Conquest

by Julian Stockwin

  ‘No. A good plan – and will never work.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘The soldiers will be curious why you water at night. The road to the top, ver’ steep, ver’ long. You never do this in time. An’ peoples will see.’

  ‘Then we’ll have to—’

  ‘No, man, we can fix.’ M’Bembe reflected for a moment then said, ‘I like your plan. This what we do.’

  The timing was perfect. As the sun went down over Hartenbos peak in Mossel Bay a well-known livestock coaster doused her sails and found a place among the scatter of fishing boats off the beach.

  The boat-boys sang cheerfully as they rafted the water-barrels together alongside, then seemed to think better of working into the night and instead set up an awning and lantern on the after-deck for an evening’s conviviality.

  As the warm violet dusk faded into night, anyone looking closely might have made out a few figures busy with block and tackle on the opposite side who had not yet joined the party. But before it could get under way there was an irritated bellow from the beach. It seemed that there would be no slacking until the water-casks had been brought ashore ready.

  The little double-ended boat was manned, Lieutenant Bowden himself taking an oar and suppressing a giggle at the sight of other L’Aurore seamen disguised in low conical hats, faces and limbs well daubed with galley soot, and muttering under their breath at the indignity.

  The raft was ponderous and slow with the weight of the concealed gun but, of course, these were resentful sailors not about to exert themselves unduly and it was pitch dark before the gun grounded and was dragged ashore.

  A low curse and a frighteningly loud wooden squealing and jingle of harness came out of the night as the promised ox-wagon came over the sand, animal snorts with the rank smell of the barnyard heavy on the air.

  The squat bronze gun was small but heavy; hidden in a square box, it was satisfactorily anonymous. Ropes were brought and it was heaved around to the tail of the cart. More men jumped down to help, their white teeth showing as they grinned in delight at being part of the adventure.

  Suddenly two soldiers materialised out of the blackness and asked suspiciously, ‘Wat doen jy?’ All movement ceased.

  An easy chuckle came from the drover. ‘Het hulle jou nie vertel nie?’ He sauntered up and held out a packet. The soldiers muttered between themselves, then took it, waving them on before they left.

  ‘Quick!’ the drover hissed. The gun was heaved into the wagon with nervous energy, the cart settling with a thunderous creak. The boat arrived with the carriage and five heavy bags – shells and charges.

  Bowden hauled himself up to the seat next to the drover. ‘How did you—’

  ‘Gave him bung for Hooft,’ the drover said, lightly cracking his whip over the leading oxen, which stolidly started the wagon in motion.

  Curiously he asked, ‘Er, how much did you give him?’

  ‘A lot – of ol’ paper!’ he chortled. The ox-wagon dipped and swayed as it ground up a steeply sloping road into the night.

  Some miles past Mossel Bay L’Aurore came to and anchored in ten fathoms. Kydd was taking a grave risk by stripping the frigate of every last man save a token five; all had a crucial role in a very few hours and to hold back could be fatal.

  One by one the ship’s boats pulled ashore, landing the L’Aurore’s at the end of a wide beach, which marked the beginning of the heights above Mossel Bay. Kydd had the men mustered and they set out up a steep track into the African dusk, led by guides, the Royal Marines following and insisting on marching in proper form.

  Sweating in the hot night, Kydd was thankful when they reached the top. Following the guides, they swung right and moved out on a turtle-back of high ground. Beneath, the lights of the settlement twinkled, but the massive dark bulk of the fort lay closer.

  Now all depended on Bowden’s arrival. It was not until a bare hour before dawn that the unmistakable sound of the ox-wagon intruded into the stillness from the other direction. The men positioned themselves in accordance with orders, hunkered down and out of sight of the fort.

  The howitzer was assembled, the gun crew hand-picked by the gunner’s mate. Kydd waited patiently. As soon as it was light, the howitzer was carefully sited and loaded, and when the faint sound of the reveille sounded on the still air, he gave the first order. The ugly little gun banged angrily into the morning peace and, seconds later, a shell exploded short of the rear wall of the fort.

