A Falcon Flies (5 page)

With no way upon
Huron
, the helmsman could not hold any course, and the clipper drifted around broadside to the on-rushing man-of-war putting her bows directly into the rollers.

They could make out the individual figures of the three officers on the gunboat's bridge now. Again the bow-chaser fired, and the shell lifted a tall column of water so high and close under the
Huron
's bows that it collapsed upon the deck and streamed out through the scuppers.

Mungo St John took one last despairing sweep of the horizon, hoping even now for a resurgence of the wind, and then he capitulated.

‘Hoist the colours, Mr Tippoo,' he called, and as the gaudy scrap of cloth dropped from the mainyard in the windless air, he watched through the lens of his telescope the consternation it caused upon the gunboat's bridge. That was the last flag they had hoped to see.

They were now close enough to discern the individual expressions of chagrin and alarm and indecision of the naval officers.

‘There'll be no prize money for you – not this time around,' Mungo St John murmured with grim satisfaction, and snapped the telescope shut.

The gunboat came on and then rounded up to
Huron
, within easy hail, showing her full broadside, the long 32-pounder cannon gaping menacingly.

The tallest officer on her bridge seemed also the oldest, for his hair was white in the sunlight. He came to the gunboat's near rail and lifted the voice trumpet to his mouth.

‘What ship?'

‘
Huron
, out of Baltimore and Bristol,' Mungo St John hailed back. ‘With a cargo of trade goods for Good Hope and Quelimane.'

‘Why did you not answer my challenge, sir?'

‘Because, sir, I do not acknowledge your right to challenge ships of the United States of America on the high seas.'

Both captains knew just what a thorny and controversial question that reply posed, but the Englishman hesitated only a second.

‘Do you, sir, accede to my right to satisfy myself as to your nationality and your ship's port of registry?'

‘As soon as you run in your guns you may come aboard for that purpose, Captain. But do not send one of your junior officers.'

Mungo St John was making a fine point of humiliating the commander of the
Black Joke
. But inwardly he was still seething at the fluke of wind and weather which had allowed the gunboat to come up with him.

The
Black Joke
launched a longboat on the heavy swell with an immaculate show of seamanship, and it pulled swiftly to
Huron
's side. While the Captain scrambled up the rope ladder, the boat's crew backed off and rested on their oars.

The naval officer came in through the entry port, so lithe and agile that Mungo St John realized his error in thinking him an elderly man. It was the white-blond hair that had misled him – he was evidently less than thirty years of age. He did not wear a uniform coat, for his ship had been cleared for action, and he was dressed in a plain white linen shirt, breeches and soft boots. There were a pair of pistols in his belt and a naval cutlass in its scabbard on his hip.

‘Captain Codrington of Her Majesty's auxiliary cruiser
Black Joke
,' he introduced himself stiffly. His hair was bleached in silver white splashes from the salt and the sun, with darker streaks beneath and it was tied with a leather thong in a short queue at the nape of his neck. His face was weathered to honey-golden brown by the same sun, so that the faded blue of his eyes was in pale contrast.

‘Captain St John, owner and master of this vessel.'

Neither man made any move to shake hands, and they seemed to bristle like two dog wolves meeting for the first time.

‘I hope you do not intend to detain me longer than is necessary. You can assure yourself that my government will be fully apprised of this incident.'

‘May I inspect your papers, Captain?' The young naval officer ignored the threat, and followed St John on to the quarterdeck. There he hesitated for the first time when he caught sight of Robyn and her brother standing together at the far rail, but he recovered immediately, bowed slightly and then turned his full attention to the packet of documents that Mungo St John had ready for his inspection on the chart table.

He stooped over the table, working swiftly through the pile until with a shock of discovery he straightened.

‘Damn me – Mungo St John – your reputation precedes you, sir.' The Englishman's expression was strained with strong emotion. ‘And what a noble one it is, too.' There was a bitter sting in his voice. ‘The first trader ever to carry more than three thousand souls across the middle passage in a single, twelve-month period – small wonder you can afford such a magnificent vessel.'

