them once more.

More sails bloomed upon her tall bare masts, and the gap between the two ships was no longer narrowing; instead, it began to widen once more; slowly, infinitely slowly, Huron was forging away, and the night was coming. She's streaming a warp behind her, Denham lamented quietly. It's a small ship's boat, Ferris corrected him.

They were already close enough to make out such details, Huron was only three or four nautical miles ahead of them, all her bull was in plain sight and they could even make out the tiny human figures on her decks with the naked eye. "Damned clever, what! Ferris went on with professional interest. "Who would have believed it would work. Like as not the damned Yankee has the legs of us still Clinton's chagrin turned to anger at his junior's unnecessary commentary. Mr. Ferris, instead of chattering like a washerwoman, will you not read the signal Huron is flying? " Huron's signal flags were blowing almost directly away from the watchers on Black Joke's deck, making them difficult to spot and interpret, and Ferris, who had been fixing all his attention on the towing whaler, started guiltily, and then dived for his signal book and began busily scribbling on his slate. Huron sends under our name, "Stay clear of me, or I will fire upon you. "'Good. " Clinton nodded and drew an inch of bare steel from the scabbard of his cutlass to make sure the weapon was free before thrusting it back to the hilt. "Now we all know where we stand! " But, slowly, inexorably, Huron even partially crippled, and steering only by the sails on her foremast, was drawing away from them, and she was still far out of random cannon shot. The fire has taken hold in the steering-gear under the doctor's cabin. " The third mate came hurrying back on deck to make his damage report. "I got her out of there."

He jerked a thumb as Robyn came up on deck clutching her black leather valise into which she had hastily crammed her journals and other small valuables. It's got through into the cable her and the lazaretto, it will be into the stern quarters in a minute. " The mate's arms and face streamed with oily sweat, and the soot had blackened them like a chimney sweep. Put the hoses in through the poop companionway Mungo, told him calmly. "And flood the stern section abaft the main hold."

The mate hurried away and within seconds there was the tolling clangour of the pumps as a dozen men threw their combined weight on the handles and the canvas hoses filled and stiffened, ejaculating solid jets of seawater down the stifling ladderways where already the air was trembling with heat like a desert mirage. Almost immediately hissing clouds of white steam began to boil from the ports and stern lights.

Satisfied, Mungo turned away, shot one glance over the stern to make sure that the gunboat was still falling away behind the limping clipper, then let his gaze linger a moment longer on the thick hawser that was secured to the port stern stanchions and ran through the fairlead to the bobbing whaler that Huron was dragging half a cable's length astern. The whole complex arrangement of the wind and sails and drogue was critical and unstable, the slightest change might upset it. He decided he could not risk hoisting another square inch of canvas, nor could he send a party below to rig a jury tackle on the useless rudder until the fire was brought under control.

He lit a cheroot, frowning with concentration over the simple and familiar task, and then he raised his eyes to look directly at Robyn for the first time since she had come up on deck.

For a second they stared at each other, and then Robyn looked astern at the ugly little gunboat that was still plugging along after them. I keep making the mistake of trusting you, " Mungo said beside her. I only made that mistake once, with you, she replied, and he inclined his head slightly, accepting the riposte. How did you get into the steering gear, he began to enquire, then snapped his fingers irritably at his own oversight. "Of course, the inspection hatch. Yet, your ingenuity, Doctor, has been of no avail. Your friends still cannot hold us and as soon as it is dark, I will have the rudder cables repaired."

For the last minute Muago had been studying her face, oblivious to the sea and the ship and the gale. He did not see the fresh squall racing down upon Huron. When it struck, there was no helmsman to hold her. She saw the flash of alarm in his eyes, the realization of danger.

His voice, as he yelled an order down the length of the deck, had for the first time the crack of fear in it. Get the sails off her, Mr. Tippoo. Quick as you can! " For the squall had upset the nice balance of Huron's drogue and sail. The ship lunged forward sharply, the long bellied length of cable trailing astern. lifted itself above the broken surface of the sea, straightening and coming under such strain that the seawater spurted from the hemp cords in tiny feathery jets.

The empty whaler, with her tarpaulin cover still lashed down over her in an attempt to keep her dry, was at that instant canted steeply over the crest of a breaking swell. The shattering impact transmitted by the taut cable to her bows pitched her forward and heaved her clear of the crest, so that for a moment she was airborne, like a leaping porpoise and then she struck bows first and was snatched below the surface.

For an instant Huron staggered to the enormous increase in drag upon the trailing cable, and then the whaler disintegrated in a boiling flurry of white disturbed water. Her broken planking popped to the surface and the cable freed of its wearying weight flicked high in the air like the tail of an angry lioness. Without restraint, Huron gibed fiercely, spinning once more across the wind, and this time being blown flat, her tall bare masts swinging over almost parallel to the sea's surface.

The lee rail dug deeply into the sea, and the water came aboard her in a sweeping torrent, like a bursting dam wall.

It caught Robyn and hurled her against Mungo St. John's chest; if it had not done so, she would have been carried overboard, but he caught her to him and held her as they were tumbled down the steeply canted deck and then Huron was righting herself again, the water cascading off her in silver spouts.

She wallowed helplessly, taking the gale-driven seas on her beam, her desperate rolling accentuated by the pendulum of her high bare masts, but at least that drenching wall of sea water had poured into her hull through every opening and had extinguished her fires on the instant.

Mungo St. John dragged Robyn by the wrist across the flooded deck, sloshing and slipping knee deep with loose tackle slithering and floating around them.

At the break of the poop he stopped, both of them panting for breath, their clothing and hair streaming sea water, the deck heaving and dropping crazily under them so he had to cling to the weather rail for support. He stared across at Black Joke.

The race was run. The gunboat was crowding down upon them exultantly, so close that he could see the cannon protruding from her open ports and the heads of the gunners above the bulwarks. Her challenging flag hoist still flew in her riggin& gaudy and gay as Christmas decorations.

She would be up to the wallowing clipper in minutes, long before Mungo could ever hope to get his ship sailing again.

Mungo shook the water from his sodden dark locks like a spaniel coming ashore, and he filled his lungs. Mr. O'Brien, a pair of slave cuffs here, he bellowed, and Robyn, who had never heard him raise his voice, was stunned by the volume of sound that came up out of that muscular chest. She was still dazed and confused as she felt the cold kiss of iron on her wrists.

Mungo snapped the cuff on her left wrist, took two swift turns of chain around Huron's rail and then snapped the second cuff on her right wrist. I have no doubt your friends will be delighted to see you, in the cannon's mouth, he told her, his face still set with anger, the rims of his nostrils white as bone china. He turned from her, running his fingers through his dark curls, throwing the hair back from his forehead and eyes. Mr. O'Brien, muskets and pistols to every hand. Run out the guns and load with ball, we'll change to grape as the range closes. " The mate shouted his orders as he ran, and the crew scattered from the futile task of attempting to bring the clipper under control. They stumbled across the wave-swept deck, dodging fallen and broken tackle, hurrying to arm themselves and to man Huron's guns.

Mr. Tippoo! Mungo's voice cut through the cacophony of gale and shouted orders. Captain MungoVBring up the first deck of slaves. "We deep-sixing them? " Tippoo asked, for he had served before under slave captains, who, when capture by a naval vessel was imminent, would deep-six their cargo of blackbirds, drop them overboard, chains and all, and rid themselves of the most damning evidence against them. We'll chain "em to the weather rail, Mr. Tippoo, with the woman. " Mungo used neither Robyn's title nor her name. "Make the limejuicer think a spell before he opens fire. " And Tippoo let an explosive chuckle of laughter come bouncing up his throat as he bounded away on those thick bowed legs, to get the gratings off the main hatch. Sir! " Denham's voice was incredulous, shocked. "Sir! "Yes, Mr. Denharn, Clinton answered him quietly, without lowering his telescope. "I have seen it-'But, sir, that's Doctor Ballantyne-'And black slaves. " Ferris could hold his tongue no longer. "They're chaining them to the rail. "What manner of man is that Yankee! "Denham burst out again.

A damned clever one, " Clinton answered him quietly.

He was watching the woman he had come to rescue through the glass. He could already recognize her features. Her eyes seemed too large for her deathly white face, her sodden and rumpled clothing stuck to her body.

Through a rent in her blouse he could see the pale skin of her shoulder and upper arm gleaming with a pearl-like lustre in the sunlight. Mr. Denham, Clinton went on speaking. "Warn the crew that we will be receiving fire in about five minutes, and we will be unable to return it."

