‘Will we not soon be recalled?’
‘Why so? We’re doing a sterling job, holding the Cape for King George. Why disturb it? We’ll put down the occasional privateer or even a loose frigate but nothing to stand against the exploits of others who are adding to our empire by the month.’
That gave Kydd pause: it made disturbing sense – yet . . .
‘We’re at a strategic position here, sir. Who’s to say the French may wish soon to dispute these seas in force?’
‘They won’t now, m’ friend. Their squadrons are scattered, defeated and gone home. The Channel Fleet blockade will take care of their sorties in the future. No, we’re to remain at rest foreseeably, I fear.’
‘Is there nothing . . . ?’
‘I’m giving it some high thought,’ Popham replied mysteriously, ‘as may yet yield a possibility.’ He stared out into the wild darkness with a strange expression, then resumed briskly, ‘Meanwhile, do stand down your ship for a week or two. You’ve deserved it. We’ll share a dinner on another occasion.’
‘Quite set me aback, Nicholas.’ Kydd laughed, shaking out his wet clothing. ‘Here we have the commodore confiding he’s bored, to me, a junior frigate captain – a prickly gullion in the past, as I remember. You don’t suppose he’s a reason for it?’ he added awkwardly, noticing Renzi wore an odd, hunted look.
His friend brightened a little. ‘The reigning flag officer? I’d rather think he’s more pleased at your success that rids him of a pressing anxiety.’
‘Well, whatever, he’s given us leave to stand down for a brace of weeks. Do you fancy a time of it ashore?’
‘Er, not at this time, Tom.’
Kydd was not to be dissuaded. Only a short while before, his friend had been the colonial secretary of Cape Colony with hopes of tenure before being unexpectedly replaced by a civil-service appointee sent out from England. Now he was staying aboard, unable to face the imagined stares of the townsfolk. ‘I have to say it’ll be quite necessary, I’m afraid, dear chap. I’m resolved this ship is to be fumigated and sweetened while she lies idle and no man may stay on board.’
With the urgency of the situation there had been little opportunity since leaving England the previous year for attending to the needs of his ship. And she had now been through a tropic summer – and, besides, Kydd had ideas about her appearance. ‘I’ll be staying at my club for the duration, the Africa on the Heerengracht,’ he said, with relish. ‘Capital roast game, wines a supernaculum. I’d be honoured to have you as my guest, dear fellow.’
‘That’s civil in you, right enough . . . On a point of some delicacy,’ Renzi murmured, ‘would it be impertinent of me to enquire in what manner you’ll introduce me?’
Kydd snorted. ‘Why, this is a gentlemen’s club. Should I introduce you as my friend then that is all that need be said, old trout.’
‘Then perhaps I will accept your kind offer.’
The news of a fumigation was well received by L’Aurore’s company, with its prospect of enforced shore leave, and even more so when it became known that a contractor would be engaged for the unpleasant business.
Next day the bad weather seemed to have blown itself out and, almost apologetically, the sun began spreading its warmth and good feeling about the anchorage. L’Aurore went to two anchors and secured fore and aft in preparation for the fumigation. Early in the afternoon a towed lighter approached and, gleefully, the ship’s company made ready for their liberty.
‘Cap’n Kydd, sir,’ a large Dutchman said, raising his shapeless hat as he came over the bulwark. ‘Piet Geens. Are ye prepared a’tall?’
‘We are.’ Kydd was used to the routine with his long service in the Navy.
Geens walked back and shouted something down to the men in the lighter and returned. ‘Well, we’m ready to start, Kapitein.’
In high spirits the liberty-men were sent on their way, leaving L’Aurore echoing and empty, the only ones left aboard being Kydd, a small party of men on deck to assist – and keep an eye on proceedings – and Renzi.
A row-guard provided by Diadem slowly circled as the Dutchman and Kydd went below to spy out the task. ‘What’s your method, Mr Geens?’ Kydd asked.
