A Flower for the Queen: A Historical Novel

by Caroline Vermalle

  Masson held his battle pose and looked back towards the trees as he circled cautiously around Thunberg, keeping the demented doctor between himself and the woods.

  “What are you doing here?” he hissed. “And what have you done with Willmer?”

  Thunberg propped the rifle up against a tree so that he could dab at the tears on his face with a checked handkerchief. He looked at Masson quizzically. “What have I done with …? Are you serious?” Thunberg broke into another fit of laughter as he struggled to put the handkerchief back in his pocket and catch his breath. “A better question would be: what could anyone do with the likes of Mr Willmer?”

  Thunberg tossed the small bag to Masson, who caught it gingerly with his free hand. “It’s not a snake. It’s lunch. I thought you might be hungry after your morning stroll across the dunes. You won’t mind if I join in, will you?”

  Thunberg walked back into the woods before quickly returning with another, larger, bag. He sat himself down and emptied its contents onto Masson’s abandoned blanket, sorting out apples, bread, sausages, grapes and biscuits.

  He paused and looked up again at Masson. “You should eat; you don’t look so good.”

  Masson demurred, and Thunberg insisted. “Come, come, it’s not all that bad, Mr Masson,” Thunberg said, as if reading his thoughts. “Have something to drink at least.”

  Masson refused. He still had some water left in his waterskin, and if Thunberg was here, then it was likely that the road was not far off. “How did you know where I was?” he asked.

  “I was delivering medicines to the slave village when I bumped into Willmer. He was heading back to town alone, but with a spare horse. I asked some passing locals, and they told me about a madman who was marching across the dunes, so naturally I thought it had to be you.”

  “But I saw no one,” said Masson, indignant.

  “Of course you didn’t,” replied Thunberg smugly. “You’ll get used to it.”

  “Thank you, Doctor, but I think it would be best if I was on my way.”

  “Well,” said Thunberg, “Suit yourself. But you should know that between the gangs of escaped criminals, wild animals, marauding Khoikhoi and the odd runaway slave here and there, you may find that it pays to take help when it is offered.”

  “Forgive me, Doctor, but it was words along those very lines that landed me in this predicament in the first place.”

  Thunberg made a look as if he had been visibly wounded. “I am deeply hurt, Mr Masson. If one man of science cannot help another out in his time of need without having his motives questioned, then we have indeed reached a sorry state of affairs. Schelling and I could not be cut from more different cloth.”

  He wrinkled his nose as the breeze shifted direction and recoiled as Masson’s particular odour reached him. “For example, I doubt that Schelling could tell the difference between the scent of a rose or that of the carrion flower that you have obviously been sleeping with. But what I do know is that the man can spot a profit like a raptor spots a wounded dove. Did you really think that men like him or that brute Willmer would give you the time of day if there was not something to be gained by it?”

  “My only concern was getting the flower as quickly as possible so that I could leave this place and return home to England where I belong.”

  Thunberg stuffed his mouth with bread and sausage, following it with a swig from a bottle of red wine before continuing. “Any botanist who has spent longer than a week here will tell you that there is nothing in False Bay that hasn’t already been packed off to Europe by the shipload. The only purpose anyone else could have for setting foot here is to try to steal whatever cargo washes up on the beach after a wreck and the only purpose that an Englishman would have in setting foot here would be to obtain an assessment of the Dutch fortifications. A flower for the Queen of England? I’ve never heard such a fantastic tale in all my life!”

  Masson looked at Thunberg and he gave in, finally taking a deep draught of the proffered wine. “I’m beginning to think the same.” He took another swig and then paused. “Only …”

  “Only what?” asked Thunberg.

  “Only Banks told me about the flower long before he told me about False Bay.”

  Thunberg’s hand paused in mid-air, the bread and sausage still held between his slender and well-manicured fingers, his interest suddenly piqued. “I presume he gave you a description of some sort?”

  “Yes, a crude drawing, but it’s so unlike anything else I’ve ever seen that I’m sure I would not mistake it if I ever saw it.”

