A Falcon Flies Read online

  He was nervous, indecisive, every watcher could sense it, and their disappointment was evident. They had hoped for a dramatic confrontation when Clinton had made the flamboyant gesture of placing a hundred pounds on the table, but when the amount was slowly whittled away by unexciting over-cautious play, their interest was transferred to a lively exchange between Mungo St John and one of the Cloete sons, the family that owned half the Constantia valley with its fabled vineyards.

  They laughed at the light banter with which the two men made their bets, and admired the grace of the loser and the easy manner of the winner. The other players at the table were almost forgotten, picking up an uncontested ante or falling before the aggression of the leading pair.

  Robyn could only pity Clinton, nervous and pale – when he fumbled his cards to expose prematurely one of his few winning hands and suffer the chuckles of the spectators as he picked up odd guineas instead of the fifty that might have been his if he had played it correctly.

  Robyn tried to catch his eye, to make him leave before he was further humiliated, but Clinton played on doggedly refusing to look up at her.

  Cloete won a hand with four of a kind and as was his right called for a pot to celebrate his good fortune.

  ‘Three of a kind to open the pot and guinea sweeteners,’ he announced and grinned across the table at St John. ‘To your liking, sir?’

  ‘Very much so,’ St John smiled back, and the other players tried to cover their discomfiture. It was a dangerous game – requiring one of the players to be dealt an initial three of a kind to commence the game, but for every unsuccessful deal each player had to contribute a guinea to the pot, and when a lucky player achieved the minimum requirement, he could advance the stakes by as much again as was in the centre of the table. It could amount swiftly to a huge sum, and there was no option of withdrawal – a very dangerous game.

  Ten times the deal failed to produce an opening hand, and then with the pot at seventy guineas Mungo St John announced quietly,

  ‘She is open, gentlemen, as wide open as my mother-inlaw’s mouth.’

  Play had stopped at the other tables in the room as St John went on,

  ‘It will cost you another seventy iron men to stay in the game.’ He had doubled the pot, and the watchers applauded the bet and then looked eagerly to the other players.

  ‘I am your man,’ said Cloete, but at last there was a breathlessness to his voice. He counted out the notes and gold coins and spilled them into the considerable pile in the centre.

  Three other players withdrew, dropping their cards with alacrity, clearly relieved to have got out of danger for a mere ten guineas, but Clinton Codrington hunched miserably over his cards and St John had to prod him gently for his decision.

  ‘Please don’t hurry, Captain. We have all evening.’

  And Clinton looked up at him and nodded jerkily, not trusting his voice, then pushed a sheaf of notes into the centre of the table.

  ‘Three players,’ St John said, and swiftly counted the money in the pot. ‘Two hundred and ten guineas!’

  The next bid could double that amount, and the one after could redouble it. The room was silent now, the players at the other tables in the room had left their seats to watch as the dealer gave two cards to Mungo St John to replace those he tossed into the centre of the table. He was buying honestly, trying to add to the triplets with which he had opened the pot, neither faking a flush nor a full house. Cloete bought three cards, evidently looking for a third to a high pair – and then it was Clinton’s turn to request cards.

  ‘One,’ he mumbled, and held up a single finger. The finger quivered slightly. The dealer slid the card across to him and he covered it with his hand unable to bring himself to look at it yet. It was all too obvious that he was attempting to find the missing card to a flush or straight.

  ‘The opener to bet,’ said the dealer. ‘Mr St John.’

  There was a pause as St John fanned open his cards, and then he said evenly without a change of expression:

  ‘The bet is doubled.’

  ‘Four hundred and twenty guineas,’ said somebody loudly, and this time nobody applauded but every eye swivelled to Cloete as he consulted his cards. Then shook his head abruptly, and let them drop. He had not found another king to go with the original pair.

  Now everybody looked to the remaining player. A transformation had come over Clinton Codrington, it was hard to define it exactly. There was just a touch of colour under the tanned cheeks, his lips were slightly parted and for the first time he was looking directly at St John – but somehow confidence and a barely suppressed eagerness shone from him. There was no mistaking it. The man positively glowed.

