Conquest

by Julian Stockwin

  ‘Sir, there’s no question of a spying against the citizens?’ Renzi asked.

  ‘Good heavens, no. I’ll not stand for it. Just do your best, get close to the locals and don’t delay in alerting me. Do always be aware – I’ve sent my dispatches to London after Blaauwberg, but it’ll be months before we get a reply, let alone supply and reinforcements. We’re on our own out here, Renzi. The only ones we may rely on are ourselves. We’re free to make decisions but then we take the consequences – as I’d want it, wouldn’t you?’

  Baird’s bullish confidence was infectious. ‘Exactly so, sir,’ Renzi agreed.

  ‘Then here’s some more decisions. You’re going to say I’m leaving us defenceless. However, I’ve an idea that Janssens’s Hottentots, who did so nobly at Blaauwberg and, o’ course, are still prisoners under guard in barracks, these fellows would find it not impossible to contemplate continuing service, this time for the King. I’ll raise some sort of Cape Regiment with officers seconded from our forces.’

  Renzi nodded in admiration of the move: the civil security of the town assured and so many fewer useless mouths to feed.

  But there was a question. ‘Would you not be concerned for their loyalty?’

  ‘Ah – that’s where you come in, Renzi.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Draw me up a form of oath. A pledge of allegiance to the Crown as all citizens must swear, good and simple so even the dunderheads may understand.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘Quick as you can, there’s a good fellow.’

  Renzi left for his office, thoughts whirling. So this was what it was to create a brave colonial outpost that would develop in later years into a city and state of consequence. At school, children would be taught about the beginnings of their society and receive a smooth account of it but never know the reality – men of initiative and quick thinking taking the lead, chance events shaping the direction matters must take, individual acts that in sum made hopes possible . . . or not. In essence, here was the crucible forming history – and he, Mr Colonial Secretary Renzi, was centrally involved, forging the very instruments of state.

  He felt a surge of excitement and pride as he lifted his pen and got to work. It did not take long: the ancient preamble was in use in so many other documents and the intent was clear. He looked at the draft and fleetingly wished his prose had more of the romantic and grave majesty that lay behind the great utterances of England but consoled himself that this was for an immediate purpose, not the handing down over generations.

  His Majesty George the Third, by the grace of God King of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, being now in possession of the Settlement, I do promise and bind myself by my oath to be faithful and bear true allegiance to His said Majesty so long as He shall retain possession of the same.

  It would do. He wrote out a fair copy and returned to find Baird at his desk, his head in his hands at the burdens he was facing. ‘Do you wish me to return later, Sir David?’ he asked gently.

  Baird smiled tiredly. ‘If you do your duty, Renzi, then so must I. Let me see what you have.’ He scrutinised it carefully, then laid it down. ‘Yes, a very competent production. We shall have every burgher and Boer in the land take oath on it.’

  ‘And if they demur?’

  ‘They shall be regarded as prisoners-of-war and shipped out with lands and chattels forfeit. Fair enough?’

  Renzi gave a half-smile. ‘Then, sir, I shall have these printed and start a register of those complying.’ A little ceremony in the castle courtyard, some form of witnessed signing by hand? He’d leave the details to Ryneveld. ‘Is that all, sir?’

  ‘Not quite. It does cross my mind that perhaps at this time we should extend the hand of friendship, offer reconciliation, fraternal regard and so forth. After all, if we’re all going to be Afrikaners together . . .’

  ‘An assembly – a reception of sorts?’

  ‘I was thinking more along the lines of a ball. Here at the Castle of Good Hope, at which we might see the good Dutch matrons with their daughters and our handsome young subalterns consort. Nothing like a bit of manoeuvring together to get the fraternal blood up.’

  ‘In company with the great and good of Cape Town?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  Renzi chose his words carefully: ‘I do see the possibility that it may not achieve the object we desire.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘If the mood – which is to say the temper of the Dutch people – is such that they feel out of sympathy with our rule, what better way to show it than to make their excuses, leaving their governor and lord to throw an extravagant ball to which no one comes?’

