‘That is where Mijnheer Höhne, your sworn translator, goes when you call for him, sir.’
‘Very well. I shall work there for the moment.’
Stoll blinked in consternation, but said nothing.
Alone at a small desk in the modest room, with a rather charming painting of a Dutch family scene on the wall, Renzi set to with renewed purpose and soon had a draft. He reviewed its phraseology, aware that it would be pinned up in public places.
. . . to inform the Inhabitants of this Colony that being in possession of the Town and principal Places the whole be subject to His Majesty’s Authority . . . most strictly enjoin them to have no communication with the aforesaid Corps . . . will draw upon themselves consequences of the most serious nature . . .
He concluded with a solemn reference to the inevitable miseries of a protracted state of warfare set against a future of prosperity and growth under a settled population, and took it to Baird.
‘Exactly so! Fine work, Renzi. You’ve a translator? Then we’ll get it cast in Dutch and set out beneath. We’ll have, say, two hundred struck off immediately and posted up. Then we’ll need to get our heads together on how we deal with this damned grain shortage.’
Renzi made to leave but Baird called after him, ‘Ryneveld took the position. I rather think it a good idea should you make an early official acquaintance.’
‘I will, sir.’
‘Oh, and – How shall I say it? I’m sure there’s a half-decent tailor in town – you’ll soon be looking to dress for the part, hey?’
‘Point taken, sir.’
If anything the office of the fiscal was grander still than his own and was a hive of activity as the engine of state was in the process of being set in motion.
‘Ah, Mr Secretary Renzi!’ Ryneveld greeted him with outstretched hands, clearly relieved that order was emerging from chaos. ‘Are you content in your accommodation?’
‘Why, yes, indeed.’ He graciously enquired after the fiscal’s own situation, as the playful thought crossed his mind that, if he himself was not happy, he had the power to eject Ryneveld from his office in favour of himself.
‘The problems will pass,’ Ryneveld said, in happy exasperation. ‘My closest post-holders wish to serve, which is gratifying. A working administration is not impossible, I believe.’
He hesitated then added, ‘You will not have had the time to set up an establishment of your own – if it is more convenient, my wife Barbetjie and I would be honoured should you dine with us tonight.’
Of course, Renzi realised, as he was now at some eminence in society, he must cut a figure, graciously entertain. He would see to it. But now what better public demonstration of his aligning to the British cause could there be for Ryneveld? ‘That is most civil in you, Mijnheer. I should be delighted.’
The afternoon passed pleasantly, the two drawing up a table of positions obtaining in the previous government for reference in forming the new. The wisdom of adopting completely the existing body of governance quickly became apparent – everything from the Court of Justice to the Chamber for Regulating Insolvent Estates, the Lombard Bank and Orphan Chamber, Tide Waiters and Matrimonial Court, Lands and Woods, all with their subtle interweaving of loyalties time-honoured, understood and ready to serve.
It remained only to win them over, or end with them sullen and obstructive – or worse.
‘A good day’s work, Mr Secretary. I think we have earned our dinner,’ Ryneveld said, first carefully locking his papers in his desk.
‘I would rather it were Nicholas.’
‘We Dutch are jealous of our honorifics, you’ll find. I am Schildknaap Ryneveld to others and would resent its overlooking. Please forgive if “Mr Secretary Renzi” offends, sir.’
Outside, Renzi stood squinting in the late-afternoon sun, admiring the square ramparts of Table Mountain so dominating the landscape.
‘My carriage.’ Ryneveld beckoned.
The open-topped vehicle was compact and expensively appointed with a youth holding a wide green umbrella over them. The driver clucked at the stocky horse and they lurched forward.
Renzi took in the sights with interest. It was a settlement like no other, at the end of Africa, a vast and mysterious continent that separated it from the old European civilisations of the north. Here, men had settled, their destiny shaped not just by the land but also by surging events happening far, far away.
