Julian Stockwin - Conquest

What he would do when he found Doud and Pinto below as well could only be imagined, but of one thing Kydd was sure: they had just won a valuable addition to L’Aurore ’s company.

Kydd’s invitation to the cool promenades of the Company Gardens was accepted with a coquettish pout. ‘Why, of course I should, M’sieur le capitaine grand !’

It was the place to see and be seen and Kydd strolled with Thérèse on his arm, flaunting her beauty before the gentility of Cape Town. With Vrouw Coetzee at a discreet distance behind, he nodded graciously to those who doffed their hats in admiration, bowing civilly to others, all the time his heart swelling with pride.

She did not deign to glance at anyone, her head lifted in patrician disdain, but Kydd didn’t care. She was openly admitting that a liaison existed between them and from now on the world would not be the same.

From the gardens they made their way to the first race meeting at Green Point Common and, in the senior officers’ enclosure, absorbed the excitement and atmosphere of the racing. The fine spectacle and fierce thud of hoof-beats brought a flush to her cheeks and an animation that was directed to him alone.

Enjoying the many looks of curiosity and envy, Kydd bowed extravagantly to the governor and the fiscal, flashing a barely concealed look of triumph at Renzi, who was standing with them. Beside him, Thérèse curtsied in dignified court fashion and was rewarded by an exaggerated bow from Baird.

More social interchanges would come later, at a governor’s levee, perhaps, but for now Kydd was supremely content. The acknowledged beauty and reclusive French princess had made her choice and all the world knew it.

‘A small matter, ma chère ,’ he apologised, when the racing was over. He had chosen the recently formed Africa Club on the Heerengracht to make his social pied-à-terre and, besides a subscription of forty rixdollars, rules dictated he deposit twenty-five bottles of wine in the club’s cellar. Who better to select them than Thérèse?

Duty done by the delighted club secretary, he stepped out with his lady into the fine evening, a French dinner à deux promised for later. He fought off a feeling of unreality as his mind allowed a fleeting but alluring image: returning to Guildford, a post-captain with a royalist French beauty of noble birth. It would be a breathtaking sensation in the little town, to be talked about for years . . .

‘I’m sorry, Mr Secretary, but he’s insisting he’s to see the governor and no other,’ Stoll said apologetically, explaining that the man outside was one of the recent survivors so much talked about.

‘I’ll receive him here.’ Renzi sighed.

He was called Knudsen and was of an age, bowed and with his silver hair still dull with the privations he had suffered, face cruelly burned by the sun.

‘I am the colonial secretary,’ Renzi said courteously, ‘and I’m to say that unhappily the governor is not to be disturbed at this time.’

‘I understand, sir,’ Knudsen said, in a voice barely above a whisper, and in curiously accented English. ‘My business, however, is of the greatest importance and must not be delayed.’

He leaned forward confidentially. ‘A serious matter for His Excellency, concerning as it does the safety of this settlement.’

There was something in the man’s calm but earnest manner that triggered unease in Renzi. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said, and went to find Baird.

The general was in a genial mood. ‘Send him in, Renzi – and, mark you, he’ll not get a moment over ten minutes.’

Knudsen was shown to a chair. He looked up at Baird, clearly having difficulty in finding the words. ‘Sir. You must believe me to be a true citizen of Denmark. Our countries are at war and this has placed me in a most odious moral position.’

‘Please go on, sir,’ Renzi said, in an encouraging tone.

‘I have fought with my conscience since we were in all humanity granted our liberty here in Cape Town and now have come to a personal decision.’

‘Yes, Mr Knudsen?’

‘It was a noble act that your frigate captain did, to land and search for us in hazard of his own life, and another that we were given our freedom as shipwrecked souls in this place.’

‘And . . . ?’

‘Therefore I’m come to a determination, even if it might be said to be a betrayal of my country, to tell you of a deadly threat to this settlement, one of which unhappily I cannot provide the details but which none the less appears to be of a fatal nature.’

‘Please be plain, sir.’

‘Our ship was on its way from Christianborg to the French islands in the Indian Ocean. On board were passengers, and two of these were French officers of the Army. They caroused much and what I overheard I will tell you now.

‘There is an enterprise afoot, which is intended to restore Cape Town to Bonaparte’s empire. It involves supplies, timing and that their navy plays its part. I cannot tell you more, except to say that one boasted to me that Cape Town would be theirs to plunder within the month.’

In the shocked silence, Renzi was the first to recover. ‘Sir, it is of the first importance that we know whence the assault will come. From the sea? A privy landing on the coast far from here? Or a direct descent on the town, perhaps.’

Knudsen shook his head sorrowfully. ‘I sincerely wish that was in my power. As you might expect, talking between themselves, there was no general plan laid out, and as a merchant factor, my interest was never in any military adventure.

‘Sir, I tell you this in violation of my feelings as a Danish citizen, but in respect of my obligation to you for your kindness. I know no more.’

After he was shown out, Baird sat down slowly, his face grey. ‘I knew the French would retaliate – but this! We know nothing of it, how or where they will come, except that it must be very soon. What can I do to defend against what we’ve just heard?’

Renzi had no answer.

‘Very well. Not a word of this must get out to the common people. We can only hope that the French show their hand early so we can move to delay them until the reinforcements get here. All I can say is, God help us, Renzi.’

Back in his office, Renzi tried to think it through. That there was a threat was not in question – the source was unimpeachable. That it was well advanced could be deduced from the facts as told – an attack before the month was out.

But that could not be, for the news of Blaauwberg would only very recently have been received in Europe and any expedition mounted as a consequence could never have been planned and put into operation within the time-frame.

Therefore it was a local response.

This raised as many questions as it answered. To overwhelm a prepared defence even of the order of what could be mustered at Cape Town implied a massive landing by a major force, together with a powerful naval squadron to sweep aside the sea defences. Where was that coming from on a local level? And the transport shipping required: this must be of a similar scale. It simply did not add up. Or did it?

He went back to Baird and explained his reasoning. ‘If it’s local it’s unreasonable to think they can deploy enough military resources to succeed in a landing. Therefore we must consider how else it can be achieved – and I believe I know.’

‘Yes?’

‘They’re already here.’

Baird blinked. ‘Do tell me, Mr Secretary.’

‘Sir, it’s my belief that somewhere beyond the mountains among the Boers the French are building up a secret army. Instead of a direct landing, they’re sending troops overland from the east to add to this force until it’s ready to challenge us. Then they’ll descend from the mountains to crush us, our navy powerless to stop them.’