A Flower for the Queen: A Historical Novel

by Caroline Vermalle

  “Don’t be shy — take one, or take them all,” Thunberg said, waving a hand dismissively. “You’ll need lots of pages where we’re headed, and I have plenty more. But in exchange, would you mind going to the pantry to fetch a keg of brandy and some biscuits? First door on the right, then go to the room at the end on the right and it’s on the middle shelf.”

  “Do you really think that brandy will help us get to Two Rivers any faster?” Masson protested.

  Thunberg held up some large, empty glass jars and said with exaggerated patience, “The brandy, my dear Masson, is for conserving any insects or amphibians we come across. We will be covering virgin territory, as it were, and I plan to collect more than just your flower.”

  “Of course,” replied Masson sheepishly. “So, first door on the right, then the room at the end, middle shelf, you said?”

  “And don’t forget the biscuits!”

  “No doubt some ingenious local method of defending against malaria?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, there’s no malaria where we’re going. It’s because I haven’t eaten a decent meal in hours!”

  As Masson turned to leave, Thunberg whispered, “When you go into the pantry, be careful not to wake up Old Pieterszoon. Remember, we’ll be needing his help!”

  Masson felt his way through the large entrance hallway and entered the first door he came to on the right, which led into a long dining room. As he tiptoed through the room, he had to lean against the chairs for support, lest his stocking feet slip on the highly polished floorboards. He made his way to the rear of the room, where Thunberg had said he would find the pantry door.

  But as he came closer, he thought he could hear unusual sounds coming from behind the door adjacent. It was a series of rhythmic squeaks followed by an all-consuming groan.

  Suddenly, the door opened and light flooded into the dining room. A buxom black woman wearing nothing more than a nightshirt stood and stared for a moment at Masson, who looked back at her in wonder and fright.

  “I beg your pardon, madam,” he started, when he eventually came to his senses. But the woman simply put her hands to her mouth and let out a scream so shrill and loud that Masson was sure she would bring sentries all the way from Cape Town.

  Masson tried to reassure her, but this only served to make matters worse. She turned and fled back into the room, followed closely by Masson, who persisted in apologising and begging forgiveness. But after he had broached the threshold of the room, he simply stopped and stared at the sight before him: the entire room, from polished floor to the timber crossbeams that supported the roof, was piled high with thousands of pressed or dried plants. Any space not occupied by plants was taken up with rows of reference books, specimen jars containing bulbs or roots, or wooden chests with neatly labelled drawers. This incredible collection of items from the natural sciences reminded Masson of Banks’s office; however, where that was a museum, Masson felt that this was a laboratory — it was science in progress.

  The woman’s screams subsided as she tried in vain to hide her curvaceous frame behind the spindly figure of a wizened old man in a wheelchair wearing nothing but a flannel nightshirt and a tall, flat-topped hat.

  Masson’s reaction changed instantly from awe to embarrassment at discovering the couple. No matter where he looked, his eyes seemed pulled by a magnetic force back to the vignette of the elderly man and his buxom mistress. Eventually, to spare his own shame, he turned and made to leave, but he was halted by the old man’s accusatory voice. “Who are you?” the old man thundered in a voice that belied his years as he pointed to Masson’s stocking feet. “And what are you doing creeping around?”

  “Forgive me, sir, I’m a guest of Doctor Thunberg. We are preparing for a botanical expedition, and I was just looking for the pantry. I’m extremely sorry if I frightened your … the lady.”

  “Thunberg, eh? Well, that explains it!” The old man turned back to his companion. After he had patted her hand soothingly and reassured her in a patois Masson did not recognise, she bustled past him, giving him a disapproving scowl before disappearing into the darkness.

  Masson stood awkwardly as the old man manoeuvred his wheelchair closer, in the process producing the same squeaking sounds that he had heard earlier. He stopped only when he was almost directly beneath Masson’s chin.

