A Falcon Flies

by Wilbur Smith

  For the sake of speed Clinton Codrington chose the inshore passage, so that always the land was in sight as they bustled northwards. Day after day the shimmering white beaches and dark rocky headlands unreeled ahead of Black Joke’s bows, sometimes almost lost in the smoky blue sea-fret, and at other times brutally clear under the African sun.

  Clinton kept steam in his boilers and the single bronze screw spinning under his counter with every sail set and trained around to glean the smallest puff of the wind, as he drove Black Joke on to the rendezvous that Mungo St John had set. His haste was symptom of a compulsion that Robyn Ballantyne only began fully to understand during those days and nights that they drove east and north, for Clinton Codrington sought her company constantly and she spent many hours of each day with him, or all of it that could be spared from the management of the vessel – beginning with the assembly of the ship’s company for morning prayers.

  Most naval captains went through the motions of divine service once a week, but Captain Codrington held prayers every morning and it did not take Robyn long to realize that his faith and sense of Christian duty was, if anything, greater than her own. He did not seem to experience the terrible doubts and temptations to which she was always such a prey, and if it had not been unchristian to do so she would have felt envy for his sense and secure faith.

  ‘I wanted to go into the church, like my father and my elder brother, Ralph, before me,’ he told her.

  ‘Why did you not?’

  ‘The Almighty led me into the path He had chosen for me,’ Clinton said simply, and it did not seem pretentious when he said it. ‘I know now He meant me to be a shepherd for His flock, here in this land,’ and he pointed at the silver beaches and blue mountains. ‘I did not realize it at the time, but His ways are wonderful. This is the work He has chosen for me.’

  Suddenly she realized how deep was his commitment to the war he was waging against the trade, it was almost a personal crusade. His whole being directed at its destruction, for he truly believed that he was the instrument of God’s will.

  Yet, like many deeply religious men, he kept his belief closely guarded, never flaunting it in sanctimonious posturing or biblical quotation. The only time he spoke of his God was during the daily prayers and when he was alone with her on his quarterdeck. Quite naturally, he assumed that her belief matched, if not outstripped, his own. She did nothing to disillusion him, for she enjoyed his patent admiration, his deference to the fact that she had been appointed as a missionary, and when she was truthful to herself, which was more and more often these days, she liked the way he looked, the sound of his voice, and even the smell of him. It was a man’s smell, like tanned leather or the pelt of an otter she had once had as a pet at King’s Lynn.

  He was good to be near, a man, as the pale missionary initiates and medical students she had known had not been men. He was the Christian warrior. She found a comfort in his presence, not like the wicked excitement of Mungo St John, but something deeper and more satisfying. She looked upon him as her champion, as though the deadly assignation to which he was hurrying was on her behalf, to wipe out the knowledge of sin and to atone for her disgrace.

  On the third day they passed the settlement on the shore of Algoa Bay, where the 5,000 British settlers brought out by Governor Somerset forty years before in 1820 had landed and still eked a hard existence from the unforgiving African earth. The white flecks of painted walls looked pitifully insignificant in that wilderness of water and sky and land, and at last Robyn started to come to some small understanding of the vastness of this continent and how puny were the scratches that man had made upon it. For the first time she felt a small cold dread at her own temerity that had brought her so far, so young and so inexperienced, to venture she was not sure what. She hugged her shawl about her shoulders and shivered in the cutting wind that poured in off the green sea. The Africa she had dreamed of so often seemed harsh and unwelcoming now.

  As Black Joke closed swiftly with the rendezvous that St John had appointed, Clinton Codrington became quieter, and was more often alone in his cabin. He understood clearly the ordeal that faced him. Zouga Ballantyne had discussed it with him on almost every occasion that presented itself. Zouga was unwavering in his opposition to the meeting.

  ‘You have chosen a formidable opponent, sir,’ he told Clinton bluntly. ‘And I mean no offence when I say I doubt you are a match for him with either pistol or sword – but he’ll choose pistols, you can wager on that.’

  ‘He challenged,’ Clinton said quietly. ‘My weapon is the naval cutlass. We will fight with those.’