  ‘I’ll take that risk,’ Baird said firmly.

  ‘The ball will need to be advertised widely, and well in advance of time, sir. All the greater the scandal if it fails.’

  Baird sighed. ‘But we need to woo the people. You’re right – yet we must show willing. I’m going to try.’

  ‘Er, who will be the one . . . ?’

  ‘As there’s no Lady Baird, my trust must be in you, Renzi, old fellow.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘No expense to be spared – it has to be an occasion that’s talked about for years to come. The historic coming together of two peoples to create one. Make it a good’un, old chap.’

  ‘Very well, sir.’

  ‘Oh – I may have omitted to tell you that in my last dispatch I made particular request that Whitehall do confirm you in post. I hope you’ll entertain the thought of a permanent position. As such, you’ll not want for honour and style – and shall we say we need not be mean in the article of your recompense?’

  Renzi was thunderstruck. It was the last thing he had expected.

  Before he could say anything, Baird added, ‘It’ll be long before I get an official reply so let us say that for all intents and purposes you are now the reigning colonial secretary of Cape Colony and in consequence will be shown due respect and obeyed accordingly.’

  ‘I – er, thank you, Sir David, and will endeavour to—’

  ‘I’m sure you will. Now, about this ball . . .’

  Renzi’s quarters in the castle were nothing short of palatial – large, well furnished and quaint in an old-fashioned way. His bedchamber looked out over a spacious ornamental pond, decorated with the head and tail of a spouting dolphin. With four rooms, each with attendant maids and servants, he felt heady with achievement.

  There would be time later to attend to the domestic niceties, and he dismissed the servants after allowing wine to be brought and left. He poured a glass and sipped appreciatively. Bright golden in colour, it had a delicate green tinge and an enfolding fragrance of orange and peach with a long, nutty finish, quite unlike the sombre whites of northern climes.

  He savoured it, then sat back with a smothered sigh. The appointment of colonial secretary was his for as long as he wanted it.

  But was his relationship with Kydd now to end? Their adventures together had been many and no doubt could continue – if he turned down a permanent position. Kydd was holding a berth open for his friend and they could resume their voyaging – but not if he took this post.

  And was it morally right to abandon Kydd at this point? Could he fill the appointment at this remove from England? He also knew his value to Kydd as confidant and close friend.

  Being the man he was, Kydd would let him go with every wish for his success, of course, and in a surge of feeling Renzi teetered on a decision to refuse the post.

  And what of Cecilia? His moral principles had prevented him making suit for her hand while in reduced circumstances before – but now! Here he was a full colonial secretary of a new-born piece of empire with every prospect open for the future. He could lay before her the life of a lady of consequence in society, while with his salary, a country estate and a Cape Town villa would be her demesne.

  Yes! He would send for her, allow her to see for herself this extraordinary country. A society wedding here in Ca
pe Town, then together they’d make journey into the interior – lions and jackals, elephants and . . . and . . . But only if Baird’s gamble paid off that Janssens would tamely surrender at a show of force, if the French did not return in a vengeful invasion, if there were no bloody uprising . . .

  And if she was not already married, as he himself had urged her to do.

  There was no time to be lost. He sprang from the chair and went to the desk to find pen and ink, but hesitated. What if any of these dire events swept away the fragile colony? Given all the uncertainties, was it fair to promise so much?

  Distracted, he nibbled the end of the quill and then decided. He would do it! He would pour out his passion for her, confessing his love and admiration – holding back nothing, allowing her to see the depths of his feeling and then laying out his proposal for wedded bliss.

  It was an intoxicating thought: there were threats hanging over them but these would be resolved in a few months, if not weeks, and it was unthinkable that Whitehall could refuse the governor’s direct request. He would write the letter, crying up the beauty and splendour of life under Table Mountain – but delay sending it until things were settled.

  That was what to do. He began scribbling in a fury of passion.