He watched the ranks of naked black slaves still coming up on to the clipper's main deck and taking their place along the rail, their gaolers fussing about them, chivvying them into place and securing their chains. We are fortunate in having a gale of wind, so we will be exposed to fire for a short period, but warn the men to lie flat upon the deck below the bulwark."

Black joke's fragile eggshell plating would give some protection at extreme range, but as they closed with the slave ship, he could expect even grape shot to penetrate their sides. One blessing, they would be spared the lethal flying splinters that were so much dreaded in wooden ships. I am going to lay her alongside the Yankee's stern , Clinton went on. That way she would be exposed to the clipper's broadsides while the two ships were bound to each other. "But she stands taller than we do. I want your best men with the grappling irons, Mr. Denham. " Huron's maindeck was ten feet higher than the gunboat's. There would be nice work ahead when they leapt the gap, and scrambled up Huron's stern with its pronounced tumble home. By God! She's running out her guns. She means to fight us after all, Denham cut in, and then, penitently, I beg your pardon, sir. " He excused himself for the interruption and the blasphemy.

Clinton lowered the telescope. They were so close now that he no longer needed it.

The clipper had six light cannons on each side of her, mounted on the maindeck. The barrels were almost twice as long as Black joke's own heavy carronades. However, the bore of the muzzles was much smaller in diameter, and as Clinton watched, they began to train around towards him, one at a time beginning at the stern .

Even without the glass, Clinton could make out the tall lean figure in the plain jacket moving at a deceptivly leisurely pace one gun to the next, laying each of them personally gestuning at the gun crews to strain on the tackles and traverse the long cannonon to their target.

Clinton saw St. John reach the bow kgun and make a careful adjustment, working over it A few seconds longer than he had the others, and then he leapt to the clipper's bulwark and balanced there with, the assurance of an acrobat against the rudderless hull's unpredictable movements.

The scene engraved itself upon Clinton's mind, it it seemed so theatrical, like the cast of a stage production lined up at the end of the performance to receive the applause of the spectators. The file of naked black bodies, standing almost shoulder to shoulder with their arms extended in unison, like the trained *. chorus, their wrists locked to the teak rail by the slave cuffss. Then the principal, the figure of the woman, slim AM somehow delicate and tiny in their midst. The bodice of her dress, a buttercup yellow, was a gay spot ofcolour that drew Clinton's eye irresistibly. It was & distraction that he could not afford at this moment.

The American seemed to be watching Clinton, seemed to have singled him out from the group of officers, and even across the wide stretch of water that still separated them, Clinton was aware of the mesmeric pull of those golden-flecked eyes, the eyes of a predator, a leopard perhaps, poised with a lithe and patient gram upon the bough above the waterhole, awaiting the moment when the prey moved beneath him.

At the level of Mungo St. John's knees were the heads of his gun crews, little knots of pale tense faces, contrasting starkly with the quiescent rank of black slaves. They crouched over their weapons, - and the long slim barrels were reduced to small dark circles as Clinton stared directly down the bores.

at a deceplaying crews to on to There were men also in Huron's rigging, roosting in the cross-trees of the yards and masts, and the long barrels of their muskets were clear to see against the backdrop of the wind-driven sky.

They would be picked marksmen, Huron's best, and their preferred and special target would be the small group of officers on the gunboat's quarterdeck. Clinton hoped that the clipper's wild action in the gale would throw out their aim. Gentlemen, I advise you to take cover until we can bring the ship into action, he told Denham and Ferris quietly, and felt a little prick of pride when neither of them moved. It was the tradition of Drake and Nelson not to flinch from the coming storm of fire, and Clinton himself went on standing at his ease, hands clasped at the small of his back, calling a small adjustment to the helm as Black joke drove in eagerly, the terrier going for the hold on the bull's nose.

He saw the American move his head, a final judgement of range, considered against the clipper's rolling and beside him Ferris murmured the age-old blasphemy which Clinton this time could not find it in him to resent, for it was also a part of the great tradition. For what we are about to receive-" said Ferris, and as if he had heard the words, the American drew the sword from the scabbard on his belt, and raised it above his head. Involuntarily all three naval officers drew breath together and held it. Huron was at the bottom of her roll, her cannon pointing down into the sea close alongside, then she was coming up, the barrels rising levelled, and the sword arm fell.

The six cannon leaped together, in perfect concert, and the startling white gusts of smoke shot fifty feet from her sides, completely silent, for the sound had not reached them, and for a fleeting part of a second they could believe that Huron had not loosed her broadside.

Then the very air beat in upon them, shocking the eardrums, seeming for a moment to suck their eyeballs from the sockets with the vast disruption of air caused by passing shot, and close above Clinton's head a stay parted with a whiplash crack.

That was one ball high, but under Clinton's feet, the deck jumped with the multiple impact of ball into her, and the bull rang like the strokes of a gigantic brass gong.

A single ball came through at deck level. it struck a burst of sparks from the steel hull, like Brocks fireworks at Crystal Palace, brilliant orange even in the strong sunlight, and the hole it tore through Black Joke's plating was fringed with bare jagged tongues of metal like the petals of a silver sunflower.

A seaman in striped vest and baggy canvas breeches, who was kneeling behind the bulwark, took the ball full in his chest.

his severed limbs were strewn untidily across the gunboat's spotless deck and the ball went on to strike the foot of Black Joke's mast, shivering it like a tall tree struck by lightning, and tearing a long white splinter from the seasoned Norwegian pine. Then, with its force mainly spent the ball rolled the length of the deck, smoking and stinking of scorched metal until it thumped into the scuppers and rolled idly back and forth. Only then, seconds after the broadside struck, did the crash of the discharge reach their ears across the turbulent waters that separated the two vessels. Not bad shooting for a Yankee, " Ferris grudged them, raising his voice above the gun thunder, and Denham had his watch out and was timing how long it took for the clipper's gun crews to reload. Forty-five seconds, Denham intoned, "and not a single gun run out again. A bunch of fairground tinkers could do better."

Clinton found himself wondering if it was ely brainer vado, or complete indifference to danger and violent death which allowed the two younger officers to chat so casually, while the seaman's severed arms still twitched on the deck, not twenty feet away.

Clinton was afraid, afraid of death and afraid of failing in his duty and afraid of being seen to be afraid, but then he was older than they, for despite their manly airs Ferris was a boy and Denham barely twenty, so perhaps it was not courage but ignorance and lack of imagination. Fifty-five seconds! "Denham grunted scornfully, as the next ragged broadside crashed into Black joke's iron hull, and somebody started to scream below decks, a high mindless keening like steam from a kettle. Send somebody to stop that fellow, " Ferris murmured to the seaman who crouched nearby, and doubled over still the man hurried away. Seconds later the screaming stopped abruptly. Good work, Ferris told the seaman as he took his place at the bulwark again. Dead, sir, he is, poor devil."

Ferris nodded without change of expression, and moved closer to listen to his Captain.

Mr. Denham, I am going to lead the boarding-party.

You are to be ready to sheer off and leave us to it, should there be any danger to the ship-" There was a sharp fluting sound, like the flight of a giant insect past their heads, and Clinton glanced up irritably. The marksmen in Huron's rigging had opened fire, the pop of their muskets seemed muted and without menace. Studiedly Clinton ignored them and went on issuing his final orders, raising his voice to compete with the crash and roar of shot and the strike of it into the gunboat's hull.

As Clinton finished speaking, Denham blurted abruptly, "It's hell not being able to reply. " He was staring across at the clipper whose silhouette was blurred with a bank of pale gunsmoke that even the gale could not disperse rapidly enough. "It's bad for the men, he corrected himself swiftly, and Clinton had his answer.

Denham was afraid as he was, and the knowledge gave him no comfort at all. If only they could do something, anythin& instead of having to stand here in the open and make studied conversation, while Black lake tore across the last few hundred yards of white crested sea that still separated them.

The crash of cannon shot tearing into Black joke's vitals was almost continuous now as the fastest gunners aboard Huron outstripped the others. The bow cannon that the American Captain was supervising and laying was firing three times to the other's twice, Clinton had been counting the plumes of muzzle smoke, this would be the sixth ball they sent into the little gunboat since the American had given the order to fire as many minutes ago.

