A Falcon Flies b-1 Read online

  She laid out her black leather bag, and checked its contents making certain she had everything she needed to cleanse and swinch 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 lamplight 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 left 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 dark-blue leaden ball and setting the cap on the nipple.

  The sight of the long-barrelled weapons reminded Robyn forcefully of that night aboard Huront and she bit her lip and shifted uncomfortably. Do not fret yourself, Miss Ballantyne. " Clinton mistook her emotion, and whispered soothingly to comfort her while he unbuttoned his jacket and shrugged out of it. Beneath it he also wore a plain white shirt to give St. John a fair aim. He handed her the jacket and would have spoken again but Zouga called.

  Will the principals come forward."

  And Clinton gave her another tightly strained smile before he strode out, his heels leaving deep prints in the damp yellow sand.

  He faced Mungo St. John, holding his gaze steadily, both of them completely expressionless. Gentlemen, I appeal to both of you to settle this affair without bloodshed. " Zouga went through the ritual attempt at reconciliation. "Captain Codrington, as challenger, will you tender an apology? " Clinton shook his head once, curtly. Mr. St. John, is there any other way in which we can avoid bloodshed? " I think not, sir, St. John drawled as he carefully tapped half an inch of grey ash from his cheroot. Very well, " Zouga nodded and went on immediately to set the conditions of the meeting. "At the command "Proceed" each of you gentlemen will take ten paces, which I will count aloud. Immediately after the count of ten I will give the command "Fire" upon which you will be at liberty to turn and discharge your weapon."

  Zouga paused and glanced at Tippoo, there was a longbarrelled m-17 loading pistol thrust into the waistband of his baggy breeches. Both seconds are armed. " Zouga laid his right hand on the butt of the Colt pistol in his own belt. "If either principal attempts to fire before the command to do so, then he will immediately be shot down by the seconds."

  He paused again looking from one to the other. "Is that clearly understood, gentlemen? " They both nodded. "Do either of you have a question? " Zouga waited in silence for a few seconds then went on. "Very well, we will proceed. Mr. St. John you have first choice of weapon."

  Mungo St. John dropped the cheroot and ground it into the sand with his heel, before stepping forward. Tippoo offered him the rosewood case and after a momentary hesitation St. John lifted out one of the beautifully inlaid weapons. He pointed at the sky and cocked the hammer with a sweep of his free hand.

  Clinton took the remaining pistol and weighed it experimentally in his hand, settling the butt deeply into the vee formed by thumb and forefinger, turning half away and lifting the pistol at full stretch of his arm to aim it at one of the black and bright yellow bishop birds that chattered in the reeds nearby.

  With relief Robyn watched the familiar ease with which her champion handled the weapon, and she felt completely certain of the outcome now. Good must triumph, and she started to pray again, silently, only her lips moving as she recited the twenty-third psalm. Though I walk through the valley of the
shadow of death. "Take your positions, gentlemen. " Zouga stepped back and gestured to Robyn. Still praying, she hurried to where Zouga stood, and fell in a few paces behind him, well out on the flank from the lines of fire of the two principals.

  Beside Zouga, Tippoo drew the long, clumsy-looking pistol from the sash around his waist and cocked the big ornate hammer, the bore of the barrel gaped like a cannon as he lifted it into the "present" position. Zouga drew his own Colt revolver and stood quietly while the two principals walked the last few paces towards each other and then turned back to back.

  Beyond them the early sun was gilding the hilltops with bright gold, but leaving the lagoon still in shadow so the still dark waters steamed with wisps of mist. In the silence a ghostly grey heron croaked hoarsely and then launched into flight from the edge of the reedbank with slow wingbeats, its neck drawn back into a snakelike "SI to balance the long beak. Proceed! " called Zouga, so loudly that Robyn started violently.

