Very well, Sergeant. " Zouga acknowledged the salute. Now let's have the packs open, and the bottles over the side."

The grins wilted, and they exchanged crestfallen glances, the Major had looked so young and gullible. You hear the Major, julie klomp dam skaape. " Gleefully Jan Cheroot likened them to "a herd of stupid sheepin the kitchen Dutch of the Cape, and as he turned back to Zoup there was for the first time a gleam of respect in the dark eyes.

There are two pa.s.sages from which a ship may choose when sailing the southeastern coast of Africa. The master may stay outside the 100-fathom line which marks the edge of the continental shelf, for here the opposing forces of the Mozambique current and the prevailing winds can generate a sea which seamen call with awe the "100 year wave', a wave over 200 foot from crest to through, which will overwhelm even the st.u.r.diest vessel as though it were a drifting autumn leaf. The alternative and only slightly less hazardous pa.s.sage lies close insh.o.r.e, in the shallows where the rocky reefs await a careless navigator.

For the sake of speed Clinton Codrington chose the insh.o.r.e pa.s.sage, so that always the land was in sight as they bustled northwards. Day after day the shimmering white beaches and dark rocky headlands unreeled ahead of Black joke's bows, sometimes almost lost in the smoky blue sea-fret, and at other times brutally clear under the African sun.

Clinton kept steam in his boilers and the single bronze screw spinning under his counter with every sail set and trained around to glean the smallest puff of the wind, as he drove Black joke on to the rendezvous that Mungo St. John had set. His haste was symptom of a compulsion that Robyn Ballantyne only began fully to understand during those days and nights that they drove east and north, for Clinton Codrington sought her company constantly and she spent many hours of each day with him, or all of it that could be spared from the management of the vessel, beginning with the a.s.sembly of the ship's company for morning prayers.

Most naval captains went through the motions of divine service once a week, but Captain Codrington held prayers every morning and it did not take Robyn long to realize that his faith and sense of Christian duty was, if anything, greater than her own. He did not seem to experience the terrible doubts and temptations to which she was always such a prey, and if it had not been unchristian to do so she would have felt envy for his sense and secure faith. I wanted to go into the church, like my father and my elder brother, Ralph, before me, he told her. Why did you noWThe Almighty led me into the path He had chosen for me, Clinton said simply, and it did not seem pretentious when he said it. "I know now He meant me to be a shepherd for His flock, here in this land, and he pointed at the silver beaches and blue mountains. "I did not realize it at the time, but His ways are wonderful. This is the work He has chosen for me."

Suddenly she realized how deep was his commitment to the war he was waging against the trade, it was almost a personal crusade. His whole being directed at its destruction, for he truly believed that he was the instrument of G.o.d's will.

Yet, like many deeply religious men, he kept his belief closely guarded, never flaunting it in sanctimonious posturing or biblical quotation. The only time he spoke of his G.o.d was during the daily prayers and when he was alone with her on his quarterdeck. Quite naturally, he a.s.sumed that her belief matched, if not outstripped, his own. She did nothing to disillusion him, for she enjoyed his patent admiration, his deference to the fact that she had been appointed as a missionary, and when she was truthful to herself, which was more and more often these days, she liked the way he looked, the sound of his voice, and even the smell of him. It was a man's smell, like tanned leather or the pelt of an otter she had once had as a pet at Kings Lynn.

He was good to be near, a man, as the pale missionary initiates and medical students she had known, had not been men. He was the Christian warrior. She found a comfort in his presence, not like the wicked excitement of Mungo St. John, but something deeper and more satisfying. She looked upon him as her champion, as though the deadly a.s.signation to which he was hurrying was on her behalf, to wipe out the knowledge of sin and to atone for her disgrace.

On the third day they pa.s.sed the settlement on the sh.o.r.e of Algoa Bay, where the 5,000 British settlers brought out by Governor Somerset forty years before in 1820 had landed and still eked a hard existence from the unforgiving African earth. "The white flecks of painted walls looked pitifully insignificant in that wilderness of water and sky and land, and at last Robyn started to come to some small understanding of the vastness of this continent and how puny were the scratches that man had made upon it. For the first time she felt a small cold dread at her own temerity that had brought her so far, so young and so inexperienced, to venture she was not sure what. She hugged her shawl about her shoulders and shivered in the cutting wind that poured in off the green sea. The Africa she had dreamed of so often seemed harsh and unwelcoming now.

