Wilbur Smith - A Falcon FliesAntionette 1860Africa crouched low on the horizon, like a lion inambush, tawny and gold in the early sunlight,scared by the cold of the Benguela Current.Robyn Ballantyne stood by the ship's rail andstared towards it. She had been standing like thatsince an hour before dawn, long before the landcould be seen. She had known it was there, sensedits vast enigmatic presence in the darkness,detected its breath, warm and spicy dry, over theclammy cold exhalations of the current on which thegreat ship rode.It was her cry, not that of the masthead, whichbrought Captain Mungo St. John charging up thecompanionway from his stern quarters, and the restof the ship's company crowding to the ship's sideto 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 butpiercing tone which seemed. to carry to everycorner of the ship. "Stand by to go about!" Tippoothe mate scattered the crew to their duties withknotted rope-end and clubbed fists. For two weeks,furious winds and low, sullen skies had denied thema glimpse of sun or moon, or of any other heavenlybody on which to establish a position. On deadreckoning the tall clipper should have been onehundred nautical miles further west, well clear ofthis treacherous coast with its uncharted hazardsand wild deserted shores.The Captain was freshly awakened, the thick darkmane of his hair tangled, rippling now in the wind,his cheeks lightly flushed with sleep, and alsowith anger and alarm beneath the smooth darkly
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