voyage. We will have less than a full cargo, which will make it easier to exercise them on deck and keep the holds clean. ' He stood up and looked down at her.
With a rush like a roused fawn she threw off the blanket that covered her and knelt on the edge of the bunk, seizing him about the waist with both arms.
IMungo, she whispered urgently, 'you cannot torture us so. ' She pressed the side of her face to his chest, feeting the harsh springing curls of his body hair even through the linen of his shirt. 'I cannot offend further against my God and my conscience, unless you free these poor damned souls, then I can never marry you.'
His expression changed swiftly, becoming tender and concerned. He lifted his hand to stroke the dense russet locks of her hair, still damp and tangled from the loving of the night. My poor darling, his lips formed the words, soundlessly, but her face was still pressed to his chest and she could not see his lips. He drew a deep breath, and though his eyes were still marked with regret and his expression sober, his tone was light and casual. Then it is just as well that I have no intention of freeing a single one of them, for what would my wife say otherwise? ' The words took many seconds to make sense to Robyn, and then her whole body spasmed, her grip around his waist tightened and then slowly relaxed. She released him. Slowly she sat back on her heels, naked in the midst of his disordered bunk, and she stared at him with an expression of desolation and disbelief. You are married? ' Robyn's voice echoed strangely in her own ears, as though from the end of a long bare corridor, and Mungo nodded. These ten years past, he answered quietly.
'A French lady of aristocratic birth, a cousin of Louis Napoleon. A lady of great beauty who with the three fine sons she has borne me awaits my return to Bannerfield. ' He paused and then went on with infinite regret. 'I am sorry, my dear, I never dreamed that you did not know. ' And he reached out to touch her cheek, but she cringed away as though he held a poisonous serpent in his hand.
Will you go away, please, she whispered.
Robyn-' he began, but she shook her head violently. No, she said.
'Please don't say any more. just go. Go away! Please go away.'
Robyn locked the door of her cabin and sat down at the sea chest which she used for a desk. There were no tears.
Her eyes felt dry and burning as though blasted by a wind off the desert. She had very little paper left and had to tear the end sheets from her journal. They were speckled with mildew and distorted from the heat and dryness of the highlands and the humidity of the monsoonridden littoral.
She smoothed out the first sheet carefully on the lid of her writing case, dipped her pen in the remaining half inch of India ink and headed the sheet with a hand that was calm and unshaken.
16th November, 1860.
Aboard the Slaver Huron.
And then in the same clear unhurried script began to write: My Dear Captain Codrington, My trust in an all- merciful Providence and my belief in the true and one God, and in his gentle son and our Saviour Jesus convinces me that this will come into your hands while there is still time for you to act.
Through a series of incredible adventures and misfortunes I now find myself devoid of friends or protectors, in the power of the notorious American Slave Master and trader Mungo St. John. Against both my will and my conscience I am being forced to act as the physician for this infamous vessel which is at this moment preparing for the voyage around the Cape of Good Hope, across the Atlantic Ocean for a port in the Southern States of America.
As I write, I can hear the doleful sounds from the deck above me, and from the hold below where the poor creatures, eight hundred forsaken souls in all, wearing only their chains are being brought aboard and incarcerated for the voyage which many of them will not survive.
We are lying at anchor in a hidden creek, concealed from the open sea by a sweep of the channel and the mangrove swamps, a perfect hide-away for the nefarious business in hand.
However, I have been able to study the ship's chart and from the navigator's markings learn the name of the estuary and its exact position. The river is the Rio Save, and it lies 20* s8' south latitude and 35' 03' east longitude.
I will do all in my power to delay the sailing of this vessel, though at this moment I cannot think what that will be. If this letter reaches you in time, there will be no difficulty for an officer of your courage and experience to blockade the river mouth and seize this slave ship when she attempts to leave the river.
If we have sailed before your arrival, then I implore you to follow in the same course as the Captain of the Huron must set to round Good Hope, and I will pray for adverse winds and weather that will enable you to come up with us.
Robyn went on pouring out the tale of her capture, of the plague that had swept through the barracoons of her fear and hatred of the slavers, the detailed accounts of their barbaric practices and cruelties, and suddenly she realized that she had filled many pages with her account, and she began her last paragraph.
You were gracious enough to express your belief that our destinies were linked in some mysterious way. I know that you share with me the same hatred of this abominable trade, and for these reasons I have made bold enough to appeal to you, confident that you will hearken to my anguished cry.
Robyn paused again, and then searched swiftly in her pen case and found the pair of the earring which she had given to Clinton Codrington so many months ago.
I enclose with this letter a token of my friendship and trust which I hope you will recognize, and I will search every day to see the topsails of your fine ship hurrying to give succour to myself and to the other unfortunates who are my ship-mates on this cursed and iniquitous voyage.
She signed it with her bold, rounded signature and stitched the folded pages and the single item of cheap jewellery into a square of duck canvas.
There was only one address that she had for it. Clinton had told her that he was under orders to call at Zanzibar Island, and she knew that Her Majesty's Consul on the island was a man of substance and integrity, a staunch adversary of the slave trade, one of the few men that her father, Fuller Ballantyne, had ever written about with respect and affection.
When she had finished, she tucked the small canvas package up under her skirts, and went up on deck.