  He looked Masson over and after finding nothing that merited further comment, harrumphed with disdain and followed after the woman, casually opening the pantry door on his way, and saying without looking back, “Take whatever you need, but don’t touch the bloody brandy!”

  Just then Thunberg appeared at the end of the dining room and with a crooked smile on his face greeted the old man as if it were high tea rather than nearer to five o’clock in the morning. “Greetings, my dear Hendrik. From all that screaming, am I to deduce that you have decided to ignore my advice about over-exerting yourself? Have you been chasing Hannah around the dining room table again?”

  “Bugger off, Thunberg. You know bloody well what the cause was. It’s bad enough that you’ve taken over my study with all your sorcery, but now your accomplices are getting in on the act, too! What the hell are you two up to anyway, sneaking around in the middle of the night? That’s my job!” He shook his head wearily. “I was already interrupted once when that devil Schelling came round yesterday evening, and now you two this morning. I came to the colonies for a quiet life — if I wanted this kind of excitement, I could have stayed in Amsterdam!”

  Masson started at the mention of the name.

  “Schelling?” asked Thunberg.

  “Yes, he came banging on my door, demanding a permit for him and his crew so that they could go to the east country. He was gibbering on about a place called Two Rivers, and he was in some kind of hurry, too.”

  Masson looked at Thunberg. “How on earth did he know where to go?”

  “It’s not like he sat down to tell me his life’s story,” continued Pieterszoon. “All I know is that he has two wagons and more than enough horses to pull them. Horses, I tell you! Who the hell takes horses into that country? They might be slow, but everyone knows that oxen are the only way to go! Why is it that you young fellows are always in such a hurry? Anyway, he also had a dozen or so slaves, an Englishman and that other bastard, Willmer, was with him, too.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t invite them in for dinner,” Thunberg said sarcastically.

  The old man prickled with indignation. “Oh, and he insisted I notarise a contract between himself and someone called Forster. I asked him why he couldn’t come during office hours like everyone else, but he said he was in a rush and that he would make it worth my while if I would accommodate him.”

  Pieterszoon seemed ready to explode. “Can you imagine the cheek of that little sneak? Trying to bribe me, the bloody Landdrost? Heavens above, whatever next?”

  “So I assume you told him to come back later?” asked Thunberg rhetorically.

  “Don’t be stupid, Thunberg. If he wants to throw money around, then who am I to stand in his way? I put on my hat, signed his permit, notarised his contract and off he went.”

  “Do you remember the name of the Englishman who was with him?” asked Masson, who was still standing in the pantry doorway.

  “Of course. Some frail youngster by the name of Burnette. If you ask me, he won’t last five minutes out there.”

  “Are you sure?” replied Masson incredulously.

  “Listen, my boy, I might be corrupt, but I’m not senile. I’ve been around long enough to know who’s who and what’s what!”

  Thunberg cut in, “Schelling’s found himself a partner. Even if they do discover the flower, he would need someone with Forster’s credentials to bypass Banks and get it to the King. They must have made a deal to go into business together — Forster’s connections in exchange for Cook’s report.”

  Masson was catching on. “If Forster did get the flower to the King, it would also give him the credibility he needed to rebut Cook�
��s report. He could turn disaster into triumph. But they would have to do it quickly, before Cook returned.”

  “But where does Burnette fit in?”

  Masson thought for a moment. “Burnette is a botanist. Schelling probably wanted to take someone along who could be trusted to keep the plants alive.”

  “Look, this is all fascinating stuff,” interrupted Pieterszoon. “But in case you two blockheads haven’t noticed, it’s bloody early, and there are other things I would rather be doing. Speaking of which — say, uh, Thunberg …” He paused and cleared his throat. “Do you think I could have some more of that stuff you gave me for the, ah, you know?” The old man cleared his throat a second time and looked meaningfully at Thunberg, who hesitated for a moment before coming to the old man’s rescue.

  “Oh, the Anthericum? But of course! Anything for you, my dear Hendrik. We can’t have you unable to perform your duties, now can we?”

