Falcon Flies

Praise for the novels of

Read on, adventure fans.

The New York Times

A rich, compelling look back in time [to] when history and myth intermingled.

San Francisco Chronicle

Only a handful of 20th century writers tantalize our senses as well as Smith. A rare author who wields a razor-sharp sword of craftsmanship.

Tulsa World

He paces his tale as swiftly as he can with swordplay aplenty and killing strokes that come like lightning out of a sunny blue sky.

Kirkus Reviews

Best Historical Novelist—I say Wilbur Smith, with his swashbuckling novels of Africa. The bodices rip and the blood flows. You can get lost in Wilbur Smith and misplace all of August.

Stephen King

Action is the name of Wilbur Smith’s game and he is the master.

The Washington Post

Smith manages to serve up adventure, history and melodrama in one thrilling package that will be eagerly devoured by series fans.

Publishers Weekly

This well-crafted novel is full of adventure, tension, and intrigue.

Library Journal

Life-threatening dangers loom around every turn, leaving the reader breathless . . . An incredibly exciting and satisfying read.

Chattanooga Free Press

When it comes to writing the adventure novel, Wilbur Smith is the master; a 21st Century H. Rider Haggard.

Vanity Fair

Also by Wilbur Smith

On Leopard Rock

The Courtney Series

When the Lion Feeds

The Sound of Thunder

A Sparrow Falls

The Burning Shore

Power of the Sword

Rage

A Time to Die

Golden Fox

Birds of Prey

Monsoon

Blue Horizon

The Triumph of the Sun

Assegai

Golden Lion

War Cry

The Tiger’s Prey

The Ballantyne Series

A Falcon Flies

Men of Men

The Angels Weep

The Leopard Hunts in Darkness

The Triumph of the Sun

The Egyptian Series

River God

The Seventh Scroll

Warlock

The Quest

Desert God

Pharaoh

Hector Cross

Those in Peril

Vicious Circle

Predator

Standalones

The Dark of the Sun

Shout at the Devil

Gold Mine

The Diamond Hunters

The Sunbird

Eagle in the Sky

The Eye of the Tiger

Cry Wolf

Hungry as the Sea

Wild Justice

Elephant Song

About the Author

Wilbur Smith is a global phenomenon: a distinguished author with an established readership built up over fifty-five years of writing with sales of over 130 million novels worldwide.

Born in Central Africa in 1933, Wilbur became a fulltime writer in 1964 following the success of When the Lion Feeds. He has since published over forty global bestsellers, including the Courtney Series, the Ballantyne Series, the Egyptian Series, the Hector Cross Series and many successful standalone novels, all meticulously researched on his numerous expeditions worldwide. His books have now been translated into twenty-six languages.

The establishment of the Wilbur & Niso Smith Foundation in 2015 cemented Wilbur’s passion for empowering writers, promoting literacy and advancing adventure writing as a genre. The foundation’s flagship programme is the Wilbur Smith Adventure Writing Prize.

For all the latest information on Wilbur visit www.wilbursmithbooks.com or facebook.com/WilburSmith.

This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Zaffre Publishing, an imprint of Bonnier Zaffre Ltd, a Bonnier Publishing company.

80-81 Wimpole St, London W1G 9RE

Copyright © Orion Mintaka (UK) Ltd. 2018

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

Cover design by Lewis Csizmazia.

Cover image by Martin Harvey / Alamy Stock Photo;

All other images © Shutterstock.com.

Originally published in Great Britain 1980 by William Heinemann Ltd

First published in the United States of America 2006 by St. Martin’s Paperback

First Zaffre Publishing Edition 2018

This ebook was produced by Scribe Inc., Philadelphia, PA.

Digital edition ISBN: 978-1-4998-6055-9

Also available as a trade paperback.

For information, contact 251 Park Avenue South, Floor 12, New York, New York 10010

www.bonnierzaffre.com / www.bonnierpublishing.com

Contents

About the Author

A Falcon Flies

This book is for my wife

MOKHINISO

who is the best thing

that has ever happened to me

1860

Africa crouched low on the horizon, like a lion in ambush, tawny and gold in the early sunlight, seared by the cold of the Benguela Current.

Robyn Ballantyne stood by the ship’s rail and stared toward it. She had been standing like that since an hour before dawn, long before the land could be seen. She had known it was there, sensed its vast enigmatic presence in the darkness, detected its breath, warm and spicy dry, over the clammy cold exhalations of the current on which the great ship rode.

