Conquest

by Julian Stockwin

  The stunned silence broke into an excited babble as Baird read on, then fell quiet as he continued, ‘It seems that his Boer farmers are deserting the colours in large numbers, more interested in harvests than honour. And with military supplies denied him by the Navy, he’s concerned to spare the colony needless bloodshed in a lost cause.’

  He laid the letter down slowly. ‘An honourable and courageous man – I salute him.’

  The meeting broke up, the news without doubt now fast spreading through Cape Town. Baird wasted no time, and Renzi set to on a proclamation of thanksgiving for the peace, his heart full at the knowledge that with the threat removed, and with its strategic value, the British would never abandon the colony. Soon he could make the plans that would have Cecilia by his side.

  The last menace, of course, was the French, but with reinforcements from Britain their hopes of seizing Cape Colony must fade. It was only the short period before they arrived that was the danger – and they still had to win the loyalty of town and country before the colony could settle down and prosper.

  The ball: this must succeed! So much to worry about, to plan and prepare – who to invite and who would be offended if omitted. And a formal ball would imply refreshments and supper as well as a master of ceremonies who could be trusted with both the Dutch and English forms; music at a suitably august level, and if this were in the English mode, a discreet separate area for cards and dalliances.

  Then there were equally challenging details ranging from the protocol of the receiving line to locating decorations and flowers fit for vice-regal patronage. If only Cecilia were here, she would revel in the task . . . but she was not. He picked up a pencil and glumly continued with his endless to-do list. A muffled thud interrupted him. It would be the gun from Signal Hill on the Lion’s Rump – with its view to both sides of the Cape, it reported ships’ arrivals. Renzi hastened outside to see what vessel it could be.

  There was no three-flag red hoist, so no enemy. Curious, he remained for the ship to show, either to the north or around the point from the south.

  And there it was – from the south, bursting into view close in with Mouille Point in a fine display of seamanship, a frigate under a full press of sail undertaking a showy flying moor on the inshore side of the naval anchorage.

  It was L’Aurore.

  Kydd left Diadem’s great cabin not greatly put out by the surly manner of Commodore Popham for he knew L’Aurore had done well. Lourenço Marques had turned out to be little more than a forlorn outpost, perpetually in conflict with the savages, that was hanging on to the last sad vestiges of Portuguese rule and could offer nothing in the way of dockyard facilities or similar of interest to the British.

  The two Indiamen were still there, undergoing repair with materials L’Aurore had sent over and had every hope of a successful resumption of their voyage. He’d brought reliable news of the size and capability of the French squadron, even though Popham had dismissed the threat, assuming after the blow that they would fall back on their Indian Ocean bases.

  In light-hearted mood he boarded his barge and directed it ashore to pay his respects to the governor. The boat came smartly alongside the jetty and Kydd mounted the rickety side-steps, surprised to find his confidential secretary there to meet him.

  ‘My word, but this sea life is suiting you, dear fellow,’ Renzi said genially.

  Kydd laughed, and they walked companionably towards the castle. It was good to see his friend after so much had happened. ‘Shall we sup together after I’ve seen Sir David, or must his secretary keep close station on him always?’ he asked.

  ‘Er, I’m not, as who should say, his secretary, old chap. He has his own,’ Renzi said, a little uncomfortably.

  ‘Then you didn’t get the position? The dog! I’ll wager even so he’s working you half to death, Nicholas.’ Renzi did look more than a little harassed.

  At Kydd’s full dress uniform, the castle sentries presented arms with an enthusiastic crash of musket and gaitered boot, and they passed into the inner courtyard and across to the governor’s suite. Seeing Renzi, the aide-de-camp rose respectfully. ‘Sir David is with General Ferguson, sir. I’ll let him know you’re here.’

  ‘Never mind, Lieutenant,’ Kydd said crisply. ‘We’ll return later.’

  The aide ignored Kydd with a pained expression and knocked gently on the connecting door. ‘Mr Renzi and a naval gentleman, Sir David.’