  “Do you have it — the drawing, I mean?” Thunberg asked casually.

  “No. Willmer took it along with my journal — the one that has all the survey information and Captain Cook’s report detailing the disembarkation of Reinhold Forster.”

  Thunberg could not believe his ears. “Do you mean the same survey information that will reserve you your own private cage with a view of the bay from van Riebeeck’s hedge, and the same report that Forster would probably give a fortune to see destroyed?”

  Masson nodded.

  Thunberg smiled wistfully. “Well, Schelling has certainly struck it rich this time — not only will he have rewards for handing in a spy and saving Forster’s reputation, but he’ll also be halfway to getting himself a nice insurance policy.”

  Perhaps it was the wine or the sun, but Masson’s head ached, and he could no longer keep the frustration bottled up inside. “But this isn’t about wine or tobacco or cotton. It’s just a flower!” he bellowed at no one in particular.

  “Is it?” asked Thunberg. “Can you name another flower that leads straight to the heart of the King of England?”

  Masson said nothing, and Thunberg grew more animated. “It’s common knowledge, even if it’s not much spoken about, that the winds of change are blowing through the Cape, and that those winds have a particularly English odour to them. Today’s rulers could be tomorrow’s outcasts. Every man who has an interest here is looking for some way to gain influence with the English and their East India Company, and Schelling has more interests here than most. The Dutch ships deal directly with the Company, but Schelling deals with all the rest. If you are an English captain in need of fresh fruit to stop scurvy but there is none to be had, Schelling will get it for you. If you are Portuguese with some surplus wine that the Company won’t allow you to land, Schelling will find a way. If you are a young man in need of adventure or a woman …”

  Masson blushed. “I’ll have you know, sir, that I am engaged to be married!”

  “And my most hearty congratulations to you and the no doubt lovely Mrs Masson-to-be. My point is, if there is to be a changing of the guard, then Schelling will want to be sure that he has a little something on his side, like a small pledge of thanks signed by the King himself, for example.”

  “But how would handing over an English spy win him any favours?”

  “Ah, but that’s where Willmer comes in. Schelling will get his reward without even getting his hands dirty — let me guess, was it Willmer who gave you a full account of the Cape’s defences?”

  Masson paused. “Thank you, Doctor Thunberg, this is all most fascinating, but if you could just direct me to the road so that I could make my way back to Cape Town, I would be very much appreciative.”

  Thunberg bowed his head to show no offence was taken. “Of course. I understand completely.” He cleared his throat and brought his hat to his chest before bellowing out to the flamingos who had amassed once again, “If there be any man present who is willing to save a Scottish gardener’s skin, please step forward!”

  After pausing for effect, Thunberg gave Masson a winning and not altogether unfriendly smile. “Do feel free to choose someone else, I won’t take it personally. Or maybe your trusty sabre there will save you?”

  Masson looked away from Thunberg and tried to think quickly.

  “All that business with the flower of Jericho at the tea party,” he said, turning back to the other man. �
��What is there between you, Schelling and Willmer?”

  Thunberg looked at Masson carefully before biting down on an apple and then explaining to Masson between mouthfuls. “When I arrived in the Cape, it was clear that Willmer and Schelling were making a handsome profit on medicines imported to the colony from foreign ships and which were then used to treat the slaves. I approached them in a civilised way and pointed out that this profiteering ultimately meant less medicine for the slaves, but they replied only by saying that this was the way things worked in the Cape, and that if I knew what was good for me, I would not muddy the waters, so to speak.”

  Masson did his best to give an impression of taking an interest in Thunberg’s story, but slowly he made his way around to the trees.

  “So, with no alternative other than to watch people die for the sake of Willmer and Schelling’s profit, I convinced the Governor to assign a section of the Gardens to the production of medicinal plants so that we would have our own supply. This meant a substantial increase in the amount of medicine available to the slaves at no cost at all, which one might have supposed would have made Messrs Willmer and Schelling very happy indeed. Well, apparently not.

