A Falcon Flies Page 5

  Robyn dropped that pamphlet and before picking up the next, she reflected a moment on the sheer multitudes involved in the whole grisly business.

  ‘Five million since the turn of the century,’ she whispered, ‘five million souls. No wonder that they call it the greatest crime against humanity in the history of the world.’

  She opened the next pamphlet and skimmed quickly over an examination of the profits that accrued to a successful trader.

  In the interior of Africa, up near the lake country where few white men had ever reached, Fuller Ballantyne had discovered – her father’s name in print gave her a prickle of pride and of melancholy – Fuller had discovered that a prime slave changed hands for a cupful of porcelain beads, two slaves for an obsolete Tower musket that cost thirteen shillings in London, or a Brown Bess musket that cost two dollars in New York.

  At the coast the same slave cost ten dollars, while on the slave market in Brazil he would sell for five hundred dollars. But once he was taken north of the equator, the risks to the trader increased and the price rose dramatically – a thousand dollars in Cuba, fifteen hundred in Louisiana.

  Robyn lowered the text, and thought swiftly. The English Captain had challenged that Huron could carry 2,000 slaves at a time. Landed in America, they would be worth an unbelievable three million dollars, an amount which would buy fifteen ships like Huron. A single voyage would make a man rich beyond mundane dreams of greed, all risks were acceptable to the traders to win such vast wealth.

  But had Captain Codrington been justified in his accusations? Robyn knew the counter-accusations that were made against the officers of the Royal Navy, that their zeal arose from the promise of prize money rather than a hatred of the trade and a love of humanity. That every sail they raised was considered a slaver, and that they were swift to apply the Equipment Clause in the widest possible interpretation.

  Robyn was searching for the pamphlet that dealt in detail with this Equipment Clause and she found it next on the pile before her.

  To enable a ship to be seized as a slaver under the clause, she need only satisfy one of the stipulated conditions. She could be taken if her hatches were equipped with open gratings to ventilate her holds; if there were dividing bulkheads in her holds to facilitate the installation of slave decks; if there were spare planks aboard for laying as slave decks; if she carried shackles and bolts, or leg irons and cuffs; if she carried too many water casks for the number of her crew and passengers; if she had disproportionally large numbers of mess tubs, or her rice boilers were too big, or if she carried unreasonable quantities of rice or farina.

  Even if she carried native matting that might be used as bedding for slaves, she could be seized and run in under a prize crew. These were wide powers given to men who could profit financially by seizure.

  Was Captain Codrington one of these, were those pale fanatical eyes merely a mask for avarice and a desire for personal gain?

  Robyn found herself hoping they were, or at least that in the case of Huron he had been mistaken. But then why had Captain St John put down his helm, and run for it the moment he sighted the British cruiser?

  Robyn was confused and miserable, haunted with guilt. She needed comfort and she slipped a lace Stuart cape over her head and shoulders before venturing out on to the deck again, for the wind had risen to an icy gale and Huron was always a tender ship, she heeled heavily as she beat southwards, flinging spray high into the falling night.

  Zouga was in his cabin, dressed in shirt-sleeves and smoking a cigar as he worked over the lists of the expedition’s equipment that would still have to be obtained once they reached Good Hope.

  He called to her to enter when she knocked, and rose to greet her with a smile.

  ‘Sissy, are you well? It was a most unpleasant business, even though unavoidable. I hope it has not unsettled you.’

  ‘The man will recover,’ she said, and Zouga changed the subject as he settled her on his bunk, the only other seating in the cabin.

  ‘I sometimes think we would have been better off with less money to spend on this expedition. There is always such a temptation to accumulate too much equipment. Papa made the Transversa with only five porter loads, while we will need a hundred porters at the least, each carrying eighty pounds.’

  ‘Zouga, I must speak to you. This is the first opportunity I have had.’

  An expression of distaste flickered across the strong, harsh features as though he sensed what she was about to say. But before he could deny her she blurted out, ‘Is this ship a slaver, Zouga?’

