A Falcon Flies (89 page)

‘Guilty of flagrant disregard of the orders of his superior officer.'

‘Guilty of acts of piracy upon the high seas.'

‘Guilty of destroying the property of the subjects of a friendly power.'

‘Guilty of flouting the terms of a treaty between her Britannic Majesty's Government and the Sultan of the Omani Arabs.'

It must be death, Clinton realized, the verdict was too detailed, the list of his transgressions too long and his guilt too serious. It must be death by the noose.

He lifted his eyes from the accusing weapon, and he stared out of the french windows beyond his judges. The high stock of his uniform collar felt as tight as the hangman's noose as he tried to swallow.

‘I have never feared death, Lord,' he prayed silently. ‘There is only one thing I will regret – that I must leave the woman that I love.'

To be deprived of honour, and of life was sufficient punishment, but to lose his love as well was the final injustice.

‘The Court has deliberated at length on the sentence,' Admiral Kemp paused and shot a sideways glance at a lean, tanned and silver-haired Rear-Admiral beside him, the passenger from the visiting East Indiaman, ‘and has heard and been swayed by the eloquent arguments of Admiral Reginald Curry.'

He paused again and puffed out his lips, indicating clearly that he did not agree with those eloquent arguments, before going on.

‘The sentence of this Court is that the prisoner be stripped of all rank, privileges and pay and that the Queen's Commission which he holds shall be withdrawn, and that he be
dishonourably
discharged from the naval service.'

Clinton steeled himself, the stripping of rank and discharge would precede the main body of the sentence.

‘Furthermore,' Kemp paused and cleared his throat. ‘Furthermore it is the sentence of the Court that the prisoner be taken from here to the castle and that he be there—'

The castle was the place of execution, the gallows would be erected on the parade ground before the main gates.

‘That he be there imprisoned for a period of one year.'

The judges were standing up, were filing out of the room. As the lean silver-haired Admiral came level with Clinton, a small conspiratorial smile touched his lips, and for the first time Clinton realized that it was not death.

‘A year,' said the Lieutenant who had prosecuted, as the door closed, ‘not a flogging, nor a hanging – damned generous, I'd say.'

‘Congratulations.' Clinton's defending officer was grinning incredulously. ‘It was Curry, of course, he commanded the west coast anti-slavery squadron himself. What a stroke of luck to have him on the Board.'

Pale, voiceless, swaying slightly on his feet, Clinton was still staring blindly through the open windows.

‘Come on, my dear fellow, a year will soon be past,' the defending officer touched his arm, ‘and after that, no more bully beef and hard bread – do pull yourself together.'

T
wenty miles a day since leaving grandfather Moffat's mission-station at Kuruman, Zouga had pushed the mules and his servants hard all the way, and now at the crest of the pass he reined in the tall sway-backed mule and stared out across the sweeping panorama of the Cape peninsula.

Directly below him was that strange pale hill of smooth rock, Die Paarl as the Dutch burghers had named it, ‘the Pearl', and it shone with an almost translucent lustre in the Cape sunlight of high summer.

Beyond that the wheatlands and vineyards dotted the flat land that stretched away to the Paarde Berg, the Horse Mountains, where once the wild mountain zebra had roamed, and the Tyger Berg. The leopard to the Dutch burghers was a tiger and the zebra was a horse.

‘Nearly home now, Sergeant,' Zouga called to Jan Cheroot.

‘Just look at that—' The little Hottentot pointed to the smoky blue flat-topped mountain that stood up tall and massive against the southern horizon.

‘We will be there before dark tomorrow night.'

Jan Cheroot puckered his lips and blew a kiss towards it. ‘Pull the cork and tell the Cape Town ladies that my mama didn't call me big cheroot for nothing.'

His mule flicked its long hairy ears to the sound of his voice and gave a little half-hearted buck. ‘You feeling it too, you old thunder!' Jan Cheroot chuckled. ‘Let's go then!' and he whipped the animal up and went clattering away down the steep and rocky roadway.