  Moments later a disgruntled general emerged, looking sharply at Renzi before being ushered away. Baird appeared beaming. ‘You’ve brought me Captain Kydd, then, Renzi, old chap.’

  ‘As he’s bringing report of the French, sir,’ Renzi said smoothly, standing aside for Kydd. ‘Do go in, Captain, I shall wait outside.’

  Later, a much-chastened Kydd was settled into a chair in Renzi’s inner sanctum by a protective Stoll. ‘Your secretary?’ he asked wryly, when the man had left.

  ‘Well, one of them,’ Renzi admitted.

  Kydd looked around the well-appointed office. ‘And I had my concerns that he’d been working you like a slavey. Shall I be told what you do with your day at all?’

  Lightly covering the detail, Renzi explained what it was to be a colonial secretary while Kydd listened first in astonishment and then in good-natured envy. ‘In the first rank of Cape Town society no less – I must take off my hat to you in the street, I find!’

  ‘It has its compensations, the position,’ Renzi agreed.

  ‘As will make it a sad trial for you to return to L’Aurore.’ Kydd chuckled.

  Renzi’s face shadowed. ‘Er, there’s every reason to suppose that will now not happen, Tom.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Sir David has done me the honour of asking me to consider this a permanent situation,’ he said gently, ‘and is communicating with Whitehall to have me confirmed in post, my friend.’

  ‘Nicholas – is this what you desire, or is some villain—’

  ‘It is my wish. You see . . . I shall now have a situation in life that is both honourable and secure, that yields a competence that is quite sufficient, you see, to . . . marry.’

  Kydd was dumbfounded.

  ‘A sufficient competence?’ he managed.

  ‘An acceptable term, I’d think, for an emolument some seven or eight times your own.’

  Kydd smiled awkwardly. Renzi’s high moral principles had prevented his seeking Cecilia’s hand in marriage while unable to provide for her, and through sheer chance he had been given the means to do so and obviously had seized it with both hands – or . . .

  ‘Oh, er, Nicholas, by your talk of marriage, do you mean to say, um, to Cecilia, not some Dutch lady of your recent acquaintance?’

  ‘To your sister,’ Renzi said frostily. ‘In the event she is free and accepts my proposal, I mean to send for her to approve Cape Colony as an appropriate place of our domicile de mariage.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘To be wed in the Groote Kerk, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  Cecilia – out here? Kydd had doubts, but if she still had the feelings for Renzi that he’d been witness to before, then all was possible. ‘I see. Then . . . then you’ll not be wanting your cabin aboard,’ he ventured, still dazed by the announcement.

  ‘It would seem not, Tom.’ Renzi’s voice was awkward. ‘I would take it kindly if you’ll—’

  ‘Your books ’n’ effects will be landed as soon as they may.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  There was a long pause while Kydd tried to find something to say. ‘Er, you’re still looking a mort mumchance – can this be some delicate question of state that’s taxing the intellects?’

  Renzi smiled ruefully. ‘No, dear fellow. It’s naught but the throwing of a grand ball for which I bear both the honour and responsibility. You’d never conceive the worry of spirits this is causing me – such quantities of vexing detail that would drive a saint to drink and ruin.’

  ‘Ha! That’s easily solved, I’m persuaded,’ Kydd said
immediately.

  ‘Oh? How so?’

  ‘You may claim the services of Tysoe, who, as you know, has served a noble family – but, mind you, I shall have him back!’

  Renzi’s face cleared. ‘A capital idea! My mind is quite eased, believe me. Er – shall we adjourn to another place? My apartments are commodious and overlook such a quaint and sublime fountain . . .’

  The evening stole in, a thankful cool with a violet tinge to the light adding to the nervous elation in the group standing about the doors of Government House. Baird had fallen in with the idea of holding the reception there, in the palatial surroundings of the Dutch governor’s residence, then moving to the larger castle for the ball, involving as it would a jingling panoply of sumptuous carriages through the streets for all Cape Town to see.

  ‘I don’t spy any of ’em yet!’ Baird rumbled, twitching his military stock and peering past the goggling crowd pressed up to the railings. ‘If we dance alone they’ll hear about it for years to come in every club in London!’

