Conquest

Chapter 10

‘And then?’ Renzi prompted, caught up in the drama of the story Kydd was telling. He made much of topping up his friend’s lemon punch and waited impatiently for him to continue.

Kydd eased his legs on the foot-cushion. ‘Nicholas, well, the fog lifted and there they were – when we got to them they fell on their knees and blessed God, because they’d taken us for savages about to finish ’em.’

‘Why ever did they think to walk to Cape Town?’

‘A falling-out. After the wrecking, with the captain dead, it was the first mate who took charge and set out in a boat with three men, leaving the second mate to command. He lost authority and was murdered by those who thought they were done for anyway and had taken to drinking.

‘It was a brave passenger who led the party out, not even knowing how far but thinking it better to do something than nothing. They were twenty-nine to begin and lost several on the way, but we ended taking off twenty-six, including a plucky mother and child.’

‘As are all singing paeans of your action in coming after them,’ Renzi said warmly. ‘It’s the talk of the town, brother!’

‘Er, Nicholas – they being Danes, shall they be . . .’

‘The governor has graciously deemed that as shipwrecked mariners they be given the liberty of Cape Town and may freely return to their homes when convenient.’

Kydd heaved himself up in the chair and changed the subject. ‘So, since I was away, the Dutch have given in.’

‘They have indeed, so quickly that General Beresford complains he’s robbed of a famous battle. In fine, the Articles of Capitulation were signed, which makes over the whole of Cape Colony to His Majesty, after General Janssens was satisfied that the honours of war would be accorded, which Baird did right nobly by him.’

‘I hear he’s been granted residence at the Governor’s House.’

‘Until he is to return to Holland, with all his troops and arms under cartel.’

‘To go back freely?’ Kydd said, in amazement. ‘This is an astonishing thing in an unconditional surrender.’

‘But a masterly stroke. Here Baird’s concluded a rapid peace. He’s won the sympathy of the Cape Dutch, with his extravagant expressions of respect for the previous governor and, above all, he need not feed and guard thousands. The French in Dutch command, of course, are prisoners-of-war and will not taste freedom.’

‘I can’t see why Janssens surrendered when he was in such a strong position among his people in the country.’

‘No mystery. His numbers were always fewer than we supposed, and Baird let it be known that we’re daily reinforced, allowing him to send as many of our troops as he chose. It was a brave gamble but it had its effect – there was no stomach to face those devils the Highlanders again in a lost cause, and in any case, the majority of his soldiers were Boer militia who deserted the colours, placing their desire to return to their farms above their duty.’

‘Then it might be said we’ve completed the conquest of the Cape.’

‘Indeed. Governor Baird is now undisputed ruler of Cape Colony, the soldiers are stood down before the civil authorities and, as we talk, are creating a bob’s-a-dying in every shageerijen in the town. Our ball has done its work for there’s much expression of amiability in the people, the merchants seeing undoubted advantage in falling in with the new order.’

‘So now we’ve nothing to worry of, you’ll be spending your days setting taxes and hearing grievances, m’ friend. Hardly a life of adventure.’

‘Well, until we get our reinforcements from England, we’re in a fragile state. In confidence, I have to tell you that a determined assault will place us in a perilous situation indeed. And Baird is troubled that we have no idea of what form the French retaliation will take, as surely it must.’

‘Never fear, old fellow! You may rest easy while the Navy’s here to look after you.’

Renzi gave his friend a conspiratorial look. ‘On quite another note, when you’re of a mind to taste the delights of the Cape, a certain lady seems to have delayed her return to her wine estate, a most uncommon thing, wagging tongues are saying. I’ve a notion that should you pay your addresses there will be an eager listener to the hero of the hour recounting his ordeal . . .’

Kydd smiled lazily. ‘Thérèse? Perhaps I shall find time to call upon the lady. And your plans?’

‘Ah. As colonial secretary my responsibilities do include the country folk. I’ve a yen to take a visit – see the lie of the land, so to speak,’ he said casually.

‘To see your curiosities of Africa is your meaning, you villain,’ Kydd chided.

Renzi chuckled. ‘All in the way of duty, of course . . . I’m minded to go to Stellenbosch, not so distant and highly regarded for its wine-growing. I may tell you of it on my return,’ he added.

