A Falcon Flies

by Wilbur Smith

  Fever and the rigours of the last stage of the journey had tired and weakened them all. They knew that they were, at the most, only a few days’ march from the coast, deep into Portuguese territory and therefore under the protection of a Christian king and a government of civilized men. It was for these reasons that the Hottentot sentries slept beside the smouldering watch-fire of damp wood, and it was there that they died, their throats slit with a blade sharp enough to cut off the least cry.

  So Robyn woke to rough hands upon her, twisting her arms up between her shoulder blades and a bony knee in the small of her back, while steel cuffs clicked coldly about her wrists. Then the hands released her and she was wrenched cruelly to her feet, and dragged from the leaky hut beside the Hyena Road.

  The previous evening she had been too tired and feverish to undress, so now she was still clad in a stained and rumpled flannel shirt and patched moleskin breeches. She had even kept the cloth cap on her head, covering her hair, thus in the darkness her captors did not realize that she was a woman.

  She was bound with her own porters and Hottentots, forced to wear the light marching chains which were proof, if proof was needed, as to who her captors were. The dawn revealed them to be half-breeds and blacks, all of them dressed in the cast-off finery of European style, but carrying modern weapons.

  These were the men she had crossed half a continent to meet, but now she cowered in the rags that were her only disguise. She shuddered to think on her fate if they should discover her sex, and she berated herself for having so blithely believed that she and her entourage would be safe from these predators merely because she was white and English. Their prey was human flesh, of whatever colour and condition and that was all she was now, human flesh on the hoof. A chained creature, of little real value, a few dollars on the auction block, and she knew that her captors would think nothing of taking their pleasure upon her, or of leaving her beside the road with a ball through the temple if she provoked them in any way. She kept silent and obeyed instantly the least word or gesture from her captors. Slipping and dragging in the mud they were marched on eastwards, forced to carry their remaining stores and equipment which had now become slavers’ booty.

  They were closer to the coast than Robyn had calculated, they smelt the iodine and salt of the sea from afar, and later as night began to fall, they caught the smell of woodsmoke and the unmistakable odour of captive humanity. Then at last they saw the firelight flickering in the darkness ahead, and the awful loom of the barracoons.

  Their captors marched between the dark stockades of pole and daubed mud, from which the chilling dirge rose of men without hope singing of a land they would never see again.

  At last they came into the central square around which the barracoons were built. It was an open area of trampled mud where a raised platform of rough-sawn planks had been built. Its purpose was immediately clear, for the first of Robyn’s servants was dragged up the steps and stood upon the platform, while the fires around the clearing were heaped with dry wood to light the scene. The platform was the auction block, and it seemed that the sale was to take place immediately.

  The auctioneer was clearly of pure Portuguese stock, a little man with the wrinkled, sun-browned face of a vicious gnome. He had the bland smile and the unblinking eyes of a serpent. He was dressed in elegantly cut jacket and breeches, and his boots and belt were of the finest Iberian leather, ornately tooled and with solid silver buckles. He carried a pair of expensive pistols in his belt, and wore the wide-brimmed flat-crowned hat of a Portuguese gentleman upon his small wrinkled head.

  Before climbing up on the block, he sent one of his personal slaves with a casual kick and cuff to the carved wooden drum at the edge of the clearing. On it the slave began pounding out a summons to the buyers. The slave went to it lustily, his bare torso gleaming with sweat and raindrops in the firelight.

  And in answer to the urgent staccato rhythm of the drum, men came from out of the shadows of the grove and from the living huts between the barracoons. Some of them had been drinking, they came arm in arm brandishing their rum bottles and bellowing in drunken chorus, others came singly and silently – but they came from every direction and gathered in a circle about the auction block.

  The men who formed the circle seemed to be of every hue that the human skin is capable of assuming, from purple black through all the shades of brown and yellow to dead shark’s belly white, and their features were African and Arabic, Asian and European. Even their dress differed widely, from the flowing robes of Arabia to the faded finery of embroidered jackets and high boots. They had only one thing in common, the hawk-fierce eyes and merciless mien of those who deal in human misery.

