Kydd doffed his hat politely to L’Aurore’s quarterdeck and then her recent acting captain. ‘How goes she, Mr Gilbey?’ he asked, noting the smartness of the side-party and the spotless appearance of his vessel.
‘As an Irish thoroughbred, sir,’ he replied, with a trace of smugness.
‘L’Aurore made fine practice at her gunnery,’ Kydd acknowledged, loud enough to be heard by others. ‘As General Baird himself did allow.’
‘It went well for us, did it, sir?’ Gilbey asked, obviously consumed by curiosity as to what had gone on ashore.
‘His Majesty’s arms did prevail,’ Kydd said, and, feeling his words a little pompous, added, ‘You may say that Cape Town is now ours.’
Kydd was aware of the intent stillness of inquisitiveness around him, but all he wanted at that moment was the peace and familiarity of his cabin.
‘Um, sir – the gunroom would like t’ invite you to dinner b’ way of a welcome back,’ Gilbey ventured.
Kydd smothered a grin: the man’s motives were transparent. ‘Why, I’d be honoured, Mr Gilbey.’ The watch on deck would just have to wait until evening, which would see not only the officers in the know, but the stewards and others, who would be sure to relay what they’d heard to their shipmates.
Below, in his cabin, Renzi was waiting to welcome him. ‘Nicholas, old chap – so good to see you.’
‘My dear fellow – and in the like wise.’
Kydd tossed his hat aside and sprawled in his easy chair, twisting around to take in the view of the glittering sea and distant beaches. While Renzi brought up his own chair, Tysoe entered with a cool cordial.
‘Should you wish a rest before you tell me of your experiences . . .’
Kydd smiled. Renzi was only a little more subtle than Gilbey. He closed his eyes for a moment, the broad Atlantic swell inducing a pleasing regularity in the heave of the deck, the comfortable shipboard smells and occasional sea sounds balm to the soul.
‘Ah, yes. A near-run thing . . .’
He sketched out the events quickly, grateful that he’d been spared the horrors of a protracted siege and now quite certain that he could never make a soldier.
‘. . . and if you ask why did we triumph so easily, they bringing out the white flag so precipitate, I have no idea. Our good general is troubled, suspecting some kind o’ treachery, and is taking all precautions.’
‘Er, Africa. What’s it, um, like at all?’ Renzi said, as soon as he decently could. ‘How vexing it’s been for me, seeing this fabled continent and never yet setting foot in it.’
‘Yes, well, it’s devilish hot, there’s a mort of dust abroad, no jungle did I see nor less your hippo and lion. I suppose they’d be frightened off by our moil and numbers. But I can tell you, it’s a big country – no, immense.’
Renzi’s eyes shone but he asked casually, ‘So, I imagine we’re to step ashore shortly?’
‘I fancy not. We have the castle and the town, but there’s quantities of fortresses and armies at large in the country, which will occupy us for long before we may claim rest. I’ll wager our orders are this minute on their way to us, and what loobies we’d look if we have half our ship’s company on liberty, kicking up a bobs-a-dying!’
‘Of course. But I could be of assistance to you, perhaps, by dashing ashore and setting up arrangements with a victualler, seeing what passes here for marine stores, charts—’
‘No. Your services are too valuable for that trumpery.’
Renzi’s face fell.
‘Of course. And, in any case, going ashore’ll hold no interest – did you not say you’d put aside your ethnicals since the publisher frowned on ’em?’
‘That’s as may be,’ Renzi said, nettled. ‘I’ve not yet decided on my course. It would be a mortal waste to abandon the study, for I’m persuaded it does have its merits. And if this is so, it would be a cardinal sin to ignore an opportunity such as this to augment data. Why, here the economic response attendant on this insinuation of the Dutch culture into the land of the Hottentots would surely suggest—’
‘Just so, Nicholas, just so. Yet we’re to sail at a moment’s notice and I don’t see how – unless . . .’
‘Yes? Go on!’
‘But then it might not be to your taste, you being a scholar as is not concerned with trifles.’
‘What are you saying?’ Renzi said impatiently.
‘General Baird – who we must now account to be governor – has pressing need of a secretary. Not your usual pen-pushing kind but a learned cove who knows how to navigate a hard-going paper, easy with word-grinding as will be needed in conjuring colonial laws and a gentleman who can steer small about politicals. Who can—’
‘A colonial secretary? This is a post of significance, of standing in government. You can be sure Whitehall will dispatch such a one at the earliest.’
‘And what o’ the weeks and months before? I confide to you, Nicholas, he’s a mountain of work to fit out an administration, which he’ll be sore pressed to do without he finds a right hand. I would have thought it most agreeable for you, old trout, this forging of a new piece of empire when all about are different folk – white, black, Dutch and so forth . . .’
‘He’ll never take me. I’m but a poor—’
‘Nicholas, he asked for you by name. Said he’d be obliged should you wait upon him at your convenience . . .’
L’Aurore weighed anchor within a day, her orders brief and urgent. She was to sail south about the Cape of Good Hope as far as Mossel Bay, touching at forts and settlements along the way to inform them politely of recent events and invite their early co-operation.
And in the expected event of a successful conclusion, Kydd was to extend his voyage around the south of the continent then up to the Portuguese settlement of Lourenço Marques. There he was to let their old allies know that Cape Town was taken – but only as a pretext for assessing its suitability as a small naval base for operations against French predators operating against the India trade.
The first business, however, was his report of the ship-of-the-line lying at Simon’s Town. Was it nothing but a floating battery or could it still put to sea? Either way, it was a menace and had to be neutralised.
With a playful wind from the south-east, the frigate had put to sea without a confidential secretary for her captain. Kydd had wished his friend well of the position; he would miss his company but it was only a temporary loss of his services and he knew he would be a boon to Baird.
It took several boards to double the Cape and make False Bay, but after they had rounded an outlying shoal there, the old battleship was in the same mooring off the victualling and small repair establishment. Kydd could see no sign of sail bent on, no singling up to one cable – but a huge Batavian flag flew at the main and figures were moving purposefully about her deck.
L’Aurore shortened sail; they were deep into the bay with an onshore wind. If things did not turn out well there was no easy retreat.
She rounded to well out of range and let go a bower anchor. They were immediately met with the sight of a large fin lazily cutting through the water towards them: a great shark, thirty feet or more of deadly menace, just below the surface.
Shouts of loathing came from seamen along the deck as the monster disappeared under their keel. The sight struck a chill of horror in Kydd: some years before, in the Caribbean, sharks had attacked his sinking boat.
He fought down the memory and took in the Hollander. Would a ship-of-the-line haul down his flag to a light frigate? He would either strike his colours or make a fight of it; there was no other possibility.
‘Call away my barge, Mr Gilbey.’ As it was put in the water he went below to change into full dress uniform.
The boat, with a white flag prominent, pulled strongly towards the distant ship, but Kydd was conscious that it would be easy to antagonise the proud Dutch, an unwitting remark or perceived slight leading to resentment, gunfire and bloodshed. These were the descendants of the Dutchmen who had laid waste to the Medway in the century before.