As Black joke closed swiftly with the rendezvous that St. John had appointed, Clinton Codrington became quieter, and was more often alone in his cabin. He understood clearly the ordeal that faced him. Zouga Ballantyne had discussed it with him on almost every occasion that presented itself. Zouga was unwavering in his opposition to the meeting. You have chosen a formidable opponent, sir, he told Clinton bluntly. "And I mean no offence when I say I doubt you are a match for him with either pistol or sword, but he'll choose pistols, you can wager on that. "He challenged, " Clinton said quietly. "My weapon is the naval cutla.s.s. We will fight with those. "I cannot support you there. " Zouga shook his head. "If there was a challenge, and I could make a case against that, but if there was one, it came from you, sir. If you fight, it will be with pistols."

Day after day he tried to persuade Clinton to miss the rendezvous. d.a.m.n it, man. n.o.body fights duels any more, especially against a man who can split the cheroot in your mouth with either hand, at twenty paces. " Or again, There was no challenge, Captain Codrington, I was there, and I would stake my honour on it. " At another time, "You will lose your commission, sir. You have Admiral Kemp's direct order to avoid the meeting, and it is obvious that Kemp is waiting for an opportunity to haul you before a court martial. " Then again, "By G.o.d, sir, you will serve no one, least of all yourself, by being shot to death on some deserted and G.o.dforsaken of breakers, in the deep, where the shoal water turned from pale green to blue.

Clinton Codrington examined her carefully through his telescope, then without a word pa.s.sed the instrument to Zouga.

While he in turn gla.s.sed the big clipper, Clinton asked softly, "Will you act for me? " Zouga lowered the gla.s.s with surprise. I expected one of your own officers. "I could not ask them. " Clinton shook his head. "Slogger Kemp would mark their service records if he ever heard of it. "You do not have the same qualms about my career, Zouga pointed out. You are on extended absence from your regiment, and you have not been expressly ordered, as I and my officers have been."

Zouga thought quickly, duelling was not so seriously considered in the army as it was in the Royal Navy, in fact the army manuals still maintained no express prohibitions, and a chance to meet with St. John was also a last chance to avert this ridiculous affair that so seriously threatened the continuance of his expedition.

I accept, then, " Zouga said shortly. I am extremely grateful to you, sir, said Clinton as shortly. Let us hope you are as grateful after the business is over, Zouga told him drily. "I had best go across to Huron right away. It will be dark in an hour."

Tippoo caught the line as it was thrown from the gunboat's whaler, and held it while Zouga gathered his cloak and jumped the gap of surging green water to the boarding ladder, clambering up before the next swell could soak his boots.

Mungo St. John waited for him at the foot of the mainmast. He held himself unsmiling and aloof, until Zouga hurried to him and offered his right hand, then he relaxed and returned the smile.

ISOd.a.m.n it, Mungo, cannot we make an end to this nonsense? "Certainly, Zouga, Mungo St. John agreed. "An apology from your man would settle it. "The man is a fool, Zouga shook his head. "Why take the risk? "I don't consider there is any risk, but let me remind you he called me a coward. "There is no chance then? " The two of them had become good friends during the weeks they had spent together and Zouga felt he could press further. I admit the fellow is a prig, but if you kill him, you'll make it d.a.m.ned awkward for me, don't you know? " Mungo St. John threw back his head and laughed delightedly. "You and I could work together, do you know that, Zouga? You are a pragmatist, like I am. I make a prophecy, you'll go a long way in this world. "Not very far, if you kill the man who is taking me."

And Mungo St. John chuckled again and clapped a friendly hand upon his shoulder. I'm sorry, my friend. Not this time, and Zouga sighed with resignation. You have choice of weapons."