  Zouga removed the cigar from his mouth and inspected the tip minutely before he replied.

  ‘Sissy, a slaver stinks so you can smell it for fifty leagues downwind, and even after the slaves are removed there is no amount of lye that will get rid of the smell. Huron does not have the stench of a slaver.’

  ‘This ship is on her first voyage under this ownership,’ Robyn reminded him quietly. ‘Codrington accused Captain St John of using his profits from previous voyages to purchase her. She is still clean.’

  ‘Mungo St John is a gentleman.’ Zouga’s tone had an edge of impatience to it now. ‘I am convinced of that.’

  ‘The plantation owners of Cuba and Louisiana are amongst the most elegant gentlemen that you could find outside the court of St James,’ she reminded him.

  ‘I am prepared to accept his word as a gentleman,’ Zouga snapped.

  ‘Are you not a little eager, Zouga?’ she asked with a deceptive sweetness, but his tone had kindled sparks in her eyes like the green lights in an emerald. ‘Would it not seriously impede your plans to find ourselves shipped on board a slaver?’

  ‘Damn me, woman, I have his word.’ Zouga was getting truly angry now. ‘St John is engaged in legitimate trade. He hopes for a cargo of ivory and palm oil.’

  ‘Have you asked to inspect the ship’s hold?’

  ‘He has given his word.’

  ‘Will you ask him to open the holds?’

  Zouga hesitated, his gaze wavered a moment, and then he made his decision.

  ‘No, I will not,’ he said flatly. ‘That would be an insult to him and quite rightly, he would resent it.’

  ‘And if we found what you are afraid to find, it would discredit the purpose of our expedition,’ she agreed.

  ‘As the leader of this mission. I have made the decision—’

  ‘Papa would never let anything stand in his way either, not even Mama or the family—’

  ‘Sissy, if you still feel that way when we reach the Cape, I will arrange for passage on another vessel to Quelimane. Will that satisfy you?’

  She did not reply but continued to stare at him with a flat accusing gaze.

  ‘If we did find evidence,’ he waved his hands with agitation, ‘what could we do about it?’

  ‘We could make a sworn deposition to the Admiralty at Cape Town.’

  ‘Sissy,’ he sighed wearily at her intransigence, ‘don’t you understand? If I were to challenge St John, we could gain nothing. If the accusation is unwarranted we would place ourselves in a damned awkward position, and if in the very unlikely event that this ship is equipped for the trade, we would then be in considerable danger. Do not underestimate that danger. Robyn. St John is a determined man.’ He stopped and shook his head decisively, the fashionable curls dangling over his ears. ‘I am not going to endanger you, myself or the whole expedition. That is my decision, and I will insist that you abide by it.’

  After a long pause, Robyn slowly dropped her gaze to her hands, and inter-meshed her fingers.

  ‘Very well, Zouga.’

  His relief was obvious. ‘I am grateful for your compliance, my dear.’ He stooped over her and kissed her forehead. ‘Let me escort you to dinner.’

  She was about to refuse, to tell him she was tired and that, once again, she would dine alone in her cabin, and then an idea struck her, and she nodded.

  ‘Thank you, Zouga,’ she told him, and then looked up with one of t
hose sudden smiles so brilliant, so warm and so rare as to disarm him completely. ‘I am fortunate to have such a handsome dinner companion.’

  She sat between Mungo St John and her brother, and had her brother not known better, he might have suspected her of flirting outrageously with the Captain. She was all smiles and sparkles, leaning forward attentively to listen whenever he spoke, recharging his glass whenever it was less than half-filled with wine and laughing delightedly at his dry sallies.

  Zouga was amazed and a little alarmed by the transformation, while St John had never seen her like this. He had covered his original surprise with an amused half-smile. However, in this mood Robyn Ballantyne was an attractive companion. Her stubborn, rather sharp face softened to the edge of prettiness, while her best features, her hair, her perfect skin, her eyes and fine white teeth, gleamed and flashed in the lamplight. Mungo St John’s own mood became expansive, he laughed more readily and his interest was clearly piqued. With Robyn plying his glass, he drank more than on any other night of the voyage, and when his steward served a good plum duff he called for a bottle of brandy to wash it down.