  The distant trumpet’s sound was cut off, as if with a knife. Moments later it was urgently baying the call to arms.

  Another shell detonated close to one side. ‘Easy, Mr Stirk – this only to wake ’em up.’

  After the third, men were at the embrasures to repel the mysterious attackers from inland, then began issuing out and massing for a counter-attack.

  Time for the final order. Kydd stood and gave the signal. As one, L’Aurore’s entire complement, seamen, marines, every man and boy in her crew, dressed in anything that was red, slowly stood up – and all along the skyline, hundreds of English redcoats could be seen forming line for a merciless attack from the unprotected direction.

  The effect was instant: in moments there was not a man left outside the walls of the fort.

  Another shell burst close, its smoke wreathing the air and wafting back over the defenders.

  ‘Last round, sir.’ It duly banged out, but its effect was decisive. As Kydd watched, the colours were jerked down in ignominious defeat.

  Chapter 7

  * * *

  ‘Ah, Renzi – I’d like you to meet Mijnheer Willem van Ryneveld,’ Baird said jovially, although his eyes remained cool and appraising. ‘In the last government under Janssens he was head man, as, who’s to say, their fiscal. Sir, this is Mr Nicholas Renzi, our colonial secretary.’

  Civil bows were exchanged and, murmuring a greeting, Renzi took in the neat and intelligent features, the sharp beard and restrained but stylish dress.

  ‘Shall you entertain Mr Ryneveld, old fellow?’ Baird went on. ‘I’m to consult on military matters this morning, I believe.’

  It was prearranged, but Renzi pretended to be taken by surprise and suggested a walk outside in the early-morning air. ‘I do suppose there’s much to consider,’ he said, affecting a leisurely stroll.

  ‘Yes, Mr Renzi,’ Ryneveld said, in a quiet and precise tone, falling into step beside him.

  Renzi hesitated. This was a crucial time: if the previous ruling class took against them, their position would be untenable. If, on the other hand, concessions were offered, would it be taken as a sign of weakness?

  His task was to sound out the chief figure in the previous administration, get a view on the distribution of allegiances and delicately allude to the advantages of co-operation.

  He stopped to admire the rearing bulk of Table Mountain, so close. ‘Such a magnificent prospect, Mr Ryneveld,’ he said. ‘A sight to transport the Romantics to ecstasy!’

  The man stood attentive, but silent.

  ‘And how curious it is that the mountains in Africa rear out of the earth so very abruptly,’ Renzi continued. There was still the same polite attention as he added, ‘Is this perhaps why we can so easily distinguish ranges at a distance, with none other to obtrude?’

  He let the question hang and eventually Ryneveld answered: ‘Singular, perhaps. I’ve heard that the Great Winterhoek is still visible at eighty miles.’

  They reached the end of the parade-ground and turned together. Then Renzi saw a tiny ghost of a smile. He couldn’t help but grin back and they chuckled. The ice had been broken.

  ‘Shall we talk?’ Ryneveld said.

  ‘By all means.’

  ‘Then I’d hazard that if I should be so impertinent as to make query as to the intentions of the new order, you would be exercised as to how these might be implemented.’

  Renzi allowed a measure of concern to enter his voice. ‘The colony faces hunger and danger – common humanity demands we come to an
understanding.’

  ‘Then might I know how your governance is to be achieved?’ Ryneveld asked cautiously.

  ‘I cannot speak for General Baird—’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘– yet I do sense that he appreciates the care and tolerance of the Dutch in their past administration and is minded to emulate it.’

  ‘A pity if that were so.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Renzi said in surprise.

  ‘The previous establishment – the Batavians – were in thrall to Bonaparte, who controls their nation. Decisions here were not necessarily taken in our best interests. Shall you?’

  ‘Sir, our purpose here is not in the character of conqueror. We are, as it were, obliged to make landing and occupation in order to prevent the French from seizing a strategic position that would enable them to sever our trade routes to India, nothing more.’

  ‘That much is apparent, sir.’