He watched the gunsmoke bloom again from the cannon's maw, and this time the gunboat's deck was swept as if by hail stones, but leaden hail stones as big as ripe grapes that pierced the thin steel bulwarks with pricks of sunlight and clawed chunks of wood from the maindeck, a deck that was now threaded with meandering scarlet snakes of blood and slick little puddles of it that spread from beneath the inert and crumpled figures that seemed to be scattered in purposeless profusion wherever Clinton looked.

Black Joke was taking merciless punishment, perhaps already more than she could afford, but they were close now, very close, seconds only left to go.

He could hear the cheering of the clipper's gun crews, the terrified wailing of the slaves who were huddled down in pathetic little heaps upon Huron's decks, he could clearly hear the rumble of the sixteen-pounders run out against the straining tackles, and hear the shouted commands of the gun captains.

The girl at the rail still stood rigidly erect, staring white-faced across at him, and she had seen and recognized him now.

She tried to raise a hand to wave a greeting, but the iron slave cuff on her wrist hampered the movement. As Clinton stepped forward the better to see her, something tugged sharply at the sleeve of his jacket and behind him Ferris gasped.

Clinton looked down at his arm, the sleeve was torn and the white lining showed in the tear, it was only then he realized that it was a musket ball fired from Huron's crosstrees which might have struck him squarely had he not moved, and he turned quickly to Ferris.

The boy was pressing a wadded handkerchief to his chest, standing very upright. You are wounded, Mr. Ferris, said Clinton. "You may go below. "Thank you, sir, " wheezed Ferris. "But I'd just as soon not miss the kill. " As he spoke, a droplet of blood formed in the corner of his mouth, and with a chilling little jolt, Clinton realized that the boy was probably mortally struck, blood in the mouth would almost certainly mean a lung hit. Carry on then, Mr. Ferris, he said formally, and turned away. He must not let the doubts assail him now, he must not question whether his decision to board Huron had been correct, or if his execution of the attack had been properly carried out, or if he was responsible for those dismembered corpses that littered Black joke's deck, or for the dying lad who still determinedly kept erect. He must not let his resolve weaken.

Instead he slitted his eyes against the lowering sun that outlined Huron's bare masts with golden haloes, and stared across at her with true hatred. It was then he realized suddenly that at last her bow cannons could no longer bear, the terrible battering of close-range grape shot was abating as they sailed into Huron's stern quadrant. Bring her up two points, he snapped, and the Black joke cut in sharply under Huron's stern . She loomed suddenly high above them and there was no more cannon fire from her while the clipper's tall hull shielded them from the gale. The sudden silence was ghostly, unnerving, as though the cannon fire had damaged his ears and he was rendered deaf.

Clinton shook off the sense of dreamlike unreality, and strode down the length of his deck. Up the jokers! " he shouted, and his crew rose from where they had been crouching under the fragile bulwark. You've shown you can take it, boys, now let's show those damned Yankees we can hand it outA tiger for Tongs! " yelled a voice, and suddenly they were all cheering, crowding the gunboat's side, so he had to cup his hands to his mouth to give the order. Helm a lee, let fly all! " and Black fake spun up sharply under Huron's counter, spilling her wind, while the seamen in her rigging stripped the canvas off her.

The two ships came together with a rending crackling crash, the gnashing of steel plate against timber and the shattering of glass in Huron's stern lights.

A dozen of Black Joke's sailors hurled the three-pronged grappling hooks high over the clipper's gunwale with the lines snaking up after them, and then heaved them up tight and made them fast to the portside cleats, and a swarm of seamen cheering wildly went up Huron, s stern , like a troop of vervet monkeys pursued into the trees by a hunting leopard. Take command, Mr. Denham, " Clinton shouted above the hubbub. Aye, aye, sir, Denham's lips moved and he saluted as Clinton thrust his cutlass back into his scabbard and headed the next rush of his men, those who had been freed by the heaving-to of her sails.

The two hulls were working against each other as viciously as millstones, grinding and bumping, the gap opening and closing as the wind and the seas tore at them.

At Huron's rail a dozen of her crew were hacking at the grappling lines with axes, the clunking of the blades into her timber blended with the popping of pistols and muskets as their mates blazed down on the swarm of seamen climbing up from the gunboat's deck.

one of Black joke's sailors climbed swiftly hand over hand, pushing off with his feet from the clipper's raked stern like a mountaineer, and he had almost reached the rail when an American sailor appeared above him, an axe held high and then sent thudding down into the woodwork, severing the line at a single blow.

The sailor dropped like a windblown fruit from the bough into the gap between the hulls. He floundered for an instant in the surging water and then the two ships came together again, with the shriek of rending timbers, chewing the man like a pair of monstrous jaws. More lines, Clinton howled, and another grappling hook flew over his head, thrown by a stout British arm, and the line whipped around Clinton's shoulders.

He seized it, heaved once upon it to set the hook and then swung across the gap and his boots thudded on Huron's stern . He had seen his seaman drop on the severed line, so he climbed with the strength and agility of terror and desperation, and only as he swung one leg over Huron's rail did the battle rage seize him, the world changed colour before him, seen through a reddish haze of hatred and fury, hatred for the slave stink that rose to offend his soul and fury for the death and punishment that his ship and his seamen had suffered.

His cutlass sprang from its scabbard with metallic rasp, and there was a man rushing down upon him, and the man naked to the waist with a bulging hairy belly and thick heavily muscled arms. He was brandishing a double bladed axe above his head, and Clinton uncoiled his lanky frame as though it were the "S" in an Adder's body, straightening as it strikes. He drove the point of the cutlass through the axe man's furry silvered beard and the axe flew from his raised hands and went sliding away across the deck.

Clinton stood over the man he had killed, placed his foot on his chest and yanked the cutlass blade out of his throat. A bright scarlet carotid fountain followed the blade out, splattering Clinton's boot.

Half a dozen of his seamen had reached Huron's deck ahead of Clinton, and without a word of command spoken, they bunched to guard the grappling lines over the stern , holding off Huron's axe men with cutlass and point-blank pistol fire. Behind them, Black joke's men came swarming aboard, unopposed, surging forward, their cheers rising into a triumphant chorus. At "em the jokers! "All together, boys, howled Clinton, the madness had taken complete hold of him now. There was no fear, no doubts, not even conscious thought. The madness was infectious, and his men howled with him, hunting as a pack like the wolf or the wild dog they swept across Huron's deck to meet the wave of her own seamen rushing back from Huron's bows.

The two waves of running, screaming men met just below the break of the poop, were transformed into a struggling mass of closely locked humanity, and their cries and curses mingled with the animal howl of terrified slaves. The pistols and muskets had all been discharged and there was no chance to reload. It was steel against steel now.

Black joke's crew were battle-hardened, they had fought together fifty times in the past year, they had stormed glacis and barracoon and withstood fire and steel. They were blooded fighting men and proud of it.

Huron's men were commercial seamen, not warriors, most of them had never swung a cutlass nor fired a pistol at another man before, and the difference was evident almost immediately.

For a minute or less the closely engaged mass of men swayed and churned like the meeting of two strong currents at the tidal line of the ocean, and then Black joke's sailors began to forge forward.

Up the Jokers! " They sensed their advantage. Hammer and tongs, boys.

Give "em heUV At only one point was the tide of British sailors checked, at the foot of Huron's mainmast two men stood almost shoulder to shoulder.

Tippoo seemed immovable on the solid foundation of those massive bared legs. Like a Buddha carved from solid rock, he spurned the press of men around him, and their ranks parted and drew back.

His loin-cloth was drawn up between his legs, and his smooth belly bulged over it, again as hard as mountain rock, with the deep cyclops eye of his navel in its centre.

The golden thread of his embroidered gilet sparkled in the sunlight, and he held his great round head low on his shoulders as he swung a double-bladed axe as easily as though it were a lady's parasol, and the axe hissed fiercely at every stroke and Black Joke's seamen gave him ground.

A pistol ball had nicked the scarred flesh of his bald head, and blood poured copiously from the shallow wound, turning his face to a glaring gory mask.

His wide toad's slit of a mouth opened as he laughed and shouted his contempt of the men who swarmed about him like pygmies about an ogre.

Beside him fought Mungo St. John. He had stripped off his blue jacket to free his sword arm, and his white linen shirt was open to the belt, the buttons torn from their threads by a clutching enemy hand. He had knotted a silk bandanna around his forehead to keep the sweat from running into his eyes, but sweat poured down his naked chest, and had soaked through his shirt in patches.

He had a sword in his right hand, a weapon with a plain silver steel guard and pommel, and he cut and parried and thrust without a break in the rhythm of his movements.

