Conquest

Chapter 8

It was a masterly stroke, Renzi conceded, and one that could never have been contemplated in any modern state. The grain shortage was the biggest single problem facing them and Baird, in a direct, soldierly manner, had found a way to solve it.

Recognising that it was a matter of survival until the ships he had sent out returned, he had set about looking for an interim local supply and reasoned that there had to be those who would hide supplies with a view to cashing in at famine rates and farmers who were withholding their grain in the hope of higher returns.

By a simple device he had trumped both. A regulation was introduced that repealed duties but specified that sales of cereal crops would henceforth be at a fixed price, which would be rigorously enforced. In fairness, the government would also be bound by this and in fact was opening its grain stores for immediate purchases.

Before long creaking lines of ox-wagons materialised as hoarded stocks were brought in and government stores swelled. The crisis had been averted.

The question of currency had not been so easy. As most English specie had been lost in the Brazilian wreck what was to be the common coinage? There had been only two options: print banknotes against the Treasury in faraway London or continue to use the current system.

Baird had chosen to avoid the risks of runaway inflation in printing their own, which left no option but to persevere with what existed. The trouble was that ships touching at the Cape for centuries had left the colony awash with the most exotic forms of coinage, each one of which had to have its English equivalent.

The official medium of exchange was the rijksdaalder or, as it was more commonly known, the rixdollar, and it was Renzi’s task to draw up a table of equivalence: the rixdollar of forty-eight stuivers against each coin of foreign origin and that against English sterling.

It was a far from trivial undertaking, for there were those who stood to make a tidy sum if the conversion was struck in their favour. It was no longer to be the sentiment of the market that decided rates, and opinions were sharply and loudly divided.

With Ryneveld’s canny assistance Renzi completed the wording of the grand proclamation. It allowed that, for the better regulation of trade and the prevention of disputes, the values of money in circulation in Cape Town should be fixed in accordance with the table shown.

Only the more common were listed: the doubloon, Spanish dollar, rupee and ducat, the pagoda, johanna and Venetian sequin, and each with its value in stuivers and sterling. It had been a long task but diverting, complexity to be discovered in even the seemingly simplest economic activity of man.

Baird read it carefully then frowned. ‘And you’d let us be ruined, Renzi, old chap?’

Puzzled, Renzi took it back. ‘Er, you’re in dispute at the rates, sir?’

‘No, not at all.’

‘The wording?’

‘Splendid, as far as it goes.’

‘But?’

‘My dear fellow, you’re too honest for this world. What if our fixed rate for the gold mohur is less than what some rupee wallah offers in Bombay? Why, next thing every merchant worth the name will be sending ’em over by the sackful for the premium, leaving us bare.’

‘Um, quite,’ Renzi said uncomfortably.

‘Don’t worry about it, old chap – I’ll add a bit about export o’ specie in use in the settlement being forbidden under pain of confiscation. Do get that in and posted up quickly. Oh, and one more thing. I’m supposing it’s your first public appearance, so to speak?’

‘Er?’

Baird chuckled. ‘On the proclamation, under where it says all that about “Given under my hand and seal this day” and so forth, surely we’ll see “By Order of His Excellency, N. Renzi, Colonial Secretary,” shall we not?

‘But now – some disturbing news. This was found in a waterfront taphuis by one of our redcoats.’

He handed across a handbill roughly printed in Dutch.

‘It’s Janssens’s work, urging all patriot Boers to rally to his colours in the mountains. I have to deal with it – there’s too many of these fellows up-country he can call upon. I’m without delay sending General Beresford with a column to invest his redoubt.’

‘These are military operations, sir.’

‘They do concern you, Renzi. The only effective move is to send an overwhelming force to smoke him out and persuade him of the hopelessness of his position.’

‘You’re going to strip Cape Town of its garrison?’

‘I am. While this is in train the settlement will be as near as damnit defenceless. I want you and your fiscal friend to give ear to every rumour, keep an eye on those who stand to gain by an uprising, and let me know the minute there’s a hint of unrest. We’ll deal with it together in some way.’

‘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 Cape 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 body 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.’

The stunned silence broke into an excited babble as Baird read on, then fell quiet as he continued, ‘It seems that his Boer farmers are deserting the colours in large numbers, more interested in harvests than honour. And with military supplies denied him by the Navy, he’s concerned to spare the colony needless bloodshed in a lost cause.’

He laid the letter down slowly. ‘An honourable and courageous man – I salute him.’

The meeting broke up, the news without doubt now fast spreading through Cape Town. Baird wasted no time, and Renzi set to on a proclamation of thanksgiving for the peace, his heart full at the knowledge that with the threat removed, and with its strategic value, the British would never abandon the colony. Soon he could make the plans that would have Cecilia by his side.