It was her cry, not that of the masthead, which brought Captain Mungo St. John charging up the companionway from his stern quarters, and the rest of the ship’s company crowding to the ship’s side to stare and jabber. For seconds only, Mungo St. John gripped the teak rail, staring at the land, before whirling to call his orders in the low but piercing tone which seemed to carry to every corner of the ship.

Stand by to go about!

Tippoo the mate scattered the crew to their duties with knotted rope-end and clubbed fists. For two weeks, furious winds and low, sullen skies had denied them a glimpse of sun or moon, or of any other heavenly body on which to establish a position. On dead reckoning the tall clipper should have been one hundred nautical miles further west, well clear of this treacherous coast with its uncharted hazards and wild deserted shores.

The Captain was freshly awakened, the thick dark mane of his hair tangled, rippling now in the wind, his cheeks lightly flushed with sleep, and also with anger and alarm beneath the smooth darkly tanned skin. Yet his eyes were clear, the whites contrasting starkly against the golden-flecked yellow of the iris. Once again, even in this moment of distraction and confusion, Robyn wondered at the sheer physical presence of the man—a dangerous, disturbing quality that at the same time both repelled and attracted her intensely.

His white linen shirt had been stuffed hastily into his breeches, and the front was unfastened. The skin of his chest was dark and smooth also, as if it had been oiled, and the hair upon it was crisp and black, tight whorls of it that made her blush, reminding her too clearly of that morning early in the voyage—the first morning that they had run into the warm blue waters of the Atlantic Ocean below latitude 35° north, the morning which for her had been the subject of much torment and troubled prayer since.

That morning, she had heard the splash and drum of water on the deck above her, and the clank of the ship’s pump. She had left the makeshift desk in her tiny cabin on which she was working at her journal, slipped a shawl over her shoulders and gone up onto the maindeck, stepping unsuspectingly into the bright white sunlight and then stopping aghast.

There were two seamen working the pump lustily, and the clear sea water hissed from its throat in a solid jet. Naked, Mungo St. John stood beneath it, lifting his face and his arms toward it, the water sleeking his black hair down over his face and neck, flattening his body hair over his chest and the muscled plane of his belly. She had stood and stared, completely frozen, unable to tear her eyes away. The two seamen had turned their heads and grinned lewdly at her while they kept the handles pumping the hissing water.

Of course she had seen a man’s naked body before, laid out on the dissection table, soft white flesh collapsing over bone, and with belly pouch slit open and the internal organs spilling out of it like butchers’ offal, or between the grubby blankets of the fever hospital, sweating and stinking and racked with the convulsions of onrushing death—but never like this, not healthy and vital and overwhelming like this.

This was a marvelous symmetry and balance of trunk to long powerful legs, of broad shoulders to narrow waist. There was a luster to the skin, even where the sun had not gilded it. This was not an untidy tangle of masculine organs, half-hidden by a bush of coarse hair, shameful and vaguely revolting. This was vibrant manhood, and she had been struck with sudden insight as to the original sin of Eve, the serpent and the apples, here offered again, and she had gasped aloud. He had heard her and stepped from under the thundering jet of water, and flicked the hair from his eyes. He saw her standing near, unable to move or tear her eyes away, and he smiled that lazy, taunting smile, making no move to cover himself, the water still streaming down his body, and sparkling like diamond chips on his skin.

Good morning, Doctor Ballantyne, he had murmured. Perhaps I am to be the subject of one of your scientific studies?

Only then had she been able to break the spell, to whirl and rush back to her smelly little cabin. She expected to be greatly disturbed, as she threw herself on the narrow planks of her bunk, waiting to be overwhelmed by a sense of sin and shame, but it did not come. Instead, she was confused by a contraction of her chest and lungs that left her breathless, and a remarkable warmth of her cheeks and the skin of her throat, a prickling of the fine dark hairs at the nape of her neck, and the same warmth of other parts of her body which had so alarmed her that she flung herself hurriedly off the bunk and onto her knees to plead for a proper sense of her own unworthiness and a true understanding of her essential baseness and irretrievable wickedness. It was an exercise she had undertaken a thousand times in her twenty-three years, but seldom with so little success.

