Huzon's stern .
She had grown accustomed to him over the past weeks while she had been a guest once more of the Cartwright family, and each afternoon Clinton had walked up the hill from his modest lodgings in Waterkant Street. She looked forward to his visits, to their serious conversations after the frivolity and inconsequences of the Cartwright daughters. She found his admiration and his adoration flattering and deeply comforting. She felt it was something that would never change, something constant, a pole-star in the confusion and uncertainty that had been her life to this time.
She had learned to value his good sense, and his judgement. She had even allowed him to read the manuscript which was occupying most of her days now, and his comments and criticisms were always well based.
Then she had found that he filled a part of her life that had been empty for much too long. She needed something or someone to cherish and protect and comfort', somebody who needed her, someone on whom to lavish the bounty of her compassion. I do not believe I could ever live without you, my dear Doctor Ballantyne, he had told her. 'I do not believe I could have endured this terrible period of my life without your help.
' She knew it was probably true, not just the hyperbole of the love-sick swam, and Robyn was entirely unable to resist the appeal of anybody in pain or in suffering.
It was many weeks since that heady day when Black joke had sailed into Table Bay with her bulwarks and upperworks riddled with shot, her rigging in heroic and picturesque ruins, and her huge captive, blackened with smoke and limping under jury rigging and makeshift steering-gear, herded submissively under the menace of her carronades to an anchorage close inshore at Ragger Bay.
How the townsfolk had swarmed to the beachfront to gawk and exclaim, and how the other naval vessels in the bay had lined their rails and yards with seamen to cheer them in.
She had been standing at Clinton Codrington's side when the two contingents of naval officers from the Cape Squadron's headquarters had been rowed out to Black Joke's anchorage. The first had been headed by a naval Commander, some years junior to Clinton. Captain Codrington, he saluted. 'I am under orders to take over command of this ship from you forthwith, sir.'
Clinton accepted this without change of expression. Very well, sir, I will have my gear removed, and in the meantime we should complete the formalities, and I will introduce you to the remaining officers When Clinton had shaken hands with his officers and his sea chest was at the entry port, the second longboat which had been lying on its oars a few yards off, now came alongside and a senior Captain came aboard. Everyone on Black Joke's deck knew what was about to happen, and Denham stepped close to Clinton and said softly, 'Good luck, sir, you know you can count on me when the time comes.'
They both knew what he was referring to, the day they would meet again in the court-martial chamber. Thank you, Mr. Denham, Clinton replied, then he went forward to where the senior Captain waited. Captain Codrington, it is my duty to inform you that you have been called upon by the Officer Commanding the Squadron to answer certain charges concerning the conduct of your duties. Therefore, you are to consider yourself under open arrest and to hold yourself in readiness to answer those charges as soon as a court martial can be convened. 'I understand, sir.'
Clinton saluted him, and then preceded him through the entry port and down the ladder into the waiting boat.
A single voice called out, 'Give 'em. hell, Tongs.'
And suddenly they were all cheering. Black joke's crew lined her side and hung in her rigging and they cheered as though their throats would crack.
Hammer and Tongs! ' They tossed their caps on high. At 'em the jokers! ' As the boat pulled away and rowed for the beach, Clinton Codrington stood in the stern and stared back at them without expression, and his bare head shone like a beacon fire in the sunlight.
That had been so many weeks ago. Still the opportunity of assembling enough senior officers in a small station like the Cape Colony to act as his judges might not occur for weeks still or even months.
Clinton had spent his nights in the cheap lodgings on Waterkant Street. Ostracized by his brother officers, he had spent most of his days alone upon the waterfront staring out at the little gunboat that was making her repairs at the anchorage, and at the bare-masted clipper.
He had watched while the slaves were brought ashore from Huron's holds, and their chains were struck off by a blacksmith from the castle. He had seen the bewildered blacks put their marks upon the indenture contracts, and then be led away by the Dutch and Huguenot farmers to learn their new duties, and he had wondered at this other fate to which he had delivered them.
Then in the afternoons he had climbed the hill to the Cartwright mansion set in its green and pleasant garden to pay his court to Robyn Ballantyne.
This day he was early, the noonday gun banged from the top of Signal Hill as Clinton came striding up the pathway, almost breaking into a run when he saw Robyn in the rose garden. He left the pathway and cut across the velvety green carpet of the lawn. Robyn! Doctor Ballantyne! ' His voice was strange, and his pale eyes wild. What is it? ' Robyn handed the basket to Aletta and hurried across the lawn to meet him. What is it? ' she repeated with concern, and he seized both her hands in his. The slaver! he was stuttering with the force of his emotion, 'The American, HuronPYes? ' she demanded. 'Yes? 'She is sailing, they are letting her go!
It was a cry of outrage and despair, and Robyn froze, her face suddenly pale. I do not believe it. 'Come! said Clinton.
'I have a carriage at the gate.'
The coachman whipped the horses at the slope, with Clinton shouting to him to hurry still, and they came out on the crest of Signal Hill in a lather, with froth splattered on their chests and forelegs.
The moment the coach braked, Clinton jumped down and led Robyn to the side of the roadway facing down the steep hillside out over the bay. The tall American clipper slid silently and gracefully over a green sea that was speckled by the dancing white caps of the southeasterly wind.
As she cleared the low dark shape of Robben Island, she altered her heading a fraction and more sail bloomed upon her yards, white as the first flowers of spring. Silently, the man and the woman stared after the beautiful ship, and neither of them spoke as she merged with the milky sea fret, became a ghostly silhouette, and then quite suddenly was gone.
Still in silence the couple turned back and climbed into the waiting carriage, and neither of them spoke until it