Pistols, said Mungo St. John. Of course, Zouga nodded. "Dawn tomorrow on the beach there. " He pointed to the land with his chin. "Will that suit you? "Admirably. Tippoo here will act for me. "Does he understand the conventions? " Zouga asked doubtfully, as he glanced at the half-naked figure that waited near at hand. He understands enough to blow Codrington's head off at the shoulders if he levels his pistol a moment before the signal. " Mungo St. John flashed that cruel white smile. "And that's all he needs to know, as far as I am concerned."

Robyn Ballantyne slept not a minute during the night and it still lacked two hours of dawn when she bathed and dressed. On an impulse she chose her old moleskin breeches and man's woollen jacket. There would be the need to disembark through the surf from the ship's boat and skirts would hamper her, added to which the morning was damp and chill and her jacket was of good thick Scottish tweed.

She laid out her black leather bag, and checked its contents making certain she had everything she needed to cleanse and swinch a bullet wound, to bind up torn flesh or hold together shattered bone, and to reduce the agony of either man.

All of them had taken it without question that Robyn would be on the beach that morning. The gunboat did not rate a surgeon, and neither did Huron. She was ready with an hour to wait, and she opened her journal and began making the previous day's entry, when there was a light tap on her door.

When she opened it, Clinton Codrington stood in the opening his face pale and strained in the smoky lamplight and she knew intuitively that he had slept as little as she had. He recovered swiftly from the first shock of seeing her in breeches, dragging his eyes up to her face again.

I hoped I might speak with you, " he muttered shyly. It will be the last opportunity before. . ."

She took his Arm and drew him into the cabin. "You have not breakfasted? " she asked sternly. No, ma'am. " He shook his head and his eyes dropped to her trousered legs, and then jerked up guiltily to her face again.

The medicine worked? " she asked.

He nodded, too embarra.s.sed to reply. She had administered a purge the evening before, for as a surgeon she could dread the effects of a pistol ball through a full bowel or through a belly loaded with breakfast.

She touched his forehead. "You are warm, you have not taken a chill? " She felt protective towards him, like a mother almost, for he seemed once again so young and untried. I wondered if we might pray together. " His voice was so low that she barely caught the words, and she felt a warm, almost suffocating rush of affection for him.

Come, she whispered, and she took his hand.

They knelt together on the bare deck of the tiny cabin, still holding hands, and she spoke for both of them, and he made the responses in a soft but firm voice.

When they rose stiffly at last, he kept her hand in his for a while longer. Miss Ballantyne, I mean, Doctor Ballantyne, I cannot tell you now what a profound effect meeting you has had on my life."

She felt herself blushing and tried feebly to disengage her hand, but he clung to it. I would like to have your permission to talk to you again in this vein after, he paused, "if this morning goes as we hope it will. "Oh, it will, " she said fiercely. "It will, I know it will."

Hardly knowing what she was doing she pressed herself swiftly to him and reaching up kissed him full on the mouth. For a moment he froze, and then clumsily he crushed her to him so that the bra.s.s b.u.t.tons of his coat dug into her bosom and his teeth crushed her lips until she felt them bruising. My darling, he whispered. "Oh, my darling."

The strength of his reaction startled her, but almost immediately she found she was enjoying the strength of his embrace, and she tried to free her arms to return it - but he misunderstood her movements and released her hurriedly. Forgive me, he blurted out. "I don't know what came over me.

Her disappointment was sharp enough to turn instantly to Annoyance at his timidity. b.u.t.tons and teeth notwithstanding, it had felt very pleasant indeed.

Both boats left the two ships at the same time, and they converged through the thin pearly morning mist as their crews pulled for the low lines of breaking surf and the pale outline of the beach in the dawn.

they landed within a hundred yards of each other, surfing in on the crest of the same low, green wave and the oarsmen leapt out waist-deep to run the boats high up the white sand.

Both parties moved separately over the crest of the sand bar and then down to the edge of the lagoon, screened from the boat crews by the intervening dunes and the stands of tall fluffy-headed reeds. There was a level area of firm damp sand at one edge of the reeds.