  ‘Sir, the evening’s yet young,’ Renzi soothed, trying not to let the feathers of his ridiculous ceremonial helmet tickle his nose. ‘And I’d believe every matron will be concerned not to let a single hair go unfrizzed.’

  The governor did not appear mollified and Renzi fell back briefly into the entrance to confront an immaculate Tysoe. ‘Is everything ready?’ he hissed. ‘Should this night be a disaster then . . . then—’

  ‘All is to satisfaction, sir,’ Tysoe replied serenely, ‘Being under my direct instructions.’ At any other time the distinct elevation of his tone would have brought amusement.

  The impeccably dressed regimental band stoically continued playing their light airs and the members of the receiving line – himself after Baird, Ryneveld, two generals, Popham and three members of the Senate – hovered in readiness.

  It wasn’t until an interminable forty minutes had passed that the first carriage arrived and one Overbeek, vice-president of the Orphans Chamber, wife and wide-eyed daughter arrived. A genial Baird granted a full five minutes to the bemused worthy, his wife and daughter the breathless centre of attention of the rest of the line.

  Soon after, to Renzi’s surprise, the grim-faced Slotsboo, treasurer of the Burgher Senate and implacable enemy to the currency-exchange proclamation, stepped out of his carriage, himself handing down his extravagantly dressed wife and approaching the governor with an ingratiating smile.

  Behind him carriages joggled for a place as more and more arrived, to the intense gratification of the onlookers. Both the collector and comptroller of Customs claimed noisy priority over the dignified Truter, secretary to the Court of Justice, and when the crowd caught sight of the young wife of the deputy fiscal in her beribboned gown, there was a long collective sigh.

  The evening was made! Renzi looked around at the glittering splendour of the animated throng, the jealously hoarded finery of the ladies and the naked jostling for social position – there was no doubt that Baird had been right and that society was beginning to cohere as one around the person of the governor.

  Renzi did his duty happily, passing among the great and good, graciously bestowing kind words upon those brought to be introduced by Ryneveld and allowing himself, the influential colonial secretary of Cape Colony, to be both seen and admired.

  Then it was time to make the short journey to the castle and the ball. The governor rode alone first in an ornate carriage; Renzi with Ryneveld was next, the military behind.

  Following Baird’s example, Renzi affably acknowledged with a wave the shouts of the crowd as they passed by and then on to the parade-ground where, by torchlight, a massed band and marching troops crashed into motion.

  With a sense of unreality Renzi sat rigid as they drove through the ancient gate to the inner courtyard. Opposite, lined up outside the governor’s residence, were the lesser invitees – colonels, post-captains, heads of departments, ward masters, church ministers, others.

  Baird descended from his carriage and began passing along the waiting guests, Renzi close behind, finding polite words for each. Then it was Kydd who was next in the line and they played their parts, the only concession to the situation being a solemn wink from Renzi and a wondering shake of Kydd’s head.

  The long ballroom was splendidly lit with candelabra stands by the dozen and infinite tawny gold points reflected in the many mirrors. At one end a regimental band in evening dress played softly as the room filled and champagne flowed.

  Kydd was sure that he was going to enjoy the heady evening, not unaware that in his full-dress post-captain’s uniform he cut a striking figure.

  ‘Mevrouw – the first dance?’ Baird led out a proud Mrs Ryneveld, and Kydd claimed a shy, light-featured Dutch maiden, whose English, he discovered, was not the equal of her charms. They stepped out prettily together, though, and after two dances he graciously allowed her to be taken by a red-faced young subaltern.

  Then, in the next dance, dutifully bowing and rising to a dimpled matron, he caught sight across the room of a beautiful dark-haired woman, whose grace was drawing admiring glances from all parts. When the dance finished he determined to go in search of her.

  She was surrounded by fawning men, fluttering her fan but giving her entire attention to Renzi, who was holding forth. Her ivory gown was cut low, revealing an alabaster bosom, and her lustrous black hair framed striking Gallic features. Kydd thrust through and gave a sweeping bow. ‘Shall this round be mine, Mam’selle?’