  One at a time Robyn’s servants were prodded up on to the block, and their ragged clothing was ripped away to expose their physique to the buyers. One of these might come forward to feel the muscle tone, or force open a slave’s mouth to examine the teeth, like a gypsy horse-dealer at the fair.

  Then, when the buyers had satisfied themselves as to the quality of the wares on offer, the small Portuguese would step lightly to the front of the block and begin the bidding.

  The men in the circle below him called him Alphonse and though they exchanged coarse banter with him, yet they all treated him with wary respect, there could be no clearer proof of the man’s reputation than fear and respect from these men.

  Under his control the sale went swiftly. The Hottentots, small wiry men, butter yellow and with flat pug-like features attracted little interest from the circle of buyers, knocked down for a few silver rupees apiece, while the porters, taller men and well muscled from many months of hard marching and porterage, fetched better prices – until they came to old Karanga, ancient and toothless, hobbling on to the block on storklike legs, seeming barely able to support the weight of his chains.

  The laughter was derisive, and the little Portuguese pleaded in vain for a single bid before dismissing the old man with disgust. It was only when he was hauled down off the block and dragged away into the darkness beyond the fires that Robyn realized what was about to happen to him and, forgetting her resolve not to draw attention to herself, ‘No–let him go!’

  Hardly one of them glanced in her direction, and the man who held her chain hit her a careless open-handed blow across the side of her face that blinded her for a moment. She dropped to her knees in the mud, and through the buzzing in her ears heard the thud of a pistol shot from the darkness.

  She began quietly to weep, and still weeping she was hoisted to her feet and in her turn dragged forward into the circle of firelight and hoisted by her chain on to the block.

  ‘A young skinny one,’ said the Portuguese. ‘But white enough to make a choice bum-boy for the harems of Omani, once he has had his knackers clipped. Who will give me ten rupees?’

  ‘Let’s have a look at him,’ a voice shouted from the circle, and the Portuguese turned to Robyn, hooked a finger into the top button of her flannel shirt and ripped it down to the level of her belt buckle.

  She doubled over, trying to conceal her upper body, but the man behind her twisted the chain and forced her upright. Her breasts pushed out pertly through the torn shirt, and the ring of watchers growled and moved restlessly, the mood changing instantly.

  Alphonse touched the butt of one of the pistols in his belt significantly, and the growl of comment died, the ring of men drew back a little.

  ‘Ten rupees?’ Alphonse Pereira asked.

  From across the circle a powerfully-built man swaggered into the firelight. Robyn recognized him instantly. He wore a tall beaver hat tilted back on his head, and from under the brim curled thick shiny black hair. His teeth, when he opened his mouth, sparkled in the light of the flames. His face was flushed with excitement, his voice was thick with it.

  ‘Gold,’ he shouted. ‘I’ll bid gold, a gold mohur of the East India Company, and a plague on any of you that goes above that.’

  ‘A gold mohur,’ called Alphonse, the slave-master. ‘A
gold mohur bid by my brother Camacho Pereira, and good luck to him,’ he chuckled. ‘Come now, who wants to deny my brother Camacho a fair tup at the wench?’

  One of his men slapped Camacho’s back.

  ‘Sweet Christ, you always were a hot one, at that price you can have my turn on top of her.’

  And Camacho laughed delightedly and came to the front of the block to stare up at Robyn, tipping the beaver hat forward he whispered,

  ‘I’ve had to wait along time—’

  Robyn felt the little insects of loathing crawling over her skin, and she backed away to the limit of her chain.

  ‘Come now,’ Alphonse called. ‘Who will go beyond a gold mohur for a fine piece—’

  ‘She’s mine,’ Camacho told his brother. ‘Strike the bargain.’

  His brother lifted his hand to knock down the sale, when another voice stopped him.

  ‘A double eagle, sir. Twenty golden dollars American bid.’ The voice was not raised, yet it carried clearly to every man there, as it could carry from quarterdeck to maintop in a force eight gale.