The last menace, of course, was the French, but with reinforcements from Britain their hopes of seizing Cape Colony must fade. It was only the short period before they arrived that was the danger – and they still had to win the loyalty of town and country before the colony could settle down and prosper.

The ball: this must succeed! So much to worry about, to plan and prepare – who to invite and who would be offended if omitted. And a formal ball would imply refreshments and supper as well as a master of ceremonies who could be trusted with both the Dutch and English forms; music at a suitably august level, and if this were in the English mode, a discreet separate area for cards and dalliances.

Then there were equally challenging details ranging from the protocol of the receiving line to locating decorations and flowers fit for vice-regal patronage. If only Cecilia were here, she would revel in the task . . . but she was not. He picked up a pencil and glumly continued with his endless to-do list. A muffled thud interrupted him. It would be the gun from Signal Hill on the Lion’s Rump – with its view to both sides of the Cape, it reported ships’ arrivals. Renzi hastened outside to see what vessel it could be.

There was no three-flag red hoist, so no enemy. Curious, he remained for the ship to show, either to the north or around the point from the south.

And there it was – from the south, bursting into view close in with Mouille Point in a fine display of seamanship, a frigate under a full press of sail undertaking a showy flying moor on the inshore side of the naval anchorage.

It was L’Aurore.

Kydd left Diadem’s great cabin not greatly put out by the surly manner of Commodore Popham for he knew L’Aurore had done well. Lourenço Marques had turned out to be little more than a forlorn outpost, perpetually in conflict with the savages, that was hanging on to the last sad vestiges of Portuguese rule and could offer nothing in the way of dockyard facilities or similar of interest to the British.

The two Indiamen were still there, undergoing repair with materials L’Aurore had sent over and had every hope of a successful resumption of their voyage. He’d brought reliable news of the size and capability of the French squadron, even though Popham had dismissed the threat, assuming after the blow that they would fall back on their Indian Ocean bases.

In light-hearted mood he boarded his barge and directed it ashore to pay his respects to the governor. The boat came smartly alongside the jetty and Kydd mounted the rickety side-steps, surprised to find his confidential secretary there to meet him.

‘My word, but this sea life is suiting you, dear fellow,’ Renzi said genially.

Kydd laughed, and they walked companionably towards the castle. It was good to see his friend after so much had happened. ‘Shall we sup together after I’ve seen Sir David, or must his secretary keep close station on him always?’ he asked.

‘Er, I’m not, as who should say, his secretary, old chap. He has his own,’ Renzi said, a little uncomfortably.

‘Then you didn’t get the position? The dog! I’ll wager even so he’s working you half to death, Nicholas.’ Renzi did look more than a little harassed.

At Kydd’s full dress uniform, the castle sentries presented arms with an enthusiastic crash of musket and gaitered boot, and they passed into the inner courtyard and across to the governor’s suite. Seeing Renzi, the aide-de-camp rose respectfully. ‘Sir David is with General Ferguson, sir. I’ll let him know you’re here.’

‘Never mind, Lieutenant,’ Kydd said crisply. ‘We’ll return later.’

The aide ignored Kydd with a pained expression and knocked gently on the connecting door. ‘Mr Renzi and a naval gentleman, Sir David.’

Moments later a disgruntled general emerged, looking sharply at Renzi before being ushered away. Baird appeared beaming. ‘You’ve brought me Captain Kydd, then, Renzi, old chap.’

‘As he’s bringing report of the French, sir,’ Renzi said smoothly, standing aside for Kydd. ‘Do go in, Captain, I shall wait outside.’

Later, a much-chastened Kydd was settled into a chair in Renzi’s inner sanctum by a protective Stoll. ‘Your secretary?’ he asked wryly, when the man had left.

‘Well, one of them,’ Renzi admitted.

Kydd looked around the well-appointed office. ‘And I had my concerns that he’d been working you like a slavey. Shall I be told what you do with your day at all?’

Lightly covering the detail, Renzi explained what it was to be a colonial secretary while Kydd listened first in astonishment and then in good-natured envy. ‘In the first rank of Cape Town society no less – I must take off my hat to you in the street, I find!’

‘It has its compensations, the position,’ Renzi agreed.

‘As will make it a sad trial for you to return to L’Aurore.’ Kydd chuckled.

Renzi’s face shadowed. ‘Er, there’s every reason to suppose that will now not happen, Tom.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Sir David has done me the honour of asking me to consider this a permanent situation,’ he said gently, ‘and is communicating with Whitehall to have me confirmed in post, my friend.’

‘Nicholas – is this what you desire, or is some villain—’

‘It is my wish. You see . . . I shall now have a situation in life that is both honourable and secure, that yields a competence that is quite sufficient, you see, to . . . marry.’

