by Wilbur Smith
‘Sir.’
‘You are now under the strictest injunction not to approach closer than a cable’s length to the trade clipper Huron, and if you should encounter her again at sea, you will pay her passing honours and give her a wide berth. Do I make myself sufficiently clear?’
‘Sir.’ Only Codrington’s lips moved, and the Admiral took two long controlled breaths before going on.
‘When will you sail for the Mozambique channel?’ he asked, his voice more reasonable.
‘I have your orders to take the flood on Saturday, sir.’
‘Can you advance that sailing?’
‘Yes, sir, but it would mean leaving without fully charged magazines – we expect the powder barge alongside at dawn on Saturday.’
Kemp shook his head, and sighed. ‘I would feel better with you at sea,’ he muttered. ‘But, very well then, I will look to see you flying the Blue Peter at first light on Saturday morning.’
Robyn Ballantyne was waiting for him in the borrowed Cartwright carriage, under the portico of Admiralty House.
Codrington came down the steps, with his cocked hat under his arm and climbed stiffly into the buttoned leather seat beside her.
The Hottentot coachman flicked his whip at the shiny rumps, and they swayed in unison as the carriage jerked away down the tree-lined driveway.
Neither of them spoke until they had left the Admiralty grounds, and were whirling down the hill towards the Liesbeeck bridge with the coachman holding them on a light brake.
‘What do we do now?’ Robyn asked.
‘Nothing,’ said Clinton Codrington.
Twenty minutes later as they came around the shoulder of the mountain and looked down at the bay where Huron rode at anchor, Robyn spoke again.
‘Can’t you think of anything to stop this monster?’
‘Can you?’ he asked sharply, and neither of them spoke again until they reached the landing place.
The fishing-boats were in and beached already, their catch laid out on the sand, a glittering silver and ruby-red pile around which the housewives and their servants bartered and bargained with the brown barelegged fishermen, while the fish horns blared to summon more customers down from the town. The two in the parked carriage watched the commotion with unnatural attention, avoiding each other’s eyes.
‘You will be at the Admiralty ball tomorrow night? I heard Slogger Kemp say so.’
‘No,’ Robyn shook her head fiercely. ‘I cannot abide the frivolous chatter and silly behaviour of these occasions, and I particularly do not want to be again the guest of that man.’
Codrington turned to her for the first time since they had reached the landing. She was a fine-looking woman, he thought, with that clear lustre to her skin and the thoughtful dark-green eyes under their dark curved brows. He liked a tall strong woman, and he had learned enough of her spirit to accord her respect, a respect that could easily become fascination, he realized.
‘Could I prevail upon you to change your mind?’ he asked quietly, and she glanced at him, startled. ‘I would undertake to provide sober conversation and a dignified dancing partner.’
‘I do not dance, Captain.’
‘That is a great relief,’ he admitted. ‘For neither do I, when I have a choice.’ He smiled. She could not remember seeing him smile before. It changed him completely. The coldness went from the pale blue eyes and they darkened with merriment while two deep laughter lines formed at the corner of his mouth and arched up to touch the thin straight nose.
‘Slogger Kemp keeps a wonderful chef.’ He was wheedling now. ‘Fine food and serious conversation.’
His teeth were porcelain white and very regular against the deep-water tan. She felt the corners of her own mouth tugging upwards, and he saw the change in her and pressed his advantage.
‘I may have further news, some further plan for Huron to discuss with you.’
‘That makes it irresistible.’ She laughed outright at last, with surprisingly unforced gaiety that made some of the nearest bystanders glance around at her and smile in sympathy.
‘I will call for you. Where? When?’ He had not realized how attractive she truly was until she laughed.
‘No.’ She laid her hand on his forearm. ‘My brother will accompany me, but if you are there I look forward to our momentous conversation.’ She felt the devil in her again, and squeezed his arm, finding pleasure in his immediate response, the way the muscles in his forearm corded under her fingertips.