Mungo St. John and Tippoo halted at one end, and Mungo lit a cheroot and stood with both hands on his hips staring out at the crests of the hills, ignoring the activity about him. He was dressed in black tight-fitting breeches and a white silk shirt with full sleeves, open at the throat to reveal the dark curls of his body hair. The white shirt would give his opponent a fair aiming point, he was observing the conventions scrupulously.

Robyn watched him covertly as she stood beside Clinton Codrington at the further end of the clearing. She tried to capture the hatred she felt for St. John, to hold on to her outrage at the way he had abused her, but it was a difficult emotion to sustain. Rather, she was excited and with a strange sense of elation, the satanic presence of this man heightened the feeling. She caught herself staring openly and dragged her eyes off him.

Beside her Clinton stood very erect. He wore his blue uniform jacket with the gold lace of his rank gleaming even in the soft pink light of early dawn. He had sc.r.a.ped the sun-bleached hair back from his forehead and temples and bound it at the nape of his neck, leaving clean the purposeful line of his jaw.

Zouga went forward to meet Tippoo who carried under his arm the rosewood case of pistols. When they met in the centre of the level ground, he opened the case and proffered it, standing straddle-legged and attentive, while Zouga took each weapon from its velvet nest and loaded it with a carefully measured charge of black powder before ramming home the dark-blue leaden ball and setting the cap on the nipple.

The sight of the long-barrelled weapons reminded Robyn forcefully of that night aboard Huront and she bit her lip and shifted uncomfortably. Do not fret yourself, Miss Ballantyne. " Clinton mistook her emotion, and whispered soothingly to comfort her while he unb.u.t.toned his jacket and shrugged out of it. Beneath it he also wore a plain white shirt to give St. John a fair aim. He handed her the jacket and would have spoken again but Zouga called.

Will the princ.i.p.als come forward."

And Clinton gave her another tightly strained smile before he strode out, his heels leaving deep prints in the damp yellow sand.

He faced Mungo St. John, holding his gaze steadily, both of them completely expressionless. Gentlemen, I appeal to both of you to settle this affair without bloodshed. " Zouga went through the ritual attempt at reconciliation. "Captain Codrington, as challenger, will you tender an apology? " Clinton shook his head once, curtly. Mr. St. John, is there any other way in which we can avoid bloodshed? " I think not, sir, St. John drawled as he carefully tapped half an inch of grey ash from his cheroot. Very well, " Zouga nodded and went on immediately to set the conditions of the meeting. "At the command "Proceed" each of you gentlemen will take ten paces, which I will count aloud. Immediately after the count of ten I will give the command "Fire" upon which you will be at liberty to turn and discharge your weapon."

Zouga paused and glanced at Tippoo, there was a longbarrelled m-17 loading pistol thrust into the waistband of his baggy breeches. Both seconds are armed. " Zouga laid his right hand on the b.u.t.t of the Colt pistol in his own belt. "If either princ.i.p.al attempts to fire before the command to do so, then he will immediately be shot down by the seconds."

He paused again looking from one to the other. "Is that clearly understood, gentlemen? " They both nodded. "Do either of you have a question? " Zouga waited in silence for a few seconds then went on. "Very well, we will proceed. Mr. St. John you have first choice of weapon."

Mungo St. John dropped the cheroot and ground it into the sand with his heel, before stepping forward. Tippoo offered him the rosewood case and after a momentary hesitation St. John lifted out one of the beautifully inlaid weapons. He pointed at the sky and c.o.c.ked the hammer with a sweep of his free hand.

Clinton took the remaining pistol and weighed it experimentally in his hand, settling the b.u.t.t deeply into the vee formed by thumb and forefinger, turning half away and lifting the pistol at full stretch of his arm to aim it at one of the black and bright yellow bishop birds that chattered in the reeds nearby.

With relief Robyn watched the familiar ease with which her champion handled the weapon, and she felt completely certain of the outcome now. Good must triumph, and she started to pray again, silently, only her lips moving as she recited the twenty-third psalm. Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death. "Take your positions, gentlemen. " Zouga stepped back and gestured to Robyn. Still praying, she hurried to where Zouga stood, and fell in a few paces behind him, well out on the flank from the lines of fire of the two princ.i.p.als.