Vastly content after his meal, Renzi sipped his prime Constantia, delighting in its freshness and zest, quite different from the fashionable but sombre European offerings that must make the long passage from the Cape across the equator.

The developing African sunset was at its most compelling: the quality of the spreading blaze of orange and smoky reds exceeded anything he had seen before and he absorbed it in a reverent silence.

‘Another koeksister, Jonkheer Renzi?’ Van der Riet, the landdrost of Stellenbosch and his host, asked politely. Renzi declined, surfeited by the sticky confection, but the large man helped himself to another two. They sat together in comfortable cane chairs on the stoep of the residence.

‘A good day, Mr Secretary.’

‘It was indeed,’ Renzi agreed. A steady stream of the hard-working people of this second oldest Dutch settlement had come to take the oath of allegiance, and the returns of the government muster were in scrupulous order, as were the revenue books.

‘And a splendid repast to conclude the day!’ Renzi added, in praise of the roast hindquarter of bontebok. ‘The bounty of this fine land continues to amaze.’

His heart was full. The Cape was all that could be wished for in a new life, healthy and with limitless prospects for growth. Here, Cecilia and he would put down roots and begin their life together.

‘Do you mind, sir?’ Van der Riet drew out a long clay pipe and stoked it with dagga, the sweet Cape-grown tobacco. ‘I find it eases the mind after a day’s concentration.’

After a few satisfied puffs, he went on quietly, ‘You wonder why we accept your rule so readily. I will tell you. It is because we hanker after the lekker lewe – the good life that comes from the taming of a hard land. Any that can provide us with the security and freedom to do this, we will submit to.’

Unspoken was the other side of the bargain: if security was not provided, neither would be the loyalty. ‘I understand you, Mijnheer,’ Renzi replied. If the French established themselves ashore, this tenuous fealty would evaporate and they would be left to their own slender resources. But, of course, all they had to do now was to hang on until the consolidating troops and support arrived from England and they would be impregnable. But in the meantime . . .

The landdrost took another puff. ‘Did you find your expedition to the mountains agreeable?’

‘Why, yes, Mijnheer.’ It had been only a few days, travelling into the Hottentots-Hollands, but he had encountered a country of fierce grandeur that was boundless and challenging – and one that Cecilia would certainly adore. It had been a dream-like progress: the jog and jingle of the long narrow ox-wagon, the voorloper with an immense whip driving his sixteen wide-horned oxen along crude tracks over the mountains; the slow climb into the dark, contorted ranges rearing steeply from the flats; impossible hairpin turns with jagged crags to one side and a precipice to the other; then a perilous scramble into the Drup Kelder, a cave of ghostly petrified columns and icy streams.

Before sunset each day a halt was called and a fire started while the wagons were outspanned. Then, a delicious supper of ostrich eggs cooked in the embers under a blaze of stars and, after a companionable Cape brandy, a comfortable bed had been waiting in the wagon.

As they had wended their way back, Renzi made acquaintance of the mountain fynbos and the carrion flower, and quantities of springbok antelopes performing their curious pronking. No giraffes or lions, but once he caught sight of a tufted-eared lynx peering resentfully over a rock ledge.

Renzi took another sip of his wine. ‘Mijnheer, Franschoek is a singular place, set so in the mountains. Here, you’re rightly content with your vines, but what about your farmers there?’

The landdrost courteously explained: it was the Boer farmers who were the pioneers in this, pushing the boundaries of settlement into the trackless interior; they laid down their isolated farms and by their own hands carved a living out of the hard ground. They were a stern, independent breed.

Of another sort were the Trekboers who, like desert nomads, moved about the country with their herds, living out of their wagons, while some went even further and scorned any contact with conventional civilisation to the point at which they turned their backs on even their Dutch kin.

And the original inhabitants? The Khoikhoi were peaceable cattle-herders who had come to terms with the white man, but the rising power were the Xhosa, whose warriors were displacing the Khoikhoi and pressing the settlements back from beyond the mountains to the east. An uneasy truce was keeping them at bay along the Great Fish River but anything could set them off on the blood trail again.