  ‘Double again,’ he said loudly. ‘Eight hundred and forty guineas.’ He could hardly contain himself, and every man in the room knew he had found the card he needed to transform his hand from worthlessness to a certain winner.

  St John did not have to deliberate more than a few seconds.

  ‘Congratulations,’ he smiled. ‘You found what you were looking for, I must concede this one to you.’

  He dropped his cards and pushed them away from him.

  ‘May we see the cards you required to open the pot?’ Clinton asked diffidently.

  ‘I beg your pardon.’ St John’s tone was lightly ironical, and he flipped his hand, face upwards. There were three sevens and two odd cards.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Clinton. His manner had changed again. The trembling eagerness, the nervous indecision, both had disappeared. He was calm, almost icy as he began to gather in the piles of scattered gold and bank notes.

  ‘What cards did he have?’ demanded one of the women petulantly.

  ‘He does not have to show them,’ her partner explained. ‘He beat the others out without a showdown.’

  ‘Oh, I’d die to see them,’ she squeaked.

  Clinton paused in gathering his winnings and looked up at her.

  ‘I beg of you, madam, not to do so,’ Clinton smiled. ‘I would not wish to have your life on my conscience.’

  He turned his cards face upwards on the green baize, and it took the company many seconds to realize what they were looking at. There were cards of every suit, and not one of them matched another.

  There were delighted exclamations, for the hand was utterly worthless. It could have been beaten by a single pair of sevens, to say nothing of the triple sevens which St John had discarded.

  With this valueless hand the young naval captain had beaten the American, out-smarting him for almost 900 guineas. It was a spectacular coup. The company gradually realized how carefully it had been engineered, how Clinton had lured his adversary, how he had made a pretence at fumbling uncertainly until exactly the right moment, the moment when he had struck boldly and decisively. They burst into spontaneous applause, the ladies oohing with admiration and the men calling congratulation.

  ‘Oh jolly good play, sir!’

  St John held the smile, but his lips drew tighter with the effort, and there was a savage glitter in his eyes as he stared at the cards and realized how he had been duped.

  The applause subsided, some of the spectators were beginning to turn away still discussing the hand, and St John began gathering the cards to shuffle when Clinton Codrington spoke. His voice was low but clear, so that nobody about the tables could miss a word of it.

  ‘Even a black-birder’s luck can run out at last,’ he said. ‘I must admit, I would rather have caught you at your dirty slaver’s game than beaten you out of a few guineas tonight.’

  The company froze, gaping at Clinton with expressions of horror and comical amazement. The silence in the room seemed impenetrable, the only sound was the ripple and click of the cards as Mungo St John began to shuffle them, splitting the pack with a click and then running them into each other under his thumbs in a blur of movement.

  He did not look down at his hands as he rippled the cards. He never removed his gaze from Clinton’s face, and his smile had still not sli
pped – only there was a flush of colour under the dark sun-touched skin.

  ‘You like to live dangerously?’ St John smiled the question.

  ‘Oh, no.’ Clinton shook his head. ‘I am in no danger. In my experience, slavers are all cowards.’

  Mungo St John’s smile disappeared, extinguished instantly, and his expression was coldly murderous, but his fingers never broke the rhythm of cut and ripple, and the cards flowed under his fingers as Clinton went on evenly, ‘I was led to believe that so-called Louisiana gentlemen had some exalted code of honour,’ he shrugged. ‘I suggest, sir, that you are a living contradiction of that notion.’

  Every listener was stunned. Not one of them could doubt what they were hearing; the accusation of slave-dealing. To an Englishman, there could be no worse insult.

  The last English duels had been fought in 1840 when Lord Cardigan shot Captain Tuckett, and in 1843 when Munro shot his brother-in-law Colonel Fawcett. In consequence of these encounters, the Queen had made her desire for reform known, and the articles of war were amended in the following year, making duelling an offence. Of course, gentlemen still went abroad, mostly to France, to settle affairs of honour with pistol or sword. But this was Cape Colony, one of the jewels of the Empire and the Naval Captain was one of Her Majesty’s commissioned officers. The evening had proved diverting beyond any expectations, and now there was the promise of blood and violent death charging the gaming-room.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ an urgent persuasive voice interrupted them. The Admiral’s flag-captain had come through from the whist room at the Admiral’s orders. ‘There has been some misunderstanding.’

