Julian Stockwin - Conquest

After Swellendam, he’d insisted they press on into the fringes of settlement, shifting to horses and a small country wagon to make best time, in a fever of anxiety that he would be too late.

Stoll, not informed of the real purpose of the mission, no doubt thought him some form of administrative maniac. Arriving in small hamlets unannounced, he’d demand of the honoured but mystified landdrost or field cornet that he inspect their books that very minute – and then, refusing all hospitality, leave for the next.

It was now getting to the end of what was possible for he had travelled through the entire settled area of the colony without detecting anything suggestive of a concealed army. But nothing else fitted: if it was not to be a mass landing from seaward and the onslaught was to be within a month, there simply had to be an army building up in the interior.

Over the ridge there was no landdrost and comfortable drostdy , only an out-country farmhouse of the kind that took in weary travellers. It was the furthest he could think to go: beyond was the Great Karoo, a vast, sun-blasted and treeless upland wilderness inhabited only by nomadic Bushmen. The very edge of the frontier. If nothing turned up here, it had to be accepted that he had been wrong in his logic, for although there were Boers right out to Graaf Reinet, even Napoleon’s famed soldiers could never cover such distances over this kind of terrain. In that case he would simply drop down to the coast and take ship from Mossel Bay back to Cape Town and ignominy.

But for now, ahead on the winding stony track, the kraal and scatter of outhouses at least promised surcease from the jolting, monotonous driving. They could be sure of something – there were only Stoll and himself; their two servants would be found other accommodation. As they approached, the house-slaves came out in curiosity, each with a shapeless animal skin over the shoulder and wearing a traditional conical straw hat. Behind them was the Boer, in broad-brimmed hat and blue shirt.

‘ Ons wil graag’n kamer vir die nag he, Mijnheer ,’ Stoll said politely.

The Boer looked at them shrewdly, taking in Renzi’s travel-stained but finely cut clothing and demanded, ‘ En wie is jy ?’

Renzi nodded wearily at Stoll, who explained that he was the colonial secretary.

The Boer stiffened and glared at Renzi. ‘ Vir jou is daar geen ruimte hier! ’ he spat, folding his arms.

There was no need to translate. ‘Tell him we’re tired, it’s late, and I’m not to be trifled with. If there’s no lodging his gastehuis licence will be revoked – here and now.’

The farmhouse was large but of homespun simplicity, no tiled floor, just hard-packed smoothed mud. In the main room, hams and strings of vegetables hung from the solid beams overhead; a long table and benches occupied the centre. At this altitude a fire was welcome, but with the scarcity of wood it was stoked with dried dung. A giant pot simmered over the hearth.

‘Secretary Renzi, this farmer is named Reinke,’ Stoll said patiently. ‘Do you have questions for him?’

Renzi regretted his first words with the man. He should have put aside bodily weariness for the greater cause. ‘I should be happy were he to join us for some brandy,’ he said encouragingly.

Reinke sat on the other side of the table, his expression closed and suspicious. Renzi managed to sip the rough aniseed spirit. ‘How is his farm – does it prosper?’

It was tough going. If the Boer had any curiosity as to why the colonial secretary was visiting he showed no sign and answered readily enough, but after an hour’s questioning, Renzi had found only that the farm was in a small way of sheep, corn and the usual up-country side occupations. It was a way of life that was hard and, judging from the scrappy accounts, almost devoid of profit. He tried more questions but there was no undue change in the pattern of ox-wagon deliveries or sheep drives to the nearest market to the south, no variation in the hard daily round. Renzi had little reason to doubt the Boer, who in any case would not know what he was looking for. In essence this was the finality of his search.

A cheerful woman bustled in to attend to the pot, smiling at Renzi.

Reinke grunted something. ‘The Vrouw Reinke,’ offered Stoll.

Renzi nodded politely.

‘Ah – plissed to meet!’ she said shyly.

‘You have fine English, Mevrouw.’

She dimpled and fingered her pleated cotton garment. ‘I at Meester Dogwood school when a girl,’ she said. ‘Come – we fin’ you a sleep room, but not s’ great as castle.’

Ignoring her husband’s sullen glare, she picked up a lamp and led Renzi into the gathering gloom to an outhouse. ‘Here!’

It was small but adequate. The stretched bull-hide bed would probably have fewer fleas if spread with his bedding from the wagon, Renzi thought wryly. A capacious clothes chest at one end and two amateurish paintings of the dramatic ranges around them completed the décor.

‘Excellent, my dear. This will do.’ Knowing that his striving must now cease, Renzi gave in to his fatigue. ‘If it does not inconvenience, I should like to rest before the evening meal. Pray be good enough to tell my assistant.’

‘Yiss.’ She smiled and, leaving the lamp, departed quietly.

Renzi flopped on to the bed, which creaked loudly, and stared up at the shadowy recesses. He refused to let his brain dwell on his failure and surrendered his aching bones to rest. Soon he dozed off into a light sleep. At one point he awoke to the sound of voices and a distant jingling of harness. A returning work party? More travellers? It didn’t matter any more and he drifted off again.

Some time later a house-boy arrived with a bowl of water and towel. ‘Din-nah,’ he said, patting his stomach gleefully. Still feeling muzzy, Renzi went with him to the main house, his own stomach growling. The long table was set simply with several dishes, and Reinke sat, frowning, at one end. Renzi was placed apart from him with Stoll opposite, and a lithe young lad, scolded by Mevrouw Reinke – obviously a son.

‘ Pens en pootjies , Meester,’ she said encouragingly.

Stoll raised an eyebrow. ‘Tripe and trotters, Mr Secretary,’ he said drily.

Renzi gave a polite smile.

There was one place not yet taken at the opposite end of the table. Then voices came from outside and a woman stepped into the room. Astonished, Renzi recognised her immediately. It was Thérèse.

But she was not the elegant lady he remembered from the castle reception. This woman was dressed in smart but practical bush clothes – a mannish tunic, leather gaiters, boots, her hair tightly gathered.

She stood for a moment in shock. ‘Why, Mr Secretary!’ she said in French. ‘I – I hadn’t thought to see you here.’

Renzi stood and bowed politely. ‘Nor I you, Mam’selle.’

There was a sudden tension in the room and conversation stilled. She tossed her head, avoiding his eye, and took her place at table.

‘Wine?’ Mevrouw Reinke said, holding out a jug. There were no takers, except her husband, who sat glowering, unable to understand what was going on.

Renzi turned to Thérèse. ‘A most interesting country, I’m persuaded. Have you had time to see much of it?’ He was intrigued by her transformation – and seeing her so far into the border lands.

Her expression tightened. ‘No. And yourself, Mr Secretary?’ Her voice was hard, commanding.

Renzi gave a saintly smile and pointedly looked around the gathering, sitting with varying degrees of bafflement. All had Dutch, none had French, and only one spoke English. She picked up on it and rattled off some Dutch, which eased the atmosphere and muttered exchanges began among them. Stoll did not translate but looked troubled.