Renzi was building a picture of a country that was not yet a nation but had its future before it – could it be said that the accident of external forces that had brought them to take the Cape would be to its eventual advantage? The prime motivator for the British Empire had always been less about glory and more about trade, the establishing of markets and sources of raw materials, and thus great efforts were always made to bring peace and the security to allow this to flourish.

What would not be possible here, given a long period of peace and the world’s markets thrown open? If he and Cecilia could—

A polite clearing of the throat interrupted his thoughts. ‘Er, shall we go in, Mr Secretary? My daughter Josina has been persuaded to play the fortepiano for us and is anxious for your opinion of her Clementi . . .’

As he rose Renzi had a fleeting image of his friend, the picture of a thoroughbred seaman. Now their paths would diverge into two very different life courses. At this very moment where was he? What new adventure was L’Aurore’s captain sailing into without him?

From where he lay, Kydd could make out the vast black bulk of Table Mountain blotting out the stars – the Southern Cross constellation was just about to be swallowed up in its turn. The house seemed to be in a charged silence, broken only by the mournful baa of a distant goat and the muffled sound of revelry down by the water’s edge.

He smothered a sigh. There was sleepy movement next to him and a pair of legs slowly entwined in his as a female voice demanded huskily, ‘Kiss me again.’ Her resulting passion released his own in an erotic flood, and then they lay together in a long, silent embrace.

With a final caress she rolled over, but for some reason sleep eluded Kydd. Was it the strong Dutch coffee they had shared on arriving here – or the heady shock of the evening when the distant and haughty Thérèse had melted into the passionate and imperious woman who now shared her bed with him?

It had happened so quickly: he had paid his call at her town address, a large and well-appointed house where she was apparently the only lodger, and been received graciously. He had stayed to take tea and was able to tell her something of his recent ordeal. She had listened politely but when he had asked about her own tribulations as a French royalist noble she had declined to talk about them, saying they were too painful to her.

Instead she had asked about his naval career, anxious to be reassured that everything was being done to prevent a French onslaught. He had answered soothingly but she had pressed the issue, asking if he was privy to the highest levels, that they might be concealing the truth from the people. Only when he told her that he regularly spoke with both the governor and the colonial secretary personally were her fears allayed and the first real warmth entered her smile.

She talked a little of the wine estate her father cultivated up-country, as close to the climate of their ancestral estate in France as it was possible to achieve and ended with a vague suggestion that he might visit her there some day.

Before leaving he had found himself inviting her to the theatre the following day, being surprised and pleased when she had accepted. Accompanied for the sake of propriety by the unsmiling Widow Coetzee, the keeper of the lodging house, they had attended the fine theatre in Riebeeck Square.

Kydd had been gratified at the astonishment and envy he saw on all sides, for he was aware that this daughter of a baron was not known for appearances in public, let alone accompanied by a friend of the opposite sex.

Afterwards he had returned her to the residence and accepted the offer of refreshment. When Vrouw Coetzee retired, they were left alone. He had been taken aback by her ardour – but had responded in like kind, hers a possessive, hungry need, his a startled but willing response.

With a glance at the now sleeping Thérèse, he could only wonder where it would all lead.

Kydd waited impatiently at the old jetty for the dawn when he would be seen from L’Aurore and a boat sent. He watched as the light spread, taken with the delicate tints falling on the seascape. It would be hours before the sun appeared over Table Mountain, and until then the entire town and anchorage would be spared its heat.

The boat came; he acknowledged Calloway’s greeting genially and took the opportunity of viewing his ship from the outside. With no dockyard worth the name, they were on their own resources and were thus spending their time at anchor performing all the tasks of fitting and fettling that were so necessary in keeping a ship seaworthy.

Topmasts had been sent down for inspection after their encounter with the Ox-eye, giving a stumpy look to the vessel; the larboard shrouds were in the process of being rattled down – the retying of each of the ratlines to parallel the waterline – and the old sailmaker Greer would have much of the upper deck spread with sails a-mending.

A dull thud ashore told him that the castle had deemed that day had broken; it was answered by the flagship Diadem and aboard L’Aurore on the quarterdeck the Royal Marines were performing the solemn ceremonies attendant on a new day. He ordered the boat to lay off until these were completed, then came aboard.