‘Wait,’ she told the coachman and watched the slim tall figure go down the beach to where Black Joke’s whaler waited for him.
He was wearing his dress uniform for the visit to his commanding Admiral. The gold lace epaulettes emphasized the breadth of his shoulders and his sword belt upped his waist. Abruptly, she wondered whether his body hair was as blond as the queue that was twisted up at the nape of his neck – and then instantly was shocked and agitated at herself. She would never have harboured a thought like that before. Before what? she asked herself, and the answer was clear; before that night on Huron. Mungo St John had much to answer for. Comfortably placing blame where it belonged, she pulled her eyes away from the lithe figure of Clinton Codrington and leaned forward to tell the coachman,
‘Home, please.’
She would not attend the Admiral’s ball, she decided, and then she began to recite silently to herself the Christian articles of faith.
However, Zouga prevailed over her good intentions. The two of them shared the open carriage with the eldest, unmarried Cartwright daughter, for it was one of the balmy nights of a Cape autumn.
Cartwight and his wife followed in the closed carriage, in serious discussion for the entire journey.
‘I am sure he is quite taken with Aletta,’ Mrs Cartwright had stated.
‘My dear, the fellow has no fortune whatsoever.’
‘Expectations,’ Mrs Cartwright told him benignly. ‘I understand he will make thousands from this expedition. He is one of those young men who will get on in life, I am certain of that.’
‘I prefer money in the bank, my dear.’
‘He has created quite a stir, I assure you – such a serious and sensible young man, and so very attractive. It would be quite a feather in Aletta’s cap, and you could make a place for him in the firm.’
Every lamp in Admiralty House was lit and a blaze of golden light welcomed the guests. There were coloured lanterns hung in the trees to illuminate the garden.
The marine band in scarlet and gold had converted the open gazebo into a bandstand, and already there were dancers on the open-air dance floor whirling furiously through the opening waltz, waving and calling greetings to the late-comers in the carriages as they trotted up the curved driveway and took their turn to alight under the portico of the main entrance.
Bewigged footmen in household uniform with silken hose and buckled shoes placed the steps and handed down the ladies on to the welcoming red carpet. At the head of the stairs the major domo announced each group in a low throaty bellow.
‘Major and Doctor Ballantyne. Miss Cartwright.’
Robyn had not grown altogether accustomed to the scandalized ripple of feminine interest that followed her entrance to any public gathering here in the Colony. The quick exchange of glances, the nods and murmurs behind covering fans. It still left her with a heightened pulse and a feeling of bitter disdain for all of them.
‘Did you bring your sponge, Sissy? They expect you to hit somebody with it,’ Zouga murmured, and she shook his arm to silence him, but he went on: ‘or to drop your skirts and run up the staircase in your breeches.’
‘You are wicked.’ She felt the tension go out of her, and she smiled her thanks at him and they were into the throng of uniforms, gold lace on navy blue or dress scarlet, with, here and there, the dead black of evening dress relieved by the high stock and white lace ruffles of silk shirts.
The women’s skirts were taffeta and flounced silk over pyramids of petticoats. However, they were
at least two years behind the London fashions, for only the most daring ladies had bared their shoulders, and powdered them dead white.
Robyn’s own dress made no concession to fashion, for it was years old, the only one that she possessed even vaguely suitable for the occasion. The cloth was wool, the skirt narrow, the bodice adorned with neither seed pearls nor sequins. There were neither ostrich feathers nor diamantines to sparkle in her hair. She should have been dowdy, but instead she was strikingly different.
When she had told Codrington that she did not dance it was because she had never had the occasion, and she regretted it now as she watched Zouga lead Aletta Cartwright on to the floor and swirl away in the graceful dip and turn of the waltz.
She knew that nobody would invite her to dance, and that if they did she would be awkward and untutored. She turned away quickly – seeking a familiar or friendly face. She did not want to be left standing alone in the crowd. She began bitterly to regret that she had not stood by her resolution to stay away.