He was unmarked, the droplets of thrown blood that stained the full sleeve of his white shirt and which had been diluted by his sweat to a dirty brown, were not his blood.

$St. John! " Clinton called to him. They were both tall enough to look over the heads of the men between them, and they stared at each other for a moment.

Clinton's eyes were pate fanatical blue, and his lips white with fury. Mungo's expression was grave, thoughtful almost, and his gaze troubled, almost grieving, as though he knew he had lost his ship and that his life and the lives of most of his crew were forfeit. Fight me! Clinton challenged him, his voice strident, ringing with triumph. Again? " Mungo asked, and the smile touched his lips fleetingly, then was gone.

Clinton shouldered his way roughly through the press of his own men. The last time it had been pistols, Mungo St. John's choice of weapon, but now Clinton had the familiar weight and balance of a naval cutlass in his right hand, his weapon, that he had first swung as a midshipman of fourteen years old, and the whip cord muscles in his long right arm were seasoned to the use of the blade, and every evolution in its use, every trick and subterfuge had been drilled until they were instinctive.

As they came together, Clinton feinted and cut backhanded and low, going for the hip to cripple and bring the man down. As the stroke was parried he felt the strength of Mungo's sword arm for an instant before he disengaged, and switched his attack fluidly, going on the thrust leading with his right foot, a full stroke, and again the parry was strong and neat, but only just strong enough to hold the heavier, broader steel of the cutlass.

Those two brief contacts were enough for Clinton to judge his adversary and find his weakness, the wrist. He had felt it through the steel the way a skilled angler feels the weakness of the fish through line and rod, it was the wrist. St. John did not have the steely resilience that comes only from long and dedicated exercise and practice.

He saw the flare of alarm in St. John's strangely flecked eyes. The American, too, had felt his own inadequacy, and he knew he did not dare to draw out the encounter.

He must try to end it swiftly, before the Englishman's superiority could wear him down.

With the swordsman's instinct, Clinton translated the little flicker of the golden yellow eyes. He knew that Mungo St. John was going on the attack, so that as the stroke came an instant later, he caught it on the broad curved blade of the cutlass; then he shifted his weight forward and, with a twist of his own iron wrist, prevented the disengagement, forcing St. John to roll his own wrist, the two blades milling across each other, the steel screeching sharply on a harsh abrasive note that set their teeth on edge. Clinton forced two and then three turns, the classic prolonged engagement from which Mungo St. John could not break without risking the thunderbolt of the riposte, and Clinton felt the other's wrist give under the strain. He lunged his weight against it, slid the guard of the cutlass high up the blade and used the rolling momentum of two blades and the leverage of his wrist and the curved guard of the cutlass to tear the hilt out of Mungo St. John's fingers The American's sword clattered to the deck between them, and Mungo St. John threw up both hands, sucked in his belly and flung himself back against the mainmast in an attempt to avoid the thrust of the heavy cutlass blade which he knew would follow. In the buy of hatred that possessed Clinton, there was no thought of giving quarter to the man whom he had disarmed.

The thrust was full-blooded, driven by all the strength of wrist and arm, of shoulder and of Clinton's entire body weight, the killing stroke.

Clinton's whole being had been concentrated on the man before him, but now there was movement in the periphery of his vision. Tippoo had seen his Captain disarmed in the same instant that he had just completed a swing with the axe. He was off balance, it would take only a shaded instant to recover that balance, to raise the axe again, but that instant of time would be too long, for he saw the cutlass stroke already launched, and Mungo St. John trapped helplessly against the mainmast, his belly unprotected and his empty hands held high.

Tippoo opened his huge paws and let the axe go spinning away, like a cartwheel, and then he reached out and seized the gleaming cutlass blade in one bare hand.

He felt the blade run between his fingers and the terrible sting of the razor-sharp edge cutting down to the bone, still he heaved with all his weight, pulling the point away from the helpless man against the mainmast, deflecting it but unable to hold it for the tensed tendons in his lacerated fingers parted, and the blade ran on driven by the full weight of the tall platinum-headed naval officer.

Tippoo heard the point of the cutlass scrape over one of his ribs, and then a numbness filled his chest, and he felt the steel guard of the hilt strike his rib cage, a thud like that of a butcher's cleaver striking the chopping board, as the cutlass blade reached the limit of its travel.

Even the savage force of that blow was not enough to knock Tippoo off his feet, though it drove him back a pace. He stood solidly. His eyes screwed up into slits of skin, staring down at the blade that transfixed his chest, his bleeding hands still clutching the guard of the cutlass. , Only when Clinton leaned back and pulled the blade from his flesh, did Tippoo begin to sag slowly forward, his knees buckling, and he fell, his body slack and unresisting.

Clinton freed his cutlass blade, and it was thinly smeared along its full length, so that it blurred redly as he went on to the forehand cut, going once more for the man who was still pinned against the mainmast.

Clinton did not complete the stroke. He arrested it in midair, for Mungo St. John had been borne to the deck beneath a wave of struggling British seamen.

Clinton stepped back and rested on his cutlass. The fight was over, all around him m the crew of Huron were throwing down their weapons. Quarter, for the love of God, quarter! " They were dragging Mungo St. John to his feet, two seamen on each of his arms. He was unwounded, and Clinton's hatred was unabated. It took an enormous effort to prevent himself driving the point of the cutlass into Mungo's belly. Mungo was struggling to throw off the hands of the men who held him, straining to reach the massive body of the half-naked Moslem mate that lay at his feet. Let me free, Mungo cried. "I must see to my mate."

But they held him remorselessly, and Mungo looked up at Clinton. In the name of mercy, he was pleading, and Clinton had never expected that. He took a deep ragged breath, the madness began to fade. I give you my word, sir, Mungo was stricken, there was no mistaking his consuming grief, and Clinton hesitated. "I am your prisoner, " Mungo told him. "But this man is a friend-Clinton let out his breath slowly, and then he nodded to the seamen who held Mungo St. John. He has given his word. "And then to Mungo, "You may have five minutes. " And the seamen released him.

Mungo sank swiftly to his knees beside the inert figure. Old friend, " he whispered, as he tore the bandanna from off his own head and pressed it to the obscene little slit between Tippoo's ribs, "old friend."

Clinton turned away, slipping the cutlass back into its scabbard and he ran across the deck to the weather rail.

Robyn Ballantyne saw him coming and she strained towards him, unable to lift her arms for the slave cuffs that still bound her, but as he embraced her she put her face against his chest and her whole body trembled and shook as she sobbed. Oh, I give thanks to God-'Find the keys, Clinton ordered brusquely, and as the cuffs fell from Robyn's wrists he snatched them up and handed them to one of his men. "Use these on the slaver's Captain, he ordered.

With that gesture, the last of his madness was gone. Forgive me, Doctor Ballantyne. We will speak later, but now there remains much to be done. " He bowed slightly and hurried away calling his orders. Carpenter's mate, go below immediately, I want the damage to this ship repaired at once. Bosun, disarm her crew, and have them sent below under lock and key with a guard on the companionway. Two men on her wheel, and a prize crew to work her. We'll sail her into Table Bay with the dawn, my boys, and there'll be prize money for your fancy. " His men were still drunk on excitement and battle lust, and they cheered him hoarsely as they rushed to obey the string of orders.

Rubbing her chafed wrists, Robyn picked her way across the littered deck and through the throngs of bustling British seamen as they hustled their captives and the still-chained files of slaves below.

Almost timorously she approached the ill-assorted pair at the foot of the ship's mainmast. Tippoo lay on his back, the mound of his naked belly pressing upwards like a woman in labour, the soiled bandanna hiding the wound. His eyes were wide, staring up at the mast that towered above him, and his lower jaw sagged.

Mungo St. John held the huge bald cannon-ball head on his lap. He sat with his legs thrust out straight ahead of him, his back against the mast and as Robyn approached, he closed the lids over Tippoo's staring eyes, one at a time, with his thumb. His head was bowed, his hands gentle as those of a mother with her infant as he lifted the bandanna and used it to bind up the sagging jaw.

Robyn went down on one knee and reached out to Tippoo's chest, to feel for the heart beat, but Mungo St. John raised his head and looked at her.

Don't touch him, he said softly. I am a doctor-'He no longer needs a doctor, " Mungo's voice was low and clear, "especially if that doctor is you. "I am sorry. "Doctor Ballantyne, he told her, "you and I have no reason to apologize to each other, nor for that matter to speak to each other, ever again."