As his breakfast was prepared, he asked Tysoe to shave him while Gilbey recited events since he had gone ashore and clumsily asked when Kydd might be returning there. It was of some interest to him, it seemed, as there was to be racing at the Turf Club at Green Point and, of course, the captain and first lieutenant could not be ashore at the same.

Kydd waved Gilbey away while Tysoe finished his ministrations. The man had a moral right to the liberty but he was eager to see Thérèse again.

The deeper crump of another gun sounded distinctly. Guns were not fired in a naval anchorage without good cause and he snapped to full alert. There was a sudden clatter and the sound of running feet. A breathless messenger burst in. ‘Mr Curzon’s compliments, an’ a gun from Signal Hill wi’ the hoist “enemy in sight”, sir!’

Kydd pushed him aside and made for the upper deck, heart pounding. He snatched Curzon’s glass. Three red flags vertically. As he took it in, there was a silent puff of smoke as the flags were snatched down to be replaced with another, the numeral one, followed by the thud of the discharge arriving seconds later.

This was not making sense: a single ship could conceivably be sighted ahead of the main body but this would be at a distance that made firm identification as an enemy very unlikely.

There was no time for puzzles. Kydd roared the order for quarters, the marine drum in a frantic volleying at the hatchway, and men scrambled to obey in what might be a fight for their lives.

It had come at the worst possible time. Leda and Encounter gun-brig were still returning after a false alarm to their usual scouting station and the only other, L’Espoir brig-sloop, was under repair and therefore there had been no warning.

Caught at anchor: no worse fate could have befallen them. In a reverse of Nelson’s famous battle of the Nile, was it now the French who would sweep in and, one by one, destroy their unmoving victims?

‘Flagship, Blue Peter, sir!’

Kydd nodded. Popham was ordering them to get under way to meet the enemy on the open sea and fight whatever the odds. It would take some time to weigh anchor and get sail on, but with the advantage of height the signal station would have sighted it at a far distance – they probably had time.

Furiously Kydd tried to think. L’Aurore had her topmasts down, not only cluttering the decks but seriously affecting her speed and manoeuvrability. Should he obey and put to sea or stay at moorings until they had been swayed aloft?

Her twelve-pounders would be of little deciding value against ships-of-the-line, and any other frigate-like service would be impossible with topmasts struck down – there was no alternative: he had to stay until they were a-taunt. But failing to sail in the presence of the enemy was a serious court-martial offence, and if the worst happened, an ignorant press would crucify him.

‘Sir! Sir! Look!’ The upper sails of a ship were close in on the other side of the point, the vessel about to put into Table Bay. And flying brazenly out was the tricolour of France.

It was a disaster. Not only had they been caught at anchor but the enemy had come from an unexpected direction, throwing them utterly into confusion. It was masterly timing, and if this was the first of the battle squadron, they had less than an hour to live.

Unexpectedly, a gun from Diadem drew attention to the next signal. The Blue Peter jerked down: Popham wanted the squadron to stay at anchor. Then the Dutch colours rose on the ensign staff and at the same time, along the ship’s side, the rows of bristling guns vanished as they were hauled in and the gun-ports shut.

Kydd quickly caught on: the commodore had reasoned that the ship that had been identified as an enemy had familiarly sailed close to the Cape peninsula because it was expecting Cape Town still to be in the hands of the Dutch. She was probably a stray from one of the battle-groups come to re-victual or repair. They would find out soon enough: if the ship shied away in alarm it would be proof, but then it would be free to draw down the rest of the French squadron. Unless . . . ?

The other British ships followed the flagship’s lead, but there was another gun – the Dutch colours on Diadem dipped, then rose again, a stern reminder to the castle ashore, which was slow in sending up a Dutch standard.

The French ship came into full view, a heavy frigate that made a show of hauling her wind as she swept around and, with a signal hoist flying, headed directly into the anchorage. Assured by the tranquil early-morning scene, with everything in place as it had expected – men-o’-war peacefully at anchor and with the colours of an ally floating lazily out from every vessel – the unsuspecting frigate made for the flagship.

Kydd held his breath: at any moment there could be the panic of recognition, a sheering away – but still it came on. Sailing by the first, a sloop, it pressed on, passing L’Aurore so close that individual sailors and the three officers on the quarterdeck could be seen plainly.