  But neither of the two men as much as glanced in his direction.

  ‘I don’t think there has been any misunderstanding at all,’ Mungo St John said coldly, his gaze still locked with Clinton’s. ‘Captain Codrington’s insults cannot possibly be misinterpreted.’

  ‘Mr St John, may I remind you that you are on British soil, subject to Her Majesty’s laws.’ The flag-captain was becoming desperate.

  ‘Oh, Mr St John sets little store by laws. He sails his slave ship, fully equipped, into a British harbour.’ Clinton stared at the American with cold blue eyes. He would have gone on, but St John interrupted him harshly, speaking to the flag-captain but addressing the words to Clinton Codrington. ‘I would not dream of abusing Her Majesty’s hospitality. In any event I will sail with the tide before noon this day, and in four days I shall be far beyond Her Majesty’s territory, in latitude 31° 38″ south. There is a wide river mouth there, between tall bluffs of stone – a good landing and a wide beach. It is unmistakable.’ St John stood up. He had recovered his urbane air, and now he adjusted the ruffles of his shirt front and gave the lovely widow his arm. He paused for a moment to look down at Clinton. ‘Who knows but that you and I may meet again, when we must certainly discuss the question of honour once more. Until then I give you good morrow, sir.’

  He turned away and the spectators fell back ahead of him and seemed to form a guard of honour as St John and his lady sauntered casually from the room.

  The flag-captain flung one furious glare at Clinton.

  ‘The Admiral wishes to speak with you, sir,’ and then he hurried after the departing couple, followed them down the curve of the staircase and caught up with them at the double doors of carved teak.

  ‘Mr St John, Admiral Kemp asked me to convey his compliments. He sets no store by the rash accusations of one of his junior captains. If he did, he would be obliged to send a party aboard your ship.’

  ‘None of us would like that,’ St John nodded. ‘Nor the consequences.’

  ‘Indeed,’ the flag-captain assured him. ‘Nevertheless the Admiral feels that, in the circumstances, you should take advantage of the next fair wind and tide to proceed on your passage.’

  ‘Please return my compliments to the Admiral – and convey my assurance that I will clear the Bay before noon.’

  At that moment the widow’s coach came up, and St John nodded distantly to the flag-captain and handed the lady up the steps.

  From the deck of Black Joke they watched the clipper raise her anchor, her master skilfully backing and filling his topsails to run up on her cable, and break the anchor flukes out of the mud and sand of the bottom of the bay. As soon as it was free, he piled on his canvas, sail after sail bursting out in quick successive explosions of brilliant white, and Huron tore eagerly out of Table Bay on the south-east wind.

  She would be out of sight beyond the lighthouse at Mouille Point for almost four hours before Black Joke was ready to follow her out of the bay. The Admiralty powder barge was alongside, and all the elaborate precautions for taking on explosives were in force. The red swallow-tail warning flag at the masthead, the boiler fires in the engine room extinguished, the crew barefooted, the decks kept wet with a constant stream from the hoses to prevent a chance spark, and each powder barrel carefully inspected for leakage as it came aboard.

  While the engineer refired his boilers the last members of the Ballantyne expedition came aboard. Once again, Zouga’s letters of introduction had proved invaluable, and together with his persuasive manner had provided him with the most valuable addition so far to his expedition.

  Old Tom Harkness had warned him during the long night discussion, ‘Don’t try to cross the Chimanimani Mountains without a force of trained men. Beyond the narrow coastal belt there is only one law and it is promulgated from the muzzle of a gun.’

  On the strength of the letters, the commander of the Cape Town garrison had allowed Zouga to ask for volunteers from his regiment of Hottentot Infantry. ‘They are the only natives of Africa who understand the working of a firearm,’ Harkness had told him. ‘They are the devil with drink and women, but they can fight and march, and most of them are hardened to fever and famine. Pick them carefully and watch them every moment, night as well as day.’

