Popham downed the rest of his wine. ‘If there are any designs to move against the River Plate we should be the first to know of it – we are the closest and the forces we employed on this expedition can only be said to be in idleness.’
‘But you’ve had no word?’
Popham shook his head.
The next afternoon Kydd insisted Renzi dine at his club and they went ashore together. As they left the old jetty for the noisome waterfront, Renzi stopped. ‘Er, there’s someone I’d rather not meet,’ he muttered, and turned about.
‘Wha-?’ At the end of the lane a distinguished-looking man was directing others in some sort of inventory, then Kydd recognised him. ‘It’s only your old fiscal, Ryneveld,’ he chided, knowing, however, that while Renzi had been colonial secretary this man had been his immediate subordinate. Now he was at an impossibly lofty eminence in government.
‘You can’t avoid him for ever, Nicholas,’ he said, and hailed the man. ‘Mr Fiscal, ahoy!’
Ryneveld came hurrying over. ‘Why, the Jonkheer Renzi,’ he said, with disarming warmth. ‘Since leaving your position you’ve been so engaged in your studies you’ve been neglecting your friends, sir.’
Renzi gave a stiff bow. ‘I stand accused and can only plead guilty, Schildknaap Ryneveld.’
‘Well, that’s a matter that can easily be remedied. Let me see … As it happens, my wife Barbetjie – whom you know, of course – is taking the girls up to the top of Table Mountain for an artistic expedition while the weather allows. Should you feel inclined, you two gentlemen would be very welcome to partake of our little picnic and perhaps to instruct them in their daubing.’
‘That’s very kind in you,’ Kydd said quickly. ‘We’d be honoured to attend.’
‘Splendid. Er, your ethnical work is proceeding satisfactorily, Mr Renzi? I cannot conceive how you might concentrate with all the martial excitement about your ears.’
‘It, er, progresses well, sir. And … and the government of Cape Colony, your distinguished new secretary?’
‘Ah, me,’ Ryneveld, said with a sigh. ‘Those heroic days, when together we snatched order from the chaos that threatened – I’m afraid these are long past, Mr Renzi. Now it’s work more fitting for the administrator and accountant, with Secretary Barnard still unwell from his long voyage.’
They walked on in silence for a space. Passing a well-weathered wijnhuis, they heard a manly bass booming out a jolly ballad:
‘Aan de Kaap hoord en wilt verstaan
Daar de meisjes dagelyks verkeeren
Al in het huys De Blaauwe Haan,
Daar wyze dagelyks converzeren!’
‘Ah,’ Renzi said politely. ‘A folk song of the colony, no doubt hallowed by age. Do share with me what they are singing about, sir.’
‘You are right,’ Ryneveld said drily. ‘This is from the early days of our settlement, sung by returning sailors of the Dutch East India Company. But the words are not for ears such as yours, Jonkheer Renzi.’
Kydd hid a smile. ‘Nonetheless Mr Renzi, I’m sure, is interested in its ethnical, er, origins, Mr Ryneveld.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Why, yes,’ Renzi said.
‘Then it goes:
“At the Cape, one hears you’ll understand,
There maidens daily do play court
At the house of the Blue Cock …”’
The rhyme and rhythm were quite lost in translation but the sentiment was clear.
‘You wish me to continue, sir?’
‘Please.’
The unknown rich bass rolled on:
‘Een frische roemer Kaapsche wyn
Zai hem, die geld heeft, smaaklyk zijn
Zo proeft men reeds op d’eersten stond
De vruchten van de Kaapschen grond.’
‘And I’ll translate freely this last, touching as it does on our mariner’s delight in finding himself once more in Cape Town.’
‘A cool rummer of Cape wine
Is zest indeed for he with money,
To taste from that first moment
The fruits of the good Cape earth.’
‘Thank you, sir. Most informative,’ Renzi said cheerfully, now convinced there was no longer any need to hide his face when ashore.
‘And where shall we meet for your diverting expedition, pray?’ he added.
They were fortunate: the autumn weather was kind and a warm sun beamed down on the little party marvelling at the precipitous edge of Table Mountain and the spectacular panorama sprawled in meticulous miniature detail below.