As far as Kydd knew no 64-gun ship was found in the French Navy and therefore Diadem would seem very Dutch to them – and, of course, L’Aurore, recently captured herself, had unimpeachable French lines.

The ship brought to opposite Diadem in a fine show. There was unbearable tension: any false move now and they would take fright. All now depended on Popham’s timing.

Every eye was on the stranger’s fo’c’sle – her bower anchor let go to plunge into the sea at the same time as her sail was taken smartly in. Unbelievably, it had happened.

And in an instant the Dutch colours were struck in Diadem. Watching for the signal, in every ship rows of gun-ports flew open and, with a deadly rumble, guns were run out in an unanswerable challenge.

It was check and mate.

Aboard the hapless ship, after a moment’s hesitation, the tricolour dropped down in short, angry jerks.

As nearest, and with a boat already in the water, L’Aurore was ordered to take possession. Out of consideration for the feelings of the other frigate captain, Kydd himself went, with Saxton and a file of marines.

As they approached he noted the weather-worn appearance of the vessel; this ship had kept the seas for months and therefore was almost certainly part of the feared battle squadrons. The loss of a frigate would be felt keenly.

He was first up the side, punctiliously doffing his hat to the quarterdeck and then to the group of officers standing rigidly awaiting him. ‘Je suis le capitaine de vaisseau Thomas Kydd du navire de sa majesté L’Aurore . . .’

It transpired that the tight-faced captain was named Brettel and had the honour to command the French National Ship La Voluntaire on a peaceful voyage to Cape Town and wondered at the temerity of the English to act so in Dutch waters.

Kydd bowed extravagantly. ‘Capitaine Brettel, je suis désolé de vous informer que . . .’ It took only a few moments to tell the luckless man of the capture of Cape Town and therefore the necessity of relieving him of the command of La Voluntaire. He paused significantly. The man reluctantly unfastened his sword in its scabbard from his belt and presented it with a stiff bow. It was done.

Passing it smoothly to Saxton, Kydd nodded to Poulden, who went to the mizzen peak halyards and toggled on English colours above the French, hauling them up with a practised hand over hand. ‘And I’ll trouble you for the keys to the powder magazine,’ he added politely.

Sergeant Dodd took them and, with his corporal and two men, went below to mount guard. Then it was just the closing act. ‘Ah, it would oblige me, sir, should you accompany me to the flagship to meet our commander.’

Popham would get the sword but, much more importantly, he could speak with the man who knew where the battle squadron was. Saxton would have the sense to get below with the rest of the marines and confiscate any charts and papers he could find, and the French seamen would be landed to an inglorious captivity, all in an hour or so of arriving at what they thought would be a welcome run ashore.

Dodd returned hurriedly up the hatchway. ‘Sir! Mr Kydd, sir! There’s men below – English soldiers, an’ main glad they be t’ see us!’

The French captain gave a tired smile. ‘Taken in a transport. It was my intention to land them here – the reason we touched at the Cape.’

They started to come up from below, blinking in the sunlight, stretching and rubbing their limbs, in their dozens, scores – too many to count. Their rising joy was infectious as they laughed and shouted incredulously, and tried to shake hands with every Englishman they could reach, some weeping openly and a few staring gape-mouthed at the overwhelming sight of so many ships and the grand bulking of Table Mountain.

‘Er, Sar’nt Dodd – get those men into lines or something!’ Kydd chided, in mock indignation. This was an altogether unexpected bonus and at the very least a welcome addition to Baird’s forces.

‘And you’re welcome to that heathen beast we have below,’ the captain said sourly. ‘It took seven good men to put him in irons, no less.’

Kydd toyed with leaving the troublemaker for later but, in the general joy, decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. ‘Go below and see if he’ll come quietly,’ he told Dodd. ‘Any trouble and he stays.’

When the sergeant returned it was with a barrel of a Chinaman with fiery eyes and a scowl. Kydd recognised him instantly. ‘Ah Wong!’ He laughed delightedly. It had been many years but at one time he had been messmates with the circus strongman and seen his skill at scrimshaw.