  The two men stepped out, away from each other, with deliberate strides, heeling heavily in the yielding sand, pacing to the count that Zouga called. Five. " Mungo St. John was smiling softly, as though at some secret joke, and his white silk sleeve fluttered like a moth's wing around the uplifted arm that held the slim steel-blue barrel pointed at the dawn sky. Six. " Clinton leaned forward, stepping out with long legs clad in white uniform breeches. His face was set, pale as a mask, his lips drawn into a thin determined line. Seven. " Robyn felt the beat of her heart crescendo, thumping painfully against the cage of her ribs so that she could not breathe. Eight. " She noticed for the first time the patches of sweat that had soaked through the armpits of Clinton's white shirt, despite the chill of the dawn air. Nine. " Suddenly she was deadly afraid for him, all her faith dissolved in a sudden premonition of disaster rushing down upon her. Ten! " She wanted to scream to them to stop. She wanted to rush forward and throw herself into the space between the two men. She didn't want them to die, either of them. She tried to fill her lungs but her throat was closed and dry, she tried to drive her legs forward but they were locked rigidly under her, beyond her control. Fire! " shouted Zouga, his voice cracking with the tenSion that gripped all the watchers and out on the damp dark-yellow sand both men turned, like a pair of dancers in a meticulously rehearsed ballet of death.

  Their right arms out-flung towards each other in a gesture like that of parted lovers, the left hand on the hip t to balance, the classic stance of the expert marksman.

  Time seemed suspended, the movements of the two men graceful but measured, without the urgency of onrushing death.

  The silence was complete, there was no wind to rustle the reeds, no bird nor animal called from the looming forest across the lagoon, the footfalls of the two men were deadened by the yielding sand, the world seemed to hold its breath.

  And then the crash of pistol fire awoke the echoes and sent them bounding and booming across the gorge, leaping from cliff to cliff, startling the birds into raucous flight.

  The two shots were within one hundredth of a second of each other, so that they blended into a single blurt of sound. From the levelling blue barrels the dead white powder smoke spurted, and then the barrels were flung upwar(s in unison with the shock of discharge.

  Both men reeled backwards, keeping their feet, but Robyn had seen the smoke fly from the muzzle of Mungo St. John's pistol a fraction of a second earlier, and then an instant liter Mungo's big dark head flinched as though he had been struck with an open hand across the cheek.

  Alter that one staggered pace backwards, he steadied, drawing himself to his full height, the pistol still smoking in his raised hand, staring at his adversary, and Robyn felt -a rush of relief. Mungo St. John was unscathed. She wanted to run to him, and then suddenly the joy withered, a dark red snake of blood slithered from the thick hair at his temple down the smoothly shaven olive skin of his cheek and dripped with slow sullen drops on to the white silk of his shirt.

  She lifted her hand to her mouth to cover the cry that rose within her, and then her attention was distracted by another movement in the corner of her vision and she swung her head with a jerky movement towards Clinton Codrington.

  He also had been standing erect, with almost military bearing, but now he began to bow slowly forward at the waist. The right hand holding the pistol hung at his side and now his fingers opened and the ornate weapon dropped into the sand at his feet.

  He lifted the empty hand and placed it across his chest with fingers outspread in a gesture that seemed reverential and slowly his body bent forward and now his legs gave way under him and he dropped to his knees, as though in prayer. Kneeling, he lifted his hand away from his chest and examined with an expression of mild surprise the small smear of blood that coated his fingers and then he pitched forward face down on to the sand.

  At last Robyn could move. She raced forward and dropped to her knees beside Clinton's fallen body, and with strength of panic rolled him on to his back. The front of the white linen shirt was damp with a little blood around the neat puncture in the cloth six inches to the left of the line of mother of pearl buttons.

  He had been half-turned to fire and the ball had taken him low and left, at the level of the lungs, she saw instantly. The lungs! She felt despair overwhelm her. It would mean death, no less certain because it was slow and agonizing. She would have to watch this min drown inexorably in his own blood.