The town was well laid out – neat, with wide streets and the sun-baked glare of whitewashed houses set off with green shutters and doors. An amazing variety of peoples were abroad: Malay slaves with bundles of faggots, grizzled Bushmen carrying bundles, hard-looking countrymen in broad-brimmed hats, hurriedly followed by a score of men with baskets on their heads – and well-dressed women primly stepping out, each followed by a maid with a silk umbrella, as could be seen in any avenue of Europe.
Ryneveld lived in the lower town, in a relatively modest mansion that was set about with a shady and colourful garden, which Renzi politely admired as they passed through.
‘My wife Barbetjie.’ A plump, practical-looking lady with an elaborate hair-dressing came to the door and curtsied gracefully to Renzi’s formal bow. ‘Do enter, good sir,’ she said, in quaint English. ‘A welcome awaits.’
He was ushered in and offered chilled wine as they sat in the drawing room. With its dark panelling and tiled floor, it was remarkably effective in preserving a cool against the heat outside.
‘A singular place, Cape Town,’ Renzi ventured.
‘As no other,’ Ryneveld said firmly. ‘Even the flowers, the fynbos – and for its beauty and richness of species it stands alone in the world. And where else in this tropical continent might you encounter penguins and fur seals both?’
‘Er, are you perhaps inconvenienced at all by the more . . . forward species? The lion and elephant do spring to mind when thinking of Africa.’
‘The Cape lion was much feared around Table Mountain in Riebeeck’s time but has not been seen this age. The leopard and lynx are still to be encountered, but never the elephant. Nevertheless, if you mean to travel it would be wise to give heed to your guide.’
‘Even in town?’
‘Here at night you may meet hyenas on their way to devour offal on the foreshore, in the day troops of baboons. More to be respected is the spitting scorpion or perhaps your Cape cobra, its poison every bit as venomous as that of the black mamba,’ Ryneveld added.
‘Oh. Then the hippopotamus—’
‘Our dinner is served, gentlemen.’
They sat down at what was clearly a family meal; Ryneveld at the head, Renzi at the other. Opposite Mevrouw Ryneveld was a shy girl who darted glances at him and next to Renzi a young man with a look of patriotic defiance on his face.
Ryneveld pronounced a Dutch blessing on the meal and raised his eyes. ‘Our humble repast – a bobotie only,’ he said quietly. ‘Haasje, do help Mr Secretary Renzi to a portion.’
Renzi enjoyed the spicy dish, meat studded with dried fruit and nuts and topped with a savoury custard. It was clearly a family favourite.
After dinner, the men retired to the library, a discreet and well-appointed room. Renzi stood admiring the volumes while Ryneveld found a bottle with a wax-sealed cork and opened it carefully. ‘A Cape liqueur, made with the skin of the naartjie fruit and orange blossom.’ Two glasses were produced and filled. ‘And named after Admiral van der Hum of the Dutch East India Company who did so admire it.’
The thick golden liquid had a tantalising tangerine flavour but was very sweet. ‘A little too sticky? Then we’ll add some brandy.’
Ryneveld was the perfect host and Renzi relaxed in his company. Here was a man of the world, an acute observer, whose interest in his guest was not contrived and who took an intelligent pleasure in the discussion of philosophies and the arts.
But the talk petered out when Ryneveld’s manner turned grave and introspective.
‘The grain famine?’ Renzi asked, with concern
.
At first the man did not answer, then said woodenly, ‘For your nation, if this affair turns out against you then you’ll sail away. For me, I shall be left to answer for my conduct.’ He set down his glass very carefully. ‘Until now we’ve been able to console ourselves that we have our independence, but for all that, we must understand that we are merely holding the colony for Bonaparte.’
‘He’s still “protecting” the Netherlands, I gather.’
‘The French Army occupies the Low Countries,’ Ryneveld agreed, ‘but the Batavian Republic forced on us in imitation of the glorious French Revolution is still headed by our own Grand Pensionary Schimmelpenninck, who stands staunch.’
‘You’re concerned for the mother country,’ Renzi said sympathetically.