She stared at him, and his face was cold and set, the eyes that stared back at her were devoid of all emotion, and it was in that moment she knew she had lost him, irrevocably and forever. She had thought that was what she wanted, but now the total knowledge left her devastated, without the strength to break her gaze, without the power of speech, and he stared back at her remotely, hard and unforgiving.

"Mungo, she whispered, finding at last the strength and will to speak. "I did not mean this to happen, as the ALmighty is my witness, I did not mean it."

Rough hands dragged Mungo St. John to his feet, so that Tippoo's dead head slipped from his lap and the skull thumped against the wooden deck. Captain's orders, me old cock, and you are to "ave a taste of your own chains."

Mungo St. John did not resist as the slave cuffs were fastened on his wrists and ankles. He stood quietly, balancing to Huron's wild gale-driven lunges, looking about the fire-blackened ship with its decks covered with fallen and tangled rigging, stained with the blood of his crew, and though his expression did not change, there was a limitless grieving in his eyes. I am sorry, whispered Robyn, still kneeling beside him. "I am truly sorry."

Mungo St. John glanced down at her, his wrists fastened at the small of his back by the cold black links of chain. Yes, he nodded. "So am I! And a seaman thrust the palm of a horny hand between his shoulder blades, shoving him away towards the Huron's forecastle, and the slave chains clanked about his ankles, as he staggered.

Within a dozen paces he had recovered his balance, and shrugged off the hands of his gaolers. He walked away with his back straight and his shoulders thrown back, and he did not look back at Robyn kneeling on the blood-stained deck.

Mungo St. John blinked at the brilliant sunlight as he followed the scarlet uniform coat and white cross-straps of his escort out into the courtyard of the Cape Town castle.

He had not seen the sun for five days; the cell in which he had been confined since he had been escorted ashore, had no external windows. Even in midsummer, the dark and chill of the past winter still lingered in the thick stone walls, and the air that entered through the single barred opening in the oaken door was stale and sullied by the gaol odours, the emanations from the dozen or so prisoners in the other cells.

Mungo filled his lungs now, and paused to look up at the ramparts of the castle. The British flag spread jauntily above the Katzenellenbogen redoubt, and beyond it the seagulls planed and volleyed on the fresh south-easterly wind.

Force five and standing fair for a ship to clear the bay and make the open Atlantic, Mungo noted instinctively. This way please. " The young Subaltern who commanded the prison escort urged him on, but Mungo hesitated a moment longer. He could hear the murmurous song of the surf-break upon the beaches just beyond the castle walls, and from the ramparts he would have a clear view across Table Bay to Bloubergstrand on the far curve.

Huron would be lying at anchor close inshore, still under her prize crew, and he longed for just a single glimpse of her, longed to know if the stern quarters were still smoke-blackened and gutted, or if O'Brien had been allowed to make the repairs to her hull and her steering gear. If only Tippoo, he began the thought, and then stopped himself, shivered briefly in the sunlight not only from the prison chill in his bones. He squared his shoulders and nodded to the Subaltern. Please lead the way, he agreed, and the hobnailed boots of the escort gnashed the cobbles as they crossed the courtyard and then climbed the broad flight of steps to the Governor's suite of offices. Prisoner and escort, halt."

Upon the portico a naval Lieutenant waited to receive them in his navy-blue and gold jacket, white breeches and cocked hat. Mr. St. John? " asked the Lieutenant. He was old for his rank, grey and worn-looking, with a weary disinterested eye, and Mungo nodded disdainfully.

The Lieutenant turned to the officer of the escort. Thank you, sir, I will take over from here, " and then to Mungo. "Kindly follow me, Mr. St. John."

He went in through the magnificent teak doors, carved by the master craftsman Anreith, into the Governor's antechamber with its polished floors of butter-coloured Cape deal, the high hewn rafters of the same timber, and with the thick walls hung with the treasures of the Orient gathered so assiduously by that great plunderer, the Dutch East India Company, which had in turn succumbed to an even more powerful predator.

The Lieutenant turned right, avoiding the brass and mahogany double doors of the Governor's private office to which Mungo had expected to be led; instead they went to a less pretentious single door set in a corner of the antechamber. At the Lieutenant's knock, a voice bade them enter, and they went in to a small office, clearly belonging to the Governor's Aide-decamp whom Mungo had met before.

The Aide-decamp sat at the plain oak desk facing the door, and he did not rise nor did he smile as Mungo entered. There were two other men in the room, both seated in armchairs.

You know Admiral Kemp, said the Aide-decamp. Good morning, Admiral.

" Slogger Kemp inclined his head, but made no other gesture of recognition. And this is Sir Alfred Murray, Chief justice of the Supreme Court of the Cape Colony. "Your servant, sir. " Mungo neither bowed nor smiled, and the judge leaned forward slightly in his armchair, both hands on the gold and amber handle of his walkingstick, and stared at Mungo, from under beetling white brows.

Mungo was pleased that an hour previously his gaoler had provided him with hot water and razor and that he had been allowed to contract with the ex-slave Malay washerwoman who laundered for the castle's officers.

His breeches were clean, his boots polished and his shirt crisply ironed and snowy white.

The Aide-decamp picked up an official document from the desk before him. You are the Captain and owner of the clipper Huron? " , I am. 1The ship has been seized as prize by the Royal Navy under Articles Five to Eleven of the Treaty of Brussels, and presently lies under prize crew in British territorial waters."

That did not need reply, and Mungo stood silently. The case has been considered by the Courts of Mixed Commission for the colony, under the presidency of the Chief justice, and after hearing evidence from the Officer Commanding the Cape Squadron and others, the Court has determined that as the Huron was taken on the high seas, the Cape Colony has no jurisdiction in this matter.

The Chief justice has recommended to His Excellency, the Governor of Cape Colony, that the, ahem-" the Aide-decamp paused significantly, "the cargo of the clipper ship Huron be impounded by Her Majesty's Government, but that the clipper be released under the command and connaissance of its owner and that the owner be ordered to proceed with all despatch to place himself and his vessel under the jurisdiction of a properly constituted American Court and there to answer such charges as the President of the United States deems fit to bring against him."

Mungo let out a long slow breath of relief. By God's breath, the Limeys were going to duck the issue! They were not about to chance the wrath of the new American President-elect. They had taken his slaves, eight hundred thousand dollars worth, but they were giving him back his ship and they were letting him go.

The Aide-decamp went on reading without looking up. The Governor of Cape Colony has accepted the Court's recommendation and has so decreed. You are required to make your ship ready and safe for the voyage with all speed. In this respect, the officer commanding the Cape Squadron has agreed to place at your disposal the repair facilities of the Naval Station. "Thank you, Admiral."

Mungo turned to him, and Slogger Kemp's brows came together, his face mottled with passion, but his voice was very quiet and clear. Sixteen of my men dead, and as many maimed by your actions, sir, each day the smell of your filthy ship blows in to the windows of my office. " Admiral Kemp lifted himself with an effort from his armchair, and glared at Mungo St. John. "I say rot you, and your thanks, Mr. St. John, and if I had my way we wouldn't be playing coy and cute with Mr. Lincoln, and I would have you swinging at the mainyard of a British man-of-war rather than sailing out of Table Bay in your stinking slaver."

Slogger Kemp turned away and went to stare out of the single window, into the courtyard of the castle where his carriage waited.

The Aide-decamp seemed not to have noticed the outburst. He went on smoothly, A representative of the Royal Navy will accompany you aboard your ship and remain there until he determines that your vessel is seaworthy."

The Aide-decamp reached back and tugged the bellpull behind his shoulder, and almost immediately the door opened and the naval Lieutenant reappeared. Just one other thing, Mr. St. John, the Governor has declared you to be an undesirable alien and you will immediately be arrested if you are ever again so rash as to set foot in Cape Colony."

The tall figure came striding up the yellow gravel pathway, under the avenue of tall date palms, and Aletta Cartwright called gaily across the rose garden, Here comes your beau, Robyn. He is early today."

Robyn straightened, the basket full of rose blossoms hanging on her arm, the wide straw hat shading her face from the flat glare of the Cape noonday. She watched Clinton coming towards her with the warmth of affection. He looked so gangling and boyish and impetuous, much too young ever to have led that rush of fighting seamen over Huzon's stern .