For the thirty-eight days of the voyage since then, she had tried to avoid those flecked yellow eyes and that lazy taunting smile, and had taken to eating most of her meals in her cabin, even in the daunting heat of the equator, when the taint of the bucket behind the canvas screen in the corner of the cabin had done little to pique her appetite. Only when she knew that heavy weather would keep him on deck did she join her brother and the others in the ship’s small saloon.

Watching him now as he conned his ship off the hostile coast, she felt that disturbing prickle once again, and she turned away quickly to the land that was now swinging across the bows. The tackle roared through the blocks and the yards creaked and crackled, the canvas flogged and then filled again with a crash like cannon.

At the sight of the land she almost overcame those earlier memories and was instead filled with such a sense of awe, that she wondered if it were possible that the land of birth could call so clearly and so undeniably to the blood of its children.

It did not seem possible that nineteen years had passed since as a four-year-old waif, clinging to her mother’s long skirts, she had last seen that great flat-topped mountain that guarded the southernmost tip of the continent sink slowly beneath the horizon. It was one of the only clear memories of this land that she retained. She could still almost feel the coarse cheap stuff that a missionary’s wife must wear and hear the sobs that her mother tried to stifle and feel them shake her mother’s legs beneath the skirts, as she clung closer. Vividly she recalled the fear and confusion of the little girl at her mother’s distress, understanding with childlike intuition that their lives were in upheaval, but knowing only that the tall figure that had been up to that time the center of her small existence was now missing.

Don’t cry, baby, her mother had whispered. We will see Papa again soon. Don’t cry, my little one. But those words had made her doubt that she would ever see her father again, and she had pushed her face into the coarse skirt, too proud even at that age to let the others hear her wail.

As always it had been her brother Morris who had comforted her, three years her senior, a man of seven years, born like her in Africa, on the banks of a far wild river with a strange exotic name, Zouga, which had given him his middle name. Morris Zouga Ballantyne—she liked the Zouga best and always used it, it reminded her of Africa.

She turned her head back toward the quarterdeck, and there he was now, tall but not as tall as Mungo St. John, to whom he was speaking excitedly, pointing at the lion-colored land, his face animated. The features he had inherited from their father were heavy but strong, the nose bony and beaked and the line of the mouth determined, harsh perhaps.

He lifted the glass to his eye again and studied the low coastline, scanning it with the care that he took with any project from the smallest to the greatest, before lowering it and turning back to Mungo St. John. They spoke together quietly. An unlikely relationship had developed between the two men, a mutual, though guarded respect each for the other’s strengths and accomplishments. But if the truth be told, it was Zouga who pursued the relationship most assiduously. Always one to profit by any opportunity, he had milked Mungo St. John of his knowledge and experience. He had done it with an exercise of charm, but since leaving Bristol harbor he had drawn from the Captain most of what he had learned in many years of trading and voyaging along the coasts of this vast savage continent, and Zouga had written all of it down in one of his calf-bound ledgers, storing knowledge against the day.

In addition to this, the Captain had genially undertaken to instruct Zouga in the mystery and art of astronomical navigation. Each day local apparent noon would find the two of them huddled on the sunny side of the quarterdeck with brass sextants poised, waiting for a glimpse of the fiery orb through the layers of cloud, or, when the sky was clear, eagerly sighting it, swaying to the ship’s motion, to hold the sun in the field of the lens as they brought it down to the horizon.

At other times they cut the monotony of a long tack with a contest of arms, taking turns at an empty corked brandy bottle thrown over the stern by a crewman, using a magnificent pair of percussion dueling pistols that Mungo St. John brought up from his cabin still in their velvet-lined case, and loaded with care on the chart table.

They shouted with laughter, and congratulated each other as the bottles burst in mid-air in an explosion of shards bright as diamond chips in the sunlight.

At other times Zouga brought up the new Sharps breech-loading rifle, a gift from one of the sponsors of the expedition, the Ballantyne Africa Expedition, as the Standard, that great daily newspaper, had named it.

The Sharps was a magnificent weapon, accurate up to the incredible range of 800 yards, with the power to knock down a bull bison at a thousand. The men who were wiping out the great herds of buffalo from the American prairie at this very time had earned the title Sharpshooters with this weapon.

Mungo St. John towed a barrel at the end of an 800-yard length of cable to act as a target, and they shot for a wager of a shilling a bout. Zouga was an accomplished marksman, the best in his regiment, but he had already lost over five guineas to Mungo St. John.