  Robyn started, and swung her chains disbelievingly in that direction; she would have known that lazy drawling inflection if she had not heard it for a lifetime. He stood at the very edge of the firelight, but as every head in the circle turned to him, he stepped forward.

  The smile had frozen on Alphonse’s face, and he hesitated.

  ‘Call the bid!’ The advancing figure in plain white shirt and dark breeches made the men about him seem small and grubby, and after a moment’s hesitation, Alphonse obeyed him.

  ‘A double eagle bid,’ he said harshly. ‘Captain Mungo St John of the clipper Huron bids a double golden eagle.’

  Robyn felt her legs start to sag under her with relief, but the men behind her jerked her upright by her chain. Camacho Pereira had whirled to face the American, and to stare at him furiously. Mungo St John answered him with a smile, indulgent and patronizing. Robyn had never seen him look more handsome and dangerous, his dark wavy hair catching the firelight, and the gaze of his yellow-flecked eyes level and unflinching in the face of Camacho’s fury.

  ‘A thousand rupees, Camacho,’ he said softly. ‘Can you match it?’

  Camacho hesitated, and then turned back quickly to his own brother, his voice low and urgent.

  ‘Stake me?’ he asked, and Alphonse laughed.

  ‘I never lend money.’

  ‘To a brother?’ Camacho insisted.

  ‘Especially not to a brother,’ Alphonse answered. ‘Let the wench go, you can buy a dozen better for fifty rupees each.’

  ‘I must have her.’ He whirled back to face Mungo St John. ‘I must have her. It is a matter of honour. Do you understand?’ He took the beaver from his head, and spun it away. One of his men caught it, and Camacho ran both hands through his thick black locks, and then stretched his arms down at his sides, flexing the fingers like a conjurer about to perform a sleight of hand.

  ‘I will make one more bid,’ he said ominously. ‘I bid one mohur of gold – and ten inches of Toledo steel.’ The knife seemed to appear in his hand from out of the air, he lifted the point to the level of Mungo St John’s belt buckle.

  ‘Walk away, Yankee, or I will take the woman and your gold double eagle.’

  The watchers growled, a low blood-thirsty sound, and swiftly rearranged themselves into a ring about the two men, jostling for a better view.

  ‘One hundred rupees says Machito slits the Yankee’s guts.’

  ‘Done!’ And there was a rising hubbub as the wagers were called and accepted.

  Mungo St John had not stopped smiling, but now he held out his right hand without once taking his eyes off the Portuguese’s face.

  Out of the ranks of the watchers emerged a large, toad-like figure with a head as round and bald as a cannon ball. Tippoo moved with reptilian speed to Mungo St John’s right side. He placed a knife in the outstretched hand, and then unknotted the embroidered sash from his waist and handed that to his Captain. Mungo wrapped the sash around his left forearm, still smiling softly to himself.

  He had not once looked up at Robyn, though she had not been able to tear her own eyes from his face.

  He seemed godlike to her at that moment, everything about him, the darkly classical features, the wide shoulders under the white cloth of his shirt, the narrow waist clinched with a broad belt of polished leather, the strong straight legs in tightly fitted breeches and soft leather boots, seemed to have come down directly from Olympus. She would have gladly thrown herself at his feet and worshipped him.

  Just below Robyn, Camacho was stripping off his own jacket and wrapping his guard arm with it. Then with the long knife in his right hand he made a low swift cut, forehand and then backhand, so the steel whispered as it dissolved into a silver blur like the wing of a dragonfly in flight. At each stroke he ducked his head slightly and flexed his knees, loosening and warming his muscles like an athlete before the contest.

  Then he moved forward, stepping lightly in the treacherous mud and weaving the point of the knife to distract and intimidate his adversary.

  The smile went from Mungo St John’s lips, to be replaced by a grave and attentive expression, like a mathematician considering a complex problem. He kept his own knife low, advancing his wrapped forearm, and balancing easily, stood his full height and turned gently to face the Portuguese as he circled. It reminded Robyn of the night she had watched him on the dance floor at Admiralty House, so tall and graceful, so balanced and controlled in each movement.