She had grown accustomed to him over the past weeks while she had been a guest once more of the Cartwright family, and each afternoon Clinton had walked up the hill from his modest lodgings in Waterkant Street. She looked forward to his visits, to their serious conversations after the frivolity and inconsequences of the Cartwright daughters. She found his admiration and his adoration flattering and deeply comforting. She felt it was something that would never change, something constant, a pole-star in the confusion and uncertainty that had been her life to this time.

She had learned to value his good sense, and his judgement. She had even allowed him to read the manuscript which was occupying most of her days now, and his comments and criticisms were always well based.

Then she had found that he filled a part of her life that had been empty for much too long. She needed something or someone to cherish and protect and comfort', somebody who needed her, someone on whom to lavish the bounty of her compassion. I do not believe I could ever live without you, my dear Doctor Ballantyne, he had told her. "I do not believe I could have endured this terrible period of my life without your help.

" She knew it was probably true, not just the hyperbole of the love-sick swam, and Robyn was entirely unable to resist the appeal of anybody in pain or in suffering.

It was many weeks since that heady day when Black joke had sailed into Table Bay with her bulwarks and upperworks riddled with shot, her rigging in heroic and picturesque ruins, and her huge captive, blackened with smoke and limping under jury rigging and makeshift steering-gear, herded submissively under the menace of her carronades to an anchorage close inshore at Ragger Bay.

How the townsfolk had swarmed to the beachfront to gawk and exclaim, and how the other naval vessels in the bay had lined their rails and yards with seamen to cheer them in.

She had been standing at Clinton Codrington's side when the two contingents of naval officers from the Cape Squadron's headquarters had been rowed out to Black Joke's anchorage. The first had been headed by a naval Commander, some years junior to Clinton. Captain Codrington, he saluted. "I am under orders to take over command of this ship from you forthwith, sir."

Clinton accepted this without change of expression. Very well, sir, I will have my gear removed, and in the meantime we should complete the formalities, and I will introduce you to the remaining officers When Clinton had shaken hands with his officers and his sea chest was at the entry port, the second longboat which had been lying on its oars a few yards off, now came alongside and a senior Captain came aboard. Everyone on Black Joke's deck knew what was about to happen, and Denham stepped close to Clinton and said softly, "Good luck, sir, you know you can count on me when the time comes."

They both knew what he was referring to, the day they would meet again in the court-martial chamber. Thank you, Mr. Denham, Clinton replied, then he went forward to where the senior Captain waited. Captain Codrington, it is my duty to inform you that you have been called upon by the Officer Commanding the Squadron to answer certain charges concerning the conduct of your duties. Therefore, you are to consider yourself under open arrest and to hold yourself in readiness to answer those charges as soon as a court martial can be convened. "I understand, sir."

Clinton saluted him, and then preceded him through the entry port and down the ladder into the waiting boat.

A single voice called out, "Give "em. hell, Tongs."

And suddenly they were all cheering. Black joke's crew lined her side and hung in her rigging and they cheered as though their throats would crack.

Hammer and Tongs! " They tossed their caps on high. At "em the jokers! " As the boat pulled away and rowed for the beach, Clinton Codrington stood in the stern and stared back at them without expression, and his bare head shone like a beacon fire in the sunlight.

That had been so many weeks ago. Still the opportunity of assembling enough senior officers in a small station like the Cape Colony to act as his judges might not occur for weeks still or even months.

Clinton had spent his nights in the cheap lodgings on Waterkant Street. Ostracized by his brother officers, he had spent most of his days alone upon the waterfront staring out at the little gunboat that was making her repairs at the anchorage, and at the bare-masted clipper.

He had watched while the slaves were brought ashore from Huron's holds, and their chains were struck off by a blacksmith from the castle. He had seen the bewildered blacks put their marks upon the indenture contracts, and then be led away by the Dutch and Huguenot farmers to learn their new duties, and he had wondered at this other fate to which he had delivered them.

Then in the afternoons he had climbed the hill to the Cartwright mansion set in its green and pleasant garden to pay his court to Robyn Ballantyne.

This day he was early, the noonday gun banged from the top of Signal Hill as Clinton came striding up the pathway, almost breaking into a run when he saw Robyn in the rose garden. He left the pathway and cut across the velvety green carpet of the lawn. Robyn! Doctor Ballantyne! " His voice was strange, and his pale eyes wild. What is it? " Robyn handed the basket to Aletta and hurried across the lawn to meet him. What is it? " she repeated with concern, and he seized both her hands in his. The slaver! he was stuttering with the force of his emotion, "The American, HuronPYes? " she demanded. "Yes? "She is sailing, they are letting her go!

It was a cry of outrage and despair, and Robyn froze, her face suddenly pale. I do not believe it. "Come! said Clinton.

"I have a carriage at the gate."

The coachman whipped the horses at the slope, with Clinton shouting to him to hurry still, and they came out on the crest of Signal Hill in a lather, with froth splattered on their chests and forelegs.

The moment the coach braked, Clinton jumped down and led Robyn to the side of the roadway facing down the steep hillside out over the bay. The tall American clipper slid silently and gracefully over a green sea that was speckled by the dancing white caps of the southeasterly wind.

As she cleared the low dark shape of Robben Island, she altered her heading a fraction and more sail bloomed upon her yards, white as the first flowers of spring. Silently, the man and the woman stared after the beautiful ship, and neither of them spoke as she merged with the milky sea fret, became a ghostly silhouette, and then quite suddenly was gone.

Still in silence the couple turned back and climbed into the waiting carriage, and neither of them spoke until it drew up before the gates of the Cartwright estate.

Clinton looked at her face. It was completely bloodless, even her lips were ivory white and quivering with suppressed emotion.

I know how you feel. After all we endured, to see that monster sail away. I share your distress, " he said quietly, but she shook her head once vehemently and then was still again. I have other news, he told her when at last he judged she had recovered, and a little colour had returned to her cheeks. There is a Rear-Admiral on the passenger list of the East Indiaman that anchored in the bay yesterday. Slogger Kemp has asked him to make up the numbers at the court-martial. It begins tomorrow."

Immediately she turned to face him, her expression softening with concern and alarm. Oh, I will pray for you every moment. " She reached out her hand impulsively, and he seized it with both of his, and clung to it.

It was as though the contact had loosened something in her that she had locked away tightly and at last the tears welled up in her hot dry eyes.

Oh my dear Doctor Ballantyne, Clinton whispered. Please do not fret for me. " But through the tears Robyn was still seeing the ghostly image of a tall and beautiful ship fading away into the pearly curtain of sea fret, and the first sob shook her body.

The floor of the ballroom of Admiralty House was laid out in chessboard squares of black and white marble, and the human characters like chess pieces were ranged upon it haphazard, as though by the vagaries of a hard-fought end-game.

Robyn Ballantyne in skirt and blouse of sober green stood by the head of the board, a solitary queen, while arranged opposite her were the rooks of the legal council: two naval officers in full uniform and sword who were playing the roles of prosecutor and defender. They had been chosen arbitrarily, and neither of them relished the unfamiliar task.

They had isolated themselves from the rest of the company, and each of them busied himself with the sheaf of documents he carried, not looking at the man who they were destined to save or condemn, depending on the deliberations of the senior officers who were even now closeted behind the tall double doors at the far end of the ballroom.

The other witnesses, Denham of Black Joke bearing the ship's log under his arm, MacDonald the engineer hiding his grey coal-stained hands behind his back, the colony's agent and Honorary Consul for the Sheikh of Omani, a prosperous Asian trader, were like the scattered pawns of the game around the edge of the board.

Only the officer accused and on trial for his life was not at rest. Captain Clinton Codrington paced at random about the ballroom floor, his heels clicking on the marble slabs, his cocked hat clasped under one arm, his pale blue eyes staring dead ahead. He paced without pattern like the roving knight of the chess board.

The tension seemed to charge even this huge room, increasing rather than lessening with every minute. Only the two red-coated marines on each side of the double doors seemed totally unaffected.

They stood stolidly, their musket butts grounded beside the polished toe caps of their right boots, their expressions blank and their eyes fixed directly ahead.

Once Clinton stopped in front of Robyn and drew his watch.

Fifty minutes, he said.

It could be hours yet, she answered quietly. I can never thank you for the evidence you gave. "It was nothing but the truth. Yes, he agreed.

"But without it-" He broke off, and resumed his restless pacing.