Kydd was dumbfounded.

‘A sufficient competence?’ he managed.

‘An acceptable term, I’d think, for an emolument some seven or eight times your own.’

Kydd smiled awkwardly. Renzi’s high moral principles had prevented his seeking Cecilia’s hand in marriage while unable to provide for her, and through sheer chance he had been given the means to do so and obviously had seized it with both hands – or . . .

‘Oh, er, Nicholas, by your talk of marriage, do you mean to say, um, to Cecilia, not some Dutch lady of your recent acquaintance?’

‘To your sister,’ Renzi said frostily. ‘In the event she is free and accepts my proposal, I mean to send for her to approve Cape Colony as an appropriate place of our domicile de mariage.’

‘Ah.’

‘To be wed in the Groote Kerk, I shouldn’t wonder.’

Cecilia – out here? Kydd had doubts, but if she still had the feelings for Renzi that he’d been witness to before, then all was possible. ‘I see. Then . . . then you’ll not be wanting your cabin aboard,’ he ventured, still dazed by the announcement.

‘It would seem not, Tom.’ Renzi’s voice was awkward. ‘I would take it kindly if you’ll—’

‘Your books ’n’ effects will be landed as soon as they may.’

‘Thank you.’

There was a long pause while Kydd tried to find something to say. ‘Er, you’re still looking a mort mumchance – can this be some delicate question of state that’s taxing the intellects?’

Renzi smiled ruefully. ‘No, dear fellow. It’s naught but the throwing of a grand ball for which I bear both the honour and responsibility. You’d never conceive the worry of spirits this is causing me – such quantities of vexing detail that would drive a saint to drink and ruin.’

‘Ha! That’s easily solved, I’m persuaded,’ Kydd said immediately.

‘Oh? How so?’

‘You may claim the services of Tysoe, who, as you know, has served a noble family – but, mind you, I shall have him back!’

Renzi’s face cleared. ‘A capital idea! My mind is quite eased, believe me. Er – shall we adjourn to another place? My apartments are commodious and overlook such a quaint and sublime fountain . . .’

The evening stole in, a thankful cool with a violet tinge to the light adding to the nervous elation in the group standing about the doors of Government House. Baird had fallen in with the idea of holding the reception there, in the palatial surroundings of the Dutch governor’s residence, then moving to the larger castle for the ball, involving as it would a jingling panoply of sumptuous carriages through the streets for all Cape Town to see.

‘I don’t spy any of ’em yet!’ Baird rumbled, twitching his military stock and peering past the goggling crowd pressed up to the railings. ‘If we dance alone they’ll hear about it for years to come in every club in London!’

‘Sir, the evening’s yet young,’ Renzi soothed, trying not to let the feathers of his ridiculous ceremonial helmet tickle his nose. ‘And I’d believe every matron will be concerned not to let a single hair go unfrizzed.’

The governor did not appear mollified and Renzi fell back briefly into the entrance to confront an immaculate Tysoe. ‘Is everything ready?’ he hissed. ‘Should this night be a disaster then . . . then—’

‘All is to satisfaction, sir,’ Tysoe replied serenely, ‘Being under my direct instructions.’ At any other time the distinct elevation of his tone would have brought amusement.

The impeccably dressed regimental band stoically continued playing their light airs and the members of the receiving line – himself after Baird, Ryneveld, two generals, Popham and three members of the Senate – hovered in readiness.

It wasn’t until an interminable forty minutes had passed that the first carriage arrived and one Overbeek, vice-president of the Orphans Chamber, wife and wide-eyed daughter arrived. A genial Baird granted a full five minutes to the bemused worthy, his wife and daughter the breathless centre of attention of the rest of the line.

Soon after, to Renzi’s surprise, the grim-faced Slotsboo, treasurer of the Burgher Senate and implacable enemy to the currency-exchange proclamation, stepped out of his carriage, himself handing down his extravagantly dressed wife and approaching the governor with an ingratiating smile.

Behind him carriages joggled for a place as more and more arrived, to the intense gratification of the onlookers. Both the collector and comptroller of Customs claimed noisy priority over the dignified Truter, secretary to the Court of Justice, and when the crowd caught sight of the young wife of the deputy fiscal in her beribboned gown, there was a long collective sigh.

The evening was made! Renzi looked around at the glittering splendour of the animated throng, the jealously hoarded finery of the ladies and the naked jostling for social position – there was no doubt that Baird had been right and that society was beginning to cohere as one around the person of the governor.

Renzi did his duty happily, passing among the great and good, graciously bestowing kind words upon those brought to be introduced by Ryneveld and allowing himself, the influential colonial secretary of Cape Colony, to be both seen and admired.

