as the cutlass blade reached the limit of its travel.
Even the savage force of that blow was not enough to knock Tippoo off his feet, though it drove him back a pace. He stood solidly. His eyes screwed up into slits of skin, staring down at the blade that transfixed his chest, his bleeding hands still clutching the guard of the cutlass. , Only when Clinton leaned back and pulled the blade from his flesh, did Tippoo begin to sag slowly forward, his knees buckling, and he fell, his body slack and unresisting.
Clinton freed his cutlass blade, and it was thinly smeared along its full length, so that it blurred redly as he went on to the forehand cut, going once more for the man who was still pinned against the mainmast.
Clinton did not complete the stroke. He arrested it in midair, for Mungo St. John had been borne to the deck beneath a wave of struggling British seamen.
Clinton stepped back and rested on his cutlass. The fight was over, all around him m the crew of Huron were throwing down their weapons. Quarter, for the love of God, quarter! ' They were dragging Mungo St. John to his feet, two seamen on each of his arms. He was unwounded, and Clinton's hatred was unabated. It took an enormous effort to prevent himself driving the point of the cutlass into Mungo's belly. Mungo was struggling to throw off the hands of the men who held him, straining to reach the massive body of the half-naked Moslem mate that lay at his feet. Let me free, Mungo cried. 'I must see to my mate.'
But they held him remorselessly, and Mungo looked up at Clinton. In the name of mercy, he was pleading, and Clinton had never expected that. He took a deep ragged breath, the madness began to fade. I give you my word, sir, Mungo was stricken, there was no mistaking his consuming grief, and Clinton hesitated. 'I am your prisoner, ' Mungo told him. 'But this man is a friend-Clinton let out his breath slowly, and then he nodded to the seamen who held Mungo St. John. He has given his word. 'And then to Mungo, 'You may have five minutes. ' And the seamen released him.
Mungo sank swiftly to his knees beside the inert figure. Old friend, ' he whispered, as he tore the bandanna from off his own head and pressed it to the obscene little slit between Tippoo's ribs, 'old friend.'
Clinton turned away, slipping the cutlass back into its scabbard and he ran across the deck to the weather rail.
Robyn Ballantyne saw him coming and she strained towards him, unable to lift her arms for the slave cuffs that still bound her, but as he embraced her she put her face against his chest and her whole body trembled and shook as she sobbed. Oh, I give thanks to God-'Find the keys, Clinton ordered brusquely, and as the cuffs fell from Robyn's wrists he snatched them up and handed them to one of his men. 'Use these on the slaver's Captain, he ordered.
With that gesture, the last of his madness was gone. Forgive me, Doctor Ballantyne. We will speak later, but now there remains much to be done. ' He bowed slightly and hurried away calling his orders. Carpenter's mate, go below immediately, I want the damage to this ship repaired at once. Bosun, disarm her crew, and have them sent below under lock and key with a guard on the companionway. Two men on her wheel, and a prize crew to work her. We'll sail her into Table Bay with the dawn, my boys, and there'll be prize money for your fancy. ' His men were still drunk on excitement and battle lust, and they cheered him hoarsely as they rushed to obey the string of orders.
Rubbing her chafed wrists, Robyn picked her way across the littered deck and through the throngs of bustling British seamen as they hustled their captives and the still-chained files of slaves below.
Almost timorously she approached the ill-assorted pair at the foot of the ship's mainmast. Tippoo lay on his back, the mound of his naked belly pressing upwards like a woman in labour, the soiled bandanna hiding the wound. His eyes were wide, staring up at the mast that towered above him, and his lower jaw sagged.
Mungo St. John held the huge bald cannon-ball head on his lap. He sat with his legs thrust out straight ahead of him, his back against the mast and as Robyn approached, he closed the lids over Tippoo's staring eyes, one at a time, with his thumb. His head was bowed, his hands gentle as those of a mother with her infant as he lifted the bandanna and used it to bind up the sagging jaw.
Robyn went down on one knee and reached out to Tippoo's chest, to feel for the heart beat, but Mungo St. John raised his head and looked at her.
Don't touch him, he said softly. I am a doctor-'He no longer needs a doctor, ' Mungo's voice was low and clear, 'especially if that doctor is you. 'I am sorry. 'Doctor Ballantyne, he told her, 'you and I have no reason to apologize to each other, nor for that matter to speak to each other, ever again.'
She stared at him, and his face was cold and set, the eyes that stared back at her were devoid of all emotion, and it was in that moment she knew she had lost him, irrevocably and forever. She had thought that was what she wanted, but now the total knowledge left her devastated, without the strength to break her gaze, without the power of speech, and he stared back at her remotely, hard and unforgiving.
'Mungo, she whispered, finding at last the strength and will to speak. 'I did not mean this to happen, as the ALmighty is my witness, I did not mean it.'
Rough hands dragged Mungo St. John to his feet, so that Tippoo's dead head slipped from his lap and the skull thumped against the wooden deck. Captain's orders, me old cock, and you are to 'ave a taste of your own chains.'
Mungo St. John did not resist as the slave cuffs were fastened on his wrists and ankles. He stood quietly, balancing to Huron's wild gale-driven lunges, looking about the fire-blackened ship with its decks covered with fallen and tangled rigging, stained with the blood of his crew, and though his expression did not change, there was a limitless grieving in his eyes. I am sorry, whispered Robyn, still kneeling beside him. 'I am truly sorry.'
Mungo St. John glanced down at her, his wrists fastened at the small of his back by the cold black links of chain. Yes, he nodded. 'So am I! And a seaman thrust the palm of a horny hand between his shoulder blades, shoving him away towards the Huron's forecastle, and the slave chains clanked about his ankles, as he staggered.
Within a dozen paces he had recovered his balance, and shrugged off the hands of his gaolers. He walked away with his back straight and his shoulders thrown back, and he did not look back at Robyn kneeling on the blood- stained deck.
Mungo St. John blinked at the brilliant sunlight as he followed the scarlet uniform coat and white cross-straps of his escort out into the courtyard of the Cape Town castle.
He had not seen the sun for five days; the cell in which he had been confined since he had been escorted ashore, had no external windows. Even in midsummer, the dark and chill of the past winter still lingered in the thick stone walls, and the air that entered through the single barred opening in the oaken door was stale and sullied by the gaol odours, the emanations from the dozen or so prisoners in the other cells.