Zouga stayed to watch the battered little two-wheeled Cape cart follow him at a more sedate pace, carrying its precious burden of ivory and sculptured green soapstone, as it had for a thousand miles and more.

I
t was a month before Robyn was allowed to pay her first visit to the castle. After the guard at the gates inspected her pass, she was led to a small whitewashed guard room, devoid of all furniture except three high-backed uncushioned chairs.

She remained standing for ten minutes before the low door opposite her was opened and Clinton stooped through it. He stopped, facing her, and she was struck instantly by the prison pallor of his skin. His deep-water tan had faded to a tobacco stain of yellow, and the roots of his hair, no longer bleached by salt and strong sunlight, had darkened.

He looked older, tired and dejected.

‘You at least have not deserted me in my disgrace,' he said simply.

The Subaltern of the guard took the third chair and tried to look as though he was not listening to their conversation. Robyn and Clinton sat facing each other stiffly, on the uncomfortable chairs, and their conversation was at first as stilted, a polite series of enquiries after each other's health.

Then Robyn asked, ‘Have you received the newspapers?'

‘Yes. The warder has been good to me.'

‘Then you have read what the new American President has promised at his inauguration.'

‘Lincoln was always a staunch enemy of the trade,' Clinton nodded.

‘He has granted the ships of the Royal Navy the right of search at last.'

‘And six of the Southern States have seceded already,' Clinton told her grimly. ‘There will be fighting, if he tries to force it.'

‘It's so unfair,' Robyn cried. ‘Just a few short weeks and you would have been a hero instead of a—' she broke off with her hand to her mouth, ‘I am sorry, Captain Codrington.'

‘Captain no longer,' he said.

‘I feel so much to blame – had I not sent that letter—'

‘You are so kind, so good,' then he blurted abruptly, ‘and so beautiful that I can scarcely bear to look at you.'

Robyn found herself blushing hotly, and she glanced at the listening guard officer. He was studying the rough plaster ceiling of the cell.

‘Do you know what I thought when I entered the chamber and saw the dirk pointed at me?' Clinton went on, and she shook her head. ‘I thought I was going to lose you. That they would hang me and I would never see you again.' His voice was shaking with such emotion, that the listening officer rose to his feet.

‘Doctor Ballantyne, I will leave the room for five minutes,' he said. ‘Do I have your word that you will not attempt to pass a weapon or a tool to the prisoner in my absence?'

Robyn nodded jerkily and whispered, ‘Thank you.'

The moment the door closed, Clinton launched himself across the gap between them and dropped to his knees before Robyn. He encircled her waist with both arms and pressed his cheek to her bosom.

‘But now I have nothing to offer you, I have nothing to share with you but my disgrace.'

Robyn found herself stroking his hair as though he were a child.

‘Soon I will go back to that beautiful land below the Zambezi river. I know now that is where my destiny lies,' she said quietly. ‘To minister to the souls and the bodies of those who live there.'

She paused a moment and looked down fondly on the dense pale locks of his hair.

‘You say you have nothing to offer, nothing to share, but I have something to offer you, and to share with you.'

He raised his head and looked up at her questioningly, hope starting to dawn in his pale sapphire eyes.

‘Will you not offer yourself to be ordained in God's service as a missionary, and come with me into the wilderness, to the land of Zambezia?'

‘To share my life with you, and with God.' His voice was hush and choked. ‘I never dreamed I was worthy of such an honour.'

‘
T
he fellow is a prig,' said Zouga firmly. ‘And, damn me, but now he is a gaol-bird to boot. Neither of you will be able to hold up your heads in society.' ‘He has a true and noble spirit, and now he has found his true calling in God's service,' Robyn replied hotly. ‘Neither of us intend spending much of our time in society, you may be certain of that.'

Zouga shrugged and smiled. ‘Of course, that is your affair. At least he has made a pretty packet of prize money which they can't take away from him.'

‘I assure you that money had nothing to do with my decision.'

‘I will believe that.' Zouga's smile infuriated her, but before she could find a scathing enough retort, he turned away and sauntered the length of the long veranda under the trellised vines and stood with his hands thrust into his pockets, staring out across the Cartwrights' gardens to the far glimpses of blue bay seen through the oaks and the rustling palms.