  ‘I cannot support you there.’ Zouga shook his head. ‘If there was a challenge, and I could make a case against that – but if there was one, it came from you, sir. If you fight, it will be with pistols.’

  Day after day he tried to persuade Clinton to miss the rendezvous.

  ‘Damn it, man. Nobody fights duels any more, especially against a man who can split the cheroot in your mouth with either hand, at twenty paces.’ Or again, ‘There was no challenge, Captain Codrington, I was there, and I would stake my honour on it.’ At another time, ‘You will lose your commission, sir. You have Admiral Kemp’s direct order to avoid the meeting, and it is obvious that Kemp is waiting for an opportunity to haul you before a court martial.’ Then again, ‘By God, sir, you will serve no one – least of all yourself – by being shot to death on some deserted and Godforsaken shore. If St John is a slaver, then your chance to take him at more favourable odds will come later.’

  When Zouga’s best arguments made no dent on Clinton’s resolve Zouga went to Robyn in her cabin.

  ‘You seem to have some influence on the fellow. Can you not persuade him, Sissy?’

  ‘Zouga, why are you so determined to prevent Captain Codrington defending his honour?’

  ‘He’s a likeable enough chap, and I do not wish to see him pipped.’

  ‘And if he were, you might find it difficult to reach Quelimane. Is that not so?’ Robyn asked sweetly. ‘Your concern is most Christian.’

  ‘St John can choose which of his eyes he will put a ball into. You have seen him shoot.’ Zouga ignored the accusation.

  ‘I believe it is Captain Codrington’s duty to destroy that monster. God protects the righteous.’

  ‘In my experience he protects only those who shoot fastest and straightest,’ Zouga growled with frustration.

  ‘That is blasphemy,’ Robyn told him.

  ‘You deserve to hear some real blasphemy for your stubbornness,’ Zouga told her curtly and strode out of the cabin. He had learned through long experience when he was wasting his time.

  They passed the mouth of the Kei river – the frontier of British influence and beyond it was the wilderness, unclaimed and untamed, peopled by the tribes which had been driven back inexorably by the white advance, and by scattered bands of renegades and bastards, wandering hunters and hardy travellers and traders.

  Even the trekking Boers had by-passed this land, going on into the interior, circling out beyond the mountain massif that divided the littoral from the highland plateau.

  Far to the north they had turned back and crossed the mountains again and reached the coast, fighting and shattering the impis of the Zulu nation, beginning to settle the fertile coastal strip until the British ships had sailed into Port Natal, following them up from the Cape Colony, from whence they had trekked so long and so hard to avoid British rule. The Boers had loaded their waggons once more, and driving their herds before them, climbed back over the range that they called the Dragon mountains and abandoned the land they had wrested from the Zulu king Dingaan with the flame and smoke of their muskets.

  However, this coast along which Black Joke now steamed lay between the English colonies of Cape and Natal, claimed by none, except the wild tribesmen who watched the black-hulled vessel pass almost within arrow shot.

  Clinton Codrington had marked the point where latitude 31° 38″ south intersected the coast, and the estu
ary was shown on the chart with the notation ‘St John’s river’, named, probably, by one of the early Portuguese navigators, but it was ironicthatitshould bear thesamenameasthe man they were hastening to meet. When Black Joke steamed around the last headland the description that St John had given of his namesake was instantly recognizable.

  Steep, heavily wooded hills rose almost sheer about a wide lagoon. The forest was very dense dark green, with tall galleries of trees, festooned with lianas. Through the telescope could be made out the troops of little grey vervet monkeys and the brilliant plumage of exotic birds that sported and fluttered through the top branches.

  The river came down a deep rocky gorge torn through the barrier of hills, filling the reed-lined lagoon and then flowing out over the bar between the curved white pillows of a sandy beach.

  To dispel any doubt that this was the rendezvous, Huron lay at anchor a cable’s length beyond the first line of breakers, in the deep, where the shoal water turned from pale green to blue.