  Now at last the watchers were silent, straining eagerly for the first glimpse of blood, but when Camacho charged they roared the way the crowd roars when the bull first bursts into the ring. Mungo St John barely seemed to move, swaying his body at the hips so the knife slid past him, and then he was facing Camacho again.

  Twice more the Portuguese attacked, and both times Mungo St John moved effortlessly aside, but each time he gave a little ground, until he was backed up to the first rank of watchers, they began to fall back to give the American room to fight, but Camacho saw his opportunity as Mungo was crowded like a prizefighter against the ropes and he swung back to attack. At the same moment, almost as though it had been rehearsed, a booted foot shot out from the crowd.

  Nobody was sure whose foot it was, for the throng was closely packed and the light uncertain, but the kick to the back of Mungo St John’s heel almost brought him down sprawling in the mud, he lunged to catch his balance, but before he could do so, Camacho hit him with the long bright blade. Robyn screamed and Mungo St John spun away from the sting of the steel with scarlet spreading wetly down his shirt-front like rich Burgundy wine spilled on a damask tablecloth, and his own knife flicked out of his hand and was lost in the red mud.

  The crowd bellowed, and Camacho swarmed in eagerly, following the wounded man the way a good dog hunts a pheasant with a broken wing.

  Mungo was forced to give him ground, falling back, clutching the wound, dodging and weaving, catching a forehand slash on his wrapped guard arm so the embroidered cloth split almost to the flesh beneath it.

  Skilfully Camacho herded him towards the auction block, and when Mungo felt the poles catch in the small of his back, he froze for a moment as he realized that he was trapped. Camacho drove in at him, going for the belly, his lips drawn back baring his perfect white teeth.

  Mungo St John caught the knife on his guard and then snatched a grip on the wrist with his right hand. The two men stood chest to chest, their arms entwined like vines on a trellis, swaying slightly as they strained together, and the effort brought a fresh flood of bright blood from Mungo’s wound, but slowly he forced Camacho’s knife hand upwards, bending it at the elbow, until the point was no longer aimed at Mungo’s belly but at the night sky above them.

  Mungo shifted his feet, gathering himself and then his face darkened, his jaw clenched and his breath sobbed with effort. Slowly Camacho’s wrist gave to the pressure, and his eyes widened as the point of his own knife
reversed towards him.

  Now he also was wedged against the side of the auction block and could not break away, and infinitely slowly but inexorably, the long blade moved towards his own chest. Both men stared down at it, their hands and arms interlocked, pitting their strength to hold each other, but the point touched Camacho’s chest, a drop of blood welled up at the tiny prick.

  On the block beside Robyn, Alphonse Pereira drew the pistol from his belt with a furtive movement – but before she could shout a warning there was a blur of movement and Tippoo the mate towered beside him, his own huge smooth-bore pistol pressed to the side of Alphonse’s skull. The little Portuguese rolled his eyes sideways at Tippoo, and then hurriedly returned the weapon to his belt, and Robyn could watch again with fascinated horror the contest at her feet.

  Mungo St John’s face was congested with dark blood, every muscle in his shoulders and arms raised in knots under the thin shirt, his whole existence concentrated on the knife, and he slid his left foot back until it was anchored against the auction block, and then using it as a pivot hurled all his weight forward on to the knife, the final effort like the matador going over between the horns for the kill.

  For a moment longer Camacho resisted him, and then the blade resumed its forward movement entering Camacho’s chest as slowly as a python swallows a gazelle.

  Camacho’s mouth opened in a cawing burst of despair, and suddenly his fingers opened as all resistance and strength went out of them. His own blade with Mungo St John’s full weight behind it shot its length into his chest with such force that the cross piece of the hilt struck against his ribs with a sharp thump.

  Mungo St John released his grip and let him fall, face forward into the mud, while he himself caught at the edge of the auction block for support. Only then did he lift his chin to look up at Robyn.

  ‘Your servant, ma’am,’ he murmured, and Tippoo rushed forward to catch him before he fell.