Beside Zouga, Tippoo drew the long, clumsy-looking pistol from the sash around his waist and c.o.c.ked the big ornate hammer, the bore of the barrel gaped like a cannon as he lifted it into the "present" position. Zouga drew his own Colt revolver and stood quietly while the two princ.i.p.als walked the last few paces towards each other and then turned back to back.

Beyond them the early sun was gilding the hilltops with bright gold, but leaving the lagoon still in shadow so the still dark waters steamed with wisps of mist. In the silence a ghostly grey heron croaked hoa.r.s.ely and then launched into flight from the edge of the reedbank with slow wingbeats, its neck drawn back into a snakelike "SI to balance the long beak. Proceed! " called Zouga, so loudly that Robyn started violently.

The two men stepped out, away from each other, with deliberate strides, heeling heavily in the yielding sand, pacing to the count that Zouga called. Five. " Mungo St. John was smiling softly, as though at some secret joke, and his white silk sleeve fluttered like a moth's wing around the uplifted arm that held the slim steel-blue barrel pointed at the dawn sky. Six. " Clinton leaned forward, stepping out with long legs clad in white uniform breeches. His face was set, pale as a mask, his lips drawn into a thin determined line. Seven. " Robyn felt the beat of her heart crescendo, thumping painfully against the cage of her ribs so that she could not breathe. Eight. " She noticed for the first time the patches of sweat that had soaked through the armpits of Clinton's white shirt, despite the chill of the dawn air. Nine. " Suddenly she was deadly afraid for him, all her faith dissolved in a sudden premonition of disaster rushing down upon her. Ten! " She wanted to scream to them to stop. She wanted to rush forward and throw herself into the s.p.a.ce between the two men. She didn't want them to die, either of them. She tried to fill her lungs but her throat was closed and dry, she tried to drive her legs forward but they were locked rigidly under her, beyond her control. Fire! " shouted Zouga, his voice cracking with the tenSion that gripped all the watchers and out on the damp dark-yellow sand both men turned, like a pair of dancers in a meticulously rehea.r.s.ed ballet of death.

Their right arms out-flung towards each other in a gesture like that of parted lovers, the left hand on the hip t to balance, the cla.s.sic stance of the expert marksman.

Time seemed suspended, the movements of the two men graceful but measured, without the urgency of onrushing death.

The silence was complete, there was no wind to rustle the reeds, no bird nor animal called from the looming forest across the lagoon, the footfalls of the two men were deadened by the yielding sand, the world seemed to hold its breath.

And then the crash of pistol fire awoke the echoes and sent them bounding and booming across the gorge, leaping from cliff to cliff, startling the birds into raucous flight.

The two shots were within one hundredth of a second of each other, so that they blended into a single blurt of sound. From the levelling blue barrels the dead white powder smoke spurted, and then the barrels were flung upwar(s in unison with the shock of discharge.

Both men reeled backwards, keeping their feet, but Robyn had seen the smoke fly from the muzzle of Mungo St. John's pistol a fraction of a second earlier, and then an instant liter Mungo's big dark head flinched as though he had been struck with an open hand across the cheek.

Alter that one staggered pace backwards, he steadied, drawing himself to his full height, the pistol still smoking in his raised hand, staring at his adversary, and Robyn felt -a rush of relief. Mungo St. John was unscathed. She wanted to run to him, and then suddenly the joy withered, a dark red snake of blood slithered from the thick hair at his temple down the smoothly shaven olive skin of his cheek and dripped with slow sullen drops on to the white silk of his shirt.

She lifted her hand to her mouth to cover the cry that rose within her, and then her attention was distracted by another movement in the corner of her vision and she swung her head with a jerky movement towards Clinton Codrington.

He also had been standing erect, with almost military bearing, but now he began to bow slowly forward at the waist. The right hand holding the pistol hung at his side and now his fingers opened and the ornate weapon dropped into the sand at his feet.