The prosecuting officer who had attempted for the two previous days to damn him and send him to the gallows, glanced up at Clinton, and then hurriedly, almost guiltily, returned his eyes to the documents he held in his right hand. Robyn was the only one who watched him openly, and her eyes were dark with worry and concern, yet when he caught her eye again a few minutes later, she smiled at him bravely, trying to hide her doubts.

The four senior officers, before whom she had given her evidence, had listened attentively, but she had seen no warmth nor compassion in their faces. Madam, " Admiral Kemp had asked her at the end, "is it true that you obtained a medical degree by impersonating a man, and if your answer is "Yes', would you not then believe us justified in doubting your allegiance to the truth?

Robyn had seen the faces of the senior officers flanking Kemp harden, their eyes become remote. The Sultan's agent had been blatantly hostile, as the prosecuting officer had led him dutifully through a long list of aggressions and warlike acts against his master's sovereign territory and against his subjects.

Denham and MacDonald could only recite the facts, and their own repudiation of their Captain's orders was recorded in the ship's logbook.

The only thing that surprised Robyn was that the court had deliberated so long, and then she started involuntarily as, with a crash that echoed around the walls of the empty ballroom, the double doors were thrown open, and the two marine guards stamped to attention.

Through the doors she could see the naval officers seated down the length of the long dining-room table facing the ballroom. Their fragging and epaulettes gleamed with gold lace and Robyn was too far to be certain of their expressions. Though she took a step forward and craned to see the polished top of the table in front of the grim line of judges, she could not be certain of the hilt and point of the single weapon that lay upon it, and then her view was blocked by the backs of the three men who lined up facing the doors.

Clinton was in the centre with the prosecution and the defending officers flanking him. At a muttered command, they marched briskly through the open doors. The doors closed behind the trio, and still Robyn could not know which way the naval dirk on the table was pointing, whether it was in its sheath or if the blade was naked.

Clinton had explained to her the significance of that weapon. it was only placed upon the table when the judges had reached their decision. If the blade was sheathed, and if the hilt was pointed towards the prisoner when he entered, then the judgement was "not guilty, .

When the bare blade was pointed towards him, then he knew that the wrath of the service was about to descend upon him, and he might be called to pay his penalty upon the flogging grating, or upon the gallows itself.

Clinton kept his gaze fixed upon a point above Admiral Kemp's head, while the doors were banged closed behind him, and he and the officers flanking him came to attention five paces from the long polished table behind which sat his judges.

Only then did he allow himself to glance down at the dagger upon the table top. The bare blade glinted a bluish-silver in the late sunlight that slanted in from the tall french windows, and the bright point was aimed at Clinton's stomach.

He felt the cold drive of despair in his guts, as though the dagger had been plunged through them. The shock of the injustice of the verdict, the disbelief that his whole life had been brought down at a single stroke, the shame and disgrace of a career shattered and a reputation indelibly besmirched, left him numbed and blind to all but the wicked blade before him, and deaf to all but the voice of Admiral Kemp. Guilty of flagrant disregard of the orders of his superior officer. "Guilty of acts of piracy upon the high seas.

"Guilty of destroying the property of the subjects of a friendly power. "Guilty of flouting the terms of a treaty between her Britannic Majesty's Government and the Sultan of the Omani Arabs."

it must he death, Clinton realized, the verdict was too detailed, the list of his transgressions too long and his guilt too serious. It must be death by the noose.

He lifted his eyes from the accusing weapon, and he stared out of the french windows beyond his judges. The high stock of his uniform collar felt as tight as the hangman's noose as he tried to swallow.

I have never feared death, Lord, he prayed silently. There is only one thing I will regret, that I must leave the woman that I love."

To be deprived of honour, and of life was sufficient punishment, but to lose his love as well was the final injustice. The Court has deliberated at length on the sentence, Admiral Kemp paused and shot a sideways glance at a lean, tanned and silver-haired Rear-Admiral beside him, the passenger from the visiting East Indiaman, "and has heard and been swayed by the eloquent arguments of Admiral Reginald Curry."

He paused again and puffed out his lips, indicating clearly that he did not agree with those eloquent arguments, before going on. The sentence of this Court is that the prisoner be stripped of all rank, privileges and pay and that the Queen's Commission which he holds shall be withdrawn, and that he be dishonourably discharged from the naval service."

Clinton steeled himself, the stripping of rank and discharge would precede the main body of the sentence.

Furthermore, Kemp paused and cleared his throat. Furthermore it is the sentence of the Court that the prisoner be taken from here to the castle and that he be there -The castle was the place of execution, the gallows would be erected on the parade ground before the main gates. That he be there imprisoned for a period of one year."

The judges were standing up, were filing out of the room. As the lean silver-haired Admiral came level with Clinton, a small conspiratorial smile touched his lips, and for the first time Clinton realized that it was not death. A year, said the Lieutenant who had prosecuted, as the door closed, "not a flogging, nor a hanging, damned generous, I'd say."

Congratulations. " Clinton's defending officer was grinning incredulously. "It was Curry, of course, he commanded the west coast anti-slavery squadron himself.

What a stroke of luck to have him on the'Board Pale, voiceless, swaying slightly on his feet, Clinton was still staring blindly through the open windows. Come on, my dear fellow, a year will soon be past the defending officer touched his arm, "and after that, no more bully beef and hard bread, do pull yourself together."

Twenty miles a day since leaving grandfather Moffat's mission-station at Kuruman, Zouga had pushed the mules and his servants hard all the way, and now at the crest of the pass he reined in the tall sway-backed mule and stared out across the sweeping panorama of the Cape peninsula.

Directly below him was that strange pale hill of smooth rock, Die Paarl as the Dutch burghers had named it, "the Pearl', and it shone with an almost translucent lustre in the Cape sunlight of high summer.

Beyond that the wheatlands and vineyards dotted the flat land that stretched away to the Paarde Berg, the Horse Mountains, where once the wild mountain zebra had roamed, and the Tyger Berg. The leopard to the Dutch burghers was a tiger and the zebra was a horse. Nearly home now, Sergeant, Zouga called to Jan Cheroot. Just look at that-'The little Hottentot pointed to the smoky blue flat-topped mountain that stood up tall and massive against the southern horizon. We will be there before dark tomorrow night."

Jan Cheroot puckered his lips and blew a kiss towards it. "Pull the cork and tell the Cape Town ladies that my mama didn't call me big cheroot for nothing."

his mule flicked its long hairy ears to the sound of his voice and gave a little half-hearted buck. "You feeling it too, you old thunder! " Jan Cheroot chuckled. "Let's go then! " and he whipped the animal up and went clattering away down the steep and rocky roadway.

Zouga stayed to watch the battered little two-wheeled Cape cart follow him at a more sedate pace, carrying its precious burden of ivory and sculptured green soapstone, as it had for a thousand miles and more.

it was a month before Robyn was allowed to pay her first visit to the castle. After the guard at the gates inspected her pass, she was led to a small whitewashed guard room, devoid of all furniture except three highbacked uncushioned chairs.

She remained standing for ten minutes before the low door opposite her was opened and Clinton stooped through it. He stopped, facing her, and she was struck instantly by the prison pallor of his skin. His deepwater tan had faded to a tobacco stain of yellow, and the roots of his hair, no longer bleached by salt and strong sunlight, had darkened.

He looked older, tired and dejected. You at least have not deserted me in my disgrace, he said simply.

The Subaltern of the guard took the third chair and tried to look as though he was not listening to their conversation. Robyn and Clinton sat facing each other stiffly, on the uncomfortable chairs, and their conversation was at first as stilted, a polite series of enquiries after each other's health.

Then Robyn asked, "Have you received the newspapers. Yes. The warder has been good to me. "Then you have read what the new American President has promised at his inauguration. "Lincoln was always a staunch enemy of the trade, Clinton nodded. He has granted the ships of the Royal Navy the right of search at last."

And six of the Southern States have seceded already, Clinton told her grimly. "There will be fighting, if he tries to force it. "It's so unfair, Robyn cried. "Just a few short weeks and you would have been a hero instead of a-" she broke off with her hand to her mouth, "I am sorry, Captain Codrington."

Captain no longer, he said. I feel so much to blame, had I not sent that letter-'You are so kind, so good, then he blurted abruptly, $and so beautiful that I can scarcely bear to look at you."