‘You are on dangerous ground, sir,' Mungo St John warned him with that lazy, taunting grin. ‘I am fully aware of the lengths to which the officers of your service will go for a few guineas of prize money.'

‘Where are you going to pick up your next cargo of human misery, Captain St John?' the Englishman cut in brusquely. ‘On such a fine ship you should be able to pack in two thousand.' He had gone pale with unfeigned anger, actually trembling slightly with the force of it.

‘If you have finished your investigation—' St John's smile did not slip, but the naval officer went on speaking.

‘We have made the west coast a little too hot for you now, have we? Even when you hide behind that pretty piece of silk,' the naval officer glanced up at the flag on the mainyard. ‘So you are going to work the east coast now, are you, sir? They tell me you can get a prime slave for two dollars – two for a 10-shilling musket.'

‘I must ask you to leave now.' St John took the document from his hand, and when their fingers touched, the Englishman wiped his hand on his own thigh as though to cleanse it of the contact.

‘I'd give five years' pay to have the hatches off your holds,' he said bitterly, leaning forward to stare at Mungo St John with those pale fierce eyes.

‘Captain Codrington!' Zouga Ballantyne stepped towards the group. ‘I am a British subject and an officer in Her Majesty's army. I can assure you that there are no slaves aboard this vessel.' He spoke sharply.

‘If you are an Englishman, then you should be ashamed to travel in such company.' Codrington glanced beyond Zouga. ‘And that applies equally to you, madam!'

‘You overreach yourself, sir,' Zouga told him grimly. ‘I have already given you my assurance.'

Codrington's gaze had flicked back to Robyn Ballantyne's face. Her distress was evident, unfeigned. The accusation had shattered her, that she, the daughter of Fuller Ballantyne, the great champion of freedom and sworn adversary of slavery – she, the accredited agent of the Society for the Extinction of the Slave Trade should be travelling aboard a notorious slaver.

She was pale, the green eyes huge and liquid with the shock of it.

‘Captain Codrington,' her voice was husky and low, ‘my brother is right – I also assure you that there are no slaves aboard this ship.'

The Englishman's expression softened, she was not a beautiful woman, but there was a freshness and wholesomeness about her which was difficult to resist.

‘I will accept your word, madam.' He inclined his head. ‘Indeed, only a madman would carry black ivory towards Africa, but,' and his voice hardened again, ‘if only I were able to enter her holds, I'd find enough down there to run her into Table Bay under a prize crew and have her condemned out of hand at the next session of the Court of Mixed Commission.'

Codrington swung on his heel to face Mungo St John again.

‘Oh yes, I know that your slave decks will be struck to make way for your trade cargo, but the spare planks are aboard and it won't take you a day to set them up again,' Codrington almost snarled, ‘and I'll wager there are open gratings under those hatch covers,' he pointed down at the maindeck, but without taking his eyes from Mungo St John's face, ‘that there are shackles in the lower decks to take the chains and leg irons—'

‘Captain Codrington, I find your company wearying,' Mungo St John drawled softly. ‘You have sixty seconds to leave this ship, before I have my mate assist you over the side.'

Tippoo stepped forward, hairless as an enormous toad, and stood a foot behind Codrington's left shoulder.

With a visible effort, the English captain retained his temper, as he inclined his head towards Mungo St John.

‘May God grant we meet again, sir.' He turned back to Robyn and saluted her briefly.

‘May I wish you a pleasant continuation of your voyage, madam.'

‘Captain Codrington, I think you are mistaken,' she almost pleaded with him. He did not reply but stared at her for a moment longer, the pale eyes were direct and disturbing – the eyes of a prophet or a fanatic – then he turned and went with a gangling boyish stride to
Huron
's entry port.

T
ippoo had stripped off the high-necked tunic and oiled his upper body so it gleamed in the sunlight with the metallic lustre of the skin of some exotic reptile.

He stood stolidly on flat bare feet, balancing effortlessly to the
Huron
's roll, his thick arms hanging at his side and the lash of the whip coiled on the deck at his feet.