Not only were the Americans manufacturing the finest firearms in the world (already John Browning had patented a breech-loading repeating rifle that Winchester was evolving into the most formidable weapon known to man), but the Americans were also far and away the finest marksmen. This pointed up the difference between the tradition of the frontiersman with his long rifle, and that of massed British infantry firing smooth-bore muskets in strictly commanded volleys. Mungo St. John, an American, handled both the long-barreled dueling pistol and the Sharps rifle as though they were an extension of his own body.

Now Robyn turned away from the two men, looked back at the land and felt a small dismay to see it already sinking lower into the cold green sea.

She yearned toward it with a quiet desperation, as she had ever since that day of departure so long ago. Her whole life in the intervening years seemed to have been a long preparation for this moment, so many obstacles overcome, obstacles made mountainous by the fact she was a woman; there had been so much struggle against temptation to give in to despair, a struggle that others had read as willfulness and vaunting pride, as stubbornness and immodesty.

Her education had been gleaned with such toil from the library of her uncle William, despite his active discouragement. Too much book learning will only plague you, my dear. It is not a woman’s place to trouble herself with certain things. You would do better to assist your mother in the kitchen and learn to sew and knit.

I can do both already, Uncle William.

Later, his reluctant and grumbling assistance changed only slowly into active support when he at last assessed the depth of her intelligence and determination.

Uncle William was her mother’s eldest brother, and he had taken in the family when the three of them had returned almost destitute from that far, savage land. They had only their father’s stipend from the London Missionary Society, a mere £50 per annum, and William Moffat was not a wealthy man, a physician at King’s Lynn with a small practice, hardly sufficient for the ready-made family with which he found himself saddled.

Of course, later—many years later—there had been money, a great deal of money, some said as much as three thousand pounds, the royalties from Robyn’s father’s books, but it had been Uncle William who had shielded and sustained them through the lean times.

William had somehow found the money to purchase Zouga’s commission in his regiment, even selling his two prized hunters and making that humiliating journey to Cheapside and the moneylenders to do so.

With what William could raise, it was perforce not a fashionable regiment, and not even the regular army, but the 13th Regiment of Madras Native Infantry, a line regiment of the East India Company.

It was Uncle William who had instructed Robyn until she was as advanced in formal education as he was himself, and who had then aided and abetted her in the great deception of which she could never bring herself to be ashamed. In 1854 no hospital medical school in all of England would enroll a woman amongst their student body.

With her uncle’s help, and active connivance, she had enrolled, using his sponsorship and the assertion that she was his nephew, at St. Matthew’s Hospital in the East End of London.

It helped that her name needed only changing from Robyn to Robin, that she was tall and small-breasted, that her voice had a depth and huskiness that she could exaggerate. She had kept her thick, dark hair cropped short, and learned to wear trousers with such panache that ever since, the tangle of petticoats and crinolines around her legs had irritated her.

The hospital governors had only discovered the fact that she was a woman after she had obtained her medical qualification from the Royal College of Surgeons at the age of twenty-one. They had immediately petitioned the Royal College to withdraw the honor, and the ensuing scandal had swept the length and breadth of England, made more fascinating by the fact that she was the daughter of Doctor Fuller Ballantyne, the famous African explorer, traveler, medical missionary and author. In the end, the governors of St. Matthew’s had been forced to retreat, for Robyn Ballantyne and her Uncle William had found a champion in the small, rotund person of Oliver Wicks, editor of the Standard.

With a true journalist’s eye, Wicks had recognized good copy, and in a scathing editorial had called upon the British tradition of fair play, ridiculed the dark hints of sexual orgies in the operating rooms and pointed up the considerable achievement of this bright and sensitive young girl against almost insurmountable odds. Yet even when her qualification had been confirmed, it was for her only a short step along the road back to Africa, on which she had determined so long ago.

The venerable directors of the London Missionary Society had been considerably alarmed by the offer of the services of a woman. Missionary wives were one thing, were indeed highly desirable to shield the missionaries themselves against physical blandishments and temptations amongst the unclothed heathen, but a lady missionary was another thing entirely.