They were not alone: other small groups were there, taking advantage of the benevolent conditions, and cheery greetings were exchanged by all who had made the vertiginous final ascent.
It had been carriages to the lower slopes of the giant mountain, followed by a panting scramble up past a waterfall shaded by myrtle. Then had come an arduous zigzag for some hours in the warm sunshine, until in the very shadow of the final vertical shafting of the vast monolith a cool chasm had opened. This was the Platteklip Gorge, their pass to the summit, and pausing to drink at a crystal spring, they emerged at last at the top.
There were no trees, only some wistfully beautiful tiny flowers and heath with moss and lichen, and for the rest a bare grey ruler-straight flatness stretching away for what seemed miles, one of nature’s truly impressive vistas. Exclaiming at the sight, the girls claimed their vantage-points, and the party joined in a tasty repast of cold meats and Cape wine.
After the picnic had been cleared away, Kydd found a spot and set up his easel, Renzi on his right. The breeze fluttered at the paper, which he clipped down firmly. After he had industriously sharpened his best Cumberland pencil, he set to.
Like most naval officers he had learned to take the likeness of a coastline and he had found he was in possession of an artistic talent. Looking out now at a prospect worthy of the greatest artists, he felt inspired: he was on the rim of the world and, in the blue-misty distance, could see the rumpled pair of mountains at the far end of the curve of coast that was Blaauwberg where, not so very long ago, two armies had vied for dominion of the Cape. Nearer, many ships were anchored offshore – Cape Town was clearly prospering by the opening of trade with the world. With a surge of pride he picked out L’Aurore among the bigger naval vessels in their more northerly anchorage, yards meticulously square, a perfect toy at this distance.
As he sketched in the outlines in deft strokes, he pondered over what Popham had confided. There was sense in what he had said about their situation being out of sight, out of mind: he had seen it once before – as a new officer on the quiet North America station in Halifax, Nova Scotia. There he had met men who had been in ships that had been sent out at the beginning of the war and were still there with no foreseeable prospect of either engaging in some momentous fleet action or returning home.
He had welcomed the relative tranquillity for the space it gave him to learn his profession, but it was a different matter here. Now he was a young captain at the outset of his career. If he failed to make his mark soon, others would overtake him, gaining the plum promotions, the more powerful frigates – and be the ones to go on with the great admirals to who knew what glorious actions?
And there was another element to be considered. He was now a very eligible bachelor, by most standards, and it was on the cards that he would fall in love and want to marry. While he had command of a far-ranging frigate, it was essential to make the going in amassing prize-money now for, as Popham could testify, there was little to be had in the larger ships. While he still had a respectable sum from his privateering days, it was not enough to buy and run a country estate.
Then again, Bonaparte had triumphed on land, but how long could a war be relied on to last now that the tyrant was locked up in Europe with nowhere to go? Peacetime would see an instant freezing of promotions and certainly no opportunity for fattening the purse.
If there was a time to become active, it was now.
T
he outline of his scene was complete. He hooked up the box of watercolours to the base of the easel and sighed. It was not in his power to summon the French to a desperate battle. With few casualties and the unfortunate loss of the corvette, the recent action on the Zambezi would hardly raise eyebrows. If only Whitehall had seen fit for a grand assault against Spanish South America. The British had proved their amphibious skills at Blaauwberg, and such a mission could well be a repeat of that.
Suddenly restless, he glanced sideways at the girls, gossiping blithely as they worked on their landscapes. Seized by an odd feeling, he dabbed in a fearsome ox-eye, the dreadful storm portent he had seen off East Africa before a particularly violent tempest. It was colourful and vivid but didn’t fit the scene. He realised he’d spoiled the painting, laid down his brush in vexation and decided to take a stroll.
Kydd had worked fast and the others in the party hadn’t yet exchanged their pencils for brushes. Over to the right he noticed a dark-haired rather shabby figure rapidly executing his landscape. Unusually for a watercolour he was using a full-sized maulstick and worked with quick, economic movements. Kydd wandered over and stood behind him. Clearly this was no amateur: his field easel was well used and he was building his scene over a luminous cerulean wash that gave a shimmering quality to the foreground elements, which gained animation as a result.