‘I am – but this is not what disturbs me. I was recently given some very unpleasant news concerning it that directly affects us here.’
‘Oh?’ Renzi felt the warmth of the wine fall away.
‘What I have heard confidentially is nothing less than that Napoleon will shortly end the Dutch Republic and place his own brother, Louis, on the throne of Holland in contempt of all the principles of the revolution.’
It was a bombshell. Presumably there was now nothing that could prevent the French taking formal possession of the Dutch colony for themselves.
With a cynical smile Ryneveld continued, ‘It’s always been said that the Cape is a feather in the hands of the Dutch and a sword in the hands of the French. You can be sure that, now the way is clear, they’ll stop at nothing to recover it!’
Renzi’s mind raced. Baird must know of this, of course, but it left him in a frightful situation. Within days of taking possession he faced two major problems: an army still in the field opposing him and the pressing need to reduce numbers by sending away a large proportion of his troops. Would his fragile defences hold against a determined assault?
‘I’m no soldier,’ Ryneveld said, ‘but I’d think that the advantage must still lie with you as defender.’
‘Possibly,’ Renzi said, with a wry smile. ‘Yet Cape Town fell to us, you’ll agree.’
‘Of course. Your commanders will probably know by now that we were much outnumbered. Goewerneur Janssens did what he could, but who is able to stand against those devilish Highlanders? No, with a professional general of the army at its head, the defenders will make good account of themselves. I suspect that General Baird will want to fall back on the defences of the castle and town – with your ruling of the seas he will not be in want of supply.’
So much depended on Popham – and here such a tiny force to set against a determined foe. ‘The Navy will do its duty,’ Renzi found himself saying.
‘I’m sure it will, if only to honour its great Admiral Nelson. Yet the gravest threat is not to be met on the ocean waves – it is here.’
‘The people?’
‘Quite. There are those who would be rid of the English, who would think it a duty to take cause with any who could overthrow you.’
‘May I know . . . ?’
‘I will tell you.’ Ryneveld sipped his liqueur. ‘The feeling among the general populace is that the French will soon return and overthrow you. These people will fear retaliation for having collaborated and will be reluctant to fall in with you. But the good people of Cape Town, those of property and standing – those we call the Cape Dutch – will see a settled and prosperous future under the free-trade rule of the British as much to be preferred, especially should you stand by your promise to abide by the old laws and customs. They’re tired of being cut off from the world, threatened with wars and upheaval not of their making. You’ll have no trouble from them.
‘They are in small numbers, though. Even counting the lesser sort, the population is only some six thousand, and outnumbered therefore by the slaves who, if you take the rural as well, are some twenty, possibly thirty thousand. These are the Cape Malays from Java, others from Madagascar and the east of Africa, but never from the south. Now, if some hothead or provocateur stirs them up I’ll leave you to consider the consequences.
‘But it’s the folk of the country, the boeren, whom you must never trust. They are poor, hard, uncouth and restless – and therefore well suited to existence up-country, at the edge of civilisation. You must understand that, since the early days of the VOC – the Vereenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie – which is our Dutch East India Company who founded the colony at the Cape, they’ve always been rebellious and hostile to rule.
‘When the last Stadholder of the Netherlands fled before the French Revolution to England, it was the Boers who supported the Batavian Republic against the VOC here. They’ll have no love for a country that shelters the old enemy. And know that they’re the core of Janssens’s army, some of the best irregular mounted troops anywhere, and loyal only to him.’
Ryneveld picked up his glass again and looked shrewdly at Renzi. ‘So what we must say, Mr Secretary, is that you have made conquest, but how long will you be able to hold it?’
‘And so I give you a toast. Gentlemen – t’ Billy Roarer as is Neptune’s right royal favourite!’ Gilbey spluttered, red-faced and happy.
‘Which is to say includes her noble crew of souls,’ Curzon said languidly, knowing it would niggle the first lieutenant, whose efforts to deny his own humble origins led him to keep Jack Tar at a snarling distance.