Then it was time to make the short journey to the castle and the ball. The governor rode alone first in an ornate carriage; Renzi with Ryneveld was next, the military behind.

Following Baird’s example, Renzi affably acknowledged with a wave the shouts of the crowd as they passed by and then on to the parade-ground where, by torchlight, a massed band and marching troops crashed into motion.

With a sense of unreality Renzi sat rigid as they drove through the ancient gate to the inner courtyard. Opposite, lined up outside the governor’s residence, were the lesser invitees – colonels, post-captains, heads of departments, ward masters, church ministers, others.

Baird descended from his carriage and began passing along the waiting guests, Renzi close behind, finding polite words for each. Then it was Kydd who was next in the line and they played their parts, the only concession to the situation being a solemn wink from Renzi and a wondering shake of Kydd’s head.

The long ballroom was splendidly lit with candelabra stands by the dozen and infinite tawny gold points reflected in the many mirrors. At one end a regimental band in evening dress played softly as the room filled and champagne flowed.

Kydd was sure that he was going to enjoy the heady evening, not unaware that in his full-dress post-captain’s uniform he cut a striking figure.

‘Mevrouw – the first dance?’ Baird led out a proud Mrs Ryneveld, and Kydd claimed a shy, light-featured Dutch maiden, whose English, he discovered, was not the equal of her charms. They stepped out prettily together, though, and after two dances he graciously allowed her to be taken by a red-faced young subaltern.

Then, in the next dance, dutifully bowing and rising to a dimpled matron, he caught sight across the room of a beautiful dark-haired woman, whose grace was drawing admiring glances from all parts. When the dance finished he determined to go in search of her.

She was surrounded by fawning men, fluttering her fan but giving her entire attention to Renzi, who was holding forth. Her ivory gown was cut low, revealing an alabaster bosom, and her lustrous black hair framed striking Gallic features. Kydd thrust through and gave a sweeping bow. ‘Shall this round be mine, Mam’selle?’

He had noticed what the others had not – that Dutch maidens did not mark cards for dancing partners and he was therefore free to ask. He was met with a cool gaze from her and a startled look from Renzi, but she consented, lifting a sequinned gloved hand, which he took with a wicked glance back at the group of envious men.

The first words of his small-talk in English were met with a cold expression in French of her inability to converse easily, but Kydd was equal to this – his painful lessons from Renzi during the blockade of Toulon had matured into a passable competence in the language.

She seemed not impressed, however, and he had to wait impatiently for the dance round to come back to him before he could continue. As he spoke, her eyes darted to where Renzi was the centre of a circle of admirers.

Did he know Colonial Secretary Renzi at all? Such a handsome and charming man! And so elegant a turn of phrase for an Englishman. Was he married? A lady friend?

Kydd admitted that indeed he knew the gentleman and with relish went on to point out that the colonial secretary’s intended was to be sent for shortly to join him at the Cape.

This got her attention and the coolness went as she observed respectfully that he himself must be a gentleman of importance to know the colonial secretary so well. Kydd explained that Mr Secretary’s bride was to be none other than his sister and that he was certainly well acquainted with the gentleman.

After the dance he led her back to the side of the room and was rewarded with a charming smile. He lingered, blasting with a glare the subaltern who had the effrontery to cut in. The young soldier retired, wounded.

Was the next dance promised, or should they stand up together once more? He whirled her into the cotillion, blood singing.

All too soon he had to surrender her and wandered back to the refreshments table, where Renzi was in earnest conversation with a grave Dutchman whose wife stood shyly back. Kydd helped himself to a plate, waited until Renzi was free, then said casually, ‘Rattling fine ball, Nicholas.’

‘Oh? I’m gratified to hear it, old fellow.’

‘Um, just curious, that French-rigged lady you were speaking to earlier?’

Renzi gave a slow smile. ‘Why, brother, the mysterious damsel that’s set all the men to talking?’

‘She says I’m to call her Thérèse,’ Kydd said.

‘That is much easier on the tongue than Marie Thérèse Adèle de Poitou.’

‘Er, who was that again?’

‘Who the Dutch call the French princess, although she is but the youngest daughter of the Baron de Caradeuc. Apparently royalists fled from France and settled here, keeping to themselves, with a modest vineyard past the Stellenbosch.’

‘You seem to know enough about her, Nicholas.’

‘As a moderately successful vintner, the baron is entitled to an invitation, I find. He expressed his regrets and trusts that his daughter’s presence might suffice.

‘Quite a coup,’ Renzi added, with satisfaction. ‘The baron lost his wife to the guillotine and lives alone on the estate with his daughter. They were seldom seen in town before now.’

The ball continued joyously – but Kydd had eyes for only one.