Robyn's anger subsided and gave way to regret. It seemed now that the two of them must always be squabbling, their desires and their motives always directly opposed.

At first her relief at his safety had been almost as strong as her sisterly delight at seeing him again. She had barely recognized him as he rode the bony sway-backed mule up the path to the Cartwright mansion. It was only when he dismounted and lifted the stained old hat from his head that she screamed with joy, leapt up from the luncheon table and ran down off the terrace to hug him.

He was so lean and hard and bronzed, and somehow endowed with new authority, charged with purpose and presence, that she glowed with pride as he recounted his experiences and all the company hung avidly on each word.

‘He is like a Greek god!' Aletta Cartwright had whispered to Robyn, which was not an original description – but then Aletta did not run much to original thought, and Robyn had to agree that in this case it was accurate.

She had followed his description of the land of the Matabele, and of the long trek southward with all her attention, asking such acute questions that Zouga had asked sharply, ‘I hope that you will not be using any of this in your own account, Sissy?'

‘Of course not,' she assured him, but still that had been the first sour note, and he had not spoken further of his adventures, except to give her the greetings and news of their grandfather, Robert Moffat at Kuruman.

‘You would never believe that he was seventy-five years old this past December. He is so bright and alive that he has just finished translating the Bible into the Sechuan language. He gave me every courtesy and help, and it was he who arranged for mules and for the cart which made the last portion of the journey so much easier. He remembered you as a little girl of three years old, and he has received your letters and gave me this in reply.' It was a thick packet. ‘He tells me that you have asked him about leading a missionary expedition to Zambezia or Matabeleland.'

‘That is correct.'

‘Sissy, I do not think that a woman on her own,' he had begun, but she had forestalled him.

‘I shall not be alone. Captain Clinton Codrington has decided to seek ordination as a missionary, and I have consented to become his wife.'

That had led to the explosion which had once more marred their relationship. As her anger faded, she made another determined effort to avert the new clash of temperament.

‘Zouga,' she went down the length of the terrace and took his arm. ‘I would be grateful if you would consent to give me away at the wedding.'

Some of the hardness went out of his arm as his muscles relaxed.

‘When will that be, Sissy?'

‘Not for seven months. Clinton has that much longer of his sentence.'

Zouga shook his head. ‘I will not be here. I have booked passage on the P. & O. steamer that sails for home at the beginning of next month.' They were both silent, and then Zouga went on, ‘But I wish you joy and happiness – and I apologize for the remark I made about your future husband.'

‘I understand.' She squeezed his arm. ‘He is a different kind of man from you.'

Zouga almost exclaimed, ‘Thank God for that,' but caught the blasphemy before it reached his lips, and again they were silent.

Zouga was considering the problem that had concerned him so intimately since his return to Cape Town – how to find out from Robyn what she had written in her manuscript, and if possible to influence her into amending those portions of it which might offend the family reputation.

Now that he had learned that she would not be returning to England, the natural opportunity had presented itself.

‘Sissy, if your manuscript is prepared, I will be happy to take it with me and to make certain that it is delivered safely to Oliver Wicks.'

The voyage to England would give Zouga ample opportunity to study Robyn's work, and if the delivery was delayed for a month or so after his arrival, then Zouga's own published account of the expedition would skim the cream off the pool of interest and critical literary attention.

‘Oh, did I not mention it to you?' Robyn lifted her chin, and her smile was spiced with a little spiteful relish. ‘I sent my manuscript on the mail steamer a month before your arrival here. It will be in London already, and I should not be surprised if Mr Wicks has not published it already. I expect he will have sent the reviews, and we will have them on the next mailship.'

Zouga jerked his arm out of her grip, and his eyes were steely as he glared down at her.

‘I really should have mentioned it,' she added sweetly. His reaction confirmed her suspicions. and she knew that what last small chance they had was finished. From now on they would be enemies, and somehow she knew that the centre of their enmity would always be the land and peoples of that faraway country between two great rivers which Zouga had named Zambezia.