There was a grating fixed at the ship's side and the sailor who had been at the masthead lookout when they had raised the African coast, was spread-eagled upon it like a stranded starfish on a rock exposed at low tide. He twisted his head awkwardly to look back over his shoulder at the mate, and his face was white with terror.

‘You were excused witnessing punishment, Doctor Ballantyne,' Mungo St John told her quietly.

‘I feel it my duty to suffer this barbaric—'

‘As you wish,' he cut her short with a nod, and turned away. ‘Twenty, Mr Tippoo.'

‘Twenty it is, Cap'n.'

With no expression at all Tippoo stepped up behind the man, hooked his finger into the back of his collar and ripped the shirt down to the belt. The man's back was pale as suet pudding, but studded with fat purple carbuncles, the sailor's affliction, caused by salty, wet clothing and the unhealthy diet.

Tippoo stepped back and flicked out the lash so that it extended to its full length along the seamed oak planking.

‘Ship's company!' Mungo St John called. ‘The charge is inattention to duty, and endangering the ship's safety.' They shuffled their bare feet, but not one of them looked up at him. ‘The sentence is twenty lashes.'

On the grating the man turned his face away and closed his eyes tightly, hunching his shoulders.

‘Lay on, Mr Tippoo,' Mungo St John said, and Tippoo squinted carefully at the bare, white skin, through which the knuckles of the spine showed clearly. He reared back, one thickly muscled arm thrown high above his head, and the lash snaked higher, hissing like an angry cobra, then he stepped forward into the stroke, pivoting the full weight and force of his shoulders into it.

The man on the grating shrieked, and his body convulsed in a spasm that smeared the skin from his wrists against the coarse hemp bonds.

The white skin opened in a thin bright scarlet line, from one side of his ribs to the other, and one of the angry purple carbuncles between his shoulder blades erupted in a spurt of yellow matter that ran down the pale skin and soaked into the waistband of his breeches.

‘One,' said Mungo St John, and the man on the grating began to sob quietly.

Tippoo stepped back, shook out the lash carefully, squinted at the bloody line across the white shuddering flesh, reared back and grunted as he stepped forward into the next stroke.

‘Two,' said Mungo St John. Robyn felt her gorge rise to choke her. She fought it down, and forced herself to watch. She could not allow him to see her weakness.

On the tenth stroke the body on the grating relaxed suddenly, the head lolled sideways and the fists unclenched slowly so that she could see the little bloody half-moon wounds where the nails had been driven into the palms. There was no further sign of life during the rest of the leisurely ritual of punishment.

At the twentieth stroke, she almost flung herself down the ladder to the maindeck and was feeling for the pulse before they could cut the body down from the grating.

‘Praise be to God,' she whispered as she felt it fluttering under her fingers, and then to the seamen who were lifting the man down, ‘Gently now!' She saw that Mungo St John had got his wish, for the white porcelain crests of the spinal column were jutting up through the sliced meat of the back muscles.

She had a cotton dressing ready and she placed it across the ruined back as they laid him on to an oak plank and hustled him towards the forecastle.

In the narrow, crowded forecastle, thick with the fumes of cheap pipe tobacco and the almost solid reek of bilges and wet clothing, of unwashed men and mouldering food, they laid the man on the mess table and she worked as best she could in the guttering light of the oil-lamp in its gimbals overhead. She stitched back the flaps and ribbons of mushy, torn flesh with horsehair sutures and then bound up the whole in weak phenol solution, treatment which Joseph Lister had recently pioneered with much success against mortification.

The man was conscious again and whimpering with pain. She gave him five drops of laudanum, and promised to visit him the following day to change the bindings.

As she packed away her instruments and closed her black valise, one of the crew, a little pockmarked bosun, named Nathaniel, picked it up and when she nodded her thanks, he muttered with embarrassment, ‘We are beholden, missus.'

It had taken all of them time to accept her ministrations. First it had been only the lancing of carbuncles and seaboils, calomel for the flux and the grippe, but later, after a dozen successful treatments, which included a fractured humerus, an ulcerated and ruptured eardrum and the banishing of a venereal chancre with mercury, she had become a firm favourite amongst the crew, and her sick-call a regular feature of shipboard life.