There was a further complication which weighed heavily against Doctor Robyn Ballantyne’s application. Her father was Fuller Ballantyne, who had resigned from the Society six years previously before disappearing once again into the African hinterland; in their eyes he had completely discredited himself. It was clear to them that her father was more interested in exploration and personal aggrandizement than in leading the benighted heathen into the bosom of Jesus Christ. In fact, so far as they were aware, Fuller Ballantyne had made only one convert in all his thousands of miles of African travel, his personal gunbearer.

He seemed to have made himself a crusader against the African slave trade, rather than an emissary of Christ. He had swiftly changed his first missionary station in Africa into a sanctuary for runaway slaves. The station at Koloberg had been on the southern edge of the great Kalahari Desert, a little oasis in the wilderness where a clear, strong spring of water gushed from the ground, and it had been founded with an enormous expenditure of the Society’s funds.

Once Fuller had made it a slave refuge, the inevitable had happened. The Trek Boers from the little independent republics which ringed the mission station to the south were the original owners of the slaves to whom Fuller Ballantyne gave sanctuary. They called Commando, the medium through which the Trek Boers dispensed frontier justice. They came riding into Koloberg an hour before dawn, dark swift horsemen, a hundred of them, dressed in coarse homespun, bearded and burned by the sun to the color of Africa’s dark earth. The bright flashes of their muzzle-loaders lit the dawn, and then the burning thatch of the buildings of Fuller Ballantyne’s mission station made it bright day.

They roped the recaptured slaves together with the station servants and freedmen into long lines, and drove them away southward, leaving Fuller Ballantyne standing with his family huddled about him, a few pathetic possessions which they had managed to save from the flames scattered at their feet, and the smoke from the smoldering, roofless buildings drifting in eddies about them.

It had confirmed in Fuller Ballantyne his hatred of the institution of slavery, and it had given him the excuse for which he had unwittingly been searching, the excuse to rid himself of the encumbrances which had until then prevented him from answering the call of the vast, empty land to the north.

His wife and two small children were packed off back to England for their own good, and with them went a letter to the directors of the London Missionary Society. God had made his will clear to Fuller Ballantyne. He was bidden to journey to the north, to carry God’s word across Africa, a missionary at large, no longer tied to one small station, but with the whole of Africa as his parish.

The directors were greatly troubled by the loss of their station, but they were further dismayed by the prospect of having to mount what seemed to be a costly expedition of exploration into an area which all the world knew was merely a vast desert, unpeopled and unwatered except around the littoral, a burning sand desert which stretched to the Mediterranean Sea four thousand miles northward.

They wrote hurriedly to Fuller Ballantyne, uncertain where exactly the letter should be addressed, but feeling the need to deny all responsibility and to express their deep concern; they ended by stating strongly that no further funds other than his stipend of £50 per annum could be voted for Fuller Ballantyne’s highly irregular activities. They need not have expended their energy and emotions, for Fuller Ballantyne had departed. With a handful of porters, his Christian gunbearer, a Colt revolver, a percussion rifle, two boxes of medicines, his journals and navigational instruments, Fuller Ballantyne had disappeared.

He emerged eight years later, down the Zambezi River, appearing at the Portuguese settlement near the mouth of that river, to the great chagrin of the settlers there who, after two hundred years of occupation, had pushed no further than a hundred miles upstream.

Fuller Ballantyne returned to England and his book A Missionary in Darkest Africa created a tremendous sensation. Here was a man who had made the Transversa, the overland passage of Africa from west to east coast, who had seen, where there should be desert, great rivers and lakes, cool pleasant grassy uplands, great herds of game and strange peoples—but most of all he had seen the terrible depredations of the slave-raiders upon the continent, and his revelations rekindled the anti-slavery zeal of Wilberforce in the hearts of the British people.

The London Missionary Society was embarrassed by the instant fame of their prodigal, and they hurried to make amends. Fuller Ballantyne had chosen the sites for future missionary stations in the interior, and at the cost of many thousands of pounds they gathered together groups of devoted men and women and sent them out to the selected sites.

The British Government, prevailed upon by Fuller Ballantyne’s description of the Zambezi River as a wide roadway to the rich interior of Africa, nominated Fuller Ballantyne Her Majesty’s Consul, and financed an elaborate expedition to open this artery of trade and civilization to the interior.