‘And never overlooking the Royals,’ Kydd came in, with a gracious nod to Clinton, the young lieutenant of marines, who blushed and raised his glass in return to his captain.
L’Aurore had now rounded southern Africa and was standing out into the Indian Ocean in flying-fish weather, bound for Lourenço Marques and utterly in her element.
Bowden, as Mr Vice and having acquitted himself of the duty of the royal toast, now joined in the merriment. ‘Damme, but Mossel Bay was well done, sir!’ He chuckled. Their bloodless success there would never make it to the history books but it was the tonic the ship’s company needed to put behind them the grim scenes with Bato.
He posed, theatrically hanging his head and intoned:
When first on board this ship I went,
My belly full, my mind content –
No sorrow touched my heart:
I view’d my coat, so flash and new,
My gay cockade, my hanger too,
And thought them wondrous smart;
But now, alas! My coat is rent,
My hanger’s pawned, my money spent;
Shiv’ring walk the quarterdeck,
Dreading first lieutenant’s check
Who struts the weather side!
Amid the appreciative applause Curzon came in with another, delivered in a charming boyish falsetto:
I’m here or there a jolly dog,
At land or sea I’m all agog,
To fight, or kiss, or touch the grog –
O! I’m but a jovial mid-ship-man!
About to launch into the second verse, he stopped awkwardly and ribald cries went up. ‘Go on, sir! Can y’ not remember the words?’
But in the august presence of their captain it would never do to continue the rest of the racy ballad. Bowden came to the rescue, the only one in the gunroom who knew their commander had a voice. ‘Sir, can you feel it in your heart to favour us with . . . ?’
Kydd quickly reviewed his repertoire, which now included pieces from salon and drawing room, but they were not what was wanted. Instead he held up his hand and in the respectful hush began in a soft but manly baritone:
Tom Truelove woo’d the sweetest fair
That e’er to tar was kind;
Her face was of a beauty rare,
More beautiful her mind;
This tale, his mess-mates sorrowing tell,
How sad and solemn three times rang;
Tom Truelove’s knell . . .
When he finished there was an incredulous silence then a storm of acclamation. It had brought a rush of sailorly feeling, the age-old warmth of mariners alone together in a far
-off sea, tender remembrances of a native land stealing into their thoughts to soften their existence.
Another wistful song was offered by Bowden, one more from Curzon and, after obliging remarks on the efforts of the officers’ cook that evening, the gunroom lapsed into an introspective quiet.
‘I’m thinking we should be raising a glass t’ our little piece o’ empire,’ Gilbey reflected moodily, ‘as they’ve got so much going against ’em.’
Clinton snorted, his face flushed. ‘Blaauwberg showed Johnny Dutchman what we can do, damn their eyes!’
‘An undefeated army in the field, nothing in the granary and a country half the size of Europe to hold down – I’ll wager we’ll be packing our bags for England in the space of a three-month,’ Peyton said cynically, helping himself to the bottle.
‘Never so, Doctor!’ the master, Kendall, rumbled. It was the first he had spoken that night and heads turned to listen. ‘We’ve a navy second t’ none other, c’n keep ourselves well supplied an’ them Hollanders starving. An’ never forget, any wants t’ take the Cape back has to get past us.’
‘Get past us?’ Peyton drawled sarcastically. ‘Then you haven’t heard of the heavy squadrons Bonaparte sent to sea after Trafalgar? Three, or was it four, sir?’ he challenged Kydd.
‘Five, I believe,’ Kydd said mildly. ‘Let me see . . . We’ve L’Hermite in the Gulf o’ Guinea with frigates, Leissègues with four o’-the-line – but he’s for the Caribbean, I fancy. La Meillerie with four frigates off West Africa, but Willaumez with six battleships in the South Atlantic at this moment and Maréchal still in the Indian Ocean.’
‘And we with a couple of paltry sixty-fours and a single pair of frigates – even if one be none other than His Majesty’s Ship L’Aurore,’ Peyton returned, his words heavy with irony.
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