  Clinton Codrington examined her carefully through his telescope, then without a word passed the instrument to Zouga. While he in turn glassed the big clipper, Clinton asked softly, ‘Will you act for me?’

  Zouga lowered the glass with surprise. ‘I expected one of your own officers.’

  ‘I could not ask them.’ Clinton shook his head. ‘Slogger Kemp would mark their service records if he ever heard of it.’

  ‘You do not have the same qualms about my career,’ Zouga pointed out.

  ‘You are on extended absence from your regiment, and you have not been expressly ordered, as I and my officers have been.’

  Zouga thought quickly, duelling was not so seriously considered in the army as it was in the Royal Navy, in fact the army manuals still maintained no express prohibitions, and a chance to meet with St John was also a last chance to avert this ridiculous affair that so seriously threatened the continuance of his expedition.

  ‘I accept, then,’ Zouga said shortly.

  ‘I am extremely grateful to you, sir,’ said Clinton as shortly.

  ‘Let us hope you are as grateful after the business is over,’ Zouga told him drily. ‘I had best go across to Huron right away. It will be dark in an hour.’

  Tippoo caught the line as it was thrown from the gunboat’s whaler, and held it while Zouga gathered his cloak and jumped the gap of surging green water to the boarding ladder, clambering up before the next swell could soak his boots.

  Mungo St John waited for him at the foot of the mainmast. He held himself unsmiling and aloof, until Zouga hurried to him and offered his right hand, then he relaxed and returned the smile.

  ‘Damn it, Mungo, cannot we make an end to this nonsense?’

  ‘Certainly, Zouga,’ Mungo St John agreed. ‘An apology from your man would settle it.’

  ‘The man is a fool,’ Zouga shook his head. ‘Why take the risk?’

  ‘I don’t consider there is any risk, but let me remind you he called me a coward.’

  ‘There is no chance then?’ The two of them had become good friends during the weeks they had spent together and Zouga felt he could press further. ‘I admit the fellow is a prig, but if you kill him, you’ll make it damned awkward for me, don’t you know?’

  Mungo St John threw back his head and laughed delightedly. ‘You and I could work together, do you know that, Zouga? You are a pragmatist, like I am. I make a prophecy – you’ll go a long way in this world.’

  ‘Not very far, if you kill the man who is taking me.’ And Mungo St John chuckled again and clapped a friendly hand upon his shoulder.

  ‘I’m sorry, my friend. Not this time,’ and Zouga sighed with resignation.

  ‘You have choice of weapons.’

  ‘Pistols,’ said Mungo St John.

  ‘Of course,’ Zouga nodded. ‘Dawn tomorrow on the beach there.’ He pointed to the land with his chin. ‘Will that suit you?’

  ‘Admirably. Tippoo here will act for me.’

  ‘Does he understand the conventions?’ Zouga asked doubtfully, as he glanced at the half-naked figure that waited near at hand.

  ‘He understands enough to blow Codrington’s head off at the shoulders if he levels his pistol a moment before the signal.’ Mungo St John flashed that cruel white smile. ‘And that’s all he needs to know, as far as I am concerned.’

  Robyn Ballantyne slept not a minute during the night and it still lacked two hours of dawn when she bathed and dressed. On an impulse she chose her old moleskin breeches and man’s woollen jacket. There would be the need to disembark through the surf from the ship’s boat and skirts would hamper her, added to which the morning was damp and chill and her jacket was of good thick Scottish tweed.

  She laid out her black leather bag, and checked its contents, making certain she had everything she needed to cleanse and staunch a bullet wound, to bind up torn flesh or hold together shattered bone, and to reduce the agony of either man.

  All of them had taken it without question that Robyn would be on the beach that morning. The gunboat did not rate a surgeon, and neither did Huron. She was ready with an hour to wait, and she opened her journal and began making the previous day’s entry, when there was a light tap on her door.

  When she opened it, Clinton Codrington stood in the opening, his face pale and strained in the smoky lamp-light and she knew intuitively that he had slept as little as she had. He recovered swiftly from the first shock of seeing her in breeches, dragging his eyes up to her face again.

