A Falcon Flies

by Wilbur Smith

  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 for ever. 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 of the land.

  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-de-camp whom Mungo had met before.

  The Aide-de-camp 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-de-camp.

  ‘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 walking-stick, 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-de-camp picked up an official document from the desk before him.

  ‘You are the Captain and owner of the clipper Huron?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘The 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 cognaissance 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-de-camp 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-de-camp 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-de-camp reached back and tugged the bell-pull 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 Huron’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 swain, 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 Rogger 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 – Huron!’

  ‘Yes?’ 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 bel
ieve 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 south-easterly 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.