  He had noticed what the others had not – that Dutch maidens did not mark cards for dancing partners and he was therefore free to ask. He was met with a cool gaze from her and a startled look from Renzi, but she consented, lifting a sequinned gloved hand, which he took with a wicked glance back at the group of envious men.

  The first words of his small-talk in English were met with a cold expression in French of her inability to converse easily, but Kydd was equal to this – his painful lessons from Renzi during the blockade of Toulon had matured into a passable competence in the language.

  She seemed not impressed, however, and he had to wait impatiently for the dance round to come back to him before he could continue. As he spoke, her eyes darted to where Renzi was the centre of a circle of admirers.

  Did he know Colonial Secretary Renzi at all? Such a handsome and charming man! And so elegant a turn of phrase for an Englishman. Was he married? A lady friend?

  Kydd admitted that indeed he knew the gentleman and with relish went on to point out that the colonial secretary’s intended was to be sent for shortly to join him at the Cape.

  This got her attention and the coolness went as she observed respectfully that he himself must be a gentleman of importance to know the colonial secretary so well. Kydd explained that Mr Secretary’s bride was to be none other than his sister and that he was certainly well acquainted with the gentleman.

  After the dance he led her back to the side of the room and was rewarded with a charming smile. He lingered, blasting with a glare the subaltern who had the effrontery to cut in. The young soldier retired, wounded.

  Was the next dance promised, or should they stand up together once more? He whirled her into the cotillion, blood singing.

  All too soon he had to surrender her and wandered back to the refreshments table, where Renzi was in earnest conversation with a grave Dutchman whose wife stood shyly back. Kydd helped himself to a plate, waited until Renzi was free, then said casually, ‘Rattling fine ball, Nicholas.’

  ‘Oh? I’m gratified to hear it, old fellow.’

  ‘Um, just curious, that French-rigged lady you were speaking to earlier?’

  Renzi gave a slow smile. ‘Why, brother, the mysterious damsel that’s set all the men to talking?’

  ‘She says I’m to call her Thérèse,’ Kydd said.

  ‘That is much easier on the tongue than Marie Thérèse Adèle de Poitou.’

  ‘Er, who was that again?’

  ‘Who the Dutch call the French prin
cess, although she is but the youngest daughter of the Baron de Caradeuc. Apparently royalists fled from France and settled here, keeping to themselves, with a modest vineyard past the Stellenbosch.’

  ‘You seem to know enough about her, Nicholas.’

  ‘As a moderately successful vintner, the baron is entitled to an invitation, I find. He expressed his regrets and trusts that his daughter’s presence might suffice.

  ‘Quite a coup,’ Renzi added, with satisfaction. ‘The baron lost his wife to the guillotine and lives alone on the estate with his daughter. They were seldom seen in town before now.’

  The ball continued joyously – but Kydd had eyes for only one.

  Chapter 9

  * * *

  This had been an edgy voyage. Kydd had been tasked to search out any lurking French squadrons so L’Aurore had ranged along the track of the Indiamen as being the most likely hunting ground, meeting each dawn with the utmost vigilance, as the starry night faded to first light, extending out until the wave-tossed horizon could be meticulously searched.

  Nothing had been seen of the enemy, but there had been some moments of heart-pumping tension: as one night lifted, it had shown a fleet of ships bearing down on them. These, however, had proved to be an outward-bound John Company convoy, who were glad to hear of the capture of Cape Town but had no news of the French.

  For Kydd it was always something akin to magic, the diligent application of tables and the wielding of sextant and chronometer, then land conjured from the immensity of ocean. He stood on the quarterdeck, gazing at the jagged blue-grey that was St Helena; unspeakably remote, a speck in the watery vastness of the South Atlantic but a valued rendezvous point for the rich India convoys.

  Kendall knew St Helena well and, as they drew near, directed L’Aurore to pass to the west. Close to, the island was a spectacular sight: massive crags pounded by waves driven ceaselessly a thousand miles or more by the constant open-ocean trade-winds that ended their run in a thundering assault on the south-east of the island.