A Falcon Flies
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A Falcon Flies by Wilbur Smith
In 1860, a man and woman approach the coast of Africa aboard a swift clipper--in the command of an American who knows no law. Robyn Ballantyne and her brother Morris have waited years for this moment: to return to Africa, to search for their missionary father who had disappeared somewhere in the wilderness.
Traveling north from Cape Town, they follow a map left by a madman--into an uncharted world of waterfalls and jungle, teeming wildlife, murderous disease, and the ghastly ruins of an astounding city.
Uncovering their father's trail, Robyn and her brother are in the midst of a slave trade that pours out of Africa like a bloody wound. Now, to survive what they have found, they must make their separate ways out--through pitched battles on land and on sea...and through the pride, passions and fury of their hearts...
doubt in Robyn’s mind that she was responsible for the upkeep of her mother’s grave. Both women maintained a friendly, comfortable silence, but when their eyes met they smiled and Robyn nodded her thanks. The child came trotting back, muddy to the knees and slopping water from the vase, but puffed up with self-importance. He had clearly performed this task before. The woman took the vase from him and set it carefully on the grave, then both of them looked expectantly towards Robyn and watched
a thousand other ways. Only forgive this one small unimportant sin,’ she prayed in her rude grass shelter, and as she did so she listened with one ear for the shouts of Zouga’s bearers coming into camp, and her heart tripped at each sudden noise. She was tempted to break camp and call a night march towards the next distant hill they had seen on the horizon at sunset and which old Karanga had once again confidently declared to be the Iron Mountain. The moon was full and would rise in an hour, that
panning these, but I would estimate values well in excess of two ounces of fine gold to the ton of quartz. ‘The ancient miners have driven four shafts into the hillside. There may be more that I overlooked, for they are heavily overgrown and an attempt has been made to refill the shafts, possibly to conceal them. ‘The shafts are large enough to admit a small man crawling on hands and knees. Probably they used child-slaves in the diggings and the conditions of labour in these rabbit warrens must
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
tiller prancing like a trained monkey on the stick of the tiller to hold her in the wave, but the dhow was not built for this work, and she dug her shoulder rebelliously into the sliding, roaring chute of green water, breaching so fiercely to the wave that the water poured aboard her in a green wall and she wallowed broadside, half swamped before she took the reef with a force that snapped off her single mast at deck level and sent yard and sail and rigging crashing over the side. In an instant