Her relief came with such a rush that she could have thrown her arms around his neck and embraced him. Instead she said evenly, ‘Ah, Captain Codrington. Good evening.’
He really was one of the better-looking men in the room, she thought. She could sense the resentment of some of the younger women, so quite deliberately she took his arm as he offered it, but was surprised that he led her immediately through into the garden.
‘He’s here!’ he said quietly, as soon as they were out of earshot of the others.
She did not have to ask who, and she felt the little jolt of shock that kept her silent for a moment.
‘You’ve seen him?’
‘He arrived five minutes before you did – in the Governor’s carriage.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘He went into Slogger’s study – with the Governor.’ Clinton’s face was set and hard. ‘The fellow flaunts himself.’
A servant approached them with a silver tray of champagne flutes. Robyn shook her head distractedly but Clinton took a glass and drank it in two gulps.
‘The devil of it is that nobody can touch him,’ he fumed.
When the evening turned chill, the Marine band moved on to the orchestral balcony above the ballroom floor and punched out the dance tunes with a bouncing martial air that set the dancers spinning and prancing.
One dancer stood out above the others, not merely because of his physical height. When the others hopped and strained with gasping breath and flushed faces, Mungo St John seemed to turn and dip and glide with measured, unhurried grace although he completed a circuit of the ballroom floor more swiftly than any other dancer. Always there was one of the prettiest women in the room swinging in the circle of his arms, laughing up at him, cheeks flushed with excitement, and a dozen others watching him with covert envy over the shoulders of their own partners.
Clinton and Robyn watched him also, from the raised and colonnaded balcony that surrounded the dance floor. They stood in a small circle of Clinton’s brother officers and their ladies, making no serious effort to contribute to the light chatter around them.
Robyn found herself hoping that St John would look up at her, would catch her eye so that she could flash her hatred at him; but he never glanced once in her direction.
She even thought of suggesting to Clinton Codrington that they should dance, despite her earlier protestations, but quickly decided against it. She knew that as a dancer, the naval captain would not be able to stand comparison with the elegant American.
When she went in to dinner on Clinton’s arm, she saw St John ahead of them. He had a blonde woman on his arm, notoriously the Colony’s prettiest, richest and most voracious widow. Her coiffure was an elaborate creation of diamanté and ostrich feathers, her shoulders were bared and she showed more of her bosom than she concealed beneath a brocaded bodice stiff with seed pearls.
Mungo St John wore simple black and white evening dress with more panache than any of the most elaborate military uniforms around him.
Robyn watched the woman tap his shoulder with her fan to attract his attention and then reach up on tiptoe to whisper in his ear, while St John stooped gravely to listen.
‘The woman’s a brazen whore,’ Robyn hissed, and beside her Clinton covered his shock at the word, and then nodded.
‘And he’s the very devil himself.’
It was as though St John heard them, for he glanced up and saw them watching him across the room. He bowed and smiled at Robyn.
It was such an intimate, completely knowing smile that she felt as though he had stripped her naked again, the way he had in the stern cabin of Huron, and immediately she felt the same feeling of helplessness overwhelm her.
With a huge effort she managed to turn away, but Clinton had been watching her. She could not meet his eyes, she felt he would be able to read it all if she did.
Two hours after midnight the Marine band was playing the less strenuous airs for the lovers and romantics who still circled the ballroom floor, but most of the company had gone up to the cardrooms on the first floor, if not to play themselves, then to crowd around the tables and watch with hushed attention and the occasional bursts of applause at a particularly audacious or successful coup.
In the largest room the game was whist and the players were Slogger Kemp and the older guests. In the second room the younger set were at the light-hearted chemin-de-fer and Zouga smiled at Robyn as she passed. He and Aletta Cartwright were playing a single hand between them, and the girl squealed with glee as she won a handful of silver shillings.
