A Falcon Flies Part 37

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 p.r.i.c.ks 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 a.s.sail 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 d.a.m.ned 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 gla.s.s in Huron's stern lights.

A dozen of Black Joke's sailors hurled the three-p.r.o.nged 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 cutla.s.s 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 b.u.mping, 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 cutla.s.s 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 cutla.s.s 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 cutla.s.s 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 cutla.s.s 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 p.o.o.p, were transformed into a struggling ma.s.s 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 barrac.o.o.n 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 cutla.s.s nor fired a pistol at another man before, and the difference was evident almost immediately.

For a minute or less the closely engaged ma.s.s 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 ma.s.sive 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 b.u.t.tons 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 cutla.s.s 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 cutla.s.s.

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 cutla.s.s; 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 cla.s.sic 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 cutla.s.s high up the blade and used the rolling momentum of two blades and the leverage of his wrist and the curved guard of the cutla.s.s 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 cutla.s.s 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 cutla.s.s 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 cutla.s.s 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 cutla.s.s sc.r.a.pe 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 cutla.s.s 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 cutla.s.s. , 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 cutla.s.s 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 cutla.s.s. The fight was over, all around him m the crew of Huron were throwing down their weapons. Quarter, for the love of G.o.d, 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 cutla.s.s into Mungo's belly. Mungo was struggling to throw off the hands of the men who held him, straining to reach the ma.s.sive 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 cutla.s.s 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 G.o.d-'Find the keys, Clinton ordered brusquely, and as the cuffs fell from Robyn's wrists he s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 l.u.s.t, and they cheered him hoa.r.s.ely 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-a.s.sorted 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 c.o.c.k, 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 h.o.r.n.y 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 ash.o.r.e, 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 insh.o.r.e, 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 c.o.c.ked 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 b.u.t.ter-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 a.s.siduously by that great plunderer, the Dutch East India Company, which had in turn succ.u.mbed to an even more powerful predator.

The Lieutenant turned right, avoiding the bra.s.s 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 doc.u.ment 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 const.i.tuted 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 G.o.d'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 pa.s.sion, 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 ma.n.u.script 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 compa.s.sion. 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 insh.o.r.e 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."