  Zouga’s request for volunteers had been most enthusiastically received. By reputation the Hottentots could scent plunder or a willing lady from fifty miles, and the pay and rations that Zouga offered were almost thrice that of the British army. They had volunteered to a man and Zouga’s difficulty had been in selecting ten of them.

  Zouga had taken an instant liking to these wiry little men, with their almost oriental features, slanted eyes and high cheekbones. Despite appearances, they were more African than almost any other breed. They were the original inhabitants that the first navigators had found on the beach at Table Bay – and they had taken readily to the white man’s ways, and more than readily to his vices.

  Zouga had solved his problem by making one selection only. This was a man with an ageless face, it might have been forty years or eighty, for the skin was the colour and texture of a papyrus parchment, each wrinkle seemed to have been eroded into it by wind and driven dust, but the little peppercorns of hair that covered his skull were untinged with silver.

  ‘I taught Captain Harris to hunt elephant,’ he boasted.

  ‘Where was that?’ Zouga demanded, for Cornwallis Harris was one of the most famous of the old African hunters. His book The Wild Sports of Africa was the great classic of the African chase.

  ‘I took him to the Cashan mountains.’ Harris’s expedition to the Cashan mountains, which the Boers now called Magaliesberg, was in 1829, thirty-one years previously. That would make the little Hottentot somewhere between fifty and sixty years old, if he were telling the truth.

  ‘Harris did not mention your name,’ he said. ‘I have read his account carefully.’

  ‘Jan Bloom – that was my name then.’ Zouga nodded. Bloom had been one of Harris’s most intrepid hunter-retainers.

  ‘Why is your name Jan Cheroot now?’ Zouga asked and the dark eyes had twinkled with pixie merriment.

  ‘Sometimes a man gets tired of a name, like he does of a woman, and for his health or his life he changes both.’

  The long military-issue Enfield rifle was as tall as Jan Cheroot, but it seemed an extension of hi
s wizened little body.

  ‘Pick nine other men. The best,’ Zouga told him, and Sergeant Cheroot brought them aboard while the gunboat was working up a head of steam in her boilers.

  Each man carried his Enfield over his shoulder, his worldly possessions in the haversack on his back and fifty rounds in the pouches on his belt

  It needed only the ‘Rogue’s March’ to welcome them, Zouga thought wryly, as he watched them come in through the entry port, each one bestowing upon him a beatific grin and a salute so vigorous that it nearly swung the donor off his feet.

  Sergeant Cheroot lined them up at the rail. Their original scarlet uniform jackets had suffered strange mutations to ten different shades, ranging from sun-faded pink to dusty puce, and each peppercorn head wore its brimless infantry cap cocked at a different angle from all the others. Thin shanks were bound up with grubby puttees, and brown bare feet slapped the oak planking of the deck in unison as Cheroot brought them to attention, Enfields at the slope and happy grins on each puckish face.

  ‘Very well, Sergeant.’ Zouga acknowledged the salute. ‘Now let’s have the packs open, and the bottles over the side.’

  The grins wilted, and they exchanged crestfallen glances – the Major had looked so young and gullible.

  ‘You hear the Major, julle klomp dom skaape.’ Gleefully Jan Cheroot likened them to ‘a herd of stupid sheep’ in the kitchen Dutch of the Cape, and as he turned back to Zouga there was for the first time a gleam of respect in the dark eyes.

  There are two passages from which a ship may choose when sailing the south-eastern coast of Africa. The master may stay outside the 100-fathom line which marks the edge of the continental shelf, for here the opposing forces of the Mozambique current and the prevailing winds can generate a sea which seamen call with awe the ‘100 year wave’, a wave over 200 foot from crest to trough, which will overwhelm even the sturdiest vessel as though it were a drifting autumn leaf. The alternative and only slightly less hazardous passage lies close inshore, in the shallows where the rocky reefs await a careless navigator.