‘A lively piece,’ Kydd offered, leaning closer.
The man, a young, intense individual with sun-touched Iberian features, turned, nodded brusquely and returned to his work. Kydd looked closer at the landscape, realising he’d seen the style before. That was it: the gunroom had bought two of his paintings.
‘You paint professionally, then?’ Kydd asked.
Hooking his maulstick in a little finger, the man felt in his waistcoat, drew out a card and handed it over, then resumed his rapid brush-strokes with unsettling concentration. The card read: ‘Vicente Serrano, Painter in Oils, Watercolour and Gouache. Portraits and Landscapes to the Discerning by Arrangement. 150 Buitengracht Street.’
‘You’re Spanish, then?’ Kydd asked, puzzled.
This time he got full attention. ‘No, sir!’ Serrano spat. ‘I am not! A porteno of Buenos Aires, which is in South America.’ He glared at Kydd, then resumed his work.
‘Oh – I didn’t wish to pry, Mr Serrano. It’s just that the gunroom in my ship is an admirer of your work. There’s now two pieces hanging there to ornament their mess-place.’
There was a pause and a flashed glance back. ‘So sorry. I leave Buenos Aires because the Spanish they come for me when I speak what they don’ like. I cannot return. Now I paint the picture for my bread. Por favor, Senor …’ He recharged his brush and continued on the landscape.
Kydd went back to his easel and began another view. This time it was with a calm grey-blue wash, like the one he had just seen, and he wanted to make a good job of it. Perhaps he would send it home to his mother.
Stretching, he looked across at Renzi, who had gone to one of the girls and was leaning over her in conversation. He was by no means as accomplished as Kydd, proficient but with a light style that lacked individuality. Should he go over and set them both straight on the finer points?
He got up, but when he looked again he was astonished to see the girl blush deeply, glance around and then go with Renzi out of sight over the edge of the broad top of the mountain.
Renzi? Near betrothed to his sister? Scandalised, he considered whether to follow but realised that whatever he did would be misunderstood so he waited awkwardly at the girl’s easel, ignoring flashed glances from the others. After an age the two appeared again. When the girl saw Kydd, her eyes widened and her hand flew guiltily to her mouth.
‘Um, er – this is Miss Felicity,’ Renzi said awkwardly. ‘Captain Kydd of L’Aurore, my dear.’
At a loss, Kydd merely bowed and looked at Renzi.
‘Oh, er, Miss Felicity wishes my opinion of her veduta. What is your taking, at all?’
It was a fine, intricate and painstaking work. With not an ounce of life in it. However, Kydd mumbled something anodyne, then added in a significant tone, ‘And I would be obliged for your opinion on mine, Nicholas.’
At his easel Kydd turned on Renzi. ‘Sir, might I make so bold as to enquire-’
Renzi cut him off: ‘In a private way of things Miss Felicity was of some assistance to me,’ he said bitingly, ‘in the article of what a lady might see in a novel. In peril of her reputation she made free of her feelings in the matter. Shall we join the others?’
Popham laid down his pointer and looked at his captains apologetically. ‘So, that’s the situation this month, gentlemen. More of the same – the sixty-fours to remain here, the frigates to cruise occasionally. I’m sorry not to have more entertainment but, as you can see, the French have not been obliging in this.’
Byng of Belliqueux’s bass rumble came in: ‘It has to be said, though, that life on this station does have its compensations.’ He had reason to be satisfied: he had been comfortably in command of the ageing sixty-four for five years now and his wife had recently arrived to join him, as had Downman’s in Diadem. With the pretty wife of Leda’s Honyman, there was now a close social grouping of the married men with family.
‘Be that as it may, we have our duty. Which takes precedence over all else,’ Popham said coldly.
‘Well, I’m for a mort of play at the tables tonight. Frederick?’ There was an affable response to Byng’s query, and the captains made their way out, but something tugged at Kydd and he delayed.
Popham was collecting up his papers and Kydd saw the sagging shoulders, the slow movements, and felt a sudden stab of sympathy. He said impulsively, ‘Er, sir, there’s a French singer at my club, much cried up. Should you wish it, we could spend a pleasant enough evening there.’