He lifted the empty hand and placed it across his chest with fingers outspread in a gesture that seemed reverential and slowly his body bent forward and now his legs gave way under him and he dropped to his knees, as though in prayer. Kneeling, he lifted his hand away from his chest and examined with an expression of mild surprise the small smear of blood that coated his fingers and then he pitched forward face down on to the sand.

At last Robyn could move. She raced forward and dropped to her knees beside Clinton's fallen body, and with strength of panic rolled him on to his back. The front of the white linen shirt was damp with a little blood around the neat puncture in the cloth six inches to the left of the line of mother of pearl b.u.t.tons.

He had been half-turned to fire and the ball had taken him low and left, at the level of the lungs, she saw instantly. The lungs! She felt despair overwhelm her. It would mean death, no less certain because it was slow and agonizing. She would have to watch this min drown inexorably in his own blood.

Sand crunched beside her and she looked up.

Mungo St. John stood over her, his shirt a mess of wet blood. He was holding a silk kerchief to his temple to staunch the copious flow where the pistol ball had stripped a long ribbon of scalp off his skull above the ear.

His eyes were bleak, his expression forbidding and his voice cold and distant as he told her quietly. I trust you will be satisfied at last, madam. " Then he turned abruptly up the white dune towards the beach.

She wanted to run after him, to restrain him, to explain to explain she knew not what, but her duty was here, with the man more gravely stricken. Her fingers shook as she unb.u.t.toned the front of Clinton's shirt and saw the dark blue hole punched into the pale flesh from which a little thick slow blood oozed. So little blood at the mouth of the wound, it was the worst indication - the bleeding would be inside, deep inside the chest cavity'Zouga, my bag, she called sharply.

Zouga came to her, carrying the bag and went down on one knee beside her. I am but lightly struck, " murmured Clinton.

"I have no pain. just a feeling of numbness here Zouga did not reply. He had seen a mult.i.tude of gunshot wounds in India, pain was no indication of the severity. A ball through the hand or foot was unbearable agony, another through both lungs was only mildly discomforting.

Only one thing puzzled him and that was why Mungo St. johnos shot had been so wide. At twenty paces he would surely have taken the head shot, aiming between the eyes with an expectation of the ball deviating less than an inch from the point of aim, yet the shot had taken Clinton low in the chest.

While Robyn pressed a dressing over the wicked little blue mouth of the wound, Zouga picked the pistol out of the sand. The barrel was still warm and there was the peppery whiff of burned powder as he examined it and saw instantly why Mungo's shot had struck wide.

There was a bluish smear of bright new lead on the steel trigger guard.

Mungo St. John had indeed aimed at the head, but Clinton had lifted the pistol to his eye at the same instant directly in the line of sight. St. John's ball had struck the metal guard and been deflected downwards.

That would account for the fact that Clinton's own ball had been high, for as a less expert marksman he would surely have aimed at St. John's chest. The strike of the ball had thrown his weapon upwards at the moment of discharge.

Zouga looked up and handed the pistol to Tippoo who waited impa.s.sively close at hand. Without a word, Tippoo took the weapon, turned away and followed his master over the dunes.

By the time four seamen from the gunboat could carry Clinton Codrington down the beach using his boat cloak as a hammock, St. John was climbing up from the Huron's whaler on to his maindeck, and before they could rig a block and tackle to lift the prostrate form of her captain into Black joke, Huron had broken out her anchor and was spreading sail before the south-westerly breeze and bearing away with the sunrise transformin her into a vessel etched in golden fire.

For twenty-four hours Clinton Codrington surprised Robyn with the strength of his recovery. She looked to see blood on his lips, and she expected him to experience the agony of breathing as the damaged lung collapsed.

Every few hours she listened with her sounding trumpet to his chest, stooping over the bunk in his cabin to catch the hiss and saw of his breathing, listening for the bubbling sound of blood, or for the dry rubbing of the lung against the rib cage, and was pleased when none of these symptoms occurred.

Indeed Clinton was unaccountably resilient for a patient with ball through the chest cavity. He complained only of stiffness reaching up into his left armpit and semi-paralysis of that arm, and he was vociferous in his advice to his surgeon.

