Julian Stockwin - Conquest

‘Very well, sir.’

‘Oh – I may have omitted to tell you that in my last dispatch I made particular request that Whitehall do confirm you in post. I hope you’ll entertain the thought of a permanent position. As such, you’ll not want for honour and style – and shall we say we need not be mean in the article of your recompense?’

Renzi was thunderstruck. It was the last thing he had expected.

Before he could say anything, Baird added, ‘It’ll be long before I get an official reply so let us say that for all intents and purposes you are now the reigning colonial secretary of Cape Colony and in consequence will be shown due respect and obeyed accordingly.’

‘I – er, thank you, Sir David, and will endeavour to—’

‘I’m sure you will. Now, about this ball . . .’

Renzi’s quarters in the castle were nothing short of palatial – large, well furnished and quaint in an old-fashioned way. His bedchamber looked out over a spacious ornamental pond, decorated with the head and tail of a spouting dolphin. With four rooms, each with attendant maids and servants, he felt heady with achievement.

There would be time later to attend to the domestic niceties, and he dismissed the servants after allowing wine to be brought and left. He poured a glass and sipped appreciatively. Bright golden in colour, it had a delicate green tinge and an enfolding fragrance of orange and peach with a long, nutty finish, quite unlike the sombre whites of northern climes.

He savoured it, then sat back with a smothered sigh. The appointment of colonial secretary was his for as long as he wanted it.

But was his relationship with Kydd now to end? Their adventures together had been many and no doubt could continue – if he turned down a permanent position. Kydd was holding a berth open for his friend and they could resume their voyaging – but not if he took this post.

And was it morally right to abandon Kydd at this point? Could he fill the appointment at this remove from England? He also knew his value to Kydd as confidant and close friend.

Being the man he was, Kydd would let him go with every wish for his success, of course, and in a surge of feeling Renzi teetered on a decision to refuse the post.

And what of Cecilia? His moral principles had prevented him making suit for her hand while in reduced circumstances before – but now! Here he was a full colonial secretary of a new-born piece of empire with every prospect open for the future. He could lay before her the life of a lady of consequence in society, while with his salary, a country estate and a Cape Town villa would be her demesne.

Yes! He would send for her, allow her to see for herself this extraordinary country. A society wedding here in Cape Town, then together they’d make journey into the interior – lions and jackals, elephants and . . . and . . . But only if Baird’s gamble paid off that Janssens would tamely surrender at a show of force, if the French did not return in a vengeful invasion, if there were no bloody uprising . . .

And if she was not already married, as he himself had urged her to do.

There was no time to be lost. He sprang from the chair and went to the desk to find pen and ink, but hesitated. What if any of these dire events swept away the fragile colony? Given all the uncertainties, was it fair to promise so much?

Distracted, he nibbled the end of the quill and then decided. He would do it! He would pour out his passion for her, confessing his love and admiration – holding back nothing, allowing her to see the depths of his feeling and then laying out his proposal for wedded bliss.

It was an intoxicating thought: there were threats hanging over them but these would be resolved in a few months, if not weeks, and it was unthinkable that Whitehall could refuse the governor’s direct request. He would write the letter, crying up the beauty and splendour of life under Table Mountain – but delay sending it until things were settled.

That was what to do. He began scribbling in a fury of passion.

Renzi entered the Burgher Senate with suitably grave features and in the severe attire that he would wear from now on at every official occasion. Behind him in the little procession were Ryneveld and Höhne, his sworn translator.

The assembly slowly rose to their feet, their gaze disdainful. The president, his expression stony, at the last possible moment yielded his high chair. Renzi gave a civil inclination of his head and sat, the Senate conforming in an unnerving hush.

This was the powerhouse of Cape Town, the merchantry, professionals and captains of trade meeting together to run their community as they had done since the Dutch first arrived. They had built this characterful ‘Town House’ in the middle of the last century when it had become clear that the colony had a future. Its three-arched portico and elaborate mouldings were finished with the white and yellow plasterwork and green shutters so distinctive of Cape Town.

Renzi braced himself. It was vital that he put across messages of reassurance, respect and hope to a people whose land had been taken in conquest by his own country.

He stood and looked about the room. ‘Mr President – Mijnheer de Voorzitter van Nuldt Onkruydt,’ he said, with a wash of relief when it seemed he had pronounced it acceptably, ‘I do thank you for your invitation to speak and for your kind welcome.’ He turned and, with a smile, bowed to the granite-faced man while Höhne droned out the translation.

The rows of faces gazed back at him, hard men of money and power whose very dress seemed alien and foreign.

‘We bring you opportunity and prosperity by freeing your colony from the oppression of the Corsican Bonaparte. Now you may trade freely with the world, succouring the fleets of the Indies and finding full commercial advantages in the status of free port that His Excellency has bestowed . . .’

It was unnecessary to explain that free trade would never extend to the King’s enemies or their friends, and that the fleets of the Indies were those of England, not the Dutch, whose trading empire in the Spice Islands would now wither without supplies and support from the Cape.

‘Your customs and traditions in the practice of commerce will be respected by this government . . .’

In so far as they did not conflict with English mercantile law and the revenue raised was adequate for the purposes of government.

‘. . . as will be the ancient rights and privileges of this House here assembled.’

He had not detected a single movement in the impassive rows of men facing him; their faces – individual, broad, tanned and seamed – betrayed no trace of feeling.

‘Therefore I commend to you the Acts of His Excellency the Governor . . .’

Höhne finished the translation and Renzi smiled. ‘If there’s any question that I’m able to answer for you, gentlemen?’

In the front row a thick-built man with a brooding expression stood slowly.

‘Yes?’ Renzi said pleasantly.

A stream of guttural Dutch and the man waited, arms folded.

Höhne leaned forward. ‘Herr Maasdorp asks, which governor?’

Ignoring the jibe, Renzi came back with what he hoped was a robust summary of the situation.

Afterwards, in the carriage, Ryneveld tried to make light of it. ‘The first time they have met you. Hollanders do not readily put hearts on their sleeves, as you say. However . . .’

‘Your point?’

‘It’s troubling they do not see their interests coinciding with yours – ours. That they did not see fit to applaud your appearance does not speak of contentment and reconciliation – rather resentment. Maasdorp can be a troublemaker and all it needs is for some fool to spark a spurning, a turning of the back, and Cape Town will be ungovernable.’