Wong’s face showed suspicion and surprise, then creased into happiness. Hurrying across, he gave a respectful Oriental bow and touched his forehead. ‘Ah, Tom Kydd, sir! You now officer. Plissed to see!’

Aboard L’Aurore, Wong was overwhelmed when he found another old shipmate, Toby Stirk, there to greet him. Kydd soon found out what had happened: discharged from a broken-down man-o’-war in Sheerness, he had signed aboard a transport on the India run, which had had the misfortune to encounter the Willaumez battle squadron, and he had done his best to make known his displeasure at captivity.

What he would do when he found Doud and Pinto below as well could only be imagined, but of one thing Kydd was sure: they had just won a valuable addition to L’Aurore’s company.

Kydd’s invitation to the cool promenades of the Company Gardens was accepted with a coquettish pout. ‘Why, of course I should, M’sieur le capitaine grand!’

It was the place to see and be seen and Kydd strolled with Thérèse on his arm, flaunting her beauty before the gentility of Cape Town. With Vrouw Coetzee at a discreet distance behind, he nodded graciously to those who doffed their hats in admiration, bowing civilly to others, all the time his heart swelling with pride.

She did not deign to glance at anyone, her head lifted in patrician disdain, but Kydd didn’t care. She was openly admitting that a liaison existed between them and from now on the world would not be the same.

From the gardens they made their way to the first race meeting at Green Point Common and, in the senior officers’ enclosure, absorbed the excitement and atmosphere of the racing. The fine spectacle and fierce thud of hoof-beats brought a flush to her cheeks and an animation that was directed to him alone.

Enjoying the many looks of curiosity and envy, Kydd bowed extravagantly to the governor and the fiscal, flashing a barely concealed look of triumph at Renzi, who was standing with them. Beside him, Thérèse curtsied in dignified court fashion and was rewarded by an exaggerated bow from Baird.

More social interchanges would come later, at a governor’s levee, perhaps, but for now Kydd was supremely content. The acknowledged beauty and reclusive French princess had made her choice and all the world knew it.

‘A small matter, ma chère,’ he apologised, when the racing was over. He had chosen the recently formed Africa Club on the Heerengracht to make his social pied-à-terre and, besides a subscription of forty rixdollars, rules dictated he deposit twenty-five bottles of wine in the club’s cellar. Who better to select them than Thérèse?

Duty done by the delighted club secretary, he stepped out with his lady into the fine evening, a French dinner à deux promised for later. He fought off a feeling of unreality as his mind allowed a fleeting but alluring image: returning to Guildford, a post-captain with a royalist French beauty of noble birth. It would be a breathtaking sensation in the little town, to be talked about for years . . .

‘I’m sorry, Mr Secretary, but he’s insisting he’s to see the governor and no other,’ Stoll said apologetically, explaining that the man outside was one of the recent survivors so much talked about.

‘I’ll receive him here.’ Renzi sighed.

He was called Knudsen and was of an age, bowed and with his silver hair still dull with the privations he had suffered, face cruelly burned by the sun.

‘I am the colonial secretary,’ Renzi said courteously, ‘and I’m to say that unhappily the governor is not to be disturbed at this time.’

‘I understand, sir,’ Knudsen said, in a voice barely above a whisper, and in curiously accented English. ‘My business, however, is of the greatest importance and must not be delayed.’

He leaned forward confidentially. ‘A serious matter for His Excellency, concerning as it does the safety of this settlement.’

There was something in the man’s calm but earnest manner that triggered unease in Renzi. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said, and went to find Baird.

The general was in a genial mood. ‘Send him in, Renzi – and, mark you, he’ll not get a moment over ten minutes.’

Knudsen was shown to a chair. He looked up at Baird, clearly having difficulty in finding the words. ‘Sir. You must believe me to be a true citizen of Denmark. Our countries are at war and this has placed me in a most odious moral position.’

‘Please go on, sir,’ Renzi said, in an encouraging tone.

‘I have fought with my conscience since we were in all humanity granted our liberty here in Cape Town and now have come to a personal decision.’

‘Yes, Mr Knudsen?’

‘It was a noble act that your frigate captain did, to land and search for us in hazard of his own life, and another that we were given our freedom as shipwrecked souls in this place.’