  “But just out of curiosity,” Thunberg said innocently, as he reached down to gather up the remains of the lunch, “why don’t you tell me about this flower of yours anyway?”

  Thunberg looked up to find that Masson had grabbed the rifle and had now trained it on him.

  “Thank you for the lunch, Doctor, but there seems to be an awful lot of botanists in this town. I might be a fool once, but not twice.” Masson edged back towards the trees. “Now, if you could just spare me your horse, I’ll be on my way — I’ll be sure to leave it where you can find it. I might be a spy, but I’m no thief.”

  “Which is exactly why you should put down that weapon.” Thunberg said, a new note of seriousness in his voice.

  A large African man wearing neat clothes but no shoes stepped forward from behind the treeline holding a rifle aimed at Masson’s head.

  Thunberg smiled. “What is it that Mr Schelling is fond of saying? Ah yes, ‘A man alone never survives in Africa’. Mr Masson, meet Eulaeus. Eulaeus, this is Mr Masson.”

  Masson scanned the surroundings, looking to see if there was some escape route, but finding none, he resigned himself to the fact that his bluff had failed.

  He handed the rifle back to Thunberg and then looked across at Eulaeus, expecting to see triumph or relief on the man’s face, but instead saw only agitation.

  Eulaeus kept his rifle raised, his eyes darting between the two Europeans and the trees. Something was wrong.

  “Eulaeus,” Thunberg asked slowly, “What is it?”

  In answer to his question, two Dutch burghers stepped out of the trees with their own rifles raised. Masson recognised them as being the same men who had guarded the gate at van Riebeeck’s Hedge. Behind them stood Willmer, armed with a pistol.

  “Put down your bloody weapons! You’re all under arrest!”

  Thunberg and Eulaeus let their rifles fall to the ground.

  “Doctor Thunberg! Here I was hoping to bag one traitor, and instead it seems that we have stumbled upon an entire gang.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Willmer, you can see that we were just about to apprehend this man and take him in ourselves.”

  “Is that what I’m looking at? All I can see is a Xhosa holding your rifle, a spy and a doctor who seems to have forgotten what side of the fence he’s supposed to be on.”

  “Now, Willmer, I’m sure we can come to an arrangement. I admit my tactics were unorthodox, but they were effective. I had him right where I wanted him! Why don’t we share the reward, split it right down the middle, what do you say?”

  “No, Doctor Thunberg, the only thing you’re going to be sharing is a cell in the fort’s dungeon with your new friend here. I hope you don’t get too sick, though, as I hear that the Governor has decreed the medicines grown in Company Gardens are too valuable to be wasted on criminals and are to be used for employees and slaves only. Isn’t that what you intellectual fellows call irony?”

  “In the name of the King of England, I demand that you set us free and return to me that which you have stolen,” demanded Masson.

  “Your King won’t be able to help you here, Mr Masson, and as for your possessions, I believe they are now what is commonly called ‘evidence’.”

  Masson was seething, but Willmer just grinned.

  “Your journal makes for very interesting reading, and although the Governor will no doubt be fascinated, I am sure he won’t mind if Mr Schelling and I hang on to one or two of the items that are of no concern to the colonies’ security.”

  Willmer and his companions chuckled darkly as they led the three men back through the creaking woods towards a waiting cart drawn by two oxen to which Thunberg and Eulaeus’s horses had already been tethered.

  As they were tied up and loaded onto the back of the cart, Masson looked around in hopeless desperation for some means of escape, cursing the fact that he had been so close to the road. If only he hadn’t stopped to rest.

  One of the burghers cracked his sjambok over the rumps of the oxen, and the cart rumbled forward with a jerk. Willmer brought his mount around to the back of the cart and doffed his hat to the two captives in parting.

  “Allow me to leave you in the capable hands of my two associates here, while I ride ahead to inform Mr Schelling of our good fortune. I have a feeling that he’s going to be most pleased. Enjoy the ride, gentleman!”