Fuller had returned to England to write his book, but during this period of reunion with his family, they saw almost as little of the great man as when he was in the depths of Africa. When he was not locked in Uncle William’s study writing the epic of his travels, he was in London hounding the Foreign Office or the directors of the L.M.S. And when he had gained from these sources all that he needed for his return to Africa, then he was traveling about England lecturing in Oxford or preaching the sermon from the pulpit of Canterbury cathedral.

Then abruptly he was gone again, taking their mother with him. Robyn would always remember the feel of his spiky whiskers as he stooped to kiss his daughter farewell for the second time. In her mind her father and God were somehow the same person, all-powerful, all-righteous, and her duty to them was blind, accepting adoration.

Years later, when the missionary sites chosen by Fuller Ballantyne had proved to be death-traps, when the surviving missionaries had stumbled back to civilization, their fellows and spouses dead of fever and famine, killed by wild animals and by the wilder men whom they had gone out to save, then Fuller Ballantyne’s star had begun to fade.

The Foreign Office expedition to the Zambezi River, led by Ballantyne, had faltered and failed upon the terrible rapids and deep falls of the Kaborra-Bassa Gorge through which the Zambezi crashed and roared, dropping a thousand feet in twenty miles. Men wondered how Ballantyne, who had claimed to have followed the Zambezi down from its source to the sea, could have not known of such a formidable obstacle to his dreams. They began to question his other claims, while the British Foreign Office, parsimonious as ever, was considerably miffed by the waste of funds on the abortive expedition and withdrew the title of Consul.

The London Missionary Society wrote another of their lengthy letters to Fuller Ballantyne, requesting him in the future to confine his activities to the conversion of the heathen and the propagation of God’s word.

Fuller Ballantyne had replied by posting them his resignation, thereby saving the society £50 per annum. At the same time he had penned a letter of encouragement to his two children urging them to show fortitude and faith, and sent the manuscript, in which he vindicated his conduct of the expedition, to his publisher. Then he had taken the few guineas that remained from the huge royalties that his other books had earned and had disappeared once more into the interior of Africa. That was eight years previously and no one had heard from him since.

Now here was this man’s daughter, already nearly as notorious as the father, demanding admission to the Society as a working missionary.

Once again, Uncle William had come to Robyn’s aid, dear mild bumbling Uncle William with his thick pebble spectacles and wild gray bush of untamable hair. With her he had gone before the board of directors and reminded them that Robyn’s grandfather, Robert Moffat, was one of the most successful of all African missionaries, with tens of thousands of conversions to his credit. Indeed the old man was still working at Kuruman and had only recently published his dictionary of the Sechuana language. Robyn herself was dedicated and devout, with medical training and a good knowledge of African languages taught her by her now deceased mother, daughter of the same Robert Moffat, and by virtue of the reverence with which the said Robert Moffat was regarded by even the most warlike African king, Mzilikazi of the Ndebele, or as some people called them, the Matabele, the granddaughter would find immediate acceptance amongst the tribes.

The directors had listened stonily.

Then Uncle William had gone on to suggest that Oliver Wicks, the editor of the Standard who had championed the girl against the attempt by the governors of St. Matthew’s Hospital to deprive her of her medical qualification, would be interested in their reasons for refusing her application to the Society.

The directors sat up and listened with great attention, conferred quietly and accepted Robyn’s application. They had then seconded her to another missionary movement who in turn sent her to the industrial slums of northern England.

•••

It was her brother Zouga who had found the way back to Africa for both of them.

He had returned from India on leave, a man of considerable achievement, already a major in the Indian army, promotion that he had won in the field, with the reputation of being a soldier and military administrator of great promise for one so young.

Despite this, Zouga was every bit as dissatisfied with his lot as was Robyn. Like their father, they were both lone wolves, responding badly to authority and regimentation. In spite of the promising start to his military career, Zouga recognized the fact that he had already made powerful enemies in India, and he had begun to doubt that his future lay on that continent. Like Robyn, he was still a searcher, and they had greeted each other after the parting of years with a warmth that they had seldom displayed during their childhood.

Zouga took her to dinner at the Golden Boar. It was such a change from Robyn’s daily surroundings that she accepted a second glass of claret and became gay and sparkling.

By God, Sissy, you really are a pretty thing, you know, he had told her at last. He had taken to swearing now, and though it had shocked her at first, she had grown accustomed to it quickly enough. She had heard a lot worse in the slums where she worked. You are too good to spend your life amongst those ghastly crones.

