Renzi’s mind raced. Baird must know of this, of course, but it left him in a frightful situation. Within days of taking possession he faced two major problems: an army still in the field opposing him and the pressing need to reduce numbers by sending away a large proportion of his troops. Would his fragile defences hold against a determined assault?
‘I’m no soldier,’ Ryneveld said, ‘but I’d think that the advantage must still lie with you as defender.’
‘Possibly,’ Renzi said, with a wry smile. ‘Yet Cape Town fell to us, you’ll agree.’
‘Of course. Your commanders will probably know by now that we were much outnumbered. Goewerneur Janssens did what he could, but who is able to stand against those devilish Highlanders? No, with a professional general of the army at its head, the defenders will make good account of themselves. I suspect that General Baird will want to fall back on the defences of the castle and town – with your ruling of the seas he will not be in want of supply.’
So much depended on Popham – and here such a tiny force to set against a determined foe. ‘The Navy will do its duty,’ Renzi found himself saying.
‘I’m sure it will, if only to honour its great Admiral Nelson. Yet the gravest threat is not to be met on the ocean waves – it is here.’
‘The people?’
‘Quite. There are those who would be rid of the English, who would think it a duty to take cause with any who could overthrow you.’
‘May I know . . . ?’
‘I will tell you.’ Ryneveld sipped his liqueur. ‘The feeling among the general populace is that the French will soon return and overthrow you. These people will fear retaliation for having collaborated and will be reluctant to fall in with you. But the good people of Cape Town, those of property and standing – those we call the Cape Dutch – will see a settled and prosperous future under the free-trade rule of the British as much to be preferred, especially should you stand by your promise to abide by the old laws and customs. They’re tired of being cut off from the world, threatened with wars and upheaval not of their making. You’ll have no trouble from them.
‘They are in small numbers, though. Even counting the lesser sort, the population is only some six thousand, and outnumbered therefore by the slaves who, if you take the rural as well, are some twenty, possibly thirty thousand. These are the Cape Malays from Java, others from Madagascar and the east of Africa, but never from the south. Now, if some hothead or provocateur stirs them up I’ll leave you to consider the consequences.
‘But it’s the folk of the country, the boeren, whom you must never trust. They are poor, hard, uncouth and restless – and therefore well suited to existence up-country, at the edge of civilisation. You must understand that, since the early days of the VOC – the Vereenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie – which is our Dutch East India Company who founded the colony at the Cape, they’ve always been rebellious and hostile to rule.
‘When the last Stadholder of the Netherlands fled before the French Revolution to England, it was the Boers who supported the Batavian Republic against the VOC here. They’ll have no love for a country that shelters the old enemy. And know that they’re the core of Janssens’s army, some of the best irregular mounted troops anywhere, and loyal only to him.’
Ryneveld picked up his glass again and looked shrewdly at Renzi. ‘So what we must say, Mr Secretary, is that you have made conquest, but how long will you be able to hold it?’
‘And so I give you a toast. Gentlemen – t’ Billy Roarer as is Neptune’s right royal favourite!’ Gilbey spluttered, red-faced and happy.
‘Which is to say includes her noble crew of souls,’ Curzon said languidly, knowing it would niggle the first lieutenant, whose efforts to deny his own humble origins led him to keep Jack Tar at a snarling distance.
‘And never overlooking the Royals,’ Kydd came in, with a gracious nod to Clinton, the young lieutenant of marines, who blushed and raised his glass in return to his captain.
L’Aurore had now rounded southern Africa and was standing out into the Indian Ocean in flying-fish weather, bound for Lourenço Marques and utterly in her element.
Bowden, as Mr Vice and having acquitted himself of the duty of the royal toast, now joined in the merriment. ‘Damme, but Mossel Bay was well done, sir!’ He chuckled. Their bloodless success there would never make it to the history books but it was the tonic the ship’s company needed to put behind them the grim scenes with Bato.
He posed, theatrically hanging his head and intoned:
When first on board this ship I went,
My belly full, my mind content –
No sorrow touched my heart:
I view’d my coat, so flash and new,
My gay cockade, my hanger too,
And thought them wondrous smart;
But now, alas! My coat is rent,
My hanger’s pawned, my money spent;
Shiv’ring walk the quarterdeck,
Dreading first lieutenant’s check
Who struts the weather side!
Amid the appreciative applause Curzon came in with another, delivered in a charming boyish falsetto:
I’m here or there a jolly dog,
At land or sea I’m all agog,
To fight, or kiss, or touch the grog –
O! I’m but a jovial mid-ship-man!
About to launch into the second verse, he stopped awkwardly and ribald cries went up. ‘Go on, sir! Can y’ not remember the words?’
But in the august presence of their captain it would never do to continue the rest of the racy ballad. Bowden came to the rescue, the only one in the gunroom who knew their commander had a voice. ‘Sir, can you feel it in your heart to favour us with . . . ?’
Kydd quickly reviewed his repertoire, which now included pieces from salon and drawing room, but they were not what was wanted. Instead he held up his hand and in the respectful hush began in a soft but manly baritone:
Tom Truelove woo’d the sweetest fair
That e’er to tar was kind;
Her face was of a beauty rare,
More beautiful her mind;
This tale, his mess-mates sorrowing tell,
How sad and solemn three times rang;
Tom Truelove’s knell . . .
When he finished there was an incredulous silence then a storm of acclamation. It had brought a rush of sailorly feeling, the age-old warmth of mariners alone together in a far-off sea, tender remembrances of a native land stealing into their thoughts to soften their existence.
Another wistful song was offered by Bowden, one more from Curzon and, after obliging remarks on the efforts of the officers’ cook that evening, the gunroom lapsed into an introspective quiet.
‘I’m thinking we should be raising a glass t’ our little piece o’ empire,’ Gilbey reflected moodily, ‘as they’ve got so much going against ’em.’
Clinton snorted, his face flushed. ‘Blaauwberg showed Johnny Dutchman what we can do, damn their eyes!’
‘An undefeated army in the field, nothing in the granary and a country half the size of Europe to hold down – I’ll wager we’ll be packing our bags for England in the space of a three-month,’ Peyton said cynically, helping himself to the bottle.
‘Never so, Doctor!’ the master, Kendall, rumbled. It was the first he had spoken that night and heads turned to listen. ‘We’ve a navy second t’ none other, c’n keep ourselves well supplied an’ them Hollanders starving. An’ never forget, any wants t’ take the Cape back has to get past us.’