A small valley stippled with the green of some spiky plant provided welcome relief from the gunmetal greys, the ancient reds and orange, and a rivulet tinkled down its slopes. A halt was called to water the horses.
‘You,’ Thérèse threw at Renzi, who looked up wearily. ‘Since we’ve allowed no rations for useless mouths, you’ll find your own supper.
‘Show him some veldkos,’ she told one of her men, who got to his feet and beckoned Renzi.
Aching in every muscle, Renzi followed the man into the stony expanse. He searched about, kicking at a patch of vine with leaves like a bay-tree. ‘Camaru,’ he grunted, and pointed at the base.
Renzi scrabbled with his fingers and found a large tuber. He hacked at it with a jagged pebble until it was free, surprised by its weight, at least ten pounds. He found another, even bigger.
‘Very good,’ Thérèse said sarcastically, when they got back to her. ‘Then perhaps you will eat tonight, Mr Secretary.’
They remounted and pressed on relentlessly. Clearly she knew where she was going, moving from one water-source to another until, as evening drew in, they ended at a small fold in the ground overhung by several trees of outlandish size and shape.
The men began setting up a pair of tents while Renzi was put to gathering firewood. As the evening came, the surrounding mountains grew darker and more daunting, and all attention focused on the fire over which a well-used cooking pot hung from a tripod. The darkness quickly became complete and by the light of the fire Thérèse doled out portions of stew.
Aching and sore, Renzi tried to make himself comfortable on the stony ground as he hungrily fingered hot gobbets of meat and the tasteless camaru tuber into his mouth, a knife denied him. They ate quietly, finishing with rooibos tea. Stars were coming out in a profusion he had only seen before at sea, hanging close above in a spell-binding silence.
Thérèse’s face took on a demoniac cast as she stared moodily at the fire.
‘Mam’selle, should your rising be successful, even to the recapture of Cape Town, it will be to no account so long as we rule the seas,’ Renzi said, breaking the silence.
‘What should you care? You’ll be dead in three days.’ Was this how much of the journey remained?
She tossed her head. ‘Anyway, that’s a matter for the patron.’
‘Ah, yes. Is he a great man at all, learned in the military arts and—’
‘He’s my father,’ she said flatly.
‘The baron! Surely he—’
‘He will know how to deal with vermin like you, Renzi.’
An expatriate royalist, plotting with the regicides? Incredible, but it had to be true – unless it was a double-bluff of some extraordinary complexity that he couldn’t fathom.
‘I look forward to the meeting,’ he replied.
He sipped his rooibos and then ventured, ‘Thomas Kydd – may I ask what he is to you?’
‘Kydd? That’s no business of yours.’
‘I was simply curious.’
‘Well, since you ask it – not as useful as I’d thought. A simple matelot who kept his mouth tight shut on anything to do with his precious navy.’ Her face softened for a moment. ‘But as a man he was . . . diverting.’
‘Just that?’
‘Who are you to quiz me?’ she blazed, and stood up. ‘Enough of this talking – don’t think it will save you, Mr Secretary.’
She stalked off to her tent, the others following to theirs, leaving Renzi on his own at the fire.
It was quite impossible to think of flight. Prowling lions and other beasts would make short work of him, and even if he was still alive in the morning, on foot he would not last long in this oppressive wasteland.
Feeling chilled as the night took hold, he made his way to the horses and the pile of offloaded gear. They whinnied in surprise as he rummaged through, found some canvas covers and carried them back to the fire, spreading out a bed as best he could, a roped bag of clothing for a pillow.
At least now he had peace to think. How quickly his horizons had narrowed from the survival of Cape Colony to his own mortal existence. He turned his mind to the coming confrontation with the baron. It was a bluff that had saved his life; in reality, he had no idea what he could say that would turn the tables, for what kind of man would he be talking to? A royalist or a revolutionary? In any event, when he was seen to have nothing to reveal, he would be dealt with summarily.
His only chance would be to make a move before they arrived at the base. Unarmed, he wouldn’t stand a chance against the three men, and there was then the question of what to do with Thérèse. There was nothing for it but a course of action that, in his very being, he despised: he would find a heavy rock and silently crush her skull where she lay, trusting that, the deed done, her men would see it in their best interests to lead him to safety.
He waited for an hour or so, then stealthily eased back his covers, raised his head and looked around. It was a dark night but brilliant with stars, the light just sufficient to make out the primeval terrain, the inky shadows of the tents and trees. The firelight was a problem so he got up, stretched and went out into the darkness with the obvious intent of relieving himself.
Careful to keep the glow between him and the tents, he felt around until he found a weighty piece of rock, then began painstakingly to circle towards her tent. A sound startled him. Ready for some terrible beast preparing to spring, he then realised it was just a snore from the men’s tent.
He was coming close, but all it needed was for him to trip over a root or step on some nocturnal creature and he would be finished. The tent was hidden in blackness – he remembered there were ropes on all sides except the entrance, which would be laced up. That left the other end. He must work at raising the edge carefully and then, in the shadows, strike without seeing. To achieve a killing, silencing hammer blow on a woman.
Judging he’d nearly reached the end of the tent, he closed in, heart pounding. It loomed huge and he could hear no sound from within. All he had to do now was to get close, ease up the edge and do the deed quickly before the cold night air woke her. Crouching low, he moved forward – and froze, for the star-field had just been blotted out. For long minutes he kept motionless. Then he saw it was one of the men on guard and cursed himself; of course, they’d be taking it in spells through the night to watch for wild animals.
In a wash of disappointment he skulked back to his bed-place.
Days of soreness and tedium followed, as they progressed over endless miles of scrubby bare red plains between the ranges until at last they began to descend into the green-clad downlands. They reached a river and Renzi sensed tension after they had splashed the horses across and made the low scrub the other side. This must be the actual frontier and they were now within the Zuurveld before Xhosa territory – and therefore near the end of their journey. Picking up another, smaller, river, they followed its banks as it wound through ever-flattening terrain.
Where the scrub thickened to light woods, they stopped. ‘Tie him,’ Thérèse snapped. He was made to dismount and the thongs tightly reapplied. A rope led from them to one of the men on horseback and they set off, Renzi plodding on in the lead.
They wound down a track into a shallow valley, dark green shrubbery thick on each side. His eyes cast down as he trudged on, Renzi saw that underfoot the trail was turning from the usual red and ochre to a paler hue, with the addition of white sand. Somewhere ahead they were nearing the sea. The blessed, limitless, friendly sea. It caught him unawares, bringing a sudden lump to his throat. Out there – somewhere – was Kydd, still in the first flush of glory of his frigate command, going about his duty with no idea that his friend could have been brought to such a pass. It was as if—