It changed the mood between them instantly, and she was able at last to lean close to her brother and pour out all her frustrations. He listened sympathetically, reaching across the table to squeeze her hand so that she went on quietly but with utter determination.

Zouga, I have to get back to Africa. I’ll die if I don’t. I just know it. I will shrivel up and die.

Good Lord, Sissy, why Africa?

Because I was born there, because my destiny is there—and because Papa is there, somewhere.

I was born there also. Zouga smiled, and when he did so it softened the harsh line of his mouth. But I don’t know about my destiny. I wouldn’t mind going back for the hunting, of course, but as for Father—don’t you often think that Papa’s main concern was always Fuller Ballantyne? I cannot imagine that you still harbor any great filial love for him.

He is different from other men, Zouga, you cannot judge him by the usual yardstick.

There are many who might agree with that, Zouga murmured drily. At the L.M.S. and at the Foreign Office—but as a father?

I love him! she said defiantly. After God, I love him best.

He killed Mother, you know. Zouga’s mouth hardened into its usual grim line. He took her out to the Zambezi in fever season and he killed her as certainly as if he’d put a pistol to her head.

Robyn conceded after a short, regretful silence, He was never a father nor a husband—but as a visionary, a blazer of trails, as a torchbearer . . .

Zouga laughed and squeezed her hand.

Really, Sissy!

I have read his books, all his letters, every one he ever wrote to Mother or to us, and I know that my place is there. In Africa, with Papa.

Zouga lifted his hand from hers and carefully stroked his thick side whiskers. You always had a way of making me feel excited— Then, seemingly going off at a tangent, Did you hear that they have found diamonds on the Orange River? He lifted his glass and examined the lees in the bottom of it attentively. We are so very different, you and I, and yet in some ways so much alike. He poured fresh wine into his glass and went on casually. I am in debt, Sissy.

The word chilled her. Since her childhood she had been taught a dread of it.

How much? she asked at last quietly.

Two hundred pounds. He shrugged.

So much! she breathed, and then, You haven’t been gambling, Zouga?

That was one of the other dread words in Robyn’s vocabulary.

Not gambling? she repeated.

As a matter of fact, I have, Zouga laughed. And thank God for that. Without it I would be a thousand guineas under.

You mean you gamble—and actually win? Her horror faded a little, became tinged with fascination.

Not always, but most of the time.

She studied him carefully, perhaps for the first time. He was only twenty-six years old, but he had the presence and aplomb of a man ten years older. He was already a hard, professional soldier, tempered in the skirmishes on the border of Afghanistan where his regiment had spent four years. She knew they had been cruel encounters against fierce hill tribes, and that Zouga had distinguished himself. His rapid promotion was proof of that.

Then how are you in debt, Zouga? she asked.

Most of my brother officers, even my juniors, have private fortunes. I am a major now, I have to keep some style. We hunt, we shoot, mess bills, polo ponies— He shrugged again.

Will you ever be able to repay it?

I could marry a rich wife, he smiled, or find diamonds.

Zouga sipped his wine, slumped down in his chair, not looking at her, and went on quietly.

I was reading Cornwallis Harris’s book the other day—do you remember the big game we saw when we lived at Koloberg?

She shook her head.

No, you were only a baby. But I do. I remember the herds of springbok and wildebeest on the trek down to the Cape. One night there was a lion, I saw it clearly in the light of the campfire. Harris’s book described his hunting expeditions up as far as the Limpopo—nobody has been further than that, except Papa, of course. A damned sight better than potting pheasant or black buck. Did you know that Harris made nearly five thousand pounds from his book?

Zouga pushed his glass away, straightened up in his seat and selected a cigar from his silver case. While he prepared and lit it, he was frowning thoughtfully.

You want to go to Africa for spiritual reasons. I probably need to go to Africa, for much better reasons, for blood and for money. I make you a proposal. The Ballantyne Expedition! He lifted his glass to her.

She laughed then, uncertainly, thinking he was joking, but lifted her own glass which was still almost full. My word on it. But how? Zouga, how do we get there?

What was the name of that newspaper fellow? Zouga demanded.

Wicks, she said, Oliver Wicks. But why should he help us?

I’ll find a good reason why he should. And Robyn remembered how, even as a child, he had been an eloquent and persuasive pleader of causes.

You know I rather think you might.