‘Why, the only one as truly answers, Mijnheer. An’ recommended by y’r Transport Board itself for th’ use of India troopships. In short, fumes o’ vitriol. Kills rats ’n’ mice, weevil an’ cockroach. All that creeps an’ crawls ends the same.’
This was the deepest form of fumigation possible but the ship had to be sealed for greatest effect. The platform timbers above the hold had been removed and the men’s belongings taken to the upper deck; gear was becketed back out of the way, gratings covered with tarpaulins and hatchways closed with laced canvas flaps. ‘Ver’ good, Kapitein. We begin. In twenty-four hours you have y’r ship back, sweet as a nut.’
An alarming number of casks and sacks were piled on deck. Curious, Kydd went across and peered into one. It was filled with crude yellow cakes. ‘That’s y’r common flowers o’ sulphur,’ Geens said.
‘And this?’ Kydd held up a sack of dirty white crystals.
‘Is best nitre. Sulphur don’t burn s’ well, we give it nitre – one part to every eight o’ the yellow cake. Then we get plenty o’ them vitriolic acid fumes. Want t’ see?’
‘Er, no, I’ll leave it all to you, Mr Geens,’ Kydd said. ‘Carry on, please.’
Tin pans were charged with a small coil of quick-match in the coarse-ground mixture and distributed below. Men with pails of mud moved about, completing the seal and shortly afterwards the first acrid whiffs could be detected.
‘Time we weren’t here, Nicholas.’
The Africa Club welcomed Kydd warmly. Word of the little action in East Africa had got about, and in a dark-polished room ornamented with game trophies and shields with crossed assegais, those waiting for a full accounting of it had assembled.
‘Have t’ hand it to ye, Kydd, ’twas a grand stroke!’ The red-faced and moustachioed ivory trader, Ditler, chortled, beckoning him to an adjacent leather chair. ‘A peg o’ whisky for y’ tale.’
Others drew up their chairs companionably but Kydd remained standing. ‘And this is my particular friend, Nicholas Renzi,’ he said pointedly.
‘Of course he is,’ soothed the cocoa planter Richardson, ‘as will have a whisky too, eh, Renzi? Hey?’
‘Thank you, no,’ Renzi said politely. ‘Although anything out of Stellenbosch would gratify, if it does not inconvenience.’ If any knew him as other than Captain Kydd’s friend, it could not be detected in their expressions.
Kydd found himself in the seat of honour in the centre and awaited his libation.
Despite what Popham had said, a lengthy stay in Cape waters had its compensations, he had to admit. Who would have thought, in those impossibly remote days in the musty Guildford wig shop, that he would later find himself in a splendid gold-laced uniform in these exotic surroundings?
‘Thank you, Cuthbert,’ he said, accepting his whisky – a single malt, he was pleased to note. After his experience with the Highlanders at Blaauwberg nothing less would serve.
Cradling the drink he found himself further reflecting on his conversation with Popham.
‘Ahem!’
‘Ah, yes, Marie Galante.’ Kydd was not a born story-teller and in his own ears the account sounded matter-of-fact and predestined. He’d omitted his doubts and worries as they’d gone into action, the need to rise above his own fears and terror of the unknown to order men into those same hazards, yet the simple telling was received with something like reverence, and he ended the tale pink-faced.
‘Good God, man! Y’ sit there so cool an’ tell us you spent your night on the riverbank? Never heard o’ such blazin’ courage!’ Ditler’s admiration was clear.
‘Er, what-’
‘Well, the crocs f’r one!’
‘Oh?’
‘Surely y’ know they stalk abroad at night, wanting t’ devour sleeping prey. They snap their jaws shut on ye, there’s no hope for it – all over!’ He threw up his arms in an expressive gesture.
‘And y’r hippos too, Kydd,’ came the gravelly tones of the white-haired, sun-touched Baker. ‘They’s on land an’, it being their river, should y’ get a-tween them an’ it, why, at four ton coming at ye faster than y’ can run . . .’ He shook his head, speechless.