The commodore looked up, his face lined and careworn, and broke into a soft smile. ‘Why, so thoughtful in you, Kydd. I shall take you up on the offer, I believe.’
He looked down, saying quietly, ‘And it’s “Dasher” to my friends, as I hope you’ll account me.’
The evening turned out as agreeable as promised and the two found themselves by the log fire, each with a fine brandy. Elsewhere the noisy conviviality continued but they sat in companionable silence, staring into the flames.
At last Popham spoke: ‘Pay no mind to me today, Kydd. I’m prey to the blue devils at times – I’m unhappily possessed of a mind that’s ceaselessly conjuring up quantities of stratagems and devices that have no hope ever of seeing light of day.’
‘It is a disappointment, no doubt, that Mrs Popham is not joining you,’ Kydd said gently. Presumably she would be the one to tame his restless spirit, if anyone could.
‘Elizabeth does not take kindly to foreign climes, and we have a clutch of daughters whose education would suffer if they were parted from their school.’ It was known that Popham had a wife and family, but they had never followed him and he was left, like so many other naval officers, neither bachelor nor married man. Some had taken the easy way out but he had always remained faithful.
Kydd shifted uncomfortably, aware he was talking to the one who had surveyed in the Red Sea, conceived of the Sea Fencibles, had devised the near-invisible catamaran torpedo launchers and a radical new signal system used by Nelson himself, originated the secret Miranda memorandum and was no less than a full fellow of the Royal Society. What possible diversions were to be found in Cape Colony for this fecund brain?
‘In my lower moments I feel driven to strike my flag and return to England, away from this exile.’ He took a deep pull of his brandy. ‘That would be the end of my sea service, of course, but …’
Aghast, Kydd tried to find something to say in brotherly sympathy but could think of nothing that did not sound weak.
‘And at other times I damn the eyes of the sluggards in London who couldn’t see a strategical opportunity if it bit them in the ankle. For two pins I’d sail against Montevideo with what I have, rather than w
ait for their interminable approval until it’s too late.’
Kydd caught a betraying flash of the eyes and, with a tightening of the stomach, realised what it meant. He was being sounded out: the commodore was up to something and needed to know where he stood.
A wash of apprehension was quickly replaced by a surge of understanding and loyalty. Popham was driven by his own need for action but it was in direct accord with his higher duty to his country and the more basic requirement they both shared to achieve something of distinction. Did he really mean it?
‘As well you might, Dasher,’ Kydd said warmly. ‘It would try the patience of a saint.’
He allowed some moments to pass then added casually, ‘And a move against the Dons in South America could well knock them out of the war, I’m persuaded.’
‘You are? It would discommode them to a degree, that much is certain. And the treasure there – I’d rather it were in English hands than Boney’s, don’t you think?’
The eyes were now steadily on Kydd and he returned the gaze confidently. Nothing had been said that was either the truth or what he truly felt.
‘I do. But then all this is to no purpose – there’s nothing can be done without there is approval from Whitehall.’
‘Um,’ Popham said, his gaze not wavering. ‘This must be so, but … purely out of curiosity, if I were to be so rash as to make a motion against South America, would you follow, old chap?’
So that was it. A strike against Montevideo!
His mind raced. The question, of course, was hypothetical: if Popham ordered it, Kydd must obey. What was really being asked was: would he join with a whole heart in the enterprise or hang back with carping objections, as some might do in the absence of formal orders from above? If Popham really contemplated the move he must tread very carefully indeed, for if it was later disallowed by the Admiralty then, from this point on, anything Kydd did that smacked of collusion was meat for a court-martial.
There was one overriding objection to any talk of a pre-emptive assault and Kydd knew it had to be brought up immediately: ‘Well, I have to say it, Dasher, it’s a bold enough stroke – but wouldn’t this leave you open to the charge of quitting your station without leave?’ It was axiomatic to faraway Admiralty planning that the strength and whereabouts of its assets around the world were reliably known in the grand chess game that was central to political strategy, and an admiral who was absent from his post was a dangerous liability.
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