  Renzi entered the Burgher Senate with suitably grave features and in the severe attire that he would wear from now on at every official occasion. Behind him in the little procession were Ryneveld and Höhne, his sworn translator.

  The assembly slowly rose to their feet, their gaze disdainful. The president, his expression stony, at the last possible moment yielded his high chair. Renzi gave a civil inclination of his head and sat, the Senate conforming in an unnerving hush.

  This was the powerhouse of Cape Town, the merchantry, professionals and captains of trade meeting together to run their community as they had done since the Dutch first arrived. They had built this characterful ‘Town House’ in the middle of the last century when it had become clear that the colony had a future. Its three-arched portico and elaborate mouldings were finished with the white and yellow plasterwork and green shutters so distinctive of Cape Town.

  Renzi braced himself. It was vital that he put across messages of reassurance, respect and hope to a people whose land had been taken in conquest by his own country.

  He stood and looked about the room. ‘Mr President – Mijnheer de Voorzitter van Nuldt Onkruydt,’ he said, with a wash of relief when it seemed he had pronounced it acceptably, ‘I do thank you for your invitation to speak and for your kind welcome.’ He turned and, with a smile, bowed to the granite-faced man while Höhne droned out the translation.

  The rows of faces gazed back at him, hard men of money and power whose very dress seemed alien and foreign.

  ‘We bring you opportunity and prosperity by freeing your colony from the oppression of the Corsican Bonaparte. Now you may trade freely with the world, succouring the fleets of the Indies and finding full commercial advantages in the status of free port that His Excellency has bestowed . . .’

  It was unnecessary to explain that free trade would never extend to the King’s enemies or their friends, and that the fleets of the Indies were those of England, not the Dutch, whose trading empire in the Spice Islands would now wither without supplies and support from the Cape.

  ‘Your customs and traditions in the practice of commerce will be respected by this government . . .’

  In so far as they did not conflict with English mercantile law and the revenue raised was adequate for the purposes of government.

  ‘. . . as will be the ancient rights and privileges of this House here assembled.’

  He had not detected a single movement in the impassive rows of men facing him; their faces – individual, broad, tanned and seamed – betrayed no trace of feeling.

  ‘Therefore I commend to you the Acts of His Excellency the Governor . . .’

  Höhne finished the translation and Renzi smiled. ‘If there’s any question that I’m able to answer for you, gentlemen?’

  In the front row a thick-built man with a brooding expression stood slowly.

  ‘Yes?’ Renzi said pleasantly.

  A stream of guttural Dutch and the man waited, arms folded.

  Höhne leaned forward. ‘Herr Maasdorp asks, which governor?’

  Ignoring the jibe, Renzi came back with what he hoped was a robust summary of the situation.

  Afterwards, in the carriage, Ryneveld tried to make light of it. ‘The first time they have met you. Hollanders do not readily put hearts on their sleeves, as you say. However . . .’

  ‘Your point?’

  ‘It’s troubling they do not see their interests coinciding with yours – ours. That they did not see fit to applaud your appearance does not speak of contentment and reconciliation – rather resentment. Maasdorp can be a troublemaker and all it needs is for some fool to spark a spurning, a turning of the back, and Cape Town will be ungovernable.’

  The ball was now assuming increasing importance as it was becoming clear that this would be a breakthrough event, throwing the two cultures together – or turn into a ruination. According to Ryneveld, it was fast becoming public knowledge but attracting contempt from some; Renzi felt the beginnings of despair. He so wanted it to be a success, not least because this would be his place of settling with Cecilia.

  ‘You’ll pardon my straight talking, Sir David, but I find it a rum thing that we’re to discuss defence in depth and we’ve emptied the barracks of troops to send ’em out to Hottentots Kloof. A singular thing, sir!’ Lieutenant Colonel MacDonald had strongly opposed General Beresford’s all-or-nothing march against Janssens and wasn’t going to let it rest.