They drank then, and when she lowered her glass, she had been as happy as she could ever remember being in all her life.

•••

It was another six weeks before she saw Zouga again, striding toward her through the bustle of London Bridge Station as she clambered down from the carriage. He stood tall above the crowd, with the high beaver top hat on his head and the three-quarter-length paletot cloak flaring from his shoulders.

Sissy! he called, laughing at her, as he lifted her from her feet. We are going—we really are going.

He had a cab waiting for them, and the driver whipped up the horses the moment they were aboard.

The London Missionary Society were no use at all, he told her, still with his arm around her shoulders as the cab clattered and lurched over the cobbles. I had them down on my list for five hundred iron men, and they nearly had apoplexy. I had the feeling they would rather Papa stayed lost in darkest Africa, and they would pay five hundred to keep him there.

You went to the directors? she demanded.

Played my losing tricks first, Zouga smiled. The next was Whitehall—actually managed to see the First Secretary. He was damned civil, took me to lunch at the Travellers’, and was truly very sorry that they were not able to give financial assistance. They remembered Papa’s Zambezi fiasco too clearly, but he did give me letters. A dozen letters, to every conceivable person—to the Governor at the Cape, to Kemp the Admiral at Cape Town, and all the others.

Letters won’t get us far.

Then I went to see your newspaper friend. Extraordinary little man. Smart as a whip. I told him we were going to Africa to find Papa—and he jumped up and clapped his hands like a child at a Punch and Judy show. Zouga hugged Robyn tighter. To tell the truth, I used your name shamelessly—and it did the trick. He will have all the story rights to our diaries and journals, and the publishing rights to both books.

Both books? Robyn pulled away from him and looked into his face.

Both. He grinned at her. Yours and mine.

I am to write a book?

You certainly are. A woman’s account of the expedition. I have already signed the contract on your behalf.

She laughed then, but breathlessly. You’re going too far, much too fast.

Little Wicks was in for five hundred, and the next on the list was the Society for the Extinction of the Slave Trade—they were easy. His Royal Highness is the Society’s patron, and he had read Papa’s books. We are to report on the state of the trade in the interior of the continent north of the Tropic of Capricorn, and they came up with another 500 guineas.

Oh Zouga, you are a magician.

Then there was the Worshipful Company of London Merchants Trading into Africa. For the last hundred years they have based all their activities on the west coast, I convinced them that they needed a survey of the east coast. I have been appointed the Worshipful Company’s Agent, with instructions to examine the market in palm oil, gum-copal, copper and ivory—and they have come up with the third and last 500 guineas—and a presentation Sharps rifle.

One thousand five hundred guineas, Robyn breathed, and Zouga nodded.

We are going back home in style.

When?

I have booked passage on an American trading clipper. We sail from Bristol in six weeks, for Good Hope and Quelimane in Mozambique. I have written asking leave from my regiment for two years—you will have to do the same with the L.M.S.

•••

It had all happened with dreamlike rapidity after that. The directors of the L.M.S., perhaps relieved that they were not to pay for her passage nor the expense of relocating Robyn in the African interior, in a flush of extravagance decided to continue her stipend during the period she was away, and made a guarded promise to review the position at the end of that time. If she proved herself capable—then there would be a permanent post in Africa thereafter. It was more than she had ever expected, and she had thrown herself wholeheartedly into assisting Zouga with the preparations for departure.

There was so much to do that six weeks was barely sufficient, and it seemed only days had passed before the mountain of the expedition’s equipment was being swayed down into the holds of the big graceful Baltimore clipper.

The Huron proved as swift as she looked, another wise choice by Zouga Ballantyne, and under Mungo St. John’s skillful navigation she made good her westings before attempting to cross the belt of the doldrums at their narrowest point. They were becalmed not a single day and sped across the line at 29° west and immediately Mungo St. John put her on the port tack to stand down across the south-east trades. Huron clawed her way southward with the flying fish sailing ahead of her, close on the wind until she broke from their grip at last with Ilha da Trinidade on the horizon. The north-wester came howling at them and Huron fled before it, under low, sullen, scudding skies day after day that denied them sight of sun or moon or stars, until she almost hurled herself ashore two hundred miles up the west coast of Africa from her destination at the Cape of Good Hope.

Mr. Mate! Mungo St. John called in his clear carrying voice as Huron settled down to reach across the wind, pulling swiftly away from the land.