  Sand crunched beside her and she looked up.

  Mungo St. John stood over her, his shirt a mess of wet blood. He was holding a silk kerchief to his temple to staunch the copious flow where the pistol ball had stripped a long ribbon of scalp off his skull above the ear.

  His eyes were bleak, his expression forbidding and his voice cold and distant as he told her quietly. I trust you will be satisfied at last, madam. " Then he turned abruptly up the white dune towards the beach.

  She wanted to run after him, to restrain him, to explain to explain she knew not what, but her duty was here, with the man more gravely stricken. Her fingers shook as she unbuttoned the front of Clinton's shirt and saw the dark blue hole punched into the pale flesh from which a little thick slow blood oozed. So little blood at the mouth of the wound, it was the worst indication - the bleeding would be inside, deep inside the chest cavity'Zouga, my bag, she called sharply.

  Zouga came to her, carrying the bag and went down on one knee beside her. I am but lightly struck, " murmured Clinton.

  "I have no pain. just a feeling of numbness here Zouga did not reply. He had seen a multitude of gunshot wounds in India, pain was no indication of the severity. A ball through the hand or foot was unbearable agony, another through both lungs was only mildly discomforting.

  Only one thing puzzled him and that was why Mungo St. johnos shot had been so wide. At twenty paces he would surely have taken the head shot, aiming between the eyes with an expectation of the ball deviating less than an inch from the point of aim, yet the shot had taken Clinton low in the chest.

  While Robyn pressed a dressing over the wicked little blue mouth of the wound, Zouga picked the pistol out of the sand. The barrel was still warm and there was the peppery whiff of burned powder as he examined it and saw instantly why Mungo's shot had struck wide.

  There was a bluish smear of bright new lead on the steel trigger guard.

  Mungo St. John had indeed aimed at the head, but Clinton had lifted the pistol to his eye at the same instant directly in the line of sight. St. John's ball had struck the metal guard and been deflected downwards.

  That would account for the fact that Clinton's own ball had been high, for as a less expert marksman he would surely have aimed at St. John's chest. The strike of the ball had thrown his weapon upwards at the moment of discharge.

  Zouga looked up and handed the pistol to Tippoo who waited impassively close at hand. Without a word, Tippoo took the weapon, turned away and followed his master over the dunes.

  By the time four seamen from the gunboat could carry Clinton Codrington down the
beach using his boat cloak as a hammock, St. John was climbing up from the Huron's whaler on to his maindeck, and before they could rig a block and tackle to lift the prostrate form of her captain into Black joke, Huron had broken out her anchor and was spreading sail before the south-westerly breeze and bearing away with the sunrise transformin her into a vessel etched in golden fire.

  For twenty-four hours Clinton Codrington surprised Robyn with the strength of his recovery. She looked to see blood on his lips, and she expected him to experience the agony of breathing as the damaged lung collapsed.

  Every few hours she listened with her sounding trumpet to his chest, stooping over the bunk in his cabin to catch the hiss and saw of his breathing, listening for the bubbling sound of blood, or for the dry rubbing of the lung against the rib cage, and was pleased when none of these symptoms occurred.

  Indeed Clinton was unaccountably resilient for a patient with ball through the chest cavity. He complained only of stiffness reaching up into his left armpit and semi-paralysis of that arm, and he was vociferous in his advice to his surgeon.

  You will bleed me, of course! he asked. I will not, Robyn told him shortly as she cleaned the area around the wound and then lifted him into a sitting position to bandage his chest.

  You should take at least a pint, Clinton insisted. Have you not bled enough? " Robyn asked witheringly, but he was undaunted. There is black rotten blood that must be taken off Clinton indicated the massive bruise that was spreading around his chest like some dark parasitic plant around the smooth pale trunk. You must bleed me, Clinton insisted, for all his adult life he had been exposed to the ministrations of naval surgeons. "If you don't, fever is sure to follow."