  ‘Mine the responsibility, yours the duty,’ Baird said mildly, smoothing the campaign map. ‘At this moment my chief task is to provide as hot a reception as may be conceived to any enemy who dares threaten us in our new possession. Which is to say, until the form of the French response is known, like good soldiers we must cover all lines of approach.’

  He looked around the room. ‘Now, gentlemen, we face a near insufferable problem in defending our new possession. I detail our vulnerabilities for your earnest reflection.

  ‘The castle and all the batteries may be relied on to secure the Table Bay anchorage but a determined enemy might land at any point up the coast unseen by us, and when numbers are sufficient march upon us in strength.

  ‘That’s not my main anxiety – the Navy is there to discourage them – but what disturbs my sleep is what the Dutch before don’t seem to have considered well: the three points of approach that’ll see an army poised high above us, ready with guns to pound us into surrender, our batteries all seaward facing.

  ‘The first and second are on the western flanks of Table Mountain. Should any enemy land there’ – he held up his hand to silence Popham’s protest – ‘then in less than a mile they are at the Kloofnek to the south, or more probably between the Lion’s Head and Rump. Either will see their guns dominate a helpless town.’

  He gave Popham a wry smile. ‘The commodore does assure me that a sailor might find a hundred reasons why this is impractical but it does not ease my mind. If the French have seamen half as daring as our doughty tars then they’ll find ways. Need I remind you of that Caribbean rock you captured, fortified and called a ship? Brought Martinique completely to a stand with just a few guns perched up high.’

  Knowing glances flashed around the table; all were aware of Commodore Hood’s feat just two years previously. Against overwhelming odds he had established a gun-post on a barren pinnacle off the island to become a thorn in the side of the French.

  ‘As to the third, this is the eastern flank of Table Mountain, past the Devil’s Peak. Any landing in the north of False Bay will see ’em without delay above the town, this time to the east. And if there are simultaneous landings . . .’

  Another tight smile. ‘Therefore our options are few. Fortifications at these points will take too long to build, so I conceive that a bod
y of troops must be posted at each to perform what I can only describe as a “Thermopylae” against the foe.’

  MacDonald stirred restlessly. ‘And while these soldiers are out of reach, in siege of General Janssens?’

  ‘Then, of course, even this is denied us,’ Baird answered testily. ‘Do you question the Navy’s resolve to exert the utmost vigilance in denying the French the opportunity to land in the first place?’

  He sighed, then continued firmly, ‘Given this outline of what faces us, we must get to the details. Colonel Pack, tell us the state of the batteries.’

  Pack snorted fiercely. ‘Damn it, they’re useless! We’ve four hundred guns and on some the carriages have crumbled to powder. Others wi’ bird’s nests in the muzzles. Honeycombed iron guns, rotting bronze ’uns. We open fire, the French will fall about wi’ laughter is best we can hope for, sir.’

  ‘I’d have thought there’s more ’n a few serviceable. Did not your frigate – what’s her name?’

  ‘L’Aurore,’ glowered Popham.

  ‘Did she not smell powder when making her sally through the anchorage?’

  ‘Captain Kydd’s report speaks of fire from four batteries but their practice poor. Why, L’Aurore’s easy escape is best evidence of—’

  ‘We can’t rely on the harbour batteries, then. Perhaps we—’

  He broke off at a tentative knock on the door. ‘Come!’

  His aide, Gordon, entered with an opened dispatch case. ‘Er, urgent from General Beresford from before Hottentot Kloof,’ he said crisply, drawing out a packet. ‘The galloper asks for its immediate attention, sir.’

  Around the table officers rose to make their excuses but Baird waved them down. ‘This will be a deciding engagement – or a crushing disaster. Either way you’ll have need to know it.’

  In expectant stillness he slit the seal and smoothed out the sheets. He read quickly and looked up with a strange expression. ‘It is neither. A development of unexpected and crucial significance – gentlemen, without meeting us in the field, General Janssens is by this letter offering to treat for the outright capitulation of all Dutch forces.’