  ‘Therefore it is not in prospect to exploit the colony for its manufactories or resources.’ Renzi paused, then said significantly, ‘Which supposes our best course is to allow the continuance of the system of government that prevails.’

  He saw an unmistakable gleam of interest. ‘This to include the code of law, currency, rights of property – what say you, sir, to a restoration of all the traditional customs and trade practices as have been in place in Cape Town for these centuries past?’

  ‘All?’

  ‘Just so.’

  ‘Then I’d be compelled to describe it as a mistake, sir.’

  Renzi was taken aback. This, from the previous first man of government? ‘May I know why?’ he asked, after a space.

  ‘The Batavian government is recent, a parvenu. Our origins are far in the past as we were founded by the Dutch East Indies Company to be naught but a victualling stop on the way to the Spice Islands. They ruled until a handful of years ago and their motives were selfish, their loyalty only to their shareholders. A polity such as this has no right to rule, still less to be imitated.’

  ‘Are you then a radical, sir? Do you despise the former ways?’ Renzi asked. If he were, it would instantly disqualify him for any position in the administration they were trying to bring together. A revolution would be a distinct liability in their precarious situation – and where would be their ready-made civil service?

  ‘Not at all. The Dutch ways are direct, practical and well suited to this land.’

  ‘Then?’

  ‘I was fiscal in the previous government. There are regulations I would strike down and there are laws I would strengthen. It’s a small, inward-looking society of many races and beliefs and requires careful nurturing. Do you know that in Cape Town today the slave population exceeds the free by thousands? That the Malay Muslims demand their own burying ground? That the Xhosa people speak by the clicking of tongues?’

  It was becoming clearer: Ryneveld was making a bid for power in the new administration on the grounds of indispensability. But would he commit publicly to collaborating with the conquerors?

  ‘For myself, I’m a newcomer of days only,’ Renzi said neutrally. ‘These curiosities deserve attention, and insights from one of undoubted understanding would be well taken. However, it’s in contemplation to go much further – to entrust the well-running of the settlement to the people of Cape Colony themselves. Do you think it wise to allow the upper reaches of such a governance to be in Dutch hands or would it be prudent to staff it with English appointees?’

  ‘If you are sincere in your desire to bring forward the natural aspirations and feelings of the inhabitants of the Cape, then only the totality of what exists, the continuation of the known order, will bring the confidence and contentment in its administration that you stand in need of.’

  Renzi nodded gravely. ‘If there will be one who stands for the people of Cape Colony, would it not be seen that such would be in the pay of the English and therefore betrayed his countrymen?’

  ‘No,’ came the firm reply.

  ‘Come, sir. This land was settled by the Dutch, now another has usurped their ancient rights. Do you not believe this to be injurious to their feelings?’

  Ryneveld gave a tiny smile. ‘In turn, I’m astonished you English have not railed against the usurping Dutch – after all, it is you who have the prior claim. Was it not in 1620, a generation before our Jan van Riebeeck, that your Captain Shillinge took formal possession of the Cape in the name of King James?’

  ‘It had slipped my mind,’ Renzi said smoothly.

  ‘Then, sir, I think it true to say that should affairs be conducted in the old ways, congenial to the sensitivities of the honest citizens of Cape Town and conducive to the swelling of trade, you shall have a contented colony.’

  ‘Upon the advice of one of discernment and discretion, intimate with the delicacies of public affairs at the Cape . . .?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘Capital!’ Baird said. ‘If he’s willing to serve it means he’s others of like mind behind him. I do believe we have a way forward. Tricky that Janssens is still in the field – two governors, divided loyalties and such.’

  ‘Never mentioned, sir.’

  ‘Then he shall be appointed fiscal again.’ Baird laid down his pen and smiled expansively. ‘Excellent! No offence intended to my soldier brothers but a civil complexion to our rule is essential and now we have it. A rather good wheeze I came up with, hey? We may now move forward, I believe.’

  ‘Shall you wish your cabinet to meet?’ Renzi asked.