You will bleed me, of course! he asked. I will not, Robyn told him shortly as she cleaned the area around the wound and then lifted him into a sitting position to bandage his chest.

You should take at least a pint, Clinton insisted. Have you not bled enough? " Robyn asked witheringly, but he was undaunted. There is black rotten blood that must be taken off Clinton indicated the ma.s.sive bruise that was spreading around his chest like some dark parasitic plant around the smooth pale trunk. You must bleed me, Clinton insisted, for all his adult life he had been exposed to the ministrations of naval surgeons. "If you don't, fever is sure to follow."

He offered Robyn the inner curve of his elbow where the thin white scars over the blue blood vessels marked where he had been bled before. We no longer live in the dark ages, Robyn told him tartly. "This is 1860, and she pushed him down on the bolster and covered him with a grey ship's blanket against the shivering and chilling nausea which she knew must soon accompany such a wound. It did not come, and for the next twenty hours he continued to manage the ship from his bunk, and he chafed at the restraint she placed on him. However, Robyn knew the pistol ball was still in there and that there must be drastic consequences. She wished that there was some technique that could enable a surgeon to locate the whereabouts of a foreign body accurately, and then allow him to enter the rib cage and remove it.

That evening she fell asleep in the rope chair beside his bunk, awakening once to hold the enamel cup of water to his lips when he complained of thirst and noting the dryness and heat of his skin, and in the morning all her fears were confirmed.

He was only semi-conscious, and the pain was fierce.

He moaned and cried out at the smallest movement. His eyes were sunken into plum-coloured cavities, his tongue was thickly coated with white and his lips were dried and cracked. He pleaded for drink and his skin was hot, the heat increasing every hour until it seemed to be burning out the core of his being, and he was restless and flushed, tossing in the narrow bunk, fighting off the blankets with which she tried to keep him covered, and whimpering in his delirium at the agony of movement.

His breath was sawing painfully in his swollen and bruised chest, his eyes were glittering bright, and when Robyn unwound the bandage to sponge his body with cool water there was only a little pale fluid staining the dressing, but her nostrils flared as she smelled it. It was so horribly familiar, she always thought of that stench as the fetid breath of death itself.

The wound had shrunk, but the crust that had formed over it was so thin that it cracked at one of Clinton's restless movements and through it rose a thick droplet of custard-coloured matter. Immediately the smell was stronger. This was not the benign pus of healing, but the malignant pus that she so dreaded to see in a wound.

She swabbed it away carefully, and then with cold seawater sponged his chest and the hard hot swollen flesh below his armpit. The bruising was extensive and it had changed colour, dark blue as storm clouds, tinged with the yellow of sulphur and the virulent rose of some flower from the gardens of h.e.l.l itself.

There was one area just below the point of his shoulder blade particularly sensitive for he screamed when she touched it, and a spa.r.s.e p.r.i.c.kle of sweat broke out across his forehead and amongst the fine golden bristles of his unshaven cheeks.

She replaced the bandage with a fresh dressing and then forced between his dry lips four grams of laudanum mixed with a warm draught of calomel. She watched while he fell into a restless drug-induced sleep. Another twenty-four hours, she whispered aloud, watching him toss and mutter. She had seen it so often.

Soon the pus would suffuse his whole body, building up steadily around the ball deep in his chest. She was helpless. No surgeon could enter the rib cage, it had never been done before.

She looked up as Zouga stooped into the cabin. He was grave and quiet, standing beside her chair for a moment and placing a hand on her shoulder comfortingly.

He improves? " he asked softly.

She shook her head, and he nodded as though he had expected the answer. You must eat. " He offered her the pannikin. "I brought you some pea soup. It has bacon in it, it's very good."

She had not realized how hungry she was and she ate gratefully, breaking the hard ship's bread into the broth and Zouga went on quietly, I loaded the pistols with less than a full charge, as little as I dared. " He shook his head irritably. "d.a.m.ned bad luck. After Mungo's ball hit the trigger guard, I'd not have expected it to have entered the chest, it must have lost most of its power."