  CHAPTER 22

  The uncovered cart clattered and rumbled its way along the dirt track back towards Cape Town. Whilst Masson and Thunberg were tied up, Eulaeus was left to walk behind the cart with his wrists bound, leading the two horses.

  One of the Dutch burghers held a rifle in his lap and kept a wary eye on the prisoners; the other walked ahead with the oxen, urging them on with his sjambok.

  Masson tried to explain. “Sir, I am a gardener sent by the King of England. If you take me to my lodgings, I can show you my letters of recommendation.”

  The burgher driving the team turned back and said in heavily accented English, “Don’t waste your time. Captain Willmer showed us your notebook. Mr Masson’s Botanical Travels in the Fair Cape, right?” The two men laughed as Masson stared at the dusty floorboards of the cart, his sunburned cheeks flushed.

  “You bloody English keep trying to map False Bay so that one day you can land your ships,” said the other burgher. “We might be simple farmers, but we know a spy when we see one. You’re not the first, you know. Although you’re getting more imaginative, I’ll give you that.”

  The wind dropped and the sun began to sink towards the west as the cart rumbled on, climbing up out of the plain as they approached the base of Table Mountain. Masson could see the guard’s head nodding as he tried to stay awake, fighting against the rhythmic swaying of the cart and the hazy heat of the afternoon.

  Eulaeus traipsed on in stoic silence behind the cart, occasionally scanning the horizon in the direction from which they had come, as if searching for something in the vast expanse of the sandy plain.

  Thunberg was looking furtively at the nodding soldiers.

  “It’s a pity you didn’t bring your sabre, Mr Masson,” Thunberg said to Masson, the intent in his eyes clear.

  Francis felt the weight of the folding knife in his pocket, but could not see how to get at it with his hands tied up.

  “You’ll need more than a sabre where you’re headed,” scoffed the guard, his voice thick with drowsiness, before settling back into his doze.

  But when the cart next hit a rut and the guard was distracted as he tried to keep his balance, Thunberg pressed against Masson and brought his hands around to Masson’s pocket, grabbing the small knife and then concealing it behind his back, he opened the blade and began to work on his bindings.

  Thunberg then leaned over to Masson and whispered in his ear, “One last thing, Masson: long before I w
as called Doctor, I was a botanist. In the event of my death, my plant collection must be sent to Carl Linnaeus in Uppsala. Tell him I always regarded him as a father. And do choose something nice for my epitaph; I always thought your Scottish poets were very good at sombre melancholy.”

  Before Masson could protest, Thunberg leaped up and lunged at the guard with the small knife. Reacting too late, the guard let his rifle fall to the ground but managed to grab the arm that held the knife causing Thunberg to fall against him, his ankles still tied together.

  The cart stopped with a jolt as the leading burgher halted the oxen. Thunberg and the guard fell to the ground, still grappling for control of the knife. Masson made ready to lunge at the second guard, but something whistled past his ear and embedded itself in the planking of the cart with a sickening thud. The spear that had so narrowly missed him had an iron head about six inches long. Before Masson could see where it had come from, he was grabbed by Eulaeus, who bundled him under the cart, without a single word of explanation.

  From his shelter, Masson heard a strangled cry and saw one of the burghers fall to the ground just next to him, his throat pierced through by another spear.

  The other burgher, who moments before had been grappling with Thunberg, had by now broken away and recovered his rifle. He fired off a single shot, the powder fizzing and spluttering before an explosive roar. He set about reloading the rifle, but before he had even poured the powder down the muzzle, he too was felled, this time by a short stick that came cartwheeling through the air. This one had a bulbous end, like the knuckle in a thighbone.

  Thunberg hopped and scrambled his way through the dust to join Masson and Eulaeus under the cart. Still clutching the knife, he cut away furiously at the bindings around his ankles before attending to those of his companions. As he cut Eulaeus free, he looked up at him with a searching look, but Eulaeus only frowned and shook his head. Whoever had killed the burghers were no friends of his.