Julian Stockwin - Conquest

Pulling himself together, he gave a wry smile. His studies into the vanished worlds of long ago had not prepared him for producing actual decrees and proclamations, of turning political intent into workable public instruments. This was going to be an interesting occupation.

‘Whereas . . .’ Everything official began that way. Then what? He glanced about for inspiration and found himself catching Stoll’s wary eyes. He looked away: it was this man’s lands and heritage he was dealing with.

‘Whereas a party of Batavian troops, under the Orders of Lieutenant General Janssens is attempting to oppose the authority of the British when further resistance is—’ Is useless? The usual denunciation of the oppressor? No – something like, ‘injurious to the settlement and its trade’ would better serve.

Stoll darted anxious looks towards him. It was no good. Renzi could not concentrate. He rose slowly and Stoll shot to his feet. ‘Oh, er, whose is that office?’ Renzi asked, indicating a small side room.

‘That is where Mijnheer Höhne, your sworn translator, goes when you call for him, sir.’

‘Very well. I shall work there for the moment.’

Stoll blinked in consternation, but said nothing.

Alone at a small desk in the modest room, with a rather charming painting of a Dutch family scene on the wall, Renzi set to with renewed purpose and soon had a draft. He reviewed its phraseology, aware that it would be pinned up in public places.

. . . to inform the Inhabitants of this Colony that being in possession of the Town and principal Places the whole be subject to His Majesty’s Authority . . . most strictly enjoin them to have no communication with the aforesaid Corps . . . will draw upon themselves consequences of the most serious nature . . .

He concluded with a solemn reference to the inevitable miseries of a protracted state of warfare set against a future of prosperity and growth under a settled population, and took it to Baird.

‘Exactly so! Fine work, Renzi. You’ve a translator? Then we’ll get it cast in Dutch and set out beneath. We’ll have, say, two hundred struck off immediately and posted up. Then we’ll need to get our heads together on how we deal with this damned grain shortage.’

Renzi made to leave but Baird called after him, ‘Ryneveld took the position. I rather think it a good idea should you make an early official acquaintance.’

‘I will, sir.’

‘Oh, and – How shall I say it? I’m sure there’s a half-decent tailor in town – you’ll soon be looking to dress for the part, hey?’

‘Point taken, sir.’

If anything the office of the fiscal was grander still than his own and was a hive of activity as the engine of state was in the process of being set in motion.

‘Ah, Mr Secretary Renzi!’ Ryneveld greeted him with outstretched hands, clearly relieved that order was emerging from chaos. ‘Are you content in your accommodation?’

‘Why, yes, indeed.’ He graciously enquired after the fiscal’s own situation, as the playful thought crossed his mind that, if he himself was not happy, he had the power to eject Ryneveld from his office in favour of himself.

‘The problems will pass,’ Ryneveld said, in happy exasperation. ‘My closest post-holders wish to serve, which is gratifying. A working administration is not impossible, I believe.’

He hesitated then added, ‘You will not have had the time to set up an establishment of your own – if it is more convenient, my wife Barbetjie and I would be honoured should you dine with us tonight.’

Of course, Renzi realised, as he was now at some eminence in society, he must cut a figure, graciously entertain. He would see to it. But now what better public demonstration of his aligning to the British cause could there be for Ryneveld? ‘That is most civil in you, Mijnheer. I should be delighted.’

The afternoon passed pleasantly, the two drawing up a table of positions obtaining in the previous government for reference in forming the new. The wisdom of adopting completely the existing body of governance quickly became apparent – everything from the Court of Justice to the Chamber for Regulating Insolvent Estates, the Lombard Bank and Orphan Chamber, Tide Waiters and Matrimonial Court, Lands and Woods, all with their subtle interweaving of loyalties time-honoured, understood and ready to serve.

It remained only to win them over, or end with them sullen and obstructive – or worse.

‘A good day’s work, Mr Secretary. I think we have earned our dinner,’ Ryneveld said, first carefully locking his papers in his desk.

‘I would rather it were Nicholas.’

‘We Dutch are jealous of our honorifics, you’ll find. I am Schildknaap Ryneveld to others and would resent its overlooking. Please forgive if “Mr Secretary Renzi” offends, sir.’

Outside, Renzi stood squinting in the late-afternoon sun, admiring the square ramparts of Table Mountain so dominating the landscape.

‘My carriage.’ Ryneveld beckoned.

The open-topped vehicle was compact and expensively appointed with a youth holding a wide green umbrella over them. The driver clucked at the stocky horse and they lurched forward.

Renzi took in the sights with interest. It was a settlement like no other, at the end of Africa, a vast and mysterious continent that separated it from the old European civilisations of the north. Here, men had settled, their destiny shaped not just by the land but also by surging events happening far, far away.

The town was well laid out – neat, with wide streets and the sun-baked glare of whitewashed houses set off with green shutters and doors. An amazing variety of peoples were abroad: Malay slaves with bundles of faggots, grizzled Bushmen carrying bundles, hard-looking countrymen in broad-brimmed hats, hurriedly followed by a score of men with baskets on their heads – and well-dressed women primly stepping out, each followed by a maid with a silk umbrella, as could be seen in any avenue of Europe.

Ryneveld lived in the lower town, in a relatively modest mansion that was set about with a shady and colourful garden, which Renzi politely admired as they passed through.

‘My wife Barbetjie.’ A plump, practical-looking lady with an elaborate hair-dressing came to the door and curtsied gracefully to Renzi’s formal bow. ‘Do enter, good sir,’ she said, in quaint English. ‘A welcome awaits.’

He was ushered in and offered chilled wine as they sat in the drawing room. With its dark panelling and tiled floor, it was remarkably effective in preserving a cool against the heat outside.

‘A singular place, Cape Town,’ Renzi ventured.

‘As no other,’ Ryneveld said firmly. ‘Even the flowers, the fynbos – and for its beauty and richness of species it stands alone in the world. And where else in this tropical continent might you encounter penguins and fur seals both?’

‘Er, are you perhaps inconvenienced at all by the more . . . forward species? The lion and elephant do spring to mind when thinking of Africa.’

‘The Cape lion was much feared around Table Mountain in Riebeeck’s time but has not been seen this age. The leopard and lynx are still to be encountered, but never the elephant. Nevertheless, if you mean to travel it would be wise to give heed to your guide.’

‘Even in town?’

‘Here at night you may meet hyenas on their way to devour offal on the foreshore, in the day troops of baboons. More to be respected is the spitting scorpion or perhaps your Cape cobra, its poison every bit as venomous as that of the black mamba,’ Ryneveld added.

‘Oh. Then the hippopotamus—’

‘Our dinner is served, gentlemen.’

They sat down at what was clearly a family meal; Ryneveld at the head, Renzi at the other. Opposite Mevrouw Ryneveld was a shy girl who darted glances at him and next to Renzi a young man with a look of patriotic defiance on his face.