  ‘I hoped I might speak with you,’ he muttered shyly. ‘It will be the last opportunity before . . .’

  She took his arm and drew him into the cabin. ‘You have not breakfasted?’ she asked sternly.

  ‘No, ma’am.’ He shook his head and his eyes dropped to her trousered legs, and then jerked up guiltily to her face again.

  ‘The medicine worked?’ she asked.

  He nodded, too embarrassed to reply. She had administered a purge the evening before, for as a surgeon she could dread the effects of a pistol ball through a full bowel or through a belly loaded with breakfast.

  She touched his forehead. ‘You are warm, you have not taken a chill?’ She felt protective towards him, like a mother almost, for he seemed once again so young and untried.

  ‘I wondered if we might pray together.’ His voice was so low that she barely caught the words, and she felt a warm, almost suffocating rush of affection for him.

  ‘Come,’ she whispered, and she took his hand.

  They knelt together on the bare deck of the tiny cabin, still holding hands, and she spoke for both of them, and he made the responses in a soft but firm voice.

  When they rose stiffly at last, he kept her hand in his for a while longer.

  ‘Miss Ballantyne – I mean, Doctor Ballantyne – I cannot tell you now what a profound effect meeting you has had on my life.’

  She felt herself blushing and tried feebly to disengage her hand, but he clung to it.

  ‘I would like to have your permission to talk to you again in this vein after,’ he paused, ‘if this morning goes as we hope it will.’

  ‘Oh, it will,’ she said fiercely. ‘It will – I know it will.’ Hardly knowing what she was doing she pressed herself swiftly to him and reaching up kissed him full on the mouth. For a moment he froze, and then clumsily he crushed her to him so that the brass buttons of his coat dug into her bosom and his teeth crushed her lips until she felt them bruising.

  ‘My darling,’ he whispered. ‘Oh, my darling.’

  The strength of his reaction startled her, but almost immediately she found she was enjoying the strength of his embrace, and she tried to free her arms to return it – but he misunderstood her movements and released her hurriedly.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he blurted out. ‘I don’t know what came over me.’

  Her disappointment was sharp enough to turn instantly to annoyance at his timidity. Buttons and teeth notwithstanding, it had felt very pleasant indeed.

  Both boats le
ft the two ships at the same time, and they converged through the thin pearly morning mist as their crews pulled for the low lines of breaking surf and the pale outline of the beach in the dawn.

  They landed within a hundred yards of each other, surfing in on the crest of the same low, green wave and the oarsmen leapt out waist-deep to run the boats high up the white sand.

  Both parties moved separately over the crest of the sand bar and then down to the edge of the lagoon, screened from the boat crews by the intervening dunes and the stands of tall fluffy-headed reeds. There was a level area of firm damp sand at one edge of the reeds.

  Mungo St John and Tippoo halted at one end, and Mungo lit a cheroot and stood with both hands on his hips staring out at the crests of the hills, ignoring the activity about him. He was dressed in black tight-fitting breeches and a white silk shirt with full sleeves, open at the throat to reveal the dark curls of his body hair. The white shirt would give his opponent a fair aiming point, he was observing the conventions scrupulously.

  Robyn watched him covertly as she stood beside Clinton Codrington at the further end of the clearing. She tried to capture the hatred she felt for St John, to hold on to her outrage at the way he had abused her, but it was a difficult emotion to sustain. Rather, she was excited and with a strange sense of elation, the satanic presence of this man heightened the feeling. She caught herself staring openly and dragged her eyes off him.

  Beside her Clinton stood very erect. He wore his blue uniform jacket with the gold lace of his rank gleaming even in the soft pink light of early dawn. He had scraped the sun-bleached hair back from his forehead and temples and bound it at the nape of his neck, leaving clean the purposeful line of his jaw.

  Zouga went forward to meet Tippoo who carried under his arm the rosewood case of pistols. When they met in the centre of the level ground, he opened the case and proffered it, standing straddle-legged and attentive, while Zouga took each weapon from its velvet nest and loaded it with a carefully measured charge of black powder before ramming home the darkblue leaden ball and setting the cap on the nipple.