  Thunberg went and fetched a small jar of brownish-coloured powder from his room. Upon returning, he crouched down so that he was eye-to-eye with Pieterszoon, holding the jar just out of reach of the old man’s eager hands. “Now, Hendrik, this is the last of my supply. I could get more, but to do that, I would need …”

  “What did you have in mind?” the Landdrost asked, reaching out for the jar.

  “I would need a pass to the east country for my friend Mr Masson, who has agreed to draw all the specimens that I collect.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. I’ll sign one right away!”

  “We would also need one or two things for the expedition. You know, supplies and oxen. On second thought, horses would be better — we’ll never catch up with Schelling’s crowd if we use oxen. We would also need a cart — that one you brought in from Cape Town last week would be perfect.”

  Thunberg handed the jar to the old man, who clutched it to his breast as if it were treasure. “You can have anything except the cart! And I told you — only a fool takes horses to the frontier country. After what you did the last time, I’d be the fool to lend you either. No way, Thunberg, not for all the potions in the world!”

  CHAPTER 25

  As the dawn broke over the Hottentots-Holland Mountains, bathing the farms and vineyards of the Stellenbosch Valley in a golden light that reflected off of the morning mist, Thunberg and Masson rode behind Eulaeus, who sat in the driver’s seat of Pieterszoon’s brand-new cart. A fine pair of carthorses trotted ahead at a clip; a pair of spare horses, tethered and lightly loaded, brought up the rear.

  “There are two routes that could take us to Two Rivers,” Thunberg said, breaking the silence. “The one that Schelling will probably take sticks to the coastal plain, where — for the most part — there’s plenty of fresh water and grazing for the horses. Plus there are farmsteads along the way where he can billet in comfort for the night and refresh his supplies. The problem for us is that even if we do manage to catch up and overtake him, he’s sure to get wind of us as he comes up behind, either from passing traffic or from the farmers along the way — we won’t be able to avoid them all. Our only hope is to hang back until we get close to Two Rivers, and then we can strike inland and circle around, outflanking him so that we get there before he does.”

  Masson thought it over. “Isn’t there a faster way?”

  Thunberg shook his head. “The last time I made this journey was with a team of six oxen, and it took almost four months to get there and back. With the horses we may be able to cut that in half, but that’s assuming we don’t—”

  “I know, I know,” Masson cut in wearily. “That’s assuming we don’t run into gangs of escaped criminals, wild animals, marauding Khoikhoi or the odd runaway slave here and there.”

  Thunberg smiled. “I believe you’re beginning to get into the spirit of things.”

  They continued on in silence. Just after they had lost sight of Stellenbosch, Thunberg asked Eulaeus to pull the horses onto a side trail, which they followed for a short while before arriving at a farmhouse, where Thunberg dismounted.

  “What are we doing here? Surely we want to be getting on our way?” whispered Masson.

  “You’re not the only one in need of good spirits. I won’t be long.”

  Thunberg walked up the gravel path to a front door that was set within an imposing whitewashed façade boasting the characteristic graceful gables of most homes in the region. After calling out and knocking, he let himself in and closed the door behind him, leaving Masson to stew in his juices whilst Eulaeus sat patiently, swatting at the flies that buzzed around the horses’ rumps.

  A few moments later, Thunberg emerged from the house. He was followed by several servants who looked around furtively as they carried over half a dozen crates and loaded them onto the back of the cart. Thunberg thanked the men for their help, and after waving at the farmer who had appeared at the front door, the trio set off again, the crates making a tell-tale tinkling noise as they bumped along the track.

  “Is that wine in those crates?” asked Masson, incredulously.

  “Not just any wine, Mr Masson. That is the VOC’s own reserve from their estate at Constantia. If we were to be caught with it, we would probably be flogged, but given our circumstances, I thought we may as well take the risk.”

  “I was rather looking forward to roughing it,” Masson said, trying to sound disappointed.