Robyn and Clinton passed on into the third and smallest salon. Here it was the game that had once been popular only in America. Recently, however, it had come into sudden vogue at court when the Queen had found it fascinating, and in consequence it was all the rage around the empire despite the odd name – poker.
In spite of Her Majesty’s interest in it, it was still not considered a game for ladies to play in mixed company. Only men sat at the green baize, although the ladies fluttered around them like bright butterflies.
Mungo St John sat facing the doorway so that Robyn saw him the instant she stepped into the room. He lazed in his chair, the waves of his dark hair unruffled and sleeked down as if carved from polished ebony, holding a tight fan of cards low against the snowy lace front of his shirt. There was a long black unlit cheroot between his teeth, and as Robyn watched the blonde widow leaned across his shoulder displaying the creamy cleavage between her breasts and held a Vesta to the cheroot.
St John sucked flame into the tip of the cheroot, blew a long feather of blue smoke and thanked her with a slant of his eyes before he made his next bid.
He was an obvious winner, a careless pile of gold spilled across the table in front of him, each coin embossed with the Grecian style head of Queen Victoria looking much younger than her forty-one years – and as they watched, he won again.
Excitement seemed to exude from the man like a tangible substance, infecting the women about the table so they exclaimed at every wager he made, and sighed with disappointment if he folded his cards and declined to play a hand. The same excitement spread to the five other men at the table. It was obvious in the glitter of the eyes, in the white knuckles of the fingers that held their cards, in the rash calls and the imprudent urge that made them remain in play long after chance and the odds were evidently against them. It was clear that all of them saw St John as the main adversary, and the tension went out of each hand if he was not in play.
Robyn felt herself held by the same fascination, and unconsciously tightened her grip on Clinton’s arm as the suspense mounted in each hand and the gold coins tinkled in the centre of the table, and she heard herself gasp with chagrin or relief at the show of cards that ended each hand.
Unconsciously, she had moved closer to the table drawing Clinton with her, so that when one of the players exclaimed with disgust, ‘Fifty guineas is enough for one night. Will you excuse me, gentlemen?’ gathered his few r
emaining coins from the table and pushed back his chair, they had to stand back to allow him to leave.
With surprise Robyn felt Clinton disengage her fingers from his arm, and then he slipped quietly into the vacant chair.
‘May I join you, gentlemen?’
There were preoccupied grunts of acknowledgement but only St John looked up and asked civilly,
‘Are you aware of the stakes, Captain?’
Clinton did not reply but took a roll of five-pound notes from an inside pocket and placed them beside him. The amount surprised Robyn, it could not have been less than one hundred pounds. Then she remembered that Clinton Codrington had been for many years one of the most successful blockade commanders on the slave coasts. Her brother had repeated to her the rumour that during that period he had won prize money in excess of ten thousand pounds, yet somehow she had never thought of him as a rich man.
Then with sudden intuition Robyn realized that by that gesture Clinton had laid down a silent challenge, and with a little smile Mungo St John had accepted it.
Robyn felt a flare of alarm. She was certain that Clinton Codrington had chosen an opponent too experienced and skilled. She remembered that Zouga who relied on gambling to eke out his regimental pay, had been no match for the man, even with moderate stakes, and in his frustration Clinton had been drinking steadily during the evening. She was sure his judgement would be faulty even if he had any knowledge of the game.
Almost immediately St John subtly altered the style of his play, doubling the stakes before the draw, crowding the game, dominating it, playing from the strength and confidence of his already considerable winnings, and Clinton seemed immediately uncertain of himself, hesitant in accepting the doubled stakes, discarding rather than going at risk for more than a few guineas, lacking the nerve to meet St John head on.
Robyn moved slightly to a position from which she could watch both men. Clinton was pale under the deepwater tan, the rims of his nostril bloodless and his lips compressed into a thin line, and she remembered that he had drunk a dozen glasses of champagne during the evening.