  Zouga had also been infected by the strangely festive air of the dinner, and he protested as vigorously as St John when suddenly Robyn declared herself to be exhausted and stood up from the board, but she was adamant.

  In her cabin she could still hear the occasional shouts of laughter from the saloon, as she went quietly about her preparations. She slid the locking bar into place to assure her privacy. Then she knelt beside her chest and wormed her way down to the bottom layers, from which she retrieved a pair of man’s moleskin breeches, a flannel shirt and cravat, with a high-buttoned monkey jacket to go over them, and well-worn half boots.

  This had been her uniform and her disguise as a medical student at St Matthew’s Hospital. Now she stripped herself naked, and for a moment enjoyed the wicked freedom of the feeling, even indulging herself to the extent of gazing down at her nudity. She was not too certain if it was a sin to enjoy one’s own body, but she suspected that it was. Nevertheless she persisted.

  Her legs were straight and strong, her hips flared with a graceful curve and then narrowed abruptly into her waist, her belly was almost flat with just an interesting little bulge below the navel. Now here was definitely sinful ground – of this there was no doubt. But still she could not deny the temptation to let her gaze linger a moment. She understood fully the technical purpose and the physical workings of all her body’s highly complicated machinery, both visible and concealed. It was only the feelings and emotions which sprang from this source which both confused and worried her, for they had taught her none of this at St Matthew’s. She passed on hurriedly to safer ground, lifting her arms to pile the tresses of her hair on to the top of her head and hold them in place with a soft cloth cap.

  Her breasts were round and neat as ripening apples, so firm as hardly to change their shape as she moved her arms. Their resemblance to fruit pleased her and she spent a few moments longer than was necessary in adjusting the cloth cap upon her head looking down at them. But there was a limit to self-indulgence, and she swept the flannel shirt over her head, pulled the tails down around her waist, stepped into the breeches – how good they felt again after so long in those hobbling skirts – and then, sitting upon the bunk, she pulled on the half-boots and buckled the ankle straps of the breeches under the arch of her foot, before standing to clinch the belt at her waist.

  She opened her black valise, took out the roll of surgical instruments and selected one of the sturdier scalpels, folded out the blade and tested it with her thumb. It was stingingly sharp. She closed the blade and slipped it into her hip pocket. It was the only weapon available to her.

  She was ready now, and she closed the shutter on the bull’s-eye lantern, darkening the cabin completely before climbing, fully dressed, into her bunk, pulling the rough woollen blanket to her chin and settling down to wait. The laughter from the saloon became more abandoned, and she imagined that the brandy bottle was being cruelly punished by the men. A long while later she heard her brother’s heavy, uneven footsteps on the companionway past her cabin and then there was only the creak and pop of the ship’s timbers as she heeled to the wind, and far away the regular tapping of some loose piece of equipment.

  She was so keyed, with both fear and anticipation, that there was never any danger of her falling asleep. However, the time passed with wearying slowness. Each time that she opened the shutter of the lantern to check her pocketwatch, the hands seemed hardly to have moved. Then, somehow, it was two o’clock in the morning, the hour when the human body and spirit are at their lowest ebb.

  She rose quietly from her bunk, picked up the darkened lantern and went to the door of her cabin. The locking bolt clattered like a volley of musketry, but then it was open and she slipped through.

  In the saloon a single oil-lamp still burned smokily, throwing agitated shadows against the wooden bulkheads, while the empty brandy bottle had fallen to the deck, and rolled back and forth with the ship’s motion. Robyn squatted to pull off her boots and, leaving them at the entrance, she went forward on bare feet, crossed the saloon and stepped into the passageway that led to the stern quarters.

  Her breath was short, as though she had run far, and she paused to lift the shutter of the bull’s-eye lantern and flash a narrow beam of light into the darkness ahead. The door to Mungo St John’s cabin was closed.