  ‘I’m not intending in the future to conduct my affairs by committee, my dear Mr Colonial Secretary. It shall be informed of the resumption of a civil administration and then dissolved. Any advice I might require I’ll ask for at the time. Now – I do think it about time we made a few proclamations. Let’s see . . . one about allegiance to His Majesty, o’ course, but at the same time a grand one as sets ’em a-twittering, opening the port to trade and such.’

  ‘Allegiance? Could not this be seen as somewhat presumptive, the Batavians being as yet undefeated?’

  ‘Then what do you see as standing in its place?’ The tone, however, was pleasant and encouraging.

  ‘Um, I’d say a stern admonition of sorts from your own good self, urging citizens to abandon General Janssens’s cause as hopeless in the face of garrison reinforcements from England expected daily.’

  ‘And pointing out the undoubted advantages of settling down to an enlightened domestic rule – yes, that will do. Now, while I summon Ryneveld, see what a fist you can make of the wording, there’s a good chap!’

  As Renzi reached his office, a terrified woman escaped with her mops and buckets and a distinguished-looking elderly gentleman presented himself. ‘Sir – Oudtshoorn, chief clerk. I do hope your office will be satisfactory. If there’s anything . . . ?’

  ‘Thank you, er, Oudtshoorn.’ They entered and a younger man at a small desk to one side rose awkwardly.

  ‘Stoll, your private clerk. You may rely on his discretion.’ Renzi was astonished that so many Dutch had such an excellent command of English.

  Oudtshoorn turned to Stoll. ‘Do you soon acquaint Mijnheer Renzi with the present workings of the secretariat. He may wish to make changes.’

  ‘Sir,’ the young man said, touching his forelock in an old-fashioned way.

  After the chief clerk had left, Renzi was obliged to cut short Stoll’s earnest conversation and sat behind his vast desk to compose his thoughts.

  How utterly unreal it was! After a near-mortal fever, years ago, had led to his quitting the Navy he had not, since then, held any post of consequence he could boast of, and his attempt at establishing a new life in New South Wales had failed miserably.

  Since then his closest friend, Thomas Kydd, had provided him with board and lodging in the form of a position aboard his ship while he pursued his studies. It had worked most agreeably, well suited to his character, his horizons always new, never the limited ones of the scholar in his fusty rooms, yet in his
own eyes he’d never really been gainfully employed.

  Now here he was, sitting in state as a colonial secretary, with all the trappings and influence that came from being so close to the summit of power.

  He had no illusions about why he had been chosen. For Baird he was perfect: educated, intelligent, of an appearance and, above all, with no loyalty to a faction. He was not ambitious and, in his tendre for scholarship, no threat – and immediately available. His evident connections at the highest with London might prove useful in the future but would at least ensure that he was not trifled with by others.

  Out of the corner of his eye he could see Stoll watching him covertly as he busied himself. Renzi bent to his task of finding a form of words for nothing less than the coercion of a people to accept foreign rule. It was a challenge that would test his literary powers to the limits.

  He stared ahead, his quill at the ready. Fragments of Pausanias on helotry in conquered peoples drifted into his mind. The Athenians had robust views on rulers and the ruled, pithy aphorisms that went to the core of what it was to extend conquest into dominion.

  Pulling himself together, he gave a wry smile. His studies into the vanished worlds of long ago had not prepared him for producing actual decrees and proclamations, of turning political intent into workable public instruments. This was going to be an interesting occupation.

  ‘Whereas . . .’ Everything official began that way. Then what? He glanced about for inspiration and found himself catching Stoll’s wary eyes. He looked away: it was this man’s lands and heritage he was dealing with.

  ‘Whereas a party of Batavian troops, under the Orders of Lieutenant General Janssens is attempting to oppose the authority of the British when further resistance is—’ Is useless? The usual denunciation of the oppressor? No – something like, ‘injurious to the settlement and its trade’ would better serve.

  Stoll darted anxious looks towards him. It was no good. Renzi could not concentrate. He rose slowly and Stoll shot to his feet. ‘Oh, er, whose is that office?’ Renzi asked, indicating a small side room.