A Falcon Flies (20 page)

‘You are on extended absence from your regiment, and you have not been expressly ordered, as I and my officers have been.'

Zouga thought quickly, duelling was not so seriously considered in the army as it was in the Royal Navy, in fact the army manuals still maintained no express prohibitions, and a chance to meet with St John was also a last chance to avert this ridiculous affair that so seriously threatened the continuance of his expedition.

‘I accept, then,' Zouga said shortly.

‘I am extremely grateful to you, sir,' said Clinton as shortly.

‘Let us hope you are as grateful after the business is over,' Zouga told him drily. ‘I had best go across to
Huron
right away. It will be dark in an hour.'

Tippoo caught the line as it was thrown from the gunboat's whaler, and held it while Zouga gathered his cloak and jumped the gap of surging green water to the boarding ladder, clambering up before the next swell could soak his boots.

Mungo St John waited for him at the foot of the mainmast. He held himself unsmiling and aloof, until Zouga hurried to him and offered his right hand, then he relaxed and returned the smile.

‘Damn it, Mungo, cannot we make an end to this nonsense?'

‘Certainly, Zouga,' Mungo St John agreed. ‘An apology from your man would settle it.'

‘The man is a fool,' Zouga shook his head. ‘Why take the risk?'

‘I don't consider there is any risk, but let me remind you he called me a coward.'

‘There is no chance then?' The two of them had become good friends during the weeks they had spent together and Zouga felt he could press further. ‘I admit the fellow is a prig, but if you kill him, you'll make it damned awkward for me, don't you know?'

Mungo St John threw back his head and laughed delightedly. ‘You and I could work together, do you know that, Zouga? You are a pragmatist, like I am. I make a prophecy – you'll go a long way in this world.'

‘Not very far, if you kill the man who is taking me.' And Mungo St John chuckled again and clapped a friendly hand upon his shoulder.

‘I'm sorry, my friend. Not this time,' and Zouga sighed with resignation.

‘You have choice of weapons.'

‘Pistols,' said Mungo St John.

‘Of course,' Zouga nodded. ‘Dawn tomorrow on the beach there.' He pointed to the land with his chin. ‘Will that suit you?'

‘Admirably. Tippoo here will act for me.'

‘Does he understand the conventions?' Zouga asked doubtfully, as he glanced at the half-naked figure that waited near at hand.

‘He understands enough to blow Codrington's head off at the shoulders if he levels his pistol a moment before the signal.' Mungo St John flashed that cruel white smile. ‘And that's all he needs to know, as far as I am concerned.'

R
obyn Ballantyne slept not a minute during the night and it still lacked two hours of dawn when she bathed and dressed. On an impulse she chose her old moleskin breeches and man's woollen jacket. There would be the need to disembark through the surf from the ship's boat and skirts would hamper her, added to which the morning was damp and chill and her jacket was of good thick Scottish tweed.

She laid out her black leather bag, and checked its contents, making certain she had everything she needed to cleanse and staunch 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 lamp-light 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.

B
oth 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 darkblue leaden ball and setting the cap on the nipple.

The sight of the long-barrelled weapons reminded Robyn forcefully of that night aboard
Huron
, 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 long-barrelled muzzle-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 ‘S' 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.