‘And . . . ?’

‘Therefore I’m come to a determination, even if it might be said to be a betrayal of my country, to tell you of a deadly threat to this settlement, one of which unhappily I cannot provide the details but which none the less appears to be of a fatal nature.’

‘Please be plain, sir.’

‘Our ship was on its way from Christianborg to the French islands in the Indian Ocean. On board were passengers, and two of these were French officers of the Army. They caroused much and what I overheard I will tell you now.

‘There is an enterprise afoot, which is intended to restore Cape Town to Bonaparte’s empire. It involves supplies, timing and that their navy plays its part. I cannot tell you more, except to say that one boasted to me that Cape Town would be theirs to plunder within the month.’

In the shocked silence, Renzi was the first to recover. ‘Sir, it is of the first importance that we know whence the assault will come. From the sea? A privy landing on the coast far from here? Or a direct descent on the town, perhaps.’

Knudsen shook his head sorrowfully. ‘I sincerely wish that was in my power. As you might expect, talking between themselves, there was no general plan laid out, and as a merchant factor, my interest was never in any military adventure.

‘Sir, I tell you this in violation of my feelings as a Danish citizen, but in respect of my obligation to you for your kindness. I know no more.’

After he was shown out, Baird sat down slowly, his face grey. ‘I knew the French would retaliate – but this! We know nothing of it, how or where they will come, except that it must be very soon. What can I do to defend against what we’ve just heard?’

Renzi had no answer.

‘Very well. Not a word of this must get out to the common people. We can only hope that the French show their hand early so we can move to delay them until the reinforcements get here. All I can say is, God help us, Renzi.’

Back in his office, Renzi tried to think it through. That there was a threat was not in question – the source was unimpeachable. That it was well advanced could be deduced from the facts as told – an attack before the month was out.

But that could not be, for the news of Blaauwberg would only very recently have been received in Europe and any expedition mounted as a consequence could never have been planned and put into operation within the time-frame.

Therefore it was a local response.

This raised as many questions as it answered. To overwhelm a prepared defence even of the order of what could be mustered at Cape Town implied a massive landing by a major force, together with a powerful naval squadron to sweep aside the sea defences. Where was that coming from on a local level? And the transport shipping required: this must be of a similar scale. It simply did not add up. Or did it?

He went back to Baird and explained his reasoning. ‘If it’s local it’s unreasonable to think they can deploy enough military resources to succeed in a landing. Therefore we must consider how else it can be achieved – and I believe I know.’

‘Yes?’

‘They’re already here.’

Baird blinked. ‘Do tell me, Mr Secretary.’

‘Sir, it’s my belief that somewhere beyond the mountains among the Boers the French are building up a secret army. Instead of a direct landing, they’re sending troops overland from the east to add to this force until it’s ready to challenge us. Then they’ll descend from the mountains to crush us, our navy powerless to stop them.’

‘Umm. Not impossible. You mean, they’re being infiltrated somewhere along the coast past the settlements and marched inland? There’s many a reason a military man might find to say how this might fail, but for now I’ll allow it.’

He considered for a moment and added, ‘I’d think to have heard something of any build-up of soldiery but, as you say, if it’s placed among our Boer friends they’ve everything to gain by keeping quiet. No matter, I’ll send out patrols and—’

‘Sir. You’ve an immense country to cover and there’s simply not the time – and, besides, you’ll set the colony to speculation and panic. No, sir – there is another way.’

‘Which is?’

‘I make a surprise tour of the interior, the purpose of which is let out to be of ensuring that our administration is fairly and truly conducted, namely, that the books of register and account are well kept and in their proper form.’

‘You have a reason.’

‘Certainly. An army has to be supplied. From these accounts I can easily see if the receipts of foodstuffs in Cape Town no longer match production in the country – that they are being diverted for other purposes.’

‘Quite so – well done!’ He grunted ruefully and added, ‘Although it offends my military sensibilities that the French might be thwarted by mere books of account.’

‘Then I’ll set out immediately, if I may, Sir David. There’s not a moment to lose.’

‘Of course. And I’ll ask the commodore that a ship be sent to look into the coast to the east as well. We must move on this as quickly as we can.’