  She crept towards it, guiding herself with one hand on the bulkhead and at last her fingers closed over the brass doorhandle.

  ‘Please God,’ she whispered, and achingly slowly twisted the handle. It turned easily, and then the door slid open an inch along its track, enough for her to peep through into the cabin beyond.

  There was just light to see, for the deck above was pierced for a repeating compass so that even while in his bunk the master could at a glance tell his ship’s heading. The compass was lit by the dull yellow glow of the helmsman’s lantern and the reflection allowed Robyn to make out the cabin’s central features.

  The bunk was screened off by a dark curtain and the rest of the furnishings were simple. The locked doors of the arms chest were to the left, with a row of hooks beyond from which hung a boat cloak and the clothing that St John had been wearing at dinner. Facing the door was a solid teak desk with racks to hold the brass navigational instruments, sextant, straight edge, dividers, and on the bulkhead above it were affixed the barometer and the ship’s chronometer.

  The Captain had evidently emptied his pockets on to the desk top before undressing. Scattered amongst the charts and ship’s papers were a clasp knife, a silver cigar case, a tiny gold inlaid pocket pistol of the type favoured by professional gamblers, a pair of chunky ivory dice – Zouga and St John must have fallen to gaming again after she left them – and then most important, what she had hoped to find, the bunch of ship’s keys that St John usually wore on a chain from his belt, lay in the centre of the desk.

  An inch at a time Robyn slid the door further open, watching the dark alcove to the right of the cabin. The curtains billowed slightly with each roll of the ship, and she screwed her nerves tighter as she imagined the movement to be that of a man about to leap out at her.

  When the door was open enough to allow her to pass through, it required a huge effort of will to take the first step.

  Half-way across the cabin she froze; now she was only inches from the bunk. She peered into the narrow gap in the curtaining and saw the gleam of naked flesh, and heard the deep regular breathing of the sleeping man. It reassured her and she went on swiftly to the desk.

  She had no way of learning which keys fitted the lazaretto and the hatch to the main hold. She had to take the whole heavy bunch, and realized that it would mean returning to the cabin later. She did not know if she would have the courage to do that, and as she lifted the bunch her hand shook so it jangled sharply. Startled, she clutched it to her bosom and stared fearfully at the alcove. There was no movement beyond the c
urtains, and she glided back towards the door on silent bare feet.

  It was only when the door closed again that the curtains of the alcove were jerked open, and Mungo St John lifted himself on one elbow. He paused only a moment and then swung his legs out of the bunk and stood up. He reached the desk in two quick strides and checked the top.

  ‘The keys!’ he hissed, and reached out for his breeches hanging on the rack beside him, pulling them on swiftly and then stooping to open one of the drawers in his desk.

  He lifted the lid of the rosewood case and took out the pair of long-barrelled duelling pistols, thrust them into his waistband, and started for the door of the cabin.

  Robyn found the correct key to the lazaretto on the third attempt and the door gave reluctantly, dragging on the hinge with a squeal that sounded to her like a bugle call commanding a charge of heavy cavalry.

  She locked the door behind her again, feeling a rush of relief to know that nobody could follow her now and she opened the shutter of the lantern and looked about her swiftly.

  The lazaretto was no more than a large cupboard used as a pantry for the officers’ personal stores. Sides of smoked ham and dried polonies hung from hooks in the deck above, there were fat rounds of cheese in the racks, boxes of tinned goods, racks of black bottles with waxed stoppers, bags of flour and rice, and, facing Robyn, another hatch with the locking bar chained in place by a padlock the size of her doubled fists.

  The key, when she found it, was equally massive, as thick as her middle finger, and the hatch so heavy that it took all of her strength to drag it aside. Then she had to double over to get through the low opening.

  Behind her, Mungo St John heard the scrape of wood on wood and dropped silently down the steps to the door of the lazaretto. With a cocked pistol in one hand, he laid his ear to the oak planking to listen for a moment before trying the handle.