  “There is fine line between rough and intolerable. My only condition for accompanying you on this ridiculous errand is that if that line is to be blurred, then it should only be done under the influence the finest wine that the Cape has to offer. Besides, if French Huguenots had to escaped oppression so that they could come here and plant their vines to make wine, then the least that we can do to salute their courage and ingenuity is to partake of the fruits of their labours!”

  They joined the main track as they approached False Bay during the afternoon,, passing by the slave village before the road turned and made its way towards the enormous bulk of the Hottentots-Holland Mountains that jutted out and formed the eastern flank of the bay.

  When the incline of the path increased sharply, Masson looked up at the track that lay before them and the pangs of fear that were by now becoming a familiar sensation settled into the pit of his stomach. Rusted and broken debris from numerous wagons and carts that had been destroyed in attempting to ascend or descend the pass littered the ground.

  Thunberg caught Masson’s gaze and tried to reassure him. “I wouldn’t worry too much. They say that half the wagons passing through here make it with hardly any damage at all.”

  Masson and Thunberg dismounted and whilst Masson led his and Thunberg’s mounts up the pass ahead of the cart, Thunberg and Eulaeus guided the reluctant carthorses on foot.

  With perspiration pouring down their faces, Thunberg and Eulaeus strained against the incline and the stubbornness of the horses.

  “Just remember that this is the fast way!” Thunberg called out as Masson began to wonder if it might not be easier to walk the six hundred miles to Two Rivers instead.

  After toiling for most of the afternoon, they reached the summit and stopped to take a moment to look back on what they had just achieved. Beyond the treacherous pass — which seemed so much worse looking down that it had looking up — Masson could see the full sweep of False Bay, from the setting of the sun behind the mountains of the Cape Peninsula at its far end to the cluster of slave houses in the village that lay at the foot of the pass.

  Having lived most of his life in the flat Kent countryside, Masson had never been so high up, and he was unaccustomed to seeing so much landscape at one time. Exhausted by the climb and overwhelmed by the scale of the vista and the feeling of vertigo that came with it, he sat down on a rock and closed his eyes, hoping that being closer to the ground would restore his equilibrium.

  A while later, when he opened his eyes again, the sunset had given way to night, although the moon had not yet risen. Apart from tiny pinpricks of light that spilled from the windows of the houses i
n the village below, it was as if a giant shroud of darkness had fallen from the sky and rubbed out the landscape.

  As Masson cast his eyes to the heavens, he saw a huge expanse of stars, the likes of which he had never seen.

  But his awe and wonder were tainted by confusion and doubt. The sky that was familiar to him had been replaced by an alien firmament devoid of the constellations he knew so well, without which he could tell neither east from west nor north from south.

  Unsettled and disoriented, he couldn’t help but think back to Schelling’s words: that a man alone does not survive in Africa. He turned away from the inky blackness that cloaked the bay and made his way to the camp that Thunberg and Eulaeus had pitched by the side of the track. As he drew closer to the warm glow of the small fire, the doubts that had begun to settle in his heart gave way to hope as he realised that he was not alone after all.

  CHAPTER 26

  When Masson woke in the morning, the pains in his body bore testament to the effort that he had expended in making it over the top of the Kloof.

  The new light of dawn found the small group on the eastern edge of a shallow basin about ten miles across and bounded on all sides by crumbling outcrops of light grey sandstone. The land within the basin was a verdant, gently undulating plain, strewn with weathered and crumbling boulders made of the same stuff as the outcrops that defined its rim.

  Zebras and antelope stood stoically against the strong wind that blew over the basin’s seaward edge and rippled across the low scrubby brush that carpeted the plain.

  Soon after setting off, they found that the cart was struggling over the rocky track, so Masson and Thunberg rode up to higher ground to see if they could spot Schelling’s party. When they couldn’t, Masson suggested pressing on at full speed, but Thunberg managed to convince him that they would be better off pacing themselves; nothing would be gained from straining the horses or the cart.