Robyn found herself blushing hotly, and she glanced at the listening guard officer. He was studying the rough plaster ceiling of the cell. Do you know what I thought when I entered the chamber and saw the dirk pointed at me? " Clinton went on, and she shook her head. "I thought I was going to lose you. That they would hang me and I would never see you again. " His voice was shaking with such emotion, that the listening officer rose to his feet. Doctor Ballantyne, I will leave the room for five minutes, he said. "Do I have your word that you will not attempt to pass a weapon or a tool to the prisoner in my absence? " Robyn nodded jerkily and whispered, "Thank you."

The moment the door closed, Clinton launched himself across the gap between them and dropped to his knees before Robyn. He encircled her waist with both arms and pressed his cheek to her bosom. But now I have nothing to offer you, I have nothing to share with you but my disgrace."

Robyn found herself stroking his hair as though he were a child. Soon I will go back to that beautiful land below the Zambezi river. I know now that is where my destiny lies, " she said quietly. "To minister to the souls and the bodies of those who live there."

She paused a moment and looked down fondly on the dense pale locks of his hair. You say you have nothing to offer, nothing to share, but I have something to offer you, and to share with you!

He raised his head and looked up at her questioningly, hope starting to dawn in his pale sapphire eyes. Will you not offer yourself to be ordained in God's service as a missionary, and come with me into the wilderness, to the land of Zarnbezia? "To share my life with you, and with God. " His voice was hush and choked. "I never dreamed I was worthy of such an honour. "The fellow is a prig, said Zouga firmly. "And, damn me, but now he is a gaol-bird to boot. Neither of you will be able to hold up your heads in society. "He has a true and noble spirit, and now he has found his true calling in God's service, Robyn replied hotly. Neither of us intend spending much of our time in society, you may be certain of that."

Zouga shrugged and smiled. "Of course, that is your affair. At least he has made a pretty packet of prize money which they can't take away from himI assure you that money had nothing to do with my decision. "I will believe that. " Zouga's smile infuriated her, but before she could find a scathing enough retort, he turned away and sauntered the length of the long veranda under the trellised vines and stood with his hands thrust into his pockets, staring out across the Cartwrights" gardens to the far glimpses of blue bay seen through the oaks and the rustling palms.

Robyn's anger subsided and gave way to regret. It seemed now that the two of them must always be squabbling, their desires and their motives always directly opposed.

At first her relief at his safety had been almost as strong as her sisterly delight at seeing him again. She had barely recognized him as he rode the bony swaybacked mule up the path to the Cartwright mansion. It was only when he dismounted and lifted the stained old hat from his head that she screamed with joy, leapt up from the luncheon table and ran down off the terrace to hug him.

He was so lean and hard and bronzed, and somehow endowed with new authority, charged with purpose and presence, that she glowed with pride as he recounted his experiences and all the company hung avidly on each word. He is like a Greek god! " Aletta Cartwright had whispered to Robyn, which was not an original description but then Aletta did not run much to original thought, and Robyn had to agree that in this case it was accurate.

She had followed his description of the land of the Matabele, and of the long trek southward with all her attention, asking such acute questions that Zouga had asked sharply, I hope that you will not be using any of this in your own account, Sissy? "Of course not, " she assured him, but still that had been the first sour note, and he had not spoken further of his adventures, except to give her the greetings and news of their grandfather, Robert Moffat at Kururnan. You would never believe that he was seventy-five years old this past December. He is so bright and alive that he has just finished translating the Bible into the Sechuan language. He gave me every courtesy and help, and it was he who arranged for mules and for the cart which made the last portion of the journey so much easier. He remembered you as a little girl of three years old, and he has received your letters and gave me this in reply. " It was a thick packet. "He tells me that you have asked him about leading a missionary expedition to Zarnbezia or Matabeleland. "That is correct. "Sissy, I do not think that a woman on her own, he had begun, but she had forestalled him. I shall not be alone. Captain Clinton Codrington has decided to seek ordination as a missionary, and I have consented to become his wife."

That had led to the explosion which had once more marred their relationship. As her anger faded, she made another determined effort to avert the new clash of temperament.

Zouga, she went down the length of the terrace and took his arm. I would be grateful if you would consent to give me away at the wedding."

Some of the hardness went out of his arm as his muscles relaxed. When will that be, Sissy? "Not for seven months.

Clinton has that much longer of his sentence."

Zouga. shook his head. "I will not be here. I have booked passage on the & steamer that sails for home at the beginning of next month. " They were both silent, and then Zouga went on, "But I wish you joy and happiness, and I apologize for the remark I made about your future husband. "I understand. " She squeezed his arm. "He is a different kind of man from you."

Zouga almost exclaimed, "Thank God for that, but caught the blasphemy before it reached his lips, and again they were silent.

Zouga was considering the problem that had concerned him so intimately since his return to Cape Town - how to find out from Robyn what she had written in her manuscript, and if possible to influence her into amending those portions of it which might offend the family reputation.

Now that he had learned that she would not be returning to England, the natural opportunity had presented itself. Sissy, if your manuscript is prepared, I will be happy to take it with me and to make certain that it is delivered safely to Oliver Wicks."

The voyage to England would give Zouga ample opportunity to study Robyn's work, and if the delivery was delayed for a month or so after his arrival, then Zouga's own published account of the expedition would skim the cream off the pool of interest and critical literary attention. Oh, did I not mention it to you? " Robyn lifted her chin, and her smile was spiced with a little spiteful relish. "I sent my manuscript on the mail steamer a month before your arrival here. It will be in London already, and I should not be surprised if Mr. Wicks has not published it already. I expect he will have sent the reviews, and we will have them on the next mailship."

Zouga jerked his arm out of her grip, and his eyes were steely as he glared down at her.

I really should have mentioned it, she added sweetly.

His reaction confirmed her suspicions. and she knew that what last small chance they had was finished. From now on they would be enemies, and somehow she knew that the centre of their enmity would always be the land and peoples of that faraway country between two great rivers which Zouga had named Zambezia.

At the end of the Woodstock road, on the bank of the Liesbeeck river, not far from the domed roof of the Royal Astronomical Observatory, stands the Cartwright warehouse. It is a rambling whitewashed building of a burnt Kimberley brick with a corrugated iron roof.

Against the rear wall of the main storeroom stood three articles left there in storage and for later collection by Major Morris Zouga Ballantyne, presently on passage aboard the Peninsular and Orient Steamship S. S. Bombay from India to the Pool of London. The three bulky articles were almost completely screened by the bays and hillocks of bales and crates, and of barrels and bags, which reached almost to the high ceiling.

The two huge elephant tusks formed a perfect frame with their curved yellow ivories for the third package.

The carved soapstone figure was still contained in its protective covering of plaited elephant grass and twisted bark rope. It stood upright on its wide heavy base, and it was merely chance that it faced towards the north.

The grass covering had been torn away from the head by careless handling and long months of travel on the shoulders of porters and on the buckboards of an unsprung Cape cart.

The cruel proud head of the bird of prey protruded from its wrappings. The stony sightless eyes stared across forest and mountain and desert, one thousand five hundred miles, to a walled and mined city and the words of the Umlimo's prophecy seemed to hover in the air above the graven head of the bird like living things. The white eagle has stooped on the stone falcons and cast them to earth. Now the eagle shall lift them up again and they will fly afar. There shall be no peace in the kingdoms of the Mambos or the Monomatapas until they return. For the white eagle will war with the black bull until the stone falcons return to roost.

The End

Wilbur Smith was born in Central Africa in 1933. He was educated at Michaelhouse and Rhodes University. He became a full-time writer in 1964 after the successful publication of When the Lion Feeds, and has since written twenty-four novels, meticulously researched on his numerous expeditions worldwide. His work is now translated into twenty-five languages. He normally travels from November to February, often spending a month skiing in Switzerland, and visiting Australia and New Zealand for sea fishing. During his summer break he visits environments as diverse as Alaska and the dwindling wilderness of the African interior. He has an abiding concern for the peoples and wildlife of his native continent, an interest strongly reflected in his novels.

He is married to Danielle, to whom his last twenty books have been dedicated.

The novels of Wilbur Smith

The Courtney Novels:

When the Lion Feeds

The Sound of Thunder

A Sparrow Falls

The Burning Shore

Power of the Sword

Rage

A Time to Die

The Ballantyne Novels:

A Falcon Flies

Men of Men

The Angels Weep

The Leopard Hunts in Darkness

Also:

The Dark of the Sun

Shout at the Devil

Gold Mine

The Diamond Hunters

The Sunbird

Eagle in the Sky

The Eye of the Tiger

Cry Wolf

Hungry as the Sea

Wild justice

Golden Fox

Elephant Song

River God

Power of the Sword